by Debra Kent
“And I’m sure I’ll get it,” I said, pulling my arm away. “But that’s something for me and my lawyer to deal with, okay?”
Diana wouldn’t give up. “No, not okay. You have to hear me out. Please.”
I just wanted to get the hell out of there.
“I know this is the last thing you want to deal with now,” Eddie told me, “but if you don’t shake yourself out of this stupor, honest to God, kiddo, you’re going to wind up flat broke.”
Diana stepped in. “Before I worked at the Center I was at Epstein Browne. Family law. You can’t imagine the stories I heard around that office. It made me happy to be a bean counter, I’ll tell you. Disgruntled wives going around the house with chain saws, cutting everything in half, the dining room table, the mattress. Husbands who poisoned the family dogs to get back at cheating wives. People who’d sooner kill their own kids than go through a custody battle. It’s sick. I’m not saying Roger’s about to hurt Petey, but I wouldn’t put it past him to do something really big, really bad. Especially when it comes to money. Whatever he does, he’s set for life.”
“What do you mean ‘set’?”
“I mean, he never has to work a day in his life. He’s got assets, baby. Everywhere. Stocks. Bonds. Mutual funds. He’s got money in the Cayman Islands. He’s even got gold bullion.”
I laughed out loud. It all sounded so ridiculous, almost surreal. “You’re kidding, right?”
Diana just stared at me, sober as a gravestone. “They’re hidden somewhere in your humble abode.”
I reeled back in my seat. Gold? Hidden somewhere in my house? I mentally diagrammed every room, every nook. I thought I knew every square inch of that place, especially since I started cleaning it like a woman possessed, from baseboard to ceiling. I didn’t even know what gold bullion look like. Bricks? Sticks of margarine? I had no idea. But I planned to find out, even if I had to rip every floorboard and ceiling tile out with my bare hands. That bastard.
“There are other things you can do now, you know,” Diana continued. “I mean, I’m sure your lawyer will tell you all this, but you might as well start now, before Roger gets the chance to destroy any evidence.”
I watched Diana and was suddenly filled with a surprising affection for her. She really knew her stuff. I was impressed.
“Your lawyer can help you dig up the hidden assets. And you need to figure out what kind of income Roger pulls in. Trust fund, income from teaching, royalties, whatever. But while you’re rooting around in his files—and this is critical, baby—you’ve got to find anything that suggests he spent money on his lovers. Jewelry, clothes, gifts … all that gets deducted from his portion of the settlement, you understand? You’ve got to really look, okay?”
“Yes, yes, okay already.” I was experiencing information overload. It was all too much. I looked at the clock. 5:30. I’d arranged to pick up Pete at my in-laws at 7:00 P.M. Roger supposedly had a meeting with his director. He said he wouldn’t be home until 10:00 at the earliest. Perfect.
I grabbed the yellow pages and found a locksmith with emergency hours. I punched in the number. Asked the guy to meet me back at my house at 7:30 P.M. He asked if I’d locked myself out of my car. “No, I want you to change my locks. All of them.” There were five altogether. Front, deck, basement, the door leading into the garage, and the one leading from the garage into the family room. This would cost me a thousand bucks at least. But hey, I have gold in my house.
“I’m not so sure that was a good idea,” Diana said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because you don’t want Roger to know you’re cutting him loose. You need to buy yourself some time now. So you can dig up information, get to the records before he does.”
I felt queasy. I didn’t want Roger back in the house. “Look,” Diana suggested, “if you’re hell-bent on changing the locks, go ahead. I don’t blame you. Just tell him you caught him in a lie.”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “Just the other day, in fact. He said he was late because of some accident on the road. I called the sheriff’s office. There was no accident.”
“That’s it,” said Diana, clapping her hands together. “When he starts pounding on the door, you tell him that. And say you’re really mad and you don’t want to talk about it. Don’t even mention divorce. Let him think he has a chance with you. Let him try to weasel his way back into your life. In the meantime, you’ve got to plot your strategy. Nail him to the wall.” Diana’s eyes flashed. She was really getting into this. She asked me, “Do you have a good lawyer?”
“I’ve got a few in mind. Why? Do you know anyone?”
“Yes. The best.” Diana grabbed the pen and scribbled on my paper. Omar Sweet. “He’s a partner at Epstein Browne. A killer shark. Exactly the kind of guy you want on your side of the table.” Diana’s fighting spirit was contagious. I was actually excited about calling Omar Sweet. I felt hopeful, even powerful. Diana turned toward the mirror and fixed her beret at a jaunty angle.
Then she pulled me into a suffocating embrace. “Now I’ve made my amends. And if there’s anything else I can do, you know where to call. I’ve got a chain saw. And the Kama Sutra powder.”
I groaned and she giggled. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” She gestured toward Eddie. “Hey. The room’s on my dime. You kids have some fun, okay?” And with that, Diana was gone.
I had to meet the locksmith in an hour and a half. I still had to pick up Petey. And I had to ransack my house! Sex was the last thing on my mind. But Eddie apparently had other plans. He looked at me with beseeching eyes.
“Come on, love.” He ran a finger slowly up my face, across my lips, and let it linger there. “Let’s not waste this bed. You have absolutely nothing to lose now.” I felt myself soften under his touch. He was right. I had nothing to lose.
I protested (halfheartedly) while Eddie kissed my neck. “Mmmm. I missed your smell,” he whispered into my hair. “Estée Lauder Pleasures, right?”
“Eddie, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
“It’s not a good idea,” he said, now slipping my jacket off my shoulders. “It’s a great idea.”
He pulled something from his back pocket. It was that little book of sex positions Diana had sent us both. I had to laugh when I saw that Eddie had bookmarked several pages with Post-it notes.
“You can’t imagine how it turned me on to picture you buying this for me. Just picturing you flipping through the pages, holding it in your hands.” He shook his head like a frisky pony.
I reminded him that Diana bought that book, not me. “True enough,” he said, now working on my blouse, “but I’d rather think it came from you.” He slipped off the rest of my clothes (with a little help from me, I must admit), then ordered me to sit on the bed and slipped off my tights. “You’ve been through hell today, honey. Why don’t you just relax and let me take care of you, okay?”
I watched that sweet face staring up at me and thought, in another life, this man might have been my husband. We were two damaged souls. We needed each other, in all the healthy and unhealthy ways. I lay back on the bed and let him take care of me.
Over the next forty minutes or so, he managed to get us into four or five of the positions from that little book. He was tender, playful, and extravagant in his attentions. Through it all, he declared his love for me.
But I was distracted and, ultimately, never came. Lola Jacobson. Jackie Leland. Dara Rosario. My skull throbbed with images of every woman my husband screwed, fondled, or kissed. I pictured the computer repairwoman’s head bobbing between his legs. Knowing Roger, he was probably typing while she serviced him. I thought of the actresses, the counselors. I thought of Alyssa, and felt the blood drain through me. I suddenly felt cold and achy. I wanted to go home and begin the business of dissolving my marriage.
Eddie came and eased out of me. He knew I hadn’t climaxed and seemed disappointed. “I just want to make you happy, sweetheart,” he said, brushing a hair from the corne
r of my mouth. I loved how he said that word, sweetheart. It’s not a word I particularly like. Just looking at it on the page now, it looks so corny, so dated. But coming from his lips, there was always something sexy and loaded about the word. I could feel his longing in that word.
It was time to go. I dressed quickly while Eddie suggested he help me ransack my house. I was tempted. I wanted him to swoop down and take care of everything. But I knew this was something I had to do myself. I needed to purge and purify on my own. And I didn’t want Eddie in the house when Roger started throwing himself against the door, as I knew he would when he discovered the key didn’t fit. Eddie would undoubtedly beat the crap out of my husband. Frankly, I’d love to see that happen, but I know it would only hurt me later, when our lawyers start haggling.
I grabbed Eddie for one last, long kiss and ran to the Jeep. On the way home, I punched in Omar Sweet’s number and left a message on his voice mail. I could tell from his voice he was a hell of a lawyer. He sounded smart and tough—and expensive.
I cringed when I thought of the legal expenses, but if this guy does his job right, money shouldn’t be an issue. I fleetingly entertained the idea that I might actually wind up a rich woman—not merely comfortable, but actually loaded. I had no idea what Roger was worth, but I do remember his sister confiding (after a few too many gin and tonics) that the siblings once considered buying an island off the coast of Spain. My father once estimated that my in-laws probably had close to a hundred million in assets, maybe more. It seemed impossible. His parents lived so humbly. They wore old clothes, drove an old car, and never hired anyone to do anything they could do themselves, even if they didn’t do it particularly well (which explains the windows patched with cardboard).
I picked up Pete from my in-laws, swung by the Burger King drive-through for dinner, and sped home. My heart thrummed as I prayed that I’d arrive before Roger did. I needed time alone in the house to search, not just for the gold, but for papers that could help me calculate my husband’s worth. And I’d be on the lookout for anything to suggest Roger had spent money on any of his lovers.
As I approached the house, I saw that Roger wasn’t there, and I blurted out, “Thank you, God.” Petey asked me, “What are you thanking God for, Mommy?” and I almost started to cry. Is this what it’s come to? That I thank God for my husband’s absence so I can tear apart my house? I glanced at Pete in the rearview mirror. His world was about to explode. Only he didn’t know it yet. Happy New Year, Petey.
The locksmith was a surprisingly bookish young man in an Old Navy sweatshirt. While he worked on the locks, I fed Pete, got him down for the night, and crept into Roger’s study. The room, which I’d always felt comfortable entering, seemed alien now, almost dangerous. Twenty-four hours ago, the prospect of opening one of Roger’s drawers wouldn’t have caused heart palpitations, but now I felt faint as I tugged them open. I was terrified he’d walk in, then reminded myself that he was locked out. I was still nervous.
I pulled open a drawer of files and rifled through the folders. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I yanked on another drawer.
Locked. Damn. Futilely, I pulled at the drawer, then kicked it. I knew that it—whatever the hell “it” was—resided somewhere in that drawer. Rather than waste any more effort on the locked drawer, I grabbed a box of Hefty bags and headed for Roger’s closet. I flicked on the light and sighed. Here, Roger’s obsessive-compulsive inclinations came to life. Cedar hangers were arranged in neat rows, with hooks all facing toward the wall. Clothes, color-coordinated, ranging from neutrals to black. He’d designated a separate section for his racquetball clothes: there were soft white cotton polo shirts and gym shorts hung together in sets and a big mesh bag filled with balled-up white crew socks. Spring and summer garments were stowed away in cedar boxes on the highest shelves.
Oh, how Roger loved his closet! His was twice the size of mine, a walk-in with a vaulted ceiling and window overlooking the hemlock trees on the side of the house. Mine was tiny by comparison, with no lighting. It barely held more than a season’s worth of clothes; I had to put some of my stuff in Pete’s closet, and the rest in the basement. The first time we saw the house, Roger jumped into the bigger closet and said, “I’ve got dibs on this one.” When I made a face, he held up a hand to silence whatever objections I might have considered expressing. “Don’t even think of trying to talk me out of this.” Truth was, I didn’t have much of a case. What did I own, after all? Three pairs of black pants, six black skirts, a few tops, and a horrible blue plaid dress I bought at Talbot’s that made me look like a rectangle with legs. And everything I owned wound up in a crumpled ball at the bottom of the closet anyway.
The real estate agent who showed us the house flashed me a confused look. She was a brave old gal: she risked losing the sale by reminding Roger that “usually the ladies of the house get the bigger closet.” Roger just chuckled and shook his head.
My throat tightened when I saw the violet Jhane Barnes jacket Roger wore during his Alyssa period. I’d never thought to ask why he felt compelled to dress up for a bunch of loser students at the Learning Attic. Now I knew. He wasn’t dressing up for a bunch of loser students, just for one whore.
The memory filled me with a manic rage. I pawed wildly at my prissy husband’s clothes, yanking them off hangers, stuffing them into the trash bags. I heaved the bags down the steps and dragged them into the kitchen, then dumped everything I could find onto those beautiful garments. First the coffee grinds, then the tuna. I found moldy ricotta cheese, expired yogurt, and a full bottle of ketchup, and splattered everything over his clothes. I broke eggs onto the Jhane Barnes jacket and marveled at how lovely the bright yellow yolks looked against the violet knit fabric. I remembered Petey’s paints in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, and gleefully dumped those in, too. Then came the bleach.
Never in my life had I experienced such gleeful nihilism. I felt no shame, no guilt, no reservations, and no recriminations. Something shifted inside me. I had my first taste of blood. I wanted more. I opened the door cautiously and checked for Roger’s van. Except for the howling of the Saint Bernard on the corner, the street was completely still. I scurried out, threw the bags on the curb, and rushed back in.
Then the phone rang. It was the lawyer, Omar Sweet, returning my call.
As I gave him a frantic synopsis—Roger’s pathological philandering, the money he’s rumored to have amassed and stashed away, my decision to file for divorce—I listened for Roger downstairs. When he realized his key wouldn’t open the door leading from the garage to the family room, he’d undoubtedly ring the bell. And when I didn’t answer the door, he would pound and yell. I prayed he wouldn’t smash the windows or wake up Petey.
I told Omar that I’d changed the locks.
“Big mistake,” he said, and I felt like crying. “You’ve got to play it cool now. Can’t let this bastard know you’re onto him.” Bastard. I was thrilled to hear the word. Already, Omar was my advocate. But then I panicked. I’d just destroyed most of my husband’s wardrobe and changed all the locks. How could he possibly assume I planned to stay married to him?
“As your lawyer, it wouldn’t be ethical for me to urge you to lie,” he started, and my heart sank. “I mean, I wouldn’t tell you, for instance, to say you came home and found the bags on the curb and figured someone was out to get him. And you got scared because there was a stranger in the house, which is why you changed the locks.” He paused to let me absorb his meaning. “I’d never tell you to do that.” My mind raced. What about fingerprints? What if he calls the cops and they find my prints all over the bag?
“My guess is, your soon-to-be ex will be scared shitless. He’ll be wracking his brains trying to figure out which of his paramours went ballistic on him. He’ll be so worried about you busting him, the last thing he’ll want to do is pursue it with the cops. Take it easy.”
I felt better already. I arranged to meet Omar at his office the following morning to p
lot our strategy. “It’ll be like Normandy. We don’t make a move until every last detail is down. Then BOOM!”
The phone clicked. Call waiting. It was Eddie. “Is the jackass home yet?”
“No,” I told him. “Not yet. But any minute.”
“So? How’s the prospecting going?” he asked. I tried not to wonder whether Eddie seemed a little too interested. I told him I hadn’t started looking for the gold.
“Hey. You know what?” he asked in a low voice.
“What?” Where the hell was his wife right now?
“I haven’t showered yet. I can smell you on me. I don’t want to lose it.”
I felt a full-body flush. “Please,” I whispered. “Eddie. Don’t start.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be good. For now.”
Then I heard the familiar hiss of the van’s cranky engine. If this ruse was going to work, I couldn’t wait for Roger to start fiddling with his key. I met him on the driveway and tried to look stricken. “Oh, thank God you’re home!”
Roger looked at me warily. “Why?”
I pointed toward the Hefty bags. “Just look. It’s awful.” I watched Roger slowly walk toward the bags. I mentally reviewed my script. I’ve always been terrible liar; Roger says he can tell I’m fibbing by the way my lower lip twitches. Roger may be the playwright in the family, but tonight I had to be the actress. I couldn’t let him know the truth. Not yet.
’Til next time,
December 12
Roger pulled himself out of the van and the liquor on his breath wafted upwards like a hot air balloon. This feckless bastard wasn’t merely a cheater, he was a drunk driver, too. I quickly eyed the inside of the van, expecting to find a pair of panties or a stray earring. I felt the disgust rise inside me. How I loathed him! But for now I had to play my part. If Roger suspected I was anything other than caring and kind, my plan was doomed.