Innocent Spouse (5 page)

“I’m just missing Daddy and wishing he was out there in his boat.” At bedtime, between tears, he had more questions.

“Why did God take Daddy? Why did he
do
that?”

Some parents might respond with an affirmation of faith and explain how the ways of God are beyond our understanding, but we have to believe that God does everything for a reason even if the reason is a mystery to us.

That’s not what I did. I said, “I don’t know.”

Not much help for a little boy.

“Nobody will ever love me again,” he cried.

“I love you,” I said. “I need you. I know how you feel. That’s the way I felt yesterday in the car, when you got so mad at me for crying. I felt like I would never fit in again, never be part of the world again, like there was no reason for going on. But the feeling passed. The way you feel hurts now, but it will pass, too.”

I was strong through his dinner, his bath, and his bedtime, but not for long after. In those early days, when grief was a shot of Novocain to my nervous system, I got through most of the daylight hours in my protective fog. But after Spencer was asleep, after dark when I was alone in the rooms I had shared with Howard, the numbness wore off and I was saturated in sadness. I puttered and searched, or sat on the edge of our bed and stared into space. Inside my head was a chorus of “He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.” I was a “widow” now, the way some people become an “amputee” or a “cancer survivor” or “blind.” It was a designation I’d never considered, and it couldn’t be altered or washed away. There’s no way to become an ex-widow. I was branded for life.

I was drawn to Howard’s closet, to the fragrant nest of his suits and sport jackets, where my nose inhaled the familiar scent of him, where I pressed a cheek against the cloth and imagined him there. I fingered his sweaters and his shirts and his ties. His shoes were still neatly lined up in a row, as he’d left them. I crumpled to the floor, tears streaming, holding a shoe to my breast as if it were the dearest thing in the world. I slept in his boxer shorts. They made me feel womanly, but they comforted me, too.

I looked up the word
widow
in the dictionary. One definition was “a woman whose husband has died.” Another was “an additional hand dealt to the table,” and the third, “an incomplete line of type.” Each worked for me, but especially the last.

I felt incomplete in every possible way. My bed was empty, my
home was empty, the other end of the kitchen table was empty, the driver’s seat, his desk chair, the chair where he read and watched TV—all were empty. The other half of my conversations was no longer there. The memories we had shared were only my memories now. I picked up the phone but had no one to call. In the shower before bed I slumped to the floor and let the water wash away my tears.

The public rituals of death played out. The obituaries glowed. One said the Georgetown community was “robbed of a touch of class.” Another said, “If ever there was [an] establishment which bore the taste, the vision, the touch and personal image of its owner, then it was Nathans. It was Howard Joynt’s place, and there was no mistaking that.… With his graying, slicked-back hair, the sweater thrown over the shoulders, he often looked like he just came back from the country and was on his way to the bank, with a good glass of wine waiting for lunch.” They noted he was a generous tipper, too, and the son of Howard and May Joynt, “collectors of 18th century American furniture and art.” They mentioned his schools: St. Stephen’s, Choate, the University of Pennsylvania, and Georgetown University. I filled the biggest reception suite of Gawler’s funeral home with bouquets of his beloved daffodils—every last one that could be found in Washington in February. His mahogany urn rested on a table, a photo of his eighteen-foot sailboat, the
Carol Ann
, beside it. The room was packed with people, a crush to the walls, with the hum and verve of a festive cocktail party.

Back at home it was a different story. On Howard’s desk was the six-inch stack of bills that had arrived during the three weeks of the hospital vigil. All things financial—bills, banking, bookkeeping—were his department. I had my own checking account and paid my own credit cards, but Howard paid all the big stuff: electric, gas, phones, condo, cable, grocery, laundry, school, kennel, department stores, housekeeper, live-in babysitter. I ripped open the envelopes, threw away the promotions, placed the bills in a neat pile, and began to sort through them. The amounts of money staggered me. Moreover, there were two bills from a mortgage company, each for about $1,200. Curious, I called the 800 number on the mortgage invoice. I patiently worked my way through the automated prompts until I reached a human being.

“Mortgages?” I asked. “What mortgages?”

“You took out two mortgages about eighteen months ago,” he replied brusquely.

What?
Why did Howard boast about owning all our property “free and clear” when we had two mortgages? And why didn’t I know about them? I turned on Howard’s adding machine—practically an appendage to him—and added up the bills. I ripped off the tally and looked at the number: $15,000. My God, I thought, that’s a boatload of money! And that was only for a month. How do I get that kind of money? What am I going to do
next
month? My heart sank.

I had no idea what income came from the restaurant or whether Howard even got a paycheck. He never told me his income, but I assumed that we lived off Nathans, the Joynt family trust, and his stock portfolio. We certainly didn’t want for anything. The money for the occasional Cartier bauble had to have come from somewhere. Certainly we didn’t live on my $50,000 a year from CNN. That might have gotten Howard through a month. He always tamped down my occasional money questions with “You don’t need to worry.” So I didn’t. Big mistake.

Looking at the bills made my head hurt. I stacked them back in a pile, clicked off the light, pushed back from the desk, put the chair neatly back in place, and walked out of the den. On the sofa in the living room I lay down and stared at the ceiling, tears welling.

“If anything ever happens to me,” Howard had said, “sell Nathans immediately. Don’t take a partner because they’ll rob you. Don’t try to run it yourself, because it will kill you. Just sell it. Get a good broker, put it on the market, and sell it.” What would I get, I asked. “On a good day you’d clear $2 million.”

Although publicly I insisted that I would keep Nathans—it was, after all, a family business—privately I planned to heed Howard’s advice and sell it as fast as possible. I was no more qualified to run a restaurant and bar than to wield a scalpel if Howard had been a heart surgeon and left me his medical practice. In my mind I was a widow and a mother, and I wanted to get back to my work as a producer for
Larry King Live
. I wanted to run our household, not a twenty-eight-year-old bar with fifty-five employees. My only interest in Nathans was the financial security it could provide for my son and me.

In the first few weeks I tried to get us back to some kind of routine. In the morning, I got up, woke Spencer, and welcomed the babysitter, who lived down the hall in a small apartment we owned. I’d get in a good run, make breakfast, drop Spencer at nursery school, make a quick stop at Nathans, drive across town to the CNN building, and work at
Larry King Live
until mid-afternoon when I drove back to Georgetown to pick up Spencer from school. Rather than work from home in the afternoons, as I did before, I left Spencer with the babysitter and returned to Nathans until Spencer’s dinnertime. I found comfort in order and routine. If I could get through one day I could maybe get through the next.

I dreamed about Howard. In one dream I was in the car, speeding haphazardly from one end of town to the other, all the while trying to reach him on the phone. I was lost and I needed directions. Do I turn left? Do I turn right? Howard would know what to do. I had to reach Howard. But Howard was not there.

L
OOKING BACK
, I’
VE
always called it “The Morning of the Lawyers.” Like so many twists and turns in my life after Howard died, everything seemed benign at the outset. His accountant said, “You need to call Howard’s lawyers,” and I took that as just another bureaucratic hurdle I had to jump in settling my dead husband’s estate. My entire focus was on shoring up whatever was needed to protect my son and myself, and to get Nathans sold as quickly as possible. I wanted all the loose ends tied up, some money in the bank, and then a period of time to grieve, settle our hearts, and figure out the rest of our lives.

I’d grown up solidly middle class in a military/academic family with little money to spare. From age eighteen until I met Howard I’d earned my own way, modestly but comfortably. Life with Howard was a big step up, and it taught me that having money was better. Money bought good schools, good doctors, restful vacations, beautiful homes, excellent services, and a world of agreeable people who more often than not enjoyed similarly comfortable lives. I might be a widow now, but at least Spencer and I would have enough money. We would survive, but there were steps I had to take, like visiting his lawyers, to get it locked down.

That morning, like all the other mornings since Howard died, I moved from sleep to the wakeful haze of grief with my attitude fixed somewhere between dread and the need to persevere. I got up, ran, made breakfast, got Spencer off to school, and prepared to face the day.

I dressed for my meeting with the lawyers like an actress preparing for a new role, the role of Howard’s widow. I did it more for Howard’s sake than for my own. He was always particular, and I wanted him to approve of my appearance. I wore my best black suit and shoes and my
most discreet jewelry, and carried a plain but fashionable black leather handbag. The only thing missing was a black veil.

The offices of Caplin and Drysdale are in an impressive building that hugs Thomas Circle, off Fourteenth Street about a half mile from the White House. It’s the edge of what’s known as “the new downtown.” The firm specializes in tax law and is named for heavy hitters Mortimer Caplin, a former commissioner of the IRS, and Douglas Drysdale, a tax lawyer with more than four decades of experience. The firm employs dozens of lawyers.

I stepped off the elevator into the reception area. There was a wash of plush, cool gray in the walls, the carpet, the furniture, and the mood. The receptionist invited me to take a seat. “I’ll let them know you’re here, Mrs. Joynt,” she said. I sat on a gray sofa, handbag in lap, hands on handbag, and stared into the middle distance. I waited for my cue. The experience was new to me, and a little bit unsettling. The truth is, I felt completely out of place. Lawyers, contracts, business matters—these were all things Howard loved and handled completely on his own. I never felt any curiosity when it came to what went down between Howard and his lawyers. I was happy to stay out of it. My meeting today, I assumed, would be a mere formality. The lawyers would offer their condolences, maybe have me sign some documents, wish me well, and send me on my way. Done.

Not quite. Howard’s accountant, Martin Gray, said it was urgent that I attend the meeting. That seemed strange. And then there was something Howard had said over dinner awhile back. He casually mentioned a tax audit. “I won’t bother you with the details, and I’m not really supposed to talk about it. But you don’t need to worry. It’s bad, but I have a plan.” The statement was unremarkable because whenever Howard mentioned audits—not uncommon with small businesses—they were nothing more than twenty-four-hour storm clouds that always passed. When Howard told me not to worry about something, that he had a plan, I didn’t think anything more about it. He always worked it out. That was the magic of the man, and why I ceded the business side of our lives to him. He took care of things, just as he took care of me.

“Hello, Carol.” An attractive woman walked toward me smartly dressed, wearing a silk blouse with a bow at the neck and a straight
skirt. She was of a certain age, and confident. She introduced herself as Julie Davis, one of Howard’s lawyers. She ushered me down a short hall and into a conference room. When I walked into that room all I saw was the large, dark conference table. It reminded me of the first time I walked into a bedroom with a man, and all I saw was the bed. My heart started to race and I took a deep breath to relax.

Several men stood around the table. Only one of them wore a tie, and that was Martin, the accountant. I wondered why he was there, and why he had arrived before me. But I didn’t have time to dwell on such things. One by one the men introduced themselves. There was a moment of almost Japanese politeness as we nodded toward one another. The men offered their condolences, hoped Spencer and I were doing well, and said they knew this was a hard time for us. “We don’t always dress this way,” one of them added. He seemed self-conscious as he went on to explain that it was “casual Friday” at the firm. His tone was familiar but somehow condescending. I had expected warmth and something more—I don’t know what exactly—maybe intimacy?

Because I was meeting with Howard’s lawyers I let myself believe they would be acting toward me on his behalf so, although I had approached this meeting with anxiety, I also expected it would be like visiting friends. The lawyers, as Howard’s surrogates, would wrap their arms around me and make me feel safe.

That wasn’t how it happened. Each man, and the woman, squared their shoulders, adjusted the papers in front of them, and fixed their eyes on me. The needle on my fight-or-flight instinct quite suddenly moved to flight. Cono Namarato, the lead lawyer, spoke first. He carefully explained that when Howard died he was under investigation for federal criminal tax fraud and that the case against him covered both our personal taxes and the taxes of the business. As Mr. Namarato detailed Howard’s legal transgressions, I nodded as if I understood what he was talking about. Here was this respected criminal tax lawyer with a sculpted face and crisp manner telling me that my husband was under investigation for tax fraud. What happened to the simple audit Howard had mentioned? What happened to the warm arms of lawyerly love? And why was it taking so long to get to the part where I sign whatever documents I had to sign so I could just leave?