Saving Alice (14 page)
T
he digital display showed 4:30 A.M. when I finally gave up trying to sleep. After showering, I grabbed a cup of caffeine and headed for the office. I arrived just before five and parked on Main.
The early bird gets the parking spot,
I mused. Getting out of the car, my shoes crunched the old snow. A slight breeze nipped at my exposed collar, but the day promised higher temperatures—maybe as high as thirty degrees.
Climbing the stairs, I opened the rickety door and hung up my coat on the hanger in the reception area. In my office, I turned on the computer, then glanced over at Alycia’s photo.
“Hi, sweetie,” I whispered.
I sat at my clutter-free desk, empty but for the keyboard, screen, and phone. I accessed the computer, navigated through a few Web sites, and within minutes, renewed my old data service accounts. Much had changed in the last three years, so I purchased and downloaded new software—albeit nothing expensive or elaborate. I accessed my online broker and discovered yet more services—company research, analyst opinions, stock ratings.
More distractions,
I told myself.
More voices whispering in my ear.
I reminded myself of what I’d forgotten during the past year, that most traders, including myself, are looking for the next idea, the next complex variable method, the newest software, the next sure thing. Amateur traders, desperate to quantify every conceivable variable, confuse complexity for improvement. Yet, according to the great traders, the best methods are so simple they can be written on an index card.
I prepared morning coffee for Larry and looked out at the growing dawn. Main Street had a new sparkle to it, welcoming the first cars of the day with their frost-covered windows and pluming bluegray exhaust smoke, which dissolved into the humid cold.
After last night’s deliberation, I’d decided to go with S&P futures—a leveraged approach to trading the S&P 500.
Less to monitor
.
A quick examination of the latest price charts confirmed for me what I’d already suspected. Considering yesterday’s high, and with the market at such lofty heights, I needed to wait for prices to dip— enough of a dip to trip my divergence indicator, which was nothing more than a short-term moving average juxtaposed against a longer one. So when the market resumed its upward move, I would be automatically stopped in at the safest place, statistically speaking.
However, if the market continued to dip after I was on board, I would be automatically stopped out below the price bar of the previous day. Sure, I would have lost some money, but I also would have saved enough money to fight another day. Just as I’d told those students five years before, the disciplined approach to this system would yield a profit, but only if I could weather the occasional losses.
When asked why she posted her secrets of swing trading for the whole world to see, multimillionaire Market Wizard and accomplished violinist to boot Sarah Taylor only laughed. “I could disclose all my secrets—publish them in the
New York Times
for that matter— and it wouldn’t make a difference. Knowing what to do is worthless. It takes the emotions of Spock to compete in this world.”
Larry arrived at six o’clock, stood in my doorway for a moment, wearing a sophisticated charcoal suit with a silly tie that appeared to have been finger painted by toddlers. I leaned back in my squeaky office chair and grinned at my dazed partner.
He shrugged, yawned casually, and headed for his own office. As usual, we performed most of our duties with the minimum of interaction. Larry remained knee-deep in tax consulting while I carefully screened phone calls, sold our tax services to new wealthy clients, answered e-mails, and monitored the Web site.
At eleven, I called Dacotah Bank, talked to Matt Goeman, an old high school acquaintance, and arranged for a two-o’clock meeting.
“I’m taking a late lunch,” I informed Larry without explaining further. He grunted with indifference. When the mail arrived, I sifted through it and discovered another round of letters from the IRS. The hazard of operating a tax service turned out to be getting very familiar with the tax enforcers.
I placed all the letters on Larry’s desk.
“What do you need the money for?” Matt asked me, after we’d dispensed with a minute’s worth of informalities. He was my age, thirty-six, and while he’d lost most of his dusty brown hair, he was still in denial, carefully combing it over the thinning area on top.
His office was starkly decorated with sheer white curtains on the windows, shiny veneer coating the desk, and industrial blue carpet covering the floors. Against one wall was a small bookshelf. His expansive desk, like mine, was nearly empty of pencils, pens, or paper.
“Business capitalization,” I replied. Technically, it was true.
“For the company?”
“Not the partnership.”
“So, it’s … for you personally?”
“A side business,” I replied calmly without expounding further.
Matt stared blankly at me. And then, in the absence of any forthcoming explanation, his gaze dimmed. “Stephen…”
I swallowed and plunged forward. “I’m providing my house as collateral.”
“After your second refinance, there’s not much left.”
“All I need is twenty thousand dollars.”
Matt leaned back in his chair, but not so far back he couldn’t tap a pencil eraser on the edge of his desk. The chair squeaked as he adjusted his position. He regarded me curiously: “Are you going to trade with this money, Stephen?”
That’s the problem with a small town. Everyone knows your past and assumes your future. Your personal mistakes are etched upon the stone of their memories.
“Short-term investing,” I told him.
“I see,” he said with a note of finality.
“There’s plenty of equity in my house,” I repeated. “I’m good for it, Matt.”
“I know you are,” he replied. “And we’re pleased with your loan history, but we’re also familiar with your personal history. I can’t do this loan, Stephen. I’d lose my job.”
Just like that, the meeting was over. He walked me to the door and patted me on the shoulder. I expected him to say:
Get some help, Stephen
. Instead, he said, “I was sorry to hear about you and Donna.”
I repeated my pat answer. “She’s a wonderful woman. We’re working it out.”
Matt nodded patronizingly. Most likely he’d heard a different story.
Hugging myself against the cold, I walked the three blocks back to the office. Undaunted and seated behind my desk again, I proceeded with Plan B. I picked up the phone and dialed my credit card company. Despite the bank experience, I figured my chances were modest to good. When I reached a customer service rep, I presented my request for a home equity line of credit.
They put me on hold. Two minutes later, the rep returned with good news. Although the interest rate and fees were ridiculous, the loan was readily approved. I downloaded the documents, then scanned in my signature. According to the rep, I’d have access to thirty thousand dollars in a matter of days, deposited automatically in my bank account. From there, I’d wire it to my broker. That, plus the margin—another fifty percent of account total—would bring my total trading capital to forty-five thousand. More than enough to begin.
It was seven when I left Larry at the office and headed for Joe’s, promising myself an hour and no more. Paul was sitting at our usual table, staring up at the TV, watching ESPN scores scroll across the bottom of the screen. When he saw me, his face lit up. “Buddy!”
Sitting down, I felt a roomful of eyes on my back. Paul cleared his throat. “So … was it forgetting the party?”
I sighed, then recited my now oft-repeated speech. After nearly half an hour of Paul’s inebriated responses to the collapse of my marriage, he finally gave it a rest.
Bracing myself, I nodded toward his glass. “How’re we doing here?”
I felt like a parent monitoring a child, but Paul only grinned. “I’m stopping at three.”
I asked about Susan.
“Haven’t seen her,” Paul said.
“Maybe it’s true love?”
Paul smiled sluggishly. “And maybe statistical probability doesn’t exist.”
After that comment, I debated whether to tell Paul about my new stock-market activities. Since I hadn’t even told Larry yet, I decided against it. Instead, we discussed the latest sports news.
Half an hour later, I stood to my feet. “Gotta go, Mr. Mole.”
Paul’s eyes looked pained. “So soon, Mr. Loon?”
I hesitated. “Three, right?”
“I promise! Relax, Dad.”
I grinned and headed out. On the way home, I thought of Susan again and her last remarks.
“I’m getting out.”
Maybe she’d finally found the true romance she’d been seeking for twenty years. I sincerely hoped so.
Later that evening, in front of a cable sports recap, I was eating a TV dinner—something chickenlike in texture but without the familiar taste—when Donna finally called. It had been a week and a half since she’d left.
At first, hearing her voice on the phone startled me. “Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said, and then asked about me.
“Same,” I replied, trying to read the tone in her voice. I asked about her job and about Sally and we made small talk for a few minutes as if she’d never left, as if she were sitting across the table from me.
I wish you’d come home,
I was tempted to blurt.
“How is Alycia?” I asked instead.
“Still navigating through the maze of junior high society,” she replied. “Stephen…”
“I miss you, Donna.”
The line went silent. I heard her clear her throat. “Stephen … I’m going through with it. I’m filing for divorce.”
I felt a shudder go through my soul. “So soon?”
“I’m sorry, but … isn’t it pointless to drag this out further?”
I began to gently argue. I asked her to take more time, but she refused. I told her I still loved her, but her voice only turned cold. I asked her to consider Alycia’s situation, but she told me she had.
“You’ve talked to her?”
“I don’t have to, Stephen.”
While harboring a small hope in my heart, I finally gave in.
We proceeded to discuss the fair division of our property, which, considering our impoverished state, progressed without argument. I mentioned the seven thousand again. After acquiring the loan, I’d decided to follow through with my original intention of giving Donna half of our savings. Her response was different than I’d expected. Apparently, a few days in Sally’s apartment had registered. She softly acquiesced. “I guess that’s only fair…”
“Good,” I said. “And don’t you want child support?”
She sighed into the phone. “No.”
We had carefully avoided the topic of custody, saving it for last. And then something occurred to me. Maybe she planned to move out of state, perhaps back to Kansas, hoping to avoid any judicial prohibition. Maybe that’s why she’d been so eager to move out. I voiced the question as tactfully as possible.
A moment of silence passed. “I haven’t ruled it out. But I’d discuss it with you first.”
“I’m sure you’ve reviewed child custody law.”
“So, let me get this straight. The moment I leave, you suddenly decide to become a father again?”
