Retirement Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  Not the financial stuff, the lifestyle change stuff. Retirement coaching, I think it’s called. It was really interesting. “

  “Hey, Carol,” Nancy said. “Maybe that’s what you and Jim need. A retirement coach.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, still smarting from Nancy’s comments.

  “You know Jim would never go to see someone like that.”

  “Oh, come on,” Claire retorted. “You know you can get Jim to do anything you want. All you have to do is make him think it was his idea. Remember how you wanted to take that trip to Europe, and you knew Jim would never go for it because he wouldn’t want to spend the money? You never directly brought the subject up with him. You called me and told me all about it, knowing full well that he was in the next room and would overhear our conversation. Next thing you know, he was starting to think about it, too. Why don’t you go home after lunch and go online and see what you can find about retirement coaches? It’s worth a shot.

  “Oh, great, here’s our food at last. I’m starving.”

  I don’t remember what else we talked about at lunch. I was itching to get home, turn on my computer and Google retirement coaches.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Q: When is a retiree’s bedtime?

  A: Three hours after he falls asleep on the couch.

  We didn’t leave the restaurant until about 2:45. It took forever to get the check from our waitress, and nobody wanted to split the bill evenly since Mary Alice hadn’t ordered dessert. When Claire pulled out her cal-culator to figure out what each one of us owed, I snatched up the bill and said, “My treat.” Jeez. My whole life was a stake here. Who cared about a few measly dollars one way or the other?

  Usually, I love driving around our town, especially on our street, Old Fairport Turnpike, a graceful road filled with stately homes, many of which date back to the American Revolution. Fairport, Connecticut, is a very old town, and Jim and I live in the historic district, where several of the houses were burned by the British in a brief visit during that war. To have burn marks on the floor of an antique home like ours is considered a primo selling point, according to Nancy.

  When I’d left for lunch more than three hours before, I’d closed and latched the gate on the picket fence that surrounds our property. Old Fairport Turnpike is a busy street in town, and some people have actually had the nerve to use our driveway as a turn-around. I hate that, so I always lock the gate.

  Of course, because the gate was old, like our white colonial house, and I was in such a hurry to get inside, I had trouble getting it open. Ditto the kitchen door, which sticks no matter what the weather is. Part of the “charm” of an antique house. That and crooked door frames, low ceilings and uneven floors.

  My two English cocker spaniels, Lucy and Ethel, raced up to greet me.

  “Hi girls.” I reached down to give them each a quick pat. “You’ll never guess what happened at lunch today. I may have discovered a solution to our latest problems with Jim. I’ll tell you all about it after you go outside for a quick run.”

  I admit it’s crazy to talk to my dogs all the time the way I do, but they’re good listeners and I can trust them to keep a secret. They always agree with me, too. Too bad a handful of kibble, fresh water and some dog biscuits weren’t enough to produce unconditional love from humans.

  The red light on my telephone blinked at me accusingly. I had one message and, of course, it was from My Beloved. I could tell by the tone of his voice that something was up. “Carol,” he barked into the phone,

  “why are you never home when I want to talk to you? I was going to leave a message on your cell phone, but then I figured you didn’t have the damn thing on.”

  He had me there. I thought my cell phone was a nuisance, and I rarely turned it on. Those folks who drove their cars or walked down the street or did their grocery shopping with a phone plastered to their head, like every call was a life-and-death situation, were ridiculous, as far as I was concerned.

  I heard the sound of Jim shifting some papers in the background.

  “I didn’t mean to yell,” he continued. “I’ve got exciting news to tell you. It’ll have to wait until I get home tonight, since I don’t know where you are. Don’t try to call me back. I’ll be in meetings for the rest of the afternoon. See you later.”

  Exciting news, huh? That could mean anything. But he did sound upbeat, once he got over the fact that I wasn’t home. I’d told Jim this morning, before he flew out the door to catch his train, that I was going out for lunch today, but of course, he didn’t listen. I refused to speculate about Jim’s news. I’d find out soon enough.

  “Come on, girls,” I said to the dogs, back from performing their necessary outdoor duties, “we’ve got work to do.” I tossed them each a dog biscuit to reward them for a job well done. They followed me into my home office and flopped at my feet. When the cheery computer voice said, “Welcome! You’ve got mail,” for once I didn’t immediately rush to check my e-mail messages.

  I looked at my blank computer screen and tried to remember exactly what phrase Mary Alice had used. My short-term memory, sadly, isn’t what it used to be. Neither is most of my body, but let’s not get into that now.

  I typed in “Retirement” and got more than 2,000 possible web sites I could check out. Then I tried “Retirement Planning” and got web sites that were all about financial planning issues. Not what I was looking for.

  I cursed myself for not writing the phrase down.

  “How about ‘Baby Boomers and Retirement’?” I asked Lucy and Ethel. They wagged their tails in agreement. Nope, no help there either.

  I didn’t need to know the number of baby boomers there were in the U.S., nor did I need any more sites about financial planning.

  I looked at the clock on my desk. It was already close to 4:00 and Jim was usually home by 5:30 these days. Sometimes, even earlier. I had no time to waste, and I certainly didn’t want him coming in while I was online and asking me what I was looking for. When he was around, I had no privacy at all.

  “Wait a minute,” I said to the dogs. “I think Mary Alice said the key words are retirement coaches. Let’s try that one and see what happens.

  Bingo!”

  In no time I had web sites on healthy aging (an oxymoron if I ever heard one), lifestyle changes, retirement lifestyle coaching, lifelong learning, and on and on. How could I choose the right one and check out it out before Jim got home?

  Then I scrolled down to a site which read: “Retirement Survival Center, dedicated to helping Baby Boomers make the transition to the best part of their lives.” Hmm, I liked the sound of that one, though I didn’t understand why “retirement” was hyphenated. A double click of my mouse and I was gazing into the face of Dr. Davis Rhodes, founder and director of the Center.

  Briefly I scanned his bio. A Ph.D. in lifestyle counseling, whatever that meant. Originally from California. Author of the book, Re-tirement’s Not For Sissies: A Baby Boomer’s Guide To Making The Most of The Best of Your Life.

  There was that hyphen again.

  I clicked on “Mission.” His approach certainly was unique. “In my book, I break down the word ‘retire’ into re-tire, just like rotating tires on a car. If your tires are a little worn, you don’t throw them away, you rotate them to get the most out of them,” he explained. “When you re-tire, you are rotating your personal tires and looking at your own life differently, determining how to get the most out of what promises to be the very best part of your life.” Interesting. I wondered if Jim would go for it.

  I clicked on “About the Center” and got “This Site Is Under Construction.” I tried “Key Services.” Again, “Under Construction.” Impatiently, I clicked on others: “Re-tirement Lifestyle Coaching,” “Private Consultations,” “Individual and Couples Counseling,” “Re-tirement Lifestyle Seminars.” Each time, I kept getting the prompt, “Under Construction.”

  Very frustrating. I c
hecked the clock again. It was now 4:45. Not much more time left to fool around with this.

  One more try and then I had to get off-line and start dinner.

  I clicked on the only heading I hadn’t tried, “R.A.T.”, which turned out to stand for “Re-tirement Aptitude Test.” This time I got a list of questions which were to be answered and then e-mailed to Dr. Rhodes for evaluation. “Pretend you are being interviewed for a new job,” he suggested. “But this time you are interviewing yourself. You now have the opportunity to hire yourself to do something you really want to do.

  “How do you adjust to change? How do you measure your self-worth?

  What is your idea of time well-spent? What is your definition of success?

  How do you see yourself in the next ten years?

  “On a scale of one-to-ten, with one being the highest, rank the following as being important in your life: Financial security, a solid family life, social interaction, giving back to the community, professional satisfaction, living independently, good health, spousal interaction, being in charge of a situation, positive feedback.”

  I scrolled down a little further and found a separate test for spouses whose husbands were facing retirement, the Re-tirement Aptitude Test for Spouses (R.A.T.S.).

  “This is great,” I said to the girls. “He gets the fact that wives could have problems when their husbands are suddenly around the house all the time with nothing to do.”

  I was ready to fill in the R.A.T.S. questions when I realized there was a catch to all this. If I e-mailed my test to Dr. Rhodes for his feedback, I had to pay an up-front non-refundable $85 registration fee (via credit card) to have him evaluate my answers.

  Jim would never go for that. He was forever lecturing me on the dan-gers of cyberspace and credit fraud.

  I was about to log off when I realized there was a “Contact Me” icon with an office address and phone number. I couldn’t believe my luck. Dr.

  Davis Rhodes had an office in Westfield, only five miles from here.

  I needed to think this through. Maybe when I was cooking dinner, I’d come up with a strategy to entice Jim to make an appointment with Rhodes. One way or another, I wanted Jim to check out this web site.

  “Honest to God, a brownie troop is run better than that place.”

  Jim burst through the kitchen door and slammed his briefcase on the black granite counter. “You won’t believe what that idiot did today!”

  My Beloved was home from the office, and even more agitated than usual. Obviously, something had happened after Jim’s “exciting news” phone call.

  I took a deep breath and considered a variety of responses. None of them seemed likely to diffuse the situation, so I fell back on the tried and true method I used whenever our kids, Mike and Jenny, came home from school upset about something that happened on the playground—a food diversion.

  Instead of offering Oreos and milk, however, I pulled out some grownup guns.

  “I just finished cutting up fresh vegetables, Jim, and there’s ranch dip in the refrigerator. I also warmed up some homemade clam chowder.

  Why don’t you fix yourself a snack and have a glass of that nice merlot while I finish grilling the salmon?”

  “Don’t you want to hear what happened today?” Jim asked testily.

  “Of course I do, dear.” As if there were a way I could avoid it. “But why don’t you tell me when we’re sitting down at the table and I can give you my full attention? Right now, I really need to keep an eye on this salmon.

  You know you don’t like it too well-done.”

  “I’m going to wash my face and change. But just let me tell you this—

  I don’t know how much more of this I can take! I’ve decided to go to the human resources office tomorrow and look at my retirement options!”

  With that dramatic announcement, Jim stormed out of the room and headed upstairs.

  Oh, boy. This was even more serious than I thought. He had never threatened to go to the human resources office before, no matter how much he complained about the agency.

  That meant I only had tonight to put my plan into action.

  Quietly, so Jim wouldn’t hear me, I called Nancy on her cell phone.

  “Thank God I got you,” I whispered.

  “I was just about to go out and show a client a house. Some people are so inconsiderate. They think Realtors are at their disposal twenty-four hours a day. This is some young yuppie with big bucks who…”

  I cut her off before she could get into one of her familiar tirades about the trials and tribulations of being a real estate agent.

  “Nancy,” I whispered again.

  “Carol, I can hardly hear you. Why are you talking so softly?”

  “I can’t talk any louder,” I hissed. “And I have to make this quick. Jim just got home and he’s threatening to go to the human resources office tomorrow to look at his retirement options.”

  “Oh, God, that’s awful. What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what Mary Alice said at lunch. Maybe a retirement coach would help Jim and me. I found someone I think would be perfect. But I need to get Jim to look at his web site tonight, and I need him to think it was his idea. Can you help me?”

  “Sure I’ll help you. What do you want me to do?”

  “Can you call me here in about an hour?” I asked. “Will you be through with your client by then?”

  “I’d better be. And if I’m not, I’ll just go out to my car and use my cell for a minute. What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing. All I want you to do is listen to me. I’m going to tell you all about this retirement counselor’s web site I found, and talk loud enough so Jim will hear me.”

  I thought fast. “Maybe I’ll pretend that you’re calling me about the web site. I don’t know. I’ll figure out something. The important thing is that I’ll sound so excited that it will pique his curiosity. Hopefully. All you need is to call me in an hour and let me babble away. Ok?”

  “Consider it done,” said Nancy. “It’s five-forty-five now. I’ll call you at six-forty-five sharp.”

  “Thanks. You’re terrific.”

  Well, I had a plan, sort of. But whether it would work with My Beloved in such a foul mood was anybody’s guess.

  Jim stomped into the kitchen, dressed in his favorite baggy gray sweater and a pair of paint-stained sweat pants. Ordinarily, I would have been prompted to make a snappy comment about his clothing of choice, but tonight I had more important things on my mind.

  “So tell me what happened at the office today, dear,” I asked as I poured Jim a glass of wine.

  “You know, if we’re having salmon tonight, we really should be drinking a white wine.” Jim took a sip from the glass I had put in front of him.

  “Hmm, this is pretty good. Did Mike recommend it?”

  Our 25-year-old son Mike had become the family authority on all things relating to wine choices as well as the latest in mixed drinks. No, he wasn’t a recovering alcoholic. He was a budding entrepreneur.

  Right after he graduated from college three years ago, Mike took off for the warm weather and bright lights of South Beach, Florida. He’d taken a bartending course over the summer of his junior year, and supported himself with a variety of bartending jobs for a few years. Jim and I used to joke privately that Mike’s bartending degree had turned out to be more useful to him than his four-year diploma from college.

  Then Mike had the opportunity to buy into a new martini bar in South Beach. Jim and I talked it over, and agreed to lend him the $50,000 he needed to become a partner. But we made it clear, in writing, that this was just a loan, and drew up a contract, which we all signed, detailing the terms of repayment.

  The bar was re-named Cosmo’s by Mike and his partners. They added cosmopolitans to their drinks menu, and completely redecorated the bar with a Cosmopolitan magazine theme. The walls were now adorned with covers from magazines going back to the mid-1960s, when Helen Gurley B
rown had taken over the editor’s job, to the present. It was incredible to see how the publication had changed over the years.

  I especially got a kick out of Cosmo’s as the choice of the bar’s name because in 1974, for one year, I had worked at Cosmopolitan magazine in the copy department as a fact checker. I still have all the old magazines with my name on the masthead—in very small type, of course.

  Mike claims the bar name is just a coincidence, but I secretly believe the name was chosen in my honor. A mother can have fantasies, right?

  Jim was proud as punch that Cosmo’s had become such a success, and when the time came that Mike had enough money to start paying back the $50,000 loan, we decided to keep some of our money in the bar and be “silent partners.” Mike and his partners were now thinking of expanding Cosmo’s to another site in the New York metropolitan area.

  “I haven’t heard from Mike this week, have you?” I said, my hackles rising ever so slightly at Jim’s obvious lack of faith in my wine choice. My Beloved Husband drank jug wine from a jelly glass for years. And I can’t count the number of dinner parties we’d hosted where he poured cheap wine into a Waterford decanter and put it on the dining room table, so guests wouldn’t realize what they were really drinking. Lots of puckered lips in those days.

  I took a sip of the wine myself and swirled it around in my mouth.

  “This merlot is pretty smooth, isn’t it? I saw it advertised on The Food Channel. It was only twelve dollars a bottle. We can switch to a white wine with the fish if you want to.”

  I plated the fish, added some steamed asparagus and a baked potato, and set the repast in front of my husband. He seemed to be slightly mel-lower than when he’d come home from the agency, which I took as a hopeful sign.

  “Now,” I asked with wifely concern as I joined him at the kitchen table, “what happened at the office today to get you so upset? You sounded so upbeat on the phone.” When you weren’t giving me grief about being out of the house when you called.