Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I
sat down and bowed my head as Barbie launched into the prayer. There was a flowery smell in the room that competed with the scents of old coffee and dusty paper; it made my nose itch.

“Dear God,” she intoned, the chirpiness replaced by a sepulchral voice that made me check to see whether someone else was leading the prayer. “Please help us to embrace our femininity so that we can lead our husbands from the path of sin, and help them break their ungodly habits. Please help us help them see that they have been seduced by wickedness, and that the scars of their past can be healed with prayer and by following your path. Please help us as we work to become more attractive, so that we support our husbands as they work to turn away from sinful lusts.” She took a deep breath, and concluded, “In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.”

I looked up, expecting to see expressions of disbelief—or at least disgruntlement—on my fellow group members’ faces, but they all looked . . . chastened, somehow.

My mind sorted through the prayer I had just heard.
Path of sin? Ungodly habits? Work to become more attractive?
I’d heard of Throwback Thursday, but Barbie Ford appeared to be firmly planted in the Middle Ages.

Of course I’d struggled with the idea that I, somehow, had caused my husband to be attracted to men in corsets. Apparently self-blame was common among straight wives; I’d read enough online forums to know that. And of course it had been hurtful to learn that my husband wasn’t—couldn’t—be attracted to me. But I’d never considered his liking for men “wicked”—nor thought that by wearing stacked heels and Victoria’s Secret lingerie and blow-drying my hair I could somehow “convert” Blake to the straight-hitting team. In fact, the main issue I was struggling with was my obvious and glaring lack of judgment when selecting a husband. I’d had absolutely no idea Blake was gay. What else had I gotten wrong? And, presuming I ever even went out to dinner with a member of the opposite sex again, how would I avoid the same mistake twice?

I appeared to be in the minority, however, because as I examined my fellow group members, I noticed a decided slant toward ultrafeminine decor. Everyone but me was wearing a skirt or a dress, and with the exception of one woman in pearls and cashmere, they’d troweled on more makeup than the trannies at the Tuesday Night Drag Queen Showdown at the Rainbow Room.

And three of them were clutching Bibles.

“Now,” Barbie began, striding around the circle like a lion tamer. The scent of floral perfume intensified as she passed, making my nose itch. “Let’s start by introducing our newest member.” She turned on me with an expectant smile.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Margie.” I paused, feeling like I’d done my part, but Barbie continued to stare at me expectantly. If she’d had a whip, she would have cracked it.

“And what brings you to Warrior Wives?”

What the heck did she think brought me to Warrior Wives? Did she think that maybe I just was looking for something new to spice up a Wednesday night? “Um, well, my husband’s at the Journey to Manhood retreat right now, and he asked me to come to this group.” I forced a smile. “So here I am.”

“Oh, he’s doing Journey to Manhood?” one of the women cooed. She wore a floral dress with a lace collar that was starched so stiff it hovered about an inch above the neckline. “Fred did that a few months ago, and since he came back, I haven’t found a single visit to HotHomeboys.com on his laptop.”

“That’s wonderful news!” Barbie beamed. “Did you check his phone, too?”

“Oh,” the woman said, straightening her collar and looking worried. “I didn’t think about that.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Barbie reassured her. “The program is just magical. Our men, you see,” she said, addressing me, “usually are . . . damaged by some tragedy in their boyhoods. Something that prevents them from claiming their masculine identities.”

“Tragedy?” I asked, reviewing what I knew of Blake’s past and wondering if failing to make the varsity soccer team freshman year qualified. “Like what?”

“The usual suspects. Molestation, abuse, an absent father . . . All of these things tend to make men choose the more submissive, feminine role.”

I cleared my throat. “Submissive?” Blake was many things, but submissive wasn’t one of them. At least not in my experience.

She nodded wisely. “That’s why masculine retraining is so important for them. And why we have to work extra hard to emphasize our femininity.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “If a man is struggling with attraction to other men, then wouldn’t dressing more femininely be kind of . . . counterproductive?”

“But we have to reinforce their roles!” Barbie said. “If they want to watch
Monday Night Football
, the living room is theirs, and we serve them beer and chips. We encourage them to make the decisions around the house, instead of usurping their roles. And, of course, we attend church together—that is just so important in supporting a marriage.”

I had a lot of questions for Barbie. Like how watching burly men in tights run around on a field and slap each other’s asses was supposed to quell any same-sex fantasies, and how church attendance would magically decrease my husband’s attraction to men in satin dresses. On the other hand, I hadn’t tried wearing a satin dress myself, so maybe there was something in it. Though in truth, the thought of enticing my husband to sleep with me had all the appeal of trying to seduce a goldfish. But I’d told Blake I’d support him, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Jackie, are there any improvements with Paul? Did your trip to Victoria’s Secret help things out in the bedroom?”

Jackie, a slightly round woman in a black sheath dress and painful-looking platform heels, flushed. “I got the push-up bra and garter belt, just like you said, but it didn’t go too well.” She looked down as if ashamed. “He said he had a headache.”

“Hmm,” Barbie said. “Well, just try again. Maybe a different color next time?”

“Maybe,” Jackie said with a weak smile.

Barbie turned her attention to an older woman in a pink twinset and khaki skirt. Her makeup was tasteful; in fact, she reminded me a little of my mother-in-law, Prudence, only sadder. “How about you, Anne?” the chirpy leader asked.

“Well, I felt very . . . alone for a long time,” she said, fingering her string of pearls. “But . . . and this may sound weird . . . my friend’s husband just died . . . and the police think he was having some kind of kinky sex. It made me feel like I wasn’t the only one in an abnormal situation.”

“Sex with other men?” Barbie asked.

The older woman’s cheeks turned a delicate pink. “They don’t know, but evidently there was . . . urine involved,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

I sat up straight, thinking maybe turning up at Warrior Wives wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It had to be George Cavendish she was talking about. How many men did you find dead and covered in urine? Even in Austin, it seemed like a fairly unusual way to go.

Anne sighed. “I guess I’m hoping . . . that maybe we can . . . bond over it.”

“Did she know he was being unfaithful?” I asked.

“Margie!” Barbie gave a little trilling laugh. “You’re asking questions, but we haven’t heard your story yet!”

“My story?” I didn’t really want to tell it. “It’s still a bit . . . raw,” I said.

“Better out than in,” Barbie said. “We’re all friends here!” Something about her tone was less than convincing.

“All right.” I took a deep breath. “I found out my husband was sleeping with a transvestite named Selena Sass. He’s off at Journey to Manhood, like I said, and I’m here.” I turned back to Anne. “But back to you. What a terrible shock that must have been for your friend,” I said sympathetically, hoping to prime the pump.

“Thank you for your story,” Barbie told me, then clip-clopped back over to Anne. “But as far as your friend is concerned, I’m not sure it’s good to confide in her. If attraction to men is an identity your husband is trying to leave behind, it won’t help to be reinforcing it in the community. That’s why
we’re
here! This is a safe space.”

“How do you know her?” I asked Anne.

“We’ve been neighbors for years,” she told me. “She’s worried about what will happen if the news hits the paper. It will be a real scandal.”

“He must have been high up, then,” I suggested.

“I shouldn’t talk about it,” she told me, and I could sense her closing up. “I’ve already said too much.”

“Well, don’t say anything else to her,” Barbie admonished. “We’re here to support our husbands, not tear them down by telling the world about their sins! And now,” she said, rounding on me. “Can you tell us a little bit about what you’ve been doing to affirm your marriage?”

“Well, I haven’t kicked him out, so there’s that.”

There was a titter of nervous laughter.

“I was hoping for something a little more supportive,” Barbie said. “Like erotic foot rubs.”

“No erotic foot rubs,” I said.

“Bible reading together?”

I shook my head.

“You are sleeping in the same bed, at least?”

“Nope. He sleeps in the office.” With the exception of last night, that was. We’d clung to our respective sides of the bed as if they were life rafts.

Barbie sighed. “It’s a good thing you’re here. It’s no wonder your husband strayed to the other side. Obviously your marriage needs some serious work!”

Her holier-than-thou tone set my teeth on edge. Safe space? This was about as safe as walking into a den of underfed tigers, from what I could see. “So, what’s your story?” I asked pleasantly.

Barbie blinked. “Pardon me?”

“I was wondering about your experiences. Is your husband gay?”

She recoiled as if I’d handed her a snake. “Oh, no! Of course not!”

“Then how do you know that all this stuff—the erotic foot rubs, the football, the push-up bras—works?”

“The program has been well tested,” she said. “Even the women here have seen improvements in their marriages since they started walking this path with Jesus.” She looked around with an encouraging smile. “Right?”

There were a few wan smiles from the circle.

“Anyway, let’s move on to our program for the day,” Barbie said, clip-clopping back to the front of the room and retrieving a stack of papers. “Now. Today we’re focusing on how to create a harmonious home that is a haven for your hard-working husband.”

She distributed something called
The Good Wife’s Guide
, which consisted of two xeroxed pages stapled together. The first page featured a grainy photo of a woman in a white dress standing by a 1950s-era stove and greeting her suit-clad husband, with two impeccably groomed children holding hands beside her. Neither of the children, I noticed, was wearing a dog collar.

“I remember this!” Anne said. “My mother gave this to me when I got married.”

“How long have you been married?” I asked.

“Forty years,” she said.

I looked back down at the list. The only update was item number three, which had originally read,
Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him.
The word
gay
had been crossed out, and
cheerful
was inked in above it.

“Now,” Barbie said after she finished distributing the pages. “I know the modern age has completely turned our traditional roles upside down—in fact, I’m sure that’s why so many marriages are ending in divorce these days. But there are a few things we wives can do to establish harmony and happiness in our homes.”

I skimmed the list.
Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dust cloth over the tables
was one suggestion. That wasn’t likely to happen in my house. Most of the time, I couldn’t even see the table surfaces, much less dust them.
Prepare the children
was another chestnut. The article recommended taking a few minutes to
wash the children’s hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes
. Really? It was hard enough getting them dressed once a day, much less convincing them to put on a second set of clothes while I was trying to get dinner on the table.

I looked around to see if the other women were sharing my reaction, but they were all studying their pages intently. I looked back down and read the second-to-last pronouncement.
Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment and integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness.
Like paying someone blackmail money to keep his affair with a drag queen secret from me? I wondered. The final bit of advice was the frosting on the cake.
You have no right to question him.

Really?

If I hadn’t questioned Blake, he’d still be cavorting with men in tights and putting a good portion of his salary toward blackmail payouts. Maybe the program came with a time machine that would take us all back to 1955.

I had the urge to get up and walk out. But then I looked at Anne. She knew Cavendish’s wife, and I had more questions to ask her. If I left now, I might not have another opportunity. I sat back in my chair, gritted my teeth, and applied a pleasant smile to my face.

It was a very long hour. There was a lot of talk of submitting, and lipstick, and the value of a home-cooked meal. I had no problem with cooking dinner, but again, even if I was able to magically morph into June Cleaver, it still wouldn’t solve the fundamental problem. Blake’s sexuality had nothing to do with me; I knew that like I knew the sun would rise in the morning. What made me so sad was that the women around me were being told—and seemed to believe—that their husbands’ sexuality was somehow their fault.

Finally—
finally
—Barbie wrapped things up. “Did you learn a lot, girls?” she asked cheerfully.

Jackie raised a tentative hand.

“Yes, Jackie?”

“Does this really work?” she asked.

“What man wouldn’t want to come home to a home-cooked meal, a neat house, and an attractively clad wife?” she beamed. “And we all know how men are around the house. Completely clueless. We just have to show them the
value
we women have.” She turned to the woman with the lace collar. “He’s not going to find an amazing housekeeper on HotHomeboys.com, is he?”