The Case of the Killer Divorce

by Barbara Venkataraman

  "Aren't you going to say something?" Duke asked. "I can't believe what I'm seeing--Jamie the lawyer's at a loss for words!"

  I couldn't help it; I burst into tears and escaped to the bathroom, leaving Duke at the table with his mouth hanging open. As I stood over the sink crying my eyes out, part of me was still rational enough to wonder what I'd hoped to accomplish by looking for my dad. I'd pretended it was simply a mystery to solve, a way to satisfy my lifelong curiosity, but that wasn't true. I'd been searching because I needed to know who I was and where I came from. The problem was with that little girl. She was still playing the game, still trying to find her dad, even if he broke her heart in the end.

  "You okay in there?" Duke was standing outside the bathroom door. Poor guy, he'd done so much for me and I'd totally freaked out on him.

  "Sorry if I upset you," he went on. "You know, being half-Cuban's not so bad--I think Cuban girls are hot!"

  That made me laugh. Leave it to Duke to get it all wrong. He only knew one way of looking at things, that was for sure. I washed my face and blew my nose before opening the door.

  "I forgot to tell you that spicy food makes me cry," I said, trying to keep a straight face.

  "Well, that seems like a pretty important piece of information, Jamie. If that's how it's going to be, then, damn it, I'm picking the restaurant next time." Duke gave me a wink. Maybe he didn't have it wrong after all.

  It had been a very eventful day--and it was only half over. I paid the bill and we headed back to my office.

  Chapter 6

  I spent the afternoon at my desk returning calls and drafting pleadings, but my mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the riddle of my father. Duke offered to keep digging around, but I asked him to hold off for a while. After my embarrassing meltdown at lunch, maybe I wasn't ready to hear it. Or maybe the best thing to do was to plow through and resolve this nagging problem for good. I couldn't think straight anymore. I spent so much time giving advice to my clients and helping them make decisions that I was too burnt out to deal with my own stuff. What I needed was some perspective, some distance, and possibly some psychoanalysis, but, most of all, I needed a good laugh. What I needed was my friend, Grace. The best way to chat with Grace during the day was by text. She worked in Fort Lauderdale for a big securities firm that kept her busy, but she could usually answer a text.

  Hola Amiga! Guess what I found out today? BTW, I just gave you a clue…

  Hmmm…you like to eat at Chipotle? You're dying for a Frozen Margarita?

  Not even close, Grace…

  Give me another clue.

  I'm thinking of taking salsa & merengue lessons because it's in my "blood."

  You're auditioning for "Dancing with the Stars?" I got it--you're a Cuban vampire!

  You're half-right…

  You're a vampire?? Wow, Jamie!!

  This isn't 'Twilight', Grace. No, I found out my dad is Cuban.

  You're kidding! A Cuban named Bill Frank?

  A/K/A Guillermo Franco

  Awesome! What else did you find out?

  Nada. Not sure if I want to know more.

  Don't be a chicken! Of course you do! Isn't there someone your mom was close to back then?

  How do I know? I wasn't born yet. Lol

  Think, James! Even I can think of someone...

  I'm totally clueless.

  What about her sister?? You know, your Aunt Peg?

  Peg's never mentioned my father.

  I bet you never asked.

  Nope, never have.

  Do it! Then we can go out for Cuban food and celebrate your heritage.

  Alright, I guess…

  Hasta la vista baby

  Yeah yeah

  It couldn't hurt to talk to Peg; I owed her a phone call anyway. After my mom died a year ago, we didn't see much of each other because we were both grieving in our own way. But when her son, Adam, was accused of murder, that brought us back together pretty quick. Now, I tried to have dinner with them at least once a month so we could catch up.

  I decided to pack it up early and go home. It had been a tough day and I could feel a headache blooming behind my eyes. I popped two aspirin and speed-dialed my aunt on my cell. I could walk and talk without tripping most of the time. After we chatted about how Adam was doing at Broward College and how much Aunt Peg loved her new class of second-graders, she asked what was new with me. It made me catch my breath, how much she sounded like my mom. I was afraid I might start crying again, but I choked it down.

  "Is everything okay?" she asked, concerned.

  "I'm fine, no worries. Can I ask you something, Aunt Peg?"

  "Of course, Jamie."

  "Well, um, I was wondering…do you know anything about my father?"

  There was a long moment of silence, so long that I thought we'd been disconnected.

  "Yes, she finally answered, "And I have something for you that I've been holding for quite a while."

  "Now I'm curious, what is it?"

  "If you come over, I'll show you."

  Chapter 7

  I don't remember driving to my aunt's house. For all I know, the car drove itself there. On the way, I kept wondering why I'd never asked Aunt Peg about my father considering that she and my mother had been so close. My mom had always been protective of her younger sister, especially later, when Peg's divorce left her completely devastated, and caring for an autistic son on her own. I'm sure Peg also helped my mom through some rough times, but I was too young to remember. I suppose when you know someone your whole life, it never occurs to you to ask them questions about their past. It would feel weird, like you were interviewing them for a magazine, or like you were just being nosy. Mostly, you assume you already know everything about them. But, as I'm learning, everyone has their secrets.

  Aunt Peg greeted me at the door with a hug and invited me into her cozy living room where we sat down together on the overstuffed sofa.

  "Jamie, I made a promise to your mom and I've kept it, although it was difficult. She wanted you to know who your father is, but not until you were ready."

  "That's ridiculous! So, you were never going to tell me anything unless I asked?"

  She looked down at her hands folded in her lap and didn't say anything.

  I jumped up and started pacing. "What am I, a child? I'm thirty-three years old, Aunt Peg! I think I can handle whatever it is. What's the story? Is he a drug dealer? A war criminal? I mean--what the hell?"

  I sat down again. "I'm sorry, it's not your fault and I shouldn't take it out on you."

  My aunt gave me a little smile. "It's alright, Jamie. I would've done the same--or worse. But I'm glad I can finally give you this. It's a letter from your mom."

  I was not expecting that. It had been hard enough to listen to my mom's voice on my answering machine after she died; how could I possibly read a letter from her? I carefully unfolded the letter and made myself read slowly, fighting the urge to race through it and devour every word. Seeing her beautiful handwriting tore me up almost as much as her words did.

  May 8, 2012

  My dearest Jamie,

  It feels so strange to be writing you a letter when you're right here, sleeping in the next room. I just realized that I've never written to you before and I'm sorry that this will be my first and last letter to you; it's like a sappy movie on the Lifetime channel.

  We've always been able to talk to each other about anything, with one exception, and that's my fault. Jamie, I can't tell you how sorry I am that I never told you about your father. I still can't bring myself to do it in person--even now that time is running out. It's selfish of me, I know, but I never wanted to hurt you, and I still don't.

  When you were little, you used to ask about your father constantly. It was painful for me, to have to lie to you. Eventually, you stopped asking, and that caused me pain, too, but for a different reason. I always planned to talk to you about him, but it never seemed like the right time. I'm sure your mind is racing now, imagining a
ll kinds of things, so let me put you at ease, your father is a good man and I regret every day that he can't be a part of your life.

  His name is Guillermo Franco, but he used to go by Bill Frank. We met in 1978 at a political rally in Miami that my friend Carmen convinced me to go to. Carmen is Cuban and still had family over there. She was very passionate about their cause. Things were bad for Cubans, both at home and in the U.S., where they had fled to take refuge from Castro's regime. That was the year Cuban exiles In New York bombed the Cuban Mission to the United Nations. It was a tense time.

  The minute I got to the rally, I wanted to leave. It was total chaos and it didn't help that I couldn't speak Spanish. When I lost Carmen in the crowd, I panicked. I was getting pushed and shoved from every direction until someone stepped in and started pushing people away from me. I turned around and found myself looking into the kindest eyes I'd ever seen. He was only twenty, like me, but he seemed so sure of himself. He told me to stay close, that he'd keep me safe, and I believed him. Bill was a stranger, but I trusted him immediately. Even when the police came and we were arrested, he was still looking out for me.

  After we were released the next day, Bill and I started spending a lot of time together. Our relationship was all the more intense because of the political upheaval and Bill's involvement in the Cuban cause. We were together for a year and we were incredibly happy. But then, on June 11, 1979, everything fell apart. Several Cubans tried to force their way into the Venezuelan Embassy and the police opened fire. One person was wounded and the others were arrested, including Bill. They deported him and I never saw him again. A month later, I found out I was pregnant with you.

  All these years, I kept hoping to hear from him, but I never did. I can only assume he's dead or in prison. So, you see, that's not a nice story to tell a little girl about her daddy. I couldn't even invent a happy ending, so I kept it to myself.

  Bill was (is?) a wonderful person and you would've loved him, as he would've loved you. I know that you always wished you had a dad and I'm sorry I couldn't give you yours. I see a lot of him in you: his kindness, his sense of humor and his ability to relate to all kinds of people. And he liked to read science fiction, just like you do.

  I hope you can forgive me, Jamie. I wish things could've been different, but that's how it goes. You are the most important person in my life and I'm so grateful to have you for a daughter. I think you already know that.

  All my love,

  Mom

  Chapter 8

  I read the letter twice, trying to make the words stick in my brain, but they kept breaking apart. I couldn't seem to wrap my head around the concepts. Things like prison, dead, no happy ending-- they couldn't be true, I didn't want them to be true. All my life, I'd been looking for a man who wasn't there, who didn't even know I existed.

  "You look so pale, Jamie. Are you alright?" my aunt asked. "I know it's a lot to--"

  "I'm sorry," I said, "I have to go."

  She took my hand and squeezed it. "Why don't you stay for dinner? Adam will be home soon with the dogs. I know he'd love to see you."

  I shook my head. "I can't, Aunt Peg. I need to be alone right now."

  On the short drive to my house on Polk Street, I tried to clear my head and think about nothing. When that didn't work, I did the only meditation exercise I knew, focusing on my breathing while repeating, "I am breathing in, I am breathing out." Before I knew it, I was home. Being home usually makes me feel better, but when I opened the door, there he was, Mr. Paws. Along with inheriting my mom's house, I'd also inherited her cat, a cat that went out of his way to make me feel unwelcome. When I used to visit my mom, he would hiss at me and I'd hiss right back. My mom would just laugh and say, "Can't you two get along?"

  Now that I was the person feeding him, he'd stopped hissing, but that didn't mean we liked each other. I'd changed his name to "Mr. Pain in the Ass," to match his personality. It didn't make him like me any less, but only because that wasn't possible.

  After I fed the ungrateful creature, I tried to watch TV, but I couldn't focus. I wasn't hungry, so I decided to take a shower and go to bed. Not that I expected to sleep much (sleeping is not my forte), but I was bone-tired and needed a break from the real world.

  If this were a movie of my life, the script would read 'cut to dream sequence' and then a bizarre scene would unfold…

  I'm in a crowd looking for my father. I know he's there, but I can't find him. Everyone is taller than me and some people have animal faces, which scares me. They push and shove past me like I'm invisible. Someone is yelling, but I can't understand anything. I am starting to panic and then I see a woman who looks familiar. I try to get her attention and, suddenly, she's standing next to me. It's Becca Solomon, but she looks different. Her eyes are black, like fish eyes, and there's blood on her clothes. She says "I warned him, but he wouldn't listen" and then she's gone. The crowd thins out; a man is walking towards me. He doesn't look like my father, but somehow I know it's him. I feel like I can breathe again. He smiles at me and the crowd disappears

  I wake up feeling rested and at peace. My left side feels warmer than my right, which seems odd until I realize that the cat has crawled into bed with me and is purring softly. I pet him and he nuzzles my hand. My life gets stranger every day…

  Chapter 9

  The beauty of working for yourself is that you can make your own hours and set your own schedule. The danger lies in turning into a total slacker. It's a slippery slope, I'll admit. One day, you decide to take it easy, go in late, blow off work, and next thing you know you're hooked on "Days of Our Lives" and eating ice cream out of the carton in your pajamas. Not that I've ever done that.

  If anyone deserved a mental health day that Friday, it was me. I think we can all agree on that. And I wasn't even taking the whole day; I planned to go in at noon. I checked my e-mail, too, so I was sort of working. Luckily, only one e-mail needed a response and it was from Becca. I shuddered, remembering my dream, but a quick gulp of hot coffee jolted me back to reality. Her question was--did she have to give Joe the kids if he showed up drunk? He always went out Thursday nights with his friends and got wasted (she said), and she was afraid he'd still be drunk at pick-up time in the morning.

  In retrospect, a degree in psychology or counseling would have come in handy because I've had to learn this stuff on the job.

  No, I wrote to Becca, you definitely should not give Joe the children if he's drunk, BUT, there needs to be corroboration of his condition. Perhaps you should have an objective third party there to make that determination. It should not be your boyfriend, Charlie. Keep a log of anything that happens, and remember--Joe is the father of your children. I know it's tough, but the two of you have to find a way to parent together for your daughters' sake. Hopefully, the tension will subside after the divorce is final.

  Then, with the satisfaction of having done a full five minutes of work, I took my coffee and a book out to the patio so I could soak up some vitamin D rays and chill out. I must have dozed off at some point because I missed several calls. One was from my office and two were from Becca. So much for taking a few hours for myself. It was hard to decide which was more unpleasant, talking to Lisa, who might be crying, or Becca. It was a toss-up. As a compromise, I listened to Becca's voice mail. In her first message, she sounded annoyed. Joe hadn't shown to pick up the kids and he was already an hour late. But her second message was alarming. She sounded hysterical and said the police were at her door, could I please call her immediately. My heart started racing like it always does in a crisis, be it mine or anyone else's, so I pushed the call back button and waited nervously for her to pick up.

  "Becca? It's Jamie. What's going on?"

  "Jamie--the police are here, I can't talk right now." She sounded like she was crying.

  "But, what's wrong? What happened?"

  She sobbed. "It's Joe--he's dead!"

  Chapter 10

  I was shocked. What could've happened? Maybe a car
accident or a violent crime, or a heart attack. Younger guys than Joe had dropped dead suddenly. That's why they call those early attacks 'widow makers'. Well, there wouldn't be any more bickering now, and there wouldn't be a divorce either. Those poor kids, Leah and Lainie, had been through so much already and now to lose their dad--it was tragic. There wasn't much I could do for that family, except leave them to their grief. Of course, if Becca needed anything, I'd try my best to help her.

  It occurred to me that I hadn't finished preparing the order from our last hearing. Now I didn't need to, I'd be filing a dismissal instead. While I thought I'd seen everything before, this was a first for me, and I needed to think it through. Because Becca and Joe were still married at the time of his death and there was no prenuptial agreement, she would inherit all of their joint assets. Also, Joe had a life insurance policy with his wife and daughters as beneficiaries, so that would kick in. Finally, the girls were entitled to receive Social Security death benefits through their dad until they turned eighteen. Becca would be all set financially but, emotionally, she and her children had a long road ahead of them

  Thinking about those young girls losing their dad was almost too much for me. Had my own dad been in a Cuban prison all these years? How could I not look for him now that I knew? And how terrible would it be to find him, yet be powerless to do anything? I wish my mother had told me about him sooner, but I understood her reasons. She knew I wouldn't let it go, that I wouldn't stop until I found him, and that it could only lead to heartache.

  Maybe I could find the answer quickly and be done with it. If I knew my father was dead, at least I'd have closure, and I wouldn't have to wonder for the rest of my life. Who was I kidding? Nothing was ever easy, but at least I had some resources I could use. There were immigration attorneys I could call, I had Duke and Grace and all their connections, and I had the internet. And I couldn't have lived in a better place. There were close to a million Cubans in South Florida, many of them with relatives in Cuba; surely, one of them could help me find my father.