by Debra Kent
“Oh, why don’t you just leave it there?” I suggested uneasily.
She looked at me, bewildered. “Are you kidding?” She wiped the hair out of her eyes. “Aren’t you curious?”
Pete started hopping up and down. “Maybe it’s buried treasure!”
I tried to be cool. “Oh, wait a minute. Now I remember.” Pete and Lynette looked at me expectantly while my brain scrambled to fabricate something believable. “I think that must be Roger’s time capsule. You know, for all that millennium business. I’m sure that’s what it is.”
Lynette scrunched up her face. She was one of the few women who hadn’t been charmed by my husband. “Too heavy to be a time capsule.” She pulled off her gloves and jammed a manicured finger against the latch. It was locked.
“Dang,” she said, scowling. Pete said something like, “You could use my key.” I figured he was talking about the key to this little plastic locker my parents gave him for Christmas.
“I don’t think that would work, sweetie, but thank you so much for offering,” I told him. “You’re such a good helper!”
I pulled the box from Lynette’s grip. It was heavy. Dense, dead weight. It occurred to me that Lynette might think Roger had buried something really scandalous, like drugs or body parts. But I wasn’t about to defend his reputation. “Well, Lynette, I might as well take this in. I’m sure Roger wouldn’t want us messing with it.”
My heart thrummed as I lugged the box up the deck stairs and into the house. I put it on the floor in the family room and tried to pick the lock with everything I could get my hands on. An old luggage key. A bobby pin. A safety pin. The thing you use to pick walnut meat out of the shell. A shishkabob skewer. A screwdriver. I got hotter, sweatier, and more desperate with every attempt. Suddenly, Pete appeared, dangling a key from his good hand. “Try this key, Mommy,” he urged.
As he brought it closer, I realized it was not, as I’d assumed, the key to his little plastic locker. This was marked with a Durabox logo, the same imprint on the top of the strongbox. “Where did you get this?” I asked him, trying to appear casual.
Pete looked down and started sucking his thumb, something he hadn’t done since he was three. And he had the guiltiest expression on his face. “What is it, sweetie?” I pulled him to my lap. “You can tell me. I promise I won’t get mad.”
“Daddy put it in my piggy bank,” he said. “He thought I was sleeping.”
I shoved the little key into the box and turned it. The latch flipped open. And there they were. Stacks of them, like thick Golden Graham crackers, all of them identical in shape and size. I quickly counted the flat bars. There were exactly sixty.
“What are they, Mommy?” Pete asked, staring.
“I’m not sure,” I lied. “I think it might be for a printing press or something. Or maybe they’re paperweights. Something like that.” I snapped the lid shut and tried to distract him. “How would you like to watch a little TV? I think Rugrats is on Nick. I’ll make popcorn. Okay?”
I grabbed the remote and switched on the set. My hand was shaking. “Want some popcorn?” I felt light-headed. I’d found the gold! I had no idea what those things were worth, but I intended to find out. The banks were closed. I found the phone number for All That Glitters, a jewelry store in the mall. I asked for the going price of gold.
“What have you got? Coins?”
“No, not coins.” I realized I didn’t even know what these things were called. “You know, flat things.” I grabbed a flat bag of microwave popcorn and kneaded the kernels and congealed fake butter with my fingers. I tossed it in the microwave and slammed the door shut.
“Oh, ingots, Five- or ten-ounce?”
I remembered my old Weight Watchers scale in the cabinet above the toaster and pulled it down. “Five ounces. Exactly.”
“Okay. Well, gold’s up at about $310 an ounce. So you’re looking at about $1500 per ingot. Give or take.”
I had sixty of them. I did the math. Jesus.
’Til next time,
V
January 28
I slept with my hand on the strongbox. Pete wanted to go to Eggbert’s for waffles, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the gold in the house. I decided that my parents’ house was the safest place to stow it. We swung by on the way into town. My mother, ever the Girl Scout, asked me if I might be somehow breaking the law. “After all,” she intoned, “it doesn’t belong to you.”
“Well, Mother, I have no idea who this belongs to. For all I know some pirate buried it there. It’s on my property. And until someone tells me otherwise, it’s mine.”
She grimaced. “If you say so.” End of conversation.
’Til next time,
V
January 31
So we’re eating dinner, when the phone rings. I check Caller ID. It was Eddie, calling from the office. Against my better judgment, I picked up the phone.
“Sorry about last weekend,” he said.
“Hi, Eddie.”
“I don’t know what got into me,” he said. “I guess I got carried away.”
“Yes, you did,” I told him. I decided not to confess that he’d frightened me. “It wasn’t a lot of fun for me.” God, that sounded lame, like I was talking to a preschooler. “Pete and I are just finishing up dinner. So I’d better go.”
“Hey,” he interrupted. “I hope Roger won’t mind. I took one of his Hustler magazines with me.”
“That’s fine, Eddie.”
“I mean, if I couldn’t have you that night, the magazine was the next best thing, if you know what I mean.”
I felt my stomach lurch. I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, but I didn’t want to make him angry. “That’s sweet, Eddie.” Sweet?!
“So. Did you find it?”
“No, not yet,” I told him. “I think it was all a cock-and-bull story Diana made up just to drive me crazy.”
“Say that again,” Eddie whispered.
“Say what?”
“You know. Cock and bull.”
I felt my face flush. “Please, Eddie. Not now.”
He chuckled. “Okay. Later, then.”
Something had shifted between Eddie and me. The more I tried to pull away, the more he seemed to want me. I hoped that he wouldn’t call again that night, and he didn’t.
’Til next time,
V
February 2
Just as I was leaving to pick up Pete, the phone rang. I checked Caller ID. Anonymous. I was afraid it might be Eddie and decided not to pick up. But then I heard a woman’s voice—a message. It was Libby Taylor, the P.I. I quickly picked up the phone before she could hang up. “Yes! I’m here!” I couldn’t wait to tell her about the gold. “I’ve got something to tell you!”
“And I’ve got something to tell you, Ms. Ryan.” She sounded serious.
“You first,” I told her.
“I’m just about done with my investigation of Mr. Tisdale,” she began. “Obviously I’ll be sending you the full report. But I thought you’d want me to call you first.”
“Yes?” I had no idea whether this would be good news or bad.
“Are you sitting down?” she asked. “Because if you’re not, I highly recommend you do.
“Based on preliminary calculations, your husband’s net worth—investments, stocks, bonds, mutual funds, the Swiss accounts, the money in the Caymans, real estate holdings, the art—”
I cut her off. “Art?”
“Yes. A Caravaggio sketch and Roy Lichtenstein canvas. He keeps them at his parents’ house. You’ve never noticed them?”
“I thought they were prints.”
“At any rate, you’re looking at a net worth of $82 million, give or take a few hundred thousand.” She gave me a moment to absorb the information. My eyeballs were buzzing. I felt giddy and hot.
“Ms. Ryan? Are you there?”
I opened my mouth, but could only manage a croak. “Uh-huh.”
“And that doesn’t include the value of
the gold, assuming we ever locate it.”
“I found it,” I said slowly. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. It was out back. Buried under a tree. He told everyone he’d buried the goldfish.” The gold now seemed like pocket change compared with the fortune my husband had amassed.
I glanced down at my shoes, the black leather Nine West platform loafers I’d bought on sale in the fall. Though he never hesitated to indulge his taste for fine clothes, I distinctly recall Roger yelling at me for buying those shoes, said I hadn’t needed them. I remembered the time he made me return half the clothes I’d bought for Pete at Baby Gap; he said it was crazy to spend all that money on things he’d outgrow in six months. I remembered times we raced to get to Eggbert’s before 8 A.M. to catch the early-bird special. The times we drove halfway across the country for vacation (with Pete crying miserably in his car seat) because it was cheaper than flying. I remembered how he painstakingly cut the twenty-five-cent coupon out of the Belgian waffle mix box, and how excited he was to discover we could get supermarket coupons online. On my 32nd birthday he bought me both volumes of the Miser’s Bible, a book that shows you how to save money by recycling dryer lint and snotty tissues. Roger even suggested that I unravel Pete’s outgrown sweaters to reuse the yarn, but I didn’t know how to knit.
“There’s one outstanding bit of business,” the investigator continued. “It’s the condo on Lake Merle. I’ve got some information but I’d rather not discuss it until I’m absolutely sure.”
“Is it good or bad?” I asked.
“I’d rather not say until I’m sure.”
I admired her self-restraint, but her professionalism also irritated me. It had to be bad news. I could tell.
“I’ll have a full report by Friday. Please hang in there until then, okay?”
I assured her I’d be fine. I heard the garage door open. It was Roger, home from his writers’ retreat. He gamboled into the house, threw his overnight bag on the couch, and grabbed me. “Oh, how I’ve missed you,” he whispered into my hair, moving a clammy hand under my sweatshirt.
“Roger, it’s four o’clock. Pete’s upstairs,” I said.
“So? Let’s tell him we need some cuddle time. We’ll lock the door.”
I’d have to be comatose to let Roger get on top of me. “I can’t, honey.” I almost choked on that last word. “I’ve got to take him for a haircut.” A necessary lie and not too off the mark.
“Can’t it wait?” He slipped a hand down my pants.
“No, it can’t.” I extracted his hand. I forced myself to kiss him.
“Maybe later.” I detected a faint floral scent on his face.
’Til next time,
V
February 6
I called Omar Sweet and told him what the investigator had uncovered. He let out a low whistle. His mind was already racing ahead. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Number one, keep playing dumb. Don’t let him know you’re onto him.”
“I think I can manage that,” I said.
“Next, we serve him with divorce papers.”
I swallowed hard. Omar spoke so matter-of-factly about something I’d struggled with for so long. “And then what?”
“Then I take his deposition. Get him under oath, have him tally his net worth. What do you think he’s likely to say?”
“I guess he’ll say we’ve got a few hundred thousand. The house is worth about $250,000, we’ve got maybe $30,000 in savings, and another $20,000 in investments. That’s it.”
“Okay. Great. So he swears under oath that he’s worth about $300,000. Then we show him the investigator’s report. We take him to court. At this point we don’t ask for half the assets. We ask the court to award all the assets and we’ve got a good chance of getting it because he will have lied under oath. Judges don’t like that. Chances are the lawyer will quit because Roger lied to him as well, and lawyers don’t like that. Your ex-husband will be in deep shit. And you’ll be a very wealthy woman.”
I told Omar that Libby had more news for me, and I was afraid it might be bad. He said we should wait until we have the full report before filing for divorce. I was disappointed. I had been so psyched up to finally serve him with papers. I didn’t want to wait anymore, but I guess I had no choice.
’Til next time,
V
February 7
Took Pete to the pediatrician today. His hand is healing nicely, but there’s probably going to be some scarring on his palm, enduring evidence of my negligence and irresponsibility.
Lynette Kohl-Chase stopped by with a tray of toffee brownies. “I thought you could use this,” she said. I didn’t let her past the screen door. I didn’t want her to see my dirty kitchen floor, the McDonald’s Happy Meal paraphernalia strewn across the family room, the plate of tangerine peels on the counter, the sticky trail of pancake syrup on the table.
I stared into her earnest face and asked, “Lynette, why do you persist in being so damned neighborly?”
She looked like she might cry and I felt like such a heel. “I’m sorry. I just thought, I mean, I can see you’re going through a rough time. I thought you could use a little cheering up.”
Now I was the one who wanted to cry. The woman was guileless. She had no idea that I viewed her existence as a reproach. “I’m sorry. You’re just being nice and I’m being a bitch.”
“No, you’re not being a witch,” she said, deftly sanitizing my remark. “You’re just frazzled. I understand completely.”
I wanted to say, How could you possibly understand? Instead, I took the tray and thanked her, then proceeded to devour half the brownies. Now I’ve got diarrhea, and I deserve that, too.
’Til next time,
V
February 8
I decided to distract myself by going to Borders and flipping through interior design magazines. Assuming I ever get Roger’s money, I’m going to redo the kitchen. I bought a hot Chai and found a table in the back corner. This was a rare moment for me. I was alone, I had my Chai, and I was about to plunge into a stack of magazines. I couldn’t wait to dig in. I was slipping off my jacket when I felt someone come up from behind and tug at my sleeves. “Let me help you with that.”
It was Eddie. He put his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “How about joining me at the Holiday Inn?” His breath was like a hothouse, warm and moist. He was wearing soft black trousers, and a quick southerly glance confirmed that he was already excited. He noticed me noticing and smiled. Maybe it was the libido-squelching Prozac, or maybe it was my better judgment, but I knew I couldn’t go with Eddie to the Holiday Inn. “Please. Eddie. You’ve got a wife. You have kids. It’s just not right.”
“That never stopped you before.” He gripped my arm. “Don’t tell me you’re some kind of religious nut now. What, have you been saved?”
“No. It’s nothing like that.” I tried to pull my arm away. His fingers wrapped around my wrist in one of those martial arts grips that could break your bones if you tried to wriggle free.
“You’re never going to get rid of me. You realize that, don’t you?” He wasn’t smiling. “You found it, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Found what?” I answered, knowing precisely what he’d meant.
He reached out and turned my face toward his.
“Eddie, you’re hurting me,” I whispered.
“Look me right in the eyes and say it. Say, ‘No, Eddie, I haven’t found the gold.’ ”
“No, Eddie, I haven’t found the gold.” I repeated. “Now please take your hands off me.”
“You’re lying.” He stared at me. I was scared. This felt like such a violation, of my body and space and head. I wanted only to spend twenty minutes in Borders drinking hot Chai and reading interior design magazines. I grabbed my jacket and walked out. With everything going on in my life now, the last thing I need to worry about is a volatile ex-lover.
’Til next time,
V
February 9
I can’t bring m
yself to visit my parents today. I know I should spend time with my father while I still have him. But it’s so demoralizing to see Dad so small, so old, so ill. Am I being selfish by staying away? Or am I being self-protective?
’Til next time,
V
February 10
The phone rang at 9:07. It was Libby. “I’ve got to tell you, Ms. Ryan, I’ve investigated a number of interesting and rather provocative cases, but nothing quite like this.”
“Please, Libby, just say what you have to say.”
“Okay.” She sucked in her breath. “I confirmed that Mr. Tisdale does indeed own the condo on Lake Merle.”
“And . . . ?”
“And it’s not an investment property.”
“Let me guess. That’s where he keeps his other wife, right?” I joked.
But Libby wasn’t laughing.
“Libby. Say something.” I closed my eyes and prayed. God, if you have even an ounce of compassion left for me, please don’t let Roger have another wife. I held my breath.
“Her name is Mary,” the investigator began. “Tisdale, obviously.”
Why is that obvious? I wanted to say. I remembered how Roger and I had fought when I told him I wanted to keep my maiden name. He called me a “feminazi,” said I should be happy to give up my family name. He insisted that Ryan was ordinary, working-class, “like a can of Spam.” Evidently Roger managed to find a woman who willingly fulfilled his macho compulsion to brand his wife with his lousy name.
“Listen,” Libby said softly, “maybe we should have the rest of this conversation in person.”
“No, Libby,” I pleaded. “Now. Please. Tell me the rest.”
“It looks as if they’ve been married since June. Married in the Sullivan County courthouse, by a justice of the peace. Judge Olcott Hanes.”
“Children?” I asked weakly. I crossed my fingers and prayed again.
“We don’t know yet,” Libby responded. “Listen. Are you okay?”