The Penny Pinchers Club (12 page)

Sisters were gifts from heaven, even if they borrowed your jewelry without asking and snitched to your parents behind your back.

“Take a deep breath and drink some water,” she’d urged during my master-bath breakdown as I robotically followed her order, putting my mouth to the bathroom faucet like Laura used to when she was little. “Now start from the beginning. You found the emails on Griff ’s computer. Then what?”

With difficulty, as if it had been years, not hours, after discovering them, I tried to re-create the chain of events:

When I’d read enough, I shut down the computer to preserve what was left of my self-esteem, sat back, and tried to breathe. I almost couldn’t. Two thoughts: A) My marriage was over, and B) What the heck was I doing in this dark basement?

Oh, right. Champagne. To celebrate.

Because I am a woman and a mother, I made the definitive choice to say nothing about what I’d read so as not to ruin what otherwise might have been a perfect day for Laura and Jack. Instead, I brought up the champagne and toasted our family, chatted with the children as we did the dishes, and even, later that night, succumbed to sex with my husband. (I know! Awful!) Numb, stunned, I kissed him good night and somehow managed to look, talk, and act like a functioning human the next morning despite the black hollow rotting me from within.

It wasn’t until the house was empty that I let myself unravel in a deep, hot bath, crying forcefully as I reread Griff’s emails I’d printed out that morning.

And then, another email to Bree, at the bottom of which was . . .

“Interestingly enough,” I told Viv, “his inbox had been cleaned out sometime either in the night or the morning after I got the champagne. I can only imagine Bree’s emails to him.”

Viv was silent for a while. “Well, I guess we have our confirmation.”

I sniffled back a few tears as I shivered in the cooling water. “I guess so.”

“Kind of supports what I said earlier, about couples not being designed to stay together for fifty years. I gotta say, Kat, from that line you read about him turning fifty, this is a guy going through a classic middle-age crisis.”

I checked the mirror and was horrified by my reflection, puffy, red-rimmed eyes. “Why couldn’t he have just bought a Miata?”

“Indeed.” In the background, the school bell rang, indicating her free period was up and she needed to get ready for her next class. “There’s only one thing to do. We gotta go see Toni.”

“But I don’t want a divorce. What I want is for my husband to love me.”

“And, as your older sister, I want you to be protected. You can’t just sit around until Laura’s graduation and hope he changes his mind only to have him hand you a set of divorce papers.”

“I can’t?” Seemed like a fairly reasonable course of action to me, provided I had enough chocolate . . . and didn’t have to get out of bed. Could humans hibernate?

“Think of Beth Williams. Do you want to end up like her, stocking shelves at Wegmans? At least you have the advantage of a heads-up, so let’s use it. I’m calling.”

Which she did. Which was how I ended up in Toni’s office.

“Earth to Kat.” Toni’s piercing voice snapped me to attention. “I know you’re grieving, but now is not the moment to drift into the sea of pity. I need you here, present, thinking not like a wronged woman, but like a wronged man.”

Viv, her arm firmly around my shoulders, said, “Don’t you have that backward?”

“Absolutely not
.
In other words, I want you to grow a pair. Look, when it comes to divorce, most of my jilted clients . . .”

I bristled and, sensing this,Viv cleared her throat in warning. “She’s a bit more than a wallflower stood up at the prom, Toni. Though, I should add, right now she’s about as fragile.”

“The point I’m trying to make,” Toni said, softening her tone, “is that, when faced with marital dissolution, women tend to think with their hearts whereas men think with their bank accounts. Which is why nine times out of ten, women get screwed financially in divorces.”

The “D” word again. I wished everyone would stop using it.

“How do you think with a bank account?” Viv used her practical teacher’s voice. “Bank accounts don’t have brains.”

“Neither do other parts of male anatomy and yet I’ve found they drive most thoughts of the male population.”

Harsh.

“What I’m trying to press upon you, Kat, is that if you confront your husband now with virtually no assets to your name besides the ones you two hold mutually, you will only be hurting yourself in the long run since there is a very strong possibility that he’ll call your bluff and declare immediately that he’s leaving you, at which point you will be on your own. Think of his email—this is a man with one foot already out the door. Do you understand?”

I told her I did, but she went on, anyway, to relate the story of another local woman—not, for once, the infamously abandoned and unwise Beth Williams—who, upon finding her husband had been conducting an affair with a colleague at work, packed up and took the children to her mother’s house.

“This is categorically the worst move a woman can make. In so doing, she robbed herself of her own home, the one she’d maintained, simply because she left the domicile first. At least you didn’t do that.”

Though it had crossed my mind, as had several other dramatic scenarios:

Fantasy #1—After finding those emails, my first impulse was to run to my bedroom, gather my stuff, throw it in the back of the car, and head west. I wanted to never see Griff again. At which point, he’d find himself missing me so much he’d pledge to never rest until he held me in his arms, promising his undying love forever.

Fantasy #2—Not nearly as romantic, but still inspiring in a Thelma and Louise kind of way, was to print Griff’s emails and lay them out on the marital bed, followed by packing up, stepping on the gas, and heading west, yadda, yadda, yadda. When he came home and realized what horror he’d wrought, he’d read my succinct note—something about how I was sorry to have burdened him for twenty years—after which he’d get down on his knees and curse himself for not appreciating me when he had the chance.

Toni was right. Both scenarios ended with Griff apologizing and begging my forgiveness. I couldn’t think of the alternate ending—him leaving. It simply did not compute.

Toni regarded me with her fishy eyes. “I’m assuming the situation is not abusive.”

“Of course not!” The idea of Griff hitting me or even raising his voice was preposterous. “My husband has never been anything but considerate.”

“She’s right,” Viv added. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Toni bit her lip, as though Griff’s placidity were regrettable. “Then here’s my suggestion, and bear with me. It might be rather hard to take initially.”

Kick him out. Change the locks. Serve him with papers. Demand a divorce and circle for-rent ads in the classifieds. Take Laura aside and tell her the truth. Get yourself into daily psychotherapy with antidepressants. Change back to your maiden name. Burn the socks he scatters around the bedroom floor. Pour yourself a shot of tequila.
I held my breath, anxiously awaiting which dramatic step she’d have me take.

“Shut up and stay with him, so if—and when—he asks for a divorce, you’ll be prepared financially.”

What?
Anticipation popped like a balloon. “How am I supposed to do that?”

Viv said, “You have to admit, Toni, that would be kind of hard, to live with a man, have
sex
with him, just to save money.”

“Nonsense. Women stay with their husbands for financial reasons all the time, have for ages. In Kat’s situation, it’s the only sensible strategy.”

Screw strategy. This was my heart, my soul, my very sanity at stake here.

“I’m not asking you to stay with your husband forever like they used to in your mother’s generation.”

Viv and I flashed each other questioning looks.
How did she know?

“I’m saying use this window until June to photocopy all your records, clear up your credit rating, get a better job, and open your own bank account with enough money to keep you afloat after he leaves. Prior planning prevents piss-poor performance, and all that.”

“I can’t.” I wiggled out of Viv’s grasp. “No way. I’ve barely been able to endure the past few days without going out of my mind. A minute more of living with him and not admitting what I’ve discovered would be torture.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Toni wagged her finger. “You’re thinking with your heart instead of your bank account, Kat. What did I say about that?”

Viv, more focused than I, said, “Speaking of thinking like a man, let me ask how much you
think
this divorce will cost my sister.”

It was the question my very female brain wanted to pose since I’d first stepped into Toni’s plush office with its pewter-colored walls and thick oriental rugs, built-in bookshelves, cushy leather furniture, and expensively framed, expensively obtained diplomas. But somewhere between crying about the end of my marriage and reeling from the shock of Toni’s advice to stay with Griff, I’d forgotten about money.

Then again, I always forgot about money. Hence, my problems.

“My usual retainer is $15,000.”

Holy crap! In home designer currency, that could buy a French Godin stove
and
hood.

Viv and I were speechless. Fifteen grand was my annual starting salary when I’d first started working for Chloe. Fifteen grand had bought Viv her used Passat.

“Fifteen thousand is reasonable for this area,” Toni said. “Go to New York and it can be $10,000 more. Keep in mind that’s just my retainer, too. The actual divorce could end up costing much more, depending on complications, not to mention the additional expenses of moving, renting, insurance, your own food, health care, et cetera.”

The prospect of coming up with all that money was overwhelming. It was impossible. Even $3,000—more in the ballpark of what I’d expected to pay—would have been a hardship. Fifteen thousand dollars was out of the question.

Now I could see why women in my mother’s generation stuck with their inattentive, cruel, obnoxious slobs of husbands who snored and swore and cheated and yelled. They didn’t have the wherewithal to leave.

Toni motioned for her assistant to find a file. “Don’t worry, ladies. I’ve got a solution, that is, if you’ve got the discipline.”

I certainly didn’t like the sound of that.

Opening the file, she pulled out a paper and said,“Here’s a handy divorce preparation checklist that might help you. I’ll go over the highlights and give you a copy to take home.”

Yippee
.

“First thing, obviously, is you need a job.” Toni glanced at me over her half-glasses. “You do have that, right?”

“I do.”

Viv added, “But she doesn’t make very much, and her boss treats her like an indentured servant.”

Toni asked, “Does your job have health insurance? A 401(k)?”

“I don’t know.” It was embarrassing how little interest I took in my employment benefits. “I never had to ask because I’m on Griff’s policy at Emerly.” This was so dull, not at all the fiery rants and threats of vengeance I’d expected from a hot-dog divorce lawyer who drove a Jaguar and sported bloodred nails.

Toni made a mark on the sheet with her pencil. “Okay, so that’s something you need to follow up on, your benefits, since once you’re divorced you can’t go on Griff’s health plan. Onto personal finance. How much money would you estimate the two of you have saved for retirement? More than $100,000? More than $300,000?”

Viv brought her hand to her mouth and snickered. I gave her a dirty look.

“Sorry,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s just that, when Toni asked that . . . the idea of you having over a hundred grand in savings. You gotta admit, it’s pretty funny.”

Toni, again over her half-glasses, asked, “Is there a problem? Kat’s in her forties. I should hope she has that much.”

Viv said, “She should hope, too.
Hope
she’s got. Savings, not so much. If there’s one thing you should know about my sister, Toni, is that she can’t save worth squat.”

I punched her arm. “That’s a nice thing to tell my lawyer.”

“Well, it’s true!”

“Your sister’s right. It’s better that I’m apprised of these issues in the beginning.” Whipping off her glasses,Toni bit an end and scrutinized me. “No savings at all, eh?”

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable. Wasn’t it bad enough my husband was planning to leave me? Did I have to be subjected to the third degree about my spending habits, too? “See, I’m not quite sure my sister is right about that.”