The 90 Day Rule (4 page)

Not hard enough.

“Really? Are you sure?” That was in a worried tone of voice.

In Yoda-speak, nervous I was.

Etty held out a hand bearing the cell. Shaking my head vigorously—so much so I went vaguely light-headed—I mouthed
no way
.

“She’s getting up.” A grin. “No, not out of bed. Off the floor.”

Right. Thank you so much.

“Exercising.”

Mumbling.

“Not that much.”

“All right, give me that.” I wasn’t about to let that beeyotch diss on my weight for one more second. Adopting a ‘butter won’t melt in my mouth’ tone, I purred, “Tonia, dearest, how have you been?”

Etty poured herself a mug of stale coffee and hitched a hip on the counter.

Let the games begin.

Ninety days.

It could all be over in three months. Free. Clear. Unencumbered. All I had to do was not contest the divorce, sign the papers, relinquish all claims to community property—and thank you, God, for that pre-nup that guaranteed penury into my old age.

“I gave up…” but she knew that already. She was the one who had insisted, convincing me that her son, the golden boy, had a future, one to which I had attached my sorry butt only because dearest Robert got what he wanted. And what he wanted had been me.

I didn’t know why then, I sure as hell didn’t know why
now
. But somewhere along the way I’d assumed the status of disposable asset.

Scribbling something on a sheet of paper, Etty mouthed
gimme that
and waggled her fingers. I handed the phone over.

“Grams?” She paused and listened politely for a moment, then interrupted, “No, she’s not going to contest…”

I’m not?

“…and here’s why…”

I stood at the sink, pondering whether or not I was going to throw up. My ears buzzed as sweat dripped off the end of my nose,
splat, splat, splat
onto the stainless steel basin. Or tears. I couldn’t tell. In any case, I ignored the half of a conversation I didn’t care to hear.

“Oh.” That had a wilted quality. Score another one for Tonia if she could browbeat Loretta into submission.

Well, there was always a first for everything.

“Um, okay, that might work.” Etty rubbed her chin and evaluated me as I peered up at her, confused. “Yeah, but maybe you should talk to her. No, she doesn’t know…”

Oh, Christ, what didn’t I know?

“Let me have that.”

Grabbing the phone, I spat, “Tonia, you have no right to…”

I’m so sorry, Jessamine, so very sorry.

The woman sounded genuinely contrite.

What the hell?

We cannot afford a scandal, not now.

Yeah, I almost forgot. Elections were coming up soon. You’d think Robert could have kept that little fact in mind before boffing an under-aged bimbo on
our
bed!

And while you have every right to demand fair compensation…

Pain and suffering. That’s all I wanted. A little something to show for twenty-two years of kowtowing to his precious career. A small recognition that I counted for something in his life.

As if she read my thoughts, the woman went for the low blow.

I know nothing will ever matter more than our darling Loretta, after all she is the light of your, our, lives… Her well-being must…

The words rumbled together, an incoherent mass of
you’re getting off easy
. Or so it seemed. Her next words floored me.

Robert is not to know about this. Ever. Do you promise, Jessamine?

I had no idea what she was talking about.

Then Etty held up a check. Made out to Jessamine Cavanaugh McMahon, drawn in the small precise script that graced Christmas cards and birthday greetings. Ignoring the amount, I stared at my daughter, open-mouthed.

“Did you know about this?” That was directed at Etty. She nodded but before I could wring her neck, Tonia continued.

This is a one-time offer, Jessamine. And I can have a word with the administration so you could be fast-tracked. It’s your choice.

“Tonia, while I appreciate this I can’t accept…”

You can and you will. Loretta will give you the particulars. I have an appointment this morning. Let me talk to Loretta again.

Handing the cell over, I took my future inscribed on a bit of parchment and settled on the couch. The number swam in my vision.

So this is what I was worth.

Ninety days.
I could be free and financially solvent. Not in a set-for-life way but it was a start I hadn’t had ten minutes ago. I turned the check over and stared at the blank space for my signature.

There must be some kind of rule that goes with accepting a bribe. Was I missing something? The speed at which all this occurred had my head spinning. It had the feel of a soap opera set-up.

If the bastard had wanted a divorce why hadn’t he just asked? Why this sham?

Etty’s words cut through the fog. “Take the deal, Mom.”

“You mean sell out.” Bitterness cut the air between us, the one thing I wanted desperately to avoid.

My daughter, the adult, said sadly, “He’s my father and I love him dearly. But…” she held up a hand, “…you deserve to be the person you were meant to be.”

“And exactly what is that?”

She shrugged. “I think you might find out tonight.”

Tonight?

Coach. Dinner. The talk, the sales pitch.

Collusion, manipulation, set-up.

And a reality check.

“I don’t have anything to wear.” I used to be a jock. When had I turned into such a girl?

“Well, you can’t wear any of my stuff.”

The spandex pants that I’d borrowed were testament to that. As was the too small tee-shirt stretched over a matronly frame, breast-feeding and gravity having exacted an unfair price over time.

“There’s a Walmart, right?”

Sighing, she grabbed my hand and yanked me off the couch with me objecting that I had no money and hadn’t decided to cash the check and it wouldn’t matter anyway because it had to clear…

“Grams sent me a check also. I cashed it. There’s enough for you to buy a few things.” Rifling around in her purse, she withdrew a clutch of bills and handed them over.

I giggled, “Two hundred? This from the woman who insisted I spend two grand on a goddamn beige business suit?” If I had a place, I’d just been thoroughly put into it. I handed the money back. “For food. I’m eating you two out of house and home.”

She took a twenty and set it on the counter.

“We’re square. Now get a shower and get dressed.”

Worried, I asked, “Do they carry my size?” I honestly didn’t know, never having set foot in the store.

“Yeah, Mom. They’ve got a whole section for,” God, there it was, finger quotes, “Women’s sizes.”

****

“Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Twirling in front of the mirror, I had to admit that low riser, boot cut jeans were pretty bad-assed. If I didn’t turn around. Or bend over.

State College was a young town in every sense of the word. That meant shopping for a forty-two year old freshly minted to-be divorcee with nothing in her closet had been a challenge—and yes, I was signing those papers, the ninety day lure too much for my simple mind to ignore. What I was going to do with the largesse dangled by my mother-in-law was something else entirely.

The conservative Republican Good Wife suggested setting up a 401K. The needy frustrated unfulfilled woman yearned for an all-expenses paid visit to an island spa where Marcel could attend to my bruised ego and whip my body back into its former glory.

“Who’s Marcel?”

Oops, talking to myself again.

“Um, nobody. Just day dreaming.”

“So, what are you wearing tonight?”

The choices lay on the king-sized bed, occupying a miniscule corner at the foot of the mammoth structure. Refusing to invest in another skirt when my blah taupe modified A-line went with just about every color in Walmart’s Women’s size palette, netted bonus, semi-fitted navy blue chinos look-alike trousers. Without an elastic waistband.

Everything above a size double aught seemed to merit elastic, in the waistband, at the wrists, under the bust. Fortunately, whoever constructed those articles of poorly made pieces of crap thought that anyone requiring a larger size must also be
very
tall.

I was. The extra length in arm and leg made the fit a slam dunk.

Fortunately the Great Escape included me bringing the entire contents of my underwear drawer and the few bits and bobs of jewelry and accessories I allowed for the sake of vanity and indulgence.

“Yo, anybody home?”

Chazz.

“In the bedroom, hon.”

“I, uh, brought…”

Now what?

“Good.” Etty grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the living room where a short dark-skinned girl with cornrows and massive amounts of ’tude gave me the once-over.

Chazz said, “This is Seimone. She does the women.”

Really.

“He means she does their
hair,
Mom
.
” Still clear as mud so Etty elaborated, “The men’s and women’s basketball teams? You know?”

Oh.

Oh. Hell. No.

Chazz said, “She did Anton’s girlfriend and she looked, um…”

Not helping.

 Seimone glared at Chazz and grumbled, “Not a lot to work with but if y’all insist, I kin try.”

Etty held out two boxes.

My new stylist sat me down at the counter and ran her fingers through my lank hair. She pointed to Etty’s left hand.

“That one’ll do jes fine.”

That one was number 110 auburn, guaranteed to cover gray, in a convenient gel concentrate. The ‘see you later, Mom’ barely registered as she and Chazz beat a hasty retreat. Seimone set up the tools of her trade and lay out the box’s contents while humming a rap tune I actually recognized.

…bitch i’m ballin out the gym…

****

“Mom, are you crying?”

Yes, yes I was.

“It looks fine, honest. More than fine.”  She spun me in front of the mirror hanging on the closet door. “You look fabulous.”

I managed to choke out, “It’s not that.” Dabbing at my left eye with a pair of cotton briefs, I moaned, “I can’t blink. Not really.”

Darling daughter pursed her lips tight and assured me I’d get used to it.

The cornrows revealed a pale salmon scalp freshly coated with the remnants of #110 auburn gel. Seimone had knotted the mass of precisely aligned rows at the base of my neck and tied it off with a scrunchy in a day-glo orange color. Oddly enough it went with the dark auburn my normally mousey brown had assumed under the chemical onslaught.

My cheeks glowed with a ruddy hue, probably from having the skin stretched taut from the tight braids.

But, hell’s bells. Who knew I had the coloring for a redhead?

The knock on the door had me ducking for the bathroom. There was no way I was going out in public. Not tonight. Not ever.

Penn State had a perfectly acceptable online degree program. I could order in. Pizza. Chinese. There was no need to ever leave the apartment.

Chazz poked his head through the door and informed us unnecessarily that Coach had arrived.

“Jesus, Etty.”

“Mom, it’s just a meet. He’s gonna sell the program. Listen to him. Then you can make up your mind.”

Right. I was just a prospective student investigating my career options. A job interview of sorts.

And me wearing form-fitting jeans and a halter top that revealed far more cleavage than a woman of my age had a right to display. And auburn cornrows.

“Where’s the jeans jacket?” There was no hiding the desperation in my voice.

“It’s 80 degrees. You don’t need it.”

Chazz and Mr. Nosy were discussing that afternoon’s practice, the male voices deep, their southern accents more pronounced, comfortable in their shared roots.

Etty went out first and I heard the warm greetings and the “She’ll be right out.”

I looked at the bedroom window, three floors up. It really wasn’t all that high, was it?

Muttering
fuck it,
it’s not like it’s a date or anything
, I slipped on the platform wedgies and gained a few inches of intestinal fortitude.

Slipping through the door, I faced total silence as both Chazz and Coach turned and stared.

I held out my hand and murmured, “I’m happy to see you again, Mr. Ryan.”