Chapter 4
MISMATCHED SHOES
Once the guests had left, and the house had been cleaned, I retired to my room—my sanctuary.
As if Philippe liked these entertaining obligations even less than I did, he was already up there, passed out on his back in his bed.
Rory had invited a couple of key figures to stay for one more drink and was entertaining them in his office.
The pressure inside me became unbearable, pushing up against my ribcage and unsettling my stomach.
I beelined it to Rory’s closet. His OCD nature came alive in his closet.
The collar of each hanging shirt had to face left.
He’d trained me well in this regard, since I was the one who hung most of his clothes.
In addition, he required color coordination, a wave of hues graduating from whites to light blues and into the darker blues. Pinks to reds, grays to blacks.
Until this week, most of what I’d been doing had gone undetected.
That was the point, right? I wasn’t looking to declare war on him.
In fact, I was going for the exact opposite.
If I was looking for any sort of reaction at all, I just wanted him to think he was losing his mind a little.
A misplaced item, a deleted DVR game, a missing towel, a random allergic reaction.
Little things that would drive him crazy but wouldn’t point a finger at me.
More and more though, I was slipping into a dangerous game in which he’d know I’d been the culprit, a discovery that would defeat the entire purpose of my mission to become Superwife.
Still, if he figured out I was guilty, I hoped he would only see my subtle sabotage as mere errors in my programming, not intentional jabs against him.
Revisiting what I had seen downstairs, I cringed that video-game Kim had found him so funny and had smacked him on the shoulder.
I tried to tell myself Rory was just being Rory, but that helped a total of zero percent.
I picked up an overly starched, light blue shirt, twisted the hanger around so that the collar faced left, and hung the shirt between two white ones.
Ah, a tiny breath of satisfaction. I removed a white shirt with red stripes, rotated the hanger, and placed it between two dark blue shirts.
I could almost hear the pressure release on that one.
I performed this inconceivable act three more times.
Any more and I thought he’d figure me out.
I was just looking for that subtle scratch of the head, dip of the chin, or low grunt that signified things weren’t right in his world.
I hoped he wouldn’t even bring it up. Even he knew we must pick our battles in marriage.
I looked down at the closet floor. Rows of shiny business shoes lined the racks, each pair angled with care.
On the floor were his more casual tennis shoes, slippers, and clogs.
Even those were lined up almost too neatly.
With great courage and daring, I reached down and switched a left slipper with a right black polished shoe.
I let out a chuckle. This little game was satisfying.
Dare I do another? Why not! This move had to be less drastic though.
I switched a left brown loafer with a lighter brown loafer.
Subtle, but still effective as far as satisfaction delivery.
If he’d caught me at that moment, he would have lost his mind.
The pure joy on my face would have hurt his feelings.
In one last untoward act against his shoes, I picked up his tennis shoes and tied three knots in a row with one lace.
I pulled them tight, so he’d have to use tweezers to untie the knot.
It still wasn’t enough. Why not keep going until I had returned to normal? After the food I’d fed his constituents and the jaw-dropping, Tony-Award worthy performance I’d delivered, he owed me at least that amount of joy. His allergic reaction wasn’t severe enough to knock down all the dominoes.
I looked around the room, searching for another move.
As was his preference, the bed was perfectly made.
Actually, I must admit I also like a well-made bed.
While he appreciated the discipline of the act, I enjoyed the art of making the bed.
If you’ve ever pulled back the cover and top sheet of a bed at the Ritz-Carlton, you know what I mean.
If I ever ran my very own bed-and-breakfast, people around the country would talk about their sleep experiences.
Being a vegetarian, I didn’t use goose down, but I’d found a company that made nearly perfect alternatives.
Four pillows rested against the long custom-sized bolster that ran along the antique king-size headboard.
As is customary, the openings on the pillowcases pointed away from the center.
A year ago, I’d unintentionally messed up the direction and accidentally faced them inward.
Rory had about lost it. While whistling a Christmas song, I rotated his two pillows.
With a modicum of pressure still lingering, I searched the room until a perfect solution came.
How had I never done this one before? I went to his tidy bedside table, picked up the digital clock, and added fifteen minutes to the time.
Not enough of a time change that he’d immediately notice, but he would eventually discover the discrepancy, and it would grate on his nerves.
Oh, how I liked grating his nerves! His nerves were like a chunk of Parmigiana Reggiano in my right hand, and every time I ran that block of cheese along my grater, I felt more at peace.
Finally, feeling almost back to normal—if anything about me that week was normal—I slipped into a nightgown and climbed into our comfy bed.
Philippe approached the side and looked up at me with the most adorable face.
Without a second thought, I patted the bed and gave him permission to board.
My lovely dog found great pleasure not only in being on the bed, but also in crawling under the covers.
As you can imagine, Rory didn’t care for this move at all.
With a shrug of my shoulders and a curling of my mouth, I lifted the white duvet and sheet, and Philippe—my grand prince—snuck inside and settled along my leg.
When I heard the burglar alarm being armed and then Rory climbing the stairs, I braced myself for his reactions.
I might have gone overboard tonight with releases and hoped he’d been too drunk to notice.
Sadly, though, like the best of politicians, he was always a wee bit more sober than everyone else.
I imagined he’d poured himself a glass of Scotch at least a finger or two shorter than those of the other two men who’d hung around to hear him proselytize.
And he likely hadn’t even finished his, always looking for a leg up on everyone else in his presence.
Rory entered the bedroom with a bright smile on his face, but he wasn’t drunk. His smile came from the high of all the attention his guests had bestowed upon him. Honestly, I think he’d rather give a good speech than receive a blow job. Hands down. I don’t even think he’d have to think about it.
I’m once again making him sound like a prick.
And he could be one. That week especially.
I wasn’t the only one unraveling, though.
While my unraveling had to do with losing control of my plan, his unraveling had to do with losing himself in his hyper-focus and forgetting his priorities.
Trust me. If I caught him on the right day, when he wasn’t as stressed, he’d happily and truthfully admit that his family held higher priority than anything else in his life, including his political aspirations.
His unraveling was nothing new in the political world.
All around us, politicians are falling apart.
They start out intending to help people.
They’re bright-eyed, enthusiastic, and full of ambition, and they know they have a talent for leading, so they choose the route of politics.
They believe they can make a difference.
They not only want to, but they sincerely believe they can help their neighbors, the rest of their city, their entire state, or maybe even the whole country. God bless them.
Somewhere along the way, they lose their compass.
Their life becomes full of tactics and not strategies.
Focusing on the next vote becomes more important than focusing on what matters.
They tell themselves that winning one more election will give them the ability to do so much more.
They break the promises they made to themselves.
Compromise their morals. They tell tiny little lies.
They might expect a few favors. They might accept a few favors.
Rory had never admitted to such, but I knew he wasn’t as clean as he had been when we first married.
Who was I to judge, though? Most of us lose our way, even if only for a brief time. I, as his partner, needed to guide him and help him return to that bright-eyed and giving young man he used to be. That man from the past also loved the hell out of his wife and son. Bonuses all around.
“I found my phone,” he announced, and that helped explain the grin. I thought it might just have been frozen on him after forcing it for so long in front of his audience.
“Oh, good,” I said cheerfully. As if I cared at all.
“It was under the couch.” He shook his head. “I have no idea how it got there.”
Oh, I do, I thought, but said, “You’ve been a mess today. It’s hard to keep track of things.”
“True. I had some kind of allergic reaction earlier too. Had to go take some Benadryl halfway through the night.”
“What could that be from?” I asked innocently. “I hope you’re feeling better.”