Thursday, October 18, 2012

Pieces fall away

Last night I received an email from Hoity-Toity forwarding news from Cutty. My ex-husband, Nick, had died. I thought at first he had died in the last day or so, but he had died October 8 and the obituary was printed in the local newspaper just yesterday. Nine days between his death and the obit and, what struck me as odd, the obit was bare info: where he lived, high school he attended, and date of death, along with his nickname, Nick. Nothing else.

The last I heard of Nick was over 10 years ago. He was living in Uzi Alley, a really bad section of Columbus on the east side, and working for a temporary service while chauffeuring around his girlfriend/fiancee/whatever in an old Cadillac she bought so he could drive her to various gambling venues around the country, which is why he was working at a temp service instead of a full time job with benefits. She was 20 years older than he and very wealthy, but kept him on a leash, a long leash, since she would not allow him to live with her. The woman had retired from publishing and loved to gamble (she'd have to getting into a relationship with Nick) and kept changing the date of their wedding about 5 times. I think it was the carrot at the end of an ever-changing long stick that kept growing like Pinocchio's nose during an orgy of lying. But that was 10 years ago.

Nick reportedly lived in North Linden near the same neighborhood he grew up in and there was nothing about how he died or how long it took them to find him after he died. Considering his penchant for strippers and unprotected sex with whomever he found in a bar or strip joint, I'd guess he died either of a sexually transmitted disease or a heart attack. He would've been 60 on October 27 but didn't make it.

A friend told me last night that he left a hole in the tapestry of my life because he died. I cut him out of that tapestry many years ago when it was apparent I could no longer live with a violent, unfaithful man whose only emotions were none and rage, usually accompanied by violence. He was rigid and abusive and really hard to get rid of. He was also whiny and blamed everyone for his problems. Nothing was ever his fault, like the time he beat me up when I was trapped in a chair behind a table on which sat a computer that didn't belong to me and the wall of the stairs behind me. The only reason he stopped hitting me was because his hand swelled.

Don't shed any tears for me. I got my own back not long after that incident when I proved to him that I was not his punching bag and that he had more to fear from me than I did from him. Of course, he hit me upside the head with a full can of spray starch one evening when he found out I was better at following him than he was of losing me. He ended up with stripes up and down his legs and his right shoulder dislocated when he tried to pull his belt out of my hands. I wasn't in control that night, but my rage was. I would've gotten away from him then but my dad and brother moved him in while I was out picking up new blinds for my new apartment. But that is all in the past. He's dead now and my feelings for him have been dead even longer.

I do wonder what happened to him and why his funeral is being held now. Was he murdered by an angry husband? Have his remains been autopsied or held by the coroner until cause of death could be established? Why is his funeral private and why did it take so long for someone to put it all together? I may never know the reasons or what happened to him, and maybe that is for the best. The last thing I need from Nick or his family is a feeling of wanting justice for wrongful death.

I imagine he died alone and it took a few days for the smell to reach the other residents and his body found. I wouldn't want that kind of death even for Nick. No one should die like that. All this speculation just incites my curiosity and that's never good when it comes to Nick. That's how I found out about his nastier habits and what a fish feeding frenzy was all about, but I expected nothing less from the man who preferred to spend his honeymoon playing militia. It was a fitting end to our wedding since our wedding dinner was spent sitting next to one of his old girlfriends, the woman who aborted his unborn child, and with whom he spent most of the dinner with catching up on old times.

Every day in little ways, the pieces of my life fall away.

That is all. Disperse.

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