by Murphy, R.
Chapter 12
Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics
So let’s take inventory here. House under water financially, and gaining on it literally. Almost half of my future income vaporized in a three-minute phone conversation. Taxes going through the roof. My writing a book about my relationship with ghost Bob irritated David. My voice didn’t play well with others. In fact, judging by the cool tenor of some of my sisterly relationships lately, my life choices didn’t play well with others either. (Next thing you know, just to demonstrate my ongoing ability to make poor choices, I’ll probably start running around with scissors.) And Bob? Still MIA, which ticked me off no end considering how I’d fought for him with Miss Smarty-Pants Parker and her hyper-verbal set at the Algonquin.
Enough.
I’m tired of letting the Economy use me for its chew toy. It’s time to face some hard truths and make changes.
I spent the hours before dinner crunching numbers and turning my already-meager budget inside out. No tasty fresh-cooked meal tonight. I pulled frozen soup and bread out of the freezer to thaw and turned back to my calculator.
Finally I realized I had no more options. I had to put my house on the market. I’d never make back my original purchase price, but with luck I’d make enough to pay off the mortgage and get away from these ferocious monthly payments. With maybe enough cash left to cover rent on an apartment somewhere closer to a viable full-time job market. I felt too old to be starting at the bottom again but, really, what other choice did I have? Mooch off David? Mooch off my sisters? Neither possibility appealed. It’s times like this I can’t get that bleak image from the final pages of Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth out of my head. The frail bird’s nest built over the edge of the cliff. My home was the only substantial asset I had left, and I needed to leave the little bit of security it offered, no matter how illusory that security might be.
But a number is a number is a number. There’s no negotiating with the little suckers. What did Disraeli say? “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.”
I’d finished my first glass of wine when David arrived, and poured a fresh glass for us both.
“What are we celebrating?” he asked as he hung his jacket by the kitchen door. “Did one of your companies win that big Community Chest competition?” He picked up the wineglass, toasted it against mine with a brittle chink, and sniffed. “Oh, you opened the dry riesling tonight. Nice.” He sipped and sat down at the table in Bob’s chair. “So, what’s up?”
“You’re right. Knobox did get the big America Wins! award. Tess told me earlier but I don’t have any of the details yet.” I took another drink, then parroted in the chipper voice I’d often hear on late-night infomercials. “But wait, there’s more.”
David looked at me, his eyebrows lifted with an unspoken question.
“I got a notice from the County Clerk’s office. They’re raising my taxes. A lot. Apparently they reappraised my house when I bought it and now they say it’s a lot more valuable than I thought,” I said in an ironic tone.
“Why do you say it like that?” David asked.
“We both know darn well I’d never get the appraised value if I tried to sell it today. The higher number is just a way for the township to soak lakefront owners for more tax money.”
David drank a little more wine, then said, “Don’t forget, you can protest the revised appraisal. The township has a Tax Grievance meeting once a year for homeowners. You might be able to get the taxes lowered again. I’m not sure when they have that meeting, but I can find out for you.”
Maybe it’s David’s very practical ability to find solutions to problems that keeps him so calm all the time. But I’m one of those ‘leave no worry unworried’ sorts, so ‘calm’ doesn’t always work for me.
“That might help in the long term, but the mortgage company’s still jacking up my monthly payment in a few months. I had some other news today, too,” I continued as I got up to warm the still-frozen soup and preheat the oven for the bread. When I sat down again, I announced in a bitter tone, “Amanda’s dropping me as a freelancer even though Topco won some Community Chest awards and they love my work. They’re reorganizing. I lost about half of my income this afternoon.”
“Oh, honey,” David said, shocked. “You should have called me!”
“That’s kind of you, but what good would that have done? This afternoon’s made me realize I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise. I can’t afford to stay on this lake, not on a freelancer’s unpredictable income, that’s for sure. Only rich people can afford it, or people who inherit their houses. It’s time I came to my senses. No more weekends in Manhattan, no more wine for dinner―I’ve been kidding myself.” I took a deep breath, gazed at the lake that had been my constant challenge and companion over the past seven months, and announced my decision. “I can’t afford to live here anymore. I’m going to have to put this place on the market.”
David studied the rain-dappled lake outside and took a quiet mouthful of wine. He got up, removed a couple of bowls and silverware from the cupboards, and set them on the table. Then he said softly, “Would you leave after you sold this place, Roz?”
Just as quietly I answered, “I think I have to. I need full-time work and there’s practically nothing out here. The area certainly doesn’t offer any jobs for business writers.”
David leaned against the counter. “You could, of course, always move in with me. It was probably just a matter of time before it happened anyway.”
“Why, you sweet-tongued dickens,” I said, half-laughing. David flushed, and I hastily apologized, “No, I’m sorry, David. That’s a lovely offer and you’re very kind to say it. I might have to take you up on it, but I can’t plan on it. I’m so used to supporting myself―I just can’t see giving it up. I’m too young to rely on someone else to take care of me. I mean, it’s not like I have young children to worry about, or anything.”
“Well, the offer’s on the table. You know how times are lean at my place right now, but at least you’d have a roof over your head,” David continued haltingly.
“I know, honey.” I took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re a prince. But let me see what’s out there before I decide what to do.” My knees creaked as I stood. Everything seemed to be deteriorating at once. After I’d stirred the soup and put the bread in the oven, I asked, “So what do you hear in the area about good real estate agents? I’ll need to contact a few for estimates to see what I can get for this place.”
“If you’re going to sell, there’s only one person to use,” David observed. Gazing into the distance, he said, “Sell today with Penny Mae!” and I recognized the tag line on many of the real estate agent signs I’d seen when running errands around the lake.
“Have you ever worked with her? Or do you know someone who has?” I asked.
“When Bethie and I bought our place eight years ago, we used Penny Mae’s dad. She was finishing college at the time, I’m pretty sure he told us. Then she joined him after she graduated, and she took over the office when he died two or three years ago. She’s building a good name for herself. I hear she’s a real firecracker. You should at least talk with her.”
David brought the pot of now-hot soup to the table and doled out big bowlsful for us. I carried over the bread and butter.
“I’ll call her tomorrow and let you know what she says,” I said, blowing gently on a spoonful of soup while I spoke.
After dinner we brought the last bit of our wine into the living room. David set a match to the wood he’d positioned in the fireplace a million years ago before our trip into Manhattan. After it caught, he joined me on the sofa and placed his arm along my back, creating that nook against his side where I could snuggle, feeling safe and protected from the world. I cuddled in with a sigh, and we gazed silently at the crackling fire.
/> After a few minutes, David tightened his arm around me. “So where do we go from here, Roz?”
I exhaled a huge gust of air. “God help me, I just don’t know. I love being with you, David, but I have to be able to support myself and I just can’t do it here. I’ve been thinking, maybe we should break this off before we get in any deeper. You focus on your new plantings and I’ll concentrate on my next steps.”
“Is that what you really want?” David whispered in my ear.
“No, not really, but I don’t want to lead either of us on and it’s probably the most practical way to handle things,” I admitted reluctantly, basking in the warmth of the body next to mine.
“So who says we have to be practical here?” he continued, only to be met with another gusty sigh from me. After a long pause, David said softly, “Do you think maybe we could start being practical tomorrow?”
I giggled. As always, cool wine and a hot fire demolished my willpower. “Well, okay, we’ll start tomorrow.”
Moonlight drenched the bedroom on that beautifully bittersweet night.
Dawn found us both wide-awake, with me in my usual station, cuddled into David’s side. Outside, for the fourth straight day, the rain pounded against the windows. Only a lighter shade of gray indicated that the sun had risen. As the clock hummed inevitably forward, David exhaled loudly and spoke into the silence.
“What we have here is awfully good, Roz, but I’ll never force myself on a woman who doesn’t want me around. Are you really sure you want to break it off?”
I swung off the bed and stretched for my robe. “No, I’m not sure at all. But I’m trying to be fair to both of us. It would be even worse if we got in deeper and deeper with each other and then in two months I had to move to San Francisco or Houston with a new job. Your vineyards are here. Your life is here. We have no idea where this relationship will wind up so it just makes sense to walk away while we both can without breaking our hearts in the process.”
David sat up and grabbed his pants off the floor. As he searched for a missing sock, I asked, “Want some coffee?”
“No, I’m going to just head home.” David shrugged into his wrinkled tee and pulled his sweater from behind the chair. “I’ll stop by later to pick up my stuff if that’s okay. I need to get going,” he ground out in a strangled voice.
I nodded in assent, tugged my robe closed, and went over to where he now stood mostly dressed. For a minute we leaned body to body, hugging. Then I left the room quickly, before I started crying.
The front door closed firmly behind David as I stood a floor below in the kitchen, measuring out the coffee. My tears didn’t start until I’d sat down at the table, cup in hand. But then I sobbed for what felt like hours.
Snuffling, wiping my nose with a handy paper towel, I got up for a refill. When I turned back to the table, there he sat. Bob.
I burst into another bout of tears.
“Oh, crap.” This time Bob uttered those words, not me. I guess to him a hysterically sobbing woman probably was just about as scary as a newly discovered ghost had been for me. I sat down at the table and buried my head in my arms, wailing.
“Now, now, Roz,” Bob stuttered. Never really very good in a crisis, Bob tended to flutter when upset. “Anyone would think you weren’t happy to see me.”
I hiccupped a tiny snort of laughter.
“That’s better,” he said in a relieved tone. “Gee, of all the different receptions I imagined I might get today, I never even considered hysterical tears.”
“I’m not hysterical,” I said, resolutely swiping my hands under my eyes. “You turkey. I’m upset. David and I just broke up.”
“Really?” Bob snapped to alert mode, a cheerful glow spreading over his face. Then seeing my crabby look, he slumped down again and muttered in an artificially sympathetic voice, “Aw, that’s too bad, Roz. I’m so sorry to hear about you two.”
“Yeah, right, you big phony.” I studied him for a couple of minutes over the rim of my coffee mug, then said, “Where have you been? You missed a lot of excitement around here.”
“What excitement? You mean, your breakup with David?”
“Aw, hell, Bob, my breakup is just the tip of the iceberg. Did you ever make it to our concert in Carnegie Hall?”
“I did stop by, but it was kind of a zoo. Too many people for me to get comfortable. And I saw you sing but”—Bob paused, choosing his words with care—“I couldn’t hear your voice. Did you, ummm, get laryngitis?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got nothing but time. Take all you need.”
So I spent a few minutes regaling him with tales of the past week. My muted adventures at Carnegie Hall, my career conversations with Tess and Amanda, and, finally, my decision to put the house on the market.
“So you did decide to move after all,” Bob said to himself thoughtfully. “I wondered about that. That decision was half of our assignment together. Interesting.” He paused, studied my face, then said, “How are you doing with the second half? You know, your project?”
“For Pete’s sake, Bob, I’m still not even sure what my ‘special project’ is!” I tossed back at him impatiently. “How would I know if I’ve made progress on it?”
“Hmm, good point,” he responded.
Quiet fell for a moment while, for the first time in months, we actually had the luxury of time to look at each other. I wanted to hear what he’d been up to, though, so I pressed on.
“What do you think selling my house means? Are we almost finished?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Besides, you have to physically move before it’s considered done. Just putting your house on the market doesn’t count,” he answered.
“I guess you’re right. I’m meeting with real estate agents over the next couple of days, for estimates. Now, for a change,” I finally nailed my conversation bull’s-eye, “why don’t you actually tell me what you’ve been up to and where you’ve been for the past months? We never had that conversation. We just keep tap dancing around it.”
Bob sat back in his chair and stretched. “Why don’t you get washed up and dressed first. Have some breakfast. This story could take a while.”
I looked at him with suspicious eyes. Trying to dodge the issue again? Every time we started to talk about him and where he’d been, somehow the conversation had always been interrupted.
“I’m clean enough. And I’m not particularly hungry. As you said, I’ve got nothing but time. So tell away, Sparky, tell away.”
“I can’t go into a lot of detail because of those privacy issues I told you about,” Bob started.
“When all else fails and you’re facing a real conversation, you trot out those privacy concerns,” I grumbled. “Those worries seem a little far-fetched but, okay, I don’t want to see you sent back to boot camp so I’ll give you some leeway. What happened? I know about boot camp, but why were you so drunk when I saw you at the Round Table? I’ve never seen you like that. Did you even realize I was there?”
“Of course I knew it. You got my hints, didn’t you?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I stared at him in bewilderment. “You didn’t give me any clues―you drooled and rambled.”
“Think about it, Roz. One of your answers was ‘Merry Christmas’ and I yelled ‘Happy New Year.’ It pointed you in the right direction. Just like I told you to think before you used horticulture in a sentence. Even though I couldn’t come up with hints for everything, at least I helped you out with a few of them. You were great, by the way, with the Round Table. I never got a chance to tell you, but you impressed them. Except, well, maybe Dottie.”
I sat back, stumped. Bob had been conscious? “Why did you pretend to be so out of it, then? You could just have told everyone that you wanted to come back with me. Tha
t would have made things a lot easier,” I said with a sharp edge to my voice.
Bob stood abruptly and strode briskly into the living room. “I know you’ve been doing some reading on the Round Table.” He picked up one of the books on the topic I had left all over the house and flashed the cover at me. Flipping open to a random page, he read for a few seconds, and then snorted in disbelief. “Don’t writers today do any research at all? Where do they come up with this nonsense?”
I cleared my throat as a warning. No way would Bob the Trickster get me off topic that easily. He gave me a rueful grin—caught in the act—put the book down, and continued.
“How can I describe what it was like at the Round Table in those days? All these brilliant people, with strong opinions on any topic you could name―half the time they loved you, half the time they hated your guts.” He paused in front of the picture window, gazing at the lake. “It was a pretty complicated time, and a pretty complicated place. We’d all just survived World War I, the ‘War to End All Wars,’ decades, of course, before we knew World War I only began the fiasco. As military veterans, most of the men at that Table felt alternately ecstatic and guilty about surviving. So wrap up all the exuberance at being alive in the middle of the Roaring Twenties with the economy booming wherever you looked and mix it in with the superiority we all felt at living in the most important, vibrant city in the country, probably the world. To boot, most of us worked in creative fields―newspapers, publishing, writing, the theater, films―with a mission of changing the world. We were an insufferable bunch. Some more so than others, I guess,” Bob said softly, studying his hands, as if remembering the writing and typing they’d done for decades.
