“I don't follow you.”
“There are a lot of SS enthusiasts out there. I was putting myself through law school and running out of money. Selling my car brought me the cash I needed to finish. I hated to do it, but poverty and failure weren't options.”
“Where did you grow up?” I ask.
“Cincinnati. My parents were regular middle-class people, nothing spectacular or flashy, just good solid folks.”
“I grew up in the Brownfield District.”
Her eyes widen. “And you lived to tell about it? I'm impressed.”
“So am I.”
We laugh and walk side by side to her Ford Explorer SUV. “How do you like this vehicle?” I ask.
“I love it. Lucille wanted me to buy a minivan, but I told her no way.”
“What don't you like about minivans?”
She unlocks the doors with her keyless entry. “Hmmm, let me see. What is it that I don't like about minivans?” She looks at me, smiling slyly, and says, “Everything.”
We laugh, get into the Explorer, and back out of her driveway. We just might have some things to discuss after all.
THIRTY-THREE
Hilda and I sit on a park bench facing Lake Erie, just a few yards from the beach that's sloping down to the water. I'd heard that eco-sensitive redevelopers were trying to clean up and beautify the lakefront after years of Cleveland's wanton waste and pollution, but this is fantastic.
Behind us is Olympiad Place, an attractive outdoor complex with an oval competition track, basketball courts, tennis courts, skateboard obstacle course, and three volleyball sandpits. Yuppie parents jog by, pushing their infants in tricycle strollers. A man off in the distance tosses a Frisbee to his energetic golden retriever.
Hilda's sitting back against the bench, deeply inhaling the fresh aquatic air. She looks relaxed, but her intense expression suggests that she's fully alert and focused.
She takes a deep breath, then looks at me. “And you're certain that the sender was I Got Your Back, Inc.?” she asks.
“I'm positive.”
She sighs and shakes her head sadly. “There's no end.”
“Excuse me?”
“There no end to how low human beings will stoop to hurt each other.”
I grunt my agreement and watch the waves roll ashore. “Have you thought about trying to reconcile?” Hilda asks.
I look at her. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am,” she blandly answers, returning my gaze. “I understand that Sierra's probably the last person you … ”
“Forget reconciliation,” I interrupt. “The marriage is over, plain and simple.”
“First hear me out,” Hilda admonishes. “Along with being a lawyer I'm a counselor. I know that you're deeply hurt and angry, but that's why I asked the question. Emotionally driven decisions seldom turn out right. If you're going to be my client, I have to ensure that you've considered all the alternatives.”
“Hilda, I watched a video of my wife blowing and screwing another man. What's there to think about?”
“Are you still in love with her?”
I clench my jaw and return my gaze to the lake. Hilda keeps looking at me, her eyes heating up the side of my face. “Denmark?”
I quickly face her. “Have you been listening to me? Somebody named ‘I Got Your Back, Inc.’ sent me a DVD showing my wife having sex with another man! They put a note with it urging me to have a great conversation about the video. Trust me, Hilda. I have not been having a great time or a great conversation.”
Hilda's unperturbed. “I understand, but are you still in love with her?”
I blink at her in disbelief. What part of this doesn't she get? “Hilda, have you ever loved someone so much that they became the air you breathed? Have you ever been prepared to give everything to make someone happy? Have you ever been so connected to someone that when they hurt, you hurt; when they laughed, you laughed; and if they were angry with you, your world crumbled?”
“Denmark,” she calmly responds, “are you in love with your wife?”
I turn back to the lake. “If you don't want to take my case, just tell me. I'll see if Nelson's got another recommend …”
“The first thing that needs to happen is for you and your wife to talk.”
“Say what?”
Hilda gently taps my shoulder, and I turn toward her. “You and your wife need to talk,” she repeats.
Images from the DVD flash before me. No baby, you have to make me come first. “No.” I glance at my watch. “Just drop me off back at your office and I'll be on my way.”
“You owe it to yourself, the life you shared, and the love and time you invested into your relationship to know—really know—that it's over.”
“And what makes you think I don't know that already?”
Hilda speaks softly. “You still haven't answered my question.”
I grimace inwardly. “Will you take my case or not?”
“That depends on whether or not you'll agree to speak with your wife.”
“Why is that so important to you?”
“What's important to me is that you not do something you'll end up regretting for the rest of your life.” She looks out at the lake and keeps talking. There's an odd tone in her voice, like she's speaking more to herself than me. “True love is so precious and rare, Denmark. It's far too precious to casually throw away.”
“There's nothing casual about this, and I'm not the one who threw it away. My wife's a cheating slut who … ”
“Will one day regret losing the man who loved her with all his heart.”
I glare at Hilda. She holds my gaze until I look away. I'm not angry with her but at myself for letting her see the destruction that Sierra's caused in me. Hilda better get a good glimpse at this display of my emotions. It's the last she'll ever see of them.
“If you're already convinced that Sierra's lost me, why are you insisting that we talk?” I ask.
“Because you're not convinced.”
“Is that right?” I scoff. “Tell me, Hilda, was mind reading something you learned in law school, or is this genetic?”
“Are you still in love with your wife?”
I stare once more, hard and unblinking, into Hilda's eyes. Once more, she holds her ground. “No, Hilda,” I answer tightly. “I no longer love my wife.”
“Then having a conversation with her before we proceed shouldn't present a risk.”
“Since that is the case, what's the point of having the conversation?”
“First of all, it's procedural. You want this over with quickly, so I recommend dissolution. It's faster and cheaper, and it shouldn't get as messy as a full-blown divorce.”
“Fine. Whatever will work fastest and best is all right with me.”
“Dissolutions require both parties to discuss the terms of separation until they agree.”
“Agree on what?”
“The division of assets, support, and …”
“We don't have any children, so there's no child support issue.”
“That'll make things easier, but there's still the question of alimony.”
“What? How's a judge going to look at the evidence and require me … ”
“She could end up paying you.”
I swallow the rest of my protest. “Go on,” I say.
“Some couples can amicably iron out the details one on one with each other while their lawyers give occasional technical guidance.”
“Kind of like a do-it-yourself divorce?”
Hilda nods grimly. I shake my head. No wonder people like Mason Booker are so cynical. “I'm a fan of marriage,” he said. “It's good for the economy.”
“And like I said before,” Hilda continues, “dissolutions are usually cheaper and less complicated. That allows for faster processing.”
“This all sounds good,” I say, sitting back and stretching. “It also sounds like you're taking my case. Are you?”
“Before I answer, you need t
o understand that if I do, I'm going to win for you. I'll push as hard as I need to, and I'll stand firm until we get the desired result. I don't believe in half-stepping, and I will protect your interests with all the skills and resources at my disposal.”
This is sounding more like what I want to hear. I might've found myself a lawyer after all.
“I can keep it soft and clean or play it hard and messy,” Hilda continues. “That's another reason why I insist that you talk to your wife. I don't want to get halfway through this process only to have you suddenly discover that you love your wife after all.”
Hilda's words vibrate with a lethality that's comforting. She's talking herself into a job. “I tell you these things,” she continues, “so that you'll see the sense of talking with your wife before we begin.”
“Why?” I ask, smiling and feeling more encouraged. “Am I supposed to warn her that Hurricane Hilda's on the way?”
“No!” Hilda snips, her expression hard and her tone deadly serious. “I don't want you losing heart when I start putting your soon-to-be ex through a sawmill. My time and resources are too valuable to be expended on ventures and people who don't know what they want or won't follow through.”
I sit up tall and speak deliberately so there's no misunderstanding. “Hilda, I can assure you that I will not lose heart.”
Hilda's eyes narrow, and she leans slightly toward me. “No, Denmark, you can't assure me of that.”
“What're you talking about?” I indignantly challenge. “I just told you that I no longer love my wife.”
Hilda gets up and starts stretching for her run. She's amazingly limber, bending, twisting, and turning her lithesome body with an ease that makes my warm-ups look stiff and arthritic. She finishes, strips off her lightweight warm-up top, hands it to me, and stands with her arms akimbo. She's wearing a light blue half tee shirt that hangs just below the pleasing bulge of her full breasts, exposing her narrow waist and hard flat stomach. She's a lioness prepared for the hunt.
“Denmark, what I'm talking about is that you still haven't answered my question.”
I take a deep, frustrated breath. “I just told you … ”
“Yes, I know. You don't love your wife, but I'm asking are you in love with her.”
“Honestly, Hilda, what difference does it make?” I ask, exasperated.
“Think about it. I'll be back shortly.”
Hilda jogs off to the track. I clench my jaw and turn back to Lake Erie. She's a typical lawyer—splitting hairs, manipulating language, and turning something simple into a Byzantine nightmare. Whether I'm in love or not, the bottom line is that I want out of this marriage. As long as Hilda gets paid her fee, what does she care? She's acting like a marriage counselor, not a lawyer. She's nothing like Nelson. He'd get the facts, unleash his destruction, and go on vacation. But maybe there's an advantage to having a lawyer who'll take things personally. I'll get more of her attention instead of being just one of her stable of clients. Hilda doesn't strike me as someone who runs a legal assembly line, but someone who really believes in justice. She can believe in whatever she wants just so long as she wins.
I turn around and watch her. She's got a nice running form and long, flowing strides, with all of her body parts moving in sync. There's no wasted motion with her.
The breeze from Lake Erie picks up, and I turn toward it, close my eyes, and inhale deep. Sierra loves Lake Erie, especially at sunrise. Sometimes we'll drive the ninety minutes to a lovely park just across the state line in Presque Isle, Pennsylvania, and watch as the sun slowly arcs its way into the early morning sky. The wind will blow Sierra's hair over her head, and she'll hug me tight. I'll pull her into me and stroke her hair as she lays her head on my chest. At those moments there's no one else I'd rather be with or …
“Are you in love with her?” the wind whispers.
“No, baby, you have to make me come first.”
Hell no—I'm not in love with Sierra! Then why am I having this conversation? It's Hilda and all of her legalistic double-talk. I turn around to see her running on the track, and I'm stunned. She's flying! And the way she's moving, so swift, smooth, and effortless, every time her feet hit the track I half expect to see lightning explode from beneath her shoes.
She rockets around the track for another two laps, then slows into a half-sprint and a jog. Finally she walks off toward me. She's breathing hard, but it's not labored. Her hands are on her strong hips, and her head is held high, her nostrils flared as she takes great breaths, each inhalation and exhalation causing her beautiful chest to rise and fall in a smooth rhythm.
I grab her water bottle and hand it to her. “Well,” she says, huffing smoothly. “Do you see the difference between loving someone and being in love with her?”
I ignore the slight condescension in Hilda's tone and answer her. “Yes, Hilda. I do.”
“So are you still in love with …”
“No!” I snip. “I am not in love with my, ah, with Sierra so will you please stop asking.”
Hilda eyes me with heavy suspicion. “Okay, whatever you say.”
“Thanks. Will you take my case or not?”
“Will you talk with your wife?”
I clench my jaw. I'll say this much for Hilda, she's no pushover and clearly possesses the spine to work an issue until she gets what she wants. And that's exactly why I want her.
“Yes, Hilda,” I answer, suppressing a sigh of resignation. “I'll talk with my … I'll talk with Sierra.”
She extends her hand. “You just hired yourself a lawyer.”
We shake, and I get down to business. “Sierra's lawyer has already scheduled a meeting. Can you arrange for it to cover this territory?”
She takes a mighty swig of her water. “Consider it done.”
I give her the time and place details that Charles Keller's phone fuzzy passed on to me for next week's meeting. “What's the meeting's purpose?” Hilda asks.
“Her lawyer said it was to begin the process of mediation. But to be honest, it sounded more like a summons for me to hear their dictated terms.”
“Does he intend to have Sierra there?”
“Not that I'm aware.”
Hilda uses her towel to wipe dry the sweat oozing from her pores, her motions and matter-of-fact acceptance of her body's power and processes underscoring her raw and powerful beauty. She's so different from Sierra, who would've needed three showers; a facial; massage, hair, manicure, and pedicure appointments; shopping spree; vacation; and therapy to recover from the trauma of excreting a drop of sweat.
“Is there anything else I need to know right now?” Hilda asks.
Blinker's face flashes before me. So does Sierra's family, along with the certainty of their high-priced attempts to impale me. “Yes,” I answer. “But I'd rather discuss those details in your office.”
Hilda nods. “Okay.”
She starts stretching again as part of her cool-down. She bends over, grabs her toes, and amazingly touches her nose to her knees. The tight curvature of her rear end defies being ignored, and my eyes are too weak to resist. Until I notice her looking at me.
I quickly cut my eyes away. “Are you competing in the Greater Cleveland Corporate Sports Challenge?” I ask.
Hilda straightens up and mercifully pretends that she didn't see me ogling. “Isn't that Cleveland's version of a corporate Olympics?”
“Yes. You might call it that.”
She shrugs. “I've thought about competing but never bothered. Why do you ask?”
I smile and explain.
THIRTY-FOUR
Recalling one of his last battles with first wife Clarisse, Harry once said: “Ain't nothin’ like a divorce to show you who your spouse really is.”
I glance at my desk calendar. It's 9:12 a.m. on Wednesday, and one week to the day since I watched Sierra with Mr. X on that video from “I Got Your Back, Inc.” Five lousy minutes was all it took for that piece of plastic to obliterate a life that seemed so good, so sw
eet, and so right.
In just a few minutes I'm going to get up and go downtown for this meeting Hilda insists that I have with Sierra. I'll be there well before it starts, but that'll give me time to get myself together and confer one last time with Hilda.
Sierra, mostly through her lawyer, Charles Keller, has repeatedly warned me that I'd better cooperate. The house, stocks, mutual funds, IRAs, retirement property we bought down on the eastern shore of Virginia, the bulging 401Ks, the vacation cottage in the Austrian Alps, the 28% share ownership in Run Sucker, an up-and-coming racehorse, and anything else connected with money has been the focus of their barrages. It's been my focus also, since a lot of what's in dispute, she and I— WE—acquired together.
But along with what she's legitimately entitled to get, Sierra also wants my shirt. Having grown up in wealth, plenty, and opulence, then lived as an adult in more of the same, she's determined to ensure not only that her life continues the luxurious journey but that my back be the highway upon which she travels.
It's amazing that so much has happened in one short week. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. It's like some cosmic magician waved a wand over me and said, “Poof!” It's been raining crap ever since. But thanks to Hilda, some of it's fallen onto Sierra, and my soon-to-be ex hasn't appreciated it—not one little bit.
While I was meeting with Hilda yesterday, Tuesday, at her office, she stepped out to the bathroom and my cell phone rang. I answered without first looking to see who was calling, and I was immediately sorry.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” Sierra said. “I don't care what happens at this meeting, I'm not changing my position.”
“Why start now? You've only got the one.”
Sierra chuckled. “That was just with you.”
I gritted my teeth, inhaled deep, and tried to remain calm. “It's my lawyer who wanted this meeting. I'd be happy never seeing, hearing from, or thinking about you again.”
Sierra gasped and sputtered. “Denmark, so help me God—I'm going to ….”
I laughed. “Is this the same God whom you were praising and worshiping while married to me and banging your boyfriend?”
Other Men's Wives Page 20