Page 15 of Strider's Misstep

The shock caused despair throughout the club. Rooster had been a good man, one of the best, a firm but fair and well-respected prez. His demise, the type of which all motorcyclists face, nevertheless seemed too mundane for a man who’d always seemed larger than life.

I remember the silence when we’d heard the news. Brothers unable to come to terms with the loss, and then when the news sank in, they reacted in different ways. Some began to get drunk, relating ever increasingly overembellished stories of our late prez. Others put their heads together to discuss what the fuck would come next, the selection of a new leader, and a funeral to plan. Some fucked the whores, trying to celebrate being alive when it had been brought home to us how any of us could so easily die.

Me? I couldn’t settle. I wanted to go home and make love to my wife.

I remember blaming the wind for making my eyes water on the ride. It wasn’t the first time I’d lost comrades. I’d fought in a war and had witnessed men I was in action beside become injured or die, but Rooster’s death knocked me for six.

Home, I’d parked my bike, almost forgetting to kick down the stand so anxious was I to get tactile comfort from Anna. My hand shook as I put the key to the lock.

“Anna?” I cry out as soon as I’m over the threshold.

“In here.”

I’d followed her voice to the kitchen, my helmet and gloves discarded along the way. And there she stood, a vision for my eyes. For a moment, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t explain. Voicing the words and telling her Rooster was no longer with us seemed too final, too hard.

I no longer had to hide the tears leaking out of my eyes. My forehead was etched with lines of sorrow, and my utter despair was written all over my face.

Anna was fully focused on whatever dish she was preparing for dinner tonight. Her face scrunched as she concentrated on preparing some veg. She hadn’t even glanced at me yet.

“Anna.” I said her name to get her attention, my voice catching in my throat.

It had the desired effect. She looked straight at me, and I waited for her to ask about the devastation that was written in my features.

“I’m doing chicken. Is that okay?”

She hadn’t noticed? “Anna, please.” I walked toward her, taking the knife from her hand and placing it on the tabletop. I turned her toward me and pulled her tight, burying my face in her hair.

“I’m busy, Colt,” she said.

“I need you,” I told her, barely swallowing back a sob.

A squeeze of my hand reminds me I’m in the present, though my head’s still lost in the past. It’s like watching a movie as the scenes play out in my mind’s eye. As if I’m the narrator, I start to speak.

“The club fell apart. It was so quick, so unexpected, so fuckin’ damn senseless. I hung around for a while, but losing myself in a whore or drink wasn’t my style. I… I needed my wife. Needed to reaffirm with her that I was alive.”

Jasmine stays quiet, her fingers still tight around mine.

“Men don’t cry, right? Huh, I was barely holding it together by the time I got home. I expected Anna to see how upset I was and to comfort me. Instead, she talked about the fuckin’ meal she was cooking. She didn’t notice my distress. And, even when I told her what had happened, she only frowned. There was no compassion, no understanding, and seemingly no comprehension of what I’d lost.” I pause and take a deep breath. “I returned to the compound, lost myself in a bottle, and then, for the first time ever, I cheated on Anna and used a whore. I didn’t return home for three days.” I shake my head, wondering if I’d successfully conveyed how much I’d needed human comfort to cope with the loss of a man who’d proved so important in my life, and why the coldness of the one person left who should have been there for me was so upsetting. I risk a look at Jasmine but can’t read the expression on her face.

I continue my story. “When I did go back home, I started to notice little things I hadn’t really seen before. Anna and I were always demonstrably affectionate, but now she seemed to avoid touching me. We used to be able to have good conversations, but I started to think she wasn’t even listening to me anymore. I began to wonder who this woman I was living with was. I even suspected news of me being unfaithful had reached her, but asshe had no connection with the club, there was no way she could have known.”

Breaking off, I huff, remembering my disillusionment at the time. “She was cold and distant. Home wasn’t a good place to be. It started to feel like I was living with a stranger. I felt lost and began spending more time at the club. Then, for some unknown fuckin’ reason, the brothers thought I’d be a good replacement for Rooster, so they made me the prez.” I shake my head, a small turn up to my lips as I remember something actually good from those days. “Which meant I had more commitments and excuses for me being away from home. Truth is, I don’t know if Anna even noticed.” Pausing, I recall how Anna hadn’t seemed either pleased or upset to learn of my new status and how, for a moment, I’d wondered if she’d found somebody else and had been playing away. “We’d drifted apart,” I tell Jasmine. “Or at least, that’s how it seemed to be. When I did go home, the place started to look neglected, as if she’d lost the will to keep it clean and tidy. Anna didn’t work. We’d agreed she’d be a stay-at-home mom, but of course, that hadn’t worked out. I didn’t mind. I was happy to support her though there were expectations that she would play her part. I wasn’t best pleased to find her wasting her days away without lifting a finger. She even stopped taking good care of herself. My pretty, proud of her appearance wife was turning into someone else.”

Jasmine stays quiet, her non-judgement helping me to continue.

“Then she started fucking with me. She asked me to hand her an apple, so I did. She told me not to be so stupid and asked me once more. When I couldn’t understand and just stated I was complying with her request, she blasted me, reached around me, and picked up an onion instead. I threw my hands up and left once more.”

This time, I lose myself in my head for a moment, thinking back to all the signs I’d missed. All the blame I’d put on her.

I decide to cut to the quick. “I went back to the club. The only explanation I could see was that Anna wanted out of the marriage and was chasing me away. I lost myself in club pussy and drink. Until, one day, I needed stuff from the house. I went back to find the place in disarray, no food in the cupboards and Anna looking a total mess.” I brush my hand over my forehead. “It hit me then she wasn’t well. And fuck, the guilt I felt was like a kick to the gut. But when I said I thought she needed to see a doctor, she brushed me off.” My voice trails off for a moment, remembering that conversation. “I pulled rank. Told her I’d leave her for good unless she saw someone. Made an appointment and took her in. The doctor listened more to her, who was saying there was nothing wrong.” My hands clench as I recall how angry I’d felt then. “I got her to see someone else, and this time, they asked deeper questions and listened to me. They diagnosed depression and prescribed something to help. Only, it didn’t.”

“Was that when you got the diagnosis?” Jasmine’s gentle voice asks. “What was it you called it?”

“Picks Disease.” I let my gaze rest on my wife for a moment, and seeing the confusion in her eyes, add, “A form of frontal lobe dementia. But no, it wasn’t that simple. It took two years for anyone to give it a label, and even then, it was with a caveat that it couldn’t be proved until postmortem. But she had all the signs. Lack of empathy and losing her emotions. Gradually, parts of her brain were dying, so she lost the ability to associate objects with words. When I’d thought she was fuckin’ with me, it was the illness causing her dissociation, her brain slowly dying. And I was the asshole for thinking of offering her a divorce rather than support.”

I risk a glance at her. Jasmine’s face is drawn, and if I were asked to describe her expression, it would be devastated. I know in that moment that had I been honest with her, she’d never have graced my bed. And I got her pregnant. I made her deal with theproblem. It’s not just Anna I’m guilty about, but Jasmine herself.

I needed her to see, to understand, but why? I’m not even sure myself.

---