June
3, 2015
“Dorothea, what the fuck are you doing?” Jon demanded in
disbelief, consciously schooling himself not to scream into the phone as he
scrubbed a hand over short hair that was several shades grayer than it had been
a month ago. “We already had all this decided.
Jersey house for me, apartment in the city for you. House in the Hamptons is yours and I get to
use it with the kids every August.”
As he paced past the windows of his home office, the sun
sparkled like diamonds on the surface of the Navesink River, mocking him with tranquil
serenity. On the river and everywhere
else in Red Bank, New Jersey, it was a glorious, sunny June day with
temperatures in the mid-seventies.
The only storm in the area was brewing within the gates
of the estate he’d dubbed High Point, and it wasn’t prompted by a meteorological
anomaly but the handful of papers strewn across his desktop. Somewhere in the haphazard mess created by
his stereotypical burst of Italian temper was the latest round of trifling bullshit
that characterized his “amicable” divorce.
A divorce that he’d never seen coming.
Jon and his high school sweetheart had been out to
dinner, celebrating their twenty-sixth wedding anniversary of all things, when he
got that memo. Happy frigging
anniversary, honey. She later admitted to
purposefully planning it that way in order to divert the temper that she was well aware he strove never to display in public.
Honestly, he didn’t let loose that often. If and when he did, Jon had a strict policy of
keeping that shit behind closed doors or within his trusted circle of friends
and family. Nobody saw his temper that
didn’t understand private matters stayed private, but her conversationally
offered, “I want a divorce” had almost driven him to violate his own policy.
Biting the inside of his jaw, he’d managed to keep it in
check while flatly refusing to consider the idea of ending their marriage. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with it, so
why should he? He wasn’t screwing around
– or hadn’t for a long time – nor did he have a particular desire to do
so. They were good life partners, he
thought, with him making the money and her taking care of things on the home
front. It was the classic definition of
marriage as they always intended it to be, and there was no compelling reason
to tear it and their family apart.
She saw things a little differently, and what followed
was a guilt trip that exhaustively cataloged her dissatisfaction at being married
to “public property”. Her discontent at
having a husband who makes his living as a “glorified Chippendale dancer”. Her weariness at smiling and pretending as
everything was hunky dory being a stay-at-home mom while he did his
globe-trotting.
Dorothea loved being a mother, she was quick to assure
him. The kids had nothing to do with
it. His Cinderella had simply spent too
much time at the ball – and she wanted out.
After offering what felt like a million possible
solutions, Jon had finally been forced to acknowledge that her mind was made up
and that nothing he could say was going to make a difference. He could feasibly browbeat her into staying,
but that would make him a Grade-A asshole since he’d gotten to live his life
exactly the way he wanted.
He owed the same opportunity to the woman who had made
it possible, and he found himself saying that, once they came to terms on the
practical matters, he would reluctantly agree to sign the papers.
They had agreed on those terms a goddamn month ago.
Clearly suffering from selective amnesia, his soon to be
ex-wife was tediously explaining, “My lawyer believes it’s not in my best
interest to do that and that it invites trouble for us both down the road. Therefore, the house is solely mine unless
you buy me out or sell it and split the money.”
He hated her fucking lawyer.
That guy had been a pain in his ass from the get-go, even
though it had all begun innocently enough.
“We've lived most of the last year in New York,”
Dorothea justified. “We’ll get the
divorce there instead of New Jersey.
Besides, I’ve already lined up a lawyer.”
Fine. No sweat off
his balls.
New York or New Jersey didn’t make much difference to
him. It wasn’t like he had a family law
expert on the payroll and his existing legal team could offer a referral in
either place. That was why he’d chosen
to be gracious and allow the great state of New York to facilitate the
dissolution of his marriage.
Figuring that it would be easier and result in fewer
billable hours, they worked through most of the details before either of them
actually met with the lawyers. A shitty
situation was managed with mutual respect and fairness and, in the end, he was
happy – okay, content – she was happy and their kids weren’t going to need
psychological intervention to survive the ordeal.
It was the best anybody could hope for, he thought.
Then came the first contact from the Park Avenue law firm
of Dewey, Cheatham and Howe. Well, not
really, but the nondescript name of the legal practice might as well have those
gold-etched letters on the door. Dorothea’s
legal counsel was a barracuda son of a bitch determined to gouge Jon for every
extra nickel they could find in his couch cushions.
The demands had started slowly, with the first being
insistence upon including a dollar amount for monthly child support. Their mutual agreement that Dorothea would
tell him what she needed and he’d pay for it wasn’t “specific and binding”
enough to suit Counselor Charlie Del Vecchio.
Jon should be legally committed to an amount substantial enough to “care
for the offspring in the manner in which they’d been reared thus far”.
The pompous wording had irritated him, as had the
implication that he would shirk his responsibility to his children, but he
hadn’t said anything (much). If that’s
what they needed, then fine. Pick a
number and write it down.
Based upon his income, net worth, the current phase of
the moon and the price of pork bellies in Timbuktu, a definitive monthly figure had been
derived by the blood-sucking shyster.
When Jon saw how many zeroes were in that figure, he pitched a fit and
argued that he was paying tuition and living expenses, not single-handedly sponsoring
the eradication of the national motherfucking debt.
His lawyer had put it much more diplomatically and got the figure reduced by a third, but Cutthroat Charlie wouldn’t back down any
further.
Then there was the matter of visitation for the two boys
that were under the age of eighteen. For
some reason, it wasn’t suitable to say he got them when he was in town and
available. There had to be concrete
dates on the calendar or he didn’t get them at all.
The fit he pitched over that made the child support
argument look like a cake walk. That
nonsense was a damn crock and he wasn’t leaving this detail in his lawyer’s
hands. Dorothea heard from his very
mouth, in explicitly swearing detail, exactly he thought of that idea. Nobody would keep his kids from him,
including their mother, so she’d better back the hell down.
Apparently, she realized exactly how serious he was and
put pressure on Cutthroat Charlie to concede the point. The guy wasn’t happy about it and supposedly
told Dorothea she was making a mistake, but had finally agreed. Jon got his kids when he wanted, as long as
Dorothea didn’t have prior commitments for them. That was reasonable, and he was fine with it.
Then came vehicle depreciation, meaning Dorothea and the
two oldest kids got new cars. Following
that was “spousal support”, proposed at an amount almost as astronomical as the
first child support figure and prompting another hard-ass negotiation that
ended with him only losing one kidney instead of two.
Who got the tax-exemption for the minor children, who got
custody of his freaking Grammy award and who was footing the
bill for all these hours of diligent work and research by Charlie cocksucker Del
Vecchio were also bones of contention.
On and on and on it had gone for the last three
weeks, which is why this latest amendment to the settlement was sending Jon
over the edge. He liked the Hamptons
house. It had always been his August
haven with his family – both immediate and extended – and provided the
coveted sand time that he never got enough of.
Wasn’t it sufficient that he gave up eleven-twelfths of
the damn thing? He had to cough up money
for her for half of a house that he’d already fully purchased? Obviously, that frigging lawyer wasn’t going
to be happy until Jon was standing on a street corner playing his guitar for
spare change.
Or maybe the guy wanted him to sell the Takamine, too,
and split the money. Jon was quickly
approaching the point where that wouldn’t surprise him.
“You can tell your lawyer to stick it up his ass,” he
baldly told his wife, stopping in front of one of the windows to cross an arm
over his chest and scowl at the damn mocking river. “I’m not paying for that house twice.”
“Her ass and it isn’t a bad thought,
Jon. It will protect us both in the end,
in the event that one of us doesn’t feel like playing nice anymore.”
There was something in there about playing nice, but he
really didn’t pay that much attention to it because there was a far more significant
tidbit that had just been revealed.
“Her? Charlie Del
Vecchio is a woman?”
“Yes,” Dorothea confirmed with exaggerated patience. “I’ve told you this once already.”
If she had, it must have been on a day that his head was
already exploding. He certainly didn’t
remember it, but unmasking the secret identify of this lawyer made the
situation so much clearer in Jon’s mind.
At least now he could stop wondering why the petty, asinine punches kept
rolling.
This woman was probably some bitter spinster with the
personality of Cujo and a face to match, venting her anger over the inability
to find love and marriage by putting the thumbscrews to every divorcing man to
cross her path.
Then again, with a name like Charlie, she was clearly
trying to level some invisible gender playing field. She could very well be one of those femi-Nazi
types who hated all men on general principle, and made it a priority to
neuter every one she encountered.
Whatever the case, neither of those warped mentalities
was going to work in favor of his finances.
Or his blood pressure, for that matter.
“Where did you find this bitch? Ballbusters.com?”
The weighty sigh of suffering that came across the line
was on the short list of things he wouldn’t miss about being married. “That’s something else I’ve told you
already. She’s an old acquaintance.”
Old. So bitter spinster it is.
“Well, call her off,” he snapped. “I’m not trying to screw you out of anything
and I’d fucking well appreciate it if you returned the favor.”
“You’re just mad that somebody might be getting the best
of you for once in your wheeling and dealing life,” she snapped in return. “I’m planning for my future, Jon. I trust Charlie to make sure that, in another
fifteen years, I won’t have to worry whether I can afford prescription
medication.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t be ridiculous!”
“It’s not ridiculous, it’s practical.”
What in the hell had this ludicrous lawyer put in her
head? That she’d end up in some
state-run home for the elderly if he didn’t pass over everything he’d ever
earned plus half of all future income?
Because that was eight thousand percent idiotic.
They’d been together in one way or another the last
thirty-five years, for fuck’s sake!
Dorothea was his first love and would likely always own a piece of his
heart, although it was a little iffy today.
Still, Jon wasn’t going to throw her to the frigging wolves like a piece
of prime beef.
Besides that, he liked and respected her. She was an even-keeled woman who had always
shown sound judgment. Calm, rational and
reasonable were the words that typically personified Dorothea Hurley Bongiovi,
and that acknowledgement was the only thing that that kept him from unloading
on her with both barrels.
“Dorothea,” he cautioned quietly. “I have no intention of leaving my children or their
mother in poverty and you fucking know it.
Now tell your leech of a lawyer that if I get one more revision of this
goddamn settlement, I’m going to throw it on her doorstep, light it with a
match and then piss on the flames. Do
you hear me?”
She didn’t immediately jump to obey him but, then again,
she never had. He counted himself lucky that
there was only a moment’s hesitation before she came back with, “I’ll make sure
this is the last revision, but you’re going to have to decide what to do about
the Hamptons house. The sooner you do,
the sooner we can both move on.”
Jon’s jaw clamped shut and he could feel the enamel on
his molars take another beating as they ground together with what had become an
all-too familiar scrape. Not only was
she draining him with this divorce settlement, but Dorothea’s lawyer was
determined to earn his dentist a fortune in the process. If he ever met Charlie Del Vecchio in person…
He didn’t want to meet her – ever – because, if he did,
there was no telling how it might end.
“I’m hanging up now, Dorothea, while our divorce is still
‘amicable’. My lawyer will be in touch,
but you’d better rein your bitch in before things turn ugly.”
