Been There, Married That, page 15
Like a roof over my head.
“Primary custody,” I said to Anne as we sat alone in that bare conference room. “Those two little words. Repeat after me—”
“Agnes, I know you feel that way,” she patted my hand, then pushed back her bangs. “We’re going to try our best.”
“No trying, only doing,” I said. “Right?”
“California is a fifty-fifty custody state,” she said. “Unless there are extenuating circumstances…”
I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. The door swung open, and the skeleton in my high school biology class with gray sideburns popped in and rubbed his bony hands together.
“Hey, so here’s how we’re going to do this,” our mediator said as he jumped into a seat across from us. Spry, this man. “I get a wish list, basically, of everything you’d like in the divorce.”
“We have our list ready,” Anne said, and she slid a piece of paper over. He donned a pair of reading glasses over his sharp nose. We’d been reasonable. I stay at the house until we sell, or at least three months, while I find a new place. Primary custody of Pep. No alimony.
That was it.
“This is it?” he asked. He sounded disappointed.
“What else did you expect?” I asked. “Am I divorcing wrong?”
“Agnes wants as peaceful a parting as possible,” Anne said.
“An alliterative adieu,” I said.
“I’m a bit thrown off. I thought you’d want to draw this out,” he said, looking at me. “Most women do. It’s a form of attention. You walk down the halls of your lawyer’s office, everyone’s happy to see you, right, honey?”
I heard Anne growl, but this poster child for Viagra had already launched from his seat. He was the type of man who medaled at the Senior Olympics.
“I’ll run this by them,” he said as he hopped to the door. “You’re being unreasonably reasonable!”
“That’s me. When I’m not basking in divorce lawyers’ attention.”
He tilted his head. “I’m pretty sure we can have this wrapped up today.”
The door closed.
“Let’s get this over with and get away from Bobby Riggs,” I said. “You want to have lunch? I’m paying.”
She smiled. “You’re always paying.”
“Touché!”
I gulped my water and contemplated the rest of my afternoon, secure in the dream that my divorce would turn out to be a piece of cake.
The door opened.
Mr. Senior Olympics stepped inside, looking deflated.
“He walked out,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I read your husband your list,” he said. “I said it was reasonable. And that we could wrap this up ASAP. And he … walked out.”
Of course he did. Any negotiation was a loss. Trevor needed to fight, to punish, to emerge victorious, standing atop the heap of divorce booty holding my blow-dryer aloft.
The dryer he’d manage to wrest from me in the divorce.
(I wish I’d kept a receipt for that blow-dryer.)
“Good luck,” Mr. Senior Olympics said, shaking his head as Anne and I gathered our things. “You’re going to need it.”
* * *
“So what do I do now?” I asked. “Besides head to the roof and jump onto the hood of an Arab prince’s illegally parked Lamborghini?”
“We wait,” she said. “In the meantime, relax. If we have a big battle ahead; you need to be healthy and present for your daughter.”
“Sounds like I’m going in for chemo,” I said.
“I’ve had cancer and divorce, and I’d rather have cancer,” Anne said.
“Stage one or two?” I asked.
“Stage three with 65 percent curability,” she said.
“What does Trevor want?” I asked. “Besides twelve Oscars, ninety-two Emmys, $364 billion, an NBA team, a sixty-thousand-square-foot home, and to be loved and adored by all, even the gardener you don’t pay a living wage?”
Anne looked at me, giving me a half smile, her eyes crinkling at the edges. Perfect crinkles, hers.
“He wants to win,” she said. “And in my line of work, winning usually means the kids lose.”
And then she sighed like she wished she’d signed up with the Peace Corps a year ago.
11
Your Life in Turnaround
I’d fallen asleep watching The Philadelphia Story on my iPad. Katharine Hepburn was going through with the wedding to her former husband (yes, I get the underlying meaning). Also, yes, I may have shed a tear or two in memoriam to all our Cary Grants.
Earlier that night, I’d set the alarm after urging Pep to get off her (goddamn) phone and go to sleep.
“It’s my phone,” Pep had said.
“Do you pay the bills?”
“Do you?” Pep had asked.
Kids are great, and I highly recommend them.
“You’re going to go blind,” I’d said, recalling my dad’s warnings about the blind nuns.
“Perfect,” Pep had said, “the less I see, the better.”
I’d finally snatched the phone out of her hand, and she’d slammed her bedroom door on me.
“I thought I had two more years before you turned into a monster!” I’d said through the door.
“I hate you!” she’d shouted.
“Good night!” I’d shouted back. Then, “Make sure you put the field trip slip in your bag!”
That was me saying, I love you; I’m sorry, but I’m the mom, not you.
* * *
I was in a REM sleep coma; Cary Grant may or may not have proposed to me—
The screaming wail of our house alarm shattered the proposal. I bolted straight up. I heard a man curse. I reached down under the bed and brought up the Louisville Slugger.
Holding the bat high, I sneaked down the long hallway filled with pictures of Trevor and celebrities. In the moonlight, Trevor and Eddie flashed iridescent smiles, Trevor and Sylvester scowled, Trevor’s and Cruise’s chiseled jawlines.
Nerve sweat trailed down my back. Hormone sweat had a thicker viscosity.
“Shut that thing off!” a man in black yelled in the dim light of the kitchen, his back to me.
I pulled back to swing—
Flash! Blindness. The island light flickered on.
Trevor, in a Supreme hoodie, stared at me in utter disbelief. Petra, wearing jeans and one of my old sweatshirts, was recording on her iPhone, hovering protectively over Trevor.
“Trevor, you scared the shit out of me—”
The alarm was still blaring. The phone started to ring. The alarm company, making sure they didn’t have to bother to come out.
“You change the alarm code?” Petra asked.
I went to the alarm pad and punched in numbers.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Didn’t you move out in a huff? Wasn’t that you?”
Trevor started walking toward the master. “Ulger told me to move back,” he muttered. “I need to sleep in my own bed. That other place smells like seaweed.”
“Is that my sweatshirt?” I asked Petra.
She tossed her hair and went after Trevor.
* * *
I woke up to find Petra massaging Trevor’s shoulders between feeding him bites of gluten-free toast. I swallowed locally sourced bile, retreated, and found the El Salvadoreñas huddled in the laundry room, spitting spicy fire.
“Good morning, ladies!” I clapped.
“I don’t work for that puta!” Gabriela said as her sisters grumbled.
Lola shoved a tampon in my face. Thankfully unused.
“Diabla,” Caster said. “She using the tampons—she’s not pregnant.”
“How did you know—”
“We know everything,” Gabriela said. “Caster worked in a house for a year, the girlfriend never had period. Because why? Because she wasn’t lady—”
Caster crossed her arms against her manufactured bosom and nodded furiously.
I motioned with my hands. “Calm. Calm-o. Tranquilo.”
“I know people, Miss Añes,” Caster said. “People who take care of people. You want I call them?”
“Thank you so much, Caster. I really appreciate that you would have him killed for me. Fin’s already offered. Maybe your people know her people and can get together, you know, have a picnic.”
She shrugged. “De nada.”
“Gabi!” Trevor was calling from the kitchen. “Where are my good socks? I have no good socks! Am I fucking poor?” We heard Petra’s footsteps, heading for the laundry room.
“Tranquilo, Gabriela,” I said as she clenched her fists. “Tranquilo.”
* * *
I dressed and headed for coffee with a screenwriter and a development exec on the other side of town. Before this divorce business, Trevor had optioned The Deadlies for a year with four consecutive option periods. The money was nominal, but hey, we were married. I could trust him. And say what you want about Trevor (and I have), the man knows better than anyone how to get a movie made.
The coffee shop was hidden in a nondescript corner strip mall on a stretch of Carthay Circle, a much-beloved pocket of LA. We have many charming pockets, like the super-expensive travel jacket I once bought Trevor for his birthday that he gave to our handyman after a week.
Carthay Circle was populated by charming old Spanish homes in a city famous for casually tossing out the old to make way for the new—homes, careers, or, you know, wives.
The bell at the top of the door trilled as I entered. The air smelled like fair trade, with a sweet, naïve sprinkling of young people believing they could change the world (while lugging around bricks of student loans).
At a corner back table, the writer—pixie cut, fashionable black reading glasses—was sitting across from the executive, one of those bland-as-unsalted-butter male feminists always ready to apologize for nothing they’ve ever done wrong.
I waved. Their eyes widened. Surprise? Joy? I had aged precipitously? (I made a note to start eating my estrogen cream.)
“Sorry, I’m a few minutes late,” I said as I snaked my way to the table. I glanced at their plates. Crumbs. Empty coffee mugs.
“Did I … I got the time wrong?” I blinked, conjuring the date and time in my calendar.
“Agnes,” the executive popped out of his seat, “I’m so sorry—you didn’t get my message?”
The writer stared at the grounds of her empty latte, perhaps reading her fortune.
“What message?”
“It’s my fault,” he said, his shoulders hunched forward. His voice went soft. “I called you yesterday, Agnes. It went through to voicemail. It was kind of a long … detailed message.”
“The dead zone,” I said. “The reception is shit.”
“I sincerely apologize again,” he said. “I usually like to deliver bad news in person, but given the circumstances…”
The writer excused herself to make a phone call. I watched her weave through chairs, directionless.
“Trevor put the project in turnaround,” he said. “We’re not moving forward.”
“But that’s my writer,” I said, motioning toward the retreating wordsmith. “I mean, not my writer; I don’t own her, but I did suggest using her, so, like, possession is nine-tenths of the law, obviously.”
“She’s wonderful; you have fantastic taste!” he said. “She’s working on another project for us now.”
“Another project.” I sucked in my cheeks. Bitch, what.
“Yes, it’s actually very exciting; you’d love it. It’s based on an idea Trevor had.”
“I’ll give you the option money back. I’ll sell it somewhere else. Fuck it, and fuck you guys.”
He drew in his breath.
“What?”
“We’ve … optioned your book for the next four years,” he said. “As per our agreement. Your film agent didn’t tell you?”
“No,” I said, picturing my asshole film agent. He was always sending me photos of himself on beaches, the slopes, Machu Picchu. “No, he didn’t. He’s on terminal vacation.”
“You know,” he said, rubbing my arm lightly like he was making snail tracks. “This could work out really well for you. I’m sure in a year or so, you and Trevor will be on super-friendly terms, then, you know, you can see about getting The Deadlies back on track with us.”
“Trevor’s killing my book,” I said. “He’s going to sit on it until it dies. You know that, right?”
“I’m so sorry you feel that way, Agnes,” he said, patting my shoulder. “But four years goes by really fast!”
I wanted to punch him in his complicit ferret face. I’d make him pay. I’d make them all pay.
“You’re buying me a latte!” I said, waving my finger in his face. “A latte and a scone!”
* * *
I called my film agent from the car. The scone had exploded, a blueberry crumb missile all over my lap.
“They canceled my book!” I brushed aside a few crumbs and ate others hungrily like a hamster caught on tape.
“Your book isn’t canceled,” he said. “Your meeting was canceled. I should’ve told you; I was in Aspen. You know how it is.”
“No, actually,” I said. “I don’t.”
“Didn’t you get my pic? Powder all day err’day, playa!”
“My book,” I said. “What do I do about my book?”
“They’re re-upping the option already!” he said. “Fucking awesome news!”
“Listen, Trevor and I are getting a divorce. He’s killing it.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “End of the lift. Sorry. Gotta scoot, playa!”
He hung up.
I headed back home down Olympic, too distracted to take the 10. Today was not the day to have an accident on the freeway.
I felt like calling my dad. He’d slap me out of this funk.
“First-world problems,” he’d say. “What the hell happened to my tough girl? Write another book. You can always get a waitressing job.”
I thought about calling Fin.
“Rich white people problems,” Fin would tell me, then launch into a story of her friend who just lost her leg in a barrel racing accident and couldn’t afford a wheelchair, and then I’d wind up spending an hour trying to Western Union money to someone who didn’t have a zip code.
Suck it up, buttercup. Suck it all up.
I turned up the stereo. An attorney with the nickname “Babyfacekilla” wants you to hire him. I turn it off.
The only way I’d get sympathy from my family is if I slipped from first-world to third-world problems, but then I’d be taking them with me, too. At least I’d have company.
As I turned up San Vicente from Wilshire, I remembered to call Anne.
“That’s so Ulger,” she said when she answered. “Of course he told Trevor to move back in. Leverage.”
“I’m way too familiar with the term,” I said. “What’s your advice?”
“Be perfectly pleasant and ignore him.”
“Them,” I said.
“Who else is there?”
“His assistant, well, our former house assistant,” I said. “She’s giving him massages at the breakfast table. She’s his companion sleeper.”
“Companion sleeper?”
“It’s a new thing. You didn’t see it in the Style section? All these execs and producers are hiring them. You pay someone to sleep with someone but don’t have sex,” I said. “I think it started in the hip-hop industry?”
“The nerve of Trevor,” Anne said. “You almost have to admire it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “No.”
“This changes everything,” she said. “This doesn’t sound like a healthy environment for an eleven-year-old.”
“Not for a forty-year-old, either.”
“I’ll send off a super-nasty lawyer letter right away,” Anne said.
“Send away,” I said.
“Aren’t you closer to mid-forties?” she asked, a lilt in her voice.
“Just send the letter, Ms. Divorce Attorney,” I said and hung up.
By 5:00, Petra was gone, swearing in Slavic (good name for a band) and kicking the pebbles in our driveway. Trevor stood at the kitchen windows watching her kick and spit expletives while I did the Nae Nae behind his back because my Floss wasn’t up to standard.
“I can see you, idiot,” Trevor said to the window. “In the reflection. I can see you.”
I froze.
“I was planning on getting rid of her anyway,” he said, whipping around. “She started wanting things—like for me to care that her grandmother died. You and your stupid lawyer did me a favor.”
“My lawyer isn’t stupid,” I said. “She’s brilliant, and guess what? She wants to join the Peace Corps!”
That came out wrong.
“Terrifying!” he said, and he took two steps toward me. On those long, quick legs, he covered a lot of tiled terrain. Suddenly, he was all up in my grill, as the kids say, his face red and twisted with rage. I watched spittle form at the corner of his mouth. I noticed a tiny piece of spinach between his teeth—
“You just freed up my time. I’ll spend all my excess energy destroying you. I’m never moving out of here, you understand? Never!”
He pushed through the swinging door to the living room so hard it wound up hitting the back of his head. I heard him stumble.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” he yelled from the other side of the door before he stomped off.
“I don’t really care if you’re okay!” I yelled back.
