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Cheating Husbands

Anita G. Gorman

    How does a woman find out that her husband is cheating on her? Let me count the ways. In Olga’s circle of friends there had been an upsurge in distraught wives discovering their husbands’ peccadilloes.
    They had all gone to high school together and still met, after all these years, for lunch once a month. In the early days they had talked about school and boyfriends and then marriage and children and jobs. Then, suddenly, everything changed.
    It was Helen who first shared her distress. “Listen, guys, I have to tell someone what’s happened.” They all turned toward her.
    “I think Hugh is cheating on me.”
    There was a gasp.
    “That can’t be true,” said Olga. “Why do you suspect him?”
    “Emails. He hadn’t logged out of his account, and I sat down at the computer. I have my own laptop, but his was on and mine wasn’t, and I wanted to look up a recipe. And there they were: emails from someone named Portia. Sounds like someone from a play by Shakespeare.”
    “The Merchant of Venice,” blurted Olga, who liked to show off her knowledge about this and that.
    “Go on,” said Betsy.
    “I only read a couple. But that was enough. Steamy, that’s what they were. I didn’t close the email, because, after all, Hugh had left it open. Then I went into my office and turned on my laptop and started looking for that recipe.”
    “So did you confront Hugh about it?” asked Rosemarie.
    “No. Not yet. I don’t know what to do. He asks me what’s wrong, but I just keep telling him I’m not feeling quite right. He says I should go see the doctor. I probably need a psychiatrist.”
    The next month it was Betsy’s turn. “Oh, my friends, I have something terrible to tell you.” The others waited. “I found some letters in a drawer. I think Roger is cheating on me.”
    “What sort of letters?” asked Olga.
    “Love letters from someone named Ophelia. Wasn’t there an Ophelia in a Shakespearean play?”
    “Hamlet!” said Olga who had not gotten over her penchant for showing off her knowledge. The rest of them waited for Betsy to continue.
    “It’s really hard for me to think that Roger is having an affair. I mean, he’s such a nerd.”
    The others laughed a bit nervously. “So what are you going to do?” asked Rosemarie.
    Betsy shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Why was I poking around in Roger’s dresser? I shouldn’t have been so nosy.”
    “And he shouldn’t be cheating on you.”
    “Right, Rosemarie, and somehow I don’t think he is.”
    “The two of you are either too trusting or just too scared to confront those guys. Helen and Betsy, you both need to do something! And if you can’t confront your husbands, why don’t you try being extra-special sweet to them? That might convince them not to go off with some Shakespearean heroine.”
    Then Rosemarie cleared her throat. “Listen, I want you to know that when I took in the mail today I saw a letter addressed to my husband in what can only be called a flowery hand. It was from someone named Desdemona. Now, Olga, you don’t have to shout out that Desdemona is the heroine in a famous tragedy by Shakespeare. She’s white, and her husband Othello is black. I’m white, and my husband Errol is black. Something is going on here. It’s too much of a coincidence that three of us would get suspicious information about our husbands and in each case the woman has a name from a play by Shakespeare. You know I work for the Ashleyville Police Department, and I say there are no coincidences. Someone is having fun writing these letters, and I think I know who it is.”
    All of the women turned to look at Olga.
    “Why are you all looking at me?”
    Rosemarie continued her official analysis of the situation. “Olga, you’re the one who majored in English and knows all about Shakespeare. Furthermore, I know there’s a lot of infidelity going on in our society right now, but not that much that three of us in this small group would be in the position of the wronged woman, to use an old-fashioned term. Olga, you had the means to carry out this plot, you know our husbands’ names and their habits, and you had the opportunity. Means, opportunity, all we lack now is the motive. What sort of motive would you have for making your friends miserable?”
    Olga started to cry. “You know I’m a widow. I do miss George. Why did he have to die?”
    “Yes, we know you miss George. But why write those letters and emails?”
    “Because when we have our lunches you complain about your husbands. I wanted to give those nice guys a little ego boost, and I wanted the three of you to learn to appreciate them more. Are you going to arrest me, Rosemarie?”
    Rosemarie sighed. “No, Olga, I don’t think that would be a good use of the police department’s time. And I wouldn’t want Helen and Betsy—or myself—to be laughed at by the gossips in Ashleyville, Ohio. What I advise is this: Helen and Betsy and I need to be nicer towards our husbands. We should pretend that we never saw those emails or letters. And, finally, Olga....”
    “Yes?”
    Can you think of anything you could do for the rest of us?”
    “Treat you to lunch?”
    “Just this one time?” asked Helen.
    “No. This time, the next time, and the time after that. I hope that will be enough.”
    They all nodded.
    “Case closed!”

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