I followed her down the short hall, our steps muffled by the thick carpet, past a research library with two paralegals working away on computers, past a powder room and a small kitchen. Her double doors opened and there she stood.
“Thanks, Donna.” The receptionist turned and left. “I’m Michelle Stoney, Mrs. Hayes.” She shook my hand soundly and motioned for me to enter. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”
She had perfect teeth, had to be laser bleached. I guessed her age to be about forty-eight. Her dark hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck and secured by one of the most beautiful tortoiseshell clasps I’d ever seen.
“Please, call me Susan,” I said, voice shaking a little. “No, thanks, too hot for coffee.”
I took a seat in front of the desk and she sat next to me in the matching tub chair. She wore a plain Rolex that showed from the cuff of her navy pinstripe coatdress. She was downright pretty in a buttoned-up kind of way.
“Would you like a Diet Pepsi? I have a ton of them in my fridge.”
“Yes, thanks,” I said, heartened by her choice in soft drinks, “that’d be great.”
I dropped my purse at my feet, and my cigarettes fell out on the Persian rug between our chairs. She saw them and her eyes brightened.
“Oh! Do you smoke?”
I blanched at my bad habit and she continued.
“I haven’t had a cigarette in ages,” she said, “gave it up, but every now and then…”
“Please! Help yourself!” I offered her the pack and dug around for my lighter. “I’m always quitting and then I start again, and then the next thing you know…well, you know how it is.”
She pulled out a huge crystal ashtray from her bottom drawer and we were in business. We torched two low-tar death sticks and popped open two cans of frosty chemicals. She was obviously a woman of extraordinary taste. I began to tell her the whole miserable saga. I watched her eyebrows narrow as she took notes.
“Do you remember the exact date?” she asked.
“Yes. Wednesday, April twenty-eighth. I was supposed to give a presentation at two o’clock on a literacy program with day care for unwed mothers. Stupidly, I had left the whole mess in a folder on the kitchen counter that morning. When I went through my briefcase, I couldn’t believe it wasn’t there. I had worked half the night on the darn thing.”
“We all forget things.”
“True. Anyway, it was about eleven o’clock and almost lunchtime. I told my secretary that I was going to run home and I’d be back as fast as possible. I took my car and drove down to Queen Street, where we live. I was going to grab the folder and hurry back. I came in the back door and dropped my bag on the floor by the stairs and heard somebody upstairs. I thought, Oh, God, there’s a robber in the house! I reached for the poker from the fireplace, shaking all over.”
“I’m sure you were terrified!”
“I was! But I listened for a moment and heard their voices. At first I thought it was Beth with some boy, and started sneaking up the steps, thinking I’d kill whoever would dare to do something to my little girl!”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Thirteen, almost fourteen.”
“Not so young, these days.”
“In a pig’s eye, but anyhow, when I got to the top of the stairs I heard the voices coming from my room. I couldn’t believe that she’d do something like this in my room!”
“Sort of the ultimate rebellion, right?”
“Exactly. Then all of a sudden it hit me. It wasn’t Beth but Tom. I could hear whoever this woman was saying stuff like ‘Oh! Tom! Ride me! Yes! My tiger!’ Can you imagine?”
“Dear God. What did you do?”
“The stupidest thing possible. I opened the door and caught them! Why did I do that?”
“I probably would’ve done the same thing. It’s that unstoppable desire to disprove what you know, right?”
“I guess. Anyway, he stopped giving her what was mine long enough to turn around and see me. She sat up and saw me, then rolled over and covered her head with a pillow. I guess she thought I was gonna hit her with the poker, which I nearly did. She screamed, ‘Oh, no!’ And he said, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I said, ‘I live here.’ Right away, I started explaining what and why, and then I thought, What the hell am I doing? He’s in the bed with this slut—in our bed, no less—and he’s the one who should be apologizing, not me!”
“So what happened?”
“I went downstairs and waited for him, but he left with her.”
“That probably made you feel pretty bad.”
“Yeah, you could say that. I was so numb and ill that I couldn’t go back to work. So I did what women do in times of trial.” She looked up at me and I said, “I started cleaning everything in sight.”
“Classic,” she said.
“Right. About two-thirty he showed up again, probably thinking that I’d be back at work and he wouldn’t have to deal with me. But I was in the kitchen, still cleaning. When I asked him how he could do this to me, to himself, to our families, do you know what he said? He told me he was sorry I had caught them. Not that he was sorry he wrecked our life! He packed some stuff and left. Just like that.”
I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t ask about the Aramis bottle filled with eau de whiz—I had never told anyone about that. Even I knew it was over the top. But I was surprised she didn’t remark on the toothbrush story because by now everyone in Charleston knew about that. I guess I bragged a little and word got out. In fact, people stopped me on the street and in the grocery store to ask me if it was true. That single peanut-sized episode of revenge had elevated me to something of a cult hero among the jilted women of Charleston. I continued to spill the family juice without even worrying about whether or not she intended to take my case.
“So then I was so upset that I started helping him pack. While he was stacking all his shirts and suits into his hanging bag, I went into the bathroom and dumped a lot of his stuff out of the medicine cabinet. I took his toothbrush and looked at it for a minute and then I scrubbed the toilet with it. Good, too, all under the rim, everywhere. Then I dropped it in his shaving kit.”
Even though Michelle was grinning from ear to ear, experience made me stop.
“Ms. Stoney…”
“Michelle, please…”
“Michelle, my husband thinks he is the Perry Mason of Charleston and that no one will represent me against him. If this is a problem for you, I guess this is when you should tell me.”
“Susan? I hope you’ll pardon me for saying this, but your husband is a big fat skunk first, and a lawyer second. I’ll handle this for you with pleasure.” Michelle smiled, leaned back in her chair and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling. “You have to do two things: try to the best of your ability to document all contact you have with him from this moment on. Does he show up when he’s supposed to? Is he hostile? That sort of thing. Then, itemize your expenses the best you can. Keep a good journal.”
“I can do that. I used to do that all the time. I like you, Michelle. I trust you.”
“You can trust me better than your own mother.”
“You know, I heard he’s living with her. She’s twenty-three and has breast implants. He’s practically a pedophile.”
“Good grief.”
“I know I shouldn’t dwell on it, but I still can’t believe I found them together. Calling out his name at the top of her squeaky, insipid little lungs, and him yelling back, ‘Yes! Yes!’ Infuriating! Can you imagine how I felt? How will I ever get that image out of my head? I’d like to kick his butt the whole way to California.”
“We can do that without even changing shoes. The question is, where are we heading here? Is there any desire on your part or his for reconciliation?”
“It’s not possible.”
“You’re absolutely sure about that?”
“Yes. I’ve dissected this thing to death, and you know what I haven’t even told my sister?”
<
br /> “Tell me.”
“Tom stopped loving me years ago. I don’t know how we stayed together as long as we did. But, now I’m sure of this, I don’t want the kind of marriage where my husband thinks he’s stuck with me, especially given his preference for young nymphomaniacs. Part of it is surely my fault. I mean, when I look back, I remember many times when I could’ve tried harder. I just didn’t. I don’t even know why. I was probably too tired from running the house, working full-time and taking care of our daughter to cite chapter and verse from The Joy of Sex, you know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Oddly, he never complained. I guess that’s when he found Karen. I understand that a lot of men do these things when they get around fifty, but he didn’t have to do it in our house, in our bed. If I hadn’t come home to get my presentation papers, I never would’ve known, although I think men who screw their little girlfriends in their own home have a secret desire to be caught.”
“Maybe. I don’t know, but I’ve heard that said.”
“Anyway, our marriage has been in rigor mortis for ages. I guess I thought that eventually things would go back to being good again. We’d been through ups and downs like everyone. But that’s not what happened. I resented being expected to do everything. And he resented me resenting him. We didn’t talk; we swam the River Sarcasm. And worse, our silence was the smoldering kind. He didn’t like the way I looked anymore, even when I tried to change my looks. He just didn’t want me anymore. I didn’t fit his fantasy.”
“Fit his fantasy?”
“Yeah, I have this theory that you marry your fantasy.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, it goes like this: He dies for women with a big bosom, you have a big bosom, he dies for you. He falls apart for big blue eyes and a wicked meat sauce, you make an incredible Bolognese and, kaboom, he looks in your blue eyes and he’s yours forever, until you burn his meatballs, no pun intended.”
“Of course not.”
“Anyway, I don’t fit his fantasy anymore and I probably never will again.”
“Not fitting someone’s fantasy is hardly grounds for infidelity.”
She was right. It wasn’t funny. It was sobering.
“My family has lived in this city for over two hundred years and he’s humiliated me in front of every single person I know,” I said. “Every time I turned around there was someone I’ve known all my life either whispering when they saw me coming or dying to tell me that they’d see Tom and Karen out and about. I don’t know what I ever did to him for him to hurt me so. Maybe I wasn’t the perfect wife, but I deserved better than this. And, if that’s not bad enough, he refuses to give me what he should in financial support. That’s really why I decided I had to get legal help.”
I was babbling like the white water in the Colorado River.
“Yes, tell me about that. Has he been sending you money once a month? Or do you have to go to him?”
“At first, I guess he felt guilty about leaving, so he just left the checking account as it was and I paid the bills from money he deposited. That’s over now. He hasn’t made a deposit in two months. Now he’s got this new idea in his head that he’ll contribute to our support, but I can’t live any better than he does. Is that legal? I mean, do I have to sell my house if he decides to live in a one-bedroom apartment?”
“No. Under South Carolina law, you’re entitled to more than that. How long were you married?”
“Sixteen years.”
“And have you contributed in any way to his business?”
“I’d say so. I supported us while he went to law school at Carolina. I’ve certainly grilled enough steaks for clients and partners.”
“Hmm, that’s good. Could I trouble you for one more cigarette?”
“Of course! Help yourself!”
I liked this woman. A lot. She was going to help me negotiate the next twenty years of my life and Beth’s future as well.
“Thanks. Have you always lived in your home on Queen Street?”
“We bought it six months after he went into a practice with three friends of his. That was soon after we moved back to Charleston. Michelle?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to sound desperate, but I need a separation agreement that’s going to guarantee support for me and for our daughter starting right away or as soon as possible. I’m running out of cash and I don’t want to have to borrow money. I can’t go on like this, begging him for the mortgage, begging him for Beth’s tuition. Why is he doing this to us?”
The tears started to roll down my cheeks now and she handed me a Kleenex.
“This kind of thing happens more often than you’d believe. We’ll get this all straightened out. Remember, time heals. It really does. I can bring him to his senses.”
“Thank you. I really mean it.”
“I know you do.” She patted my arm. “Okay, now, tell me the famous toothbrush story in slow motion. I just love that one.”
IT TOOK ME three days to get the outline of a budget done. Should I charge Tom for all the over-the-counter sleeping pills I took because he robbed me of decent rest at night? Should I pad it to cover my daily dose of amusing Chardonnay that I sipped while watching the eleven o’clock news? I began keeping a diary, which was actually rather cleansing. I had done it for years as a child. It kept me sane then and it couldn’t hurt now.
I sent the budget to the intrepid Ms. Stoney, who padded it by fifteen percent, saying I had neglected things like vacations, unexpected illnesses, unpaid leave from work and so on. She notified Tom that I had retained her and he was not pleased.
“If you think I’m paying the bill for Michelle Stoney, that man-hating, viper-tongued lesbian bitch from hell, y’all can both kiss my sweet ass,” he screamed at me from his car phone.
“What’s that? Tom, dear, there’s so much static I can’t ’eah you,” I lied. “Did you say Michelle can kiss your ass? I’ll tell her you said so. Better yet, tell her yourself.”
“You’re not getting one cent from me now, Susan! This really pisses me off!”
“I’m shaking in my shoes. You listen to me, and ’eah me good. I don’t give two shits if you’re pissed off. You’re going to pay Stoney’s bill and you’re going to sign a fair separation agreement with me. And quick, too. If you don’t, my two huge brothers would be happy to discuss it with you. That’s a real option. And another thing, don’t you ever speak to me this way again. It’s harassment, cupcake, and the viper wouldn’t like it.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Nope. I’m assuring you.”
I slammed the phone down. It felt great.
I HADN’T SEEN Maggie in several weeks. The following Sunday, I got up early and met her at Mass on the Island. I had some old newspaper articles I wanted to show her. After church, we said hello to all the old ladies from the Altar Society, our mother’s surviving friends, and decided to go over the bridge to Billy’s Back Home Restaurant for brunch. Billy’s is just a place on the side of the road. There’s always a line and the food’s worth the wait. Its interiors are considerably enhanced by blinking Christmas lights, fishing pictures and a huge sled suspended from the ceiling, so they leave the decorations up all year. It’s sort of festive.
Brunch is a relative term here because they’re not serving up mimosas and croissants at Billy’s. No, no. In the Lowcountry it’s got gravy on it—the biscuits, the ham, the grits—it all swims in a puddle of “heart attack on a plate.” When you eat this stuff, it slides down like wet cement and stays there for weeks, asking directions to your arteries and hips. I planned to resist. After ten minutes or so, we got a booth and menus.
“God, wouldn’t you love to have just one biscuit?” Maggie licked her lips at the passing trays laden with biscuits as big as your head, juicy sausages and crisp waffles covered in whipped cream from a can.
“Not me, baby,” I replied. “I’ll have a dry salad and a Diet Pepsi with
lemon, please,” I said to the waitress.
The waitress, wearing a hairnet and, on her stretched-to-capacity T-shirt, a sticker that read DOLORES on it, sucked her teeth at me.
“How ’bout you, honey?” she said to Maggie.
“I’ll have one poached egg in a cup, one piece of bacon, well done, and dry whole wheat toast, with black coffee.”
“You want grits with that?”
“No, thanks.”
“Home fries?”
“No, thanks.”
“You girls must be starving. I’ll bring it out right away.”
“We’re here for the ambience,” I replied. “Forgive us. We’re anorexic, it runs in the family.”
Maggie giggled. Big Dolores stared at us and turned on the heel of her running shoe. We watched her bulbous rear waddle over to the kitchen ledge, where she attached our order to a clothespin.
“What’s with her?” Maggie asked. “Doesn’t she know salad dressing is fifty percent of a girl’s caloric intake? I read that in a magazine.”
“Dolores is intimidated ’cause we’re so good-looking. Let’s overtip her and really aggravate her.”
“Well, I see you’re feeling like your sassy old self again. God knows, you’re as thin as I’ve seen you in years! How’s it going?”
I lit a cigarette and exhaled away from her as she began to fan my smoke.
“Have I told you lately how brilliant you are?”
“No, tell me.” Maggie smiled, and sat up to receive a compliment.
Dolores put my Pepsi on the table with a clunk and poured Maggie’s coffee. She slid my salad across the table and Maggie’s platter as well.
“I forgot your lemon. I’ll be right back.”
“I started walking to and from work, and seven more pounds fell off in the last three weeks. I didn’t even diet. Even my shoes are loose. You are a genius! And you were right about walking being good for my brain. I feel like a new woman! Besides, who could eat in this heat anyway?”
“See? I knew it!” She was smug but nicely so.
“I owe it all to you. God, this must be the hottest summer in a million years.” I took a long drink and reached in my purse for the manila envelope of newspaper clippings from 1963. “’Eah, look at this.”