by Debra Kent
“My cell phone’s running out of juice,” I said.
“Cell phone? Are you in the car?”
“Yup.”
“In that case, I’ll let you go. I’d rather you drive safe, okay?”
“Yessir!” I said, feeling safe and cared for, something I haven’t felt in quite some time.
’Til next time,
V
June 8, later
Went to Lynette’s house to pick up Petey and my new baguette basket. She looked as if she’d been crying, then forced herself to perk up. “You didn’t have to buy this, you know.” She put the basket in a paisley gift bag and tied it with a bright green bow. “I just thought you’d enjoy being out and about.”
I noticed a few dirty dishes in the sink, a red flag if there ever was one. “Lynette, is everything okay?”
She smoothed her hair. “Fine, fine, I’m fine.” She pulled a crumpled tissue from her sleeve and blew in a quiet, ladylike way. “Allergies. Happens every year.” She blew again and stared at me. “I’m fine, really.” She gave me a plaintive, please-don’t-probe look. I backed off. I took my basket and went home. I called when I got home but no one answered. Went to Josie’s for a new pair of shoes. Found a daisy under my window wiper.
’Til next time,
V
June 8, even later
Pete said he hates his new soccer team, and hates me for pulling him out of Jerry’s team. He said he would never forgive me.
I started crying, surprising myself and scaring my son. I tried to explain that my crying had nothing to do with him, that I was stressed and tired, that I was nervous about an important appointment.
“What kind of appointment?” he asked, now curious and apparently no longer hating me.
“Just a grown-up kind of appointment, nothing you need to think about.”
“With Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetie, your dad will be there.”
“Are you going to marry him again?”
“No, sweetheart, Dad and I aren’t going to marry each other again. But we’ll always love you just as much.” Pete frowned.
“Hey.” I kneeled down to make eye contact with him. “You want to talk about this? About me and your dad?”
He shook his head. “Can we have pizza tonight?”
I hugged him and he resisted me, contracting in my embrace. “You know, Pete, you don’t have to be afraid to talk about this.”
“I’m not Pete. I’m Chad.” My son has decided that he has no use for a name that also means penis.
“Okay. Chad. You can talk to me about your feelings. About how sad it is to have your dad go away. About what happened with Jerry. And it’s okay to feel mad and sad. All those feelings—any kind of feeling—is really okay. It’s really okay.”
He twisted away from me. “I don’t want to talk about it!”
’Til next time,
V
June 9
This day is finally over and I feel as if every nerve in my body has been peeled away. Skipped breakfast, dropped Pete off with a sitter, and arrived at the courthouse at 9:03 wearing the only thing that didn’t make me look elephantine: black rayon top and black blazer, black twill pants with flat front, side zipper (whoever invented pleats should be shot; thank God for side zippers).
“Who died?” Omar looked fresh and clean and smelled like something spicy and cool. His bald head sparkled under the fluorescent lights and he was smiling. I took this as a good sign. “You should be dressed for a party, not a funeral.”
“If you say so,” I said. (I don’t care what Omar thinks, I’d rather look funereal than fat any day.)
“Cheer up, kiddo,” he said, hoisting his satchel onto the bench. “This should be short and sweet. By noon you’ll be picking out your new BMW.”
The room was small and airless, and the wall clock was broken, which I tried not to interpret as a bad omen. Roger strolled in with a lawyer I didn’t recognize, and his surfer girl, who had her hand in his back pocket. Roger was wearing jeans, a white shirt, and navy blazer. His girlfriend was dressed in a shimmery pink top, no bra, white leather pants, and black heels. Her hair was pulled back into a French twist and her skin was flawless, luminescent. Her only makeup was a smear of pink on her perfect lips.
Roger didn’t look at me. But she did. She flashed the same wicked smile she gave me the day she was fellating Roger out in the new Lexus.
Judge Harry Mendelsohn strode in briskly. He was a wiry, compact man in his fifties, dark hair, small black eyes, grim mouth. “Who’s this?” he asked, gesturing toward Surfer Girl.
Roger’s lawyer stood. “Mr. Tisdale’s girlfriend, Your Honor.”
“Get her out of here.” The girl looked to Roger, then the lawyer. “Come on. Out. Now.” He snapped his fingers impatiently. Surfer Girl slinked away. I was thrilled, but also frightened. Roger turned to blow his girlfriend a kiss.
The judge pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and scanned some papers on his table. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in an hour and don’t plan to miss it. So if you don’t mind, let’s circumvent the small talk and go directly to the statements. Mr. Sweet?”
Omar stood. “Your Honor, we had a contract with Mr. Tisdale, and we relied on his promise, his promise to fully disclose all of his assets under oath. Mr. Tisdale and Ms. Ryan both agreed to release any and all undisclosed assets. We have learned through extensive diligence and investigation that Mr. Tisdale has sequestered his funds, that in fact he has disclosed only a fraction of his total worth. I believe you have our financial report there.”
The judge nodded and gestured for Omar to continue. “As you can see, Your Honor, Mr. Tisdale has been fired by his original attorney. He was fired because he lied, Your Honor; he lied under oath and he lied to his attorney. And now, it is our belief that our only remedy is to enforce our contract. And, in addition, to order Mr. Tisdale to pay all attorney fees and expenses related to the investigation. That is all, Your Honor. Thank you.” Omar sat down. He reached beneath the table and squeezed my hand.
The judge’s face remained expressionless. He glanced at his watch. He nodded toward Roger’s lawyer. “Mr. Sloan?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Roger’s lawyer was tall and fit, with gray-streaked blond hair and a strong jaw. I recognized him from a picture at the club; I think he won last year’s racquetball tournament. His wife was Jasmine ( Jazzy) Sloan, chair of the United Way campaign, patron saint of the local arts council.
“Your Honor, Mr. Tisdale is here today a broken man, a contrite man.” The attorney looked at Roger as if he were gazing at a kid in an orphanage. Roger stared straight ahead. “He is a man who has been under enormous stress, a man who has suffered depression, a man who has been on a roller-coaster ride throughout his career, experiencing tremendous success, as well as horrendous failure. Your Honor, Mr. Tisdale recognizes that he made a serious mistake in sequestering his assets, and for this he is deeply sorry.
“But it would be too severe to award the entirety of his holdings to Ms. Ryan. Your Honor, it would leave Mr. Tisdale penniless. Your Honor, it is our preference, of course, that the original contract be rendered null and void. Mr. Ryan signed it under duress, and without full knowledge of its import or consequences.
“If that is not an option, then we believe that the only fair action at this point is to divide Mr. Tisdale’s assets. Ms. Ryan would have more than enough money to live in luxury throughout her lifetime. We beg the court’s understanding and consideration. Thank you.” Roger’s attorney folded his long body back into the chair and turned to smile confidently at his client.
The judge checked his watch again. “I have a decision.”
The judge took a long, deep breath. He cricked his head to one side, then the other, like a boxer, and leaned forward in his seat. “I have presided over this courtroom for twenty-seven years. And in those twenty-seven years, I have had seen the most contemptible human behavior, and I have met men and women so utterly foul an
d so utterly devoid of conscience that to call them human would be generous, if not inaccurate. But today beats all.” The judge chuckled, took off his glasses and swiped his face with a handkerchief.
“Mr. Tisdale. You disclosed your assets and you swore under oath that this disclosure was true, and you willingly agreed to relinquish your rights to any sequestered assets. This is your signature on this contract, Mr. Tisdale, is it not?”
Roger nodded. “Yes it is, Your Honor.” His voice was barely audible.
“You are a detestable man, Mr. Tisdale. You deserve to lose everything.”
I held my breath and waited for the “but.”
There was none.
“Have your accounts and other assets delivered to Mr. Sweet in forty-eight hours, and if those accounts are delivered in forty-eight hours and ten minutes, I will hold you in contempt, so it would be in your best interest to be punctual. Two days, gentlemen. That is my decision.” The judge whacked his gavel and stood to leave.
As Omar turned to hug me, Roger leaped to his feet. “I can’t believe you did this to me! You goddamned bitch!” His lawyer tried unsuccessfully to restrain him. Omar stepped in front of me but Roger moved around him, flailing savagely. “You bitch! You rotten bitch!” He sucked in his cheeks and cocked his head back. I watched my ex-husband’s saliva hit my sleeve.
“Bailiff!” the judge shouted. “Take Mr. Tisdale into custody at once.” A short, burly woman with brassy curls stepped forward, her hand poised over her gun.
“The fact that I’m holding you in contempt does not change a thing,” the judge told Roger. “I expect you to make the necessary arrangements with your Mr. Sloan so he can oversee the transfer of your accounts. You’ve got forty-eight hours.” He glanced at his watch. “Make that forty-seven hours and forty-five minutes.”
The bailiff reached out to lead Roger by his upper arm, but he twisted away. “Goddamn bitch!” he screamed rabidly, his whole body arcing toward me. The bailiff yanked his arms behind his back and snapped on a pair of gleaming handcuffs. I watched her lead him away as he struggled against the restraints like a wild dog. He threw a malevolent glare at me before the bailiff finally shoved him out the door.
Omar turned to me. I was shaking, but he seemed completely unruffled. “You okay?”
“I’m great,” I told him, and it was true. “I’m just fine.”
Omar held out his hand. “Congratulations, Ms. Ryan.” He beamed at me.
I shook his hand. “Why, thank you, Mr. Sweet.”
“Under normal circumstances, I’d insist that you treat me to lunch, but I’ve got an appointment with a new client in a half hour and I’m afraid I need time to change my clothes.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He pulled back his jacket to reveal a shirt soaked in sweat. “That’s why attorneys wear these things, you know.”
“Is that so?” I said, heady, elated. The fact of my new wealth lay just at the edges of consciousness, tucked away for later indulgence, like a slice of chocolate cake in the back of the refrigerator. I wanted to spin around in circles, I wanted to shout to the sky, “I’m rich! I’m rich!” But not here, not now, not in the space where my ex-husband had fouled the air.
Omar and I left the courtroom together, and there was Surfer Girl, sitting on a bench, biting her nails. “Is it over?” she asked hopefully.
“You want to take this, or shall I?” Omar asked. I told him I’d handle it.
I moved closer to the girl, close enough to see that she had a small tattoo above her left breast. It was a heart, and in that heart, a name. Roger. “Yes, it’s over. And if I were you, I’d ask Mommy and Daddy to increase my allowance, because your darling boyfriend is broke.”
Her eyes grew wide. “What do you mean, broke?”
I felt a rush of the purest joy. “I mean, he’ll be lucky if he has enough change for the bus.”
I raced outside, hopped in my Jeep, and drove and drove and drove until I found myself by the docks at Lake Merle. There was a ghostly haze over the lake. But for the Canadian geese gathering in the long grass, I was alone. I turned off the engine and gripped the steering wheel and screamed, “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!”
I let out one long, loud hoot and started up the engine. I thought about all the times Roger had chastised me for spending too much money, for buying that warm winter coat before it went on sale. I thought about the time I bought a hammock for the deck and he returned it to the store without telling me. I remembered how he always bought carnations because they were the cheapest, unless he wanted sex that night, in which case he would spring for tulips or roses. I thought about the time he bought me a gadget for clipping coupons, hoping I’d adopt his mother’s thrifty habit. And I thought of all the vacation plans he’d rejected because they cost too much, and anyway, who needs to leave town to go on vacation when there are so many fun things to do right here?
I flipped down the sun visor and stared at myself in the mirror. “Valerie Ryan, you are rich.” I started laughing, and then I was crying, and I watched the haze lift from the lake like a shroud and I watched the geese with their lovely long necks and stout bodies, and I felt the warm sunlight on my face and I thought, Yes. Life is good.
I called my mother on my cell phone, and she wanted to know whether I planned to move (no) or remodel (maybe) or take myself on a cruise (absolutely). Beyond that, I had no definite plans. All I knew was, I’d never have to worry about money again. It was an exhilarating and entirely alien feeling. The first thing I’d do, I decided, would be to write a big, fat check to Mary’s family in the Philippines. And I’d send a check to the folks who are trying to build a children’s museum in town; heck, maybe I’d buy them the whole building. And I’d send another check to the women’s shelter, and another to the humane society, and maybe I’ll buy myself a new car, and buy a whole new wardrobe and get a tummy tuck, or at least liposuction, or maybe I’ll buy a summer house up north and a winter house down south or in the Caribbean, or even in Italy, but I don’t speak Italian so maybe that’s not such a great idea, but I could hire a tutor or even an interpreter who could translate for me wherever I went, but maybe I’d skip the house in Italy and get something on one of those gorgeous little islands off the coast of Florida.
I could feel my heart racing as I sped home. I’d never known such a feeling, I swear, and even now as I write this a part of me fears that it is all too good to be true, that I’ll wake up and find myself huddled beneath some overpass wearing newspaper shoes and toting all my worldly possessions in a Hefty bag.
’Til next time,
V
June 9, continued
By the time I got home, there was a message waiting from my mother, to congratulate me again, and another from Omar. Then the doorbell rang. I pulled open the door, expecting to see Diana with a bottle of sparkling grape juice in one hand, a pair of goblets in the other. But it was Lynette. Her eyes were swollen, her nose pink and dripping. She asked, “Can I talk to you? Please?”
I led Lynette into the house and closed the door. I gestured toward the living room. “Do you want to sit down?”
Lynette nodded and shuffled in. I noticed that Pete had left his socks on the coffee table. I swiped a dirty sneaker from the sofa as Lynette slowly lowered herself to sit. Unfortunately I didn’t notice the garlic press. Lynette pulled it from under her behind, and even in her distress, managed a little smile. “You might need this,” she said, handing it to me.
“Probably,” I said, then realized with a quiet thrill that I could buy a million garlic presses if I wanted to. Or I could hire a cook. Or I could cater dinner every day for the rest of my life. “Excuse the mess,” I said. “This place is a pit.”
Lynette waved away my protests with a weary hand. “It’s fine.” She blew her nose. “Your house is fine. Relax.” The high priestess of domestic hygiene had given me absolution. I tried to forget the mess.
“Tell me what’s going on. Do you want a cup of tea
? A box of Kleenex?”
“Tea would be great. I’ve brought my own tissues.” She pulled a small tissue case from her bag. It was made of calico fabric and trimmed with yellow rickrack.
“You didn’t make that, did you?” I asked.
Lynette shrugged sheepishly.
“You’re amazing,” I told her, and meant it. I’ve grown to admire Lynette’s homemaking skills and realize now that it wasn’t hostility that I’d felt, but jealousy born of admiration. She dabbed her eyes and I wondered, What could have transformed this unflaggingly perky woman into a sniveling mess? I would soon find out. I went into the kitchen to boil water, but I could only find a single stale chamomile tea bag. “Lynette, is water okay?”
“Fine. Anything. Nothing. I don’t care. I just want to talk.”
I returned with a glass of water and sat beside her. “Okay. Tell me. I’m listening.” I quickly sent up a small prayer: Please, God, don’t let it be that Hunter has some terminal disease. I knew that Lynette could handle anything else, but not that. “Is everyone okay? Is someone sick?”
“No, no, it’s not that.” She laughed bitterly.
“So what is it?”
“This is very embarrassing.” Lynette was staring at my coffee table. I thought she was looking at the dried mustard stain, then realized she probably didn’t even see the table. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Anywhere.” I patted her knee. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve heard everything, believe me. I’m your friend.”
She blew her nose. “Okay.” She took a deep breath.
“It’s Curtis. He’s got this idea in his head.”
“What kind of idea?” I asked, figuring midlife crisis. Wants to quit his job. Wants to buy a motorcycle and bike across America.
“Well …” Lynette’s voice was choked, strained. “He wants to involve someone. You know. In our … relationship.”