They drove through the center of the town. It was clean and ordered and suburban, not unlike New Hope where she had grown up; a bit less rural perhaps, but still very much a bedroom community—only one that served New York instead of Philadelphia. Her father had run a grocery store in New Hope, and he had known practically everyone. She had too. She had worked the cash register in the store after school and during the summers, although she had paid far less attention to their customers than he. She had not planned to remain. Even then she had a bigger future in mind.
They drove past a sizable town green with its obligatory Civil War cannon and bandstand. Surrounding it on all sides were a mix of churches—two Protestant and one Catholic, she noticed—a small shopping strip of apparently upscale shops, and some stately older homes, most of which had been converted into offices.
They turned off into a side road that took them into a strictly residential sprawl, most of the homes set on lots of a half acre or less, then gradually increasing in size as they moved farther out.
“Have you lived here long?” she asked.
“About twenty years,” he said. “When I started at the company, Trish and I—that’s my wife: Trish—we lived in a hole-in-the-wall apartment in the East Village.” A small smile played across his lips. “Two rooms, each the size of a closet. With the bathtub in the kitchen. A big old monster with claw feet, that you could lie down in. We covered it with a piece of plywood and draped a cloth over it so nobody could tell it was there.” He shook his head. “God, I loved that old tub. You could reach out, open the door to the fridge, and grab a beer while you were taking a bath.” The smile remained, and he realized he still had fond memories of that apartment—East Fourth Street, only two blocks from the old Fillmore East Theater and its weekly rock concerts with the likes of Janis Joplin and Joe Cocker, and a few blocks more from NYU where he and Trish had gone to college.
The smile faded, and he glanced out the driver’s window, as if looking away from the past, Samantha thought.
“Anyway, we moved up here in seventy-six after our first child was born. We got a small house in a development; told ourselves we had to have good schools, a safer place to live, a backyard, all the usual reasons. Then, about twelve years ago, when the company really took off and I started making decent money, we decided we needed a bigger house.” He shrugged. “We did, I guess. So we started looking around—but still here. The kids were in school here; all their friends were here; all of that. So we bought the place we’re in now, mortgaged ourselves to our ears.” He glanced across at her, gave her a look that said: So what else is new? Then he went on. “I call it Toad Hall,” he said. “It’s just a lot more house than I ever wanted. Four bedrooms, three and a half baths, a family room, a study, a finished rec room in the basement. And all of it plunked down on three quarters of an acre of very expensive, sickly lawn.” He rolled his eyes. “Jack Fallon’s baronial crabgrass emporium. The Lawn Doctor guy smiles every time he sees me coming.”
“Still, it was a good investment. It must be worth a pretty penny today.” She immediately regretted the remark—suddenly felt as though she was calculating the value of his home into his buyout agreement.
Fallon stared at her, almost as though the same thought had crossed his mind. His eyes seemed to have hardened imperceptibly before he turned back to watch the road. She told herself not to be ridiculous, then tried to cover her faux pas. “It sounds like everybody’s dream,” she said.
Fallon nodded, glanced out the side window again. “Yeah, I suppose it does. But for the last ten years I’ve wondered if that’s all my life has been, just an accumulation of possessions.” A small shake of his head. “Yeah, I know. I’m forty-nine years old. I hit the big five-oh next year, and maybe I’m just getting a sense of my own mortality.” He smiled at himself. “But I can’t help wondering what I’ll see when I stop working in fifteen, sixteen years. Will I sit there and look back at some mountain of widgets I’ve sold, and say: That’s it, that’s what Jack Fallon did with his life?” Another smile. “It’s not like I’ve composed music that people will still listen to. Oh, sure, I’ll have helped raise two great kids, who I’m crazy about. But rightly or wrongly, they’ll be off finding their own widgets to sell; getting all wrapped up in their own lives.” He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Hell, they’re already there, I guess. But what I mean is, what have I done for me? Over all that time? When I think about it the answer just flies past.”
“Sounds like a baby boomer’s midlife crisis,” Samantha said.
Fallon laughed, genuinely this time. “Yeah,” he said. “Classic. I suppose after the divorce I’ll start dating cheerleaders.”
They pulled into a winding road dominated by mature trees, each house a living advertisement for upscale garden centers, replete with a smattering of obligatory dogwoods and Japanese maples, an occasional magnolia, a weeping pine, clump birches, and enough azaleas to turn the road into a highway of shimmering pink each spring.
“Here we are in Executive Heaven,” Fallon said. “Where lawn tractors duel weekly in the sun.”
Halfway down the road, Fallon pulled into a blacktop drive that led to a Colonial house set back thirty yards from the road—traditional painted white brick, flaking prestigiously with hints of red showing through; dark gray shutters and gleaming brass carriage lamps on each side of the front entryway. There were flower beds and strategically placed shrubbery that spoke of professional landscaping, an attached two-car garage, and an arbor in the sideyard, covered with wisteria.
“Toad Hall,” he said, as they pulled to a stop.
“It’s lovely, Jack. And you’ve earned it,” Samantha said.
“Yeah, I sure have,” he replied. Samantha heard the sarcasm in his voice. “And where the hell are these movers?”
A neighbor strode across an adjacent lawn, an overweight woman, about forty-five, Samantha guessed, dressed in too-tight fawn slacks and a beige silk blouse. She had blond hair, obviously out of a bottle, and wore a full face of makeup thick enough to form a second skin.
“The truck left about half an hour after I spoke to you,” she said, almost as though she had heard Fallon’s question. She was still a full ten yards away from them when she spoke. She eyed Samantha with knowing suspicion, then prattled on. “I didn’t know whether to call the police or not. When I asked them what they were doing, they said Trisha had sent them. That’s when I called you. It just didn’t make sense.”
The woman looked at Samantha again, her eyes saying it made great sense to her now. Fallon seemed to catch the intent of her eyes, and made quick introductions. “Margot, this is Samantha Moore—from my office.” He seemed to hesitate, as if more needed to be said, then gave up. “Samantha, this is my neighbor, Margot Reed.” He turned back to the woman. “Margot, Trish and I are getting a divorce—at least I think we are.” He shook his head. “No, we are. She’s moved to Manhattan, and she told me she was sending some people out to pack a few things she wanted. I just didn’t expect them this soon. And I certainly didn’t expect the full-sized moving van you told me about.”
Margot pursed her lips, threw another quick glance at Samantha. “Well, I think a few things turned into quite a bit, Jack. I was out on an appointment.” She looked at Samantha—directly this time, and smiled. “I’m a Realtor,” she said. Then back to Fallon. “Well, anyway, when I got home I saw the truck and came over. They’d obviously been here a while, Jack. The truck was almost full.”
“What?” Fallon stared at her, incredulous.
“I don’t think you’re going to find a lot left in there, Jack,” she said.
“Jesus Christ.” Fallon let out a breath.
Margot eyed Samantha again, and the edges of her mouth inched upward. The words Wages of Sin seemed etched in her expression.
Fallon either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it, and Samantha offered a slightly ironic smile. Suburban bitch, she thought.
Fallon shook his head; stared around
the yard, as if checking to be sure the lawn was still there. “Thanks, Margot,” he said. “I’d better go inside and see what’s left.” He turned and started for the front door, but Margot’s voice stopped him.
“Will the house be going on the market, Jack?” she asked.
He turned, looked at her, seemed confused, then shook his head again. “I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far yet. If it does, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate it, Jack.”
So much for heartfelt loss of a neighbor, Samantha thought. She upgraded her appraisal to bitch and a half.
Fallon led Samantha to the front door, took out a key, then stopped.
“You know, I thought about calling the cops when Margot called. Before that, I’d even thought about having the locks changed.” He looked at her. “You think I should have done either?”
Samantha shrugged. “Six of one, half dozen of another,” she said. “How’s that for clichéd legal advice?” She tried a smile. “In the long run you’d have ended up in court, and equitable distribution is the rule in New York. But your wife probably would have gotten whatever furniture and things she wanted. Maybe she would have asked for the house, too. Her lawyer certainly would have advised it. And it would have cost you a chunk of money for your own lawyer.” She arched her eyebrows. “I guess it depends on how much you want to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight at all,” Fallon said. “I want …” He stopped, seemed to think about it. “I don’t know what I want. I guess I just want it over. And I don’t want to get screwed in the process.” He looked at Samantha for a moment, as if deciding something. “And she wouldn’t want the house,” he finally said. “She moved into a condo in Manhattan. With her boyfriend, Howard.”
Samantha fought a sense of surprise that Fallon’s wife had left him for another man. She went on. “Her lawyer still would have told her to take the house, Jack. Even if she wasn’t going to live here.” Samantha raised her eyes, as if to say that’s the way things were. “Your wife’s lawyer is going to be a prick, Jack. Get used to that idea. You won’t be disappointed.”
Fallon stared at her, seemed to shudder inwardly. “Christ,” he said. “I guess I better get a lawyer of my own,” he said.
“Yes, you should,” she said. “But also expect to walk away fifteen to twenty thousand dollars lighter if it turns into a fight. And that’s for your lawyer. Double it for hers.”
Fallon’s eyes widened. “I have to pay for her lawyer, too?”
“Unless she’s independently wealthy, or has a job earning big bucks, you probably will.”
Fallon closed his eyes. “Christ,” he said again.
When he opened the front door the vast emptiness hit Fallon like a hammer. To his right the large, rectangular living room was empty of everything but a single chair, a side table, and a lamp. He stepped into the room, stared through the wide arch that opened on to the dining room, and found himself with another barren view.
“Jesus,” he said. “The dining room furniture was my mother’s.”
“Get a pad and pen and start making a list of everything that’s missing,” Samantha said. “Do it now, while it’s fresh in your mind.”
Fallon did as he was told. He felt an enormous sense of anger, mixed with bewilderment. He wasn’t sure which was more disturbing; voted for the latter.
Pad and pen in hand, he stood in the center of the empty dining room, turned in a slow circle. “How the hell do you remember everything that was in a room, after it’s been emptied?” he asked. “There were two sideboards, full of all kinds of stuff—china, silver, crystal—some of it ours, some of it stuff my mother gave me when she went into a nursing home.”
“Forget the things that were yours jointly. Things like crystal and silver. You can get a list from the movers, but your wife probably would have gotten those anyway. Concentrate on what she had no right to move.”
Fallon stared at her, blinked. “What is this? Some kangaroo court I’m going to?”
“The rule is equitable distribution, but that often means that the person who has the greatest need, or the least ability to replace things, gets them,” Samantha said. “That usually means the wife.” She arched her eyebrows again in a needless apology. “But the things that came to you from your mother should be returned. But you’ll have to document that they were given to you, not both of you.”
Christ, Fallon thought. Another joy-filled trip to The Residence. Another confessional scene with his mother. Then condemnation. “I knew you’d lose my dining-room table,” she would say. “I knew it as soon as I gave it to you.” Or, perhaps: “So you’re letting Trisha pluck me like a chicken, too. I told you to get a lawyer, John. But you never listen to me. You never have. You’re just like your father.”
In the kitchen, Fallon found everything but a handful of older dishes, cups, glasses, and dinner utensils missing. Three old pots and a small black frying pan remained. The liquor, however, seemed intact, save for an unopened twelve-year-old bottle of single-malt scotch that was apparently en route to Manhattan. He decided Howard’s palate was beginning to annoy him.
He pulled two glasses from a cabinet. “How about a drink?” he said.
Samantha noted the bitterly ironic grin on his face, lowered her eyes, and smiled. “Sure, Jack. Are we celebrating the survival of the booze?”
“As long as you don’t want twelve-year-old scotch,” he said. “If you do, you’ll have to ferret out Howard. But watch out he doesn’t sell you on some bridgework. Howard has to pay the rent on four offices. He’s practically a one-man HMO. A true man of the nineties.”
She reached out, squeezed his arm, and eyed the liquor. “A little wine would be great if you have it. I never cared much for scotch—new or old.”
“Me either,” Fallon said. “It just ticks me off, thinking about Howard, sitting in one of my chairs, drinking my booze, out of one of my glasses.”
And sleeping with your wife, Samantha thought, repressing an urge to ask him how he felt about that.
Drinks in hand, they wandered into Fallon’s study. He stopped just inside the door; stared at the desk. “The computer’s gone,” he said. “Christ, Trisha doesn’t even know how to use it. She hates the thing.” But now his hard drive would be filling up with dental records, he thought. He had a sudden urge to strap Howard into his dentist’s chair and start experimenting with various drills. He spun around and checked the wall. His ancient sailfish—the one he had caught as a boy, out fishing with his father—was still there. One small blessing, he decided. Then Samantha’s words brought him back to reality.
“Were your personal financial records on the computer?”
Fallon’s eyes widened. “Yes, dammit.”
“Do you have an up-to-date hard copy?”
“Yeah, I do. I was just going over everything the other day.”
“Get it to a lawyer, Jack. Do it tomorrow if you can. In the meantime, do you have a laptop at the office?” Samantha asked.
“Yeah,” Fallon said. “The company’s.”
“Just bring it home when you need it,” she said. “The financial records are important, but if you start getting hung up on everything that’s missing, you’re going to put yourself in a rubber room. Decide what you really want; what really matters to you, and be prepared to give up the rest.”
Fallon struggled to accept her reasoned solutions; found the fact that they were reasoned had begun to annoy him. He stepped to the desk, stared at it, and picked up a yellow sheet of paper.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he hissed.
“What is it?” Samantha asked, coming up beside him.
“A bill from the goddamned movers. Like I’m supposed to pay for this.”
Samantha took the bill from his hand, laid it back on the desk. “Call them tomorrow. Better yet, go and see them and get a copy of their bill of lading. Then tell them they entered your home without your permission, took things that did not belong to your wife, and tha
t you’re turning the matter over to your attorney. It should stop everything until the court sorts it out. And they’ll probably send a new bill to Trisha.”
The thought brought a sudden, rather evil grin to Fallon’s lips. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait for the call he’d soon receive from Trish, decrying his penurious attitude toward the movers. Perhaps Howard would even call. That would indeed be heaven, Fallon decided.
They moved out into the garage, and again Fallon stood dumbstruck. “They took the goddamned riding mower,” he said. “Christ, they live in a condo in Manhattan. What the hell is Howard planning to do? Mow Central Park?”
Samantha bundled him out of the garage, back to the foyer, and up the curving staircase. They found the children’s bedrooms intact, and Fallon mumbled something about his wife not wanting the intrusion of college-aged kids into her love nest.
His own bedroom was another matter, however. There, all the furniture, save the bed, was missing—even the armoire that had held much of his clothing was gone, the clothing now piled unceremoniously on the bed. Fallon stared in disbelief, then walked into the adjoining bath. The Bill Blass terry-cloth bathrobe he had hung behind the bathroom door that morning was gone. Fallon moved back to the bedroom like a somnambulist, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Howard is wearing my bathrobe,” he said.
Samantha sat down next to him, placed a hand on his. “You can get another bathrobe,” she said.
“I have another bathrobe,” Fallon said. “It has a hole in it. I’m sure Howard didn’t want it.”
Samantha started to laugh, forced it back. “I’m sorry, Jack. I know it’s not funny.”
Fallon blinked, shook his head, then looked at her. “Yeah, it is,” he said. “In a sick sort of way.” He stared down into the drink he still held. “It’s just stuff, you know? All of it.” He turned toward her. “You remember, earlier, I was talking about that closet-sized apartment I had in the Village?”
The Dinosaur Club Page 11
