Vetting a Marriage Ch. 03

This is the final chapter of the story of Marty and Emily. It will not make sense unless you read chapters 1 and 2 of "Vetting a Marriage."

Keep in mind that this is just for fun. If the "Loving Wives" stories are your way of dealing with your personal issues and pain, please seek out medical, psychological or spiritual help. Writing snarky comments will not help. And that's why I've chosen not to allow them.

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Yes, I'm still alive.

I'm Marty Erinson, and I faked suicide a few months ago in order to begin my retribution on those who destroyed my marriage and life. To be honest, I have had second thoughts about it. I'm not sure it was the best way to go. However, I knew I needed to disappear, and I didn't want people looking for me. If they thought my body was in the Chesapeake Bay, they would not look for me on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia.

I was worried about insurance fraud, but I realized that it couldn't be fraud if they never paid out, and insurance companies don't pay death benefits for suicide. So that was not a problem. The real reason I felt bad was I did not want my young adult children grieving, so I went ahead and contacted them. They were livid at their mother for her betrayal, and so they promised not to tell her I was alive. That would be a bit easier, since my daughter Elizabeth is in graduate school in Lyon, France, and my son Jonathan - a scientist for Greenpeace - is somewhere above the Arctic Circle.

I wanted my wife Emily to grieve, to experience the same hurt I felt when I found out that our 35 year marriage was a fraud. I wanted her to believe she had caused me such pain that I killed myself. That was not far from the truth.

Our finances were complicated, and Emily did not know or care about most of them. I split our checking and savings account in half, and took my half. I used some for expenses during the two weeks between my disappearance and the day I supposedly jumped off the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. When they found my car, they would find the rest of the funds - approximately $2,000 in cash, plus documentation for new bank accounts totaling $87,000. I wanted them to think my suicide was an impulsive move based on despair. To further that, I made appointments for the week after my "jump" with various colleagues throughout the state - as if I was looking for a new job. Emily never knew much about the certificates of deposit we had purchased over the years, and since they were all in my name, it was easy to cash them in for over $500,000. I knew this might be a clue that I was still alive, but I was willing to take the chance.

I mailed my "suicide note," implicating my wife, as well as those she had been with - Brad Quarters, Scott Malden, and Tom House - to the Washington Post, New York Times, Dallas Morning News (home of Brad and Vanessa Quarters), Nashville Tennessean (where Tom and Becky House reside), and Columbus Dispatch (home of Scott and Sylvia Malden), including excerpts of the FBI file, on the Saturday before my disappearance. I sent a 10 minute video to CNN the same day. In the video I appear distraught and hopeless, which was not an act. That's exactly how I felt.

It has been three months since I walked way from my life. I had settled near the little town of Inverness on the west coast of Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, living in a one-bedroom cottage I rented from a older couple. I told them I was a writer who needed privacy and quiet, which was true. I planned to spend the rest of my life writing.

For about a month after my disappearance, I was a news item, a former senator and governor who killed himself after finding out about his wife's sordid sexual affairs. I watched from a distance as Emily was hounded by the press. Once a month I would send an email to my sister Linda, just letting her know I was okay.

Now was the time for my retribution on Brad, Scott and Tom. I spent a little money and hired private investigators to spend a few hours each week checking up on my former buddies.

Brad lived in Ft. Worth, Texas and was a high school teacher. The notoriety from my suicide had caused him some problems with his school district, but he still had his job. Made no sense to me, and so I gave his situation some attention. He and Vanessa had a reasonably good relationship with his former wife Sylvia and her former husband Phil, primarily because of the kids they shared. I created an edited version of the video tape Brad and Scott had created for their own enjoyment which was included in the FBI files, and which was used when Sylvia divorced Brad after she found Brad cheating with her best friend Vanessa. I pieced together the sections of Brad fucking Vanessa while still married to Sylvia, of Vanessa fucking Scott and Tom while still married to Phil, and of Sylvia fucking Tom and Scott while still married to Brad. This wouldn't be a problem for any of the participants to see, but it would sure be upsetting for their young adult kids. They had been told their parents broke up for "irreconcilable differences," not because they were all screwing around. I created CDs, mailed them to my PIs in Dallas, Nashville and Columbus, who then sent them to all of the young adult children. The postmarks would lead them to believe their former spouses had sent the CDs. Let the fun begin!

Next it was time for some film noir. I set up a camera, arranged the picture so I was in the foreground, with the camera looking over my shoulder at a TV screen, showing the tape of Brad having sex with my wife. My back was to the camera. When I moved to Cape Breton I had cut my hair very short, much shorter than I used to wear it, and let my beard grow much longer. However, for the video I wore a long, gray wig, and my face would not be shown. I wrote out a script, to make sure I said exactly what I wanted to say to Brad.

"Hey Brad, old buddy. It's Marty Erinson. How you doin? Yes, I am alive. Very much alive. How's Texas? Enjoying life? It sure looks like you are.

Please tell Vanessa hello, and let her know I like that light blue dress she wore to work the other day. Sure looks nice on her. You might want to check the air on the left rear tire on her Honda Accord. It looks a little low.

Say, Brad, I'd love to know how you keep it up. I mean making sweet love to your wife, while screwing your neighbor - what's her name - Angela Dawkins? Sweet. You always were a stud.

Oh Brad, one more thing. I may have misspoken. Looks like you are not keeping Vanessa all that happy, what with the touchy-feely stuff she does in the parking lot when she goes dancing on "girls night out." Not sure if she is just giving head, or fucking, but that's still pretty impressive for a woman her age. But you know what they say - 'Once a cheater...'

Listen, I would watch my back if I were you. And watch your checking account. Identity theft is a real problem these days.

Well, Brad old buddy. I will be checking in every now and again, just to let you know that I'm around. So, until next time - Go to hell."

I sent a similar video to Scott, with specific information about his life. Seems that both Scott and Sylvia, like Vanessa and Brad, were playing outside their marriages. I wasn't sure that their partners were aware of it, but even if they were, the fact that they now know that I know would serve my purpose - to freak them out and keep them guessing as to what would happen next.

I also sent a video to Tom House. It was a little different.

"Hi Tom. Marty Erinson here. Gee Tom, I'm sorry to hear that your church's board of elders relieved you of your pastoral duties while you go through 'spiritual and moral rehabilitation and reconciliation.' Yeah - that's the ticket. Rehabilitation from a perverted lifestyle you have been living for over 30 years. Good luck with that.

Oh wait, now that I think about it, you may have been thinking that I was dead. Well, I'm not. And I heard Becky is divorcing you. Not sure why, maybe she found out about the pretty little alto on the church's praise team - what's her name? Cassie? She's cute. If you look closely, you may recognize the video playing over my shoulder. That's you and Cassie. Why yes Tom, I did mail that video to Becky. Oops.

By the way Tom, You might want to go back to school. Your theological degree is not likely to do you any good. If you try to get another church, they will get a package from me. You try to start your own church, package from me. You start preaching on street corners - I'll buy billboards and TV ads letting folks know what kind of hypocrite you are.

So, Tom. Have a great life, and watch your back. You never know when someone whose life you have destroyed will decide that vengeance is not just the Lord's."

I sent videos to Brad, Scott and Tom once every few months. Each time I let them know that I was watching, and that I would not forget. Other than threatening Tom if he tried to start another ministry, I never overtly made a threat. I also never broke any laws. I just wanted them to be uncomfortable - for a long time.

As for my life, I spent my days writing. I wrote several short stories that were posted on fiction web sites under a pseudonym, and I started a novel. I also finished a book on political ethics I had started several years earlier. It was my third, and I had my son Jonathan contact the editor I had worked with before, saying he found it on a flash drive among my possessions. It was published posthumously, or so they thought. I dedicated it to "My loving wife Emily, who made everyone around her feel better about themselves." I thought it was funny.

Speaking of Emily, about eight months after my disappearance, my daughter began putting pressure on me to contact her mother. Elizabeth had returned from France and was spending time with Emily. She had not told her of my new life in Cape Breton, but she had been tempted on more than one occasion to do so. According to my daughter, Emily had quickly become an old woman. She quit her teaching position during the media circus, completely cut herself off from others and spent most of her time in the house. She lost all the weight she had gained over the last few years, but not in a healthy way. She just stopped eating. Elizabeth said that her mother had explained to her that my death was her fault, but that I would not have killed myself if only I had let her explain. "I was never the whore your father thought I was."

I have to admit, I was surprised that no one really made any effort to find me. I thought that Brad, Scott or Tom would contact Emily, let her know about the videos they had received, and she would start looking for me again. Elizabeth never said anything about her mother being contacted by any of them, and I never told my daughter about them.

My life on Cape Breton was peaceful and pleasant. The folks left me alone. I went into the village of Inverness once a week to shop for food, and a few evenings a week for dinner and conversation at the pub. I visited the library occasionally, although most of the reading material I wanted was available online. I had no desire for female companionship, and even if I had there was little available, especially for a man in his sixties. Sure, there were older women who were divorced or widowed, but honestly none appealed to me.

With the one year anniversary of my "death," a google news notification popped up, with a short article in the Baltimore Sun and Washington Post announcing that "Former Governor and Senator Martin Erinson has been officially declared dead." I walked to the beach, on a blustery day, and cried. It must have been the wind.

Both my daughter and son contacted me that day. Jonathan was home, and wrote a long email detailing the sad state of his mother's life, and pleaded with me to forgive her and come home. I told them that I had forgiven her of her sexual behavior over 30 years ago, but I could not forgive her of the decades of deception and continuing infidelity over those many years.

I continued to write, including the outline of something that was the final piece in my plan.

Back when I was teaching at Towson State, one of my students went into television. I had kept up with her career and now was the time to bring her into my confidence. I contacted her through an intermediary, and arranged for her to come to meet me in Sydney, a larger city on Cape Breton. She flew in and we met together at the café at the Holiday Inn - which is what passes for a quality hotel in Sydney.

"Oh my god, Dr. Erinson, it is you."

"Hello, Monique. Good to see you,"

"Dr. Erinson, why have you done all this - let people believe you were dead?"

"Well, that's why I have invited you here. I have a story to tell."

What I told Monique not only got her attention, but she was sure she could run with it. She was a producer who worked with Netflix, and she knew they would find this exactly the type of thing they were looking for as a miniseries. She returned to New York, and sent two writers to Cape Breton, and we worked for six weeks to write eight episodes.

One serious question was liability. They did not want to set themselves up for a libel suit or defamation of character. While there is quite a bit of freedom in the "ripped from the headlines" genre. they needed to make some changes in my story so that they would not end up in court.

The filming took place over several months, and other than stock shots in Washington, DC, most of the filming was in Toronto. In each of the eight episodes, I played in a short scene, comparable to those humorously done by Stan Lee in the Marvel films.

I let my children and sister know about the show, and since all eight episodes of the show would be released at once, we had completed filming and the show was in post-production before it was advertised. Called "Betrayal," the publicity was intense. The hook for the show was the question - "Is he really dead?"

After we finished filming, I moved from Cape Breton to Digby Island, about 1000 miles north of Vancouver in British Columbia. I wasn't afraid of being found, I just wanted to be left alone.

The final scene was filmed near Cape Jack, on Cape Breton Island. It is filmed to look similar to the Chesapeake Bay. The woman whose character is similar to my wife Emily is walking on the beach, crying. She says, "Oh Marty, I'm so sorry." I am standing in the background, throwing rocks into the water. The camera angle moves to a close-up of her face, as she weeps, and you hear my voice as I walk by. "Sometimes sorry is not enough," and the camera pans to catch my back as I walk away.

Within a day of the release of the series on Netflix, lawyers representing Emily were in court, demanding that the production company reveal where I was hiding. It took several weeks, but a judge in Maryland required them to reveal all they knew. However, I had not told anyone that I had left Cape Breton. No one knew.

Three months after the release of the television series, I received word that Emily had passed away. I expressed my condolences to our children Elizabeth and Jonathan, and I told them where I was. They were welcome to visit. Neither had married, and there were no grandchildren.

Elizabeth sent me a package. Included was a long letter from Emily, explaining that she had never had sex with Brad, Scott and Tom after that one time, years before. She had gotten together with The sex was not the issue. It was the betrayal, the deception, the lying. And the disrespect. I shared everything with her. She didn't love me enough to share everything with me. As I read it, I really didn't feel anything. It wasn't as if I just didn't care about her. I didn't care about anything. I had grown cold. She had done that to me.

I continue to write, and am currently writing the second draft of a novel. It's about a man who decides to live off the grid and just disappears, leaving behind a cheating wife and a corrupt society.