Carpool Confidential

by Jessica Benson

  I can’t mention a figure—my mother always said that was bad manners. Well, actually, she didn’t. She was never much one for observing social graces, seeing them as absurd conventions, but I managed to figure them out anyway, and I know mentioning exact amounts of money is a big, fat, tacky no. But I will say that according to this we could have afforded that Aston Martin Rick liked, after all. Plus a Jag, and a Ferrari, and maybe a Porsche. We could even have afforded to garage them in our neighborhood.

  “I think you’re looking at the wrong column.” Murray leaned across the desk and pointed at a column. “Those numbers in brackets are debits, I’m afraid—negatives. That’s what Rick took out. And some of those, like this one”—he moved his finger down—“are more technically loans. Here, for example, he’s taken money from a 401(k), and even though it’s your money, because it’s been taxed as 401(k) funds, you can only borrow, not liquidate it outright.”

  I looked at the bracketed number and was grateful I hadn’t eaten that day, because it all would have come back up. “A loan as in, it has to be paid back?”

  “The repayment schedule is fairly forgiving.”

  “It can’t possibly be forgiving enough.” I looked up at him. “What else?”

  “The good news.” He pointed again. “This is what you do have.”

  Big difference in the zeros from what I didn’t have but apparently used to, back when I was too stupid and naïve to appreciate it. “OK. This isn’t so bad, is it?”

  “No, no,” he said hurriedly. “It’s a good amount. Of course, you do need to set aside for end-of-year taxes from this, since Rick wasn’t paying the full quarterly estimated payments, which means that not only do you have to make up the difference at tax time but there can be penalties.” He shook his head. “I warned him about that. For example”—I followed his finger over to another incomprehensible jumble of figures—“this is my estimate of your federal taxes. If he’d paid the estimated New York State by the deadline, you would have received credit against your fed, but he opted not to. Very unlike him to be so fiscally irresponsible.”

  Murray looked away, at the attempt at modern art on his wall, while I counted zeros. “I’m sorry,” he said, apparently to the picture, “but I do have to point out that you have been leading a very expensive lifestyle.”

  Between a very expensive apartment, very expensive private school tuition, very expensive useless domestic help, a very expensive rarely used second house, a very expensive caretaker for rarely used second house, and a very expensive pool and lawn guys for even more rarely used pool at rarely used second house, this wasn’t exactly a shrewd analysis.

  This was bad news. So bad, my face felt numb. It was either shock or I was having a stroke. I debated the odds of having a stroke right at the very moment you were finding out you’d been screwed in about five different ways. Possible, definitely possible. Did stress bring on strokes? Had I had one of those warning sign headaches? Flashing lights? No, that was a detached retina—

  “Cassie?” Murray looked worried. Well, what was he fucking expecting? “Can I get you something? Water? Another cappuccino?”

  A Xanax, maybe. “No, thanks. Nothing.” I forced myself to breathe. “Can I sell the house on Nantucket?” We barely used it, and it had to be worth a fortune.

  “Sure,” Murray said jovially. “No problem. If it was in your name. Obviously in a divorce, if there is a divorce, you’d be granted half of the proceeds, but—”

  “I need to find him first.”

  “Or wait seven years to have him declared legally dead.”

  “I could arrange physically dead well before seven years.” I might even enjoy it.

  “It’s a shame about the maintenance on the apartment,” Murray said.

  Our apartment was in one of the few prewar doorman buildings in Brooklyn Heights. The sprawling apartments were in so much demand that the co-op board had been able to get away with only accepting people who could buy with eighty percent cash up front, so our mortgage was relatively small. The problem was that the monthly fees on the apartment were huge— bigger than any mortgage I’d ever had, that was for sure. So while I could probably make the mortgage payments, there was no way I could carry the maintenance on my own for any significant period of time unless something drastically financially fortuitous happened.

  “Can I sell it?” Even as I asked it, I knew it was the same thing as the house on Nantucket—a joint property. If it hadn’t been he would undoubtedly have already sold it out from under us.

  “Sorry. And the other thing is that not all of those funds reflected in that figure are available.” Murray sounded like he wanted to get through this part quickly. “As I started to say before, some are in accounts that would have substantial—”

  Everything felt like it was spinning. “OK. Murray, I need to get this straight. Not only did Rick stop putting money into existing accounts a year and a half ago, he started draining them. He had his own accounts that are—what’s the status of those?”

  “Closed. Emptied.”

  I took a breath. “And I can’t liquidate any of our sadly depleted joint assets, including real estate. Did I leave anything out?”

  “He, um, failed to pay taxes.”

  “Right,” I said. “Forgot that. I owe taxes. How could he have done this without my permission?”

  He spread his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “I’m just a finance guy, Cassie, I’m the wrong person to ask about what motivates people.”

  “I meant legally how could he do that?”

  “Well.” Murray, back on comfortable terra firma, perched his reading glasses back on his nose and picked up one of the sheets in front of him. He took his glasses off again and put them down before looking at me. “He didn’t do anything against the law. Morally and ethically, it’s not pretty, but it was legal. As of now, there are two problems here,” he said. “No. Three.”

  I had my own ideas, and they added up to a lot more than three, but as I’ve said, I’m not a numbers person, so I was curious about his.

  “One. You have no money currently coming in.” On my list, too. “And as I mentioned, you’re supporting a very expensive lifestyle. Two”—he held up two fingers in case I’d lost count— “you can use money from the joint accounts, but everything of real substance is either tied up so you can’t get to it or invested in ways that will result in you losing substantial amounts by liquidating early. And three, should you do that, not only will you lose in penalties, you’ll have to pay hefty taxes on what you do liquidate. Oh, and let’s not forget that request for a donation from the government.” He laughed uneasily. I was guessing that joke never went over well.

  I fought a new wave of dizziness. “College?” I croaked.

  “Haven’t you already been?” When I goggled at him, he broke into a chuckle. “Just a little humor. There are accounts that have significant amounts in them, but you’re going to need to add quite a bit more. Take it from an old hand”—his children were college-aged—“it’s the most expensive eight to ten years of your life.”

  Even less funny than the donation request from the government joke. “So how fucked am I?”

  “You’re not destitute.” Said in a let’s-look-at-the-bright-side kind of way.

  I was not in a let’s-look-at-the-bright-side kind of mood. “So assuming I can track Rick down, do I have any legal grounds for nailing his ass to the wall?”

  “I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Let’s pretend, for just a second, that you play one on TV. Can I?”

  He gave me a long look. “Are you planning on divorcing him?”

  I stared at him. It was the first time the question had been asked directly. I felt like I was swinging over an abyss I’d never been over before. There was something about it that gave me a jolt of this is for real. “I don’t know.”

  “If you do, any money that came in during the marriage is marital property, and New York is an equitable distribution state, so whether y
ou have grounds and what you have grounds for depends on how adept he’s been at…hiding assets.”

  Hiding assets. I could not believe we were having this conversation about the man I’d married. It was like every deeply held belief about him and us was being peeled away, layer by layer.

  “Not that I’m implying he did, of course.”

  “And if we were to imagine that he might have, what would that mean?”

  “If you could prove it, there’s no question the courts would be quite sympathetic to you.”

  “So how and why would he think he could get away with it?”

  “Probably because he can.” Murray rubbed his forehead. “Look, Rick’s an incredibly smart guy and he knows money. If he’s been hiding assets, it’s going to be difficult and expensive to get to the bottom of it—maybe prohibitively so. I’m guessing he’s counting on his tracks being well covered. Believe me, a lot of less savvy people have gotten away with it.”

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “Find a job.”

  13

  New York City Rhythm

  From the lobby of Murray’s building, I called the number Charlotte had given me and set up a waxing appointment for Wednesday. Then I left, and by some process—of which to this day I have no actual memory—I ended up in a Duane Reade on Madison Avenue, dazedly holding a box of hair color claiming to contain something called 3X Highlights.

  I remember thinking that I’d been paying Jacques a fortune all these years and there was nothing even remotely 3X highlit about my hair. I’d clearly been so seduced by his probably fake French accent (it was the way he said “franje” instead of “bangs”) that I’d been fooled into believing I needed him, when the reality was that for a mere $9.99, I could have had 3X highlights the whole time.

  Since I was in the drugstore for no apparent reason other than debating self-inflicted injury to my hair, I figured I might as well grab a few things. I was like a zombie. My world had imploded. I was going to get divorced, move out of our apartment, uproot my children, but I would damn well make sure I had a plentiful supply of Crest and Dry Idea while I did it.

  On my way to shampoo, I got sidetracked by the array of condoms. Much wider and more varied than the last time I was in the market for them—extra studded vibrating condom rings. I didn’t foresee a need for these arising in my personal life any time soon.

  However—if my life had only been a Loony Toons cartoon for real instead of just feeling like one, a little lightbulb thingy would have been hovering over my head—as the only career plan I had going, blogging had just notched up a degree from vaguely undesirable option to something I’d better get serious about. I figured picking up a pack for the first time in a good fifteen years might make a first step. I reached up, grabbed a pack of good old ribbed Trojans—even I remembered those—and balanced them on top of the toothpaste and hair dye.

  Sadly, Duane Reade didn’t do Rabbits, so that would have to wait for another day. Except…those personal massager thingies looked an awful lot like vibrators by any other name. I meandered across the aisle to get a closer look. Granted, there were none with mammal names, but the Femme Contour 3500 (gel back and neck massager!) looked a lot like a replica of something I’d seen in real life before. Although never, to be fair, in that particular shade of lavender. Thank God.

  At this exact moment, $32.95 seemed like a rash expenditure. But…if I was blogging professionally, was it a business deduction? Were the condoms? What if I used them for pleasure at some point? Did I have to figure per unit cost and un-deduct? I put my stuff on the floor, pulled out my cell, and dialed Murray’s office number.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin, he’s tied up at the moment.” The receptionist still sounded like someone who’d never been dumped for Barry Manilow. We’re a select group, I told myself.

  I couldn’t tell from her inflection whether this was a he’s busy tied up or a he’s blowing you off tied up. “OK, thanks.” I was about to hang up when I thought of all the money we’d paid Murray over the years and where I was now. “Actually,” I said, “I’d really like to ask him a quick question. It’ll only take a second.”

  I browsed the rest of the personal massagers while I waited. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin. Mr. Goldsmith will be happy to give you a call back when he has a free moment.”

  “I’ll hold.”

  She was starting to sound downright unfriendly. “I’m afraid it’s impossible for him to speak to you now. Perhaps I could relay the question to him instead?”

  “I’d prefer to ask him myself.”

  “He’s. Busy. Tied. Up. At. The. Moment.”

  “I’m. Sure. He. Is.” I was getting angry. Too angry to keep doing the staccato sentence thing. “OK, fine. I’m wondering whether it’s a business deduction if I buy a lavender vibrator and blog about it.”

  “Um—” She sounded like maybe this wasn’t the kind of thing she got asked every day. “I, er—”

  “Ordinarily of course I wouldn’t bother asking, but as you may or may not be aware, I have hardly any money left on account of my husband disappearing—and, come to think of it, Murray maybe having helped him defraud me on his way out. So I’m being really careful with my pennies right now, you know? So if you’d like to relay that question to him, be my guest.”

  “Cassie!” Murray, practically oozing good cheer, managed to pick up after all.

  “Is it?” (I wasn’t, at this point, feeling chatty.)

  “If the blog brings in income within twelve months it’s a business deduction, yes.”

  “Thanks. Oh, you’re fired. I’ll have my new accountant contact you.” I clicked my phone shut and added the vibrator— sorry, personal massager—to my pile of stuff.

  After my episode of righteous fury, it was almost a letdown to find myself in the tampon section of a super drugstore. Well, I thought, admiring my own (unusual) foresight, might as well stock up on those, too, because if one thing is certain, it’s that unlike condoms, they’re always called for sooner or later. Usually at ten at night. And now there was no husband to force into picking some up on his way home. I reached up, grabbed a box of tampons and one of mini pads, then stopped dead.

  When was my last period?

  I knew with sudden and awful certainty that it hadn’t been since Rick left. How could this have happened? And how, how, how, could I not have realized until now? I knew I was still there, in the tampon aisle, because I could see the rows of Playtex boxes in front of me, but my entire body was so numb it felt like my head was suspended in air. I needed to sit down but there was nowhere, so I leaned against the shelf of incontinence products.

  “That could be a poor choice of a shelf to block.” A woman with a startling orange beret perched on her short gray hair was trying to edge past me. “You never know when it’s an emergency situation.”

  “Sorry.” I didn’t move. I wanted to but couldn’t seem to make it happen. After a second, I managed to push myself off the shelves. Hopefully they weren’t all that was holding me upright. Why, when it had never happened before, in all those years of safety and security, was this happening now?

  “You don’t want those mini pads.”

  “I don’t?” I looked at the box in my hand.

  “They’re worthless. These”—she hefted down an industrialsized package of adult diaper things—“do the job.”

  “No, thanks.” My mind was whirling. My period is always regular. Clockwork, every twenty-eight days, so how could I not have noticed?

  The incontinence lady was shaking the package at me. “I know you think you need the name brand,” she said, “everybody does at first. But the store brand’s just as good. Absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Although”—she looked me up and down—“at your age, you might want to consider the surgery. Are you married?”

  “Yes.” I had no idea why I was answering her. New Yorkers don’t really do that, chat with strangers in drugstores. “Not really,” I heard myself say. “No, actua
lly. My husband just left me.”

  “Not very understanding of him. But I suppose you didn’t do your kegels.” She eyed the vibrator and gave me a knowing look.

  “No,” I admitted. “Well, only a few times. I always forget.”

  She thrust the package of generic Depends into my arms.

  It seemed easier to take it than protest. “Thanks.”

  “Are you all right? Is this your first time?”

  She was being so kind now that I felt my eyes fill with tears. “Being left? Yes.”

  “Buying incontinence aids.” She patted my hand, which was now sweating sickeningly against the plastic Depends bag. “But both get easier with time.”

  “Thanks. I’m fine. Really.”

  “OK.” She hefted her own package down. “Bye, then.”

  I made a beeline for the pregnancy tests, which were, I recall, wittily placed right below the condoms. I grabbed an EPT, balanced it, along with the hair dye, the tampons, the personal massager, and the fated-never-to-be-used condoms on top of the Depends and, still gripping the toothpaste, shampoo, and deodorant (why had I not picked up a basket on the way in?) staggered to the checkout.

  The woman in the orange beret was headed toward the doors, jauntily swinging her plastic carrier bag of adult diapers. I tried to give her a chipper little I’m fine, don’t worry about me wave. Bad idea while holding approximately one hundred pounds of assorted health and beauty aids. The movement, slight though it was, started an avalanche of products. I watched as they slid off the imitation Depends package.

  I bent at the knees, holding the lurid purple vibrator (the one thing that hadn’t fallen, wouldn’t you know it?) on top of the Depends with my chin. Once again taking pity, Orange Beret Woman came over to help me. I could see her taking in everything she hadn’t before—the pregnancy test, the condoms. I’ll tell you, I’ve never done a more pointless I’m fine, don’t worry about me wave. I was seriously considering dropping it from my repertoire.