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What Went Wrong?

Joan Mach

    Yes, that’s my picture on the front page of the local newspaper. As a matter of fact, I DID pay a man in a bar 20K twice, in cash, to murder my wife. My kid hates me, and cries when the school bus pulls up. My wife makes me sleep on the pullout sofa in the living room until I go to jail. My entire family, including my Dad, rages against me in icy disdain. It’s a far cry from the comfortable mansion parties and lavish vacations I enjoyed a month ago. How did I get here?
    I completed chiropractic school with the richest father and lowest GPA in the history of the school. I argued that I had no head for science and enjoyed business more, but my father wanted a doctor in the family. He equipped my office and paid the first year’s lease. Two weeks after graduation I married my dear childhood friend Jill. Orphaned by her 22^nd birthday, Jill moved in with us. Jill’s lover jilted her, leaving her pregnant and vulnerable. Dad always adored Jill. When I told Dad “we” were pregnant, he clapped me on the shoulder. “Congratulations. I didn’t think you had it in you,” he exclaimed. Jill looked lovely in her caftan-style wedding gown. Dad walked her down the aisle wearing a face-splitting grin.
    Our house was a wedding gift from Dad. Jill and I settled down to suburban contentment. Our first baby bound our family together. Jill, Dad and I adored that little bundle. We named our son after Dad. Jill and I enjoyed sex together well enough. We had sex on Wednesdays and Saturdays, if she didn’t have her period or wasn’t too tired. I got a vasectomy so Jill felt “safer.” I guess I was happy enough.
    The house was a gift from Dad, but the upkeep took every penny I earned. Lawn services, cleaning services, repairs and even a nanny drained my checkbook. Lavish parties and vacations took big bites out of my income. Our tiny family wore nothing without a designer label. As fast as I earned it, we spent it. Everyone in our set lived the same way. Clearly an infusion of cash was needed. I took on a partner, with an inheritance and no head for business. My own bookkeeping/accounting skills were fine for a single practitioner. I even filled out my own income tax returns. The CPA friend of Jill’s who reviewed my tax returns made few changes . With a larger, growing practice we needed a bookkeeper and a secretary.
    Conchita walked into the office in a tight dress and I dropped my pen. The businessman in me named a lower salary, knowing the lover in me would raise her wages. Amazingly, she stayed late that night. We made love on a chiropractors table. I was powerful and potent, Conchita responded with enthusiasm. Two nights a week, and some lunch hours, I would bring in food and wine. We’d make love, drink wine and laugh. She’d dip my penis in wine and lick the wine off....
    I told Jill I had to work late to check the bookkeeper’s work, not caring if she believed me or not. My partner noticed long before Jill. “You’re still staying late, but you’re not checking the books. We also don’t eat lunch together anymore. You redecorated the office to include a pull-out sofa. Do you want to talk?” she asked. “Everything’s fine,” I replied. “I don’t need to check the books as often now that we have a bookkeeper. We need coverage through the lunch hour to maximize profits.” She just looked at me.
    I didn’t care. I was in love for the first time in my life. I floated in to work, ignoring the brutal commute. I smiled at every client, even the nasty ones. All that mattered was Conchita and her sexual skills. I could be brushing my teeth, think of sex with her, and get hard.
    A new attorney moved in next to the take-out place where I bought our nightly feasts. I made an appointment, just to say “Welcome to the neighborhood.” I took him out to lunch and told him I wanted a divorce. A former priest, he adroitly drew out my entire story. I would be left a pauper if I divorced Jill. She would get the house, and keep her standard of living. I would have to support my son until he turned 18, and probably pay all his college expenses, too. I would be left with debt, disgrace and little else. Unless my wife died, I was in a bad place.
    “Conchita is worth every penny,” I sighed. “One of my final duties as a priest was to hear confessions,” the lawyer responded. “I hope this person doesn’t dip your penis in wine and lick it off.” My jaw dropped. One or two more details, and it emerged that somebody with the same name as my infatuation was a blackmailer, at least. “But we had so much fun together,” I whined. “It could be another person altogether,” the lawyer replied. “Come back to the office and we’ll examine your options.”
    Later. I thought about that for a long time. I didn’t want to pay lawyer’s fees to be told bad news. No, my route to happiness lay in Jill’s death. I walked into the nearest bar, and ordered a brandy. The man in the next stool let his jacket sag. A gun! It didn’t take long to buy him several drinks and come to an agreement. I would pay him to kill my wife. You all know how badly that went. Even taking most of the money from the partnership account, it turned out that this off-duty cop wasn’t going to kill my wife.
    I’ll skip my arrest, Dad’s icy scorn and Jill’s rush to hire her own lawyer. My lawyer turned out to be the ex-priest. “When I told you she was a blackmailer, I didn’t tell you she tried to blackmail me. I’ll take your case.” Step by step, he guided me out of my disaster. I surrendered my license to practice, hoping to regain it sooner. Jill accepted careful coaching from both lawyers. “My husband came under the spell of an evil, manipulative woman. We will resume our family life when he recovers,” was her sole comment for the press. Jill started her own online business selling toys for children. Dad moved in with her and our son, paying their bills.
    Conchita sold her story to the Spanish newspapers, thinking it was her entry into show business. “I can get a man to pay $100.00 for a $5.00 bottle of wine, if I promise to lick it off his penis,” she cooed. The local DJ’s picked up her “Sangria Sex,” and the comedians had a field day with it. Not show business, but the high-end brothels took her on for a few years.
    My partner recovered most of the money from the insurance company. He set up an office of his own a block away with “our” equipment, including the pull-out sofa. Jill tried to get him to pay for “my” share of the business I started. He had hired a lawyer the week after I hired Conchita, and managed to pay nothing.
    I got a two-year suspended sentence, and moved out of the area. My lawyer knew of a parish hospital in Louisiana that needed a medic. I moved there, lived in the dorms, and worked in that hospital for three years. I set up my own practice, making enough to live and little more. My Dad died, and it turned out he never made a will. I inherited his estate. As soon as Jill realized I was rich, she wanted to come back to me.
    Well, why not? We never divorced, and now I knew I would have to support her and our son. We moved again, this time to “cheap North Carolina ... My son goes to private school, the sole luxury in our household. Our house has a built-in pool, but we give no lavish parties and take no lavish vacations. The yard service and cleaning service come once a week.
    Jill has a clothing allowance, supplementing it from her business. “Walmart” is our designer of choice. The retirement fund looks good, and gets better each month. We have sex on Wednesdays and Saturdays, if Jill isn’t having her period or feels too tired. I guess I’m happy enough. Still, I wonder what my life would have been like if I had insisted, half a century ago, that I didn’t want to be a doctor.

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