CARL DAVENPORT WRONGED ME
A story by Rosalind Phillips

Rosalind Phillips

EDITOR'S NOTE: It would behoove readers to remember Girth McDürchstein's given name, Matthew Phillips, as his mother, Ms. Rosalind Phillips, never refers to her son by his stage name.

Does anyone know how these things start? I've known Carl Davenport since he was three years old, toddling around in a day-care center on Edgewood Road with my little son Matty. It's strange and almost impossible to believe that more than 25 years later, one day we'd look into each others' eyes and just see something there, something special, something that brought us together. It happened. We fell in love.

Carl was always real nervous about it. Cedar Rapids is a small town that thinks it's a lot bigger than it is in a lot of cases, but in one of the many ways it'll always remain small is in the spread of gossip, especially scandalous gossip. The last thing Carl wanted was for Matty to find out about us. How could he possibly react? Not well, one would assume. I'm his mother; Carl's his best friend. By the time this all transpired, Matt had become pretty notorious in town, and I guess abroad, for not reacting well to emotionally difficult situations. Carl would drive to the Target about a half-mile from my house, park it in the rear of the parking lot, and hike through that half-mile of woods and hills to the back entrance of my house. It seemed silly, but it was nice in autumn and winter when he'd warm himself back up by making love with me.

Of course, everyone found out. It was inevitable. Small-town secrets never stay secret for long. Still, we tried to maintain an air of dignity. Carl refused to do anything short of parking at Target. He'd never take me out, but when I'd get insistent, we'd arrange a time and place to "accidentally" bump into one another. I always found it silly and stupid, but it made Carl feel better, so I went with it.

Finally, last year, Matty found out. I know Carl doesn't want to admit it, but this was the beginning of the end. Matt first caught us in Carl's apartment. He had always had a habit of barging in on Carl, who happened to be sleeping at the time. By this point in our relationship, I thought we should just tell Matt. Carl adamantly refused; I respected that decision, until that morning when I sat awake, my son beating on the door and shouting, Carl sound asleep. I got up and opened the door myself. I admit, Matt was stunned and horrified. The noise woke Carl, who grew alarmed when Matt insisted he was a "dead man."

Of course, they made up shortly thereafter. Matt realized something important and valuable, not just to us but to himself: that as long as two people are happy, it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. Unfortunately, having Girth accept our relationship—and finally putting it completely out in the open, for all to see—started to ruin things.

Carl didn't want to commit. Although I know he loved me, he never wanted to have a traditional relationship. He was pleased with our...arrangement. With him always coming over for casual sex (or me going to his apartment), only taking me out once in a blue moon—and even then, forcing me to pay my own way to create the illusion we weren't seeing each other—he had found a perfect arrangement for himself. However, it was far less than ideal for me. I lost a husband years ago, and I found many of the same qualities in Carl that I found in Billy. But Carl didn't want to settle down and become a husband. I think part of it was his age; being much younger than me, perhaps he never thought about commitment with anyone unless they were roughly the same age.

I do like to think the emotions ran deeper than that. It almost goes without saying that I'd perish long before he does. I would really love to believe that he didn't want to settle down with me because he knew what would be coming and already knew he couldn't handle the grief. I can't say this for certain, but I do believe it had a lot to do with his decision to leave me. It's just sad to me that he chose to "leave" in the worst possible way.

First, I caught him shacking up with that reporter woman, who herself was out to get my boy. Not in a sexy way, in a mean, tabloidy way. She hated him; you could tell from what she wrote about him. I didn't even suspect Carl of any wrongdoing until one day, a frail wisp of a girl showed up on my doorstep with a series of photos. I found out much later that her name was Sequoia Hermann, and that she accused Matty of some kind of sexual assault while he worked with her at the Taco Barn. I happen to think that's a crock of shit, but I also happen to think she took these photos to specifically hurt me, because of Matt. It disappoints me.

The photos displayed, in a very lewd and graphic (and somehow, very up-close-and-personal) way, Carl Davenport having his way with that report Sharon Rexsmith. In many different ways, for what was clearly a very long time. Much longer, in fact, than he's ever gone with me. Devastated, I thank the Hermann girl (what else could I do?) and set out each photo on the dining room table, all in rows and columns so every inch of photo was shown. I had them facing the screen-door that connects to the back of the dining room, so when Carl came that evening, the first thing he saw was my sobbing, grief-stricken face...and the photos spread out before him.

"I'm so sorry," he said softly when he saw the scene. This was back in February, so even though he showed around five o'clock it was pretty dark. I hadn't turned on any lights in the dining room. I just sat there as it got darker and darker, weeping to myself. The faint light that hit him through the windows streaked across his face, giving him a pallid, dead look. Like our relationship.

"I thought you loved me," I practically shrieked. I tried to maintain my composure but I found it so difficult.

"I do," he said, his denim jacket rustling as he sat down in the chair next to me. He put one of his big, callused paws over my frail little hands and smiled. "I don't know what happened. Something about her—the way she infuriated me, the way she kept trash-talking Girth, um...Matt, I mean. I wanted to kill her, Ros. Honest to God I did. So what's worse—a little, horrible indiscretion, or a murder rap?"

I choked out, "In this case..." before trailing off. I honestly couldn't say.

He leaned in to kiss me but, instinctively, I slapped him, hard enough to leave an angry red mark. His eyes watered, not from tears—not yet—but from the pain, and he stared at me in a stunned way, like he really hadn't expected that. "Rosalind—"

"Has anything like this happened before?" I demanded.

"Never," he said. Sighing heavily, he added, "Twice, but with the same woman both times."

"Who?!" I roared, beating my fists on the table, ruining the artful arrangement of photographs. My despair was turning to rage. Tears streamed down my reddening face.

"You remember, um, there was this band, Redstain Attack! that Girth had signed?" Carl asked.

I nodded slowly, sputtering tears but otherwise paralyzed with anger.

"They had this singer, Sarah Goss, and she'd..." he trailed off, trying to collect his thoughts I guess, then continued: "When she and the band passed through town, we used to like to get together, so she'd give me a call or send me an e-mail. We'd hang out and stuff. One time it went too far. Then, a couple years ago, after the band broke up, she came back." He nodded with authority. I'm still not sure what that nod meant. "That was it. Just her. Just those two times, in five years."

"Three, including this Rexsmith woman," I said numbly.

"Well..." he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Four."

With a sudden burst of anger and adrenaline the likes of which I've never seen before and perhaps won't see again, I leaped from the chair, kicking it out from behind me. It whacked into the refrigerator a few feet behind, falling over. I, meanwhile, ripped the table over, causing a wild puff of photographs to momentarily hover in the air before falling to the floor. I leaped onto Carl, knocking us both back in his chair, onto the linoleum. Weeping and screaming incoherently, I beat him about the face and chest. He finally grabbed my forearms in his big hands, stopping me. I collapsed, my energy sapped, and practically screamed I was sobbing so loud. I moaned and said a lot of strange things, many of which I don't fully remember, as he carried me up to bed. He tucked me in, then stood in the doorway for a moment, contemplative. At first I thought he was wondering if I would allow him break-up sex. The answer, if he ever reads this, is no. But I'm not even sure that's what it was. Maybe he was considering a way to make this all better, something he could say that would make me forget. In the end, he realized the truth: there were no words.

It was no surprise to me that, less than five days later, Carl had disappeared, leaving town with Matt to re-join Abysmal Crucifix. I haven't seen or heard from him since. I still, in some ways, love him, but I must say it wouldn't exactly crush me if I never saw him again.

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