Stand by Your Man
"I know I've said it many times before, but I've got to say it again. My wife has stood by me through thick and thin, good times and bad," boasted Lance Bolger, a bestselling author of espionage novels. "Rebecca and I have been married for almost twenty-five years, and, believe me, I couldn't ask for a more loyal, loving or supportive wife. She's an angel, my Rock of Gibraltar."
The reporter smiled at Lance and replied, "I must say. Your wife sounds like a truly remarkable woman."
"That's for damn sure! When she and I were first married, Rebecca held down two jobs to support us so that I could devote all my time to writing. She worked five days a week as a secretary in a commercial real estate office in addition to working six nights a week as a cocktail waitress."
"So, your wife had no desire for a career of her own then?" the reporter asked, suddenly more interested in Lance's wife than in the bestselling author himself.
"Rebecca once dreamed of becoming a fashion designer, but when she met me, she chose family over a career."
"There are a lot of women who can handle both," the reporter pointed out.
"Why would she need a career?" Lance asked guilelessly. "I make more money writing than we can ever spend."
The reporter decided to change the subject.
"Tell me, Mr. Bolger ...."
"Call me Lance."
"All right, Lance. You have had some problems with alcohol and substance abuse in the past, haven't you? I'm sure my readers would be interested in learning about your struggle to overcome these issues."
"I've found there's one problem with being a successful novelist: it's all the public relations commitments. An author today has to spend way too much of his or her time traveling to conduct book signings, making personal appearances on television and radio talk shows and attending publishers' dinner parties and charity events. After completing my first bestseller, I spent more time plugging the book than I did writing it."
"You're telling me this led to your drinking problem?"
"Yes. It's hard to go to all those dinners and parties and not drink. What for me started out as social drinking soon escalated. Then one night I had a minor accident while driving under the influence, and I lost my driver's license. As a consequence of my DUI, I was ordered by the court to join Alcoholics Anonymous. The following months were tough, but, as I said before, my wife stood by me, and I managed to get sober."
The reporter nodded her head and scribbled in the pages of her notebook as the author answered her questions.
"The following year Rebecca gave birth to our daughter, Katie," Lance continued. "After Katie's birth, I stayed home most evenings and worked on my second novel. It was the first time we actually lived together as a real family. After the completion of that book, however, I again took to the road to promote it. It was an ongoing succession of bookstore signings, television talk shows, radio interviews and publicity parties. It wasn't long before the drinking started again."
"You were involved in another car accident several years later, weren't you? One in which an elderly woman was almost killed, isn't that right, Mr. Bolger—or, rather, Lance?"
The question took the author by surprise. Not many people were aware of that accident since his publisher had gone to great lengths to keep it out of the paper.
This reporter has obviously done her homework, he thought.
"Yes, I was," Lance confirmed sheepishly. "After that second accident, I was sentenced to perform community service and was sent to a drug and alcohol rehabilitation clinic in New Jersey. Again, my dearest Rebecca steadfastly stood by me through the long, hard weeks of drying out. When I finally sobered up, I was able to concentrate on my work and write another novel. Only this time, when the manuscript was finished, Rebecca begged me to stay home with her and the children. But what could I do? If I wanted the book to be another bestseller—which I did—I had to go out on the road and promote it."
"Was the book's success that important to you that you would risk losing your family?" the reporter pressed.
"Everything I did was for my family. The more books I sold, the wealthier we became. We were soon able to sell our modest home on Staten Island and move into a mansion in the Hamptons. The children attended the best schools. When Katie graduated high school, she went on to study law at Harvard, and the following year Christopher went off to MIT. I saw to it that my family had the best of everything that money could buy."
"Your books have certainly sold well," the reporter admitted with a slight twinge of envy.
"Yes, but it's when things are going great that tragedy usually strikes," Lance said sadly, looking at his legs.
"You're referring to your accident?"
Bolger nodded and fought to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"One evening while I was jogging along Jule Pond, I was struck by a hit-and-run driver. It was a miracle I survived my injuries. But I'm not defeated. I may be confined to this wheelchair now, but someday I'll be out there jogging again. I promise you," he laughed. "Despite what the doctors say!"
"To what do you attribute your positive frame of mind?"
"I owe it all to Rebecca. Like I told you before, I've been through more than my fair share of hard times in my life, and my darling wife has steadfastly stood by me through them all. She'll stand by me through this, too. After being hit by that minivan, I spent several days in a coma. My wife stayed at my side in the hospital, day and night. Then, through the long months of physical therapy, Rebecca helped me every step of the way. Finally, about three months ago, I was allowed to come home at last. Now that I'm confined to a wheelchair, I depend on her more than I ever did before. She's such a devoted wife, that she hired a housekeeper to take care of our home so that she could devote all her time to nursing me."
"As I said before, your wife must be a remarkable woman."
Lance smiled and nodded his head in agreement.
* * *
It was the night of the Bolgers' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Their children, Christopher and Katie, had been home from college the weekend before, and they had all gone out together and celebrated as a family. That night, however, it was only the two of them. Rebecca suggested they have a private celebration, so after cooking a meal worthy of Le Cordon Bleu, she brought out a bottle of expensive champagne and filled both their glasses.
"To the next twenty-five years," Lance toasted. "May they be as wonderful and romantic as the last twenty-five were."
Lance clinked his glass against his wife's and then drained the champagne in one long swallow. Rebecca smiled, picked up the bottle and refilled her husband's glass. Still nursing her first glass of Dom Pérignon, she kept a watchful eye on her husband as he drained glass after glass of champagne, and then opened a second bottle when the first was empty.
As the author pulled the cork from a third bottle, he offered yet another toast to his spouse.
"To you, my darling Rebecca, the greatest wife in the world. You stood by me through thick and thin, didn't you, sweetheart?"
Rebecca Bolger smiled sadly, nodded her head and replied, "For twenty-five long years, Lance. I remember the time I supported you when you were first starting out. I was always dreaming of how wonderful things would be in the future. Unfortunately, when you finally became a success as a writer, those beautiful dreams never came true. How stupid of me! I wasted all those years wondering when or even if you would come home. Of course, I did have the children as consolation. Thank God! Christopher and Katie became my life—the only life I had. Now that the kids are grown, I don't even have them anymore. Oh, I'm not disappointed about their leaving home. I want them both to have full and happy lives. But when they left, I was forced to take a good, hard look at my own life."
Lance was flabbergasted. He had always thought Rebecca was happy or at least content. He had been so wrapped up in his own life that he failed to notice how lonely and unfulfilled his wife's existence had become.
"Becky, things will be different from now on, I promise."
"I know they will, Lance. Starting tonight," she said emphatically, taking the handles of his wheelchair firmly in hand.
"Your room or mine?" Lance laughed.
"Neither, sweetheart," she cooed. "I thought we'd go for a little swim. Oh, I forgot. You can't swim, can you?"
With a malicious grin on her face, Rebecca pushed her husband's wheelchair outside onto the patio.
"Becky, what are you doing?"
"Finishing what I started months ago. Just who do you think was behind the wheel of the minivan that hit you when you were jogging?"
"You? For God's sake, why?"
"Did you think I was blind to all your little indiscretions over the years?" she cried. "Well, I wasn't. I knew all about your womanizing. Take the secretary at your publisher's office, the shy, little brunette. Then there was the tall, redheaded manager of that independent bookstore in Manhattan. And let's not forget about that former stripper turned romance writer you were seeing on the sly."
Lance's face turned pale with shock. He had no idea that Rebecca knew about the other women in his life.
"But they didn't mean anything to me," he insisted as though that pathetic excuse would earn him absolution.
"Apparently I didn't mean anything to you either. Not enough that you would want to stay home with me instead of going off with them."
"Becky, darling, you mean everything to me. You're my wife."
Rebecca did not answer; she merely summoned all her strength and pushed the chair off the deep end of the pool with enough force that Lance was thrown out to the center, the sides of the pool far from his reach.
"Help me, Becky, please," he begged, frantically waving his arms.
"Just calm down, Lance. I've stood by you before. I'll stand right here beside you now. Then once you've drowned, I'll go upstairs and get some sleep. The housekeeper will find your body in the morning, and I'll play the grieving widow. Everyone knows about your drinking problem. Tonight, you downed three bottles of champagne. The doctors will check your blood alcohol level when they perform the autopsy. The coroner's verdict will be that you died as the result of a tragic accident. No one will ever suspect that I was involved. After all, I've been the perfect wife. You've said so yourself so many times."
Lance was tiring. His useless legs weighed him down, and his arms lacked the strength to keep him afloat.
"Don't do this. Please, Becky, I'm begging you," he cried weakly, barely able to keep his head above water.
"Don't worry, darling. I promise that all through the funeral, I'll stand by your side—right up to the time that they lower your worthless carcass into the grave."
Despite his little idiosyncrasies, Salem stands by me through thick and thin.
