"Sometimes things happen, Joey. You have to be able to let them go. I know that it's hard for you to hear right now, but you just can't spend your whole life obsessing over the past."
Christ. Here we go again. "Of course I can. Who do you think you're talking to?"
"Well, then you shouldn't. I raised you better than that. Please. Don't be stubborn to the point of foolishness."
I close my eyes, letting the moment hang itself while I search for much needed calm. It's no use; I come up with nothing. "Are we really doing this again, Mom? You know how it's going to end."
"Don't you 'again' me! And the least you can do is listen!" She huffs a bit into the phone, even manages to sound like she's being patient with me. As if. "If you just let them explain, you'll see that this is f-"
"Stop. Just stop it, Mom. I have no interest in anything they have to tell me. Change the subject."
"No!" she sounds shrill, frantic. You'd almost think this was the first time we'd talked about it. You'd almost think she still had hope. "You need to listen to me, Joey! Bad things happen! They happen all the time! We don't plan them, and we don't w...want them...but we do have to live with the fact that they happened." She pauses for effect and, in a voice that is suddenly stern and matronly, insists, "We have to learn to forgive what we don't want to forgive. It's not fun. But if you get it over with and done, you can start to move on and be...happy. This is one of those times, honey."
I wonder, for one ugly moment, just how much she'd really be able to forgive. And it would be such an easy thing for me to test...
No. Instead, I rub my thumb across my forehead. There's no reason for me to argue with her. She won't hear it, and I won't feel any better for having tried. "Mom, you know I'm not interested in talking about this."
"What I know is that you've got your stupid head in the stupid, stupid sand."
"Maybe. But you know what? I know where you've got yours, too. And I bet mine smells better."
"Joey!"
"Look, let's just...let's talk about something else."
"Sometimes you just have to accept the loss," she grumbles bitterly. "If anything, we should be better at it than most."
Well, that strikes a chord, doesn't it? "Maybe we are, Mom. We learned to live without Dad, after all...and now I'm learning to live without Sally and Michael. That's what I'm living with. And if that's something you can't accept, then maybe it's time you and I learn to live without each other, as well."
She sucks in air. "He's your BROTHER!"
"IS he?" I snap. "Was he my brother when...no. God. Why am I doing this? It's never going to change." I take a breath. "Goodbye, Mom."
"Jo-"
That's as far as she gets before I hit the red button, terminating the call.
It won't end there, of course. She's getting used to being hung up on. It's probably a part of her strategy. She'll stew for a few days, figure I'm doing the same, find a reason to call back, and start all over again. What the end game is, I can't begin to imagine.
There's a glass sitting on the kitchen counter, and it's just begging for the sting of some cheap, cheap whisky. Who am I to refuse?
Once the beverage is acquired, I let myself sink into the living room couch and contemplate the empty wall in front of me. Cheap apartment paint, so thin it looks like primer. Probably is. And it's ugly, too...like, genuinely ugly. That's something of an accomplishment, when you're working in pale monochroma.
Maybe I should buy something. A clock. Band posters. I don't know. Whatever it is that people in their mid-30's put on their walls, when they don't have a family to put photos up of.
Tits, probably.
All the alcohol seems to have left my glass. Isn't that just another little bit of shit news?
I don't have the heart to get up and get more, so the glass gets relegated to the floor. Sorry, old chum. You're out of the fight.
I let a sigh come in real slowly, and then sweep right back out. What a day. What a week. What a life.
My cell vibrates again. I almost don't bother, but morbid curiosity is still a curiosity, isn't it? So I heft it up and take a look.
It's a text...received from one Peter Bertolini, of Bertolini, Shulman, and Watt. There's a picture there, of some very legal-looking paper or other.
Jesus Christ. What now? Another delay?
Tap. Zoom. Read.
And to my very real surprise, I find that I actually have a reason to laugh.
"Dear Mr. Blah the parties of blah blah do hereby willingly acknowledge and blah blah blah the most recent valuation of the marital home blah consider any future negotiations blah."
Amazing. Simply amazing.
I wonder what precipitated that?
I lean back and try to imagine how Michael feels. First, the poor dear had to come to terms with the disconnect between his realities and dreams. Bartending part time doesn't exactly make one a bacon-bringer, you see, so Dad's 'simple math' choked off his hopes of being able to afford the marital home-to-be.
And now, he finds out he can't even use the damn thing to rob me blind.
Not that the two of them didn't try. I'll give them that. They fought like hell. "Brand new fence" was a particularly good one.
Even I had to laugh, Mikey. I really did.
Now, Mr. Bertolini and me, we have ourselves a little system. He sends me notes and pictures, and I only call him back if I feel the need. It's a good system. Saves us both a lot of effort. Got any questions? A need for advice? Updates to share? No?
Good...no communication necessary.
I'm sure Bert appreciates it. I don't get the impression the old guy is having much fun with this case, anymore, and I'm not exactly sociable these days...so silence works well for both of us.
Oh, don't get me wrong. This divorce was hot to the touch, at the start. Everyone was out for blood. Jesus wept. Etc. But the novelty wore off, the blood's all been claimed, and Jesus moved on to quieter pastures...so the participants are now moody and distracted. Nobody's getting any pleasure out of this thing.
Except,
maybe
, Sally. And even that, I don't know. I just wonder.
I mean, it must be fun, right? Or...Christ,
something
. Otherwise she'd just let it end and move on with her life.
Wouldn't she?
In any case, that's all conjecture. And on this particular occasion, I do feel the need to call my lawyer and check in.
Bertolini, natch, picks up right away.
"I thought I might hear from you today," he says by way of greeting. "Congratulations on a small but decisively landmark victory."
"Yeah, I'm the king of the world over here," I droll. "Does this mean that they're finally ready to move forward? Are we actually looking at the light at the end of the tunnel?"
The moment of silence before he responds tastes a lot like that cheap-ass whisky.
"Well," he draws it out like he's actually thinking about it. Right. "I'd say that it's a little unclear at this point. Unless maybe...you've heard anything from her?"
I don't respond.
"Yeah, I didn't figure. Her lawyer isn't talking, either. So all we really know...literally all we know...is that they've agreed not to contest the valuation of the house. We don't know the why of it. We don't know what predicated such a sudden change. We don't know if this is them setting us up for something else, or giving a little bit back before another big rush to take take take...and frankly," he sighs, "...we don't know how the judge will perceive it, either."
I close my eyes. I should be used to this by now. Every answer to every question you'll ever ask is 'we don't know.'
We. Like we're in this together. Like we're both getting paid.
"I understand what you're saying," I tell him, "but the whole reason they were able to get away with the last postponement was that they were contesting the valuation. Surely this acceptance eliminates that 'need.'"
"It does," he admits, "but with a set of fresh-as-fruit addendums. First of all, this action shows a reasonable and diligent effort on their part to move the whole thing toward conclusion. So if they were to get up a week from now and ask for more time the judge would probably give it to them, precisely because of this declaration right here. If he sees good faith, he's gonna grant more freedom. That's just what it is."
"Ridiculous."
"Maybe. But I'll tell you something: every judge's secret fantasy is that, if he can stay out of a divorce action long enough, the parties will magically reach amicable conclusion without him. Gavel-hammerers hate dealing divorces almost as much as they hate judging white collar criminal cases. They'll almost always err on the side of uninvolvement."
"Fuck them. They're involved. They're the goddamn system."
"Yup."
Ok. Snit fit over. "What do we do?"
He sniffs. "We offer dates. Again. We see what happens. Again. We hope they don't bring up some new surprise action or request. Our heads stay down, our shoulders locked firm, and our backs to the wind."
That's a good one. Almost makes self-inflicted torture sound heroic. I bet he uses it all the time. "Okay."
"Anything else?"
Yeah. My head hurts, my shoulders ache, and my back is giving out. "Why is she doing this?"
I immediately wish I could retract. I feel like an idiot for even asking something like that. Who knows what kind of shotgun answer is hidden in the ether, just waiting for the right trigger finger to come along and reflexively pull.
And I asked a fucking lawyer.
Surprisingly, though, his response is not in the form of 'I don't know.' "Your ex-wife's attorney is a friend of your mother's," he tells me. "He's working pro-bono, so she's not actually paying a dime for any of this. My guess is, right now she thinks she hates you, and it's making her feel real good to know that she can control you...that you can't do a goddamn thing to stop her." He pauses. "I do wish you hadn't asked."
"How do you know all this?"
"I don't exactly know. I just think. But I have to tell you that I am...acquainted with your ex-wife's attorney." He suddenly sounds like he's choosing his words entirely too carefully. Fuck lawyers. "We're not friends, but...well, I know him. And his wife, actually. After the third postponement we ran into each other at a party. You know how it is." No, I don't, but okay. "Anyway, he told me he's doing your mother a favor, but that he's wishing he'd never gotten involved. He initially expected it would be an open-shut deal, since your ex and your brother were so obviously in love-"
"Obviously," I snort.
This earns me a very hefty sigh. "What do you want? Grit? It's love. It happens. And from what I hear, they make sure anybody who goes near them can see it for themselves."
Ouch. That one hurts. "Okay."
He turns sympathetic, or fakes it. "Look, it's not like you want her back anyway. And the whole point to the story is, women who have someone new don't usually want the divorce to linger on like this one has. Not unless they're angry, or...uh...scorned, or what-have-you." There's a pause. "To be honest, I don't usually see this level of vitriol, except in cases where the husband was a serial philanderer."
I frown. "If you're sugge-"
"Of course I'm not. I've been here the whole time, chief. Remember? If she'd caught you in the saddle, she would have thrown it in your face by now. And mine. And in any face that had the face to face her at the wrong time. Shit, she'd have brought it up any time there were people in the same room as her. And if those people happened to move into the next room over, she'd just have said it a little bit louder. That's how some women react. Women like her. She hasn't said it, so she didn't see it. And that's what makes the rest of this so confusing. I honestly don't know why she's so...whatever it is that she is."
What's left to say? It started out interesting, but came back to 'I don't know,' after all. "Neither do I," I admit.
"Just hang in there. And don't forget that this was a victory. We won a little bit of the war, today, Joey."
"Yeah. Big win. Hooray for the good guys."
He grunts. "Hooray for the good guys." There's an awkward pause, and neither of us has anything else to say. He breaks it. "Take care."
