Carpool Confidential (14 page)

“You're not destitute.” Said in a let's-look-at-the-bright-side kind of way.

I was not in a let's-look-at-the-bright-side kind of mood. “So assuming I can track Rick down, do I have any legal grounds for nailing his ass to the wall?”

“I'm not a lawyer.”

“Let's pretend, for just a second, that you play one on TV. Can I?”

He gave me a long look. “Are you planning on divorcing him?”

I stared at him. It was the first time the question had been asked directly. I felt like I was swinging over an abyss I'd never been over before. There was something about it that gave me a jolt of
this is for real
. “I don't know.”

“If you do, any money that came in during the marriage is marital property, and New York is an equitable distribution state, so whether you have grounds and what you have grounds for depends on how adept he's been at…hiding assets.”

Hiding assets. I could not believe we were having this conversation about the man I'd married. It was like every deeply held belief about him and us was being peeled away, layer by layer.

“Not that I'm implying he did, of course.”

“And if we were to imagine that he might have, what would that mean?”

“If you could prove it, there's no question the courts would be quite sympathetic to you.”

“So how and why would he think he could get away with it?”

“Probably because he can.” Murray rubbed his forehead. “Look, Rick's an incredibly smart guy and he knows money. If he's been hiding assets, it's going to be difficult and expensive to get to the bottom of it—maybe prohibitively so. I'm guessing he's counting on his tracks being well covered. Believe me, a lot of less savvy people have gotten away with it.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“Find a job.”

From the lobby of Murray's building, I called the number Charlotte had given me and set up a waxing appointment for Wednesday. Then I left, and by some process—of which to this day I have no actual memory—I ended up in a Duane Reade on Madison Avenue, dazedly holding a box of hair color claiming to contain something called 3X Highlights.

I remember thinking that I'd been paying Jacques a fortune all these years and there was nothing even remotely 3X highlit about my hair. I'd clearly been so seduced by his probably fake French accent (it was the way he said “franje” instead of “bangs”) that I'd been fooled into believing I needed him, when the reality was that for a mere $9.99, I could have had 3X highlights the whole time.

Since I was in the drugstore for no apparent reason other than debating self-inflicted injury to my hair, I figured I might as well grab a few things. I was like a zombie. My world had imploded. I was going to get divorced, move out of our apartment, uproot my children, but I would damn well make sure I had a plentiful supply of Crest and Dry Idea while I did it.

On my way to shampoo, I got sidetracked by the array of condoms. Much wider and more varied than the last time I was in the market for them—extra studded vibrating condom rings. I didn't foresee a need for these arising in my personal life any time soon.

However—if my life had only been a Loony Toons cartoon for real instead of just feeling like one, a little lightbulb thingy would have been hovering over my head—as the only career plan I had going, blogging had just notched up a degree from vaguely undesirable option to something I'd better get serious about. I figured picking up a pack for the first time in a good fifteen years might make a first step. I reached up, grabbed a pack of good old ribbed Trojans—even I remembered those—and balanced them on top of the toothpaste and hair dye.

Sadly, Duane Reade didn't do Rabbits, so that would have to wait for another day. Except…those personal massager thingies looked an awful lot like vibrators by any other name. I meandered across the aisle to get a closer look. Granted, there were none with mammal names, but the Femme Contour 3500 (gel back and neck massager!) looked a lot like a replica of something I'd seen in real life before. Although never, to be fair, in that particular shade of lavender. Thank God.

At this exact moment, $32.95 seemed like a rash expenditure. But…
if
I was blogging professionally, was it a business deduction? Were the condoms? What if I used them for pleasure at some point? Did I have to figure per unit cost and un-deduct? I put my stuff on the floor, pulled out my cell, and dialed Murray's office number.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Martin, he's tied up at the moment.” The receptionist still sounded like someone who'd never been dumped for Barry Manilow.
We're a select group
, I told myself.

I couldn't tell from her inflection whether this was a
he's busy
tied up or a
he's blowing you off
tied up. “OK, thanks.” I was about to hang up when I thought of all the money we'd paid Murray over the years and where I was now. “Actually,” I said, “I'd really like to ask him a quick question. It'll only take a second.”

I browsed the rest of the personal massagers while I waited. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Martin. Mr. Goldsmith will be happy to give you a call back when he has a free moment.”

“I'll hold.”

She was starting to sound downright unfriendly. “I'm afraid it's impossible for him to speak to you now. Perhaps I could relay the question to him instead?”

“I'd prefer to ask him myself.”

“He's. Busy. Tied. Up. At. The. Moment.”

“I'm. Sure. He. Is.” I was getting angry. Too angry to keep doing the staccato sentence thing. “OK, fine. I'm wondering whether it's a business deduction if I buy a lavender vibrator and blog about it.”

“Um—” She sounded like maybe this wasn't the kind of thing she got asked every day. “I, er—”

“Ordinarily of course I wouldn't bother asking, but as you may or may not be aware, I have hardly any money left on account of my husband disappearing—and, come to think of it, Murray maybe having helped him defraud me on his way out. So I'm being really careful with my pennies right now, you know? So if you'd like to relay that question to him, be my guest.”

“Cassie!” Murray, practically oozing good cheer, managed to pick up after all.

“Is it?” (I wasn't, at this point, feeling chatty.)

“If the blog brings in income within twelve months it's a business deduction, yes.”

“Thanks. Oh, you're fired. I'll have my new accountant contact you.” I clicked my phone shut and added the vibrator— sorry, personal massager—to my pile of stuff.

After my episode of righteous fury, it was almost a letdown to find myself in the tampon section of a super drugstore. Well, I thought, admiring my own (unusual) foresight, might as well stock up on those, too, because if one thing is certain, it's that unlike condoms, they're always called for sooner or later. Usually at ten at night. And now there was no husband to force into picking some up on his way home. I reached up, grabbed a box of tampons and one of mini pads, then stopped dead.

When was my last period?

I knew with sudden and awful certainty that it hadn't been since Rick left. How could this have happened? And how, how, how, could I not have realized until now? I knew I was still there, in the tampon aisle, because I could see the rows of Playtex boxes in front of me, but my entire body was so numb it felt like my head was suspended in air. I needed to sit down but there was nowhere, so I leaned against the shelf of incontinence products.

“That could be a poor choice of a shelf to block.” A woman with a startling orange beret perched on her short gray hair was trying to edge past me. “You never know when it's an emergency situation.”

“Sorry.” I didn't move. I wanted to but couldn't seem to make it happen. After a second, I managed to push myself off the shelves. Hopefully they weren't all that was holding me upright. Why, when it had never happened before, in all those years of safety and security, was this happening now?

“You don't want those mini pads.”

“I don't?” I looked at the box in my hand.

“They're worthless. These”—she hefted down an industrialsized package of adult diaper things—“do the job.”

“No, thanks.” My mind was whirling. My period is always regular. Clockwork, every twenty-eight days, so how could I not have noticed?

The incontinence lady was shaking the package at me. “I know you think you need the name brand,” she said, “everybody does at first. But the store brand's just as good. Absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Although”—she looked me up and down—“at your age, you might want to consider the surgery. Are you married?”

“Yes.” I had no idea why I was answering her. New Yorkers don't really do that, chat with strangers in drugstores. “Not really,” I heard myself say. “No, actually. My husband just left me.”

“Not very understanding of him. But I suppose you didn't do your kegels.” She eyed the vibrator and gave me a knowing look.

“No,” I admitted. “Well, only a few times. I always forget.”

She thrust the package of generic Depends into my arms.

It seemed easier to take it than protest. “Thanks.”

“Are you all right? Is this your first time?”

She was being so kind now that I felt my eyes fill with tears. “Being left? Yes.”

“Buying incontinence aids.” She patted my hand, which was now sweating sickeningly against the plastic Depends bag. “But both get easier with time.”

“Thanks. I'm fine. Really.”

“OK.” She hefted her own package down. “Bye, then.”

I made a beeline for the pregnancy tests, which were, I recall, wittily placed right below the condoms. I grabbed an EPT, balanced it, along with the hair dye, the tampons, the personal massager, and the fated-never-to-be-used condoms on top of the Depends and, still gripping the toothpaste, shampoo, and deodorant (why had I not picked up a basket on the way in?) staggered to the checkout.

The woman in the orange beret was headed toward the doors, jauntily swinging her plastic carrier bag of adult diapers. I tried to give her a chipper little
I'm fine, don't worry about me
wave. Bad idea while holding approximately one hundred pounds of assorted health and beauty aids. The movement, slight though it was, started an avalanche of products. I watched as they slid off the imitation Depends package.

I bent at the knees, holding the lurid purple vibrator (the one thing that hadn't fallen, wouldn't you know it?) on top of the Depends with my chin. Once again taking pity, Orange Beret Woman came over to help me. I could see her taking in everything she hadn't before—the pregnancy test, the condoms. I'll tell you, I've never done a more pointless
I'm fine, don't worry about me
wave. I was seriously considering dropping it from my repertoire.

“Don't use the 3X highlights,” she said. “They'll fry your hair.”

I called Randy when I got outside and filled her in on the missing two: money and periods.

“Oh, Cass.” She sounded unusually shaken by this news. “How awful. But why are you whispering?”

“I don't want anyone to hear. It's humiliating. And the woman in the orange beret might still be nearby.” The heel of my boot caught in a crack in the sidewalk and I staggered sideways.

“Beyotch. Watch where you're going,” said the guy I caromed off.

I looked at the taxis flashing by with longing. The fare to Brooklyn Heights would be twenty dollars, and the subway was two. Ten weeks ago—hell, two days ago—I wouldn't have thought twice about falling into a taxi.

“I'm coming over tonight,” Randy said. “I'm swamped, so it'll be a bit on the late side. I'll bring Jen. She can actually make use of some of that overpriced domestic help she has hanging around doing nothing all day. Not,” she added, “that I know anyone else like that. Or anything.”

My spirits rose fractionally. “That's a bright spot. I can't afford Maria anymore.” I stopped. “Oh shit. I haven't been taking folic acid—I'm not eating—I just made my Brazilian appointment for the blog. Can you get a Brazilian when you're pregnant?” I was freezing and sweating at the same time.

“Calm down, Cass.”

The phone was sliding, my neck was cricking up from holding it between my shoulder and ear, and when I tried to grab it, I almost dropped the phone. “Damn.”

“What's wrong?”

“Sorry. I've just got to get rid of this economy-sized package of Depends the woman in the orange beret made me buy.” I stopped at an overflowing garbage can and laid it on top in case anyone with the appropriate need happened by. “Actually, they're not really Depends. Did you know the drugstore brand's just as good?”

“Um, no. So did you have some kind of weeing accident in the store or something? Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No. I was just—Oh. My. God. Oh, damn.”

“What? What? Cassie, what? This is very mysterious. It's driving me crazy.”

I turned and hunched into my coat as I started walking back in the direction I'd come. “It's my mother-in-law,” I whispered into the cell. “Marching up Madison Avenue with Bouvier dressed in a tartan jumpsuit.”

“Bouvier? Who's Bouvier? Your mother-in-law is wearing a tartan jumpsuit on Madison Avenue?” Randy sounded suitably aghast.

“Bouvier's her dog—you know, the kind you stick in your purse—and he's dressed in the tartan jumpsuit. I bet they're on their way to Barney's to torment their personal shoppers.” The phone was hot against my ear as I trotted, panting, up Madison Avenue, toting a fifty-pound drugstore bag, in the opposite direction from my subway stop. “It must be safe to turn around and head back to the subway, don't you think? I'm past Barney's, and if I keep going up I'll have to go over to Lex, and I hate that line.”

“Never mind the subway line, does she know Rick's gone?”

“Beats me,” I said. “We're not close. For all I know she's the set designer.” I turned around, thinking surely I was safe by now, and bumped smack into Letitia. And Bouvier, eyeing me evilly over the top of his little doggy Snuggli.

“Shit,” I said low into the phone as I eyed the jumpsuited canine baring its pointy, little, expensively capped teeth at me.

“Not far enough, huh?”

“Gotta go,” I said to Randy. “See you later. Hi, Letitia.”

“Cassie?” Letitia smoothed the two little tartan-bow-tied pigtails sprouting off the top of Bouvier's head as she also bared her expensively capped teeth at me. In her case I think it was meant to be a smile. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know. Fine.”

Her gaze went to my drugstore bag. Thankfully I'd had the foresight to put the hair dye on top of the pregnancy test, the illicit condoms and the “personal massager” at the bottom of the bag. Letitia's eyes narrowed (or at least as much as they were able on account of the Botox). “How is everything? The boys? Rick?”