Retirement Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  Oh, dear.

  “Girls,” I announced to Lucy and Ethel, “I may have accidentally created another problem.”

  They both wagged their tails and looked sympathetic. I reached down to give them each a quick scratch. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Sighing, I closed my e-mail and sat staring at the blank computer screen. None of this sounded good to me.

  “Did Davis Rhodes really agree to have Jim do a proposal for marketing his book and his Center?” I asked the dogs. “How could I not have heard that last night? Is Jim reading things into our meeting that didn’t happen?”

  I shook my head to clear my muddled brain.

  “No,” I told the dogs. “Jim is a professional. He’d never do that. He has good judgment when it comes to his work.”

  But Jim was also desperate. I knew that better than anyone.

  Was he grasping at straws to reinvent his job? Should I be happy that he was fixated on landing a new client now, rather than on early retirement? How could Jim have told his boss he’d signed Davis Rhodes as a client for the agency before he’d even given the guy a proposal?

  I needed to think hard about this.

  And worry.

  And feel guilty, because if it hadn’t been for me, Jim would never have met Davis Rhodes in the first place.

  What would happen if Jim wasn’t able to sign Rhodes, and Mack found out My Beloved Husband had been lying about it being a done deal?

  I had a momentary vision of us being forced to sell our beautiful home because we couldn’t keep up with the property taxes. Jim was now worse than unemployed—no one wanted to hire him since word of his shameful behavior and lack of professional ethics had swept the public relations world. We’d end up living in a small bungalow at the Connecticut shore, and I’d take a part-time job as a check-out clerk at the local food store just to make ends meet. Jim would take the only job he could find, driving around neighborhoods delivering newspapers at 5 a.m. He’d lie and tell all our friends he’d taken early retirement and was in “media relations.”

  We’d shop at thrift stores for our clothes, and buy day-old bread, dented canned goods and perishable food items whose “use-by” dates had long since expired.

  Our children would send us money to live on, instead of the other way around.

  Well, maybe there was a bright side to this after all.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Sweetheart. You startled me.”

  Jenny came into my office. Her short blonde hair was sticking up en-dearingly on one side of her head, and she was wearing a pair of old pink pajamas with red hearts on them. She looked like she was about ten years old.

  I got up and hugged her, smoothing down her hair.

  I felt a little tremor go through her body. Was she crying in my arms?

  So far neither Jim nor I had asked Jenny for any details of what had made her come back from the West Coast. We knew she would tell us what she wanted us to know when she was ready for us to know it.

  Then she pulled away and said, “Sorry Mom. I didn’t realize you were on the computer. I’ll go into the kitchen and grab some breakfast.”

  “I’m never too busy for you, honey. Come on. There’s coffee already made. And I’ll make you some eggs, ok?”

  “No eggs for me. Cholesterol, you know? But I’ll have some coffee with you and maybe some fruit or granola and yogurt if you have some?

  I can get it myself. You don’t have to wait on me.”

  “I want to wait on you,” I protested. “Maybe the reason you ended up coming home wasn’t the most positive one, but I’ll admit that it’s a treat for me to have you here. If that’s kind of selfish, well, I guess I’m guilty.

  So let me get your breakfast.”

  The dogs raced ahead of me and then stopped by their food bowls.

  “I get it, girls. You need some food, too.”

  Jenny laughed and settled herself in a kitchen chair.

  After giving the dogs fresh water and a few handfuls of dry dog food, I pulled out a mug from the kitchen cabinet. It had a picture of a ballerina on it.

  “Are you too grown-up to have your coffee in this?”

  “Oh, Mom, I can’t believe you still have this,” Jenny exclaimed.

  “Using this mug for chocolate milk was my special reward when I finished all my vegetables.”

  I was rummaging in the refrigerator for yogurt. “Jenny, I’m afraid that we don’t have any yogurt right now. I need to get to the food store sometime today. How about some cold cereal and a banana?”

  “Sure, Mom, thanks. Living in California for a while has changed my eating habits. I’ve become much more conscious of sugar and sodium in food. Jeff used to say…”

  She stopped and her eyes filled with tears.

  I wasn’t sure how to react. I’m an impulsive person, and in the old days I would have crossed the kitchen in two steps, tissues in hand, kissed her and told her that whatever was wrong, Mom and Dad would make it better. But she was all grown up now, and in charge of her own life. My job was to be there for support when she wanted it.

  I sat down at the table beside her and covered her hand with mine.

  “Jenny, honey. I hate to see you so upset. Dad and I both wish we could do something to help you.”

  I paused.

  Careful, said my brain to my mouth. Don’t say exactly what you’re thinking, that Jeff is a jerk and you’re much too good for him. Some of my friends had said negative things about their offspring’s partner after the couple broke up. Then the pair reconciled, and their harsh criticism had alienated their child, in one case for a whole year. I didn’t want to take that chance with my daughter.

  “We don’t want to pry or intrude on your space,” I continued cautiously. “You know we’re glad to have you home, and if you want to talk about your issues with Jeff, that’s fine. I’ll just listen. If you don’t, that’s ok too. It’s your call.”

  Jenny sat there moist-eyed. “It’s kind of hard to talk about this with your mother. It’s just so personal. I suppose that sounds stupid. Of course it’s personal. Oh, I’m just so mixed up!” She covered her eyes and began to cry again.

  To give her some time to get control of herself, I decided to share a little of my relationship with my own mother. “Sweetie, you know that I never had these kinds of intimate talks with your grandmother. I admit that Grandma and I had our problems over the years. There were times that I really wanted to talk to her about personal things, especially when I was a new bride. The few times I tried, she got very upset, embarrassed, defensive, whatever. Of course, you have to remember that your grandfather died before I was born, so her experience with married life was pretty brief. Anyway, I certainly didn’t want to upset her, so I just backed off.

  “But I’d like to think that you and I have a different, more open relationship than Grandma and I had,” I went on.

  Dramatically I put my hand over my heart. “I hereby promise that whenever you want to talk, I’ll just listen and won’t say a word. You know how hard that will be for me. I’ll even put it in writing.”

  Jenny smiled, just a little.

  I got up from the table and kissed her on top of her head.

  “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here. Now, let’s change the subject. How are things going at Fairport College? Tell me about your classes and your students. I have to admit I’ve been bragging just a little to Nancy and Claire about your being a teaching assistant there.”

  “T.A., Mom.”

  “What?”

  “The job is called a T.A.”

  Jenny ate a bite of her cereal and drank a few sips of her coffee. Nour-ishment: balm for a mother’s soul.

  “The students are an interesting cross-section of people. All ages, all ethnic groups. I was kind of intimidated the first day by the fact that so many of my students are older than I am. But Dr. Burns said not to let that bother me.”

  “Dr. Burns?” I repeated. “You mean Linda Burns?” />
  “Yes. Even though she’s in the history department and I’m in American literature, she made a point of stopping by my department office to welcome me.”

  “That was nice of her,” I said slowly. “I don’t see her that often any more.” Thank God. And I think she’s a royal pain. But if she was nice to my daughter, she went up a notch in my estimation.

  “I used to baby-sit for her two sons, remember? They were real terrors.

  I called her Mrs. Burns then. But when I called her that at school, she oh-so-gently reminded me that she’s Dr. Burns. What’s up with that?”

  “Well, Jenny, I guess she’s just proud of having her Ph.D. Maybe when you get yours, you’ll be the same way.”

  Did I want to tell Jenny that I thought Linda Burns was incredibly pretentious? I was sorely tempted. But Linda Burns was also in a position to help my daughter, and besides, as my mother used to tell me, “If you can’t say something nice about someone, say nothing.”

  So, I clamped my lips together, and said nothing.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Marriage is a relationship in which one person is always right and the other is a husband.

  I decided to be supportive about the Jim-Davis Rhodes situation. For the next few weeks I was an empathetic sounding board to many of My Beloved’s ideas for making the retirement coach a household word. I was happy to see Jim so enthused about his career again, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that he had bragged to his boss about landing a client before the deal was set.

  There was also something niggling at me about the great Dr. Rhodes.

  I remembered sitting there in his kitchen with that blasted plate of chocolate chip cookies in front of me, listening to him go on and on about his re-treading strategy. He almost seemed like he was reciting from a prepared script. Not that I ever would have said that to Jim.

  Or, maybe—to be completely honest—I was a little jealous of Jim’s continuing infatuation with him.

  Anyway, between Jenny’s living at home and keeping an erratic schedule because of her classes, and Jim’s life revolving entirely (at least that’s how it seemed to me) around Davis Rhodes’s availability, I began to feel like a short-order cook. We never ate meals together and talked, the way I’d fantasized we would when Jenny came home from California. Either she was leaving when Jim was coming in or vice versa. Diners passing in the night, so to speak.

  Jim became more and more obsessed with his campaign to make Davis Rhodes a media star. It was all he talked about.

  Then it all came crashing down, like the stock market on a very bad day.

  Four weeks had passed since our meeting with Davis Rhodes. The day started like any other; Jim dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a quick cup of coffee and a bagel to take with him to the train. I remember that it was a cinnamon raisin bagel, his favorite. It’s funny, the stupid things that stick in your mind.

  “Don’t expect me for dinner tonight,” he said over his shoulder on his way out the kitchen door. “Dave and I will be working late. I think he’s as enthused about this whole project as I am, and we’re almost through with an initial media presentation and a press kit.”

  “Jim, just one thing before you go.”

  He turned around and looked at me, clearly annoyed. “Don’t make me miss my train, Carol. What is it?”

  “Well, I just wondered if Dave has given you any kind of retainer for all the work you’re doing for him? I mean, you did sign a contract with him, right?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jim snapped. “We shook hands. That’s enough for me. You don’t understand how business is done these days. I’ll be late tonight. I’m going to Dave’s directly from the train, so don’t wait dinner for me.”

  He aimed a quick air kiss at my cheek and was out the door.

  I tried hard not to overreact to Jim’s words. I certainly did know how business was done these days, thank you very much. Maybe I hadn’t gained most of my professional experience in corporate America, but I knew that a handshake wasn’t necessarily a binding contract.

  I turned to the dogs and said, “Well, girls, our day isn’t starting out so great. Let’s chill out with Wake Up New England for a little while. You know how you love that show.”

  They wagged their stubby tails in agreement, and we all headed into the family room to turn on the television. I kept the volume low because Jenny was still asleep upstairs.

  I must admit I was only half-listening to the television while, multi-tasker that I am, I was sorting through a week’s worth of newspapers to put out for recycling.

  And then I heard Dan (“The Morning Man”) Smith, the show’s co-host, say, “Since January one, two thousand and six, eight thousand baby boomers are turning sixty every day. Boomers currently make up forty-six percent of this country’s work force. The oldest members of this generation will be eligible for retirement soon, precipitating what some econo-mists have called a boomer retirement revolution. Tomorrow on Wake Up New England, join us as we meet Dr. Davis Rhodes, a retirement guru and lifestyle coach whose unique approach is guaranteed to help these potential retirees achieve complete satisfaction in the next phase of their lives.”

  I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Jim had actually done it. This time I was glad I was wrong. What a coup! Davis Rhodes on Wake Up New England!

  And Jim never said a word to me about it.

  I knew My Beloved wouldn’t be in the office yet, but I just had to call and leave him a message on his voice mail.

  “Hi, it’s me. I am so proud of you! Congratulations on getting Davis Rhodes on Wake Up New England tomorrow. How did you do it? Why didn’t you tell me? This is so wonderful. Call me when you get a chance. I’ll be here all morning.”

  I took a quick shower and, when I was drying myself off, the phone rang. I ran to get it, wrapped in a towel, and it was Jim.

  “Carol, are you crazy?” he yelled at me. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t get Davis Rhodes on Wake Up New England.”

  I wrapped the towel tighter around me, trying hard not to drip on the floor.

  “I know what I heard,” I answered defensively. “Dan Smith announced a special feature on baby boomers and retirement that’s going to be on tomorrow’s show, and Davis Rhodes is the guest.”

  “You must have heard wrong,” Jim barked at me. “I haven’t even sent out a press release about the guy yet. You absolutely misunderstood, and it’s not the first time you’ve called me at work with some ridiculous news that turned out to be completely wrong. Are you trying to get me upset?

  Do you want me to lose my job? Why are you doing this to me? I have to go.”

  He slammed down the phone in my ear.

  I lost it. I really did. I’ve never been able to deal with it when Jim yelled at me. He was a prime example of the “Shoot the messenger first, and then ask questions” school of communication. As a result, over the past few years, I began to rely more and more on e-mail when I had something to tell him that I suspected would make him blow his top. Sadly, I’ve learned that it’s often easier to interact with My Beloved via the computer than in person.

  But this time I was truly caught off guard.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. Tears sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t help it. What was going on? And how dare Jim take it out on me if Davis Rhodes was turning out to be an undependable liar and a jerk.

  Ok, calm down, I told myself. You know how Jim operates. Once he thinks this through, he’ll call back and apologize for yelling and taking out his frustrations on you. He always does, eventually. And you always, always overreact, Carol. Don’t be such a cry baby. And don’t let Jenny see you like this.

  I toweled myself dry and threw on a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.

  What you need, I told myself, is to treat yourself very nicely today while the situation—which you can do absolutely nothing about—works itself out.

  Frowning, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror. I
n addition to my pink puffy eyes, was that some gray hair I saw peeking out around my temples? Now, that was something I could do something about, assuming I could get an appointment today at Crimpers, our local hair salon.

  I reached for the phone and, for once, I got lucky. Deanna, my favorite stylist, had just gotten a cancellation. She would work me in for a color and cut if I didn’t mind coming over right away.

  I tiptoed downstairs, let the dogs out for a quick run around the back yard, left a note for Jenny, and then I was on my way to get coddled, colored and pampered.

  And I deserved it.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Q: What do retirees call a long lunch?

  A: Normal.

  Perhaps there are some women out there who don’t have a special relationship with their hair stylist. But believe me, they are few and far between.

  Hair salons are to American women what local pubs are to European men: a place to relax, laugh and talk. To take and give advice on a wide variety of subjects. A sisterhood. And, if you’re really lucky, like I am, a place to share secrets with your hair stylist while the other patrons are under the dryer and can’t hear.

  Deanna knows more about me and my life than most members of my family and some of my closest friends do. A petite brunette (this month) with spiky hair and a pale complexion, she favors ruby red lipstick and matching nail polish. She’s forever trying to lose weight—though she certainly doesn’t need to—and she can read my face and body language like an open book.

  So it was no surprise that, when I walked in the door of Crimpers that morning, she gave me a big smile and waved with her scissors, then frowned and looked at me questioningly. “What’s up with you?” she was asking me in her private shorthand.

  “Thanks for squeezing me in, Deanna,” I said brightly. “I’ll have a cup of coffee and look through the latest magazines until you’re ready for me.”