Call Me! Page 3

  “I won’t ask what you do if you don’t ask what I do.”

  We laughed and shook hands on it, like two moguls closing a business deal.

  “WHAT ABOUT BIRTHDAYS?” Ben said.

  “Birthdays?”

  “I think it’s customary for wives to give their husbands a blowjob on birthdays, and have sex on Valentine’s and anniversaries.”

  I frowned. “Maybe this isn’t going to work out.”

  “Forget the BJ’s. How about sex? Three days a year. What do you think?”

  I wonder why it’s so hard for me to accommodate him. Ben’s a handsome, wonderful man who adores me. This is the man who saved my life by loving me when I was in the depths of despair. This is a man who’s willing to live under the same roof without intimacy, a man who’s capable of trusting his wife to be gone two days a week without requiring any explanation for her actions or whereabouts. Still, I knew I couldn’t do Valentine’s Day. That’s a day for lovers.

  He looked at me with hope in his eyes.

  It was pitiful.

  “How about a hand job?” I said, enthusiastically.

  He frowned and turned away.

  “I’ll give you the two nights each week,” he said, “and let you split the marital expenses. But your business is touch and go, so I hope you’ll allow me to pay the bills if you ever find yourself short.”

  “If that happens, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

  He nodded, still facing away.

  “Ben?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I do love you,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yeah?”

  I paused.

  He turned to face me.

  “I’ll do the sex thing, twice a year. Your birthday and our wedding anniversary.”

  He laughed. “The sex thing?”

  “Poor choice of words,” I said, expecting him to make a nasty remark and tell me to kiss off. But he surprised me.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “Sex, twice a year.”

  I nodded.

  “You promise?”

  “Yes.” Then added, “As long as we’re living together.”

  He studied my face a moment, then said, “I can live with that.”

  And that’s how it’s been for the past year. Every Monday after breakfast I drive somewhere.

  Usually Nashville.

  And every Wednesday I drive home.

  I check my watch. Four-thirty. Ben will call shortly after five to let me know if he wants to go out for dinner and drinks or have me whip something up. I’m not a great cook, but compared to his first wife, Ben says I’m Julia Child.

  Ben and Erica had a terrible marriage and a worse breakup. There are always two sides to these stories, but the one I heard and believe is Erica was obsessed with having a baby. So once a week for months (while I was an innocent fourteen-year-old junior high school student), Ben Davis dutifully ejaculated his sperm into donor vials instead of his wife. This, because Erica’s fertility doctor determined Ben’s sperm count was low, and had mobility issues. Erica and her doctor decreed Ben should refrain from any activity that offers sexual relief outside the fertility clinic, in order to create the strongest possible sperm count.

  But it didn’t help.

  Ben’s inability to get his wife pregnant led to arguments during which he complained about their sex life and she ridiculed him for being less than a real man. When he stopped going to the fertility clinic she never slept with him again. For three years Ben ignored rumors she was cheating, but that changed when she turned up pregnant with Tuck Wilson’s baby. Tuck’s wife, Carol, discovered the affair, bought a megaphone, and dogged Erica in public places announcing, “Erica Davis is cheating on her husband with Tuck Wilson, her tennis instructor!”

  At Fairwick Gym, Carol yelled, “The woman in the yellow tank top with the fake boobs is Erica Davis. She’s having an affair with my husband, Tuck Wilson. I have two babies at home. What kind of home-wrecking bitch would do that?”

  When she brought out the megaphone and called Erica a “dick-breathed whore” in the Glen Aden Mall in downtown Cincinnati, Carol was arrested, and the affair became public knowledge. The “Megaphone Mama” became an internet sensation, and Ben and Erica’s marriage was fodder for talk show hosts all over the world. The publicity proved too embarrassing for Ben’s employer, Riverton College, and Ben found himself without a job. This, plus Erica’s complete lack of remorse for the affair, brought the marriage to a swift end.

  Shortly thereafter, Erica lost Tuck’s baby. But the crazy twist is, she and Ben had prepaid for six additional treatments, and she used Ben’s frozen sperm without his knowledge. Wouldn’t you know it? The fifth treatment worked, and Ben’s former wife was with child.

  His child.

  Erica hoped for a reconciliation, but Ben was having none of it.

  What no one knew at the time, he had his eye on someone else.

  Me.

  As I said, I met Ben during a particularly difficult time in my life. By then I was seventeen, he was thirty-one. I’d been in hiding for two years, and private tutors helped me get my high school equivalency. My mother hoped I’d go to college, but I was unable to face the world.

  We were living in Cincinnati, looking for a college tutor.

  Ben was a recently divorced man, reeling from an internationally publicized breakup. He was also an unemployed college professor who had placed ads all over town looking for work tutoring students. My mom saw the ad, gave him a call, and he became my college tutor.

  A year later, he became my husband.

  NOW THAT THE groceries are put away, I pop the lid on a diet soda and bring it upstairs. I don’t have a formal office up here like Ben has on the first floor, but what I have works for me. I’ll give you a quick tour if you like, but try not to blink.

  This open area at the top of the stairs, overlooking the den, is what passes for my office. You’ll notice the windows on the far side offer a view of the front yard. On this side, if you look over the railing, you’ll see our back yard through the sliding glass doors of the den. It’s about the size of a postage stamp, so there’s not much labor required to keep it tidy.

  Yes, my office area is small. Room only for a desk and chair, but what else do I need? I’ve got a laptop, printer, and cell phone charger on the desk, supplies in the drawers.

  Come, I’ll show you the rest of the upstairs.

  It’s a mere ten steps from my desk to the door of my bedroom. There’s my Queen-size bed and the single night stand and lamp. You’ll note the huge dresser on the opposite wall, and the thirty-six inch TV atop it.

  Yes, I could afford a larger TV, but I only watch to fall asleep, so I’m quite content. Yes, I’ve got cable. No, I don’t have HD. Yes, I know the closets are small. But there are two of them, and remember, the dresser’s ji-normous.

  My cell phone is ringing, so I’ll wrap this up. The window overlooks the driveway. The open door leads to the bathroom…and that’s about it.

  Caller ID is coming up blank, so I answer the phone cheerfully.

  “Dani Ripper, how can I help you?”

  “I think my husband’s cheating.”

  “If you think he is, he probably is. Want me to find out for sure?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  I get to my desk, get out a legal pad and pen and say, “What’s your name?”

  “Jeredith Baker.”

  “And how old are you, Ms. Baker?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I’m building a profile. I’m not on the clock yet, so anything you tell me now will save you money later.”

  “I don’t have much money.”

  “Hey, me either!” I say, “and you know why? Because my prices are so reasonable! But I’m very good at my job, and I’ll get you a fast result.”

  “Well, you sound like a go-getter.”

  �
��Thanks. How old are you, Jeredith?”

  “Sixty-two.”

  I shake my head. She’s probably mistaken about her husband cheating. Still, I can charge her for my time, knowing she’ll be even happier if her husband turns out to be faithful.

  “What’s your husband’s name?”

  “Burt.”

  “Burt Baker?”

  “Yep.”

  “And how old is Burt?”

  “Sixty-six.”

  A thought crosses my mind.

  “Is Burt taking medication for erectile dysfunction?” I ask.

  “Is that the little blue pill?”

  “Yes. But there are other colors for similar medications.”

  “He takes a lot of medicine, but probably not that type. Burt doesn’t dance much.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In the commercials on TV they always show people dancing after taking those blue pills. And smiling. They take the pill, they dance, they smile, they hold hands. Does that sound like Burt to you?”

  I can’t believe I’m participating in this conversation. Shows how badly I want to do some real PI work.

  “So, Burt doesn’t dance?” I say.

  “No ma’am, nor smile much, neither.”

  We go back and forth like that awhile, and I start building a profile. I’m surprised to learn Burt spends hours at a time online, so I tell Jeredith I’d like to have a look at his computer.

  “Wednesday at one o’clock,” she says. “He always leaves the house at noon on Wednesday, and stays gone till night time.”

  “Do you ask where he goes?”

  “Of course. But he tells me to shut my trap and mind my own business.”

  I frown. Already I don’t like Burt. I tell her I’ll see her on Wednesday. Then I call Dillon.

  “Captain Spaceship,” he says.

  “Dillon, it’s me, Dani.”

  “I want to be called Captain Spaceship.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Still, it’s what I want.”

  I sigh. It’s not easy dealing with teenage computer nerds.

  “How about I call you CS?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “CS. Captain Spaceship.”

  “CS stands for cock sucker.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Jeez, Dani.”

  “Look. I’ll make you a deal. I won’t call you Captain Spaceship and you don’t have to call me Princess Washing Machine. The thing is I’ve got a job for you. If you don’t want it, I’ll do it myself.”

  His laugh sounds like the braying of an asthmatic donkey. And once it starts, like now, it goes on and on. When it finally ends he says, “Are my ears functioning correctly? Did I hear you say you’ll do it yourself? You couldn’t find a jpeg in a music file!”

  “Dillon, either take the job or hang up. If you hang up, I’ll never call again.”

  “When and where?”

  I tell him.

  “How much?”

  “Sixty.”

  “Thousand?”

  “Dollars, Dillon. Sixty dollars.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “We’re hacking a sixty-six-year-old man’s computer, on site. Think you’re up to it?”

  He laughs. “I should be arrested for stealing your money.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I say.

  AFTER ENDING THE call with Dillon I log onto my laptop and check for updates.

  BillInNeed claims to have hooked up with a virgin. Of course he has. Just like I hooked up with Brad Pitt last night. FingerSniffer challenges “all underage whores” to send him “nekkid pix,” and StickyRicky has opened a discussion thread that asks, “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done, in exactly five words?” The post is only twenty minutes old but he’s already logged twenty-two responses. I read them with mild interest, because it’s not easy to express yourself in exactly five words.

  One surprises me.

  SimonHymen, male, 15, posted: “Had sex with girlfriend’s father.”

  Eew.

  ShawnInPain’s new post should stir things up among the dregs of humanity: I have dirty thoughts about my sister. She’s fifteen and hot! I want to drug her and do vile things. Tell me what to do to her. Details, please.My cell phone rings again.

  “Hi, honey,” Ben says. “Want to go out tonight?”

  “I’m up for a beer and appetizer,” I say.

  “How about Carson’s?”

  “Carson’s is cocktails, not beer. Are we celebrating something?”

  “My birthday.”

  I do the math in my head. “That’s in three months.”

  He laughs. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  At Carson’s, over drinks, I learn he wants me to give up my Tuesday.

  “I can’t.”

  “It wouldn’t be the whole day,” he says, “just Tuesday night.”

  “Why?”

  “I want us to take an old friend of mine out to dinner.”

  The thing is I can accommodate him, since I haven’t called Sophie to switch our Tuesday lunch to dinner yet.

  “It’d mean a lot to me,” he says.

  “What’s so important about this friend?”

  “It’s Roy Burroughs.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My college roommate.”

  I shake my head. “You guys would have much more fun without me. You can go out drinking, talk dirty, swap lies.”

  He frowns. “You think that’s what guys do?”

  “When you’re not belching, scratching, or passing gas.”

  “Funny.”

  “Seriously. You could take him to a titty bar, get a lap dance.”

  He nods. “Okay. Forget it.”

  Now I feel bad. Ben asks for so little. Dinner with his old friend is the least I can do.

  “What time?” I say.

  He looks at me with interest. “When could you be back?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Thanks, Dani.”

  “Will Roy’s wife be joining us?”

  “He’s not married.”

  We’re quiet a while. Then I ask, “How come you never talk about this guy?”

  “I hate his guts.”

  “You’ll note the confused look on my face,” I say.

  “All through school he was the biggest jerk,” Ben says. “Whatever I did, he had to top it. He had the money, the car, the grades, the girlfriends.”

  “He intimidated you.”

  “He was popular. A great athlete.”

  “He lives here? In town?”

  “Miami. He’s coming in town to close a big real estate deal. Wants to meet us for dinner, so he can rub his success in my face.”

  “Why didn’t you say you were busy?”

  “Because I’ve got you.”

  “Confused look on my face again.”

  “When he sees you, he’ll shit his pants!”

  “He will? What a charmer! Silly me, willing to settle for a handshake.”

  “I’m serious. You’re going to blow him away.”

  “Thanks for adding the last word in the sentence.”

  “You’re funny tonight.”

  “But on Tuesday I’m what, your trophy?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  He looks at me. “Roy doesn’t have to know how things really are between us. It’ll be the first time in my life I actually beat him at something.”

  “Can you hear how sad that makes you sound?”

  “I’ll give you an extra day next week,” he says.

  “Sunday or Wednesday?”

  “Your choice.”

  “Sunday.”

  “Thanks, Dani. I know it sounds perverse, but it would mean a lot to me.”

  “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

  After the waiter takes our order we talk about ManChild. Ben says I haven’t spoken about him for a while, and was curious if I was still hunting him. I tell him ManChild frustra
tes me like Roy frustrates him, but I won’t give up. He says he’s proud of me for sticking with it.