That Was Before

by Dan Lawton

  “I’d love to.”

  They joined the women on the sofa. Max played with a pile of miniature cars on the carpet, completely entertained as if they were the most thrilling toys a boy could have. Randolph felt better. He sensed Bruce did too. The energy in the room felt good, like a happy home. Sheila draped her arm around his shoulder and pulled him in close. He let it happen and leaned into her.

  “I think she’s lovely,” Janet said, a childish grin on her face.

  Sheila laughed. “You’re a sweetheart.”

  “I don’t know where you found this girl, but she’s a keeper.”

  Randolph smiled, though he hoped the question was purely rhetorical; he did not want to get into it right now. He wished he had something to occupy his hands.

  Max played independently so well, complete with mouthed sounds of his interpretation of cars and trucks—far better than Bruce ever did as a boy. His lips rattled as he drove a pickup truck in a circle around his little body on the carpet, leaving a dark ring like a racetrack. Randolph could not help but smile while he watched.

  “I hate to ask because I don’t want you to get the wrong impression,” Bruce said from the far side of the sofa, “but what’s your plan?”

  It was a reasonable question—one Randolph had expected. “I know we can’t stay for long, I get that. If I’m being honest, we don’t really have a plan. Ridiculous, I know.”

  Bruce nodded. “Can I ask why?”

  He let out an anxious sigh. He supposed it was time for an explanation. “That’s only fair.”

  Bruce leaned back, folded his hands in his lap. He was all ears. Where to start?

  Then Randolph’s pocket vibrated.

  He leaned back and reached inside and somehow managed to squeeze the phone out of his pocket without tearing the seam that tightly hugged his thigh. The screen was blurry at first, but when his eyes adjusted, he saw the name.

  “Hold that thought,” he said. “I need to take this.” He swiped the green button and held the phone to his ear, then got up and stepped into the short hallway. He kept his voice low. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you.”

  “Shut up and listen for a minute,” Larry said. “We’ve got a problem.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  They were on an airplane—Benji and Cheyenne. Thankfully, it was Cheyenne next to him this time rather than the Buffalo from before. Though if he was honest with himself, he had grown tired of Cheyenne’s company and wanted her gone just as much as he had the Buffalo man. But that would have to wait. Business first.

  He leaned toward her and whispered, “When we land, what’s the plan?”

  Her face was buried in the in-flight magazine that lived in the net behind the seat in front of her. Many of the pages were dog-eared. She did not look at him.

  “You know what the plan is.”

  That was true. He did. No sense in rehashing what had already been discussed more times than he could remember, although the affirmation would have been nice. He slipped earbuds in, reclined the seat, and closed his eyes.

  This would all be over soon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “What kind of problem?” Randolph said into the phone as he creeped deeper down the hallway. “Did you find the tapes?”

  “I’m still working on that. But fuck the tapes. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been poking around, making some calls,” Larry said. “And shit’s about to go down.”

  “How so?”

  “With your wife.”

  “Explain.”

  “Do you have an accountant?”

  “I do.”

  “Has he made you aware of what’s going on?”

  The forty grand.

  “I’m aware.”

  “Are you, though?”

  “Patricia made two cash withdrawals for twenty grand each. How do you even know about that?”

  “Don’t worry about that. It’s my job to know these things. The money—that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Did you know she has two one-way tickets to Sweden? Purchased three months ago. Scheduled to leave two weeks from today.”

  “Sweden? No, I know nothing about that.”

  “Did you know she’s opened up three separate individual offshore bank accounts since January? Or that she put a down payment on a condo in Fiji?”

  “Fiji?”

  “This is bad, Randolph. Really, really bad.”

  His head spun. What did any of this mean?

  “It’s clear as day what’s going on here,” Larry said. “Do you not see it?”

  He did not know what he saw. He was beyond confused. How did he miss these things?

  “She’s cleaning you out while you’re still married. She’s bleeding you dry, slowly but surely. She’ll take as much as she can before the divorce is final, stash it away where the government can’t get it, and still take her third of what’s left.” Larry knew about the prenup and the two-thirds, one-third split; in fact, he wrote it.

  Bitch.

  “Well, shit.”

  “Well, shit is right!”

  Randolph’s heart pounded. Adrenaline shot through him like fire. He tried to focus. “What do I do?”

  “The freezing of the account was a good start, but it’s only temporary.”

  “How do you—”

  “As I said before, don’t worry about it. Don’t ask questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Now, this is what you need to do. For all the credit accounts where you’re the primary, have her taken off immediately. For your joint accounts, it will take longer, but we can file for a motion to freeze all joint assets. With the evidence we have, it’ll be granted, no question. But we need to file the divorce paperwork first. I took it upon myself to make some adjustments to the agreement your wife’s attorney sent, just so you know. You’ll appreciate the revised terms. Are you somewhere I can fax it to you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Can you come in?”

  “Not possible. I’m out of town.”

  “Well, wherever the hell you are, you need to come back right away. If we don’t get these papers signed and filed, Patricia’s going to keep chipping away. Anything over ten thousand will be flagged by the bank. If she’s smart, she’ll start taking smaller amounts at a time.”

  “What about the frozen account?”

  “It’s just temporary. In a few days, at most, it’ll be unfrozen and she can withdraw up to ten grand every day. And as a joint account, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Fuck. This is bad.”

  “You honestly have no idea. Get your ass over here as soon as you can so we can stop the bleeding.”

  Randolph nodded to no one, knew what he had to do. “I will. I’m coming back.”

  “Good. Oh, and one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Just remember that Patricia is your life insurance beneficiary while you’re still married. Once the divorce is final, you need to change that right away. First thing you do. I’ll have the documentation ready, you just need to give me a name to put down.”

  What?

  “Let me think about that. I’ll get back to you. Do you think I’m in danger?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “All I’m sayi
ng is people do weird shit when they’re going through a divorce—I’ve seen it all.”

  “Have you seen this?”

  “I’ve seen it all.”

  He thought about that, let it sink in.

  “You think you know someone until everything’s being taken away,” Larry said. “You just never know what people will do when money’s involved. Watch your back, Randolph. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Thanks, Larry.”

  “I’ve got to get off now—the wife’s on the other line. Do what you have to do and get back into town sooner rather than later. Got it?”

  “I’m on it.”

  “I’ll get all the paperwork ready. Talk soon.”

  . . . . .

  He took Larry’s advice. Of the handful of credit cards in his wallet, two were solely his. Patricia had been added as an authorized user many years before. He called the number on the back of each card and pressed one for English and waited in a short queue to talk to a live person who he asked to remove Patricia from the account. On one of the joint accounts, he paid off the remaining balance over the phone and closed it completely. The other two had zero balances, so he closed those too.

  There was nothing he could do about the cash accounts. The asset accounts did not concern him, as they required signatures from each party to do anything; nothing could be sold or transferred without his consent. He considered Sweden and Fiji and how they were possible, and he concluded Patricia must have had individual accounts all along, or had opened new bank loans to get access to additional cash. Where the money came from if it was the former was hard to figure. But then he remembered something else Larry said and he felt a pinch in his gut. There was only one way to confirm.

  He quickly dialed his accountant. Herm, being the man he was, answered straight away.

  “Hello, Randolph. How are things?”

  “Not good. Are you in front of your computer?”

  “I am. Something I can do?”

  “Can you check for additional large withdrawals under ten thousand?”

  A keyboard pounded. “How large?”

  “What’s large? Two grand? Three?”

  “I’ll check. Hang on.”

  He waited, anxiously paced. The pain in his gut worsened with each moment that passed.

  “Um, Randolph?”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I’m so sorry. Anything under ten—”

  “I understand, Herm. It’s not your fault. Just tell me how bad it is.”

  “Three grand here, four there. Seven and a half. Six. It’s all over the place.”

  “Since when?”

  “The first of the year. January second was the first one.”

  Randolph felt sick.

  “It’s been every couple of days, sometimes daily. I’m so sorry.”

  It made sense. He would see all the year-end tax statements, but not until a year from now. By then, the divorce would be final, the papers signed. The damage done. Larry was right; Patricia was cleaning him out. It was as clear as crystal. Sweat drenched his face.

  “Randolph?”

  “I have to go. I...I need to go.”

  “If you need anything, call me. I’m so sorry.”

  He hung up. Then he covered his mouth and rushed into the bathroom and retched into the porcelain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Everything spun—his vision, his mind, his world. What was happening? He lurched a stream of nothingness, but the pain was real. His stomach ached where it should not, deep inside his gut. Everything trembled.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Not now,” he said.

  But someone entered anyway.

  “Not now, I said!”

  “You all right, Dad?”

  Randolph reached up and grabbed the handle, pulled it down. Water and phlegm swirled and spun before disappearing, which did not help his vertigo. He closed the lid and pressed his back against the bowl.

  “Was it something you ate?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  Bruce nodded, folded his arms. “Who was on the phone?”

  Randolph swallowed, tasted the acidity from his throat and the warmth of his breath. He thought he might be sick again.

  “What’s going on?” Bruce said. He seemed both concerned and irritated with tight lips and tired eyes. All the drama had clearly worn him thin.

  “Your mother is stealing from me.”

  Bruce laughed. “That’s preposterous. How can someone steal something that’s technically theirs?”

  It was a struggle, but Randolph dragged himself to his feet, used the wall as a crutch. “There are certain things about being married that aren’t always as they seem.”

  “Please don’t give me a lecture about marriage, okay? You seem to forget sometimes that I’m married too. Happily, might I add.”

  “You’re right.”—a pause—”Your mother signed a prenuptial agreement before we married.”

  Bruce unfolded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “I never knew that.”

  “Why would you? A man’s marriage is his business only. There’s a lot you don’t know. But to understand the scope of everything that’s gone on, I think you should know.”

  Bruce nodded. “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “But can we not do it in here? I need to sit.”

  They moved back into the living room. Janet’s motherly instincts took over, and she set Max up with a movie and a snack and a cup of juice. Sheila slid over and stayed quiet, made room for Bruce on the sofa next to his father. By now, Randolph assumed Sammy was no longer around for good since he still had not seen any signs of her. She was a good dog.

  All eyes were on him. Sheila knew many of the details already, but for those she did not, she was about to. He spent the next dozen, maybe two dozen minutes—however long it took; he did not keep track—telling them everything he thought was relevant.

  The moment he discovered Patricia’s infidelity broke his heart. While things between them were not perfect, he thought they were in love and mostly happy. They had been sexually active just days before. She came home late one night—something that had begun to occur with a much higher frequency than was normal; out with friends, she said—and he saw it through the upstairs window. Her with another man. They embraced like lovers at the end of the driveway, smooched like friends would not. Randolph closed the blinds and sat on the bed, dropped his head into his hands.

  At first, he was in denial. They were platonic friends who showed casual affection for one another—that was all. But his eyes would not lie, and what he saw was impossible to unsee. The embrace lasted longer than it would have if they were just friends. The smooch was more than a friendly peck; it was glazed with a passion she once had for him, their hands all over one another.

  It was his fault—that was how he felt. His sexual performance had been pathetic in recent months. It was not just the length of performance that caused the issues; it was before the event even started. Something about him was off. He chose not to confront Patricia that night. He was not quite sure what to say to her, how to broach what he saw. Instead, he killed the lights and slipped into bed and tossed the covers over himself and pretended to be asleep. He was awake while Patricia undressed and showered and eventually crawled in next to him and fell asleep with her back facing him.

  The next morning, he called out from work and made an appointment with his doctor instead. His prostate was checked. His PSA had been monitored and tracked for years without issue
, so his doctor expected nothing. But a week later, once the results came back, he was summoned back to the doctor’s office for further testing. Cancer was confirmed. Monitoring rather than removal was oftentimes the best course of treatment, especially when caught early.

  He never did tell his wife.

  Instead, he shut down—emotionally, certainly, but also physically. Sex with Patricia no longer interested him. She did not seem bothered, either, since she was getting what she needed from much younger, more handsome men than he—that part was an assumption, but he was not blind to the likely reality.

  It went on that way for a few years. He did not look at her that way, and she did not care. Worse, she was happy. Sexually fulfilled for the first time in more years than either one of them could possibly remember, with no expectations to pretend to be happy being with a man who repulsed her. And without the physical connection, the rest of it became a problem. They were emotionally disconnected too, then entirely.

  He was at his lowest point when he met Sheila—though met was a stretch—when he saw her. He had taken a lot of time off from work in recent weeks, had pondered retirement to move onto the next phase of his life—whatever that may have been. He was unhappy and lacked enthusiasm for anything he used to. Nothing mattered. He was at his lowest point. Rock bottom.

  And then he saw her.

  Sheila.

  The same crimson apron she wore four days later, when he finally worked up the courage to have a conversation with her for the first time, drew his eye to her. Not to mention the way she smiled and laughed and spoke sweetly to everyone who passed through her line. He had to see her up close.