American Outlaw Part 39

17.

You really never know what you have until it's gone.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010, was the day I understood exactly how much I'd been given. It was also the day I learned what it was like to lose everything.

The morning started off like any other: I rose early, kissed my sleeping wife good-bye, ate a quick breakfast, then headed into the shop. But at around ten o'clock, Sandy's publicist called me with news she had to share.

"Jesse? I have to run something by you."

"Sure, what's up?"

Sandy's publicist related to me that a woman had come forward saying that she and I had been carrying on an affair together. She had gone to a gossip magazine with the story. They would be publishing the news within the next forty-eight hours.

My insides curled inside of me.

Sandy's publicist continued. Sandy herself would soon be hearing the news; thus, it might be a good idea to speak to her as soon as possible, to put to rest any concerns she might have.

Shortly thereafter, we ended the conversation, and I hung up the phone. I stumbled into the bathroom, shut the door behind me. I tried to breathe, but my heart was hammering in my chest.

I could try to deny it. Play dumb. But Sandy would know, anyway. She would see it on my face.

I had been lying for long enough by this point. So after about an hour of waiting for something to happen-a nuclear warhead to hit the shop, perhaps, saving me from my fate-I called her.

"Hey," I said.

"Hi," Sandy said. She sounded worried. She and her publicist were very close. I guessed that they had probably talked already.

"Can you come to the shop?" I said. "I think we need to talk."

"Okay," Sandy whispered. "I'll come over right now."

Waiting for her to arrive, I paced back and forth, wishing for some way out.

Give me a do-over . . . I pleaded. I pleaded. I really didn't mean this one. I really didn't mean this one.

But that was just the frightened kid in me talking. I'd done the crime; now it was the time for me to step up and do my time like a man.

"Hi," Sandy said, when she came in the door. She gave me a hesitant, forced smile. "So, what's up?"

I looked at her, searching for the words to tell her. Nothing came out of my mouth.

"This woman's full of it, right?" Sandy asked. "Do you want to get your lawyer on her?"

I didn't say anything at all for a long second.

"Come into my office," I said, finally.

Sandy came in and sat down on a chair. I closed the door after her and sat down myself. We stared at each other. And then, finally, I told her the truth.

I admitted the affair. I told her the hard details. I let her know that I had never loved this woman, that I had never cared for her at all.

Then Sandy asked me why had I done it. But I had no answer for her.

The feeling of shame and sadness that washed over me as Sandy began to cry was almost beyond measure. I'd never felt that in my body before. I watched her, and for a moment, I wanted to be dead.

I didn't touch her. I sat frozen in my chair, watching, as Sandy's small body shook with sobs.

There is nothing I can say right now to make this better, I thought. I thought. There is nothing I can do There is nothing I can do.

Instead of feeling freed from the guilt of having lied to my wife for months on end, all I felt inside was stunned and horrified.

Sandy rose to her feet. She unfolded her sungla.s.ses and put them on her face.

She walked steadily and purposefully to the front of the shop, opened the heavy, metal door. For a moment, the sunlight enveloped her. The door closed behind her, and she was gone.

I sat, rooted behind my desk, for the better part of an hour, unsure of what to do.

Things were about to get really ugly. For a moment, I remembered being in Iraq, when we saw those dark, ominous dust clouds on the horizon. An awful storm was brewing. I could feel it.

For the remainder of the day, I stayed at the shop, sleepwalking like a zombie through my work, incapable of erasing the image of a weeping Sandy from my head.

At around seven in the evening, I threw on my coat and prepared to leave.

"See you tomorrow, Jesse!"

None of them got it. None of them understood that by tomorrow, everything would be changed. They would never see me the same way.

At home, I found the kids in the kitchen, hanging out and laughing with each other.

"Hey, Dad, can we order pizza tonight?" Jesse Jr. asked.

"Dad, if we do, this time can we not not get sausage?" Chandler said. "It like, get sausage?" Chandler said. "It like, pollutes pollutes the other pizzas . . ." the other pizzas . . ."

"How does that even make sense?" Jesse Jr. said. "If you want to be a r.e.t.a.r.ded vegetarian, fine, but it doesn't mean we can't have ONE pizza that has meat on it . . ."

"Guys, hold it for a second," I said. "Where's Sunny?"

"She's in the living room, watching cartoons."

"All right. Good," I said. "Listen up. I have to talk to you two about something." I think they saw from my tone that I was serious. "It's . . . it's about Sandy."

"What is it, Dad?" Chandler said, coming nearer to me.

"She's gone," I said after a second. "She's gone, and she's not going to live here with us anymore."

Both of my kids stared at me, uncomprehendingly. "What are you talking about?"

"Did something happen to her, Dad?" Jesse Jr. asked.

I cleared my throat. "Sandy is okay. I mean . . . she's safe. safe. That is, I think she's safe, at least . . ." I let my voice trail off, confused. That is, I think she's safe, at least . . ." I let my voice trail off, confused.

A long moment of silence in the kitchen.

"Look," I said, finally. "I grew up not knowing anything that went on between my parents. I never want to do that with you guys. So I'm going to tell you something private and difficult. And it's going to hurt. But just listen to me."

Both of them nodded. I stared at the refrigerator for a moment, finding it hard to look directly at them.

"I was . . . unfaithful to Sandy," I said. Every word sounded strange in my mouth as I spoke. Like it was a speech I'd seen on TV that now had found its way into my mouth by chance. "I went outside our marriage. And now, well, she found out about it."

"What did she say?" Chandler asked.

"She ran out of the shop this morning, crying," I said. "I don't see her coming back here any time soon."

"Will we . . . see her again?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe eventually. But the thing is, well, even if you do, it'll never be the same around here."

"What do you mean?" Chandler asked.

"When you're as famous as Sandy," I said, "something like this can become a real story."

"You mean, like, it's going to be in the papers?"

"Whatever happens, it's not going to be good," I said. "She's going to be hurt. In front of a lot of people. Which means I probably won't ever be able to make it up to her." I looked them straight in the eyes, to see if they understood. "It's over."

Now it was my kids who couldn't meet my eye.

"I screwed up real bad," I said. "But it doesn't mean I don't love you. I care about you guys. More than anything else in my entire life."

I must have looked pretty beat up. Chandler came over to me and gave me a hug.

"It's all right, Daddy."

"Dad, things will be okay," Jesse Jr. said. "Just give it a couple of days."

Slowly, I walked up the stairs to the master bedroom. Our bedroom looked like it had been ransacked. Sandy had removed all of her clothes and books and small possessions. Her bedside table was swept clean.

I sat on the side of the unmade bed, unable to move, dimly aware there was worse to come.

The following morning, the news broke.

". . . in emerging news, the husband of megastar Sandra Bullock, recent recipient of Best Actress honors, has been hit with allegations of infidelity . . ."

I'd known it would be coming, but I was unprepared for the force of the blow. My guilty face was on every channel. I sat in my living room alone in front of the TV as reports continued to file in. Filling the screen was an image of me and Sandy on the red carpet only days before. We looked proud, on top of the world.

I switched the channel. But the same story was running on a different station. Even the same picture was up on the screen. Me wearing that black tie against a black suit. Sandy in her Marchesa gown, clutching her statuette.

m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tically, I switched from channel to channel. It was all the same. The bad news rolled in over and over again, like waves of toxic radiation.

"Bullock moved out of the couple's Sunset Beach home yesterday, fleeing to an undisclosed location . . ."

Click.

"The actress has canceled her trip abroad to promote The Blind Side The Blind Side . . ." . . ."

Click.

"A source close to the couple reports that James, once abnormally protective of his wife, had grown sullen and discontented in recent years . . ."

After several more minutes of watching the news of my disgrace unravel, I finally got it. The news media weren't going to drop this. They'd been handed their dream story. Now it was time to run with it.

"Gosh, Dad, they're killing you," Jesse Jr. said to me sympathetically.

"Hey," I said, turning around guiltily, seeing my son witness my public execution. "Look, bud, let's just turn it off. Let's do something else."

But the news was so widespread, it couldn't be turned on and off like a valve. I could ask my kids not to watch TV, but their friends were watching. So were their friends' parents. People who had never met me could follow the trail of my public disgrace. The news was splashed on every gossip website. It was the top story on Google news. had never met me could follow the trail of my public disgrace. The news was splashed on every gossip website. It was the top story on Google news.

TV had always been an avenue of escape for me, a way to zone out when I didn't want to deal with my own internal monologue. But now some nightmare version of my guilty conscience was being broadcast on four hundred channels, all day and night. The t.i.tle of my most recent show came to me in a flash: Jesse James Is a Dead Man. Jesse James Is a Dead Man.

The shop was the only place I could hide. But even there, no one would look at me. I felt like a pariah.

I built this place, I thought bitterly, I thought bitterly, and now they've turned on me, too. and now they've turned on me, too.

Fuming and fumbling, I retreated behind my desk, but I lacked the strength to turn on my computer. I just stared at the black screen. My own reflection stared back at me. Dark, hopeless circles ringed my puffy eyes.

Mustering the last vestiges of strength I had left, I tried to lose myself in work.

"All right," I announced, emerging from behind my desk. "We got s.h.i.t to weld. Business as usual. Let's get everyone organized and on deck."

Bill approached me. "Hey man, a whole bunch of the guys, well, we just wanted to let you know that we're all behind you, no matter what."

"Thanks," I managed.

"I don't envy you right now, man."

"I don't know anyone who would. Come on. Let's get to work."

It was a cosmic beatdown, the perfect retribution for all the fame I'd enjoyed over the past ten years. The media had never really liked me anyway. I was always that "heavily tattooed biker dude" to them. At best, a bizarre fit for Sandy; at worst, a menace to her reputation and safety. During the last few years, they'd begun to warm up to me, but now this scandal confirmed the worst opinions the public had harbored all along. warm up to me, but now this scandal confirmed the worst opinions the public had harbored all along.

"Where has Sandra Bullock gone?" major television network anchorwomen wondered around the clock, as if the absence of my wife and partner of five years was equally troubling to them as it was to me. gone?" major television network anchorwomen wondered around the clock, as if the absence of my wife and partner of five years was equally troubling to them as it was to me.

The worst thing about it, though, was that they had as good an idea of where Sandy was as I did. I had no idea how to get in touch with her. That was the strangest aspect of this whole surreal journey. In a normal marriage, if something like this happened, she would have holed up with her parents for two weeks, or I would have gone to sleep at a motel down the street until I'd worked myself out of the doghouse enough to plead my case. Eventually, we would have had a chance to speak.