The War of the Roses Read online

  ‘I was probing. I wanted to find out how far they were willing to go. I wanted to at least show them we were reasonable. Who thought they would go this far?’

  ‘Not me. That’s for sure.’

  ‘It won’t be nice,’ Goldstein said.

  ‘Nothing is nice. Not anymore.’

  ‘Never mind nice. The subject is wealth. Yours. She wants to strip you of everything. What have you got besides the house?’

  ‘My Ferrari,’ he said stupidly. ‘A three-oh-eight GTS. Red.’

  ‘They didn’t include that. Not the wine, either. Or your tools.’

  ‘How generous.’

  ‘What else?’ Goldstein snapped. Oliver’s mind clouded. ‘What about insurance?’

  ‘What about insurance?’

  ‘I forgot about that. She’s the principal beneficiary.’

  ‘Change it quick.’

  The idea curdled his guts. If he died now, she would receive a million. And get the house to boot. The recollection agitated him, but cleared his head.

  ‘There’s the phone.’ Goldstein pointed. ‘If you walked outside this building and got hit by a truck, you would be very unhappy… seeing that she would get all that money.’

  It took Oliver a few moments to reach his insurance man, who happened to be in his office. He wanted to know details.

  ‘Not now. Just change it to Eve and Josh. All right? Cut out Barbara.’ Oliver hung up the phone without a word. It wasn’t like him to be rude. But the call had made him feel better, although he still had to sign a form the agent was putting in the mail.

  ‘I’ll make arrangements to speed up the inventory,’ Goldstein said. ‘I want everything in that house on a piece of paper fast. Before she gets any bright ideas.’

  ‘She had better not take a damned thing. That would be stealing. I’ll give up nothing. Not the house or anything in it. Never.’ His throat tightened and his voice cackled.

  ‘Never say "never." ’

  ‘Fuck you, Goldstein.’

  Oliver stood up, started to leave, then sat down again.

  ‘I built my whole life around that house,’ Oliver mumbled, his head in his hands, feeling a whirlpool of sentiment well up inside him.

  ‘I have my workshop there. All my antiques. My collections. My paintings. It’s a total thing. It can’t be broken apart.’ He felt a terrible sense of persecution. All those years poking around antique auctions. ‘I have my wine. My Lafite-Rothschild ’59’s, my Chateau Margaux ’64’s, my Grand Vin de Chateau Latour ’66’s. My orchids. You don’t understand. You haven’t seen the place. It’s a jewel. I lavished love on it. In ten years it’ll double in value, maybe triple. And so will everything in it.’

  He caught his breath and sighed.

  ‘You don’t understand, Goldstein. I know every wire in that house, every fiber of wood and brick and slate. I know its pipes. Its innards. It is as much a part of me as my right hand.’

  ‘Spare me please, Rose.’

  ‘You have no sensitivity to that, Goldstein. It’s not merely a possession.’ He shrugged. ‘People like you don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t get anti-Semitic. It won’t solve anything.’

  ‘Well, then, what the hell will?’

  ‘The law. There is in the end always the law.’ Goldstein stood up to his full, squat, half-pint size and, marching over to a wall of books, patted them fondly.

  ‘“The law is an ass,”’ Oliver said, remembering Dickens’s famous character.

  ‘Not as big an ass as you think. There are still some arrows in our quiver.’ Oliver grabbed the shred of hope like a drowning man grabs a piece of floating flotsam.

  Title 16-904, Section C,’ Goldstein said smugly, watching his face. ‘It allows a no-fault divorce even if a man and woman live under one roof. Separately, of course. No cohabitation. The waiting period is not affected.’

  ‘So I don’t have to leave?’

  ‘No. But…’ Goldstein held up his hand. ‘Who gets the house and its contents is still up to the court. The judge could decide it’s too contentious and order everything to be sold and the proceeds split. We could appeal. It could go on for years, considering the crowded dockets.’

  Oliver felt a surge of hope.

  ‘And my willingness to stay there. Fight for it. That will show my fervor. Maybe… my very presence will force her out.’

  ‘Don’t get overly ambitious. There’s still the kids to think about.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll see the light. Hell, she’s getting the kids. She can easily buy another place with the money I’m prepared to give her.’ He stood up and clapped his hands, then reality intruded again. ‘How in hell can I live in the same house with her? It’ll be a nightmare. Who the hell thought up such a stupid idea?’

  ‘The schvartzes,’ Goldstein said, getting up and starting to pace about the office. ‘Many of them couldn’t afford to maintain two domiciles, so they made it easy on themselves and had a law passed.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why there are so many domestic murders among the blacks,’ Oliver said gloomily, his elation disintegrating.

  ‘God damn it, Goldstein,’ he thundered suddenly. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t possibly do it. While she’s there I can’t possibly live in that house. The way I feel now I’ll want to strangle her every time I see her.’

  ‘That,’ Goldstein said, pointing a chubby forefinger, like a threatening gun barrel, at his head, ‘is what loses cases.’ He paused and moved back to his desk. ‘Number one.’ He lifted a fat pinky. ‘Do you want to lose the house entirely?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then I strongly suggest 16-904, Section C,’ Goldstein said emphatically. A sudden thought seemed to intrude. ‘You could also make sure she doesn’t sell anything… these collections.’

  ‘My Staffordshire.’

  ‘Or your wines. Then comes number two.’ Goldstein lifted the finger next to his pinky. It stood surprisingly straight, as if he had had much practice in exercising that particular joint. ‘You have to be willing to sacrifice. You mustn’t give her a single cause for legal action. She will undoubtedly try to dislodge you.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘By making you miserable.’

  ‘I can do the same.’

  Goldstein held up a hand, like a traffic cop.

  ‘Don’t interfere with the household. Be like a little mouse. No girlfriends in the house. Nothing she can hang a case on.’

  ‘No sex?’

  ‘Not in the house. Better nothing. It’s not long. A year.’

  ‘I thought you said six months.’

  ‘If one of the parties contests, it’s a year. We’re going to contest. The divorce will still get granted under no-fault. But why make it easy? Maybe the tension will break down her demands. This is a war, Rose. It’s not Monopoly.’

  ‘You think we can win?’

  ‘A judge is a putz? Goldstein smiled. ‘Also unpredictable. Who knows?’

  ‘I have no choice, then.’

  ‘Of course you do. You can move out.’

  ‘That’s no choice,’ Oliver said firmly.

  ‘All you have to do is live there. As innocuously as

  possible. Don’t take your meals there. Leave her the kitchen. Let her run the house as always. Be just a squatter. The best tack is to be inconspicuous. As I said, like a mouse.’

  ‘And the kids?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like the kids will be a problem. Be fatherly, but under no circumstances let them be made an issue. In terms of Mrs Rose, try to be cool, polite, proper, and distant. If you think she’s up to something fishy, tell me. Don’t give her any cause for action. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t take anything out of the house. If she does, tell me immediately.’

  ‘I’ve got to be a prisoner in my own house,’ he mumbled. Goldstein ignored him.

  ‘Number three.’ The middle digit joined the others. ‘Be patient. Exercise. Go to the movies a lot. Play with yourself. Anything to keep your mi
nd off your problems.’

  ‘Fat chance,’ he said. ‘And number four?’

  ‘Number four,’ Goldstein said, shaking his head sadly and looking deep into Oliver’s face, ‘is not to be a schmuck and do something that you’ll be sorry for. And number five’ – Goldstein smiled, showing a line of spaced teeth like a picket fence – ‘is to pay my monthly retainer on time.’

  Oliver sat in his office long after the others had gone. He had shooed away the cleaning woman, a portly Spanish-looking lady who looked at him knowingly. He was certain she had guessed that he was sitting there because he had no place to go.

  Looking at his image in the darkened window, he seemed transparent. The eyes looked back out of hollowed pockets. The declivity of his cheeks had increased. The disregard for his usual fastidiousness showed everywhere. His tie was awry, the collar of his shirt rumpled. His beard seemed to have grown more rapidly than usual, and his mouth felt oddly smoky. He was sure he had caught Goldstein’s halitosis and he blew into his palm to confirm it.

  He could not stand the sight or smell of himself any longer. Leaving his office, he went into the street. He couldn’t bear the thought of eating alone in a restaurant, waiting for service, choosing from the menu, feeling the butt of wandering eyes and their pity for his aloneness, speculating on his miserable existence, on his life of quiet desperation and terror. He continued to walk, unable to stop the jumble in his mind, bemoaning the tragedy of his life, once so promising. He had given up the possibility that he was dreaming. Indeed, losing Barbara had once been a consistent nightmare and always, upon awakening, he would reach out to her and cuddle his body full length against hers, proving her presence.

  ‘I’ll die if I ever lose you,’ he would whisper, wondering if she had heard. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’

  It was a nightmare no longer confined to the darkness.

  Without consciously making a decision, he walked into the Circle Theater, remembering Goldstein’s suggestion.

  They were playing a double feature – The Lady Vanishes and The 39 Steps – two early Hitchcocks. He bought the largest bucket of popcorn, drenched it in butter, and walked into the darkened theater. Both movies had been made before he was born, he noted, surely a less complicated time. Had people really been that simple and direct? The stories gripped him at times, took him away from his problems, but when his consciousness snapped back and revealed his isolation, he would feel a momentary wave of claustrophobia. What was he doing here, away from his family, away from his rightful place?

  With sustained anger and not an iota of fear, he walked along the dark and crime-ridden streets, almost hoping that he might be attacked so that he could vent all his frustration on the antagonist. He tried to will himself to be a lure, slowing down when he heard footsteps approaching, disappointed finally when he discovered that he was in front of his house. As always, Benny was waiting, snuggling against his leg.

  Through the front windows he could see the dull glow of the kitchen light and when he opened the front door the aroma of her cooking reached his nostrils. The meaty flavor of her pate had once been overwhelmingly tempting. Now it filled him with nausea. Before he could reach the foot of the stairs, Barbara materialized, still dressed and aproned, her face flushed from activity. He turned his eyes away and felt his hands reach out for the coolness of the brass banister. The chandelier was unlit. In the dim light he could make out the tension in her face.

  ‘I think we should talk,’ she said gently. His heart lurched as his mind leaped at the possibility of a reconciliation. It was too tempting to ignore. He wondered how he should play it. That depended on the degree of her contrition, he decided. Please, let God be magnanimous, Oliver urged.

  He followed her into the library. She turned on one of the Tiffany lamps and the soft glow enveloped her as she wiped her hands on her apron. Lady Macbeth. He smiled at the errant image. She sat down on the edge of one of the leather chairs, remarkably cool and businesslike. He wondered if it was an ominous sign, and was quickly rewarded for his curiosity.

  ‘You can’t stay here, Oliver,’ she said crisply. ‘Not now.’ Her voice was soft but firm. He was ashamed of his hopefulness.

  ‘It’s a question of facing reality,’ she said, sighing. ‘I just feel it will be better for all parties. Including the kids.’

  ‘Leave them out of this,’ he snapped, recalling Goldstein.

  She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Yes. I suppose you’re right. But certainly it won’t be a healthy situation.’ What troubled him most was her command of herself. Her firm assertion. You’ve come a long way, baby, he thought. Why are you doing this to me?

  His gaze washed over the room that he had created, the rubbed-walnut shelves, the rows of leather-bound books, filled with so much now-useless wisdom.

  ‘I thought I offered you a most reasonable solution,’ he said, trying to capture his usual lawyerlike demeanor when dealing with clients. But the tremor in his voice gave him away.

  ‘Not to me,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Reasonable? To take everything. Leave me with nothing. That’s reasonable?’ His voice started to rise, but he remembered Goldstein’s caution.

  ‘It’s my payment for being your security blanket for nearly twenty years. I can’t possibly earn in five years what you can earn in one. No matter how great my business goes. For me, that’s reasonable.’

  He started to pace about the room, touching objects. He stuck a finger into one of the cubbies of the rent table and spun it around.

  ‘I’ve invested so much of myself in this place. Surely as much as you.’ He was being deliberately calm, trying to hold in his temper. He looked down at her. She seemed cold, clear-eyed. Unbending. ‘I can’t believe you’re so ruthless about this, Barbara, considering all we shared for eighteen years.’

  ‘I’m not going to yield to any guilt trip, Oliver. I’ve come to grips with that. The problem for you to understand is that I’m thinking only of myself for the first time in my life.’

  ‘And the kids?’

  ‘Believe me, I intend to fully discharge my responsibilities.’ She frowned. ‘Now who’s using the kids?’

  ‘It’s just not clear, Barbara. If I understood it, maybe I could be more tolerant.’

  ‘I know,’ Barbara said, with what seemed like a hint of compassion. She bit her lip, a normal gesture for her when she was troubled. ‘I’m changed, that’s all. Not the old me. Any explanation sounds cruel. I don’t want to be cruel.’

  ‘ "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." ’

  ‘That’s one of them. One of the things I detest so much in you, Oliver. All those literary allusions that forced me to ask for explanations, as if they were a proof of your superiority.’

  ‘Pardon me for having lived.’

  ‘Now you’re getting hostile.’

  I need you, Goldstein, he shouted to himself, brushing his hands through the air as if that would dispel the conversation. Goldstein had warned him not to deal with her directly. But how could he avoid her, living under the same roof?’

  ‘Did you truly expect any other response?’ he said quietly.

  ‘It won’t matter. I have to think of the long pull for myself.’ She stood up and again wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver. I know it seems selfish. But I have to protect my future.’

  ‘You’re inhuman,’ he snapped.

  ‘I can’t help your perception.’

  He turned to the library entrance and paused, emptying his mind of false hopes.

  ‘I don’t intend to leave this house. I don’t intend to give it up. I do intend to fight you every foot of the way, regardless of expense in dollars or emotions. I want this house and everything in it. And I do not intend to lose.’

  ‘It’s not going to be that simple,’ she said quietly. He marched up the stairs and into the guest room.

  As he closed the door, snapping the thumb lock, he decided to put in a better lock, complete with key. From here on i
n, he told himself, reveling in his belligerence, this is company headquarters.

  12

  The house was staked out like a battlefield. Ann tried desperately to maintain a scrupulous neutrality lest it affect her own circumstances, although she did not know how long she could hold on in the midst of the unbearable tension.

  Barbara and Oliver had installed locks on their respective bedrooms. At first that seemed to Ann unnecessary until she began to observe the extent of their growing hostility. They had separate phones installed as well, leaving one of the original lines intact for the children. The kitchen was hers. He apparently had given up all rights to both the food and the facilities, although she saw a little carton of orange juice on the ledge of the side window of the guest room, conveying an utterly incongruous boarding-house look. He never took his meals at home, and he maintained Benny from a stock of dry dog food he kept in his room. Benny spent the day poking about the neighborhood, continuing his endless service to the local bitches, and returning home by instinct so that he could spend the night sleeping at the foot of Oliver’s bed.

  Oliver also retained rights to the maintenance of his orchids. And he continued to spend a great deal of time in his workroom. By silent consent, it was considered his domain. It was there that he generally met with the children and, at times, with Ann, who used the most transparent pretexts to visit. The Ferrari’s special place in the garage was his domain, as well. Sometimes, when feeling very down, he would strip away the Ferrari’s

  cover, remove its fiberglass top, and take it out for a brief spin, or he would spend hours tuning it and polishing its body. Allowing him such pursuits required no sacrifice on Barbara’s part. Besides, she was literally working herself at double time to build her catering business. The house was constantly filled with the aroma of her cooking.

  Ann was fully aware of her unrequited feelings for Oliver, which prompted even more caution on her part. It was, she knew, downright dangerous to poke one’s head above the shell holes of no-man’s-land. Even the humor of it, the sheer illogic of the process, paled as the days wore on. By force of will, she maintained an observer’s distance, while inside she seethed with a profound and exasperating curiosity.