I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. “It’s important,” I told him. “It won’t take very long, I promise. I could meet you somewhere, if that would save time.”
His tone changed. “Is everything all right, Caroline? I mean, is everybody okay?”
“Nobody’s sick or anything like that,” I told him. “But I really don’t want to go into it on the phone.”
“There’s a coffee shop across the street from the firm,” he said. “I’m almost there now.” He gave me the address.
“Thanks. Oh, and Gene…”
“Yes?”
“If you should happen to run into Steve, don’t mention that I called.”
I could almost hear him swallow at the other end of the line. He said something I didn’t catch and then there was a crackle, and the connection was severed.
I took the bulk of Eleanor’s papers and put them into Steve’s second-best attaché case (he took the best one with him when he moved out). I looked at myself in the mirror: I was still in my funeral garb; with the case in hand I looked deceptively professional. Would it be enough to persuade a judge that I wasn’t dangerously hysterical or hopelessly irresponsible, or would he see that Steve had much more to offer Jason and Megan than a premenopausal mop-squeezer with an attitude?
Gene was sitting at a booth in the coffee shop, gazing reflectively into his water glass. I slid in across from him. He looked at me with speculation—tinged, I thought, with alarm. “You didn’t have to dress up,” he said politely.
“I went to Eleanor Hampton’s funeral today,” I told him.
“Oh, right.” Silence. We couldn’t seem to get beyond a certain unease. What was wrong? I had known this man for years, and while we hadn’t exactly engaged in a lot of soul-baring bull sessions, at least we had never been uncomfortable. The waitress approached. “Would you like anything?” he asked, gesturing at the oversized laminated menu.
I was far too nervous to eat. “Just water,” I said. In California, you always have to ask. The waitress gave me a disgusted look. “And some tea, please,” I amended hastily.
“Coffee, black,” Gene said shortly. “Now,” he said when she had gone, “what is all this about, Caroline?” He sounded just like a lawyer, with an acre of desk between us instead of two feet of Formica table. It occurred to me that maybe he had adopted a distant tone in order to set me straight just in case I was coming on to him, but I dismissed the idea as preposterous. And anyway, I didn’t care. I was desperate, but not for male companionship. At least not at the moment.
I took a deep breath. “I think Steve might try to take Jason and Megan away from me.”
He shrank back in horror. “I’m not a family law attorney,” he said.
“I know that. But you’re a friend.”
He seemed less certain of that than I was. “Caroline, I really don’t want to get involved in your breakup with Steve.”
I clutched at his sleeve. He looked as if he’d have liked to jerk his arm away, if only good manners didn’t forbid it. “I don’t want you to get involved,” I assured him. “I really don’t.” Although I wouldn’t have minded if he’d insisted. “Please, Gene. I need someone to talk to.”
“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. He glanced around furtively, as if Steve might come popping out of the men’s room at any second, accusing him of treachery.
I was beginning to get the picture, but I told him about the house, and Steve’s comment about Megan and Jason moving in with him, and just about everything else that had happened since Steve moved out, except for my discoveries about Eleanor and Barclay. I was saving that for the coup de grâce.
“You’re paranoid,” he said with a smile, when he had heard me out.
“That’s it? That’s the verdict?” I asked him disbelievingly. “I’m paranoid?”
His smile broadened. “Well, you asked me for my opinion, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
He put his hand over mine, the first really friendly gesture he had made so far. “Okay, then. Steve hasn’t engaged a lawyer, has he?”
“Not that I know of,” I admitted.
“Then he’s probably hoping you might still work things out.”
I shook my head. “If that were true, why would he want to sell the house?”
He shrugged. “At least you shouldn’t dismiss the possibility.”
“Is it true that I’d have to buy him out if I wanted to keep it?”
“Not necessarily. But you’d probably have to trade his half for other assets, and then you might not be able to afford the house anyway. I’m not an expert in these things, but that’s usually the way it seems to go. If the house is community property, half of it is definitely Steve’s.”
“Did Mary Ann buy you out?”
He nodded. “Eventually.”
“Oh.” I paused. “What I can’t understand is why Steve would even consider having custody of the children in the first place. Even joint custody seems like too much for him.”
He frowned. “Don’t you think he loves his children? Couldn’t he just want to spend more time with them?”
“Sure, he loves them. I’m not saying he doesn’t. But he works all the time.” I sighed. “Well, in fairness, he worked all the time before he left me, too. But he schedules days or weekends to see them, and then he doesn’t show up. I think he might have this idea that because they are teenagers they don’t need any real attention, but it’s not true.”
Gene pulled at his earlobe and looked unhappy again. “Caroline, I feel incredibly disloyal to Steve in saying this, and in fact this entire conversation makes me extremely uncomfortable, but you have to realize that it’s a huge financial advantage to be the custodial parent. I’m not saying that’s what Steve’s motivation is. I’m sure it couldn’t be. But many men think their child support payments are outrageous, and they feel a lot less resentful if they have custody. In a lot of ways, it’s profitable for the wife, too, because otherwise fathers can lose touch with their children.”
“Profitable?” I sputtered.
He shrugged. “Beneficial, then. Advantageous. Get a grip, Caroline. Steve is an honorable man. He makes a good living. He can afford to pay a decent settlement, and I’m sure he’ll do right by you.”
I studied my empty teacup. “Maybe you’re right,” I told him, “but the problem is, I don’t know how to protect myself if you’re wrong.”
He shook his head. “You aren’t going to need that kind of protection. What do you think he’s going to do? Kidnap the children from their beds? Turn you out into the street? What?”
“Maybe not those things,” I admitted. “But…” I took a breath. “What if he moves our assets around so I don’t know how much he has? What if he lies about his bonus? What if he makes phony loans to his relatives?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous. That’s what Barclay Hampton did to Eleanor.”
He uttered a very refined version of a snort. “I’ve played tennis with Barclay. He’s a nice guy. He wouldn’t do that sort of thing.”
“Well, he did.”
“Who told you that? Eleanor?” He seemed almost amused. “It was Eleanor, wasn’t it? Good God, Caroline, everyone in town knows she’s nutty as a fruitcake. You shouldn’t take her word about anything.”
“Was.”
“What?”
“Was nutty as a fruitcake. They buried her today, remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
“And anyway, she had proof.” I patted the attaché case meaningfully. “Some legal documents she took from the firm, and an investigator’s report. As a matter of fact, I—”
Gene was no dummy. He knew what was coming next, and he welcomed it with all the enthusiasm he might have shown a black widow spider in the woodpile. He looked away. “Don’t ask me, Caroline.”
“Why not?” I asked, sounding like a child.
“Lots of reasons. Because
ten to one Eleanor took those documents illegally. Because in any case, even if it’s true, it has nothing to do with you. Because I said I didn’t want to get involved in your problems with Steve, and I meant it.”
“Then you won’t help me?”
“I’ll help you, but I will not look at those documents.” I started to protest, and he gave my hand another avuncular pat. Then he tore a page out of the front of his pocket diary—lawyers always carry pocket diaries, even on weekends—and wrote a name on it. He handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
He smiled. “The name of the lawyer who handled my divorce from Mary Ann. When you do need to see someone—or if you do, I should say—this guy is very conciliatory. You may not think so, but that’s important. He won’t go charging in aggressively, doing things like getting a court order to copy law firm documents or emptying out the bank accounts. That would just put Steve’s back up, and it’s the kind of thing that starts divorce wars and lets them escalate out of control. Don’t you think it’s better for everyone concerned if you and Steve stay friends?”
I had to admit that it would be.
He looked at his watch and stood. He put a five-dollar bill on the table. He gave me a perfunctory hug. “Have some faith in your husband, Caroline. No matter what happens, I’m sure there will always be a part of him that still loves you.” I said nothing and he gave me a searching look. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to end up like Eleanor Hampton…”
I didn’t want to think about what he meant by that.
5
I hadn’t made love with Steve in almost a year. The only vaguely male attention my bodily parts had received in all that time was when Melmoth drooled on my thighs while kneading my lap into a suitable resting place.
You could hardly count that.
I had known there was something wrong for months. You can’t lie next to someone night after night feeling his body go rigid with anger, his mind somewhere remote and bent on escape, without knowing. I would listen to him breathing—in, out, in, out—and try to analyze it, telling myself it was just a mood, a midlife crisis, like something out of a book that could be categorized, resolved, and worked through. I wouldn’t turn over or touch the blankets for fear of irritating him further. It’s a phase, I told myself, feeling the sheets cold and stiff between us. We’ll get through it.
On the last night we made love, we were lying naked beneath the comforter like two parked cars. I reached over tentatively and ran my hand along the warm skin of his side. When he did not cringe or turn over, I stretched out alongside him, pulling close. If he had let me, I would have melted into him, swamping our little boat in a rush of desperate, restless love.
But Steve was not interested in a tsunami of passion. His hands slid over my breasts with all the fervor of an internist conducting his yearly exam, looking for lumps. He brushed my nipples impersonally with his thumb. I put my hands to his face, searching for his mouth in the dark.
His lips were warm on mine but not comforting. Once, when we had loved each other unconditionally, a kiss could be so much more—teasing, gentle, suffocating, combustible—but now it was just mouth on mouth. He pushed my hand down his stomach, kept flat and firm by hours of lunchtime workouts. I closed my hand around him, and he muttered softly. I stroked. He placed a finger in me experimentally and sighed. “Relax,” he told me.
I had wanted this so much, but I couldn’t. I felt rejection in every line of his body, even as he lowered himself (with difficulty) into me and began to thrust. He made no sound, moving mutely to his own rhythm, going away from me. I clung to his back in misery, my eyes wet.
He finished silently, in a spurt of hot fluid. I held my breath. He shrank away and went into the bathroom, returning with a wad of tissue, which he handed me.
“Steve,” I began.
“Good night,” he said neutrally, but with finality.
When we were still friends, Steve once told me that I invested every act with too much significance. Since I wasn’t even a psych major in college and had never been to a therapist in my life (Susan thought I should, after Steve moved out, but then, she’s from New York, and people in New York see a therapist for their hangnails), I was sure he was exaggerating, but it’s only fair to warn you that the tendency may exist. Still, I don’t think it’s an accident that that was the last time we had sex. What I realized was that we had stopped making love a long time before. When I remembered how it used to be between us—the hours of sex, the little jokes and nicknames, the tenderness, the playfulness and joy—I felt so sad I could hardly breathe.
You might say love is deliberate, an outgrowth of the intellect as much as the body. You could think that it’s some irresistible biological tide sweeping you off your feet despite yourself. Or you might just believe that the real thing is reserved for God and Mother Teresa, while everything else is either habit or fodder for trashy novels. One day you might believe one thing, the next day another.
Either way, it didn’t matter. It finally struck me that, body or mind, Steve didn’t love me anymore. It didn’t matter what I did, whether or not I still loved him. It didn’t even matter whether he felt guilty. He had stopped, and I hadn’t. There was nothing in the world I could do about it. And it was very unlikely that he was ever coming back.
“Jesus,” Rob said when I answered the door. “You look like you’re dressed for a blind date with Claus von Bulow.”
I was wearing a black sweater and slacks and a leather jacket. “I like black,” I said defensively.
“I thought the Matamoros Magician or whoever he was told you to loosen up and wear more colors.”
“He did. I have. But tonight this is me.”
“You mean this is you feeling sorry for yourself,” he suggested.
“If you choose to ignore the fact that I look sleek and sophisticated, that’s up to you,” I told him. “Susan says women in New York wear black all the time.”
“Yes, because they’re all in mourning for someone they lost to a mugger,” he retorted. “I’ve heard it’s the same in Sicilian villages.”
I laughed. “Well anyway, what difference does it make? Who goes to financial planning lectures looking flamboyant?”
“Someone who wants to meet a man,” he offered.
“You’re not still going on about that, are you? I’ve told you, I don’t think I could cope with dating right now. Besides, I’m thinking of joining the National Chastity Association. I’m already a de facto honorary member.”
“How perfectly lovely for you. Do they have a group for the nouveau dull, too?”
“This is the nineties, Rob. You’re morally deficient if you don’t work out six times a week. Cheesecake is out and yogurt is in. Nobody’s having fun anymore. I’m just keeping up with the trend. Besides, isn’t it better than constantly wondering if last Saturday night is going to kill you?”
“You’re behind the times, as usual. And anyway, it’s just a lecture, Caroline, not some garish infidelity.”
“Right,” I told him. “So let’s get going.”
“The bad thing,” the speaker was saying, as we slipped into the back of the room, “is not that the eighties are gone.” He paused. “The bad thing is that the thirties are back.”
The auditorium was full of eager young men and women on the make, leaning forward in their seats to catch any passing financial windfall. Their enthusiasm bordered on the excessive, like the opera fans at the Met who rushed out at intermission to critique the latest soprano’s performance from the phones on each level. (The San Diego Opera played in a theater where there weren’t many phones, and the only place people rushed out to at intermission was the restrooms. My Met stories come from Susan, and from a few weeks Steve and I spent in New York and New England one wonderful fall.)
“Still, most of the people who went short in 1991 were devastated,” continued the speaker. “We watched the stocks go from overvalued to wildly overvalued to something that could only be called absurd.�
� He paused for effect. “And then they doubled.”
The man speaking was slender, dark-haired, and Continental-looking, like a Spaniard or an Italian. Mild nearsightedness made it hard to discern more than that; mild vanity made me refuse to take out my glasses so I could bring him into perfect focus.
He cleared his throat. “A lot of us—the shorts, that is—were lucky if we could only measure our losses in the single digits. People who correctly bet on companies that went bankrupt, like Continental Airlines,”—50 glossy heads bent over their attaché cases, and pens scribbled furiously—“continued to hold their positions instead of paying tax on their gain. But speculation in distressed securities unexpectedly drove up the prices, and Continental, for example, went from one dollar to five dollars a share. A lot of us got beat up on that.”
I remembered how Steve had blanched when I told him I was going to an investment lecture on short selling. That reaction alone made my presence worth it, but it was obvious that the kind of speculation where even the so-called experts got badly burned was not for me. Still, I sat there with my pen poised over my notebook, just for fellowship’s sake.
The woman next to me daintily licked the tip of her pen, sighed, and recrossed her slim legs beneath her pencil-thin skirt. I wondered what she would do with all the money she would make from her investments. I wondered how she managed to look so elegant and intelligent at the same time. I wondered if she had small children at home who left shit stains on the couch. I wondered if she had multiple orgasms. I wondered if she was a lawyer.
“With the market the way it is now, we have to be a lot more careful than we were in the eighties,” the speaker was saying. I looked down at the program to see what his name was. Sanchez. David Sanchez. Well, not Italian, then.
“Still, I think it is safe to say that the sorts of things we have always shorted—the companies that have overhyped or misrepresented their prospects or their true earnings—will continue to be with us in the nineties. We will be watching the stocks that are ripe for a corrective decline in price. And we will make money.”
Making Waves Page 7
