The Achilles Heel (7 page)

“I bet it does,” I agreed.

“You know,” she started carefully. “I saw Jack almost every day around the building
and would have never guessed he was sick. Although, living with my ex and his bullshit
drugs might have skewed my perception of what authentically sick people look like.”

“Wait, what? Jack wasn’t sick. Why would you think that he was sick? Did he tell you
he was?” I asked; more like demanded as my voice got louder, my heart beat faster,
and I immediately started to sweat.

“Well, no,” she paused, “but I just assumed. With over twenty years of insurance under
my belt, the only people who prepay for a funeral and hand pick the details are usually
the ones that have a terminal diagnosis and know the insurance company is going to
put the family through hell before they pay them a dime. I guess when I saw on the
death certificate that the cause of death was an automobile accident, I just assumed
Jack was sparing you the horror of watching someone you love waste away,” she said.
Her voice trailed off like she immediately regretted opening up this line of conversation.

“Are you telling me you think Jack committed suicide?” I yelled out of shock, while
the noise of the happy hour crowd silenced, and people began to pretend they weren’t
watching us. “Just because you chatted with him some mornings doesn’t make you a fucking
expert on his mental state or his health! Got it?” I was leaned so far over the table
yelling at her, I smelled the Pinot on her breath. Grabbing my purse, I stuck my finger
in her face, bellowing, “Oh, and yeah, you are fired!” I turned to storm out the door,
but not before purposefully knocking over her wine glass into her lap.

Running back to my car, trying to escape the scene of my life, I got behind the wheel
and pulled out of my parking space, clipping the car parallel parked ahead of me.
I reached into my purse, rolled down the passenger side window, and threw an Adams
Agency business card on the windshield. Clearly a danger to society‌—‌having never
driven that fast and reckless in my entire life‌—‌I just needed to get home. She was
wrong about Jack, she had to be. He wouldn’t do this on purpose; but the seed had
been planted, and now it was all I could think about.

ANNIE

T
he funeral was an intimate and unavoidably sad affair, with only immediate family
present; Jack’s explicit request. He obviously didn’t want a congregation of people
standing around crying over him, so he didn’t invite anyone. The five of us stood
stoic as we gathered in the rain staring at a freshly implanted headstone. Tiny, shimmery
flecks in the black granite glowed around the silver lettering and lit up Jack’s name
like a marquee in Times Square. Jamie chose the style of headstone and within that
process, had to also pick the color of granite. I was grateful for his attention to
detail, but unfortunately, it was an exact match to my kitchen counters; another crushing
blow.

Over the last two weeks, plenty of people touted a plethora of advice concerning:
my grief, my mental state, and most importantly, my future as a widow. Most tried
hard to sympathize with my anguish, reaching into their bag of thoughtful and poignant
Hallmark expressions; knowing as they walked away, I was left feeling exceedingly
hopeful about my future. After the first two days of fielding phone calls, I realized
that any words of comfort relayed were much like a boomerang revolving around me,
but ultimately landing back into the hands of the do-gooding adviser. I became a master
at blanketing my reactions and began to play a sick game with myself. I found that
when someone began to speak to me about Jack’s life or his death, I would focus on
cramming my heartache deep inside and choking the oxygen from my emotions. This kept
my tears from falling, having to hear the words coming out of their mouth, and also
successful in escaping a public breakdown.

The Parker Family Funeral Home held a respectable ceremony, and I was grateful to
them for honoring Jack’s wishes with the highest of standards. His ashes were laid
to rest on a Tuesday afternoon in a corner plot, under a colossal oak tree and honestly,
it didn’t look like there was room for me next to him.

After the ceremony, I spoke with Joe Parker, the General Manager and resident accountant.
“Thank you so much, it was really very beautiful,” I told him.

“Of course, Mrs. Whitman, I’m glad. I know Mr. Whitman had specific requests, and
we are happy you’re pleased with the outcome,” he stated, trying to make me feel better,
but only twisting the knife to help me feel worse.

I wouldn’t say I’m happy about the outcome, because the outcome is that I’m standing
in a funeral home and my husband is dead. Jack’s dead. Jack’s dead. Jack’s dead. I’ve
got to be up in the hundreds by now.

“However,” he continued. “I do need to speak with you about the payment, if you have
a moment.” He nodded his head and extended his hand towards an open office door.

“Is there a problem with the check, because twenty thousand should have more than
covered the expense,” I stated, as I felt my face flush with anger.

“Oh no, no, ma’am. The check is just fine, except,” he paused, “well it’s almost four
thousand dollars too much. I’m extremely embarrassed to tell you this, but I can’t
reimburse you your change until the check clears at the bank. I can offer you a credit
though, if you’d like to take advantage of pre-planning for yourself. I’m so sorry
to give you this news today of all days, but we just don’t have the immediate funds
with the tanking of the economy. The bank will hold the check for ten business days
and once it’s cashed, we can get you the rest of your money. This is not how we like
to do business, but it seems we are at the mercy of a third party in this instance
and I just wanted to be honest with you,” he said apologetically.

“Tell me how much the amount is again.”

“Three thousand, six hundred, eighty-two dollars, and nineteen cents.”

I took my time before I responded. “Joe, do you have a wife?” I finally asked him.

“Yes, ma’am, married twenty years in October,” he answered.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’m going to skip the credit to the funeral home; I think that’s
just asking for trouble, but I want you to keep the money and spend it on your wife.
People say Jamaica is nice in October, and you know we ladies always enjoy something
sparkly. It was a pleasure to meet you,” I said as I shook his hand, walked down the
hall and out the door, leaving him to pick his jaw up off the floor.

ANNIE

T
he day after the funeral, I was obligated, almost forced, to go to the reading of
Jack’s Will. Scheduling this meeting only one day after burying my husband was insensitive.
Jamie and I argued about the overwhelmingly asinine timing, but he wouldn’t budge;
he insisted we get it over with so we could start moving on. I didn’t even know what
this reading fully entailed, who was going to be there, or what they were going to
say; I only wanted to be alone, not in an office with strangers.

As we pulled up to the bungalow converted office space, the sign on the door read
Graville Law Office. It was humble and unassuming; nice, but not elaborate, and I
felt my anxiety slowly start to fade as we walked through the front door. The receptionist’s
greeting was warm and polite, and her tits were appropriately covered; a one-eighty
from bread basket hair-do over at Adam’s Agency.

She escorted Jamie and me into a large office, more like a living room with a desk,
and showed herself back out the door. Three gentlemen dressed in suits occupied the
club chairs as they waited for our arrival. The youngest man came around from behind
the desk to introduce himself. “Mr. Whitman, Mrs. Whitman, my name is Robert Graville,
and I’m overseeing the reading of Jack Whitman’s Will today.”

“Hello, Annie Whitman,” I said as I shook his hand. I allowed a customary pause for
Jamie to say something or even acknowledge Robert’s presence, but when I looked over
at him, his face was turning a pasty white color and beads of sweat were forming at
his temples and upper lip. Turning back to look at Mr. Graville, I swear I saw some
kind of silent exchange happen between them.

“This is David Perry, a partner in my firm, and he will be sitting in on the meeting,”
Mr. Graville explained.

I glanced at Jamie again, who at this point still hadn’t said a word, but his sweat
was running in trails now, and he began to look physically sick, like the first effects
of food poisoning were setting in.

“This is Guy Townsend,” Robert began. “As of May 1
^st
, he is the new Executor of the Will. I think you both might find some recent changes
and should probably be sitting down from here on out,” he said, as he offered us a
seat on the couch.

Guy was an uncomfortably gray and slim man. His hair was silver with a horseshoe swoop
around the low back of his head; shiny and bald on top. He wore a gray, pinstripe
suite with a gray tie and gray suede bucks on his feet; he looked more like a restaurateur
from Tavern on the Green than a Kansas City lawyer.

I smoothed down my black skirt, took a seat and wondered what in the hell is going
on. Jamie needed the arm of the sofa to help him keep his balance as he slowly lowered
himself down onto the couch, as if he had just celebrated his hundredth birthday.
By the white of his skin and sudden bloating of his face, he knew exactly what was
about to happen.

“Like I said, some recent changes have been made to the Will, so let’s just get started.
Guy, if you would?” Robert encouraged him.

“Ahem,” Guy cleared his throat. “Here we go.”

“I, Jack Allen Whitman, being of sound mind and body, request my wishes be carried
out to the exact detail. The house, cars and all personal belongings are left to my
wife, Andrea Whitman. All stocks, bonds and personal investments are also transferred
to her name and belong solely to her. I have two personal trusts set up; one in the
name of Max Whitman and one in Mia Whitman’s name, both minors. Each trust contains
one hundred thousand dollars and can be accessed when each child turns twenty-one.”

I felt the tears well up in my eyes. True to form, Jack had thought of our niece and
nephew and the continuation of bettering their lives.

“Whitman Capital Funds has gone through some crucial changes and as CEO of the company,
I am responsible for protecting our business as well as our clients at all costs.
The “Key Man” Life Insurance contract owned by Whitman Capital on Jack Allen Whitman
has been changed. Andrea Whitman, as beneficiary, will receive 100% of the proceeds,
of which she will use immediately to pay 50% of Whitman Capital Funds booked liabilities
as of the date of my death.” He paused from reading and said, “That means after the
debt is paid, Annie will receive the remaining amount of money from the company.”

Guy glanced up from his bifocals to see how my side of the room digested the news.
Jamie sat motionless with his face cupped in his hands; his usual brown hair was now
black and soaked in sweat. It was obvious this information did not sit well with him,
but I didn’t fully understand the gravity of his affliction yet. Without warning,
Jamie sprang out of his seat and lunged toward Guy Townsend, like an ambush predator
moving in slow motion until it strikes its prey and then attacks with full force.
I rolled off the side of the couch, crawled across the floor and hunkered down in
a corner covering my face with my hands, leaving slits around my eyes to watch the
train wreck happen. David and Robert sprung to Guy’s aid and surrounded him before
Jamie could land an actual punch; this was a side of Jamie I had never seen before.
His eyes were as gray as Mr. Townsend’s suit, and the physical characteristics in
his face changed; I would have never recognized him as my brother-in-law.

He kept advancing on Guy who sat curled in the fetal position, still in the leather
club chair. David had a grip on Jamie’s tie and repeatedly tried over-taking him,
pulling his face close to the carpet, while Robert held his arms from behind. Jamie
kicked his legs and swung his torso, trying to free himself and rip the papers from
Guy’s hands; literally foaming and spitting as he screamed into the air, “You pinstriped
cocksucker! You can’t do this to me! They’ll kill me goddamn it, they’ll fucking kill
me!”

Jamie’s screaming shifted to sobbing as he dropped to his knees, then completely onto
the floor while David jammed his knees into Jamie’s back, pinning his chest down into
the carpet. Now everyone in the room was sweating and breathing hard, not just Jamie.
As the officers kicked open the French doors, Jamie had exhausted his fight and looked
as though he had just finished a marathon. He was hand cuffed, led into the lobby
and out the door as one of the policemen read him his rights. I stood up and steadied
myself on a bookcase watching through the window as an officer ducked Jamie’s head
and put him in the back of the police car. The blue flashing lights circled as they
pulled out of the parking lot and eventually became non-existent as the car got smaller
and smaller the further away they drove.

Mr. Perry tended to Guy; although shaken up he only wore a few scratches and seemed
to be fine. One of the officers stayed behind to get our statements of what occurred
during Jamie’s lapse of sanity.

“Grady?” I asked as the officer walked towards me.

“Mrs. Whitman?” he replied in shock. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you’ve had a
hell of a month.” He put his hand on my shoulder and brought me in close for a hug.
“Was that Jamie we took out of here? What got into him?” he asked.

“That’s a great question. Something is happening in this family, and it’s obviously
been going on for a while; everyone seems to know about it but me, and it’s pissing
me off,” I said, punching my fist into my hand.

“However inappropriate this may be, I’m having a drink. Does anyone else want one?”
Robert asked as he opened the dark stained, wooden doors to the hutch, and poured
himself a glass of Johnny Walker Blue.