Absolute Zero: Misadventures From A Broad (Val & Pals Book 1)

by Margaret Lashley

  “Like Yogi Berra said, it’s déjà vu all over again. What’s going on, kid?”

  “I married Friedrich. The German guy in Brindisi. I’ve been living with him in Germany for the past six years.”

  “Oh.”

  There it was again. That little syllable that spoke volumes.

  “Long story short, Berta, Friedrich deceived me. He set me up. Now I’m nearly broke and in trouble with the German IRS. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Aww flapdoodle, kid. That’s no good. That’s bullshit.”

  “I knew I could count on you to put things into perspective. How are things with you?”

  “Better than with you, kid, and I screwed a guy on a cruise ship who neglected to tell me that his wife was the ship’s captain. That kind of blew my whole cruise-gig operation, if you know what I mean. Now I’m in the UK entertaining old bats on bus tours. I call it BOBing, for short.”

  Hearing Berta’s voice brought home just how alone I felt. I laughed, causing unshed tears to tumble from my eyes.

  “Sounds like a good time, Berta.”

  “It has its ups and downs. That’s life. But kid, you sound terrible. Wanna tell me about it?”

  Berta hung on the phone patiently while I cried for five minutes. Then I choked out my story between sobs.

  “I fucked it all up again, Berta. Things were good at the beginning. But there were signs, you know? He lied to me about smoking. He cheated his ex-wife out of the money for his car. He had this…clinical way about him…like he didn’t trust people very much. But I thought he would be different with me. Then we bought this old house and I sunk all my time and money into it. I was too exhausted to think straight. I ignored all the warning signs that things just weren’t right.”

  “That’s not a crime, kid. Love is blind and dumb.”

  “But the signs were all over the place. Oh, Berta. I don’t know what I keep doing wrong! I don’t know how to make a man happy.”

  “You can’t make someone happy if you don’t have it to give. Sorry, kid. But you sound miserable.”

  “I am.”

  “So let me get this straight. Your husband lied to you, bamboozled you out of all your money, and abandoned you when you needed his help.”

  “Well…yeah.”

  “And you’re still debating about whether to get a divorce?”

  “I…I know it sounds stupid. But I feel so wiped out. If I leave I’ll have nothing.”

  “You’ll have yourself, kid. And from what I remember, that’s a lot.”

  ***

  Bolstered by Berta’s pep talk, I decided to accost Friedrich right as he came through the door. There would be no time for him to prepare, and no time for me to chicken out. I heard the key rattling in the door. It was time to play my hand. Blinded by anger and dismay at his betrayal, I forgot all about his strategy. I forgot the fact that it had been Friedrich’s game plan all along to keep his cards close to his chest.

  Friedrich opened the door and stepped inside. He put his briefcase down and eyed me warily.

  “Friedrich, we need to talk. I found out I owe 43,000 euros to the Finanzamt. You knew it. You saw all the notices. You lied to me and said they were junk mail! Why did you do that? Why didn’t you take care of this for me?”

  Friedrich flinched. His blue eyes turned ice cold. The tendons in his jaw tightened. His face registered not a touch of surprise – or empathy. He said nothing.

  “And why didn’t you tell me about the tax refunds? I’m entitled to half of that money. You took it all, without even telling me. That’s not fair. That’s stealing!”

  Friedrich’s face turned red and twisted.

  “You attack me! You call me a liar! You say I steal from you. This is why you have no German friends!”

  Though his words stung, they were like an antidote for my anger. A strange calmness came over me, and words came out of my mouth that surprised even me.

  “You’re German, Friedrich. Are you not my friend?”

  Friedrich turned his back to me and headed for the kitchen. I trailed behind him, haranguing him with my unanswered questions.

  “How could you do this to me? You promised to take care of me. I trusted you!”

  Friedrich wheeled around, his crimson face contorted with anger. He spat his words at me like a rabid dog.

  “You are not a good wife! You never made me feel loved!”

  Friedrich didn’t say another word. In fact, he never spoke to me again. I slept in the guest bedroom. Friedrich packed a suitcase, took it with him to work the next morning, and he didn’t come back.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “When did the bed go cold?”

  I stared across the desk at my immaculately dressed attorney. He looked too prim and proper to posit such a crude query.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  Don Manheim pursed his lips and blew out a soft sigh. “A very German one, I’m afraid.”

  I was incredulous. “Does it mean what I think it does?”

  “Yes, and no. It’s just a date in time. To start the clock ticking on your divorce. According to German law, you have to live apart, without relations, for a year before you can file. While we wait, we can get the paperwork ready and sort through the assets. The rest goes pretty quickly after that.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, do you have a date?”

  I thought back to the last time Friedrich and I had made love. The frequency had dropped off considerably after Clarice’s death. His thoughtless advances that night had nearly killed my libido. That had been – Oh my gosh! – two and half years ago! Since then…let me think….

  Don interrupted my mental math. “Like I said, it doesn’t have to be an exact date. Just one you’ll both agree to.”

  “I think it was his birthday. March thirteenth. No. It was my birthday, April first. Wait. There was another time this summer. After a fest. In August. I don’t remember the exact date….”

  “That’s close enough,” interjected Don. “Okay. Today is October thirteenth. Let’s just say it was August thirteenth. Two months ago. So we can file in ten months.”

  “What should I do in the meantime?”

  “I imagine we’ll be busy getting you off the hook for your taxes. And you might want to look at putting the house up for sale. The market here moves really slowly.”

  “Thank you, Don. Could I use your phone? I forgot mine. I…I need to call a cab.”

  "Don't tell me you don't even have a car."

  I shook my head, too embarrassed to speak.

  “He really did have you trapped in a golden cage.”

  "Trapped? Yes. Cage? Yes. Gold? Not so much.”

  “Well, I’m glad you can still have a sense of humor about this.”

  “I have to. I have a feeling when this is all over, it’s the only thing I’ll have left.”

  ***

  Over that sixth long, cold, lonely winter, between Christmas and springtime, my limp sadness transformed into an itchy irritability. I’d gotten two phone calls over the holidays, neither of which was from Friedrich. Rita Rudeheim had phoned to invite me to a party, but I didn’t go. On Christmas Day, Don Manheim called to wish me a happy holiday, and, I suspect, to make sure I hadn’t hung myself in the attic.

  “Merry Christmas, Val,” he’d said in a too-cheery voice.

  “Thanks. Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  “No word from the stobex?”

  “What?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Office lingo. Soon-to-be ex. Stobex.”

  “Got it. No. I guess that’s my gift from him.”

  “Glad to hear you’ve still got your chin up. We’ll get you through this.”

  “Thanks, Don. Hey, could I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s ‘mobbing’?”

  “It’s kind of like bullying. It’s when a person thinks he’s being persecuted by others, whether it’s real or imaginary.”

  “Okay, than
ks. Have a great holiday.”

  “You, too. See you at our appointment in January. I hope to have some good news from the Finanzamt by then. These Germans seem to take the whole month of December off.”

  “Yeah. Okay, then. Bye.”

  I clicked off the phone. Friedrich had complained a few times about mobbing at work. And he’d changed jobs four times since we’d been together. That was highly unusual for a German. Had he really been mobbed, or was it all in his head? Had he felt mobbed by me, too?

  I looked around the beautiful house we’d wasted so much time renovating. Even though it was full of Friedrich’s what-not collections and half-finished projects, my footsteps rang empty in the still silence. I was alone, with only my thoughts for company. My eyes fell on a stack of paint cans by the back door.

  “You can't just toss her in a corner.”

  The words of my stobex brother-in-law popped into my mind. A sudden realization hit me. This was not my doing. Friedrich had been a hoarder before I met him. He’d collected things, then neglected them. His apartment in Landau had been an obvious testimony to the fact. I’d been nothing more than his latest obsession. He’d collected me, then neglected me. But, like everything else in his life, he couldn’t let me go.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  While I waited for the cold, dark winter to end, I tried to resurrect the woman I’d left behind in Italy. Seven years ago I’d dreamt of becoming a human being – of creating a new life that savored the simple beauty of living. Instead, I’d gotten sidetracked and created a situation more complicated and unhappy than the one I’d left behind in Florida. Where had I gone off track?

  In Italy, life had been all about love. Everyone had been in it to win it. They’d embraced their passions and enjoyed each other like one big, crazy, loving family. Here in Germany, life had seemed all about avoiding catastrophe. People had hidden their true feelings away, fearful of being deemed unworthy. Ironically, their fear of making mistakes had caused them to make the biggest failure of all – they never really took a chance and lived.

  In a way, I’d been just as guilty. Bit by bit, I’d hidden away parts of myself that didn’t fit the expectations of my German husband or his family. I’d folded away so many facets of myself that I’d become as one-dimensional as a cardboard image – a paper-thin silhouette of myself, with nothing inside me, and no one to back me up.

  It was time to drop this sad charade and do as my friend Berta once advised me nearly seven years ago. I needed to get off my ass and start living.

  ***

  “Am I the bad guy here?” I asked Berta over the phone.

  “Listen, kid. Blame is not the name of the game. Does it really matter whose fault it is? There’s no badge of honor for being a miserable martyr. Love and marriage are two distinctly different things. Neither come with any guarantees.”

  I knew what my friend was saying was true. Still, I had so many unanswered questions.

  “But why would he refuse to talk to me?”

  “Guilty conscience? By keeping his trap shut, he wouldn’t have to admit his dastardly deeds.”

  “You’re right. I guess I already knew that. I just wanted confirmation.”

  “Don’t worry, kid. In my book, you’re a good egg.”

  “Thanks, Berta. You’re always right. Remember that joke you told me back in Brindisi?”

  “I was in Brindisi?”

  “Cut it out! The one about what do women and brick sidewalks have in common?”

  “Oh yeah. Lay ‘em good once and you can walk all over ‘em for years.”

  “That’s the one. I’m the butt-end of that joke.”

  “Well, that’s alright. As long as it’s a cute butt.”

  ***

  By the end of January, I’d talked to Berta a dozen times. She’d reminded me that I was a truth seeker, a champion, and I still had a smoking hot ass. I would never again take for granted the ridiculous optimism of Americans. In my book, they would forevermore win out against the stubborn pessimism of Germans. When Don Manheim called the last day of the month, I realized I’d have to scrape way a lot of rust and muck to find my own bright side again.

  “The good news is, the Finanzamt says it will drop their charges of tax evasion against you,” Don explained.

  “That’s great!”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t get better from there. The conditions for release of charges are that you pay the entire money owed within two weeks, along with a five-thousand euro fine.”

  “Crap! What does that add up to?”

  “Forty-eight thousand euros. Do you have it?”

  “Yes, but just barely.”

  I did the math in my head. After paying the tab, I’d have about eight-thousand euros left.

  “Good,” Don said. “I suggest you take this route. Fighting it would cost more than the fine they’re demanding.”

  “Okay. Speaking of costs…what do I owe you? So far, I mean.”

  “It wasn’t easy to make your case. I put in a lot more time than I expected.”

  My stomach flopped. “So, what’s the tab?”

  “For the tax evasion case, it’s nine thousand, five hundred.”

  “Don, I don’t –”

  “But I’ve been corresponding with Friedrich’s attorney about the tax refunds he didn’t share. I got him to agree to half of it. So that’s twelve-thousand, five-hundred. So, in essence, you’re ahead three-thousand.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I still had about eleven thousand in the bank. But I also still had to pay Don for my divorce, cover my living expenses for the rest of the year, and save enough money to buy a plane ticket home.

  “What about the house? Should I list it?”

  “I tell you what, I’ll get an appraiser over to have a look at it. We can go from there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I hung up and bit my nails to the quick. It hadn’t sounded good at all. It had sounded horrible. If I didn’t make a profit on the house, I was sunk. I knew the little bit of money I had left wouldn’t stretch as far as I desperately needed it to.

  ***

  In February, the house appraiser came. He measured everything, took pictures of the renovations, scribbled things down on a notepad and left. While I waited for the results, I bit my nails and pinched my pennies.

  March thirteenth came, and I called Friedrich on his birthday. It was the German thing to do. He didn’t pick up, so I left him a message. When the first of April came and went without a birthday call from my husband, I realized I really was an April fool.

  In early May, Don Manheim called to let me know the house had appraised at sixty-thousand euros more than we’d paid for it. It was official. My life’s savings had been squandered. Don explained that even if we got a full-price offer, by the time we paid real-estate fees and taxes, I might net a few thousand euros. It would cost me more than that to rent an apartment while I waited for the divorce to be final. At least with Friedrich paying the mortgage, I still had a roof over my head.

  I spent the summer helping the neighboring farmers in their vineyards and orchards. I earned enough to pay the grocery and electric bill for May, June and July.

  In August, I got another call from Don.

  “We can finally file, Val. How are you holding out?”

  “Pretty good,” I lied.

  “Glad to hear it. Look, I’ve got an offer from Friedrich’s attorney about the house.”

  Incredible! A flicker of hope lit up within me.

  “Really? For how much?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly money. He’s offering to take over financial responsibility if you sign it over to him.”

  The flicker fizzled out. “Oh.”

  “We could fight this, but it may end up costing more than it would net you. I’m sorry I don’t have better news.”

  “That’s okay. I appreciate what you’re doing…what you’ve done. Don, I guess you think I should just agree to give him the house?”

 
“I’m not saying it’s fair, Val. I’m just saying it’s not worth the fight. It sucks, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. Okay. Tell him I agree to it. But I get to stay here until the divorce is final. Does that seem doable?”

  “I’ll make it doable.”

  “Okay. Do you have any idea of the damages? I mean, your fees? What they’ll be when this is all over with?”

  “If there aren’t any complications, it should be my standard fee. Thirty-five hundred euros.”

  “And how long will it take? For the papers to be final?”

  “Four months, tops.”

  I did the math in my head. After paying Don’s fees and my expenses for the next four months, I would have around a thousand dollars left. Not quite enough for a ticket back home.

  ***

  The only cash cows I had left to milk were my clothes and the books, household goods and furniture I’d purchased over the years. I couldn’t afford another run-in with the law, so I called Rita Rudehiem to find out the rules and regulations about having a yard sale in Germany. To my great surprise, there weren’t any. And, also to my great surprise, Rita volunteered to help me hold the sale.

  It was a beautiful, crisp Saturday in late October, when tall, stick-thin Rita walked beside short, washed-up me to the main crossroads intersecting my little village. She held out the signs reading Haushalts Verkauf, while I pounded their posts into the ground with a hammer.

  With my only German friend’s help, I’d placed small notices in the regional newspaper and online, advertising the sale. I’d carefully tucked away all of Friedrich’s belongings, so as not to confuse potential buyers. Any pieces of furniture or items too heavy to move I had marked with “NZV,” the German equivalent of not-for-sale.

  When everything was in place, I opened the gate to the tall wooden fence separating our house from the street. I prepared for the flood of customers, but as it turned out, they only trickled in in dribs and drabs.

  The antiques I’d collected went first. Then, strangely, dusty old books and furniture from the attic. By the end of the first day, I’d made about nine hundred euros. I took Rita to dinner as a reward. Between bites of schnitzel and fries, she told me she’d enjoyed the day, and wanted to come back the next morning.