All We Ever Wanted Was Everything (29 page)

Margaret sits besides Janice on the couch, in her new capacity as her mother’s legal assistant. On her lap she’s placed a folder of clippings and a notepad. Janice is soothed by Margaret’s presence. This is an unfamiliar sensation, quite the opposite of the pins and needles she typically feels when Margaret is around. Since the day in the vegetable garden, some tension between them has been relieved, although Janice worries that this is only because she essentially gave her daughter the upper hand by requesting her assistance. Still, Janice feels the pressure of Margaret’s weight on the couch beside her and lets the depression from their rears on the sofa slide them slightly toward each other. She smiles to herself.

“Well, I didn’t know,” she says to Grosser. “That wasn’t at all what I was led to believe the documents contained.” Her left foot jitterbugs across the carpet and back, describing a four-inch circle.

“Did you
read
the documents?” says Grosser. He cocks his head at her. She can hear his breath wheezing in his nostrils, a soft liquid sound. He shifts his behind and settles even more deeply into the couch. “Because unfortunately it’s very clear if you read it. To a lawyer, at least.”

“It was just a few sentences on chapter 08. chapter 08, in a 411-page document!” she says. Is he implying that she’s stupid? She grows even more indignant: “Even if I did read through the whole thing I would have needed a magnifying glass to catch that. It was
obviously
a trick!” She points at the paper with a finger that, she notices with dismay, is vibrating. She reels the finger back into her lap and grips her hands together.

“Of course, of course. I’m not disagreeing. I’m being the devil’s advocate here, just pointing out what the other side is going to argue. Though I am going to give you some advice for the future, not useful now of course, but…. Always, I repeat,
always
read every word of every legal document put in front of you,” says Grosser. He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head gravely.

Janice stretches her mind back to the day she signed the papers, over a year ago. She was racing to San Francisco for a luncheon, and Paul had asked her to stop in at his office en route to sign a few papers regarding their investment in Applied Pharmaceuticals. There was an accident on the 101—a Hummer had driven clean over a Miata, setting the coupe on fire and shutting the whole freeway down—and she sat, idling, in dead-stopped traffic for nearly an hour, late to both her appointments.

When she arrived, Paul shoved a three-inch stack of paper toward her and flipped to the pages she needed to sign, one after another, at least three dozen in all. “Just legal arcana,” he said. “Limits our personal liability should Applied Pharmaceuticals ever be sued, stuff about stock options and executive compensation. Just sign here…and here.” She remembers that Paul’s lawyer, Milt, sat in the corner of the office that afternoon, flipping through a magazine, nattering on about his recent golf trip—to Palm Springs? Or Taos? And that was it. Over in two minutes. Just like that.

Now, in hindsight, she can see the deliberate deception in Paul’s actions that day. The liar! It strikes her, suddenly, that he must have been planning that moment in his office for months—perhaps even for years. Was he already sleeping with Beverly at that point? Was Milt in on it too? Did
everyone
but her know that Paul was betraying his wife so completely? The implications of this are dizzying. She gazes down at the document, at her signature in that goddamn green ink, and feels sick to her stomach. How long had their marriage been over, in Paul’s mind, before he had come up with his ruse for cutting her out of his fortune? He had taken her to a weekend spa in Colorado not long before she signed the papers. They had even (she feels faint) had sex in their room’s vast Jacuzzi overlooking the Rocky Mountains, complete with candles and jazz music. Was that supposed to be his last hurrah? Some kind of consolation prize for her? She glimpses herself as he must have seen her: a pathetic chump.

She can’t remember the expression on Paul’s face as she signed the papers. If she had looked at him, really taken a moment to pay attention, would she have noticed any guilt flickering across his face? Would she have suspected that Milt’s babbling was intended to distract her from the content of the document? If she had known she was signing away her future, would she have noticed the little details that revealed that, in Paul’s mind, their marriage was already over?

Her leg bounces faster, venting her anger. “I had to sit in traffic,” says Janice. “There was an accident on the 101—I was late. I was agitated. I didn’t know it was anything important.”

“I take it you didn’t hire your own counsel to review it?”

“Why would I have hired my own lawyer? He was my husband. Marriage is a partnership built on trust.” Janice hears herself protesting and realizes how shallow this must sound to Grosser. It sounds shallow even to her, considering the position she is now in. Trust—apparently that had gone out the window years ago. Too bad she hadn’t noticed its departure. She adds, as explanation: “He’d just taken me on a romantic vacation.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Grosser leans back. “I am continually amazed how many marriages end with one party devastated because their spouse looked out for themselves first while they didn’t. It’s human nature, Mrs. Miller. Everyone’s watching out for number one. Then they let the lawyers sort out the rest.”

“Well,
I
don’t like to subscribe to such a pessimistic worldview,” she says. “Look—I’m not an idiot. He said it was an asset protection plan. My God, he even put that on the cover of the document. I had no reason not to believe him.”

“I know, I know. Well, unfortunately for us, it’s not the cover of the book but the contents that count,” says Grosser. He shakes his head again. He picks up the document and flips through it.

Janice feels something on her leg and looks down to see that Margaret has put her hand on Janice’s knee. Margaret leans in and whispers in Janice’s ear: “Your leg’s shaking, Mom. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just take a deep breath and relax.” Margaret leans forward, clears her throat. “Mr. Grosser, are you planning on referring to
Havell
?” she asks.

“Havell?”

“
Havell v. Islam.
You know—if someone’s behavior ‘shocks the conscience’ then they shouldn’t have a right to any property in a divorce? In my opinion, it’s fairly shocking to the conscience to coerce your wife into signing all her assets away.” Margaret smiles triumphantly, and Janice is taken aback. When did Margaret learn so much about the law? Could her daughter have a secret propensity for a legal career? She sees, suddenly, an alternate life for Margaret. Stanford Law School, a legal practice in something Margaret-like and liberal, like environmental law. It’s not too late. Janice nods in encouraging agreement, despite having no idea what her daughter is talking about.

Grosser regards Margaret with bleary eyes and sighs. “Right. You’ve done your homework. But it’s not at all relevant in this case: ‘Shocking’ behavior means beating your wife with a barbell, not coaxing her to sign documents. Look, young lady, why don’t you let me do my job. I’ve got quite a bit of experience in this matter—more than you’re going to get from reading a few back issues of
Legal Affairs.
” Janice can feel Margaret stiffening beside her.

Grosser begins stuffing papers back in his briefcase and closes the clasp with a decisive snap. “Well. We’re going to have to get creative here, Mrs. Miller, but we have options. I can argue undue influence. Or go with forensic evidence, proving you were incapable of sound decision. Maybe a handwriting expert who can show that this document was signed under duress.”

“Really? Handwriting will show that?” asks Janice.

“The wonder of our legal system is that you can prove almost anything, no matter how insane it seems. Pay an expert enough, he’ll say anything you want him to.” He pauses. “There’s one more matter I need to discuss with you, Mrs. Miller.” He looks at Margaret and raises his eyebrows. “In private.”

Margaret remains seated, clutching her notebook, until Janice turns and gestures for her to leave. Janice is disappointed to see her go. Grosser waits until the sound of Margaret’s footsteps fades before continuing in a low voice.

“This is a sensitive subject, Janice. I received a call from your husband’s counsel at SAB&R this morning. They told me that they have testimony from a reliable source that you have been having…relations…with one James Court. A pool cleaner.”

Janice freezes, her toe halting mid-tap. “Relations?”

Grosser pinches his lips together. “Of the sexual variety, Janice. Now, I’m not passing judgment. But are you aware that this young man is a known felon? Because SAB&R’s lawyers have apparently done their homework and they let me know that Mr. Court was arrested last year for possession of drugs with intent to sell. He had two ounces of marijuana and twenty pills of MDMA, better known as Ecstasy.”

“I was not aware,” says Janice, struggling to keep her voice calm, moderated, professional, rather than guilt-ridden or hysterical. This is not easy.

“Far be it from me to get involved in my clients’ love lives—”

“I’m not having an affair with him,” Janice insists. “He’s just my employee. He’s the pool boy.”

“As you say. But your husband’s lawyers say they have testimony that you have been associating with this young man. And they plan to use it as leverage to get you to drop your lawsuit.”

“How do they plan to do that?”

“Well, for one, they could argue that fraternizing with a known drug dealer invalidates your claim for child custody.”

The knee has now taken up a high-speed jig. “Lizzie?!” Janice blurts, horrified. “But he can’t do that, can he? Paul’s having an affair, too. I mean, no. Let me rephrase that: I’m
not
having an affair. And he
is.
Definitively. He doesn’t even want custody. It doesn’t make sense!”

Grosser shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s fair. They may not even have real evidence. Keep in mind that custody of your daughter is most likely not their goal. All they are trying to do is intimidate you into dropping your demands for your husband’s IPO money. It’s a scare tactic. But it could get dragged into court. I would suggest that you cut off all contact with this young man, immediately.”

Janice’s jaw tightens. Cut off her supply of It? Now? When she needs it most? She couldn’t possibly. How much does she have? Four days’ supply? A week’s? The sparkling enriched blood courses through her veins, and in the rapid beat of her heart she hears Its seductive coo:
Yes. Yes. Yes. YES YES YES YES.
The jig picks up its pace until she thinks her leg might just detach itself from her body and dance right on out the door.

“I will not let my husband dictate whom I see or don’t see,” she tells her lawyer through gritted teeth. “He has no right. No right at all.”

“As you say,” Grosser says. “I’m just offering my counsel on this matter.” He pushes himself up from the couch, tottering slightly to regain his balance. The cushions exhale a relieved sigh.

Janice rises with him, pausing to whack the pillows back into shape before escorting Grosser to the door. “Thank you for coming,” she says. “I’ll be in touch.”

janice seethes, the subcutaneous fury and humiliation bubbling up to a dangerously high boil. She seethes as she strips all the beds in the house and hauls the sweat-fragrant sheets downstairs to the laundry room. She seethes as she opens the windows and lets the summer air freshen up the living room. She seethes as she prepares a lemon-rosemary roast chicken and toasts pine nuts for a salad. And she seethes as she taps out two more lines, just before dinner, and sniffs them back with a sharp inhalation: The baggie is already upsettingly light.

The family—
sans
paterfamilias—sits down for dinner at six.

“Oooh, chicken,” says Lizzie. She sits down at the table and flaps open her napkin with a flourish. “Looks really good, Mom.” Janice smiles faintly, finding herself irked by the false brightness in her daughter’s voice. It reminds her of the way kindergarten teachers encouragingly address the shy and stupid children in the back of the classroom.

Margaret works her away around her plate methodically. A bite of chicken, a bite of basmati rice, a bite of spinach salad. She has always eaten as if it is a task to be completed, with none of her sister’s gorge-as-if-there’s-no-tomorrow enthusiasm. She might as well be consuming cardboard with glue sauce.

Janice looks at her own plate, at the withered lemon slices plastered to the china and the shreds of white meat she has pushed around with her fork. She has had no appetite for weeks. It satisfies her to drain herself, as if by siphoning away her hunger, her flesh, she might also cast off all earthly needs. Famished, she feels as light and heavenly as a saint, just a pound or two away from floating off to somewhere far more interesting than where she is right now.

While Margaret and Lizzie eat their chicken, Janice sits at the head of the table and lets her speeding mind tussle with the question that has bothered her since Grosser’s visit. Who could have told Paul that she was having an affair with James, and what on earth did she do to give them that impression? Is someone intentionally lying? And even though they clearly can’t prove that she is having an affair with him, could they find out about It? And would that be enough to take Lizzie away?

It is Margaret who breaks the silence. “So, Lewis Grosser wasn’t so bad, was he?” She smiles at her mother, confident in their newly minted camaraderie. “I mean, considering he’s a divorce lawyer. I can’t imagine why anyone would
choose
to do that for a living.”

Janice smiles thinly, only half conscious of what her daughter is saying. It’s almost unbearable to keep sitting motionless at the table. For just a moment, she almost hates her daughters, as if they’ve pinned her to this chair like a butterfly in a specimen cage. “Yes, yes, I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she says, peeling the skin from the flesh of a chicken thigh and carefully shredding it into strips. “He better be, for what he charges.”