My Version of Trust Me

Trust Me
When her son, Harry was three or four, Harriett had been doing the laundry when she came upon her husband’s pants in the hamper, and as was the routine, dug deep into his carpenter pockets to find miscellaneous items that should not be washed in her new machine. Usually, she would come across a beer cap, sometimes some dollar bills along with pennies and paperclips, but today there was a folded four by six inch piece of paper that she withdrew from the depths of his pants. Upon looking, she noticed the writing--very feminine cursive-- which read:
“I thought you should have my number so we can meet up at the pool again. Maybe my lifeguard training will come in handy! XOXO Roxanne 256-9908”
Pool? Again? XOXO? Harriett felt a little dizzy and knew without looking that her face had flushed, but with her miraculously cunning fem-warfare tactics, she decided playing it cool would be the best way to go about this. Her family rarely went out, and she resigned that on Saturday, they would take a trip to the community pool where this Roxanne apparently worked and then, only then would she know the real truth. Perhaps this fancy-scripted woman with the brothel-esque name was just some floozy with whom her husband had no interest. Her days crept by ever too slowly, but she kept her secret to herself until the weekend; she even left the blasphemous note in his pants to go through the wash, as to avoid all worries on her husband’s part.
When the week came to an end, Harriett went to her son, Harold first, who was thrilled to go swimming, and who also encouraged his reluctant father to take the family trip to the pool. She knew that if something was going to happen here, she had to look her finest, as is woman nature, so she pinned her hair up in the most subtle, yet sexy of ways and searched out her little black bathing suit--the one with the mini-skirt attached, as was the fashion-- and headed for the pool with her family.
When they arrived, she paid close attention to her husband, who seemed to be sweating an awful lot. Whether it was due to the ninety-seven degree summer day or the foreshadowing of his doom, she wasn’t completely sure. She hoped it was the former. There were chairs spread out, where Harriett set up camp and set everyone free to play while she scoped out her surroundings. Harold was sort of anxious about the water and hung back while his dad tried to urge him in with him. Soon, a very shapely red-head, dressed in the custom lifeguard attire walked up to three or four year old Harold and swooned at him.
“Aren’t you cute? Are you going to go swimming, honey?” She turned then, and said something Harriett couldn’t make out but she did make out the face that was painted up the front of her husband’s head. A smile and an unsure glance towards the home wrecker and then toward Harriett left a familiar sourness in her stomach, and thankfully the bodacious red-haired buffoon swished off to her podium before any farther steps needed to be taken. All that Harriett could think to do was to dig through her beach bag for sun block to rub into her blindingly white skin. When she looked over, little Hassy was standing at the edge of the pool, sans floaters, with his father beckoning him to jump.
“Jump right into my hands,” and at that very instant, Miss Roxanne bent over at her podium, exposing her round, freckled buttocks, while Harry jumped, trustingly into the chlorinated green pool, through his distracted, piggish father’s outstretched arms and down into the water. Harriett let out a shriek, which apparently caught her husband’s attention, as he immediately reached into the water and pulled out his son.
Harriett was overwhelmed with emotion, as she stormed to the edge of the pool as Harry was carried out of the shallow end, and without thought--without warning, reared back and slapped her husband dead across the face before taking her son in her hands. That night they fought long and hard, and her husband solemnly swore never to speak to the flame-haired woman again.
Years later, Harry asked about that day at the pool and why his father had dropped him, to which Harriett said nothing and her estranged husband plead forgetfulness. It was best the poor boy didn’t know the truth anyway.