An Ex to Grind (2 page)

"Whether it makes you sick or not, he's entitled to the spousal support," she said. "This is the new millennium, Melanie. Things have changed. It's not a symbol of weakness anymore for men to take money from women if they need it to maintain their lifestyle."

"
If they need it
. Those are the operative words. Dan could maintain his lifestyle by himself if he went out and got a decent job."

"He had a decent job. He was a wide receiver for the Giants."

"Yes, and now he's gone from being a wide receiver to a wife receiver. I throw him money; he catches it."

She laughed. "Come on. He didn't blow out his knee on purpose."

No, the injury wasn't Dan's fault. It had happened in a game against the Redskins in only his third season as a starting receiver, and it extinguished the shining light he'd become. Before the accident, he'd been a hero in New York, the fans chanting his nickname—"Traffic! Traffic!"—wherever he went. But then came cruel disappointment. He was in the act of making a spectacular catch when he was clobbered by two defensive backs. One climbed on his shoulders, the other wrapped himself around his legs, and the result was a horrifying tackle, sending the top half of his body one way, the bottom half another. I could hear the snap of the cartilage all the way up in the wives' box. When you're married to a professional athlete, you're supposed to steel yourself every time he gets hurt, reassure yourself that your guy is doing what he loves and be grateful for all the money he's making. But then came the diagnosis, the surgery, and the end to his promising career as well as the nullification of his lucrative contract. He was lost and stayed lost. "What
is
his fault is that he didn't try to do anything after he blew out his knee," I said.

"That's not true," she said. "He did try sports broadcasting."

"Don't remind me."

"He wasn't that bad."

We both laughed then, knowing he stunk. On the two NFL broadcasts for which he'd been hired to provide color commentary, he stammered, forgot to smile, seemed confused by the directions coming at him from his headset, wasn't clear which camera was on him. He was devastated by his performance, but he was even more devastated when the phone stopped ringing and similar gigs were not forthcoming. I did what I could to prop up his spirits and boost his self-confidence. I adored him and hated to see him so miserable. But he couldn't get over that he had failed. "He should have taken lessons," I said. "They have communication specialists who train people to be on television, but he was too macho to ask for help."

"I wonder if he might have improved with a few more chances," said Robin.

"They gave him another chance, remember? He went on the air after four scotches and referred to a female reporter as 'sweetcakes.' And that was before he threatened to moon his coanchors."

She winced at the memory. "He was so out of it that night. I actually felt sorry for him. Why didn't he ever go into coaching?"

"A good question. I kept telling him, 'You love the game. Coach a high school or college team. There are schools in the Tri-State area that would be thrilled to have you.' And every single time, he shook me off and grumbled, 'I'll never be one of those losers.' Instead, he became a loser. Now, except for the occasional ribbon cuttings and collectors' shows,
he
parties while I work. How is it fair that I have to pay him?"

"As fair as when men pay their ex-wives who don't work."

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be on my side?"

She smiled. "I am on your side, but I have a lot of male clients, so I have to see things from their perspective too."

"Lucky you." I reached for another cookie. As I chewed the first mouthful, I decided to try to see the situation from Dan's perspective, just to prove to myself that I could be as fair-minded as Robin. But I couldn't do it, couldn't get past the twin images of writing him a check and then watching my bank balance shrink, couldn't take the sight of those disappearing zeroes. The mere thought of losing money gave me nightmares, and it had been that way since I was a kid. My mother died when I was two, leaving me with a father who was only marginally employed, was often in a drunken stupor on the couch covered in empty beer cans, and was constantly moving us from one crappy place to another—sometimes in the middle of the night—just so we could beat the eviction notices. I made a decision at a very young age that money meant security, stability, and happiness, and that my goal in life was to accumulate a lot of it. How could I surrender even a piece of that security to a man who seemed capable only of frittering it away?

"Mel, you okay?" asked Robin.

"Fine," I said, not fine at all.

She patted my shoulder with her perfectly manicured fingers—the same fingers that baked cookies. I guessed she was one of those women who wore rubber gloves in the kitchen. "Before I send you out into the world," she said, "I want you to stop resisting and start accepting."

I laughed. "You sound like a therapist. Do you charge extra for that?"

"No, and you should take my free advice. Stop making Dan the enemy. He may not have a high-profile job anymore, but his celebrity made it easier for you to do yours. He put you through business school, introduced you to his jock buddies, got you your first big clients. He was the ideal husband in some respects, and the eight years of spousal support is the court's acknowledgment of that."

"Ideal husband?" I scoffed. "He was the one who trashed the marriage. Not only did he give up on himself, but he also got on my back about my long hours at the office and my—what did he call it?—
corporate attitude
. That's the irony of all this. He wanted me to cut back at work and then didn't think twice about helping himself to the spoils of that work. He lives like a prince now, thanks to me, and it's disgusting. He's disgusting." I slumped down in the chair and played with the ends of my hair, which was light brown, shoulder length, and wavy. Winding it around my index finger had become my other nervous tic, besides eating.

"Let it go, Mel. Let
him
go. Move on with your life and find somebody else."

"I don't want somebody else after this fiasco," I mumbled.

"Then pray that he finds somebody else," she said.

"Why would I want him to be happy?" I said, twirling my hair with even more gusto.

She shook her head at me, as if I were missing her point. "Didn't you read this agreement?"

"Oh, right. If he remarries, I get to stop writing him checks. Like that'll happen." I forced myself to leave my hair alone and placed my hands in my lap. "After the way things turned out he's as down on the institution of marriage as I am."

Robin shook her head again. "I'm talking about the cohabitation clause, stipulating that if Dan lives with another woman for a period of ninety days, the spousal support is terminated."

I sat up straighten "Right, right," I said, remembering now. "He doesn't have to remarry. He just has to shack up with someone."

"For 'ninety substantially continuous days.' That's how it's worded. Which means that he can take a break from her every once in a while, but once he reaches ninety days total, he invalidates the agreement."

I blinked at her, feeling a glimmer of an emotion I couldn't identify. Hope? Glee? Something. "How awesome would that be if he had a three-month fling and I didn't have to pay him anymore."

"You'd be off the hook, it's true," she said. "But if he's so turned off to relationships, I wouldn't count on him entering into one. And let's face it: he may be unemployed, but he's not stupid. He's not going to risk losing that monthly maintenance unless he falls madly in love, and what are the chances of that?"

"Slim to none," I conceded and felt the hope, glee, or whatever it was evaporate.

"Okay, then. Back to business. Sign this last document and we're through here."

I scribbled my signature in between all the
Whereas's
and
Heretofore's
, put down the pen, and exhaled noisily. "That's it. I'm officially divorced."

No sooner was that pronouncement out of my mouth than I was overcome by melancholy—sort of a heavy, invasive sadness. Sad because I had loved Dan once. Sad because our marriage was the only period of my life when I'd felt the stability I'd craved as a child. And sad because it was now final and irrevocable that I was forced to share custody of Buster, my sweet pug, the dog Dan had
given
me for our fifth anniversary. That's right: Buster was supposed to be mine. But the minute we started negotiating the settlement, Dan claimed that my twelve-hour workdays made me unfit to be the dog's sole guardian. After months of haggling—he said
he
should get Buster and
I
should be granted visitation and I said
I
should get Buster and
he
should be granted a visit to hell—we agreed on the shared custody bit. We alternated weeks. Every other Monday morning, I would hop in a cab with Buster and drop him off at Dan's on my way to the office. And the next Monday morning, Dan would hop in a cab and drop Buster off at my place on his way to—well—wherever it was he went on Monday mornings. To the gym, probably, followed by lunch with the boys, followed by a game of poker, followed by a massage and/or nap, followed by a hot night on the town. All of it with my money, mind you.

On second thought,
sad
didn't begin to describe my feelings that cold December day.
Pained
was more accurate.

"Mel?" said Robin as she stood up and regarded me. "Are you crying?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I never cry." I rose from my chair. As I did, a cascade of cookie crumbs fell from my skirt onto the carpet. "Sorry about the mess," I said. "I'd offer to pay for a cleaning crew, but all my spare change goes to you-know-who now."

She sighed, frustrated that she'd failed to bring me around. "You weren't listening when I said it was time to let go and move on, were you?"

"Yes, yes, I was listening." I forced a big smile. "And I'll try to follow your advice, Robin. I will."

Forced smile aside, I meant what I'd said. I really didn't want to become one of those bitter divorcees who can't go five minutes without bashing her ex—women who poison all their relationships with their vitriol, bore everyone to death with the same twisted stories, and end up miserable and alone, a pathetic victim. No, I would suck it up, act like the sort of gutsy dame I fantasized my mother would have been if she'd lived, and move on. That was the plan, anyway.

Robin and I said goodbye and gave each other a professional career woman hug—i.e., we held each other for a nanosecond, making sure not to smudge our lipstick.

As I walked out of the conference room, I felt her eyes on me, and I sensed that she hadn't bought my declaration of goodwill; that she had deemed me yet another client who'd been freed from the bonds of matrimony only to become entangled in the bonds of acrimony.

She had me pegged, all right. Yes, I left her office with the best intentions, but I'm sorry to report that the case of
Melanie Banks vs. Dan Swain
wasn't closed, despite all the pieces of paper we'd signed. On the contrary. The acrimony—the madness—was just getting started.