The day had begun badly, and then rapidly worsened. She had slept poorly, and woke late; no surprise, she hadn't slept well in weeks. Now she had a mountain of mindless chores ahead, beginning with the lawn. Machines intimidated her; she wished she had kept up the lawn service.
Of course the mower had not started; it would rarely start for her. After five minutes of fruitless yanking she was in a sweat, and mad enough to spit. At that point her neighbor, her leering, dirty-minded neighbor, had appeared and offered his help. Things that don't get used enough get rusty, he observed. Things need a little lubrication and thorough, regular workouts and all would be well; he was always available. His comments were accompanied by a searching look that made her feel he was peering into her bedroom window. She could manage on her own, she told him, his help not needed, and the look she gave him told him he had gone too far. The bastard, she thought, why do they think every divorced woman is aching to jump into bed with them? He had never been even slightly suggestive while she was married.
The neighbor failed with the recalcitrant piece of junk as well, finally leaving it, cover askew, with a vague promise to try again later. Cathy was almost glad he had not been successful. After finishing some inside chores she showered, late for other errands.
She walked into her bedroom from the shower, only a towel wrapped around her, to be startled by the sight of her ex-husband standing in her doorway.
"Trent! What do you think you're doing? Get out of here!"
"Relax, will you? I told you I was coming for the pictures."
"They're on the kitchen table where I told you they would be. You walked right past them. Take them and go."
"All right, all right. I knocked first. The lady of leisure is sleeping in, I see. You know, you really should take better care of yourself. You're starting to let yourself go."
I'm not, she thought. I've never been out of shape, and I've lost weight since I got rid of you. He's just trying to get under my skin, wants to let me know he doesn't find me attractive any longer; is over me. But he had gotten to her. If he had never known, or cared, how to make her happy he still knew how to twist the knife.
She stood there while he left, feeling abused and helpless, waited until she heard the downstairs door close behind him, and wondered how her life could have become as empty as this.
She had just graduated with a degree in nursing, full of life and in love with her work when she met Trent Whitworth Richardson. An attorney, son of a partner and grandson of a founding partner of the most successful firm in the city, Trent exuded old money, prep schools and country club manners. In a matter of weeks he had entranced her with glimpses into a life she had never experienced. Why he courted her she could not imagine, but her friends and family encouraged her enthusiastically and their excitement, and his, carried her away. With no good reasons to say no, she said yes.
Later, after they were married and while she still felt kindly towards him, she decided that he chose someone of whom his family could not approve as a means of asserting himself against the life they had chosen for him and the career he could not escape. For Trent proved to be less than he appeared; while a very few men become somehow larger than life, many others are correspondingly smaller, as if nature sought balance. Cathy's husband was one of those who seek to elevate themselves by diminishing others, and he began at home. He disparaged her job; corrected and criticized her in public; disagreed with any opinion she might offer; made decisions large and small without consulting her; and handled all their financial affairs, including her own salary.
At first she acquiesced; over time, she lost the desire to resist and allowed him to take her for granted. He was far too well-mannered to fight; if she bristled, he ignored her. When her emotions drove her to assert herself, he patronized her with well-reasoned logic. He gulled her, and others, not with the skills of a con man – he had none of those – but with trained, legalese argument and a dismissive, to-the-manor-born air. He avoided conflict like a plague.
When they tried to have a child, and failed, he reasoned that she had been on the pill too long, or that she was border-line frigid. She suggested they both be tested, but the issue was closed. She began to feel lonely in his presence; there was nothing going on in their relationship.
Eventually, she began to see trouble: silence; casual avoidance; unexplained absences; out-of-town business trips without notice; strange looks from their friends, who were entirely his friends; all the usual signs. When she finally found the unavoidable proof of his infidelity she had had enough of shame, asked him to leave and filed for divorce.
But if she felt she had been trapped in his world before then, the divorce proceedings were worse by far. It had been easy even to find an attorney to represent her, once they recognized the defendant. There was further indignity; she had assumed they were fairly well off, but the proposed settlement, already approved by her lawyer, would leave her with the furniture, a used car, half the interest in their mortgaged home (which would have to be quickly sold) and a meager balance in her checking account. Not very much, she reflected, in exchange for six years of her life. She had never imagined she could feel so powerless and without hope.
And then the letter arrived. The writer, who pleaded for anonymity but clearly had to be someone from the firm with a conscience or a grudge, informed her that a serious injustice was taking place. It seemed there were assets, many assets, which had inexplicably been omitted from the defendant's sworn property list. There were interests in a strip mall, a small apartment building, land in another state, all belonging to corporations which had no names, only initials, but which could be carefully traced by the knowing researcher through a labyrinthine trail of general partnerships and holding companies to Chief Corporate Officer Trent Whitworth Richardson. There were bank accounts, stocks and bonds, even a yacht which lay quietly in its slip, never venturing out into the bay and serving only as a fornicatorium for the Chief Corporate Officer and his little punch. The writer suggested, moreover, that some of these assets may even have been overlooked in tax filings; that their very existence, if revealed, might excite the most intense curiosity of the revenue authorities. The writer conveniently listed volume and page number of land records, addresses, account numbers, even the name of the offending yacht. Cathy fairly danced to her lawyer with the information, but in what she considered at the time an excess of caution, took with her only handwritten notes from the letter.
Her attorney digested the information and smiled as he smelled blood in the water, that most delicious odor for any lawyer, and promised her great things. But after she left he had time to reflect that while Cathy was at most a temporary interest, his own career was a priority of higher standing. A scandal in the most prestigious law firm in the city would be remembered, would spatter mud in all directions, even upon opposing counsel. He therefore resolved upon a course of action difficult for a layman to understand, but which would surely meet the silent approval of his colleagues at the bar.
That is to say, he sold out his client in a New York minute. The Chief Corporate Officer was permitted to file an amended list of assets before the court, which caused no more than a raised eyebrow and knowing smile from His Honor, and amended tax returns as well (although Cathy never saw them, and who may have signed them on her behalf remains a mystery), the entire collegial process earning for Cathy's lawyer the unspoken good will of the firm and a favor to be named at a later date.
Even so, Cathy was delighted by the new terms. A modest alimony was proposed, and then doubled. A stock portfolio materialized, and a large cash settlement, all in exchange for her perpetual vow of silence. There had been a small snag; her lawyer, now deeply in the pocket of the firm, suggested too casually that he would like to see the letter; perhaps something had been missed. Cathy recalled the writer's warning and felt shock, dismay, then anger. She informed her lawyer bluntly that the letter would not be forthcoming, and that its request would cost her husband another ten thousand dollars; that if the deal was not done by close of business she would go to the IRS and the bar association as well. The attorney was flustered, appalled; he had been assured she was a soft touch. The new deal was done, and Cathy felt, for the first time in her married life, that she had been able to successfully stand up for herself. She would not have to sell the house she loved, at least not right away. With close attention to economy she could maintain the mortgage, leave in a year or so on her own terms.
It was with this economy in mind that she resolved to let out the maid's apartment over the detached, three-car garage, which they had never used. But not to an ordinary tenant; it was too small for that, but perhaps to a student from the university, who would in any case be more acceptable to the neighbors.
It was immediately after Trent left, hardly time to finish dressing, that she heard the doorbell. Assuming it would still be Trent, she jerked open the door in foul mood to find a young man on the steps. Surprised, she had an impression of broad shoulders, a boyish face with piercing blue eyes that seemed somehow tired, older; and a remarkably disarming smile.
"Mrs. Richardson? I'm Paul Hegarty. From the university. I called Thursday about the apartment."
"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry, I've had so much going on. I completely forgot you were coming this morning."
The look on her face had given him pause. "If this is a bad time, I could come back later."
"No, no. The apartment of over the garage, I think I mentioned that. Why don't you go around to the back of the house while I get the key?"
"I'll meet you there."
As she walked through the house she considered her brief first impression. He did not look like an ax murderer or terrorist, but could one ever be sure? She supposed he seemed OK, but perhaps older that a normal college student. She met him in the driveway and was certain. The student seemed to read her mind, and offered the explanation that he was in a graduate program. Satisfied, she led the way to the apartment.
