Yours Truly 2016 / Cascadia College / Bothell, WA | Page 22

Dirty Laundry
“Must have gotten mixed in with our
laundry by mistake.”
He stated the words slowly, with
excessive enunciation, as if speaking to
an immigrant child—implying that the
disbelief in my expression indicated a lack
of English comprehension rather than a
reasonable reflection of doubt. Well-versed
in this argument, he’d convinced me on
several occasions to ignore evidence such
as the laced blue panties I’d found shoved
beneath the mattress of the bed we’d
shared for 9 1/2 years.
Throughout our marriage, odd phone
calls in early morning hours had kept
my chest in rock hard form. Half asleep,
anxiety alerted me to sensual whispers
creeping from the tiny half bath attached
to our bedroom. Each time I pressed him,
the large vein on his forehead pulsed like
a neon sign shouting, THIS MAN IS A LIAR.
He’d insist he’d been counseling his brother
through some crisis, and I’d close my eyes.
Last March, a valued toy crept into
the slender gap of a rear seat in the SUV
my husband and I shared. My daughter’s
diligent search turned up both the missing
Barbie and an almost full bottle of cheap

20

Elizabeth Hunter

drugstore perfume. I felt slight gratitude
that my daughter had not grasped the
incrimination, trapped like a genie, in the
small vial.
We lived modestly, as I attended
night school five days a week and my
husband worked part-time. I told myself
that no woman would be interested in an
overweight, underpaid man such as Trent.
But the panties insisted otherwise.
“Just tell me the truth,” my whispers
pleaded through tear-soaked lips. Pulled
tight around my 175-pound frame, the
stained pink bathrobe was a terry cloth
straitjacket. Eyes darting to the left, he
maintained his innocence.
“I’m leaving you,” I insisted. My voice
echoed a question rather than a statement
of fact. “I’ve had enough.” In fetal position
my body, contradicting my words, insisted
I had neither the strength to leave nor a
haven to flee to; my sobs begged him to
convince me there had been no infidelity.
“Must have gotten mixed in with our
laundry by mistake,” he repeated.
I buried my face in the sand-colored
pillow.