Two Feet Below

"Let's get started, then," he continued. "You see, I've loved your wife, Rebecca, since the very first time I'd seen her. Your wife - it pains me, even now, to say the words. I've always felt she was mine, and that you stole her from me, even though you never knew about that. In fairness, neither did she. Watch carefully. This was our first time, just days after her eighteenth birthday."

The screen switched to what I knew to be Becca's childhood living room. My beautiful wife, sat on the sofa, her feet up on the oversized ottoman, that had been covered by a bath towel. Theodore stood directly in front of her, removing her flip-flops. Rebecca seemed to be staring at some point across the room, over Theodore's left shoulder, her eyes glazed over, and with an emotionless, empty expression. He walked towards the camera, taking it with him, back towards the couch. The way he held it, told me it was a phone.

The bastard held the camera in one hand, while he slowly began rubbing her feet with the other.

As he touched them - the toes, the soles, and the heels - his breathing increased and became heavy. Theodore handled them as an archaeologist might handle an ancient artifact. He worshipped them. Becca never moved. He stood up straight and as he readjusted the camera, his old slimy cock, wrapped in his free hand, came into view, just inches from my wife's feet.

All the time he whacked himself, I was dry-heaving. I knew what I was looking at. For reasons unbeknownst, I felt not even the slightest satisfaction that she was unaware of what was happening. For a man his age, he certainly didn't last long.

I supposed that if this was their... the first time, he could have been overly excited.

Everything changed for me when the first spurt of yellowish, snot-like sperm landed on Becca's foot. I saw the second land on her ankle and leg as I jettisoned off the sofa, basket in hand, and headed toward the bathroom. I can confirm that my stomach still had something to reject. After several minutes, and trying to catch my breath, I felt a presence. Margaret was in the doorway, showing how sorry she was for me. She busied herself, wetting a washcloth, and putting it in my hand.

Margaret then, in sympathy, I supposed, ran a few fingers lightly through my hair.

"Come on, Marshall," she said kindly, "let's go for a walk and get some fresh air."

She was right at that point.

I needed to get out of that room.

As we walked, Margaret talked to me about my life and anything except what we were both there for. I figured her to be a very good psychologist. We ended up two blocks from the hotel, at a coffee kiosk. After our drinks were ready, she looked at me with a slight tilt of her head towards where we'd come from.

"Let's finish this, if you think you can," she half asked, half told me. "Then we can talk about it, or whatever you want to talk about."

The walk back was almost in complete silence, and she wisely allowed that. My emotions and my thoughts were all over the place, and I had to get myself under control for what I knew was still ahead.

Margaret must have forwarded the DVD past the horrific images that sent me to the toilet. I saw Theodore's fucking face, frozen on pause there, sitting behind his desk. My companion sat watching me and waiting, the remote in her hand. Finally, I nodded, and she pressed 'resume.'

"I hope you're okay, Marshall," the smug prick said, looking right at me. "That was probably rough to watch.

At least now, you know how I felt every time I saw the two of you holding hands, giving each other a quick kiss while doing yard work, all her little affectionate looks that she gave you.

Even the pain I felt as I watched shadows through the drapes in your bedroom at night - and then seeing the lights go out - imagining what you were doing to my princess."

I wanted to kill that fucker. I wanted to go to the cemetery, dig up his grave, and piss on his bones. In my temporary insanity, I even saw Margaret for a few, short milliseconds, as the only way to get even with him, but quickly pushed that aside.

"But then," he said as the anger came across his face, "you had to interfere. I'm sure my sister explained that I kept Rebecca on the radar, and my moving to your new neighborhood was no accident. You just had to come home early and interrupt things. I couldn't let you do that. Couldn't let you keep me from her. I worried that you might decide to surveil your own wife, and me. I had a simple solution for that, one I'd used on the cruise lines many times."

The screen went to a video of Theodore coming out of his front door and walking towards my house, as Becca came from our door and met him in the street. She had that same blank look on her face.

"Listen carefully, Rebecca," he told her slowly. "Only one teaspoon of this in your lasagna." He handed her a small vial. "Do you understand, love?" he continued. "Repeat my instructions: one teaspoon in the lasagna you're preparing, just one..." his voice trailed off.

My Becca sounded robotic in her response. "Just one teaspoon." She stated.

"Put the vial in your purse, after you finish," He added. "Repeat it to me. Where will you put the vial?"

"In my purse." She exclaimed in the same tone.

The scene ended. Theodore was back. "Marshall, listen to me," his voice came out of the TV, deeper somehow. "Your wife didn't try to drug or poison you. I forced her to give you a little concoction I'd used many times and perfected over the years. I needed you debilitated; flaccid, if you will, so I could plie you with suggestions. And before you wonder, you were conscious and responsive when I placed them in your mind, although slightly disoriented.

"You needed to learn," he sat back in his chair and a wild expression came over him. "You weren't going to give Rebecca an ultimatum like that - you or me. I never took anything from you. I was willing to share a remarkable woman. I'd never had her in the biblical sense. I started to realize that perhaps, you didn't deserve her. In any event, you had to pay for your insolence. You weren't to be allowed to try and 'best' a man like me. My subconscious suggestion to you was not to look at any recordings beyond five in the afternoon."

The video changed scenes again. At first, I had no idea what I was looking at. The hairy opening was zoomed in on, and it took several movements of the camera or phone before I understood.

It was me. I wore a mustache, and the corners of my mouth were being pulled open by... feet. Becca's big toes were inside my mouth and the corners of my lips were between them and her second toe, being pulled slightly to keep my mouth wide open. I could hear Theodore mumbling something in the background, but I was unable to make out the words. Less than thirty seconds into this video, his old bare cock came into the frame. It looked even more grotesque up close. Again he was jacking himself off, and quickly, before I could even think to look away, his ancient sperm flew out, coating the inside of my mouth and Becca's toes.

There was nothing left to throw up, except the few ounces of coffee that I'd been sipping. That still didn't stop the reaction. The wastebasket was magically there again, even though I'd left it in the bathroom earlier. Margaret paused the video again. Once I'd collected myself, Margaret looked at me sadly, her shared pain evident.

"That's most of it, Marshall," she said somberly. "No more sex. If you can go on, let's finish listening, and then we can talk."

I was queasy. I was angry beyond my comprehension. The last thing I wanted to do was talk. I had murder on my mind, but there wasn't anyone to kill. I resigned and steadied myself. Without any response, I simply waved toward the clicker.

The screen motion started. "Marshall, you still with us?" His smirking, smarmy smile almost made me throw the water pitcher through the TV.

"I hope Margaret is still with you." The smile dissipated. "You need to understand, I was very angry. I've been... very angry. You happened to catch the brunt of my anger. I've spared you the other videos I took." He paused for purpose. "Yes, there were other times; two to be exact. Once on your face, and after realizing what it entailed to clean you up afterward, the last time was in your mouth, which I had you swallow.

"I'm telling you now," he went on, "I'm truly sorry for all of it. You didn't deserve it, in hindsight, but understand that I was in a rage.

As my sister now knows, I was, until the end, a twisted, vile old man. What I did to my sweet Rebecca was even worse.

But you need some time to reflect and get your head on straight."

The video abruptly ended. Margaret looked at me. The pitiful expression was back, even as she tried to hide it.

"Tell me what you're feeling right now, Marshall." She'd gone straight into therapy mode.

"Fuck you! That's how I feel!" I screamed. "Did you watch this before coming to see me, you bitch?"

Margaret seemed unaffected by my outburst. "Yes, I did." She stated matter-of-factly. "And not of my own volition. When I was paid a visit by Ted's attorney, he explained what was on the DVD. He told me that part of his services was to see me and ask me - beg me, if need be - to be the one to present it to you. He told me that Ted thought highly of the way I'd conducted my practice, and the other reason was that he wanted to minimize exposure."

"Minimize fucking exposure?" I was still yelling. "He's fucking dead! Why should he care about exposure?"

"Not for him," she said. "For Rebecca, and possibly for you. He didn't want either of you to have to deal with ridicule if this ever got out into the public.

"Marshall, look at me," she said, noticing she was losing me to my dark thoughts. "This isn't the end of it, I'm afraid. From what the attorney told me, one more video will be delivered tomorrow.

Neither he nor I know what it contains. I'm both skeptical and hopeful. I..." I cut her off.

"Hopeful?" I replied. "What the hell is wrong with you? Your brother is... was a psychopath. You've watched this now, what, twice or more? You heard what he said. It gets worse. He's done something worse to her, the bastard."

"I'm hopeful," she explained, "because I know my brother. He's showing remorse, even though it doesn't feel that way to you.

He went to his grave understanding what his actions have caused. Whatever he's done, he's being somewhat considerate in admitting it. He's taken some steps to mitigate the damage.

That's very unlike him."

"He should have been in prison," I reminded her, "after he got caught in a sexual act with my wife and her friend." I suddenly had another thought.

"I need to get out of here." I suddenly exclaimed and stood. "I need to get to my wife. I have to talk to my wife about all of this."

The pathetic look was back.

"Sit down, Marshall," Margaret ordered softly. "Rebecca isn't home. I've already spoken to her. She knows enough of what Ted has done, and she knows I'm with you now to help you deal with the... shock."

"What the fuck is this?" I moved towards her, and she recoiled.

"Exactly what it looks like," she said. "What I just said. I had to talk to her first. I had to for a few reasons. The first was to warn her of the devastation my brother was about to heap on both of you.

The second was to try and gain an understanding of how much of this she already knew. In either case, I needed to instill a distance between the two of you for a day or two. She and the baby are staying with your sister"

"That's what I'm asking you, Margaret," I reiterated, "Who exactly are you, or that lawyer, to go this far? To decide what's best for us? For all I know, you're only trying to protect a dead family member."

"We're professionals, Marshall," was her simple answer. "My brother's attorney viewed this DVD, before delivering it. He also alerted authorities. That was for his protection, Rebecca's, and yours. This situation is... extreme. Both you and Rebecca are going to need a lot of help - probably a year of intensive therapy, if not longer. I asked her to go to your sister's for a few days, because the two of you trying to work this out, or even talk about it on your own, is not going to be productive right now. And I don't know how the second part of my brother's message is going to hit us, because it's attorney-client privilege.

"What I want to do now," she kept talking, seeing I was out of objections, "is to talk about today.

I'm not the therapist you've chosen, and as you made clear, you may not trust me under the circumstances, but I'm what you have to work with, within the parameters of how Ted set this up. I have a suite so that you have somewhere to sleep when we're both talked out."

"No way!" I was back to an elevated tone. "I'm not spending the night here. I need to go home. I need to get drunk and think. I need to check those damned tapes from my security system."

That caused Margaret surprise. "What security system?" she asked.

"Okay, it's not a system," I admitted. "I put a single camera in the living room to make sure that Becca held to her promise, not to allow him into our home. It sounded like he... or maybe both of them knew about it. You heard what he said about the time. I'd checked every day, up to the day he died."

"Okay, Marshall," she added, "try and be calm for a moment. What we know so far is that my brother has been sexually abusing your wife since she was eighteen." She saw the confused look on my face. "Yes, it's sexual abuse, whether it's a foot or... a mouth." She let me digest that statement.

"His actions towards you were an act of vengeance. If he were alive, that would bring additional prison time. It falls under our state's hate crime statutes. That's about all we can deal with tonight. We need to order some food, and I'll even go against my better judgment here, and say one bottle of wine. Then I need to help you get through a few of the stages of grief because we're not sure what tomorrow will bring, or what other revelations he's going to disclose."

Her assertions proved correct, of course. We ate really bad Chinese from a local place that delivered.

She had a half glass of the bottle of wine, although I'm positive that she could have easily drunk the entire bottle.

As it turned out, I didn't finish it off until we were finished talking, because I needed the extra help falling asleep.

A few interesting things came to light during our conversation, and they made me question everything I thought I knew about my wife.

"I don't understand something," I told her right after a lull in our talk. "Becca had to know who Theodore was, after being caught in her friend's house. That means she knew who he was when he moved into our neighborhood."

"That's true," she replied. "And one of the reasons I sent her off to your sisters' place. The mind is a very strange thing. He could have influenced her, all during that time.

Then again, she may have hidden it from you for any number of reasons." Margaret became serious in her silence then.

"That is why we need to take this slow, Marshall," she said. "Wild accusations, either way, could cause a rift between the two of you that cannot be repaired. My brother has already done enough of that for everyone involved. I'm here for you, more than Rebecca, and I'm not taking her side. I did not share what was in that video with her, either. In fact, I was quite vague. That was for your benefit. As you two move forward, you're going to have to be able to trust Rebecca again - to rebuild trust."

I thought I understood what Margaret was saying. In a way, I was already blaming Becca for some of what had happened. That wasn't fair, I knew, at least until I could view our home security tapes and had a chance to hear her out. Then I asked Margaret to come to my home with me, so I could view the tapes

"I don't think tonight is a good idea," she responded hastily. "You need sleep. You need time. I'll be happy to go with you in the morning."

"I have to work in the morning," I said, shrugging.

"No," she told me. "I spoke to your boss today. Without going into detail, I explained who I was and that you and your wife were maliciously being put through mental stress, and that you'd need at least the rest of the week to work through it. I explained you would be useless in your job. He gave you these next three days, and asked that if you couldn't return next Monday, to make sure and called in early."

"Why would you do that?" I asked, still not fully trusting her.

"Because you needed me to," she answered. "You wouldn't have thought to do it. We have three days and the weekend to sort through all of this."

I slept restlessly. I thought about Becca, and I was sad. I wanted so badly to be with her, right then, but I also thought about a woman, my woman, who could easily have simply hidden these things from me. I raged about Theodore as I tossed and turned. God, I wished he was still alive so I could strangle the life out of him. I tried to think about how I could make those who survived the bastard pay for his crimes. The hardest part, as Margaret had cautiously alluded to, was that he'd planned and connived and executed in such a way that Rebecca and I had little recourse.

Margaret was indeed, good at her job. She realized as soon as I entered the kitchenette that morning that I was processing things, and she gave me plenty of space. I saw her texting and reading her phone while she busied herself making me eggs and toast.

"Does that have to do with me?" I asked in between bites.

"It has to do with your wife," she simply replied. "Amy has been letting me know how she is weathering things. She's very worried about you, of course. Both of them are. She also wants to speak to you as soon as possible, to explain."

"What does she know, anyway?" I asked.

"That Ted has admitted hurting both of you, from the grave, and that he's reaching out to you, not her, about his confession. And that you will need time."

After a shower, Margaret accompanied me home. I felt stupid, having only ever checked the recordings when I wasn't home, during the daytime. Margaret reassured me. She said that her brother probably would have considered my wanting to verify that he and Rebecca weren't seeing each other behind my back.

She was most interested in the powder he'd given my wife and how it had been administered. In Theodore's message, he said it was in the lasagna, so I assumed, but Margaret, knowing he was a master of deception wanted to see it with her own eyes.

The videos that my system had made were even worse than what that fucker had heaped onto me the previous day. Becca indeed, used the powder four times. Each time she made my favorite dish, and that was about once every three to four weeks. At least Becca looked like she may have been a bit catatonic when she did it. After each of those meals, I'd go to our sofa, and then I'd dose off, usually thirty to forty minutes after finishing dinner.

The phone would then ring - these tapes had no sound - and Margaret and I guessed it was her brother because all emotion drained from my wife's face and she'd simply go to our front door and open it, waiting for the prick to come in.

At all times, the two of them were able to rouse me, and get me upstairs or down the hall to the guest room.

The camera wouldn't give that away. Those were the only times he was ever in our home.

Margaret took me to lunch, even though I didn't think I could eat. We went to a deli near her hotel, and she ordered me a grilled cheese and a cup of tomato soup.

"How are you feeling about Rebecca today," she nonchalantly asked.

"I miss her," I answered honestly. "I've only not spent the night with her four nights before last; both were when I had to go to training in Chicago."