Saving Alice (8 page)
Finally, my tired gaze fell to the burnt orange couch, sagging and desprung from Alycia’s preschool need to jump for hours on end. My pajamas had been neatly placed on the arm of the couch. At least Donna had been calm enough to plan our sleeping arrangement.
I switched on the computer, navigated to eBay, and listed Paul’s camera. Briefly, I had considered giving it back to him sometime in the future, maybe as a gift, then thought better of it. We needed the two hundred dollars as much as he did.
I
awakened at four in the morning with my back hurting and my neck feeling like a pretzel. Upstairs in the kitchen, I fixed a quick cup of instant coffee, then drove to Kesslers on Sixth Avenue, an allnight grocery store. In the florist section, I considered the refrigerated contents. An array of carnations and daisies stood in buckets of water.
Bought flowers seemed little more than rubbing sand into a festering wound, and yet, with Donna not speaking to me, my only options were to do nothing or do something, regardless of how feeble it seemed.
Opening the glass door, I grabbed a dozen roses, assorted colors, and winced at the price. When I finally paid at the register, the clerk smirked between yawns.
At home again, I arranged eleven roses on the table, propping the birthday card against the vase. Next to the vase, I placed the white box containing the earrings, then stepped back to appraise my hopeless gesture.
Downstairs on Alycia’s door, I taped a pink rose. Then, with a hopeful heart, I got into my twelve-year-old rust-bucket Ford sedan—a rattletrap with spongy suspension, metal-on-metal brakes, and failing heater—and headed off to work. I parked several blocks away, on a side street, noticing Larry’s Buick on Main Street itself, positioned in front of our third-floor offices. It took arriving at five o’clock to park that close.
Climbing the stairs to the top floor, I pushed into the reception area, a sterile-looking room with a single desk and computer. The walls were covered with prints and ego plaques. A woman’s touch would have added a sense of female efficiency to the office, but without our receptionist, we were clueless.
Standing there, I realized it was still dark enough to see my reflection in the window. Within the lit corner office, a windowed room with the door closed, Larry was already deep into it, hunched over his desk. Electing not to bother him, I spent an hour nursing a warm cup of coffee, completing some billing and updating our Web site.
Larry wandered out just as I was sealing a few envelopes addressed to several of our former investment clients. “You’re in early.”
“Never-ending details,” I replied.
Larry leaned against the wall and took a sip from his own coffee mug. A conservative but impeccable dresser, six foot five with thinning blond hair, Larry was a model of restrained propriety. In keeping with his size, he reminded me of a heavyweight boxer with a flattened pug nose, ample cheeks, and double chin—all of which seemed to belie his quick mind. But when it came to ties, he was fashionably oblivious.
Today’s tie resembled a sordid mixture of Van Gogh and Monet. And like the rest of his ties, it seemed to betray the entire package of the rest of him. At least he wore them loose about his collars, as if lacking commitment, which also helped when making quick changes before more serious appointments.
He noticed me staring. “Too bright?”
I shrugged.
“Too loud?”
“Too too,” I said.
He considered this before nodding. “You okay?”
“Breathing.”
“That bad?”
“Been worse,” I replied.
Larry paused, took another sip of deep roast, then smiled. “Maybe you should burn in hell for a few days.”
“I don’t think Alycia would be satisfied with only a few days,” I replied, then described my encounter with her last night.
Larry shook his head. “Why do you let her talk to you like that?”
I rubbed the fatigue from my eyes and didn’t answer. Alycia’s rebellion and disrespect was a recent development, and since it was primarily directed toward me, I ignored it—mostly.
The phone rang, and we simply stared at it. I checked the caller ID and shook my head. If I didn’t recognize the name, or if the ID was blocked, I didn’t answer the phone. After countless angry phone calls, we’d learned our lesson the hard way.
“Besides, that’s not what really happened,” Larry said, picking up on the discussion and sliding his thumb down his tie, checking it for splatters, as if he could have found one.
“Sorry?”
“The multiple personality joke? Alycia didn’t actually say that. She told everyone you had an unexpected emergency meeting with an important client.” Larry shrugged, taking another sip. “Everyone bought it, Stephen. It wasn’t as bad as you thought.”
That’s strange,
I thought. Alycia rarely ever lied.
Larry sat in the chair across from me. It groaned under his weight. “We have an important interview today.” He gave me a mischievous grin. “Remember Cynthia Reiser?”
I frowned carefully. “Sorry, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Larry chuckled. “Nice try.”
Obviously, her name conjured up an entire litany of memories, including not only the junior high dance, but also Homecoming Queen. Mark, who she later married, had been starting quarterback for the Golden Eagles.
“I thought they moved away.”
Larry shrugged. “Mark is setting up a sheet-metal manufacturing plant here and needs an accountant.” He paused before adding, “Apparently they haven’t heard yet, so we’ve got a real shot at this.”
Lately, much of our local business had come down to that simple question:
Had they heard or not?
Five years ago, after a series of bad trading decisions, I’d lost thirty percent of our entire investment capital, all clients’ money. That wasn’t the worst part of it. Desperate to recover, like a gambling addict determined to get back to even, I’d foolishly placed the remainder in S&P futures, betting the entire sum on a single direction of the market.
But I bet wrong. The market exploded on the upside, and before I could pull out, three million had evaporated to a mere three hundred thousand. All told, I’d lost ninety percent.
Lawsuits quickly followed, claiming the equivalent of
financial malpractice
.
Marshall and Whitaker
was sued by thirty-plus former clients, most of them senior retirees. We’d lost and were ordered to make restitution. If our homes hadn’t been mortgaged to the hairline, the court would have taken them too. Our smartest option had been bankruptcy, but we’d decided against it. To his credit, Larry stood by me when it would have been easier to jump ship. At the present rate of our payments, which was all we could manage, we’d be finished with restitution by the time I was seventy.
Fortunately, at the time Larry had been transitioning to a Webbased tax consultant and asset-protection business for national clients. Having mastered the detailed nuances of the IRS code, Larry’s acumen kept us from going under.
After we let our receptionist go, I handled everything, not only the secretarial details but payroll, billing, and Web-site management, including marketing and design. The next years were touch-and-go as Larry began traveling on a regular basis, giving lectures, acquiring countless new clients not familiar with our local meltdown. Eventually his national consulting overshadowed our local reputation.
Shortly after my trading disaster, I convinced myself that the itch was gone, but that didn’t last long. And today as I prepared for the appointment, I couldn’t help noticing the computer screen, watching as the market continued to hit new highs. Billions of dollars were being made. None of them by me.
Ten minutes before the appointment, I knocked on Larry’s door, holding an array of ties I kept in my lower drawer for these occasions. Having crossed this bridge countless times before, he sighed and acquiesced to powder gray with a checkered design.
“Tie it tight,” I told him, and he did so, grunting with annoyance.
I’d hoped that Mark would be alone when he arrived for the appointment, but they came in together, Cynthia wearing Ralph Lauren blue jeans and a yellow designer sweater. Her youthful face was still cherubic, with blond bangs covering her forehead and the power of her beautiful eyes now unrepressed, due to either laser surgery or contacts.
“Hi, Stephen,” she said demurely.
“Welcome back,” I replied, wondering whether to hug her. In the awkward moment of indecision, I didn’t even shake her hand. I was relieved when Larry didn’t hug her either, although Larry wasn’t much of a hugger anyway.
After the initial handshakes with Mark, the four of us moved to Larry’s office where the window overlooked Main Street. I sat closest to the wall while Mark and Cynthia sat near Larry. After further formalities, including a healthy dose of high school nostalgia, Mark leaned forward. “Larry, I have to be honest, here. I almost canceled the appointment…”
So he
had
heard. I had a sinking feeling, but to his credit, Larry continued the sales pitch undaunted. He described the current situation, emphasizing its freedom from “our” investing mistakes. On several occasions, I could feel Cynthia’s eyes on me.
“We’ve learned our lesson,” Larry said. “We’re paying everyone back, and we’re sticking to what we do best. Most important, I can structure your business for maximum tax savings.”
Larry went on to describe a few elements of his tax plan and how it would apply to Mark’s situation. “You won’t find that kind of in-depth tax planning with any other accountant. And most lawyers are too specialized to grasp the latest asset-protection techniques.”
Mark was sold.
“I promise you,” Larry finished, with a wink and a nod, “I won’t let Stephen touch your account.”
Cynthia looked my way again. Mark laughed and shook Larry’s hand. We walked them both to the door, and they headed down the stairs for Main Street.
Larry turned to me immediately. “Sorry. I took it too far.”
“You did what you had to do,” I said with a shrug.
Larry squeezed my shoulder, then headed for his office. It was four in the afternoon, but our day was just getting started. Larry continued his tax work, and I transitioned from payroll to market study. While Larry worked sunup to sundown, he found
my
long office hours just short of deplorable.
“Don’t make my mistake,” he’d often told me. “Your wife is waiting for you at home,” which wasn’t true anymore. Most evenings, Donna worked two blocks away at a clothing store as a sales clerk, a part-time job she’d acquired shortly after the court judgment.
I put in another two hours, and just before leaving, about seven, I checked the market only to discover another record-breaking day: a two-percent rise for the NASDAQ while our minimal family account was safely tucked away in Main Street’s Dacotah Bank—eking out a “safe” money-market return.
Grabbing my suit jacket off the door, I paused by Larry’s office. Poring over documents, he looked up.
“We’re coming back, Stephen,” he said with little emotion. “Mark is well-respected in this community. High school quarterback. Millionaire before forty. Didn’t he take us to state?”
I nodded. Larry was right about the business. After five years in financial purgatory, things were in fact looking up. Eventually, we might even afford to pay ourselves livable wages.
“Thanks for not quitting on me,” I said.
He leaned back in his squeaky chair and frowned. “We’re partners, man. Better or worse, right? Through thick and thin?” He chuckled at our private joke.
I bid him good night and headed out. Since it was Friday night, Donna would be off early, and given that Alycia wouldn’t get home till late, we’d be alone together.
For better or worse,
I thought to myself, wondering how Donna had responded to the flowers. If her reaction was anything like the last time, the vase of flowers would be waiting for me on the sidewalk, the glass crushed to pieces, the roses mangled, making the entire neighborhood privy to our failing marriage.
However, upon arriving home, the sidewalk was free of debris and Donna was nowhere to be seen. Inside, the roses remained on the table, the envelope, unopened. I went downstairs and found the rose I’d taped on Alycia’s door early this morning now taped upside down to my own office door, with a small note scrawled on a Post-it memo:
Pathetic, Dad
.
At least I’m still “Dad,”
I thought.
I lingered for an hour, nervously pacing the living room, until I gave up. When I arrived at Joe’s, Paul waved me over, his mood seemingly improved over the night before.
“This is only my first,” he announced before I could ask. “I’m stopping at two.”
“Wonderful,” I said, hoping my constant badgering was finally taking effect. We discussed the Vikings for an hour. Susan didn’t show up. I glanced at the date on my watch, hoping she wouldn’t be back. Maybe she’d finally found her true love.
Hours later, after Paul’s early and miraculous departure, I was still sipping lemonade and sketching trading notes in the dark, variations on the stock-trading ideas I’d developed years ago, tested ad infinitum, but hadn’t implemented yet. The trading itch was growing stronger.
When I got home, our bedroom door was closed. I heard dull, rhythmic thuds emanating from downstairs and breathed a sigh of relief. Alycia was home safe. Three months ago, after finding evidence that she was sneaking out the tiny basement window in her room, I’d nailed it shut from the outside. It was like putting a Band-Aid on a broken leg. The following morning she’d glared at me over the breakfast table but said nothing.
Sinking into the living room recliner, I stared across the room, expecting to fall asleep immediately. Instead, my mind wandered, and I found myself recalling better days. Back when Alycia and I were still talking—and laughing, and cutting up….
After I’d pronounced her the spitting image of a juvenile, curlyhaired Audrey Hepburn, Alycia had made her own comparison. We’d been watching a series of old movies on the Classic Movie Channel, and we’d just finished
High Noon
.
“I think Mom looks a little like Grace Kelly,” she announced.
“Grace Kelly?” I muttered, grabbing Alycia around the neck from behind. I rubbed my knuckles across her head and tortured her with the theme song,
“Do not forsake me, oh, my darling
…”
She wailed in mock pain. When I let her go, she persisted, “But don’t you think she does? And don’t you think Grace Kelly was pretty?”
“Marilyn Monroe was pretty,” I said, playfully contrary.
