Roar

Rain lashes the windscreen as the old Ford jostles the curb into the driveway, and we arrive, wipers thumping, suspension groaning and intentions looming. I curl my fingers around the door handle and push myself against the seat, sucking in a deep breath.

It’s been a big weekend.

I have an unpleasant task ahead of me.

Vic pulls up the handbrake, and the car comes to a rest, the headlights casting a cone of illumination to the front door, catching the rain in their light.

“Night, Madeline Beare. It’s been a fun retreat,” he says, doffing an imaginary cap.

Vic’s full of quirks like that. Using my full name to say goodbye, almond lattes in the morning and impromptu wilderness retreats. But as far as bosses go, he’s pretty good. Fair, honest, realistic expectations.

“Thanks, Vic,” I say and step out into the rain. “See you tomorrow.”

I'm in no hurry to get into the house, and so I trundle up the path, letting the rain wash over my face, cold, wet, refreshing. Three days in the wilderness shifts a perspective. On Friday, getting caught in the rain was an inconvenience. Today it’s cleansing. On Friday, I only had minor doubts about my marriage. Today—

Yes, there’s a surprising number of things you can learn on a wilderness retreat.

Inside shoes, jackets and various other clothing items lie scattered over the floor in the hall. My stomach tightens and I exhale. Perhaps he was planning on tidying up before work in the morning. I am home a day early, after all.

We discussed making assumptions in the retreat. And the need for outlining clear expectations. And sharing even the most unpleasant truths.

I step over a gym bag festering in the hall, careful not to touch it lest I release its stench. It’s remarkable how much mess a husband and a teenage son can make in three days.

In the kitchen, the sink is spilling over with dishes, food clinging onto the porcelain like a kaleidoscope of culinary horror. I grit my teeth.

Nestled amongst the chaos, there are three bowls on the bench.

Porridge.

Still in the bowls.

Set like concrete.

Would it kill him to rinse the dishes before the porridge undergoes a scientific miracle and sets into something harder than diamond? I turn on the tap and water cascades over the haphazard pile of dishes like a grimy water feature.

I step into the lounge. Besides the expected crockery, food scraps and coke bottles, there are also cushions from the couch scattered over the floor. Of course, there are. I run my hand over the plush white linen of the couch. The arm rest creaks. I wiggle it. It’s broken.

Broken.

Of course, it is.

Something catches on my hand, and I pull out a strand of hair, blonde, curly, a perfect storybook curl.

My stomach twists. Pete’s let Brandon have a girl over. My heart thumps and I stride up the stairs, fueled with self-righteous fury.

She better not still be in his room now. This isn’t his decision to make. It’s ours. As parents. As a team.

Not some one-man-fun-dad-band routine.

I unclench my jaw, pausing before the door to Brandon’s room, catching my breath, finding my calm. I nudge the door open and peek in. Brandon’s asleep on his bed, face down, sprawled out, a leg hanging over the side of the bed.

Alone.

I let out a breath, followed by an embarrassed hiccup. Perhaps I have some work to do on overreacting and assumptions.

I shuffle down the hall, justifying my outrage and jumping to conclusions and push open the door to our bedroom, ready to share my truth. There’s a mound in the middle of the bed, where Pete is asleep.

Except, the mound doesn't seem quite right.

It’s a mound bigger than I’d expect.

I switch on the light.

And I stare.

And stare.

And stare.

My brain can’t compute what my eyes are seeing and for a moment I’m lost, swimming in a haze of overwhelming shock. I can’t focus. Think. Breathe.

And there she is. The porridge eater. The couch crusher. The woman with the insanely good hair.

The woman in bed with my husband.

I suck in deep, ragged breaths and try to make sense of the situation. Pete. Another woman. Surely not.

“What the hell, Pete?” My voice is squeaky, high pitched, like it belongs to someone else, someone who has a husband who sleeps with other women.

When these situations unfold in the movies, the adulterous couple bolt upright, cover themselves in whatever scraps of clothing they can find and run, screaming or otherwise, from the room.

However, Pete and his Goldilocks sleep soundly through the demise of my marriage.

Something else I learnt from my wilderness retreat is how to exploit all available resources to survive. And so, I slide out my phone and take several photos before switching off the lights and retreating down the hall.

I am Madeline Beare, hear me roar.

#

The door slams, and Pete walks into the kitchen, gripping the mail. Sweat glistens on his brow, and he doesn’t meet my gaze.

“You okay, babe?” I ask, rubbing my hand on Pete’s shoulder and placing his coffee in front of him on the bench. “You don’t seem yourself at the moment.”

“Yeah, fine, just busy with work,” he replies.

It’s true, he has been busy with work, but he’s also been excessively tense these last three weeks since the wilderness retreat. His face is pale and drawn. He’s constantly checking his phone and his fixation on collecting the mail has reached obsessive levels.

Of course, it possibly has to do with the cards he’s been finding in the mail and subsequently hiding from me. There was the first one, two weeks ago, with the compromising photos and demands for twenty thousand dollars wired to an untraceable bank account. And the second card that arrived last week, this time demanding fifty thousand dollars.

Unlike Pete, I, however, have been the epitome of Zen. The ever attentive, loving wife, never complaining about the untold number of things he does that bug the living shit out of me.

No.

I’m here for the long game.

And I intend to win.

I also happen to know that he’s just found another card on today’s trip to the letterbox.

“What’s that?” I ask, reaching for the folded roll of newspaper he’s gripping with enough force he might actually compress it back into the wood from which it was made.

“Nothing,” he replies, “Just junk mail.”

I suppress a smile. “Okay.”

He looks so conflicted that part of me almost feels sorry for him, and then I remember that too big mound in our bed.

“I’ll be back Sunday night,” I say, picking up my suitcase. “This trip is pretty hectic, but I’ll try to ring you through the week.” I take an idle swipe for the newspaper, just because I can, but he shuffles it out of reach. “We’re going to close the deal with Hansel and Co.”

“Okay. Bye,” he replies, his gaze fixed on the newspaper. “Have a good time.”

I will.

Perhaps he will, too.

#

It’s raining again when Vic drops me home on Friday night.

“Goodnight, Madeline Beare,” he says.

“Night, Vic. It’s been fun.”

Vic's pretty good as far as bosses go.

I jog up the steps to the front door and crack it open. Past the scattered assortment of shoes and clothing through the hall and into the chaos of the kitchen. Some things never change. There are three bowls of porridge on the bench. Rock hard porridge. I set them to rinse and walk into the lounge.

The cushions are askew on the couch. I bend and straighten them, catching a whiff of perfume. Expensive French perfume. Good hair and good taste. I can see why he’s banging her.

I wiggle the broken arm of the couch back into place and stride up the stairs to the door to our room. I wipe my hands on my dress and push open the door. There’s a mound in the bed. A too large mound.

I flick on the lights and step into the room.

“Bloody hell, Pete.”

Even though it's expected, it's still a shock seeing my husband with another woman and my breath catches in my throat. I shake Pete’s shoulder, and the mound stirs, uncoupling.

“Wake up, Pete,” I say. My voice sounds like someone else’s, cold, hard and utterly ruthless.

Someone who wins.

Pete blinks and focuses his gaze on me, his lips shuffling into a smile.

“Hey,” he says, softly, like he’s genuinely pleased to see me.

Beside him, Goldilocks gasps and Pete’s smile withers on his lips. I see the moment he realizes his life choices have caught up with him.

It’s a little delicious.

Goldilocks slips out of bed, hastily grabbing at her clothes. She makes a choking, gurgling sound as she runs, and while it’s not quite a scream, it’s close enough to still be satisfying.

I think of all I could say, tell him all the hurt, all the journey I’ve taken to leave him, everything that has led to this moment.

But instead, I settle for a simple “Fuck you, Pete,” and walk from the room.

I am Madeline Beare, hear me roar.

#

Two hundred and fifty thousand will buy a quaint log cabin in the wilderness about an hour out of town. My own personal wilderness retreat.

It won't buy my silence, nor keep the sanctity of Pete's secret. Even if I am a little chuffed at the amount he was willing to spend to keep it.

I never got to speak my truth I learnt on the wilderness camp, never shared with Pete the news I’d come home to share. But even so, the chips certainly fell in my favour on this occasion.

“Good night, Madeline Beare,” Vic says, his shoes crunching on the gravel driveway of my cabin.

I laugh.

“Why are you wishing me a good night?” I ask.

He leans in, his breath warm and sweet on my cheek. “It isn’t a wish, it’s a promise.”

I smile, savoring the truth Pete never got to hear. Vic is quirky, and as far as bosses go, he’s pretty good.

But as a lover, he’s outstanding.

I am Madeline Beare, hear me roar.