Leggy Blonde: A Memoir (19 page)

“I’m sure they’re locked,” he said.

“Can you bring us home to check?”

“I checked before we left,” he insisted. “The windows are closed and locked.”

When Harrison and I got home, the windows were wide open.

That was
my
last straw. My husband was beloved by all his friends. He was the kindest, most generous, fun-loving party boy in New York and Washington, D.C. But he was never going to stay home with me and the baby. He seemed to have a problem with consistency. Being married to this Great Guy, I would never feel safe and protected. Danger and uncertainty would always find their way in.

Still, I wasn’t quite ready to end it. We had a son together, and I felt obliged to save my marriage. We tried counseling, as a couple and individuals. At one of my sessions, the shrink asked me flat out, “Can you spend the rest of your life this way?”

I said no.

“Get out.”

I hung on. I’d done some reading and thought I’d found an underlying cause for Harry’s behavior, something that could be solved.
Anyway, I took my case to his parents, asking them to help me help Harry.

His father said, “He can get help, but it has to be here. I’m not supporting another family in New York. If you come to Washington, I’ll give you a car and you can live in one of my condos.”

“No way,” said Harry. “I’m not moving to Washington.”

I was relieved. I didn’t want to leave New York. But less than a month later, Harry agreed to take a job in his brother Louis’s company in Washington. He commuted to the capital for the weekdays—living in a condo—and came back to New York to see Harrison and me on the weekend. He insisted I remain right where I was. He did not want to get stuck in D.C. When he got home on Friday night, he basically said hello to us, gave us a courteous hour of his time, and then went out. I spent most of my time alone with the baby, fretting about the future. This was not a marriage. I might as well be a single parent.

I might be better off as a single parent.

My shrink was right. I had to get out.

Divorce is a serious matter. My situation had become unlivable. I was able to tolerate everything except the lying. I could have overlooked the financial tangles, the partying, the absences. But I could not bear the lying. I just reached the point when I knew it was over.

My first step was to move
again
to a cheaper apartment on the East Side, a place I could probably afford on my own if I could save some money first. Next, I had to get my confidence back. I flew to Florida to help my dad, to tell my parents that I was going to leave Harry—and to get a boob job. Upward and onward!

Why did I do it? I convinced myself that if I didn’t enhance my body, I wouldn’t be able to attract another man. Who would want me? A one-legged, over-thirty, soon-to-be divorcée with a baby, no
money, and small tits? My whole life, the question “Will she ever find a husband?” had been asked about me. Well, I had, and it was a disaster. I’d lost all that money, my youth, and my pride. I was in such a dire state, I thought the only way I would be able to support Harrison and myself was by finding a new man. I acted out of insecurity and emotional desperation.

Surgery Number Seven: Breast Augmentation

I asked Dr. Leonard Roudner of Coconut Grove if I could be awake for my boob job. That idea was shut down. I was in a weak state and let them talk me into general anesthesia. I asked him beforehand if anyone had ever croaked on the table.

He said, “Come on, none of that.”

I survived and woke up with 29D breasts, up from a 29B. I had the boobs done in Florida because it was cheaper and Dr. Roudner was known to be the best in the world. In hindsight, I should have stayed in New York. The northern doctors made breasts smaller, more fashion friendly. Miami boobs were just too big.

Eleven years later, I regret that surgery. My prosthetic boobs are my cross to bear. They remind me of that horrible time, plus they don’t even look good anymore. I breast-fed two more children with them, and they’ve become huge and saggy. The term “rocks in socks” comes to mind. My bras are like iron maidens and far more bulky and uncomfortable than my prosthetic leg. Soon I’ll work up the courage to have the implants removed—if I can just find someone to do it while I’m awake!

After the surgery, woozy and in pain, I went back to my parents’ house with Harrison. I crawled into bed and lay down. My mother came in and sat in a chair next to me.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” she asked.

“I’m taking a nap,” I said.

“Not in my house! Get the fuck out of here! How dare you act like you belong here! You’re a disgusting whore!” she screamed.

She didn’t recognize me. “Who do you think I am?” I asked.

“You’re George’s whore,” she said. “Don’t act innocent with me. I know you’re fucking my husband.” Her beautiful face was contorted into an ugly mask of hate. She kept on yelling at me, calling me filthy things, until she tired herself out and left. Who was this person who had invaded my mother’s body? The woman I knew was the picture of elegance and grace. Cursing? Yelling? My real mother was gone.

I just started crying. It was all too much. Everyone I loved was spiraling downhill as quickly as I was. After a night and day of crying, boobs aching, I knew I couldn’t go on like that. Self-pity helped no one. I took my Advil and hauled my swollen boobs out of bed.

“What can I do?” I asked my dad. He’d been caring for my mother by himself. She screamed at him, too, saying hateful things.

“Just stay for a while,” he said.

I rode out the summer in Florida taking care of Harrison and my mom. Some days, she knew who I was; others, she didn’t. It was a rough couple of months. But I was glad I did it. When Mom was lucid, she was still my angel. I missed her the most when she was herself. Harry visited occasionally that summer. It was awkward and not at all affectionate.

In the fall, I went back to New York to hire a lawyer.

•  •  •

I called Barry Slotnick, a criminal defense attorney icon. He represented subway vigilante Bernhard Goetz in the ’80s. He’d also handled some high-profile political trials, as well as celebrity divorces.
He’d won millions in settlements. Rightly so, his services didn’t come cheap. The initial retainer was twenty-five thousand dollars. I sold my engagement ring to pay for it.

The first thing he told me was that it was okay for me to leave the apartment because Harry had no income. When I told him about the credit card bills and rent amounts, he quickly changed his mind. I had to stay. I didn’t love the idea of sharing an apartment. But in New York, it was common for couples who hated each other’s guts to sleep in the same bed throughout their divorce so one or the other couldn’t get the upper hand and sue for abandonment. He also told me to hire a detective so I could catch Harry cheating and have grounds for divorce. I did hire someone, and got what I needed. It wasn’t a terrible blow. Cheating, schmeating. At that point, I’d detached emotionally.

Harry was commuting back and forth to Washington. When he was in New York, he kept up his same old routine of going out every night and often, drinking. After the summer with my mom, alcohol disgusted me more than ever. Harry slept on the couch. We barely talked and didn’t do anything together. He must have known I was planning to file for divorce.

It was time for us to face the reality that our marriage was over. I invited myself along to dinner with him. He was surprised, but acted happy that I’d finally agreed to join him. We sat down at the table at a burger restaurant on First Avenue. Before we’d even ordered drinks, I said, “We need to separate.”

He looked upset. And then genuinely devastated. My turn to be surprised. We’d barely interacted for months. I think he really wanted to have a family and to love us. But he was just not able. I was crying.

“I’ll move to my brother’s,” he said, “and I’m taking Harrison.”

“Harry, you know I’m a great mother,” I said. “And you are not the type of guy who would take a child away from his mother.”

In fact, he never tried. I was the only parent Harrison really knew. Harry was always “working” in another town, or out on the town. He didn’t have the patience or attention span to care for a baby. Harrison was only one and a half. He needed his mommy. Plus, Harry wanted to be free. Custody of his son would infringe on his socializing.

The crux of our divorce was not going to be custody. It was going to be about money. All those years of pretending money wasn’t important and didn’t matter, or that it would just magically appear, had finally caught up with me. The reality was, I needed money to care for my child. I didn’t have a job, and couldn’t find one overnight if I tried. I was thirty-one, and had worked in an office—that estate planning insurance firm—years ago. I had two advanced degrees, but I had not worked or earned income in years. How did that happen?

Harry lawyered up. Papers were filed. Hiring Barry Slotnick was one of the smartest decisions in my life. He commanded respect in a courtroom and made a great case for me. The legal ins and outs were complicated and exhausting. A law school graduate, even I found them tedious to follow.

First, we separated. Before the divorce was settled, the judge would award me interim support in the meantime. Since Harry did not have an actual income, the monthly support amount would be based on what was called “imputed income.” That was calculated by tallying up Harry’s expenses, all those dinners and trips and clothes and random charges his family had been floating to him. Barry had to subpoena the AmEx bills. I had no idea how big they were until the judge awarded me a generous interim amount partially for alimony and partially for child support.

Naturally, I was happy about it. However, with no assets, a hefty rent,
and Manhattan prices for sitters, taxis, food, clothes, and diapers, the monthly amount would get used up fast. And the legal fees had only just begun.

“We’re probably years away from a final settlement,” Barry warned.

I was, as per my style, a bit of a pain in the ass, and I asked him a thousand questions about what was to come. He looked at me and said, “The worst thing that can happen is that you will just have to get a job.”

I asked, “Are you hiring?”

He wasn’t. Not me, anyway.

Harrison turned two. He’d lived in three apartments in two years—four counting my parents’ in Miami. His father was the man who passed through for a bit of time on the weekends. Harrison was my life. I took extreme care over every article of clothing, every morsel of food, every bath, every diaper. Harrison and I were together 24/7.

Yes, I could have tried to find a job. But that would have meant leaving Harrison in someone else’s care. I did not have a relative to leave him with if I worked. I simply couldn’t bring myself to let him go. The only consistent, reliable element of his life thus far had been me. I was on edge when Harry took Harrison for a weekend.

“I don’t know how I’m going to live without him,” I said to my friend Kelly.

“Jesus, Aviva, it’s two days,” she said.

During Harry’s custody weekends, stories would filter back to me. Harry was out on the town as usual, until late, bragging to the last person at the bar what a great dad he was. Meanwhile, his son was left in a hotel room with a baby-sitter. It was all I could do not to storm the place and take my son back home. Nonetheless, I knew Harry was doing the best he could, and he was always a loving father.

Barry was right. It took another two years of going back and forth with our lawyers to finally settle the divorce on the same terms of the interim award. We met at a law office and sat in the conference room at the firm Blank Rome. I was with my lawyer, and Harry was with his. We signed our divorce decrees, shook hands, and that was that. Harry and I had no ill will. We even got in a cab together and went uptown. He promised me that if the settlement wasn’t enough, that he could always give me more. It was just so
friendly
.

I heard later that Harry told people he was paying double the actual amount.

On the last day of our marriage, I felt the same way about Harry as I did on our first. He was a good, easygoing, kindhearted man. Our time together hadn’t been easy, but we got Harrison out of it. I would do it all over again for my son.

H
arrison and I went to Bed Bath & Beyond on Sixty-first Street and First Avenue for new towels. In high glam mode, I wore sweatpants with no makeup, my hair in a messy ponytail. Plus, I was grouchy. Have you been to BB&B on a Saturday morning as a single mom? It would put anyone in a bad mood.

I took my pile to the register to check out. While I was paying, Harrison, two and a half at the time, wandered over to a little girl in the next line. Seeing my son make fast friends made me smile. My frame of mind brightened. I bought two lollipops by the register, grabbed my bag, and went over to the two kids. I knelt down and gave a lollie to each child.

The girl looked over at a man in line. Her father? He nodded, and she unwrapped the candy. Apropos of nothing in particular, the man said, “It’s tough being a new single dad.”

What? Single? I flung my hair back and said, “Oh, I’m single, too.”

I took a closer look at him. Turned out, he was
nerdy
. He wore pleated khaki shorts with a cell phone clipped to the belt and a tucked-in T-shirt. If he’d been wearing white socks with Teva sandals, it would have finished the look. I took him for a professor or an engineer. He had a handsome face. Dark hair and eyes, perfect teeth. He looked like a nice Jewish guy. His body was just my type. Tall, built, dark, and masculine.

“Can I have your number?” he asked.

Whoa, not so nerdy after all,
I thought. He had plenty of confidence for a guy with his phone clipped to his belt.

It’d been several months since Harry and I separated, and over a year since we’d stopped having any kind of real marriage. I’d been focused on Harrison (with occasional trips to Florida to help with my mom), and had barely dated. I’d hoped my boob job would make an impact when I was ready to jump into the dating pool. But I hadn’t yet dipped a toe in the water. I was in no rush to start that up again.