Jack apologised for any misunderstanding he might have caused. Secretly, however, he couldn’t help thinking that Tina was a tad sensitive for a dyke.
Tina questioned Jack carefully about the personal and financial aspects of the marriage: Laura, Conrad, and Phil Wonnacott; the house, savings accounts and pension arrangements. She ordered more coffee from reception and a snack for Jack, whose stomach was now rumbling uncontrollably. While Jack ate his cheese sandwich, Tina took two encyclopaedic-looking books from a shelf, studied them and made notes.
‘Okay, Jack, these are your options,’ she finally said. ‘You can proceed with the divorce presuming Conrad is your child…’
‘But he’s not,’ Jack interrupted.
‘Hear me out,’ Tina said. ‘I’m just giving you your options. You can proceed with the divorce presuming Conrad is your child. This would be your quickest way of getting a divorce, and it would also allow you custodial and visitation rights if you so desired them. However, the downside of this is that once you legally acknowledge paternity of Conrad, you can never challenge paternity at a later date – even if you prove not to be the father – and you’ll also have to pay child support.
‘If, on the other hand, you decide to challenge your paternity of Conrad, then now’s the time to do it. It’s clear from the tests you’ve already had done that you’re not Conrad’s father, so we can confidently expect that any further tests will have the same outcome. And, if you’re proved not to be the father, then you’ll have no child support to pay, but in all likelihood you’ll also lose all visitation rights vis a vis Conrad.
‘I think I can guess your answer, Jack, but I need to hear it from you. What are you thinking?’
‘Option two,’ Jack said immediately. ‘I’m not Conrad’s father and I want this known. My obligation ends now. I’m not spending another cent on that ungrateful kid. Wonnacott will have to put his hand in his pocket for a change – and he’s welcome to my visitation rights, too!
‘I do have one question though, Tina. I’ve been shelling out for Conrad ever since he was born. I was tricked into doing this, essentially defrauded by Laura. Can I get my money back?’
‘For the money you’ve spent on Conrad to date, you mean?’
‘Exactly!’
‘Hmmm. That’s a difficult one. I can understand your point of view, Jack, but there’s no legal precedent for this. From a lawyer’s point of view it would be fun to try, but it could take years and cost you a fortune, and there’s no guarantee we’d be successful.
‘My best advice to you is that we stay with option two. You’ll be free of paying any more money on Conrad’s behalf, and the marital property as it stands now – home equity, retirement, bank accounts and stocks – will be divided fifty-fifty between you and Laura once the settlement’s been finalised.’
Jack thought for a few moments. ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he finally said. ‘I’m in town for the next week, but then I have to make a trip with my godfather and I don’t know how long I’ll be away.’ He tore a sheet from a notebook he carried with him and started to write. ‘This is my mobile number and this, my email address, Tina. You can reach me anytime on these.’
They shook hands – firmly.
Against all expectations, Laura agreed to the terms of the divorce as set out and presented to her attorney by Tina. She neither challenged the assertion that Jack wasn’t Conrad’s father nor quibbled over the suggested fifty-fifty division of assets. There was no apology.
Jack was untroubled by her silence: he was more than happy not to see her again; particularly happy never to see Conrad again.
Having made sure that neither Laura nor Conrad would be there, Jack visited the family house only once. He wasted little time, methodically moving from room to room and filling suitcases with clothes and items personal to himself: CDs, books, photographs, letters and documents. That night, he phoned Billings and asked if he could buy him a drink. Billings laughed.
They met the following evening in a bar close to Jack’s hotel. Billings was in a surprisingly jovial mood and gave Jack a friendly punch on the arm. ‘You made an old man happy, Green,’ he said.
Billings told Jack bluntly that his broadcasting career was pretty much dead in the water, but congratulated him on ending it in such great style. For him, the ex-weatherman’s outburst had been the unexpected apotheosis of what, until then, had been a dull and repetitive career in broadcasting. He recalled for Jack his silent joy at seeing the look of abject horror on Wonnacott’s face after Jack had accused him of sleeping with his wife, and burst out laughing at the still-warm memory.
‘Wonnacott’s a pompous ass, Jack, and everyone at the station knows it. He’s always had a predatory nature around women, and at ground level he’s not getting a whole lot of sympathy – that’s all going your way. At brass level, it’s different. The station’s got a family ethos, and as Wonnacott’s their most valuable asset, they’ll protect him by hanging you out to dry. There’s a statement being prepared apologising for your outburst and explaining it in terms of a mental breakdown. You might want to know that even as we speak, the station’s providing you with the best treatment available.’
‘You mean beer?’ Jack asked.
‘That’s about it,’ Billings smiled. ‘Publicly, they’ll be saying Wonnacott’s an innocent man who got caught in the crossfire. They’ll also be saying that even though he’s been wrongly maligned, Wonnacott forgives his old buddy the weatherman and wishes him a speedy recovery. What a guy, eh?
‘Raise your glass, Jack, and let’s make a toast: To you, Jack Green. May your pastures new be even greener!’
The two men clinked glasses. ‘What are you going to do, by the way?’ Billings asked.
‘I’m thinking of becoming a hairdresser,’ Jack replied.
The Plan
‘So let me get this straight, Doc. We’re going to spring an old girlfriend of yours from a nursing home and then get the hell out of Dodge?’ Doc nodded. ‘And she’s half loco?’ Doc nodded again. ‘And I’m your wife.’ Again, Doc nodded. ‘Jeez!’ Jack said.
Doc, however, was pleased with his plan, the logistics of which had fallen into place after he’d made one further trip to Hershey. That visit, he hadn’t called on Nancy. He was aware of his promise that the next time they’d meet would be the time they’d leave together, and hadn’t wanted to run the risk of distressing her further. Instead, he limited himself to driving around Hershey and its environs until he was satisfied with the route they would take and the place where they would rendezvous with Bob.
The plan was this. Rather than fly to Harrisburg, Jack would drive them to Hershey in his rental car. The evening before the planned abduction, the two of them would check into a motel close to the town, and the following morning Jack would become Doc’s wife. Doc would take the wheel for the final leg of the journey – a short one, fortunately – and drive to the nursing home.
After parking the car, Doc would help Jack into a wheelchair and push him into the nursing home. He would sign them in as Doctor and Mrs Chaney and they would then go looking for Nancy; if she wasn’t already in her room, they would find her and take her there. Jack would then take off the women’s clothes he was wearing and Nancy would slip them on over hers. They’d wait in the room for a half hour or so and then leave. Nancy would climb into the wheelchair and Doc would wheel her to the car, stopping only to sign out at the reception desk. After a short interval of time, Jack would follow and drive them to a pre-arranged meeting place, where Bob – Doc’s friend – would be waiting for them. Doc and Nancy would transfer to Bob’s RV, and Jack would re-join them after dropping his rental car at Harrisburg airport. They would then leave Hershey, a town known for its chocolate, and drive to Coffeeville, a town not known for its coffee.
‘So, what’s wrong with her nose?’ Jack asked. While Doc had been explaining the details of the plan, Jack had been staring at the portrait of Nancy that hung on the wall.
‘Nothing,�
�� Doc said. ‘The artist got it wrong.’
‘How come he got the fruit right, then? The apples and pears look real enough to eat.’
‘I don’t know,’ Doc said exasperatedly. ‘You’ll see her soon enough.’
‘Are the two of you getting it on?’
Doc looked at him incredulously. ‘You’re asking me if we’re having sex?’
‘Yes,’ Jack said, not at all abashed by his question. ‘I haven’t upset you, have I?’
Unaware of the epiphany’s after-effects on Jack, Doc had trouble understanding why his godson had asked him such a personally intrusive question.
‘No, we’re not having sex! In our twenties we had sex, but not now. Unless you grow old with a person, the chances are you’re not likely to want to have sex with them after not seeing them for forty years. You know how your own body’s changed in that time – and that’s difficult enough to come to terms with – so why would you want to inflict it on someone else? And why would you want someone else to inflict their worn-out body on you?’
‘In short, Jack, the answer’s no. I’m glad Nancy’s my friend these days, and I’m also glad there was once a time when we did have sex.’
Another question came to Jack’s mind. ‘Should I try and get inside Nancy’s head before we go, Doc; choose clothes she’d wear?’
‘You’re not supposed to be Nancy, Jack: you’re supposed to be my wife. Believe me; you don’t want to get inside her head. There’s no fun to be found there. Choose someone else if you have to choose anybody.’
‘Okay, Mary Tyler Moore then. We’ll buy clothes Mary would have bought.’
‘Let’s play it by ear. I doubt we have her budget.’
The first thing they bought was a wheelchair. They tried out several models, Jack sitting and Doc pushing, before deciding on a rigid rather than a folding chair: it had fewer moving parts and the joints were permanently welded; it was lighter and required less energy to push and, just as importantly, could be dismantled quickly.
Next, they bought make-up and went shopping for a wig and suitable clothes. It took Jack no time to decide on a wig, but the clothes took longer as he put himself inside Mary’s head. They ended up buying a thick red polo-necked sweater; a pair of dark slacks – so Jack wouldn’t have to shave his legs; some ladies’ sneakers and white socks; and a large cashmere shawl. Doc was about to question the need for a shawl made out of cashmere when Jack raised his palm and gestured for him to stop: ‘Mary’s got class, Doc, and she’s a doctor’s wife now. This is the way it has to be. We’ve got to play it for real.’
The last stop was the bank. Jack remained in the car, while Doc went through the swing doors and emerged a good half hour later.
‘I didn’t see anyone coming out,’ Jack said. ‘How long was the line?’
‘There wasn’t a line,’ Doc replied. ‘I was the only customer.’
The next morning the two men prepared to leave for Hershey. They put the wheelchair and a suitcase filled with Nancy’s clothes into the trunk of the car, and their own bags on the back seat. Doc told Jack to start the car while he made one last check of the house and set the alarm.
Jack looked at his watch. How long did it take a man in his seventies to check a house? He pushed a CD into the player and, in the moment of silence when the radio quieted, heard a sharp crack. He looked up and saw Doc hurrying down the drive with a gun in his hand. ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ he exclaimed.
Doc climbed into the car reeking of cordite and slammed the door behind him. ‘Drive, Jack! Now!’
Jack put his foot down on the accelerator and the car sped away from the house. ‘What the fuck did you just do, Doc? You didn’t shoot Frisbee, did you?’
Doc turned to him and gave a wry smile. ‘Just his dog,’ he said, and then fell silent.
Men with Blue Eyes
The journey to Hershey was long but uneventful. Jack drove while Doc snoozed, lured into a fitful sleep by the motion of the car and the warmth of its interior. Occasionally, Jack took his eyes from the road and glanced at his passenger. Although the two men had spoken frequently since Sydney’s death, this visit was the first time Jack had seen Doc since the funeral. The man sitting next to him was now looking old – older, in fact, than his actual years. Dark and permanent circles ringed the man’s eyes, lines that had once creased his face had deepened into cracks and previously full cheeks had hollowed conspicuously, as if scooped out with a spoon. The picture of age surprised him, but what disquieted him more was the haggardly look that framed this picture. Not only did Doc look drawn when his guard was down, he looked haunted.
Jack knew better than to mention this observation to his godfather: from experience, he realised that any such conversation would be pointless. As a boy in his late teens, he’d once asked Doc if he was happy. He still remembered the withering look his godfather had given him. The glance had been only fleeting, but the question had hung in the air and never been answered; Doc had simply changed the subject. Jack had mentioned this episode to his father.
‘I’m probably his closest friend, Jack, and even I wouldn’t have asked him that,’ Sydney had replied. ‘He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. I don’t think he can afford to. The only thing you’ll ever find there are cufflinks and buttons. He’s pretty much been that way ever since he returned from Maryland. The man has feelings, but he internalises them and never shares them. It’s the way he is and so I respect that. But he doesn’t do himself any favours.’
‘Does he like me?’ Jack asked. ‘It’s hard to tell, sometimes.’
His father had laughed. ‘Sure he likes you, maybe even loves you, but never expect him to tell you this. Doc bonds with few people because most people he doesn’t like, but once he does become your friend he’s your friend for life and you’ll always be able to depend on him. Why else do you think I asked him to be your godfather?’
Jack had been pleased with his father’s reply. He liked Doc and, despite their age difference, had always looked upon him as a friend rather than an informal relation. As Jack matured, his friendship with Doc strengthened. When Jack was in town visiting his parents, the two of them would meet for meals, go for drinks, or simply hang out on Doc’s back terrace. Jack was comfortable sharing his own thoughts and feelings with Doc and would openly discuss any problems he might be having. Doc would listen intently while his godson spoke, counsel any advice he might see fit to give, and respect any confidences Jack preferred his parents and others not to know. Doc, however, never reciprocated and Jack learned not to pry into his older friend’s emotions. From what his father had said, it was clear that Doc wasn’t a man who bled in public. Looking at him now, however, asleep as he was in the passenger seat of a rental car, it was clear that his godfather had been bleeding internally for most of his life.
‘We almost there yet?’
Doc’s voice startled Jack. ‘I was beginning to think you’d died on me, old man,’ he replied. ‘We’re getting close, so you might want to start wiping that drool off your chin. It’s like you’ve got an artesian well pumping away inside your mouth.’
Doc pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and rubbed his chin with it. ‘It’ll happen to you someday, kid. Age doesn’t play favourites and it doesn’t take prisoners, either: it inflicts its sorry ass on all of us. You won’t escape. By the time you’re sixty, your rhythmic walking pattern will have started to deteriorate, by the time you’re seventy you’ll have twenty per cent less bone, and by the time you’re seventy-five you’ll be shorter by two-and-a-half inches. Drooling’s the least of it.’
‘Well, aren’t you the barrel of laughs? I’ll tell you what, though…’
‘Hey, you’re passing it! This is the turn-off, Jack. Start signalling!’
Jack didn’t have time to signal. He braked hard, turned the wheel to the right, but even so still clipped the grass verge on the passenger’s side. Once the car had regained its equilibrium, Jack pointed out to Doc that this wasn’t the exit for He
rshey.
‘I know it’s not,’ Doc replied. ‘We’re staying the night in Lebanon. We’ll drive to Hershey in the morning. It’ll only take thirty minutes.’
They found a small motel on the outskirts of the town close to US 422. Doc paid cash for two adjoining rooms accessible from the parking area and Jack drew the car up outside.
‘I wouldn’t have minded sharing, Doc. It would have saved you some money.’
‘Nothing personal, but I can’t sleep with someone else in the same room these days, let alone someone in the same bed. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t rightly know why. I’m guessing it’s because I’ve spent too much time on my own.’
They unloaded the car, took what luggage they needed to their rooms and walked to a nearby diner. It was late, approaching closing time, and there were few other customers in the restaurant. They sat down in a booth and looked through the menus brought to them by a woman about Doc’s age.
‘I love this kind of food,’ Doc said. ‘If it was up to me, I’d choose a diner over a fancy restaurant any day of the week. Look at this: T-Bone Steaks, Sirloins, Grilled Pork Chops, Fried Country Ham Steak, Baked Western Ham Steak, Golden Fried Shrimp, Broiled Trout and Pan Fried Chicken. And the most expensive thing is only $15!
‘You know the first thing I did when I retired from practice? I went to a burger bar and bought the biggest hamburger they had, and the biggest portion of French fries they served. The next day I went to a pizza restaurant, the day after that to a fried chicken restaurant, and so on. By the end of the week I was five pounds heavier.’
‘Why did you do that?’ Jack asked.
‘Because I was no longer a doctor. I didn’t have to lead by example anymore. All my professional life I’d been telling people to cut down on junk food, watch their cholesterol, eat more vegetables, eat more fruit, cut down on alcohol, do more exercise, and who’d have listened if the guy telling them that had been the size of a blimp? Retirement freed me, Jack. For the first time in years I felt like I could eat what I wanted and it was no one’s damned business but mine. I’m like everyone else now. Once more a man of the people!’
Last Bus to Coffeeville Page 20