Some Books Aren’t for Reading

by Howard Marc Chesley

  Greater clarity did nothing to alleviate my problem, however. I consulted two lawyers, one a callow and sweet young man in a shared office in Culver City who gave me a free consult and the other a bearish Century City heavyweight who charged me $400 for the session that yielded the same result. Both told me that no lawyer would take this as a case on a contingency basis and that pursuing it would cost tens of thousands and I was undoubtedly wasting my money to hire anyone. As I didn’t have the money for lawyers, pursuing it wasn’t an issue anyway. Although I lied and told them that True knew I was signing her name, I was still warned of my vulnerability to forgery charges if a motivated litigator worked the other side of the table and chose to use that as a lever against me.

  Life went on. I continued with the secret knowledge that True and I had nothing in the bank. True continued on the false assumption that we had $200,000 in reserve. In fact, it really didn’t make that much difference in how we conducted our everyday lives. We had friends to dinner, took little daytrips into the mountains and watched The Sopranos on television. We took turns reading bedtime stories to Caleb. We argued about whether or not it was safe to drink raw milk, if I would inevitably get a ticket for rolling through stop signs and whether we should put down natural stones or cement pavers in the muddy area in the side yard by the trash cans. True, who had used a sabbatical to nurse Caleb after he was born, took on teaching an extra class. Things picked up for me at the agency. I helped pitch and we won Red Bull malt liquor as a client. I think the agency thought that it helped that I was somewhat black. I didn’t mind.

  True and I made love about three times a week, but not on a schedule. On a Tuesday night in June as we lay in bed I felt True’s hand on the lower part of my stomach—one of her signals. Her timing seemed good. I reached over for her and she snuggled into me. As I gathered her in she spoke softly.

  “Don’t you think that maybe we should have another?”

  I blanched slightly and not for any reason that she might have intuited.

  “We could, you know,” she continued. “Now is a good time for Caleb. Two or three years is a good spread for siblings.”

  She was right, of course. Under ordinary circumstances this would be a good time to be planning another child. How could I respond? Certainly not with the truth. Not now. Not here. One does not add to one’s pack when traveling up a steep trail.

  “Not that I don’t agree, but could we talk about this some other time?”

  That was certainly lame. It was officious and off-putting in response to words that reflected consummate intimacy. I could feel the hurt run through True, although she didn’t say anything. I pulled her to me and she didn’t resist, but I could feel the stiffness of her resentment.

  “We will,” I said to ameliorate. But those words were vague. We will talk about it? Or we will have another child? True chose not to parse them. There would, however, be no lovemaking tonight.

  “I promise,” I added, just to button it. I then looked up thoughtfully at the ceiling. I don’t know what she thought my reasoning was for not wanting to talk then. Perhaps she assumed my mind was too caught up in something at work, or I had a headache or I was too horny to want to have a serious conversation.

  For my part I didn’t like to talk about things that incorporated the future. Having drawn a blank on how to replace the missing funds, I preferred not to think about what might happen. Like a wretch in a dungeon I waited passively for a knock on my door and the saying of my name that would bring my doom. Mixed with my dread was the innate desire of all condemned men to be relieved in any way from their transitory state, even by a gallows march.

  My name was announced while I was on the white beach of Cancun, sipping bubbly water in Video Village which is what film crews call the area under a portable blue canvas canopy where the production companies purposely distance clients and agency people from the working crew. Video monitors were strategically placed so that we could sit in folding chairs to chat, eat and imbibe as far as possible from the action. I was there, overdressed in white slacks, along with the client, our agency art director and a few others as we watched on a shaded monitor a slender young model in a bikini walk out of the water and approach a bottle of Red Bull in the foreground. For the twentieth time. The first five were ruined when the art director realized that you could see red bumps on the juncture of her upper thighs, presumably the displeasing after-effect of her bikini waxing. The makeup person was held to task and managed to construct from bottles and jars of brown goop a neatly porcelained crotch.

  My cell phone rang. I saw it was True and at the moment there was some delay having to do with the speed of the camera or the lens or some other such thing that makes what should take five minutes take all day. I answered it as I got up and walked into the sunshine and onto the hot sand. Probably it was to share a Caleb moment—perhaps something cute he said. She knew if I was busy that I’d let it go to voice mail, so she was free about calling.

  “Hey, sweetness.”

  There was a bit of a pause on the other end of the line. The connection wasn’t terrific.

  “Did you change bank accounts or something?”

  Uh-oh. If you can believe it, I hadn’t really planned for this moment and I found myself vamping helplessly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our Wells Fargo statement came in the mail this morning and I happened to look at it. I thought it was for our checking account, but it was the money market account. It only has two hundred dollars in it. Did you transfer the money?”

  Think fast, Mitchell.

  “Yeah. I put it in a brokerage account.”

  “At the bank?”

  “No. At the broker.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  I was beginning to have a feeling for the lie. My voice calmed a bit.

  “I got a better rate.”

  “Don’t I have to sign for you to transfer the money?”

  “All I did was transfer it.”

  “But still I should have had to sign. I mean I’m not faulting you, but didn’t the bank make a mistake?”

  “Not if it went into an account that had both our names on it.”

  This was plain dumb. True isn’t that interested in money, but she has a PhD in education and she’s not stupid and she understands the fine points.

  “So it’s in a new account?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If it’s in a new account where is that account?”

  “At Seymour Schein. It’s a brokerage account at Seymour Schein.”

  “Then who is Roos and Selvin?”

  This was bad. This was my name being called for the gallows.

  “Who?”

  “Roos and Selvin.” The bank says that we wrote a check to them for a hundred thousand dollars. It has both of our signatures on it. I asked them to send it to me so that I could look at it.”

  “How could that be?”

  “That’s why I’m calling you. I’m asking you how that could be. Do you think somebody forged both of our names?”

  “Do you think somebody forged both of our names?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you said you transferred the money to Seymour Schein. There is a check to Seymour Schein for fifty thousand dollars. That’s the one that you told me about. I don’t understand what this other check is.”

  “Well, neither do I.”

  “You see what I’m saying, Mitchell. If you transferred the money to Schein like you said you did, there would be a check or a transfer for that. But there isn’t. Do you have any idea why?”

  “I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “So am I. Is that all you have to say?”

  “We’ll talk about it when I get back. I’m sure there’s a good explanation. They’re calling me on the set now. I’ve got to go.”

  “Well what should I do now? Should I call the police?�
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  “No, don’t call the police. I’ll deal with it tomorrow when I get back. They need me on the set. I’ve got to go.”

  “You know I trusted you with everything.”

  “I know.”

  “Everything, Mitchell.”

  “I know.”

  “Was I wrong?”

  “No. You weren’t wrong. They need me on the set. I have to go. I’ll call you back.”

  I closed the phone. Of course they didn’t need me on the set. The director would rather I was back in Los Angeles so that he could use more backlight and flare out the model’s silhouette. I was feeling suddenly queasy. I was a dead man walking.

  It occurred to me that maybe being in Mexico was an omen. I had three changes of clothes in my suitcase. I had my credit cards. I could just stay here. Maybe I could find a job in Mexico City. They have advertising agencies there. They could probably use my gringo expertise. I could learn to speak Spanish.

  Sitting alone that night in my courtyard-view room of the Marriot Casa Magna Cancun Resort I tried to think of something that would assuage my anxiety. Not hookers. Not booze from the minibar. The television had CSI and old episodes of Seinfeld, neither of which could ever hold my attention on an angst-neutral day. A good self-inflicted hammer blow to the head sounded appealing. It could give form to the anger I felt toward myself and it could help me to sleep.

  As I lay on my bed, still in my white slacks, it came to me what I had to do. This required more than a phone call. That would wait. I would go home on schedule and tell everything. I knew True and she was a forgiving and empathic person. Part of our strength together is that she always saw the best in me. I decided I would lay out the whole story, being as honest and unsparing on myself as I could be. I would offer a plan to recoup the money. A conservative plan that would include enforced savings and perhaps life insurance or an annuity. People have suffered financial disasters before and come through stronger. We could have just as easily lost everything in a flood or an earthquake. We would rebuild. We could do it together. It would, in fact, be an opportunity. I knew True. She couldn’t resist a challenge. She had every right to be upset or angry at first, but she would come around.

  I didn’t call True the next day. It seemed best to allow a small interval for her to burn off some of her justifiable anger. This combined with what would be for her a cold and empty bed one more night might redound to my benefit. As my plane flew on approach over the large circuit board that is Los Angeles I was full of hope for our tested, renewed and stronger relationship. Of course I couldn’t wait to hug Caleb. Although he was too young to understand I would apologize to him for jeopardizing his college fund and remind him that we had plenty of time to refurbish it.

  I had a brief vision that perhaps they would meet me at the airport in a tearful reunion. There was no plan to pick me up, but True had my flight information and it was not unusual if she didn’t have class for her to show up at the gate with Caleb in tow. I got off the plane and scanned the lounge and there was no sign of them. There was, however, a familiar face. It was True’s brother, Adam.

  “Mitchell?”

  I was surprised to see him. Perhaps he had a plane to catch in the same terminal. His law practice was in Denver but it is possible he had business in Los Angeles. His look was severe. He spoke something to a man standing next to him who looked about forty and was dressed in a sport jacket and no tie. The pair approached me. The man opened a wallet in front of me and there was a badge pinned to it.

  “I’m Detective Garcia with the Los Angeles Police Department. Are you Mitchell Fourchette?”

  This couldn’t be happening.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m investigating a forgery and fraud case involving Wells Fargo Bank. Would you mind coming with me to the West Los Angeles station so that we can ask you some questions?”

  “What is going on, Adam?” Adam looked past me, not answering.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked the cop.

  “No, sir. If you don’t choose to come I can place you under arrest, though.”

  “Where is True?” I asked Adam.

  “I can’t believe you did this to her.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “She is very angry, Mitchell.”

  “Tell her I am sorry.”

  “You know, none of us wanted this marriage.”

  “What I don’t need now, Adam, is racist bullshit.”

  “You think this is about race?”

  “What else is there, Adam?”

  “How about that you are a lying, cheating motherfucker?”

  I still don’t have a good comeback to that one.

  It took some getting used to that what I had done was written indelibly in India ink. There would be no going back. As True saw it this was not about money. It was an irreparable breakdown of trust in the relationship. It was not about the one lie. It was about the series of lies.

  I was taken aback by the depth of her fury. For True this was not a matter for marriage counselors or twelve-step programs and she was not desirous of any intervention. Adam engineered it so that the fraud charges would disappear if I dropped out of True’s life.

  True for the most part refused to speak to me for almost a year. I helplessly acquiesced to all of her demands made through her attorney save her insistence on sole custody for Caleb with prescribed visitation for me.

  There was a buzz about it in our circle and our friends naturally chose to gather by True. The fraud charge and the possibility of me going to jail lingered for a while and advertising is a small if generally tolerant world that tends to look on peccadilloes as a byproduct of creativity. Stealing a wife’s inheritance seemed to transgress those boundaries and subsequently I found myself in a spiral that culminated with being sacked from Sather and Knowlton.

  What followed was a cascade of events leading to me living in my small apartment. I found myself broke and with almost no possessions except the clothes and some books that True had thrown into boxes and placed on the back steps for me to pick up while she wasn’t there. In an effort to survive I found that a few had some value and I thought to advertise them on Amazon. I knew something about books. I went to Goodwill looking for a coffee pot and noticed there were several books on the shelf for a dollar that could be sold for more. One thing led to another.

  Chapter 23

  The Volvo and I lurch into the hospital parking lot. Two ambulances in the driveway in front serve as sentinels to the emergency room entrance. St. Mary’s is a good hospital by reputation, burnished by its luxury-suite, platinum-card treatment of a number of past Hollywood luminaries.

  I hurry inside and look around the small lobby; it is not obvious who is in charge. It was no doubt easier in the days before corporate hospital takeovers when nuns ran things and you could just look for a woman dressed in a habit. A security guard catches my frazzled affect.

  “You need some help?”

  “My son and his mother are supposed to be in here somewhere.”

  “The duty nurse is over there.”

  He points to a uniformed nurse who bends solicitously over a frightened middle-aged man on a gurney looking quite pink and exposed on the white sheet. I interrupt her.

  “Excuse me. My son’s supposed to be here,” I say breathlessly.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Fourchette. His name is Caleb.”

  She nods in recognition.

  “He’s with his mom in bay four. You can go in through that door.” She hesitates a beat and then smiles reassuringly. “He’s okay. They just had a scare, that’s all.”

  I exhale a big breath. Sometimes things get out of control and you suspect that your spell of immunity is broken and anything bad can happen. But we don’t live in a remote village under the stars at the mercy of the whims of nature. We live in Westside Los Angeles, where we have three of the top ho
spitals in the country with the best doctors and the best equipment. We are strong. Eleven million people live in a hundred-square-mile clump so that we can cover each other’s backs and so that we will not suffer the misfortunes of the weak. We fight fire and flood, vermin and disease. We have pillowtop mattresses and air conditioning and fresh and fragrant vegetables. We should not forget that we are blessed because we are indeed blessed. Although I no longer believe in my mother’s Roman Catholic conception of God and son, I understand why people look up and give thanks. At this moment, with the knowledge that my boy is safe, I am struck by that very impulse.

  The swinging glass doors open automatically as I rush to bay four. Inside I see a lineup of monitors and sundry wheeled medical equipment outside the entryway to a large room divided into curtained areas.

  I notice a familiar purse on the floor at the base of a curtain. True always has the big, floppy leather ones that have room for several books and she likes bright colors. This one is aqua. I approach past the semi-closed curtain and find True standing at the foot of a gurney. She’s in jeans and a loose blouse, not put together, but still attractive. On the gurney is Caleb, his trunk upright on the propped-up backrest. He looks much like himself, his face barely puffed beyond normal. He is dressed in a boyish striped jersey and shorts, like the breakfast table urchin in a cereal commercial. Dr. Levy is at the head of the gurney, peering into Caleb’s eyes with an ophthalmoscope.

  True sees me and turns. I don’t know what to expect. We have been talking through lawyers. She is full of emotion, but seems happy.

  “He’s all right. They gave him a shot of epinephrine and in five minutes the swelling went down and he’s breathing okay.”

  We stand awkwardly for a moment. I want to reach out to her, but I don’t want to underestimate the depth of her anger at me. I try to speak reassuringly and without too much inflection.

  “I’m glad you got him here quickly.”

  “I must have driven a hundred miles an hour. I could have crashed and killed us both.” She is looking to me for validation.