Veronica Carnegie, Contributor

The last time I saw my wife was at the Norman Manley Airport. I had kissed her again as I let her out of the car and she walked to the entrance with her one travel bag, showed her ticket to the officer and joined the Air Jamaica economy line. It extended to the door.

Trudy was going to see her parents, our son and our new grandchild. She had remained pretty, trim and five-foot- nine. We stood nose to nose when she wore heels. After thirty years of marriage to me, after having two children, after keeping our house in fairly good order and an executive position in a merchant bank, she had shown little signs of wear and tear. Her erectness, her flawless, mahogany skin and her light-filled eyes belied her fifty years.

As soon as Trudy left, I turned my focus on Noreen Pyne, 20 years our junior. Noreen and I had been friends for over 12 years and became very close for nearly three, shortly after her marriage. Try as I might, I could not explain why I gravitated towards her. All I knew was that she grew on me and I, on her.

Over the past year, Noreen and I had met regularly. We'd talk many times a day on the phone. We'd call each other whenever we felt like. I supplied her with phone cards and I used the post-paid system for myself. I encouraged Noreen to take classes to upgrade herself, paid for them as well as her exam fees, bought books and stationery and fetched her to and fro, for she did not drive.

I told Trudy Noreen and I were work-place colleagues. Noreen told her husband the same story. He worked for the Tourist Board and was very often out of the island and away from home. We planned our every movement with discretion.

One day Trudy cleared our post office box. She showed me my cellphone bill for the month and the number which appeared 55 times. She circled the times in red and averaged the amounts. I explained as glibly as I could to trivialise the whole thing. She walked away without a word, as I tried to convince her that the calls were work related.

Another night, Trudy asked more questions. I had parked my car as arranged to the back of 8 Soccer Place and walked to No. 12. I entered the house as I usually did, spent time with Noreen and left. Somebody saw me walking on the road at that time of night and told Trudy.

'My God,' I declared with exasperation. 'I'm a watched man. You know that I look like Miles Moore. It could be him. How many times I've asked you to ignore those reports, dear?'

Trudy never nagged. She never quarreled. I caught her crying once. When the same somebody described Noreen to Trudy and told her they saw us holding hands in a downtown elevator and that we came off on the fifth floor, I accused her of paranoia. I didn't want her to know the truth. Again she merely made a line of her lips and walked away. She always walked away.

The night Trudy left, I drove straight to Noreen's. She wasn't there at the time, but I waited and fell asleep. Later Noreen answered the ring, shook me awake and handed me the phone.

'Hello.'

'Hello, Brian. I got in OK. I couldn't reach you at the house.'

'Trudy?' I sat up with a start. 'You're OK? How is everybody?'

'Fine. Got to go now. See you.'

Jesus Christ, she'd known all along. I felt like dirt. I looked at Noreen, at the meal she had prepared, and rushed through the door and hurried home.

A car was parked by the gate. It drove in behind me, parked in the drive way, and a big fellow stepped out. He said he was Noreen's husband, David Pyne. We had never met. He threw me a blow to the face and, as I staggered, a packet with what looked like letters and cards and bills held tight with elastic bands. Then he got back into his car and reversed onto the street.

I regained my composure, picked up the packet and went inside.

A similar-looking one, with my name, Brian Wakefield, on it, was staring at me from beside the telephone. My head became a blown balloon; my stomach, a cement block. I drank water from the pipe in the bathroom, then opened my packet.

Trudy had searched, researched and dug up every mud hole in her path. She had tracked me with professional thoroughness. Evidence fell into her hands. She found my half-used envelopes of Tough Rider condoms and included them in her delivery. She attached my last, hand-delivered birthday card, which I felt sure I had destroyed. Trudy photocopied love notes, Valentine cards, bills and vouchers. I had paid for Noreen's classes, for her exam fees, and for her short stay in hospital when she lost a baby. Proof of payments was right here.

I read Trudy's letter. She accused me of treachery and said she'd never forgive the mockery and disrespect I had shown her.

Believe that I was shattered and felt sorrow at the sudden turn of things. I was ashamed and sore inside. To tell the truth, I hadn't thought of the consequences of my infidelity, neither of Trudy's final reaction; nor of the fact that I had contributed to the dysfunction of my family.

The phone rang all night, incessantly. I didn't answer it.

In the morning, our helper summoned my parents. They lived next door. They came. I looked bad. My bloody face and clothes, my dishevelled appearance, my sleepless night spoke volumes. They picked up the papers, letters, cards, bills, vouchers scattered on the living room floor. A little later, they answered the call from Attorneys Mills, Mowatt & Mills who represented the new owners of my house. Trudy, it seemed, with the help of her recently deported brother, had forged my signature, sold our house and lodged the US dollars to her account abroad.

Noreen came to see me. My parents insulted her. They called her every imaginable name in the bad-word book and blamed her for my disaster. I changed as quickly as I could and left with Noreen.

Veronica Carnegie