My Million-Dollar Donkey (23 page)

I was devastated by the simple truth that my husband felt indulging his creativity should take precedence over his family’s welfare. But what was done was done.

“I really did intend to build us something practical, but every time I was faced with a choice, all that money in the bank made me think,

‘why not’? So I kept inching forward on every decision, until I threw out the concept of limits altogether. Once I realized I’d gone too far, I figured I’d shoot the entire bundle. I knew when our money was all gone, we’d
have
to live simply. In the meantime, the house would be an icon to my potential. And because you kept harvesting homegrown eggs and veggies from the garden, it was easier for me to pretend we were still pursuing the simple life,” he said in a moment of honesty.

“Hey, there’s nothing simple about growing eggs at home,” I said. “So we’ll move. Find a simple cabin in the woods like we talked about from the beginning.”

I had no clue how he expected us to pull off another life reinvention with all our resources drained. “Do you think maybe we should consider leaving Blue Ridge?”

“I don’t know. I’d sure miss my workshop. I still dream of creating art in the medium of wood.”

I wondered how he could miss a workshop he had barely set foot in. Mark was in love with the
idea
of his workshop more than the reality. He still hadn’t unpacked the glut of tools and wood he’d purchased despite our paying endless bills to set up electricity, water, shelves, and storage for a workshop that sat for years non-operable. He did make some lovely furniture in formal classes at the Campbell School, but only because the social element and other people were part of the process to witness and voice recognition of his talent. He had yet to make anything other than a rustic coffee table on his own. Mark had never been a man able to work independently, and I began to understand that to be his partner, I would have to embrace whatever art he was into at the time, rather than honor or commit to my own. When we were both dancers, life worked. Now, I’d have to be his crafting sidekick and channel all my efforts into his fleeting passions, or we were headed for trouble.

“I love my barn more than I ever loved this house.” I said. “So I’m more than OK with selling and getting back on track with what we set out to do from the beginning.”

Deep down, I still dreamed of following our original life plan. For me, that meant exploring an organic lifestyle, having time to write and reflect, and taking care of my family full time. Mark wanted to work with wood and spend Sundays on his tractor, landscaping on a supersized scale. He wanted to build houses and be recognized for his unique talent and make a living as a builder.

Had we not had so much money to work with from the start, we would have had no choice but to move slowly, cautiously,
practically
, and we could have achieved the personal lifestyle we craved. Was it too late to correct things now?

“I can still make this work,” he said. “We can put the house up for sale with twelve extra acres at this corner of the land. You’ve said tending fifty acres is too much for you to handle anyway. We’ll still have thirty-seven acres, the barn and workshop paid off. I’ll build us a simple house on the other side of our property, the kind of house we planned in the beginning.”

My heart clung to the possibility.

The problem was America had just plummeted into the worst housing and financial crisis in years. Houses were not selling anywhere, and property values had nosedived. The million dollars we had in cash only two years ago was now buried in the land beneath our feet, and the mortgage Mark took out had put everything at risk. Luckily we had separated a few acres from our first mountain property and we sold this lot, so we had a chunk of cash left to help formulate and survive a back-up plan. Tallying up, we figured we had enough money in the bank to hold on for a year or so as we waited for someone to come along to bail us out of our oppressive payments on the big house.

“We could go back to Florida,” Mark said. “We could reopen the dance school. We still own the buildings.”

“I’d be fine with that, but how can we sell this house if we are not here to keep up with the maintenance?” I said.

“I would much rather stay here forever and scrape by anyway,” he admitted.

Scrape by? Did we want to bury ourselves in a tiny town without the security of a million dollars promising a comfortable retirement and the ability to take care of our children’s impending needs? Did we really want to raise our kids as country residents without opportunity and forego any hope of sending them to college or paying for weddings, braces, or anything else parents traditionally do for their children? More importantly, was
Mark
ready to downsize and live a more conservative life
for real
?

I sighed, thinking with tenderness of Donkey and how he would have to be left behind if we returned to our former lifestyle. “For richer or for poorer,” I said. “But why is it we keep swinging between the two like a pendulum in overdrive?”

“Because wherever we go, we take ourselves along.”

Always practical regarding business, I said, “Let’s just sell the house for the mortgage amount and cut our losses. We are certain to unload the place quickly if we price it lower than others of its kind. We’ll have learned an expensive lesson, but we’ll still be left with half a million – which is more than we ever dreamed we’d have as two simple dancers.”

Mark visibly bristled. “I’m not going to let us lose all that money because of my house project. You will likely throw that up at me for all time. I’m going to list this house for top dollar.” He named a price five hundred thousand dollars over the most recent appraisal.

I thought he was kidding. No one would pay drastically more for a house than it was worth, especially in this economy. And we were in no position to play Russian roulette. I told him so.

“You only think that way because you don’t value my house design the way others will,” Mark said. “Trust me, rich people will write a check for any amount to get something they want, and they are going to want this house. Price won’t be an object.”

“Rich people are rich because they’re careful with their money,” I said. “In this economy, we’d be stupid to not just get out as quickly as possible.”

Mark furrowed his brow. “I know what I’m doing.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. I wanted him to be happy, but my parental instincts made me unwilling to gamble anymore. We still had children to raise and educate and a retirement to fund somehow. I didn’t want to grow old and be a burden on my family or society. We had had our fun, but I could no longer play the little housewife who didn’t contradict her husband’s choices.

“Your plan just doesn’t make good financial sense. Honey, we have no choice but to sell as cheaply as we can, and accept that we’ve made mistakes.”

“What you mean is I made mistakes.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Selling the house for less than we spent on building doesn’t negate your talent as a builder. You created a magnificent house. The horrid economy is responsible for spoiling our chance to escape without penalty.”

Mark’s jaw tensed. “You are so like your father. You have no vision. I have faith. If you build it, they will come...”

“Who will come? Bill collectors?”

A flicker of hatred flashed into his eyes and, taken aback, I let any further argument die on my lips.

“If we don’t sell this house, it will be your fault,” he said. “You are manifesting bad energy and I’m gonna pay the price for it.”

I was always annoyed when he quoted new age philosophy as validation for avoiding common sense or conservative realities. “I just want us to think practically,” I snapped.

“God, I hate that about you.”

Apparently, there was lots he hated about me. But there wasn’t one thing I could do about regaining his favor that wouldn’t go against my best instincts or speed our downfall.

Mark’s father, sadly, had passed away with cancer only months after Mark’s parents moved to Georgia to be near us. His mother, Sonya, was now painfully alone, without her husband and the Sarasota community. She made clear to everyone that she hated the cold, hated the mountains, missed the malls and franchise restaurants, and felt vulnerable living anywhere other than in an active, suburban neighborhood. I felt badly for Sonya, and partly responsible for her unhappiness since the reason she moved was to be near us. She began slowing down, needing more care that we ever imagined she would. We helped her move into a small house near us and visited often to help with yard work or to share a meal. We encouraged her to get involved in church or to make friends, but as grief and loneliness took its toll, she seemed less and less inclined to fill the empty corners of her life with anything other than family. All she cared about was Mark, me, our children, and her daughter, Dianne. She pleaded with us daily to visit more, call more, to take her shopping, or to just make time to sit and talk.

I tried to be there for her, but she was Mark’s mother, not mine, and I couldn’t help but feel she craved
his
attention. I was a poor substitute. So, I implored Mark to let his mother move in with us as soon as we finished the house. His sister was in no position to take on the responsibility, and we certainly had built a large enough home. But just as Mark had refused to allow Denver to move back home when I wanted her to live with us, he wouldn’t now entertain the thought of his mother‘s presence interrupting our new, free life either. He announced that since his sister had no children, she should be the one to take care of their mother.

“Dianne is fifty and single. You can’t possibly want to burden her with an elderly mother.”

“She’s broke and could use a roommate to help pay her bills.”

“Considering we have—well,
had—
a million dollars, and we have found our soul mates for life, we should take on this burden. Not like
we
have to be free to date.”

“Sorry, but I don’t agree. I’m like one of the three little pigs,” he said. “My sister and my mother built their houses out of straw and sticks, and I was the only one who built a house out of bricks. Now that the big bad wolf is blowing their houses down, they are running to me to take care of them. But why should I?”

“Well, we did retire with a plan to devote time and resources to family,” I pointed out. “And family doesn’t just mean our kids.”

“I didn’t work hard for all those years to just give everything I have to others,” he said. “Not like my family has ever been there for me in times of need.”

I was dismayed by his selfishness. We’d turned to his family and mine numerous times over the years for help, and they never let us down. If he could so easily turn away from parents, friends, and our former students and employees, might he as easily turn away from his wife if I dared become a liability rather than an asset?

My knees shook as I recalled the many times in our life when Mark had seemed capable of leaving me on a selfish whim. When we first met, he begged me to walk away from my thriving business and comfy little home to drag my two-year-old back to New York City to resume the career I had left behind. He wanted me to return to New York, so I could help him forge
his
career in dance. I wasn’t all that invested in our relationship then, so I told him to go alone. I had gone to great lengths to protect my child from that kind of instability and there was no way I’d ever go back. If he wanted a career in dance, he should take his shot, just as I did when I first moved to New York with ambition and dreams. But Mark didn’t go, claiming he loved me too much to leave.

A few years later, when our new son Kent was two, Mark became obsessed with Tony Robbins, the life coach. He announced his life’s purpose was to join the road crew of the organization as a volunteer. He wrote letters obsessively every day for 30 days, begging for Tony’s acceptance, thinking his determination would impress the powers that be. I remember waiting for a response daily, wondering what I would do or say when Mark packed his bags to run off with the Tony Robbins circus. I didn’t know how I’d survive without his help if he left me with a toddler and a small baby to raise. The business had grown too large to manage on my own now, but I waited quietly with an odd sense of acceptance to see if he really would walk out on his family. So offended was I that he dared write those letters and his childish hope that they’d let him join the tour that a part of me wanted him to go. I was unnerved by his ability to put his own desires in front of the family’s very vital needs; and wanted a good excuse to end a marriage with someone so lacking in responsibility. In the end, an acceptance was not forthcoming. Mark took one last shot at joining Tony Robbins by taking us to a “Walk on Fire” convention. Gripped by the excitement of hearing the inspirational speaker’s empowerment lecture, Mark insisted we charge eight thousand dollars on my credit card for another convention in Tahiti a few months hence.

“We can’t possibly afford that!” I said.

“Aren’t you listening to what he’s saying? There are no limits in life, if you just believe! The universe will provide us a way to fund the rest of the trip and pay off the credit card in thirty days when the bill comes due next month. Tony just explained how one couple won the lottery when they needed money. That could be us.”

He expected us to win the lottery to solve our problems? All attendees at the convention were asked to write questions for Tony, to send forward on the break. I wrote,
“What gives you the right to seduce people into spending money they don’t have, Mr. Robbins? You say you want to inspire people to live a better life, but your lecture is destroying my marriage!”

I sent the note forward. To this day, I wonder if Tony Robbins ever saw the message amidst the pile of happy, soul-lifted questions.

“What did you write?” Mark asked, giddy with enthusiasm for the entire experience.

“I asked a question about the firewalk,” I lied.

We never did attend the expensive Tahiti seminar. Instead, that $8000 charge was the final blow to our already stressed budget and I filed for personal bankruptcy. Mark had long since ruined his credit and had been using mine ever since we had gotten married. So now, instead of a trip to a glamorous retreat, I was treated to the experience of watching companies come to remove the furniture from my house and tow both our cars away. I drove a junker for the next three years and lived with laundry baskets in place of a dresser as we worked our way out of that crash.

After the Tony Robbins incident and the bankruptcy, I took over the family finances. My dad loaned us money to save the business from going under, but only if we allowed him to take control of the studio accounts. I started doing things like opening college savings plans for the kids in my name only, planning quietly for the needs of the family. I paid extra on our mortgage payments to take our thirty year mortgage down to seven years. I made the mistake of sharing how quickly our equity grew, and Mark took a second mortgage to remodel the kitchen and build a cabin-style porch and garden.

I just had to accept that Mark’s commitment to family took a different form than mine in regards to honoring our children, our parents, or our marriage.

We’d recently had a huge falling out with my parents. My father had long played the role of financial counselor since that early fiasco, so naturally he voiced concerns now about Mark’s mismanagement of our funds, feeling that our life was spinning out of control again. Mark had absolutely no intention of turning over his financial freedom ever again, and the truth is painful to hear, so my parents became the enemy in his estimation.

Mark convinced me that my father’s criticism was unfair and unfounded, and his conservative attitude about money was limiting for artistic people like us. Not wanting to admit we were making foolish mistakes any more than Mark did, I found it remarkably easy to align myself with his attitude. Delusion is a large part of love, and I would do anything to avoid facing truths that shed my marriage or my husband’s financial savvy in an unflattering light. So, defending Mark, I wrote letters to my folks trying to justify our losses and to explain my feelings about Blue Ridge hoping to soften arguments and misunderstandings. This only made matters worse between us.

My father helped us plan and negotiate the sale of our business, with the understanding that we would compensate him for the risk he had taken way back when he had put his entire retirement’s savings into our school. After a great show of self-congratulations and recapping our brilliance for pulling off this financial miracle, we gave Dad his promised bonus. But instead of writing the check with a sense of gratitude, Mark deeply resented sharing even a fraction of our windfall. He insisted only an unloving parent would take money from his kid. Eventually, his twisting of facts and constant reminders that our dreams were being hindered by those dipping into our resources—especially my parents—penetrated my own psyche. I found myself criticizing my family too, forgetting that love begins with gratitude and appreciation for the faith your loved ones display when they take risks with their own savings to support your personal dreams or help you in times of crisis.

Mark’s insistence that everyone was trying to rob him of the fruits of his labors continued to expand until I became suspect, too. One day, finding myself without a cent in my purse and with no money at all left in the only account I had access to, I slipped some change from the enormous quarter jar in our bedroom to give my son so he could buy lunch at school. The jar was teeming with thousands of dollars of change that Mark had dumped into the container over the years we owned and operated our family business.

I told Mark I had handled the need for lunch money by taking a few quarters, assuming he’d be as embarrassed as I was that we were so broke we were scraping change, but he became furious, claiming I had no right to steal his money. He may have been the one to empty his pockets into the jar each night, but the money nevertheless came from our joint earned income, so naturally I thought he was being silly. I wasn’t taking his quarters to pay my bookie; our son just needed lunch money! Certainly he was willing to crack open the jar to support the cause.

Mark felt differently and the next day he took the jar to his real estate office so I wouldn’t have access to its contents. I pointed out that if we were so broke that we couldn’t buy lunch for our children, perhaps we should put the contents of that jar into our family bank account anyway. Mark was adamant that the jar was his private savings and for something special he might want for himself someday. Only three days later, the entire jar was stolen. I thought the theft an appropriate end to the whole episode, dripping with karma.

Pondering this new turn of events, I now stood at the window of our grand house looking out at Donkey in the pasture below, taking count of the things that mattered most to me, and how many of them were broken. My husband was disconnected from me, physically and emotionally. I had lost the friendships and meaningful connections I had forged with students and fellow workers. My parents had been cut from our lives and I was ashamed because I knew deep down that they deserved better. My oldest daughter was destitute and needed direction, and despite what I felt was a mother’s right to nurture and protect her children and give them an edge in life, Mark would not permit her to live with us. His mother was lonely and unhappy and his sister was broke. I had lost the power to influence the welfare of those I loved most in any real way. I had allowed myself to be systematically removed from doing or saying anything that affected my own financial life, too. But the most distressing thing was being expected to accept things as they were and to stop complaining or crying about it. Mark insisted I was going through a midlife crisis, when in truth it was a
life
crisis I was facing. I was fearful of what would happen to everyone I loved who had been counting on me for years to keep the status quo because I was systematically un-empowered.

What can a woman do when she needs grounding? What can she do when she feels inadequate, unappreciated, and undervalued? What does she do when she sees the answers, but is not allowed to ask the questions, much less offer the solutions?

She can cook.

After years of working nights and weekends, I now found opportunity to celebrate family in the old fashioned way: the traditional sit-down dinner. I didn’t take this gift lightly, and made a noteworthy occasion of dinner each Tuesday. Mark may have been distracted by his building aspirations and the kids by their friends, but by God, one night a week they would arrive home by six to break bread as a family or there would be hell to pay. Life was falling apart, and things were going to get worse. I needed this connection badly, and so did they, I told myself.

My weekly family dinner was a means to fill Grandmother’s empty days. Cooking was a way to lend a small hand to Mark’s sister, who was running ragged trying to fulfill her mother’s endless need for company while struggling to making ends meet. My family dinners became a means to seduce my husband at least once a week to stop shopping and attend to his domestic role. The weekly meal was an attempt to keep my kids connected to each other and their relatives and to create feelings of family normalcy, even if I knew, deep down, Hendry family harmony was smoke and mirrors. Tuesday dinner was a way to catch up with my oldest child and get to know who she was dating and keep abreast of her plans for escaping Blue Ridge. Cooking was a way to feel useful. And preparing a meal for those I loved took my mind off of our financial nightmare.