THE VIRTUOUS CON

by Maren Foster

  The host turned back to one of the other women and continued asking questions.

  After we were ushered off stage, I grabbed my purse and thanked the runner, who pointed me to a back exit. I emerged onto West 50th and made my way down 50th toward the parking garage.

  I heard the ping of a new text message as I popped the car into reverse. The text flashed on the screen on my dashboard. It was an unfamiliar number: “You fucking cunt. I will tie you up for the last time and fuck you to death as your screams for help go unnoticed. You think your husband is a bad guy? Just wait until I get my hands on you.”

  Holy shit. What kind of sick person? I should report this to the police, not that they’ll do anything about it.

  I turned on the radio and tried to stay calm.

  Vi called while I was sitting in traffic on my way home.

  “Freddie.”

  “Hey.”

  “I saw it,” Vi said.

  “Oh, yeah? I didn’t think you watched morning television.”

  “I don’t, but Adrienne does and she texted me to turn it on.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you’d be ashamed. I didn’t want to let you down,” I said.

  “I’ve been through more in my life than you know. I could have helped you.”

  “You would have told me to fight him but I wasn’t ready.”

  “You don’t know that. I could have helped you even if you decided not to press charges,” she said.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d understand. You’ve always been so strong and I was so weak.”

  “I’ve been through my share of adversity too, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that then. I just couldn’t see how the woman who raised two children alone was going to help me get an abortion?”

  “You had an abortion? Alone?” Vi said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Freddie.” She paused but I knew instinctively not to interject. “I wish the world wasn’t such an ugly place, but sometimes it is. I guess we just have to look for the silver linings and support each other through the bad times.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Do you want me to come out there now?”

  “No, thank you. Remember I’m coming home next week. I’ll see you on Monday,” I said.

  “Okay. You know I’ll get on a plane tonight if you need me.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate it, but I can stay with Adam and Julia if I need to.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Gotta go,” I said.

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I checked my phone: ten new voicemails. Some were agents who wanted to represent me. Some were t.v. or radio shows calling directly to schedule interviews. A couple were prank calls. One was a literary agent wondering if I’d consider publishing a memoir. A memoir? Another opportunity to get my side of the story out there first and direct the narrative? With some tweaks, maybe the diary entries I wrote for my therapist could become the basis for a damning expose. The more attention I can throw on Nate’s immoralities and monstrous character the better. A memoir would do just that and might even allow me to support myself while I figure out what I am going to do. My savings is beginning to run out. I called the agent back and left a message with a secretary.

  My phone rang about a half hour later. “Wyn, my name is Kristin Jones. We’ve been playing phone tag it seems.”

  “Hello.”

  “Wyn, I represent writers, specifically memoirists. I’m interested in your story. I think a memoir about your life and experiences would be a big hit, given what’s going on.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I have a writer who I think is perfectly suited to write it if you’re interested in selling your story.”

  “Kristin, I’m glad you called. I’ve actually been writing already and have something I think you could work into a memoir.”

  “Oh, great. Why don’t you send me what you have so that we can take a look and develop some samples and marketing materials?”

  “Sure, but I have one question before I send it.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “What is your commission?”

  “Of course. Seven and a half percent of print royalties and thirty percent for digital is standard. That includes audio and e-books. We’ll reserve all film rights. No advance.”

  Hmmm, not sure I have time to shop around at this point.

  “I want to donate some of the proceeds to charities that assist victims of sexual assault. I’d like to maximize that donation. Do you think you could negotiate a higher percentage of print royalties based on that?”

  “That’s really sweet. I’ll do what I can. You do have some name recognition already and your story has been in the news in New York every day for the last week, but even that doesn’t guarantee sales, especially in other markets where it hasn’t gotten as much publicity, and publishers aren’t very flexible.”

  “Got it. Let me think about it.”

  “Of course, I understand. Why don’t I send you a sample contract to review as you think about it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. What is your email address?”

  I rattled off my email address.

  “Thanks. I’ll be in touch soon,” She said and hung up.

  Back at home, I threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and ate at the kitchen island while I flicked through Instagram. The top post was a photo of Julia at the gym, wearing only a black sports bra and knee length spandex tights. The caption read, “Getting sweaty in style thanks to @lululemon for the fabulous gear! #ad”. She was the skinniest I’d ever seen her. She didn’t look like she belonged (or had ever been) in a gym. She had absolutely no muscle and looked like she might snap in half if she tried to do anything that could be considered a workout. Unlike in the past, when I had been admittedly a little jealous of her physique, I now felt genuinely sorry for her. There was clearly something wrong. She looked frail, sick, malnourished actually. The post had 39,877 likes. Apparently, 39,877 people disagreed with me.

  The Touch

  Saturday, April 7, 2018

  Old Greenwich

  On Saturday morning, as I walked past the front door on my way to the kitchen, I noticed a single, plain white business envelope on the floor with no postage or return address. I cut it open neatly with a paring knife. A single sheet of paper fell out. “We know where you live, LYING WHORE! Drop it now or you’ll be sorry.” Who the hell would have brought this here? Nate? Simon? Can’t be. Weird. Maybe I should have a security company out and have the locks changed while they’re at it, just in case. I called and made an appointment and then went next door.

  Through the back windows of the Hart’s sun room I could see Adam and Julia sitting together on the couch. I waved and Julia motioned me in.

  “Wyn, how are you?” She didn’t pause to let me answer. “You must be so sick about the stuff with Nate.”

  “Why would she be?” Adam said. “He’s a bastard who deserves to rot in jail for the rest of his life.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “Do you live on Mars?” he continued. “She had to have an abortion. He’s a complete douchebag and they are going to basically let him off with a slap on the wrist.” The anger in his voice was unmistakable.

  “But he’s her husband.”

  “They weren’t really married,” he said. “I mean, they were, but it was never real. Don’t you get it?”

  “What if it’s all been blown out of proportion?” she said.

  “You think someone being held accountable for violent rape is blowing things out of proportion?” Adam said.

  “How do I know that it wasn’t consensual sex? Maybe she’s a gold digger. Maybe all the women in the videos consented too. Maybe they were just role playing.”

  “All of them? Are you kidding? He’s a monster,” I said. “And just because you�
��re his consensual fuck buddy of the month doesn’t mean he isn’t a rapist. He’s been raping other women the whole time, probably while you two were already having an affair.”

  I looked at Adam and mouthed, sorry.

  “Get the fuck out!” she yelled.

  “Gladly!” I got up and walked out.

  I heard her yelling at Adam as I walked across the lawn. Her voice got a little louder for a few seconds as the sun room door opened and then slammed shut behind him.

  I kept walking until I was back in my yard, and then turned to see him walking briskly toward me. He reached out and pulled me into his arms.

  “I’m so sorry. Forget her,” he said.

  “I’m surprised you’re still with her after what she did with Nate.”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t that surprised, honestly. I don’t love her anymore.”

  “Run away with me,” I said.

  “Of course.” He squeezed me tighter. “When?”

  “I have a business venture in the works. I want to be sure that I can support myself in case I never get anything from Nate.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Let go of it. We don’t need his money. We can move home. We know enough good people there who will help us. We can both get jobs, settle down, keep a low profile, maybe have some kids.”

  I squeezed him tight. “Mmmm hmm.”

  “That’s it? ‘Mmmm hmm’?”

  “I mean, yes, of course. I want to be with you. I’ve always wanted to be with you.”

  “You have?”

  “Of course. I just had to deal with this shit first,” I said.

  “You mean Nate?”

  “Yeah. I guess I mean my shame, my anger, and the nagging sense that it wasn’t fair.”

  “You’ve been planning this since the day it happened, haven’t you?”

  “Something like that. I didn’t know what to do at first, but when I realized that accusing him would be awful for me and he would probably walk away unscathed, I knew I had to do something else. I began dreaming of how to make him suffer the day I decided not to press charges. The plan changed over time, of course. It evolved as it had to, but the goal was always to get even. I want to see him broken, like I was broken.”

  “How did you do it?” He looked me directly in the eyes. “How could you be married to him and have sex with him after what he did to you?”

  “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, in my entire life. There were days I thought I couldn’t go through with it, but the thought of him getting off scot-free kept me focused. I wanted him to pay for what he did,” I said. “You probably think I’m insane, don’t you? Maybe I am. I don’t know anymore.”

  “Look, what you’ve done is crazy, but I can’t pretend to understand what he put you through or how you felt. I trust you, so I trust that you did what you did because you thought it was the only way. I wish you would have told me earlier,” he said, never losing his focus on me. “I wish you could have told me earlier. I wish I could have done something to help you.”

  “I couldn’t tell you. I was worried you would kill him.”

  He nodded. “I know. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  We held each other tight.

  “Now what?”

  “Divorce, I guess.” I said.

  “Yeah.” He seemed lost in thought.

  “Are you sure you want to leave Julia?”

  “Yes, I want to be with you.”

  “Then you know what you have to do,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about her,” he said. “And you’ll file for divorce too then?”

  “Yeah, I guess I might actually need a divorce since technically I am married under Connecticut law. I don’t know though. I’ll need to talk to a lawyer.”

  He leaned down and looked me in the eyes. His look was intense. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. He leaned forward and kissed me.

  “I can’t wait,” he said.

  “I know. Me too.”

  He turned and walked back toward his house. I watched him until he disappeared.

  Will he tell her today? Will I finally get my happily ever after? Are things going to work out?

  I went to church on Sunday. I was feeling lost and needed motivation to keep going. I tried a new church down the road. It was Episcopalian. I didn’t know much about Episcopalians but it was close to the house and it had the most beautiful chapel. As I sat listening to the sermon my mind wandered. Is God just? Will His will be done? Will His will be done? I guess I knew instinctively, but I had never really thought very hard about why Vi and Ali were agnostic. I figured it was because they were lawyers who believed in evidence and proof…beyond a doubt. This explanation had always made sense to me, but as I wondered and prayed to Him for justice it struck me as obvious. It seemed ridiculous that it had never occurred to me before. How could two Feminists believe that He was their salvation? That He would guide their way and provide comfort in times of distress?

  On my way out of church I picked up my cell phone. One missed call. A local number I don’t know. There was no voicemail.

  The calls for interviews kept flooding in. It was overwhelming and exhausting, but I returned a few of them assuming that any publicity was good publicity at this point, and would increase sales when my memoir was released. I didn’t want to answer any more questions about why I did what I did, or what it meant for women around the world or the future of our justice system. It was amazing how quickly I’d become a trusted expert on law, psychology, and women’s rights with zero formal training or education. I kept thinking that I should be happy that people were finally listening and seemed to be valuing what I said, but I couldn’t help feeling like an imposter.

  I called Asher Morgan, the criminal lawyer I had talked to before and asked for a referral to a divorce lawyer. He provided a name and direct number. If he’d seen the news he didn’t say anything, which surprised me. I called and spoke with a paralegal, who confirmed that I could seek alimony through a divorce settlement even though our marriage certificate was never filed. I can’t believe I still need a divorce. I wonder if Nate will contest it. Given the circumstances it shouldn’t be difficult to get a divorce granted, but what about a settlement? How long will it take to negotiate? Does it even matter anymore? I’ve exposed him for who he really is. Isn’t that enough?

  I kept busy around the house as much as possible. I refused to admit that I was getting bored and was even beginning to miss work a little bit, but it was true. If I had a child to look after, things would be so different. Our baby would have been almost six years old now. I wondered whether it was a boy or a girl and felt guilty thinking about the life that never was even if it was his.

  I looked at my phone. I’d missed another call. Simon again? Nate must be furious.

  My phone rang while I was making dinner. It wasn’t Simon but the number was local. I answered.

  “Wyn!” There was an urgency to Nate’s greeting.

  “Nate?”

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  I didn’t say anything. Why is he calling me now? What does he want?

  “What’s going on? Are you okay? You haven’t come to visit at all.”

  What? There’s no way he doesn’t know already? He must be faking.

  “Um, yeah, I’m okay I guess.”

  “I need to talk to you. There’s a bit of a problem. It’s about the company and the mortgage. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Can you come here to talk?”

  Is he lying? What’s his angle? He has to know by now. Maybe he wants to talk about a financial settlement.

  “Look, I need your help. There’s some financial stuff I can’t take care of from in here and it’s important. I need you to come here so I can tell you what’s going on with our finances, so that we won’t have to worry about money when I get out.”