All We Ever Wanted Was Everything

by Janelle Brown

  When she arrived, Paul shoved a three-inch stack of paper toward her and flipped to the pages she needed to sign, one after another, at least three dozen in all. “Just legal arcana,” he said. “Limits our personal liability should Applied Pharmaceuticals ever be sued, stuff about stock options and executive compensation. Just sign here…and here.” She remembers that Paul’s lawyer, Milt, sat in the corner of the office that afternoon, flipping through a magazine, nattering on about his recent golf trip—to Palm Springs? Or Taos? And that was it. Over in two minutes. Just like that.

  Now, in hindsight, she can see the deliberate deception in Paul’s actions that day. The liar! It strikes her, suddenly, that he must have been planning that moment in his office for months—perhaps even for years. Was he already sleeping with Beverly at that point? Was Milt in on it too? Did everyone but her know that Paul was betraying his wife so completely? The implications of this are dizzying. She gazes down at the document, at her signature in that goddamn green ink, and feels sick to her stomach. How long had their marriage been over, in Paul’s mind, before he had come up with his ruse for cutting her out of his fortune? He had taken her to a weekend spa in Colorado not long before she signed the papers. They had even (she feels faint) had sex in their room’s vast Jacuzzi overlooking the Rocky Mountains, complete with candles and jazz music. Was that supposed to be his last hurrah? Some kind of consolation prize for her? She glimpses herself as he must have seen her: a pathetic chump.

  She can’t remember the expression on Paul’s face as she signed the papers. If she had looked at him, really taken a moment to pay attention, would she have noticed any guilt flickering across his face? Would she have suspected that Milt’s babbling was intended to distract her from the content of the document? If she had known she was signing away her future, would she have noticed the little details that revealed that, in Paul’s mind, their marriage was already over?

  Her leg bounces faster, venting her anger. “I had to sit in traffic,” says Janice. “There was an accident on the 101—I was late. I was agitated. I didn’t know it was anything important.”

  “I take it you didn’t hire your own counsel to review it?”

  “Why would I have hired my own lawyer? He was my husband. Marriage is a partnership built on trust.” Janice hears herself protesting and realizes how shallow this must sound to Grosser. It sounds shallow even to her, considering the position she is now in. Trust—apparently that had gone out the window years ago. Too bad she hadn’t noticed its departure. She adds, as explanation: “He’d just taken me on a romantic vacation.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Grosser leans back. “I am continually amazed how many marriages end with one party devastated because their spouse looked out for themselves first while they didn’t. It’s human nature, Mrs. Miller. Everyone’s watching out for number one. Then they let the lawyers sort out the rest.”

  “Well, I don’t like to subscribe to such a pessimistic worldview,” she says. “Look—I’m not an idiot. He said it was an asset protection plan. My God, he even put that on the cover of the document. I had no reason not to believe him.”

  “I know, I know. Well, unfortunately for us, it’s not the cover of the book but the contents that count,” says Grosser. He shakes his head again. He picks up the document and flips through it.

  Janice feels something on her leg and looks down to see that Margaret has put her hand on Janice’s knee. Margaret leans in and whispers in Janice’s ear: “Your leg’s shaking, Mom. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just take a deep breath and relax.” Margaret leans forward, clears her throat. “Mr. Grosser, are you planning on referring to Havell?” she asks.

  “Havell?”

  “Havell v. Islam. You know—if someone’s behavior ‘shocks the conscience’ then they shouldn’t have a right to any property in a divorce? In my opinion, it’s fairly shocking to the conscience to coerce your wife into signing all her assets away.” Margaret smiles triumphantly, and Janice is taken aback. When did Margaret learn so much about the law? Could her daughter have a secret propensity for a legal career? She sees, suddenly, an alternate life for Margaret. Stanford Law School, a legal practice in something Margaret-like and liberal, like environmental law. It’s not too late. Janice nods in encouraging agreement, despite having no idea what her daughter is talking about.

  Grosser regards Margaret with bleary eyes and sighs. “Right. You’ve done your homework. But it’s not at all relevant in this case: ‘Shocking’ behavior means beating your wife with a barbell, not coaxing her to sign documents. Look, young lady, why don’t you let me do my job. I’ve got quite a bit of experience in this matter—more than you’re going to get from reading a few back issues of Legal Affairs.” Janice can feel Margaret stiffening beside her.

  Grosser begins stuffing papers back in his briefcase and closes the clasp with a decisive snap. “Well. We’re going to have to get creative here, Mrs. Miller, but we have options. I can argue undue influence. Or go with forensic evidence, proving you were incapable of sound decision. Maybe a handwriting expert who can show that this document was signed under duress.”

  “Really? Handwriting will show that?” asks Janice.

  “The wonder of our legal system is that you can prove almost anything, no matter how insane it seems. Pay an expert enough, he’ll say anything you want him to.” He pauses. “There’s one more matter I need to discuss with you, Mrs. Miller.” He looks at Margaret and raises his eyebrows. “In private.”

  Margaret remains seated, clutching her notebook, until Janice turns and gestures for her to leave. Janice is disappointed to see her go. Grosser waits until the sound of Margaret’s footsteps fades before continuing in a low voice.

  “This is a sensitive subject, Janice. I received a call from your husband’s counsel at SAB&R this morning. They told me that they have testimony from a reliable source that you have been having…relations…with one James Court. A pool cleaner.”

  Janice freezes, her toe halting mid-tap. “Relations?”

  Grosser pinches his lips together. “Of the sexual variety, Janice. Now, I’m not passing judgment. But are you aware that this young man is a known felon? Because SAB&R’s lawyers have apparently done their homework and they let me know that Mr. Court was arrested last year for possession of drugs with intent to sell. He had two ounces of marijuana and twenty pills of MDMA, better known as Ecstasy.”

  “I was not aware,” says Janice, struggling to keep her voice calm, moderated, professional, rather than guilt-ridden or hysterical. This is not easy.

  “Far be it from me to get involved in my clients’ love lives—”

  “I’m not having an affair with him,” Janice insists. “He’s just my employee. He’s the pool boy.”

  “As you say. But your husband’s lawyers say they have testimony that you have been associating with this young man. And they plan to use it as leverage to get you to drop your lawsuit.”

  “How do they plan to do that?”

  “Well, for one, they could argue that fraternizing with a known drug dealer invalidates your claim for child custody.”

  The knee has now taken up a high-speed jig. “Lizzie?!” Janice blurts, horrified. “But he can’t do that, can he? Paul’s having an affair, too. I mean, no. Let me rephrase that: I’m not having an affair. And he is. Definitively. He doesn’t even want custody. It doesn’t make sense!”

  Grosser shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s fair. They may not even have real evidence. Keep in mind that custody of your daughter is most likely not their goal. All they are trying to do is intimidate you into dropping your demands for your husband’s IPO money. It’s a scare tactic. But it could get dragged into court. I would suggest that you cut off all contact with this young man, immediately.”

  Janice’s jaw tightens. Cut off her supply of It? Now? When she needs it most? She couldn’t possibly. How much does she have? Four days’ supply? A week’s? The sparkling enriched blood courses through her ve
ins, and in the rapid beat of her heart she hears Its seductive coo: Yes. Yes. Yes. YES YES YES YES. The jig picks up its pace until she thinks her leg might just detach itself from her body and dance right on out the door.

  “I will not let my husband dictate whom I see or don’t see,” she tells her lawyer through gritted teeth. “He has no right. No right at all.”

  “As you say,” Grosser says. “I’m just offering my counsel on this matter.” He pushes himself up from the couch, tottering slightly to regain his balance. The cushions exhale a relieved sigh.

  Janice rises with him, pausing to whack the pillows back into shape before escorting Grosser to the door. “Thank you for coming,” she says. “I’ll be in touch.”

  janice seethes, the subcutaneous fury and humiliation bubbling up to a dangerously high boil. She seethes as she strips all the beds in the house and hauls the sweat-fragrant sheets downstairs to the laundry room. She seethes as she opens the windows and lets the summer air freshen up the living room. She seethes as she prepares a lemon-rosemary roast chicken and toasts pine nuts for a salad. And she seethes as she taps out two more lines, just before dinner, and sniffs them back with a sharp inhalation: The baggie is already upsettingly light.

  The family—sans paterfamilias—sits down for dinner at six.

  “Oooh, chicken,” says Lizzie. She sits down at the table and flaps open her napkin with a flourish. “Looks really good, Mom.” Janice smiles faintly, finding herself irked by the false brightness in her daughter’s voice. It reminds her of the way kindergarten teachers encouragingly address the shy and stupid children in the back of the classroom.

  Margaret works her away around her plate methodically. A bite of chicken, a bite of basmati rice, a bite of spinach salad. She has always eaten as if it is a task to be completed, with none of her sister’s gorge-as-if-there’s-no-tomorrow enthusiasm. She might as well be consuming cardboard with glue sauce.

  Janice looks at her own plate, at the withered lemon slices plastered to the china and the shreds of white meat she has pushed around with her fork. She has had no appetite for weeks. It satisfies her to drain herself, as if by siphoning away her hunger, her flesh, she might also cast off all earthly needs. Famished, she feels as light and heavenly as a saint, just a pound or two away from floating off to somewhere far more interesting than where she is right now.

  While Margaret and Lizzie eat their chicken, Janice sits at the head of the table and lets her speeding mind tussle with the question that has bothered her since Grosser’s visit. Who could have told Paul that she was having an affair with James, and what on earth did she do to give them that impression? Is someone intentionally lying? And even though they clearly can’t prove that she is having an affair with him, could they find out about It? And would that be enough to take Lizzie away?

  It is Margaret who breaks the silence. “So, Lewis Grosser wasn’t so bad, was he?” She smiles at her mother, confident in their newly minted camaraderie. “I mean, considering he’s a divorce lawyer. I can’t imagine why anyone would choose to do that for a living.”

  Janice smiles thinly, only half conscious of what her daughter is saying. It’s almost unbearable to keep sitting motionless at the table. For just a moment, she almost hates her daughters, as if they’ve pinned her to this chair like a butterfly in a specimen cage. “Yes, yes, I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she says, peeling the skin from the flesh of a chicken thigh and carefully shredding it into strips. “He better be, for what he charges.”

  “You’ve just got to stay optimistic, Mom. We’ll win.”

  Janice, with a knot in her stomach, takes a small bite of her chicken and quells the impulse to spit the greasy meat right back out onto the plate. Margaret’s use of the word “we” should be comforting, but it is not. She thinks of the horrifying information that Grosser conveyed, and feels terribly terribly alone. She looks up to see Lizzie staring at her with her Bambi eyes and forces a reassuring smile. “I am optimistic,” she says, already feeling guilty about her thoughts of just a moment before. Remember, she thinks, your daughters are all you have. You love them. It disturbs her that she even has to remind herself of this. What is wrong with her?

  Mercifully, a car honks from the driveway, releasing her from the strain of conversation. Lizzie jumps up from her chair. “I gotta go,” she mumbles. Only now does Janice notice that Lizzie is wearing a skirt, one that actually reaches as far south as her knees, and shoes that don’t involve platforms, glitter, or cork.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Um,” Lizzie says, “church?”

  “Church?” Janice is not quite sure she’s heard this correctly.

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of church?”

  “I dunno,” says Lizzie. “River of Life Church. Evangelical, I think?”

  “Evangelical?” Margaret says. “You know, Lizzie, you might want to keep in mind that there’s some pretty backward thinking in that movement, especially when it comes to women’s roles in the family. Woman as subordinate to man and all that. We did a story about it in ‘The God Issue.’ Didn’t you read it?”

  “Oh,” says Lizzie, pausing to consider this information. “I’m not sure?”

  “Lizzie, don’t listen to your sister,” says Janice. “You can explore any religion you want. Within reason. Who are you going to church with?”

  Lizzie edges toward the door. “Zeke Bint,” she says. “His mom is driving.”

  “Barbara?” says Janice, spitting the name off her tongue as she abruptly recalls the tableau of the cocktail party and Barbara Bint at the bottom of the stairs; she would have had a direct view of James leaving Janice’s bedroom. She remembers Barbara’s curious eyes, scrutinizing Janice after James’s departure. Of course Barbara would have interpreted it in the ugliest way possible. And of course she would have talked.

  “Stop!” she tells Lizzie. She pushes herself back from the table, folding her napkin over the congealed chicken. “I need to discuss something with Barbara first. You wait here.”

  Janice marches past Lizzie and out to the Mercedes station wagon that idles in the driveway. She knocks on the driver’s window. Barbara rolls it down and smiles the priggish smile of the saved. Her skin, Janice notes, is sunburned and dry, the tiny veins in her cheeks bursting from heat. “Hello, Janice!” Barbara chirps. “I assume you don’t mind that we’re taking your daughter to church? Would you like to join us?”

  “We need to talk,” says Janice.

  “What about?”

  Janice eyes Zeke, who sits in the back seat of the car. White headphone cords snake from his ears down to the iPod in his lap; even outside the car Janice can hear the thump of rock music that is blasting holes in the boy’s eardrums. Zeke gazes at Janice with as much interest as he would regard a lump of boiled liver, then looks away, out the window.

  “I think,” whispers Janice, “that you may have gotten the wrong impression. About a young man in my employ. I think you know who I mean. And I have to tell you that I deeply, deeply resent you calling my husband, of all people, and filling his head with this…this nonsense. I’m shocked that someone who describes herself as a Christian would do such a deeply uncharitable thing.”

  Barbara bites one lobstered cheek. “I’m sorry, Janice,” she says, looking confused. “But I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Janice again glances at Zeke, who has completely tuned out their presence, and drops her voice to a whisper. “You told Paul that I was having an affair! An affair with the pool boy!”

  Barbara’s face contorts itself into obtuse angles, struggling to conjure up a memory. “An affair?!” she says. “No. That wasn’t me. I’ve never spoken to Paul. I wasn’t aware you were having an affair. I’m not sure how…. But wait, I did mention to Noreen Gossett that I saw James coming out of your bedroom at the cocktail party last week. Maybe she jumped to conclusions?” Janice, watching Barbara, can see the disingenuousness in her neighbor’s eyes—that sanctimon
ious hypocrite may pretend to be a Christian, but at heart she’s a lying gossip!—and Barbara clearly reads Janice’s suspicions in return because she stammers as she flounders on. “I just mentioned it to Noreen because she was wondering why you were so late coming down. Noreen wasn’t being very nice about it, so I thought, just to explain…” She wrinkles her nose with concern. “Why? Janice, are you really involved with your pool boy? I would never have said anything…. I’m sorry!”

  “No!” Janice barks, but she backs off and straightens up as she does it, recognizing that Barbara may be a gossip but she’s not overtly cruel enough to go to Paul with her suspicions. Noreen Gossett. It must have been her. But why? What on earth could Noreen have against her? Janice has always been nothing but nice to her, even after Noreen’s daughter, Susan, invited everyone in her class except Lizzie to her ninth birthday party. And yet—Janice suddenly remembers Noreen’s snub in the parking lot the day of the IPO, and the pieces begin to fall into place. She sees Lizzie peering at them from the front door and waves her daughter out to the car, ready to escape this conversation.

  “What’s going on?” Barbara repeats.

  Janice moves back toward the house as Lizzie approaches. “Nothing,” she mutters. “Nothing at all. Forget I said anything. My mistake.”

  Barbara fixes a smile back on her face as Lizzie climbs into the back seat of the Mercedes. “I’m sorry to hear that you’re having a hard time, Janice. I’m here for you if you need moral support. You know that, of course. Just a reminder!”

  Next to Lizzie, Zeke turns up the volume on his iPod and hurls himself tightly against the car door, as if proximity to Lizzie might afflict him with a contagious disease. Janice feels a stab of remorse for her daughter, wondering what on earth could have driven her to go sit in church with these people. Janice can’t back away fast enough as the station wagon pulls slowly, maddeningly slowly, into the street and toward the arms of a pitiless God.