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Serie Noire 01

By: likegoodwine



By Likegoodwinecopyrighted September 2011

I am starting a new series dealing with the darker side of love relationships. Once in a while I will add new stories but each one will be stand-alone stories.

There is almost no sex to speak of in this short one. Enjoy!

Your votes and constructive comments are appreciated, as they will help me grow.

Thanks to Blackstallion21 for his patient editing

I love power outages at work! If it's early in the day, we just sit around and talk while waiting for the power to come back on. If it happens near the end of our shift, the boss simply sends us back home. That's what happened this nice Wednesday afternoon, near 4PM. We all took off, a joyous bunch of employees having an early dismissal from the drudgery of our work.

I was so happy that I stopped at a liquor store to buy a nice bottle of white wine. I would surprise Nancy, have the supper on the way when she would come back from work, and we would enjoy a nice meal. Fettuccini Alfredo would be perfect, with a side of Caesar salad. I knew that Wednesday both Ross, my eldest, a sturdy 14 year old boy, and Melanie, 12 years old - almost 21 - would be coming home late because of their basketball and soccer practices. My relationship with Nancy has been a bit predictable and even at time distant lately, and it was a great opportunity to do something different.

I pulled in the driveway, noticing an unfamiliar grey Lexus parked at the curb in front of the house. Weird! It was the only car parked at the curb on the whole street. It couldn't be a visitor of the Harris' as they were still in Florida.

I let myself in the house by the kitchen door, put the wine in the fridge and started looking for the ingredients I needed. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks. I was sure that I heard some noise; noise not belonging in an empty house. I listened carefully but heard nothing more. I shook off the though and checked in the fridge if we had Parmesan cheese.

There, I heard that noise again! I stood straight in front of the fridge, my ears trying to catch and pinpoint what that noise could be. It seemed to be coming from upstairs. An intruder? I though about grabbing a knife, a big one, then though better about it. It was probably Ross or Melanie back home earlier than expected. I decided however to go upstairs and make sure.

As I was climbing the stairs, the noise started to be easier to recognize. A woman was overwhelmed with passion. Oh my God! Ross had a girlfriend upstairs. I felt a little bit of fatherly pride to know that my son was definitely my son, but I soon realized that he was a bit young to be banging a girlfriend. And I hoped all my advice about protection was well understood. 

Once upstairs, I hesitated to go and barge on my son while he was probably having sex for the first time in his young life. Shit! He was doing it in our bedroom. Nancy will simply kill him when she discovered it. 

All these thoughts were suddenly erased from my mind. I could now recognize perfectly the woman in the throws of a passionate fucking. It was Nancy. I was shocked for a few seconds. My wife of 18 years was fucking in our bedroom. Not that it mattered that it was in our bedroom or in a motel room, I must say. Both occurrences would leave me in the same mindset as right now. I felt a rage I never felt before.

The door of the bedroom was ajar. I kicked it open, and there was my 'loving wife', on her back, her legs spread wide while her boss, Tom Beaulieu, was pounding her. They both stopped in mid-stride – or should I say in mid-thrust – and looked at me. Tom face showed mostly fear. That was all right and suitable for the situation. The look on Nancy face was totally different and maddening. She gave me the 'What now?' look.

Let me explain. For the last year, our relationship had been a bit on the down side. After 18 years of married life, we had lost a lot of the initial love and fulfillment to live as a couple. But it had been going down hill rapidly in the last year. It seemed that nothing I did, nothing I suggested was right. 

Our sex life had deteriorated also a lot in the last year. If I could coax her to have sex once a month, I was lucky. It was hard to take. At 40 years old, Nancy was a very attractive brunette, all soft curves and with a killer face. And me, Alex Henry, at 42 years old, I still had a strong sex drive and it soured my mood to be rebuffed so often in the bedroom.

But our problems went beyond the sex. We didn't talk much anymore. She wasn't responsive at all. If I started a serious talk, she would simply give me an exasperated look and brush me off.

I did many attempts over the last year to regain some love and harmony in our life. I had been rebuked at every corner. 

Planning a nice intimate supper at an upscale restaurant?

"What now? Your salary just pays barely enough to live decently and now you want to spend it on a supper? Forget it!"

If the kids were away with their friends and we had the house to us for many hours, and I plan a nice supper in a romantic gesture?

"What now? Am I supposed to feel so overwhelmed that I would let you fuck me tonight? Forget it! I'm not in the mood"

But today, it was a loveless and final statement. I had surprised her having sex with her boss. I was wondering what the 'What now?' look meant. She soon made it clear.

"So you finally caught up with life," she said. "It's about time because I was getting really fed up with you. What can I say, I don't love you anymore, and I found somebody way better!"

I am really sorry to describe what happened next. I am not that kind of guy! I don't believe that violence is an answer to anything, except, maybe violence itself. The only way I can describe it is that I snapped. 

There was no way I could lift a finger on the mother of my kids. But there was that asshole now standing naked in my bedroom, grinning at me. He was about the same size as me, in every way.

I jumped at him, landing a jab right on his chin. He went down. I started to kick and hit him. I was hurting him real bad. Not that I am athletic, but I was really enraged. My fists were raining down on him as fast as I could, and then everything went black.

***

I woke up, groggy. I was at the foot of my bed, a paramedic on his knees, leaning over me. I saw a couple of policemen behind him, but no sign of my wife. After making sure the concussion wasn't too bad, the paramedic got up.

"He's all yours guys! We've got to be on our way with the other guy" he said and left the room.

Not too gently, one cop grabbed me and lifted me back on my feet. The next thing I knew, the other one was behind me and was handcuffing me.

"Hey! What are you doing?" I asked.

"Arresting you for assault causing bodily harm," said one cop. And he followed that by reading me my rights.

"Oh yeah; that!" I thought calmly. My anger having faded quite a bit when Nancy hit me on the head with the alarm clock, I realized that this was the consequence of my fit earlier this evening. I hoped that the beating I gave Tom Beaulieu was not too serious. Not that I gave a shit about his ass, but I would be in real trouble if he would die on me.

"Oh come on, men! I'm not a criminal. I surprised that guy fucking MY wife in MY bed and in MY house. He got what he deserved!" I pleaded with the cops.

"Well, that's not what we heard," one cop flatly answered, starting to drag me out of the room and pushing me downstairs, a firm grip on my arm.

"What did you hear?" I asked, but received no answer.

Arriving downstairs I saw Nancy, all dressed up, sitting on the armchair in the living room. Before I could say something, she got up from the chair, rushed toward me and slapped me in the face.

"Take that monster away," she yelled. "He scares me and he hurt one of our best friends."

A cop gently restrained her. "It's alright Mam! Let us do our job. We will take that wife beater away now. He won't hurt you anymore," he said.

Only at the Police station did I learn the lies concocted by my wife. When the cops arrived, she and her boss were dressed. Even with him badly hurt, they had time to devise an awful lie. They told the cop that her boss stopped by the house to drop some papers when he walked on a scene where I was about to beat my wife, an occurrence that she said was happening very often lately. He said that he tried to stop me and that I assaulted him. He also told them that a few times before he saw me slapping my kids around.

I tried to have a friend to take my case for my arraignment the next day, but he flatly refused, saying that he was greatly disappointed to hear that I was beating Nancy and the kids. He was deaf to my pleas of innocence. At least, he referred me to another lawyer that works criminal cases.

The next day, I was in for a surprise. My lawyer was still wet behind the ears and totally outmatched by the prosecutor and Nancy's lawyer. Before I knew it, all my assets were frozen – no way to put up bail by myself – and I had a restraining order to stay away from my wife, her boss, and my two kids. I had to stay at the prison another day till my brother was able to come up with the bail money.

One funny thing I learned in that process – well, not that fun from my perspective – is that my alleged behavior was never referred to as alleged. I was a wife beater. When the case went to court, I was unable to have my kids to corroborate that I was not beating on them or my wife. The judge gobbled up the prosecutor claim that the kids were too scared of me and would probably lie in fear of retribution.

In no time, I was sent to jail for 2 years, losing my job and all my friends in the process. I was parole after 12 months. My brother was by my side all the way, despite his wife efforts to cut me off. After all, I might taint my brother with my wife beating habits. During that period, I was divorced and the few assets we had were devoted to replace my child support when I was in jail.

Out finally on the street, my ass still sore from the show of affection of Bubba, my cellmate, it took me a while to find a half decent job. Nobody wants to hire a jailbird. I finally found one, at a third of my previous salary, just a few dollars over the minimum wage.

I didn't date much for the next year. However, my few attempts to charm a lady were successful. I am still a good-looking 44 year old unattached man. The problems – aside from my poor financial situation - always arose when asked about my past. I have a tendency to be an honest guy and always hope that other people will recognize and appreciate that. No such luck! The part about me surprising my wife in bed and beating the shit out of her lover always went smoothly; the part about me being fraudulently pictured as a wife and kids beater, not so smoothly! The two times I reached that level of intimacy with a woman – to tell her the whole sordid story – killed all relationship. Both women even changed their phone number within a day of hearing my story.

I missed my children very much over the last two years. Ross would be now 16 years old and Melanie 14. I still had a restraining order that I can't even fight without money. The closer I could get was 100 yards, but I did went to see them a few times after school, at the proper distance. Two years is a long time to be cut off from your loved ones. They were now living with Nancy and Tom. They married not long after my divorce and Tom's divorce. I heard he wasn't as lucky as Nancy. His wife really took him to the cleaner. She had proof of his cheating.

And then, the sun rose. The birds started to sing again, the flowers bloomed and my life changed. One morning, on her way to work, Nancy was involved in a car accident. She died on the scene. 

"Well, that took care of one restraining order," I thought upon hearing the news. "I never visit the cemetery. What about the kids now?"

I learned soon enough that my formers were keeping that restraining order active. I also learned that Tom Beaulieu didn't want to care for my kids and that my ex in-laws would be gaining custody.

Finally came the day of the service, in a funeral home. Restraining order or not, I wanted badly to be there. I was ready to go back to jail if it came to that – I had learned that Bubba was released a few months after me.

The first person to notice me was Ross, my son. How tall he's become in the last two years. He was at least 6'3" and towering over everybody around him. He didn't seem very enthusiastic about seeing me, but made nevertheless his way toward me.

"What are you doing here Dad? You abandoned Mom, Melanie and me for two years, and now you just show up?" he said harshly.

"Oh my God!" I realized. "They were fed lies too. I have to debunk that story."

"Ross, listen to me!" I started to say. "I didn't abandon you guys. Your Mom had me put in jail because..." but I didn't have time to finish as I was interrupted by Malcolm, my former father.

"Because he was beating on you and your mother," roared Malcolm.

I turned around and realized that I was surrounded by Malcolm and his two sons, my ex brothers.

"And you get out of here before we call the cops," he added. He grabbed me and began to pull me toward the exit. I wasn't resisting.

"Wait a second Pop!" said my son loudly. It was so loud that we all stopped in our tracks and a lot a people were staring at our little group.

"What do you mean by 'beating on me and my Mom'?" asked Ross. "Dad never lifted a single finger on either Melanie, me, or Mom."

"It's alright Sonny! He can't hurt you anymore," said Malcolm to Ross.

"Pop! Look at me!" Ross said forcibly. "I am already taller and bigger than my Dad and I have absolutely no fear of him, never have for that matter."

Malcolm stood there a bit hesitant.

"He never beat you guys?" asked Malcolm, dubious.

"Never!" answered a determined Ross. "What gave you that idea?"

We were suddenly interrupted when a loud "Dad!" erupted behind us. I turned around and Melanie jumped in my arms.

"Oh Dad! You're finally back!" she said. "I missed you so much."

Her hug was fierce and I gave back as much as I received. I missed them so much.

"OK, fess up grandpa!" said Ross, unrelenting.

I could see that Malcolm wished he wasn't there. After many harrumphs, he started to tell the story in front of everybody.

"Well, when your Dad assaulted your Mom and Tom tried to stop him..." started to say Malcolm.

"Wait a minute!" I yelled. "I never assaulted Nancy. I found her in our bed fucking with her boss. I gave him the beating he deserved, but never laid a finger on Nancy."

That statement was received like a shock. Everybody was simply staring at me.

"Excuse me Malcolm for saying that," I added, "but your daughter was a slut cheating wife that I caught fucking with her boss... in my house... in my bed. She also lied to the cops saying that I was beating her and the kids, making me the double bad guy. I did deserve some jail time for beating up Beaulieu, but not to be completely cut off from my kids... and all my friends." At the end, I was barely audible. I had to refrain from crying and letting out two years of pain and grief. "She took everything from me: my family, my friends, my job, my dignity. I have nothing left but my love for the kids." 

I heard from somebody in the back of the people surrounding us: "Don't speak ill of the dead!"

I recognized the voice before I saw him press his way toward us. Tom Beaulieu! He still had his superior grin on his face. 

"What lies was he telling you guys?" he said. "Bouah! I heard the last touching part." He added feigning crying. "Well, you can have your kids back now. I certainly won't take care of them, but not before I call 911 and have them arrest you for breaking the restraining order against you."

I made a move toward him but Ross stopped me. 

"What? Want to beat me again and go back to jail?" asked Tom, still grinning, and holding his cell phone to his ear.

What happened next surprised everybody.

"Don't Dad" Ross told me. "He is not worth it. You would go back to jail. As for me..."

He turned around, grabbed Tom's phone, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it under his heels. That, by itself was surprising. But then Ross turned toward me and whispered: "I am still a minor!"

He then turned around and with a strong left hand hipper cut, he sent Tom to the floor.

I was totally moved by my boy's gesture. Two years of sorrow received a balm that no money can buy. I was crying, Melanie in my arms.

Some friends of Tom took him out of the funeral home. Malcolm took control and asked to proceed with the service.

Ross turned toward me. "Do you really want to attend Dad?"

"No!" I simply said. "I have nothing good to say about that woman, so it's better if I just shut the fuck up and leave... but before..."

I then walked toward the open coffin and stood there for a few seconds. I raked my throat very hard, and I spit all I had on the very dead and still face of Nancy.

"Nancy, I promised that every anniversary of your death, I'll go to celebrate and piss on your grave."

I walked out of the funeral home.

Half an hour later, my two kids came out and we left together, leaving behind two very sad parents.

For those who are interested, Tom tried to have Ross charged with assault but never succeeded as Ross was a minor. However, we did sue Tom for his perjury at my court hearing two years prior and won an interesting sum of money to get us back on track – that and the insurance money from Nancy's death, of course.

Serie Noire 02



By Likegoodwinecopyrighted November 2011

Here's another short story for you. There is almost no sex to speak of in this short one. Sorry, I put no humor in this one. Enjoy!

Your votes and constructive comments are appreciated, as they will help me grow.

Thanks to Scalia for his patient editing



I was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a glass of Jack Daniels. The TV was airing an inane comedy filling the room with some noise. I was in no mood to laugh at its silly Christmas jokes . Once again, I was alone with no prospect of a visit by a friend or my kids; it was another shitty Christmas.

I finally got up and staggered toward the living room. I took a few minutes to look at the Christmas cards from my two youngest kids. While reading them again with their lame printed wishes followed by kisses and their scribbled signatures, I turned on my CD player to start again a Christmas songs album. For a few minutes, in front of the CD player, Christmas cards in my hands, the sounds from the TV and the song from the CD mixed together, it almost created an illusion of a full house with a lively chorus of voices and laughter.

The illusion didn't last very long as I turned around to look at my pitiful empty apartment. The hide-a-bed was still opened with the sheets and blankets in disarray. The dried out remnant of my last fuck was still visible on the sheet. It was my Christmas present from the landlord – a quick fuck before going to Church with his wife and kids. I didn't even showered, the same crusty stuff stuck inside my panties.

Shit! My glass was empty. I made my way back to the kitchen, still holding the cards, and poured myself another glass of my most faithful lover, Jack. All the other ones are fucking horny pigs, sniffing pussies and filling them up when possible. I lifted my glass and wished them all an awful Christmas. Fuck them all!

I am a lonely old woman with four kids; none of them lived with me. Like magnets with the same polarization, I seem to repulse my kids. Two of them still keep in touch with me, another one refuses all contact and the fourth one, well, I don't even know if she is still alive. 

I can remember my last happy Christmas. It was 16 years ago. George, my husband, was still alive then. I was 40, and George was 42.We had four beautiful children: 15-year old Cassandra, 13-year old Tanya, 10-year old Mike and Michelle who was eight.

We had a huge pile of Christmas presents under the tree. The kids were stretching our patience to the limit that day. We decided to make this Christmas a good one for the kids and ourselves. They were unable to contain their excitement about the moment, after midnight mass, when we would open the presents. The latest sexy outfit for Cassandra, a make-up set for Tanya, a new video game for Mike, and the newest Barbie set for Michelle were sure to be winners. Of course, we had also plenty of little "practical" presents such as sweaters, dresses and pants.

I received a nice and valuable necklace and I gave George the keys to a brand new snowmobile. Little did I know that this gift would destroy our marriage and kill him! We were just trying to revive a bit our boring marriage, an illusion to try to regain the passion of our youth.

Why was I surprised that George would go snowmobiling with his friends every weekend in January and February? That he would feel so confident that he would also participate in snowmobile racing every weekend? It was the highlight of his week.

Well, that happened to me? I felt left out. Our marriage was a bit on the lame side that year. Four kids, twenty years of marriage, a sex life on hold, and nothing new happening! And now, George was out snowmobiling while I was stuck at home with the kids.

I needed something else, something new. I talked to George about it, but the only things he came up with was the same lame answers: buying me some flowers, taking me to a nice restaurant, phoning me regularly during the day to express his love.

I wasn't responding to that. I wanted more. I wanted something else.

Jack, our neighbor, was often there when George would be preparing his trailer with the snowmobile, helping him to strap it down on the trailer, and covering .

Jack was a handsome man, about 6 feet, long blond hair with a touch of gray, and wonderful blue eyes. I was a bit smitten with him despite the fact that he was close to 50. He was always there when George would leave for his races. How many times I heard "It's you and me only now, gorgeous!" with a salacious wink to go with it? Well it did have an effect on me after a while. Jack was divorced and didn't have custody of his children. Anyway, they were young adults living on their own.

One weekend in early February, after I took the kids to their activities, I came back to a disaster. The water heater had busted. Normally I would have called George so he could tell me what to do, but he was unreachable. I tried to find the tap to turn off the water but I found nothing. All I accomplished was getting . In desperation, I phoned Jack. He came straight away. It took him less than a minute to find the main valve and shut the water down.

"Here! That should settle the matter till we find what's wrong with..." said Jack. Turning around he looked at me and said: "Holy shit! You're gorgeous!"

I looked down and that's when I realized that my shirt was all wet. . He had a perfect view of my boob. Embarrassed, I tried to hide them with both my arms.

"Oh gosh! Sorry Jack!" I stammered.

"Don't be! I'm not!" he replied, which pleased me to no end, lessening my embarrassment. 

Gently, he took my arms away. He seemed to be totally taken by the sight of my breasts as he kept staring at them. 

I don't know how long it has been since a man had admired me that way, apart from George. Probably 15 years ago, when I was still in my 20's and had only given birth to two children. And he was the first man to look at my breasts, as visible as if I was naked, in over 22 years, since I first started to date George.

Suddenly I felt so good! I felt so flattered to see a man's eyes filled with so much desire. What I did next still amazed me and sealed my fate as a loving and faithful wife. I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and started to lift it up, leaving me topless. I did it slowly, deliberately, fully knowing where it would lead us.

Without a word, Jack began to caress and massage my breasts. He came closer and the next thing I knew, he was sucking on my nipples. I grabbed his head and kept it there. 

We ended up in bed not too long after that, and that was the start of my affair with Jack.

We never had a chance to meet during the week, but as soon as George would leave town for one of his snowmobile races, we would find each other in bed. In my house if the kids were away from home, or in his house if I could escape for a while. We were not planning real far ahead, but we knew that it had to end soon as March was almost there and the snow would disappear.

I felt guilty for cheating on George. Almost nobody would believe that I still loved him with the way I acted. But that is a fact. I still loved George! I felt guilty about it, but I was so enraptured in the lust I had for Jack and his own lust for me, that my love for George came second. Nothing I shared at the moment with George could compare to the thrill I had to secretly meet and fuck with Jack. 

Don't get me wrong! I didn't love Jack. It was lust and only lust. He was a nice enough man, easy to be around. He wasn't even that much better looking than George. But when he was around, I got wet almost immediately, wanting him. I lusted for him.

On the last February weekend, my world came to an abrupt  end. George had an accident with his snowmobile.

All the kids had something to do that morning. As soon as I came back home from dropping them, Jack was there and we went straight up to the bedroom. After a while, I was on my back and Jack was plunging in me fiercely.

"Does it feel good baby?" asked Jack while banging me with long hard thrusts.

"Yeah! Don't stop! I'm almost there!" I answered, very close to an orgasm.

It's not that often that a couple can achieve an orgasm at the same time, but it did happened then. I was almost there when I felt Jack's shooting inside me, filling me and I started to have my own orgasm. 

"Oh yes Jack! Yes, I'm coming, I'm coming!"

And I had a strong orgasm. After a while, I felt Jack getting limp inside me. He rolled off me.

The sight that greeted me was awful. George was in the doorframe of the bedroom, still wearing his coat, his full-face snowmobile helmet under his arm. Tears were rolling down his face. 

Suddenly, he rushed. Jack didn't have time to duck.George caught him straight in the face with his helmet. Jack went down for the count, but George kept swinging. Naked, I had to throw myself at George before he killed Jack.

"George, stop! You will kill him," I yelled.

He stopped as soon as I touched him. He recoiled from me, his face a mix of anger and pain. He turned around and ran out of the house.

As fast as I could, I grabbed my robe and ran after him.

What have I done? I was just in time to see him drive away.

Frantic, I went back inside the house and tried to call his cell phone. He didn't pick up. Finally thinking about Jack, I went back upstairs and called an ambulance. Soon, the cops were also there, the assault having been reported by the paramedics.

I learned later that one of the tires on the snowmobile trailer had blown off, not far out of town. George lost control of the pick-up truck and he ended up in the ditch. There was extensive damage to the trailer so George had to call a tow truck to bring it to a garage. That done - his weekend finished before it even started - he drove back home... to a cheating wife.

That same evening, George went himself to the police station. He didn't know if he had killed Jack. 

I pleaded with Jack to drop the charges, but he refused. His house was sold within a month and the last time I saw George was in court. He received a sentence of six months for assault, minus time served while waiting for trial. In all that time, he refused to speak to me and refused my visits. Once in a while he would phone the kids and speak with them.

My life couldn't be worse. I had lost my husband and my children were openly hostile to me. George wasn't faring better. Because of his conviction, he lost his job. 

Finally, his last day of incarceration was upon us.

Should I go? I debated with myself over the pros and cons to be at the jail gate when he would be released. I talked to his brother, his only sibling still alive. He told me in blunt terms to keep away from George.

"It would be a very bad idea to be there. He is very depressed by what you did and the consequences, and I don't think you should be there. I warn you! If you show your cheating ass there, I can't guarantee that he won't decide to kick the shit out of you, turn around and go straight back to jail," he said.

His arguments were quite convincing but it was awful to be with the kids and being unable to tell them where their father was. I didn't even receive divorce papers. Not a sign of him.

Then, one evening, the brutal reality of what I had done came crashing around me. We were all in the living room watching TV when we heard a set of keys unlocked the front door and George appeared.

He looked haggard. Wearing many days of beard growth and disheveled hair, he just stayed in the doorway.

I got up and went toward him. 

"George, you're back! I am so sorry! Don't stay there..." I started to say.

"Stay away from me bitch!" he said raising a hand.

I kept walking toward him. I needed to talk to him, to apologize, to say how sorry I was. But something stopped me in my tracks. George was aiming a revolver straight at me.

"I said stay the fuck away from me bitch," he said tonelessly.

As a reflex, I did something that I would never think was possible. I angled myself between George and our children. Not fast enough however. Slipping by me, unafraid of her father, Michelle rushed toward him and threw herself at him, her slender arms encircling his waist.

"Oh Daddy! I missed you so much," she said.

George stayed hesitant for a while then enclosed her in his arms, still holding his revolver. He kissed the top of her head. I was still totally terrified by the drama unfolding before my eyes, but my terror decreased a little bit. There was one thing I was absolutely sure about George: he would never hurt the kids. I wasn't so sure about myself!

"Kids, go to your room! I need to talk to your Mom," said George calmly, still holding Michelle.

Knowing well that it was not the time to argue, they all filed out, stopping for a hug before leaving the room. After they left, we stayed there, facing each other without uttering a word.

I was scared shitless about George' extreme behavior. I've known him for all my adult life, as a lover, as a husband, as a friend, and as a father. But the man standing in my living room was a stranger. A stranger that I let in my house and a stranger that I created with my selfish stupidity! I braced myself and broke the ice.

"George... I am sorry! So sorry!" I started to say.

"Shut up!" he yelled at me.

I recoiled at his eruption. Anger had him shaking, and that was not good as he was still pointing the revolver at me. He waived his revolver toward the couch.

"Go sit there!" he ordered me.

I went and sat. I had a quick look toward the kitchen. Our four kids were there, looking at the drama unfolding in front of them. Cassandra was holding Mike and Tanya had Michelle behind her. Her 8 years old little girl big eyes were staring at her dad.

George was pacing back and forth between the couch and the TV stand. For the first time I wondered if George would really harm us. The man standing in front of me had nothing to do with the loving husband I had betrayed. The frantic pace of his movements, the sudden stops, the murderous look, and the way he resumed pacing, muttering to himself, nothing was like George. There was nothing to remind me of my peaceful, calm, and loving husband.

Again, I grabbed the little courage still in me and broke the silence.

"George, you're scaring the children. Please, can you just put that gun away and speak with me?"

"No!" he yelled. "No, no, no! Nothing you can say is important. You messed up everything. You screwed around and screwed everything. You messed up our family, you messed up everything!"

"I don't want to hear your lying voice," he said, putting his hand over his ears.

He started anew to pace back and forth. Then he stopped and turned toward me.

"You fucked everything," he said, his voice calmer, almost devoid of feeling. "You fucked the neighbor. You fucked our family. You fucked my life."

I had an urge to go and rush toward him. I had an urge to take him in my arms. I had an urge to try and erase everything I did. But he still had that gun in his hand. I didn't move. I didn't speak. It was impossible to apologize, to help him in his confusion.

Tears were flowing freely from both him and me. With the sleeve of his arm holding the revolver, he swiped the tears rolling down his cheeks. He then looked at me, his eyes full of sadness.

"I lost my job. I lost my self-respect. I lost you," he said. "I lost everything that matters to me. I have nothing left. You took everything from me. See you in Hell."

His arm suddenly came up. I thought for sure that he was about to shoot me. But his arm kept moving, and then I understood. He put the barrel of the revolver in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

I can still see in my nightmares the splatters of blood and brain matter plastering the whole ceiling in front of the TV stand. I can still see his body suddenly falling to the floor, a limp mass of muscles and bones. I can still see all my kids rushing toward George. I can still see myself trying to stop them for going to their dad. I can still see Cassandra and Tanya trying to stop the bleeding from George' head. 

As a result of George's death, my family slowly disintegrated. The first to go was Cassandra. She was George's baby girl. He dotted on her and, even if I might say so, he spoiled her. The next year was filled with a series of teenage crisis. From a sweet kid, she became an uncontrollable teenage girl. Then, at 16, she took off. 

She came back home a few months later, after being caught in a juvenile prostitution dragnet. Only a few days later, when I asked her what she was doing all by herself out there, she told me "None of your fucking business! So shut the fuck up, bitch!" She took off again the very next day. 

One year later, the police brought her back home again. I was shocked. She had been beat up, her arm in a sling, an eye totally shut, and bruises all over her body.

The only words she said to me were: "Mind your fucking own business bitch! I never want to speak to you again." And she didn't. I heard her talk and laugh with her brother and her sisters, but she never said another word to me. After a month, she took off again. I never heard of her since. It was 14years ago: 14 years of me dying a little bit with each passing year of silence. 

A year later, I met a very nice man. Dave was attentive, funny and caring. Almost like George! He even liked to have the kids around. We started to date. I was a bit fearful at first, insecure about my background and my three kids still living with me. But after a few months of dating, he started spending the night.. Soon enough, he was spending more and more time at my home, sometimes a few days. It occurred so often that I made room for some of his clothing in my bedroom dresser.

At the same time, I was keeping a close watch on Tanya. I didn't want a repeat of Cassandra. Now 15-years old, she was also starting to be difficult. I got use to her constant challenge of my authority. Unlike my behavior with Cassandra, I mostly let everything slide, afraid that she might also take off on us.



The only upside of Cassandra's disappearance was that Michelle didn't have to sleep with me anymore. She was sharing the bedroom with Tanya. Mike was still sleeping on the couch in the living room. I knew the apartment I got after George death was too small for the five of us. But with no insurance and unemployed at the time, I wasn't able to pay for the mortgage on the house. I put it up for sale and got about $100,000 in equity. 

That made it easier to have Dave at home. His apartment was way fancier than ours, but I couldn't take the chance to leave the kids by themselves.

But it did create a few problems to have a man again in my life. At 39 years old, Dave was three years younger than me. Despite his gentle disposition, none of the kids liked him. Tanya and Michelle were openly hostile with him and Mike was simply distant. Dave was nonplussed with their behavior. He was very understanding! That's why I got so mad when Tanya started to constantly criticize him, and creating an image of a monster for the other kids. That's one of the only time I got real harsh with her.

One day she came to me, when Dave wasn't around.

"Mom, you got to get rid of that creep!" she told me.

"Tanya! Don't talk about Dave like that. He is very fond of you guys, and very understanding about the tough time we went through. Give him a chance," I implored.

"Well, I don't like him! It gives me the creeps each time he looks at me," she yelled at me.

"Watch your language. He is a very decent man and I won't hear another criticism from you. Now you apologize or you go to your room," I snapped at her.

She went to her bedroom.

I should have listen to her. About two months later, Dave came to the apartment. We had a real good time, drank a bit too much and ended up fucking like crazy, till exhaustion. Later in the night, a full bladder woke me up. A bit groggy, I noticed that Dave was not in bed. I made my way to the bathroom and had a look in the girls' room on my way. Tanya was sleeping over at a friend. A nightmarish sight greeted me and woke me up instantly. Dave was in the room and I still have a hard time believing what I saw him doing. I grabbed a lamp by Michelle's bed and I hit him with all the force I could muster.




Serie Noire 02



Blood was gushing from his head and he fell down hard on the floor. He didn't move. I was scarred that I might have killed him. I grabbed the phone and called 911. It took the cops 30 fucking minutes to get there. 

Dave was a creep after all! The last I heard, in court, he was doing three years in jail for his molestation of my child. The only comment I had from Tanya was the classic "I told you so!"

I was already very low in my children's esteem. I knew they loved me, but I also knew that they saw it as another proof that I was an unworthy mother.

It took me another three years before I decided to give another man a chance. Sure, I had a few one-night stands, but never at my place. Then I started to date Bob. I met him through some friends. We dated for a year, never going to my apartment, never introducing him to my kids. They knew I was dating a man but nothing was said till the day I finally invited him home.

The next day, Tanya took off with her boyfriend. She barely kept in touch and mostly talked with Mike and Michelle. Over the years, the phone calls stopped, and the only news I could get from her were through my two youngest.

And it was all for nothing because my fling with Bob ended when I learned he was married.

Keeping a sharp eye on my two remaining kids, I did date a few more men over the next few years, but nothing serious. Always a mean to an end: relieving my sexual needs!

Two years later, I started something more serious with a divorced man, Steve. He was a bit evasive about his divorce but I assumed that he had been cheating on his wife, which ended-up to be half the story.

One evening, we were at the apartment. Michelle was spending the night with some friends. We have been drinking quite a lot. We were seriously petting on the couch while a late night show was playing. OK, I had his cock way down my throat! Then I heard the keys in the front door lock.

"Shit!" I said. "Mike is back. Let's move to the bedroom!"

"No way!" said Steve. "We were here first and the show is not over yet. The kid can crash in the other bedroom."

I got up and told him: "Come on Steve, put your cock back in your pants before he comes in and let's go to the bedroom".

Then Mike was at the door. He sure wasn't please to see us there, on his bed. Hoping to give us time to move, he went to the kitchen. Mike is very like his father, a bit introverted, shy, and a constant dreamer. I wasn't surprised that he avoided the awkward situation. I am sure he would give me time to move to the bedroom.

"Come on! We are on Mike's bed," I said while pulling Steve to help him out of the couch. He got up then pushed me away from him.

"Fuck him! Let him sleep elsewhere!"

Again I pulled Steve arm. "No! It's his bed. Let's go. I'll finish you off in the bedroom."

Then I understood the evasiveness of Steve about his divorce. 

"I said no bitch!" he said, then his fist connected straight with my face, twice - once on the nose, breaking it, then a second time on the side of the head. I went down straight to the floor, my head ringing, loosing all senses of up and down. 

When I regained some consciousness, it took me a while to make sense of my surrounding. I had blood running down my nose non stop. And there was Steve, himself crouched on the floor, trying to avoid my iron frying pan that Mike was repeatedly hammering down on him. I saw it clearly when it did connect with Steve's head. He went down for the count. But Mike was still swinging. I gathered as much strength as I could and stopped Mike.

"It's alright now baby! Stop!" I said, gripping his swinging arm. 

I called the cops. They were rather rough with Mike. I pleaded with them. I tried to explain that they shouldn't be handling him like a criminal. They finally eased up on him after they looked at Steve's rap sheet in regard of assault on women - his ex-wife and a few girlfriends. They took Steve away and I was pleased afterward to see that one cop gently patted Mike on his shoulder.

"You did good by your Mom, kid! Real good."

I had a few lovers after that, but none of them at my place. But it was too late already to mend the rift between the kids and me.

Within three years, Mike and Michelle left me. It was not such a sour separation as with Cassandra and Tanya, but they left me alone anyway. Soon, I was looking for a smaller and cheaper apartment. I finally found this cockroach filled lousy apartment, one I still can barely afford on my waitress salary.

God damned you George! Are you happy now!

I turned off the tube then took the Christmas card back to the living room. The CD player had stopped. I hesitated to put it back on. My eyes met the only picture I still kept, a picture of George with the kids, taken on Christmas, a few months before his death. It was the last picture of him.

And every night I wait for George to appear. After all, didn't he say he would see me in Hell.



 In this second installment of Serie Noire, I played with a very common consequence of a broken marriage. Every year, over 30 000 Americans commit suicide. More than half used a firearm. There is more suicide than there is homicide. 90% of all suicides involve some kind of mental illness and the most common is depression. Among the life experiences causing depression are divorce, separation, or breakup of a relationship as well as losing custody of children, or feeling that a child custody decision is not fair, loss of hope. 



Serie Noire 03



By Likegoodwine copyright June 2013

I often write about cheating spouses with some levity - if not downright humor - but I sometimes need to acknowledge that the event can be a shattering experience for a family. Serie Noire is my place to write about the real life dramas. Each story is a standalone. If you didn't like the two first stories of Serie Noire, don't read this one. 

However, this one has a good ending. There is no explicit sex scene in this tale.

I am also experimenting with writing at the third person instead of the more personal first person writing. Bear with me!

Thank to Scalia for his patient editing.

Your votes and constructive comments are appreciated.

Chapter 1 -- Lost in a sea of sorrow

The young woman came into the soup kitchen. She was obviously ill at ease to be among so many broken spirits. Even more so as she was wearing designer jeans and sweater, as well as nice Italian shoes, an outfit that could feed a family here for a month. 

There was a hush over the crowd as men, women, and children all stopped eating to look at that gorgeous creature from another sphere of the world.

"Little rich brat coming to slum" was the prevalent thought going through the minds of many regulars of the soup kitchen.

There were still a few laggards in line waiting to be served their evening meal but most people were already sitting and eating. Even the volunteers helping the soup kitchen were curious and were looking at her.

She shrugged away her discomfort, gathered as much courage as she could, and walked toward the line-up. All the way, she kept looking at the people around the tables... and they looked back at her. Most were simply curious, but a few were really not friendly. None had enough energy to be hostile though.

She was out of her element and she knew it. A whistle resounded from the rear of the room, making the young woman self-conscious. More whistles and catcalls soon followed it. One of the volunteer spoke up.

"Hey that's enough," he simply said. "Go back to eat."

He must have been well respected because the whole crowd quickly became silent. Bit by bit, the sound of spoons and forks raking against the plates was again the only sound that could be heard. It wasn't normal because chatter was typically the prevalent sound at mealtime.

The young woman finally reached the man who had spoken earlier. She noticed the little crucifix affixed to the collar of his polo shirt. 'A priest of some kind,' she thought.

"Good evening sir," she said to the middle age man. "I am Mary Crozier and I am looking for my father. His name is Richard Crozier..."

"Few of them use their whole name, miss!" interrupted the man. "I know a few that go by the name of Rick or Dick. By the way, my name is Dean Jones. Why are you looking for him in here?"

Reverend Dean was looking Mary up and down. She looked so out of place.

Mary took a picture of her father, a picture taken almost 20 years earlier.

"I swear that I saw him around here yesterday," Mary said. "I had taken a wrong exit and ended on 47th Street. I stopped at a red light and I looked at this man. Despite the beard and the many years since I last saw him, I could swear it was my father. He almost tripped in front of the car and I had a good look at him. Because of the traffic, I wasn't able to follow him."

Reverend Dean looked closely at the picture. "Ah! He looks familiar," he said. "Why would you think he would be here? We are three long blocks away from 47th."

"Well, er... he looked a bit like er... destitute," she said, barely loud enough to be heard over the buzz from the crowd of eaters. She clearly hesitated at the word 'destitute'. "I drove around last evening and again after work today. I though maybe that he could be here. I'm sorry, I don't want to be judgmental but I really want to find him."

"It's alright miss," answered Reverend Dean trying to appease Mary's discomfort. "Many are down on their luck, that's for sure. Destitute is not a bad description either. It beats people calling them bums."

A big muscled heavily tattooed volunteer snickered beside them.

Reverend Dean handed back the old picture to Mary. But before Mary grabbed it, he turned around and showed it to the big guy.

"Hey Luke! Seen this guy around?" asked the Reverend. "He looks familiar."

Luke looked at the picture for a fleeting second.

"Yep! He used to come here often," said Luke. "Now he comes once in a while, mostly at the months' end. Probably when he runs out of food. He was here yesterday."

Mary grabbed the picture handed back by Reverend Dean and dug a business cards out of her handbag. She gave one each.

"Please, I lost sight of my father more than 15 years ago," pleaded Mary. "I really would like to find him."

"And why is that?" asked Reverend Dean.

It's a long story," answered Mary.

Reverend Dean lifted a finger at Mary to ask her to wait a bit. He grabbed two plates, went further down the line, scooped some mash potatoes, mixed veggies and some meatloaf in them. He came back toward Mary.

"I guess you didn't eat yet tonight," he asked. Mary shook her head negatively. "Well grabbed a couple of forks and let's eat. You can tell me your story."

"Is it alright with you Luke?" asked Reverend Dean.

Luke only gave him a thumb up as an answer. 

A few people moved further down the table to leave some room for the Reverend and Mary.

"Thanks guys!" the Reverend said. "It's appreciated."

"So? What's the story?" asked Reverend Dean before attacking his meat loaf. 

"I was eight years old when our life changed forever," started Mary. "We had an happy life I assumed but one day my grandma Crozier came to school to get me and my sister Annie -- she was 6. The next day, our mom came. She had an awful row with grandma. She took us to her mom and dad and never told us why we couldn't go home."

Mary was lost in years past. She played a bit with the mixed vegetables, picked one single pea and ate it.

"A few days later, we went back home. Daddy wasn't there," continued Mary, her eyes damp from unshed tears. "We asked Mom, but she always kept telling that Daddy was gone and would never come back. Not long after that we moved away. I never saw my father or my grandma again."

She waited a bit, playing with her mashed potatoes. She seemed to hesitate to continue the story. Reverend Dean put a gentle hand over her left hand resting on the table.

"Miss, it's alright!" he said kindly. "I heard everything a pastor will ever hear. There is one thing I insist of you though."

Mary looked at him questioningly.

"We spend a lot of time and energy to collect donation to pay for these meals and to cook it," he said pointing at her untouched plate. "Please, eat your meal so it doesn't go to waste."

"Oh, of course, yes!" said Mary obviously embarrassed by her behavior. "I'm sorry. I was just lost in thought." 

She took a big mouthful of meatloaf, then another of mashed potatoes and veggies.

"So?" prodded Reverend Dean. "What was he in jail for?"

Mary was totally surprised that Dean had assumed so much from the few words said.

"How..." she started to say.

"I told you I've heard and seen everything. Please continue."

"Yes, he was in jail," resumed Mary. "My mom and grandma Reagan refused to tell us why, but I later did some research. He was convicted of second-degree murder in a... in a domestic dispute. Other research showed that grandma Crozier tried and failed to get a court order to be able to see us and take us to visit her son. She had a stroke and we never saw her again. The worst is that grandpa Crozier was already deceased and she lingered between life and death in an hospital for six months, all alone."

She stopped talking to finish up her plate. She looked proudly at Reverend Dean.

"I was eight when I last saw my father. I have this last picture of him because I was able to hide it from my mother. I took it the day she cleaned out our photo albums. I dug it from the garbage. Anyway, Mom remarried not long after we moved to Idaho. She died in a car accident two years ago. As nothing really kept me attached to Idaho, I decided to get a job around here. I did contact the state correctional administration but was unable to find my father. He served seven years and was released on probation. I found no trace of him after his probation ended."

"But, Miss, why would you like to find him? He's a murderer after all," asked the Reverend.

"Nobody never told us the whole story," said Mary.

"And I can't believe he was a brutal murderer," she added vehemently. "He was a nice and gentle man. I need to know why this happened to us and... and..."

She was unable to continue. Tears were streaking down her cheeks.

"And what?" asked Reverend Dean.

Mary stroked her midsection.

"And he will be grandfather in 5 months," said Mary softly. "I missed him growing up. I want him to be around when I raise my child."

Reverend Dean took her two hands in his. His own eyes were also brimming with unshed tears.

"And 'THAT' is a very good reason," he said. "If you please, leave me the picture and I will start asking around. I will let you know by the end of the week."

Mary gave him back the picture. She then finished her plate clean. She looked at Reverend Dean with pride.

"I finished everything, Reverend," she said. "You spoke of donation earlier, where can I donate?"

Reverend Dean showed a small box at the beginning of the line. 

Mary got up and went to the box. She opened her handbag, got her wallet, and fished out a $100 bill out of it, that she inserted in the slit on top of the box. Luke, as well as many regulars of the soup kitchen saw the thickness of her wallet.

Her good deed done, she walked back toward Reverend Dean.

"Thank you Reverend!" said Mary while shaking his hand. "It means a lot to me. I really hope that you will be able to find him."

"I'll try my best, Miss!" Reverend Dean said. He looked toward Luke.

Mary was about to leave when Luke arrived at their table.

"Your car is far from the shelter?" asked Luke.

"About one block toward 47th," answered Mary.

"I'll walk you there," Luke said. He wasn't asking and his tone made it perfectly clear.

They walked in silence toward her car. She got in and Luke tipped a fictional hat then left.

Luke walked back toward the shelter. They had the place cleaned up in no time and the night crew started to arrive for the sleeping arrangement. They finally had some quiet time to talk about Mary. The Reverend retold Mary's story to Luke.

"And what do you think Dean?" asked Luke. "Is she straightforward? Does she really want to meet her jail bird of a dad?"

"Why do you ask?" replied Reverend Dean.

"Well he was a regular here about two years ago," answered Luke. "He was called Raven. I never understood why. As I always do, I tried to chat him up a bit. He wasn't very responsive. That guy's mind seemed a bit screwed up, kind of fragile. I would be very cautious before I try to throw him to the lions. What seems like a good idea for us might just be a nightmare for him. Maybe putting him in front of his daughter might bring back shame, embarrassment, or other unwelcome emotions."

"My goodness Luke! In a couple of sentences, you sized up the essence of the whole matter," said Reverend Dean, chuckling. "Even if we had the budget, we wouldn't need a 'psych' to work with our customers. As for your question, yes I believe that she really want to be back in her father's life. Or more importantly, she wants to have her father back in her life. I don't recall him as much as you do, but if your assessment is right, it might be a very good thing for him to resume a loving family life."

"Ok, I'll go with you on that one," said Luke. "Tomorrow, I'll start asking question to find out where we can find him."

Luke got up. "Well, time for me to go back home. Goodnight Dean!"

"Goodnight Luke!"

Chapter 2 -- A love thrown out the window

Luke was the well-connected volunteer, but it was Reverend Dean who finally got the information on the whereabouts of Richard Crozier. So early one morning, he went to a waterfront warehouse where many job seeking laborers would gather in an attempt to get a one-day job. True enough, Richard Crozier was among the waiting men.

Reverend Dean waited a bit to see if somebody would hire Crozier. Other younger and stronger men found a taker, but not Crozier. A few of the waiting men recognized Reverend Dean and acknowledged his presence by nodding at him. Crozier was solely focused on the guys coming in their pick-up truck looking for helpers.

He didn't get a call, but he was well organized. He had a little sign on which he had his skills listed: drywalls, general labor, painting, bookkeeping, and more.

When the men started to split, Reverend Dean accosted Crozier. 

"Hi, my name is..." started to say Reverend Dean.

"Reverend Dean," finished Crozier for him.

"I saw that you do bookkeeping. I don't have much to offer -- one hundred dollars for the day -- but I would like to have somebody helping me with the books. Would you be available?" asked the Reverend.

Crozier agreed right away and they were soon driving back toward the homeless shelter.

"You know who I am," asked Reverend Dean. "But I don't know your name."

"Raven," said Crozier. 

He was sure a man of few words, as Reverend Dean would soon learn.

"Er... I don't mind paying people under the table, but I prefer to know them, and their real name," said Reverend Dean.

"Richard Crozier!" said Crozier reluctantly.

"Why Raven?" asked Reverend Dean.

"Crozier, Crow, Raven," simply said Crozier.

Reverend Dean really needed somebody to help with the bookkeeping, and it is only because of the $100 donation from Mary Crozier that he was able to afford help for a day. He was soon at work in the small room that was the office. Crozier started working, asking few questions and keeping to himself while making sense of the total disarray in the paperwork.

Lunchtime finally arrived. Reverend Dean told Crozier that he was treating him to lunch at a nearby restaurant. He has been thinking all morning about the best way to broach the subject of Mary Crozier. He still wasn't sure how to proceed. Contrary to what Luke said, Reverend Dean didn't think that Crozier was screwed up. He kept to himself, sure. He was not very responsive to an open dialogue, preferring to nod a yes rather than say it. But Reverend Dean saw him more like a hurting human being real quiet rather than a potential psychopath. When he finally realized that, Reverend Dean had his path all chosen for him: truth.

They both ordered the soup and sandwich special.

While waiting for the soup, Reverend Dean decided to dive.

"I lied earlier," he said. "I already knew your name when I hired you. I knew who you are."

Crozier nodded. "I know! You kept looking at me."

"My books are totally messed up, I know that. But I hired you for another reason," said Reverend Dean.

But then something surprised him. He noticed Crozier eyes shinning with dampness. And a tear came down his cheek. A single lonely tear! Reverend Dean decided to keep silent. He didn't understand what was happening. Was Luke correct in his assessment? Was Crozier a loony?

"You spoke with my daughter," stated Crozier, flooring Reverend Dean with surprise.

"Er... How... I didn't," tried to say Reverend Dean.

"It's alright Reverend! I recognized her earlier this week," acknowledged Crozier. "I tripped and almost fell on my face in front of her car when I realize that it was her. I saw her trying to follow me. She's smart! The bitch raised her good I guess."

"You didn't want to talk to your daughter?" asked Reverend Dean.

Crozier didn't answer the question. He was looking outside. The waitress came with the soup and they both started to eat it. They both had respect for the price they had to pay to be able to eat. Reverend Dean left Crozier alone with his thoughts.

As they were eating, Crozier began to cry. Tears were dripping in his soup, making it a bit saltier.

They finished their soups at the same time.

"Everyday, I am dying inside because I don't talk to her, and to Annie, my other daughter. But I am nothing and they are everything. They are the only good things I ever did. For them, it is way better not to know me."

Reverend Dean didn't push and they waited for the sandwiches in silence. The waitress put them on the table and both men finished their lunches.

While walking back toward the shelter, Reverend Dean decided to probe a bit.

"Mr. Crozier," he said. "I hate to ask, but I would really like to know why you went to jail?"

Crozier looked at Reverend Dean. "Why would I tell you that?"

Reverend Dean was at a loss to answer that question. He wanted to know in order to decide if it would be advisable to bring daughter and father together. In the end, he would be judging Crozier over his past deeds and that would go against all his religious as well as his citizen's beliefs. 

They reached the shelter while Reverend Dean was still struggling to find an answer to Crozier's question. At the shelter, Crozier went back to the office and Reverend Dean to the kitchen to make himself look busy. They were doing spaghetti that night, so there was no long preparation to do tonight.

Fifteen minutes later, Crozier came in the kitchen. Reverend Dean was scrubbing an obstinate stain at the bottom of a huge pot. 

"Do you have a minute Reverend?"

"Sure!" said Reverend Dean.

He removed his rubber gloves and went toward the common area. He picked two coffees on the way. He was dubious about it as it was a coffee made three hours earlier. They sat down.

"When I asked you why, I had a come back for every reasons you could find, Reverend Dean," said Crozier. "I wasn't prepared to receive no answer at all. After a while, left to myself, I was asking myself 'Why not?' You still want to hear what happened to me?"

"Yes!" said Reverend Dean.

"It all happened because of a damage ligament in my back," started Crozier...

*****

Two days earlier, I had helped a supplier's employee bring boxes of copier paper into the office. I was in my office when that scrawny kid came at the back door. If he was 5'5' and 130 pounds, it's because he was wet and wearing high heel boots. He put a box to hold the door opened and a draft of cold air hit me in the back. After a few minutes, I looked and saw that he was carrying only one box at a time. I decided that if I wanted some warmth, I would have to help him. At one moment, I tried to lift up two boxes of paper. I felt a warm sensation in my back but paid no attention to that.

The next day, my back continued to hurt and by mid-afternoon, it had become unbearable. I decided to go home and wait for my wife, Martha, to rub some Tiger balm on my sore back.

You know how the story goes. Well, many of my mates in prison faced something like that. For me, it was a strange car in the driveway, blocking my way to the garage. Remember I was hurting in the back and had a hard time to walk. I was really pissed off when I walked in. I looked around and saw nobody on the first floor. I then went to the stairwell.

"Anybody home?" I called out while starting to climb the stairs.

I heard a ruckus upstairs. As fast as my back allowed I rushed up the stairs and down the hallway. My wife came out from the bathroom, almost totally undressed but with a towel around her.

"Hi honey!" she said, hurriedly. "I was about to jump in the shower."

She looked flustered and didn't volunteer to tell me why she was home in mid-afternoon. She didn't ask me either. Something wasn't quite right and her guilty look didn't help. I pushed her aside and looked inside the bathroom. Nothing! I then walked toward our bedroom and I saw nothing either, aside from the unmade bed. We always made the bed in the morning. I looked around, even in the closet. Nothing!




Serie Noire 03



Martha followed me. I pushed her aside and went to the girls' room. I hit a resistance while trying to open the door. With my shoulder, I pushed the door open. As the door violently opened, I saw a man hit the wall and fall to the floor. He had only his pants on. When he looked at me, I recognized a co-worker of Martha's.

I am not, and will never be an Einstein, but there was only one conclusion about what was happening or about to happen when I came home: Martha was cheating on me! I reached toward the man cowering against the wall and I grabbed his hair. I almost fell to the ground when I ended up with his toupee. I reached again and grabbed his hair in the back of his head and started to drag him out of the room. 

Now remember that my back was hurting like Hell. To put it mildly, let's say that I was short tempered. I was hurting so much that I was primed to lash out anytime soon. And I realized that if I wanted to have that guy out of the house real quick -- I still had to have it with my wife -- I would have to drag him all the way along the hallway, then down a flight of stairs, then along another hallway downstairs. I looked at the inviting windows in our daughters' bedroom. My back was hurting with the exertion from pulling that guy. It was a no-brainer.

I started to run toward the windows, pulling hard on Brad Park, Martha's co-worker. When he realized that I was about to throw him through the window, he tried to brace himself, but it was too late - his momentum and my own force sent him through the glass and out the window.

I turned toward my wife. She had followed me in the bedroom. All my anger fled me when I saw the look of horror on her face. It gave me a clue that I should make sure that the asshole was all right. Glass can cut you pretty bad.

I went to the window and looked down in the yard. Oh shit!

The window of the girls' room gave on the neighbors' property and a wooden fence separated us. Brad's was down on the grass, one floor below, his head jammed at an unhealthy angle by the fence.

"That's where I realized that my life as I knew it was over," said Crozier. "We called an ambulance and went down there, but it was too late as I well knew. His head hit the fence and he died on impact. I didn't mean to kill him. I just wanted him out of my house. It was an accident but my defense of an accident didn't fly as my attorney predicted. I got 15 years with no parole for eight."

***** 

They both stayed silent for a while. Reverend Dean now had a better feeling about Crozier. He wasn't a murderer. As far as he could tell, it really was an accident. Reverend Dean was now totally convinced that a reunion of Crozier and his daughter would be positive and beneficial to both of them.

For Reverend Dean, the concept of 'both of them' was important. He wasn't prepared to try to fix a meeting between Mary and her father only for Mary's sake, or for Crozier's sake. Now he was sure that both could benefit from it. But the comment of Luke was nagging at him. Was Crozier ready for a reunion?

Chapter 3 - Home sweet home

Reverend Dean broke the silence and asked Crozier to stay for the evening meal. The next two hours went in a flash, as it was suppertime. Crozier even offered to help serve the meal, spaghetti with a Bolognese sauce and a side of garden salad. A meal fit for a king if that king had only a muffin and a coffee for a meal that day.

They didn't have much time to talk, but when Crozier announced he was going back home, Reverend Dean asked him if it was possible to meet again.

Over the next few days, Reverend Dean was able to talk with Crozier many times. The main problem for Crozier was his own total self-contempt. He did something totally wrong as it caused another man's death. He sure wanted to hurt the guy when he found him with his wife, not kill him. Fortunately for him, the parole board was well aware of his sincere remorse for his action. That was the main factor that helped him to be freed on his first parole hearing.

His self-contempt also encompassed the fact that his behavior had made it impossible to care for his two daughters. His absence from his children's life was viewed as treason of his parent's duty. In his view, he had been the worst father possible.

"I was in jail while they needed a father," said Crozier. "I wasn't there when they needed me. I wasn't there to help with their homework. I wasn't there to put them to bed, to read a story, to tickle them and sooth them when they were sad. I wasn't there when they had a first boyfriend. I wasn't there for their graduation.... I was never there."

"Let me be the devil's advocate here," said Reverend Dean. "You weren't there for many important events in their life, and now that they ask you to be there, would you run away? From now on you won't be able to say that you couldn't be there, but that you didn't want to be there. Which one is worst?"

Crozier looked at Reverend Dean like if he had been slapped in the face. He got up and left the mission. Reverend Dean resisted his impulse to rush after him. He knew that he had pushed him hard, but he also hoped that Crozier would think over what he had just told him and come back.

However, it is not Crozier that came back first. One evening when he didn't have to serve the meal, Reverend Dean arrived at the mission to a huge surprise. Serving the last clients of another full house of 100, Marie Crozier and another young woman, obviously her sister, were on each side of Luke. Pedro and Sister Celeste - the volunteers scheduled for tonight supper - were sitting at a table sipping coffee and talking with a few clients.

Reverend Dean walked to Luke. "So you decided to bring your girlfriends to work?" he asked jokingly.

"Not my girlfriends," said Luke without looking at Reverend Dean. "That one is already knocked up (he pointed at Mary) and that one is probably not legal in this state. Hey girl, care to take a drive to Michigan?"

As expected, Reverend Dean blushed at the crude comments from Luke while the girls just chuckled. He should have known. Reverend Dean let them finish the food service and went to sit with Sister Celeste. Not long after that, Mary Crozier and the young girl came and sat beside them. Sister Celeste got up, excused herself, and left.

"Dean, I would like you to meet my sister Annie," said Mary. "I was really hoping that we could meet our father. Did you see him? Talk to him?"

"Yes I did see him..." started to say Reverend Dean.

"Is he coming tonight?" interrupted Mary and Annie exactly at the same time.

"Wo girls! Slow down!" said Reverend Dean. "I met him and talked to him. I am still not sure that he can meet you."

"I don't understand," said Mary.

"Well let me explain," said Reverend Dean. "I talked at length with your father and his story is a very sad one, a story as old as the world itself. I will not tell you the whole thing. I prefer to let him do it when and if you meet. Your father is a very troubled man. I don't know what you remember of him, but he is a ghost of that man. Eight years in jail and seven more years of rejection from the society will just do that to a man."

Mary and Annie were listening intently to what Reverend Dean was saying. They didn't notice Luke who came and sat beside Mary. They were startled when he spoke.

"Yeah, that's true," said Luke. "I did two years for a brawl gone bad with my girlfriend's lover, didn't kill him though! Broke his nose and cheekbone as well as a busted nut... I'm still on probation for the next two years. It totally fucked up one's life. But I am lucky to have my mom and dad supporting me."

With much empathy, Mary put her hand on Luke's hand.

"I have high hope that your father will come back to you," resumed a surprised Reverend Dean looking at the show of affection between Luke and Mary. "I know that you want him back in your life so he can meet your future child and the father."

"The father took off when he learned I was pregnant," said Mary.

"The fucker beat it like a coward," said Luke at the same time.

They both looked at each other with a smile. It didn't escape Reverend Dean nor did it escape Annie who looked toward the ceiling feigning exasperation.

"Girls, I know that you really want him back in your life," said the Reverend. "But I am really not sure that he is ready to be back in your life. He has been a society's reject for so many years that his self-esteem is simply non-existent. He loves you girls like the day he went to jail, but he believes that you would be better without him. He is ashamed of what he is -- an ex-convict. He believes that he abandoned you with his action 15 years ago. He still thinks that you would be better without him."

The two young women were now crying.

"Nooo," cried Annie. "It's not true! We can't be better with no parent when one is still alive." She turned toward Mary. "You promised me he would be here for us. You promised."

A voice sounded behind them.

"And her promise was good Baby!" it said. "I'm here for you girls."

They all turned toward the voice. Richard Crozier was standing a few feet behind them. As one Mary and Annie jumped and ran to their father. He simply took them both in his arms while they started to bawl non-stop. He was also crying, holding them tight and kissing their head.

"I love you girls! I never stopped loving you."

One hundred pairs of eyes were riveted to this touching scene. In the back, an old bag lady stood up, tears streaking down her cheeks, touched by a little hope, a glimpse of what could be still good in her life and she started to slowly clap her two hands. Other followed and soon, the whole mission was applauding the reunion. Even Luke was trying very hard not to shed a tear.

Epilogue

Four months later, Mary was in a delivery room at the hospital. A big tattooed guy was holding her hand while the nurse was urging her to control her breath.

Further down the hallway, in the waiting room, two soon-to-be grandmothers were waiting, none of them related by blood to Mary. 

There was Mildred Jones, Luke's mother, as well as Michelle Vezina, the mother of the ass-hole that abandoned Mary when he learned he was to be a father. She always liked that young girl while having to accept that her son was a bad man, so much like his father, a wife beater.

He had tried to get back in touch with Mary when he learned that his mother would probably disinherit him to the profit of the newborn. He needed a simple meeting with Luke to see the light.

"Listen carefully mother-fucker," had said Luke. "You'll have Mary back over my dead-body, which means that I can keep her over 'your' dead body. I'm willing to let you take the first shot... But I can promise you that I'll have the last one."

When Mary described his reaction to the announcement that she was in a family way, it was a figure of speech when she said that 'he ran away'. When Luke describes the last time he saw the back of that guy, he was simply stating the truth: he ran away.

In addition to the two grandmothers, there were two grandfathers in the waiting room, only one related by blood to the newborn baby.

"I am really lucky so far Reverend," said Crozier to Reverend Dean. "Within a week of meeting her, Michelle found me a very good job with her estate managers. I now help monitoring a very large estate. I have some catch up to do in accounting but nothing much."

"You evade the real matter," said Reverend Dean, winking at Crozier. "Are you making headway with her?"

"Don't kiss and tell!" said Crozier. "Don't kiss and tell!"

Luke Jones' mother, Mildred Jones, came by the two men.

"So Mister Jones," she said to Reverend Dean. "How are you holding up with our first grandkid on the way?"

"Never better Honey, never better!" said Reverend Dean to his wife. "Hope sonny is faring good too. After all, he is the one in there while his girlfriend yells at him."

"Yeah, that's true!"

The end!

That's it Folks! I hope my little story touched some of you. In my 20's -- such a long time ago - I had been a volunteer at a soup kitchen and also for a Saint Vincent de Paul Society of a parish in a very poor part of Montreal. You don't wish me to write about it, but I can't help my experience to color some of my stories. Gee I still have bad dreams about them but it might help to exorcise them. Please comment but be nice!

My very patient editor, Scalia, won't be able to help me with my next stories -- if I can ever find the time to write. If you like my stories and are a good editor, please write me a note. I would appreciate a female editor as it would add a new angle to my writing. Thanks!



Serie Noire 04



By Likegoodwine Copyright April 2014

I often write about cheating spouses with some levity - if not downright humor - but I sometimes need to acknowledge that the event can be a shattering experience for a family. Serie Noire is my place for stories inspired by real life dramas. Each story is a standalone. If you didn't like the three first stories of Serie Noire, don't read this one.

Here's a very short story for you. It is an hour in the life of a couple of characters and doesn't explain or describe everything that occurs before or after. If it's not your cup of tea, please pass on. There is no sex in the story. It is another attempt at writing in the 3rd person.

Edited by JonB1969. By I changed a few things after his editing so all remaining mistakes are mine.

Your votes and constructive comments are appreciated.

*****

Old man Larabie was only one among the 30 dwellers around Charles Lake. His cabin was the last one on the southeast shore. The cabin was isolated but many of them weren't. This seclusion was very sought after by Larabie when he purchased the cabin 10 years before.

The road leading to his cabin wasn't very well maintained and his driveway was even worse, but he liked it that way. It ensured him of more privacy. His Cherokee was able to drive past all the potholes but other lower vehicles often encountered problems.

Peter Larabie didn't look for much when he was looking for a cabin: power, phone and privacy. He wasn't averse to the low price coming with the secluded area: the nearest town of any importance was one hour away and the nearest village - Charles Lake Junction, population 85 in winter - was about 10 miles away. 

It was early autumn. Larabie was working around the cabin, getting it ready to face the harsh Ontario winter. It was with some surprise he heard the familiar sound of car tires spinning in mud. As he didn't hear a vehicle coming, he assumed it to be a small car or one of those new pick-up trucks; they are as noiseless as a car and often as useless in these parts of the province.

Larabie had been coming to his cabin for the last 10 years but living there since his retirement over two years ago. He knew well the sound was coming from the road and a stranded driver would soon come knocking on his door. Larabie was a recluse by choice, not by nature. He knew a little tow with a chain or his battery-operated winch would soon take care of the problem.

Putting his branch cutter away, but keeping his gloves on, he jumped in his Cherokee and headed toward the road. As expected, he found a Taurus stuck in a deep pothole the previous day's rain had filled, making it impossible to accurately judge the depth of the hole. Larabie felt a bit guilty. The previous week, he had not thought to shovel some gravel in the hole to fill it up. It was a matter of a few minutes work and would have been to his advantage as the road led only to his cabin. Now he would have to work harder and he would still have to fill up the pothole so it would be not too bad in the spring.

The driver was still in the car trying to get out of the pothole by digging himself deeper in it. Friggin' idiot! Larabie drove by the side of the Taurus and rolled down his window. He hoped the driver wouldn't be scared of his own shadow and would take him on his offer for help.

As the driver seemed unaware of his presence, Larabie decided to knock on the car's rooftop.

"Excuse me!" he said and the spinning ceased. "Excuse me sir. I can pull you out of this hole with my Jeep if you wish."

The Taurus window came down. Electric window, of course! A blonde head appeared and their eyes locked. After a second of hesitation, recognition happened with two different outcomes. Larabie, without bothering to roll up his window, shifted in rear gear and took off in reverse. Everything was reversed in this situation. The first time he took off on her, he didn't look back. Today, he was driving away from her without looking ahead. 

The blonde woman got out of the car and screamed: "Peter!"

Larabie knew the woman and now realized one problem with his secluded cabin. He was at a dead-end. He had no escape. If he would simply drive home, she would follow him by foot. There was no reason she would be around his place if she were not looking for him. Unless he had time to gather his gear, there was no chance to simply take to the wood and go hunting for a while. Anyway, he had a feeling she would be there upon his return.

Larabie stopped, changed gear and came back to the car. She was still standing by her car. She stood in the road blocking the way, knowing Larabie, despite the 17 years since their divorce. 

For the second time in the last five minutes, their eyes locked. There was surprise the first time. Now, Larabie saw mostly determination and - to his surprise - a sadness that found echoes deep inside him. He knew he had to have a talk with her for whatever reason she had.

His ex-wife, Martha, must have recognized his capitulation. She deliberately walked to the car and climbed in.

"Hi Peter," she said. "I am sorry to come here unannounced, but I needed to talk to you. It's important."

Larabie didn't answer right away. He was searching for the proper response to such a situation. Absolutely nothing came to mind. So, without a word, he got out, and within a minute he unstuck her car. He climbed back in his Cherokee.

"I freed your car. Follow me, my cabin is near," said Larabie.

They were soon at his cabin.

Without a word, he got out of the car and went inside the cabin, not really caring if she followed him or not. He immediately started to make coffee in an old percolator he bought for a dollar at a flea market. Thinking about it made him realized the divorce left him so broke mentally and financially that most of his possessions in the cabin were bought at garage sales or flea markets.

Larabie had lost more than money in the divorce. He had lost his wife - of course - but also his only child, his friends, and his self-respect.

Curious, Martha looked around. Instead of gloating over the clean but decrepit state of the cabin, an overwhelming sadness swept over her. There was no doubt in her mind she was partly responsible for her ex-husband's situation. She had so much to say, she was lost for words. Many conflicting feelings were overwhelming her. For years she had thought about this moment and had rehearsed all the things she wanted to tell him, but now, as she was facing him, no words were coming out.

The coffee started to percolate without any of them being able to start a conversation. Larabie had time to look closely at Martha. He noticed that her hair was the same color as he remembered. As she was close to 60, he assumed wrongly she was coloring her hair. 

"Well" Laramie thought. "I thought it would be worse. At least she shut up." 

And he started to gently giggle at his own joke.

"That's what happens when you spend almost all your time all by yourself," he thought. "At least there is no need to explain a joke."

Hearing Larabie laugh, Martha looked at him with a quizzical look in her eyes.

"What?" she asked. "What's so funny?"

Larabie waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

They were still silent when Larabie decided the coffee had percolated enough. He prepared two cups, his with a bit of cream and hers with plenty of cream and two spoons of sugar.

Larabie put the cup of coffee in front of Martha, sat down and looked at her.

"I... I needed to tell you," started Martha, her voice trailing. "... I needed to tell you how sorry and ashamed I am for everything that happened... for everything I did..."

Martha's voice was faltering and the last was said as a sob. She wasn't looking at Larabie, feeling ashamed of herself for past events, and embarrassed now by her lack of control.

"Why?" 

Putting her hand on her head, Martha pulled up the blond wig she was wearing, shocking Larabie.

"Because I am dying of cancer. And despite my fight, I am losing the battle. You don't owe me nothing but could you find in your heart to let me tell you everything."

Larabie didn't really wish to talk to his ex-wife. In his mind, she was just a bad memory of time long gone. And to be truthful, the revelation of her impending death left him speechless.

Martha put back her wig, leaving it a bit askew.

"It will be hard for you to believe," started Martha. "But I am so very, very sorry for what I put you through for the last 17 years. I am sorry I cheated on you. I am sorry I treated you like shit after you found out. I am sorry for whatever happened since then."

Larabie had no words. An avalanche of conflicting emotions was coursing through his head. How can she apologize for what she had done? He guessed that her destiny with death made her ask for closure and possibly forgiveness.

Martha interrupted his train of thought.

"Despite everything I did then, I never even once stopped loving you, please believe me," resumed Martha. "I was totally stupid to start an affair with Brad. We got together only three times, and each times I felt stupid and ashamed to be cheating on you. You were leagues ahead of him in the lovemaking department. Only the alcohol, my stupidity and the excitement of novelty could explain my behavior. Please Peter, believe me when I say nothing you did then or after is responsible for my behavior. You were a wonderful husband and I lost you because of my idiocy."

Larabie had his doubt about the veracity of what she was saying. No amount of reassurance could erase how vile her actions were. You can't say you love your husband then turn around and stab him in the back. You can't say he satisfies you but you go and get it elsewhere. She might be dying but Larabie knew that he was not brain dead himself. 

There was one truth that led him all his life: you don't hurt people you love.

"A soon as I saw you at the restaurant, I knew that you knew," said Martha. "I panicked. I knew you enough to realize you would divorce me with as much duress as you could. And when you hit me while trying to take a swing at Brad, you gave me ammunition for the coming war. When the police took you away, they played right in my hand. In a moment, my love for you was pushed in the background by the fact we were done as husband and wife. I forgot to show you my love. Instead of getting on my knees and asking for forgiveness, I went in damage-control mode."

She stopped again. Larabie wasn't sure if it was the emotion or her health.

"For that, I am really sorry," she said. "I should have simply apologized and tried to part at least as friends, if possible. I am sorry I painted you as a wife beater for our friends, our families and our son. That was the worst..."

There was no doubt the emotion was getting the better of her.

"The worst is how easy it was," continued Martha. "With the shiner I was sporting then and a few witnesses from the restaurant, it was a walk in the park to have you labeled as a wife beater. Even Mark had to believe his dad was hitting his mother. He went in protective mode himself. It was so easy to manipulate a 15 year old boy into protecting his mother. I am so sorry I played him against you."

Larabie thought again about that famous year. Not only he had lost his wife, his soul mate, his best friend, but also he had lost his only child. He could have faced losing his wife or his friends. But the loss of his son had been the hardest blow, the one that sent him to the ground for the count. It took him years to recover. And he wasn't even sure he had fully recovered even after 17 years.

"How many times over the years I wished I could turn back the clock," said Martha. "How many times I lacked the courage to tell our son I was just a fucking lying bitch, to tell him you never intentionally tried to hit me, and it was an accident. But the longer I left the lie alive, the harder it was to come out and tell the truth."

Again, her face, streaked by falling tears, was all she offered to Peter. She was looking at the table, seemingly ashamed of her revelations.

"Well I finally did it last week," said Martha. "He hasn't spoken to me since then. I..."

She was unable to continue as emotion overtook her.

"... I am imploring you to give him a chance," she was finally able to say. "I lied to him and he really thought you were a monster. But I will be gone in a few months and you will soon be his sole surviving family, beside his wife and their two kids. I am not asking for your forgiveness because what I did is unforgivable, I know that. I am asking you to go see your son."

She looked at Larabie, her face full of hope, expecting to receive at least a bit of reassurance from him. Larabie knew it. He knew she was pleading with her ex-husband, a loving and caring man. But that man was long dead. He had been killed by her and by the system.

For years he had tried to regain some balance. He has been turning in circles, aimlessly, chasing his own tail. Until the day he realized he had really nowhere to go. Then he had stopped running. He had stopped moving. Now, a broken spirit, he was just marking time, living for life's sake.

Having nothing to cherish, his nights were empty, his life was empty, with no dreams to break his solitude. His days were filled with meaningless tasks: chop enough wood to keep the cabin warm, buy enough groceries for the month, visit Old Emma down the road for some sexual relief...

Now it seemed he could start to think about his son, although he wasn't sure about his feelings. It was too fresh, too new. He had been cut from any contact with his son for many years. At first, it had hurt Larabie pretty bad. The rejection by his son was worse than the loss of his wife. Her betrayal had shattered his love toward her and the loss was bearable. On the other hand, his love for his son was untouched, unblemished. Armed with a restraining order, Martha had done a magnificent job at keeping him away from his son.

After years of pain, a self-defense mechanism took over. Slowly, the memory of his son started to fade. As he never had a chance to get a picture, he wasn't sure he could recognize his son the way he was 17 years ago, let alone to recognize the man he became. As a matter of fact, it has been several years since the thought of his son crossed his mind.

Larabie suddenly realized his ex-wife was talking to him. He had no idea how much he had missed.

"... five year old and his baby daughter is just turning three," said Martha. "He looked so much like you it hurts each time they visit. Please, go see them. Reconnect with him. It would be easier for me to know that at least I was able to repair some of the damage I caused."

Martha looked straight at Larabie. "Will you?"

Larabie's first instinct was to simply acquiesce to a mother's desperate plea. But his mind was such a jumble of different thoughts; he was unable to say a word. His only answer was to shrug, not committing himself to anything.

Martha finally got up, grabbed her coat and walked toward the door.

"I will be going now. It will getting dark and I can't drive too long nowadays," said Martha. 

The Larabie she knew would have offered to let her stay the night, as her cancer treatment was probably taking its toll on her ability to perform long hours of driving. The new Larabie, the empty shell of her ex-husband, simply watched her leave. 

She turned toward him just before getting in her car. "Hate me if you need to, I understand, but please forgive your son."

Any decent human being would have at least said a word to reassure this dying woman. Just standing at the door, Larabie kept watching the car as it disappeared around the bend in his driveway.

He went back inside and it took him an hour to get his cabin ready for a long absence. 

He then jumped in his Jeep and drove toward the other end of the lake. 

Old Emma was curious about the car she saw coming from Larabie's cottage. She looked by the window when she heard Larabie's Jeep coming her way. She went to door, removing her panties in the process. She hadn't seen Larabie for the last couple of weeks and she though at first that he was coming for their regular sex romp. 

Sadly, he just drove by without stopping. He never did that before. A tear came down her cheek. She had the feeling that it was the last time she would see Larabie and she would end up truly alone. 

Two months later, his cabin went up for sale.