employer?” she asked.
“That’s the question. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
A fter lunch, Oscar did not return to the office. To do so would have been fruitless. He had far too much on his mind to waste time puttering around his desk. He was half drunk, and he needed to sober up. He filled his tank at a convenience store, bought a tall cup of black coffee, then headed south on I-57 and was soon outside of Chicago and passing through farmland.
How many times had he advised his clients to file for divorce? Thousands. It was so easy to do, under the circumstances. “Look, there comes a time in some marriages when a spouse needs to get out. For you, that time is now.” He’d always felt so wise, even smug when dispensing such advice. Now he felt like a fraud. How could a person give such counsel unless he’d been through it himself?
He and Paula had been together for thirty unhappy years. Their only child was a twenty-six-year-old divorcee named Keely who was becoming more and more like her mother. Keely’s divorce was still fresh, primarily because she enjoyed reveling in her misery. She had a job that paid little, lots of contrived emotional problems that required pills, and her principal source of therapy was nonstop shopping with her mother at Oscar’s expense.
“I’m sick of both of them,” Oscar said loudly and boldly as he passed the exit signs at Kankakee. “I’m sixty- two years old, in good health, with a life expectancy now of twenty-three more years, and I have the right to pursue happiness. Right?”
Of course he did.
But how to break the news? That was the question. What should he say to drop the bomb? He thought of old clients, old divorces he’d handled over the years. At the extreme end of the spectrum, the bomb was dropped when the wife caught the husband in bed with another woman. Oscar could think of three, maybe four cases where this had happened. That was a bomb dropper all right. The marriage is over, honey, I’ve found someone else. At the other end, he’d once handled a divorce for a couple who never fought, never discussed separation or divorce, and had just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary and purchased a retirement home on a lake. Then the husband came home from a business trip and the house was deserted. All of his wife’s clothes and half the furnishings were gone. She moved out, said she had never loved him. She soon remarried, and he killed himself.
It was never difficult provoking a fight with Paula; the woman loved to bicker and brawl. Perhaps he should drink some more, go home half drunk, get her started on his drinking, push back hard with her endless shopping, keep throwing gas on the fire until they were both screaming. He could then pack some clothes in a huff and storm out.
Oscar had never found the courage to walk out. He should have, dozens of times, but he always slunk down the hall, went to the guest bedroom, locked the door, and slept alone.
As he approached Champaign, he settled on his plan. Why go through the ruse of starting a fight so he could pin blame on her? He wanted out, so be a man and admit it. “I’m unhappy, Paula, and I’ve been unhappy for years. There’s no doubt you’re unhappy too; otherwise you wouldn’t bitch and quarrel all the time. I’m leaving. You can have the house and everything in it. I’m taking my clothes. Goodbye.” He turned around and headed north.
U ltimately, it was quite simple, and Paula took it well enough. She cried a little, and called him a few names, but when Oscar refused to take the bait, she locked herself in the basement and refused to come out. Oscar loaded his car with clothes and a few personal items, then sped away, smiling, relieved, growing happier with each passing street.
Sixty-two, about to be single for the first time in forever, about to be rich, if he could trust Wally, which he did at the moment. In fact, he was placing an enormous amount of trust in his junior partner.
Oscar wasn’t sure where he was going, but he wasn’t about to stop by Wally’s apartment and spend the night. He saw enough of the guy at the office; besides, the bimbo was apt to drop in, and Oscar couldn’t stand her. He drove around for an hour, then checked in to a hotel near O’Hare. He pulled a chair to the window and watched the takeoffs and landings in the distance. One day soon he would be jetting here and there-islands, Paris, New Zealand-with a pleasant lady at his side.
He felt twenty years younger already. He was going places.
CHAPTER 28
At 7:30 the following morning, Rochelle arrived nice and early with plans to enjoy her yogurt and newspaper with no one but AC around, but AC was already playing with someone else. Mr. Finley was there and quite chipper. Rochelle could not remember the last time he had arrived before she did.
“Good morning, Ms. Gibson,” he said in a warm, hearty voice, his lined and craggy face full of joy.
“What are you doing here?” she asked suspiciously.
“I happen to own the building,” Oscar said.
“Why are you so happy?” she asked, dropping her purse on her desk.
“Because last night I slept in a hotel, alone.”
“Maybe you should do it more often.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Because I left Paula last night, Ms. Gibson. I packed up, said good-bye, walked out, and I’m never going back.”
“Praise the Lord,” she said, wide-eyed and wonder-struck. “You didn’t?”
“Yes, I did. After thirty miserable years, I’m a free man. This is why I’m so happy, Ms. Gibson.”
“Well, I’m happy too. Congratulations.” In her eight and a half years at Finley amp; Figg, Rochelle had never met Paula Finley in person, and she was delighted about this. According to Wally, Paula refused to set foot on the property because it was beneath her dignity. She was quick to tell folks her husband was a lawyer, with the requisite implications of money and power, but was also secretly humiliated by the low standing of his firm. She spent every dime he earned, and if not for some mysterious family money on her side, they would have gone broke years earlier. On at least three occasions, she had demanded that Oscar fire Rochelle, and he had tried twice. Twice he’d limped back to his office, locked the door, and licked his wounds. On one noted occasion, Ms. Finley called and wanted to talk to her husband. Rochelle politely informed her he was with a client. “I don’t care,” she said. “Put me through.” Rochelle declined again and instead put her on hold. When Rochelle picked up again, Paula was cursing, near cardiac arrest, and threatened to march right down there and straighten things out at the office. To which Rochelle responded: “Do so at your own risk. I live in the projects and I don’t scare too easy.” Paula Finley did not appear, but she did berate her husband.
Rochelle took a step over and gave Oscar a firm hug. Neither could remember the last time they had touched for any reason. “You’re gonna be a new man,” she said. “Congratulations.”
“Should be a simple divorce,” he said.
“You’re not using Figg, are you?”
“Well, yes. He works cheap. I saw his name on a bingo card.” They shared a laugh, then began swapping gossip at the table.
An hour later, during the third firm meeting, Oscar repeated the news for the benefit of David, who seemed a bit confused by the enthusiasm the news was generating. Not a trace of sadness anywhere. It was obvious that Paula Finley had made plenty of enemies. Oscar was almost giddy at the thought of shedding her.
Wally summed up his conversations with Jerry Alisandros and spun the news in such a way that it seemed as though big checks were practically in the mail. As he rambled on, David suddenly figured out the divorce. Unload the wife now, and quickly, before serious money rolled in. Whatever the scheme was, David smelled trouble. Hiding assets, rerouting funds, setting up bogus bank accounts-he could almost hear the conversations between the two partners. Warning flags went up. David would be curious and vigilant.
Wally exhorted the firm to kick into high gear, to get the files in order, find new cases, set aside everything else, and so on. Alisandros promised to provide medical screeners, cardiologists, all manner of logistical support to
