The Ditto List (10 page)

“Sure. What about them?”

“Well, leather's come back with a vengeance, and I can't find them anywhere. You didn't take them, did you?”

“Why on earth would I take your knickers?”

“As a souvenir, maybe?”

D.T. laughed. “I've already got a couple of souvenirs, Michele.”

“Like what?”

“Like a scar in the shape of a fingernail on my left buttock. And like that poem.”

“What poem?”

“Remember the night I proposed? And gave you that ring I bought for a buck at the carnival? You gave me a poem.”

“God. That thing? I'd forgotten all about it.”

“Want me to recite it?”

“Spare me. Please.”

“Some days your faults are strengths,

Your parts forever shifting in my mind.

Hate, pride, always near,

But you I can only love,

The whole of you, to me.

When I am lost in your parts,

You find me with a word or touch,

You crystalize and are whole again.

One feeling replaces many;

Love is all I know.”

Michele sighed. “There was even more, wasn't there? How embarrassing.”

“I think it's great.”

“Good-bye, D.T. May you be stricken by permanent poetic amnesia.”

D.T. closed the file cabinet, locked the safe, doused the lights, and drove to his apartment.

It was one of eight identical units inside a box glued precariously to the side of a hill that rose out of the middle of the city like a wart. He had selected it because he hated freeways, basements, lawnmowers, home repairs, and the thought of not being able to walk away from it all on a moment's whim. And because it furnished a guard and a security system that forewarned of clients prowling after hours. After parking in his assigned slot and removing the mail from his assigned box, D.T. opened the apartment, fixed himself a drink, and took the mail to the deck that opened off the living room.

The view was of the industrial portion of the city, a steamy and disheartening cauldron by day, a surreal mix of light and dark by night, at this hour uninhabited and ominous, somewhat like his brain. D.T. spent much time on the deck, wondering, musing, imagining—constructing apocalyptic conclusions founded on inadequate information, erotic fantasies dependent on impossible coincidence, heroic comportment demanding nonexistent energy and resolve. It was his only hobby besides betting—bending the future in his mind, sculpting it with the aid of booze and solitude and the accumulation of a personal history he needed often to evade. Lately his undirected thoughts seemed inevitably to drift to the fiftieth anniversary of his birth, which lay in wait for him, four years into the heaving sea of his future, like an iceberg ready to sink his simple ship without a trace.

After half his drink was downed D.T. began to wonder about Lucinda Finders. She gave off the stench of victims, of those too perfect in ignorance and allure to survive in a world that feasted on such traits. A lot of Lucindas found their way to him somehow, women fated for disaster despite their precautions and often their predictions. Some seemed actually to seek it out, to thirst for pain, to change only its source, never its frequency. For others, like Lucinda, misery seemed merely unavoidable, the fate of one designed and built as a receptacle for cruelty. Perhaps such women existed as a reminder to the rest of us that we can never be sure things are truly all right, never be sure that we are, at long last, safe. He didn't know about that, but he did know he would have to be careful with Lucinda, would have to beware both her body and her lot.

Then there was Mareth Stone, determined to treat divorce as she would treat a root canal, just another irritant to endure without affect. But she was of the old school, by her own admission, a woman who would need to believe herself an unmatched mother. Because she was human, there would have accumulated mounds of evidence to the contrary, incidents of rage and hurt and sloth that would suggest she was not perfect at all, but rather was unfit to continue doing the only thing she had done with pride for years. She did not seem like one who would bear up well under the attack that her husband and his lawyer could mount. That was Bobby E. Lee's prediction, at least, and Bobby E. Lee was seldom wrong about human inclination.

As the moon arrived early in the sky and was made fuzzy by the smog, D.T. began to look for leverage in what Mareth Stone had told him, something to trade in return for the kids when the bargaining began. The only thing he could come up with was money, the standard sacrifice of alimony, support, or property in return for exclusive custody of the children. But he sensed that in this case money would not be enough. He would need an edge, a smudge on dear old Chas. He made a note to see Mareth Stone again, and soon.

Rita Holloway. Vivacious. Bewitching. A surrogate for an angel if he could believe her. Nothing good lay down that road either, at the very least a vat of wasted time and money. He regretted even agreeing to see Esther Preston, regretted even more what candor would require of him when he did—telling her he was powerless to help, that life was not fair to anyone he knew except perhaps Michele, that she should try to make the best of what she had. As if she hadn't made better of it already than he ever could were their burdens reversed. Caked with soot and sweat, D.T. finished off his drink and dreams.

The mail was feeble, as usual. Slick magazines full of untrustworthy diatribes; a solicitation from yet another political action committee, this one bewailing the Klan; a report from Oxfam America on the starving children who were so ubiquitous as to suggest they were a hobby of the Lord's; a bumper sticker that read, in ashen script,
Roses are red, violets are blue, After the bomb, They'll be dead, too
. And a bill from the phone company with an accompanying flier proclaiming lower rates to Mexico and Brazil.

D.T. tried and failed to think of someone he knew in either country. He thought maybe one of Michele's old boyfriends had come from Rio, the slick-haired one who'd shown up at midnight one evening in a chauffeur-driven Bentley and tried to persuade Michele to go off with him to Nepal. Michele had given him a brandy and declined. But that was it. D.T. had never been to either place. His vacations, such as they were, consisted of a week in Arizona during the last days of the Cactus League season, with a stop at the Grand Canyon along the way to buy beaded moccasins for Heather, then a second quick trip to the southwest for the big meeting at Ruidoso Downs, where he would inevitably lose twice his foresworn limit. The more he thought, in fact, the more he realized he hadn't reached out and touched someone except to put the touch
on
someone for as long as he could remember. He went to his bedroom and took a shower, changed into Levi's and loafers, went to the kitchen and poured a second drink, considered and rejected the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, then returned to the deck.

The humid air still broiled the city. What wind there was seemed to have an alkaline origin. The apartment below was being readied for a party to which he hadn't been invited. Somewhere a basketball bounced interminably. The summer status was firmly
quo
. His phone rang to confirm it.

Except for Barbara and Michele, all the likely callers were present or former clients, all fine and pathetic women possessed of needs he would be incapable of gratifying given the day and the hour and the wellspring of their problems. As always, he would recommend perserverence or counsel forbearance, and hang up hoping catastrophe would not result from what he did or didn't say.

Mareth Stone spoke rapidly, panting like a puppy. “You were right. He took all the money, Mr. Jones. Everything.”

“Even the balance in your individual account?”

“No. There's still that.”

D.T. gave thanks for the soundness of Bobby E. Lee's salary payment. “I thought he might pull something like that. Tell me exactly what you found.”

He made notes on the back of an envelope as she spoke. “He didn't get the children, did he?” he asked when she had finished.

“No, thank God. They're here with me.”

She was close to tears, more from the betrayal than the embezzlement. “It's still not impossible that he'll make a try for them. So, like I said before, take whatever precautions you can.”

“Okay.” Her voice was the size of pearls in oysters.

“And remember what I told you in the office. On Monday go down and change your individual account to another bank. Take everything of value out of your house that he hasn't gotten to—jewels, cash, securities, whatever—and put them in a new safe deposit box. Make a list of all the property you and your husband own, including what he's already taken—antiques, works of art, gold coins, insurance policies, anything. Try to put a value on each one, how much you bought it for and what it's worth now. On another sheet start listing your expenses. Rent, utilities, food, clothes, laundry, medicine. Everything you spend each month, entertainment and recreation included. Make a separate list for before and after the divorce. Also list any unusual expenditures you and your husband had. If you went to the Bahamas every winter, list it. If you got a new Cadillac every spring, list it. Also list all the debts you know about. Understand?”

“Yes, but what good will it do?”

“As you observed, we're going to war, Mrs. Stone, and in war you learn as much about the battlefield as you can. So call me Monday and tell me how you're coming.”

“I'm nervous, Mr. Jones. The only other time I felt like this was rush week.”

“This will make rush week feel like a Tupperware party. We're talking nitty-gritty here, Mrs. Stone. And I do mean money. Men like your husband don't yield their money peaceably, which means among other things if there's anything about your moral standards I should know, put it on the list as well. You're not a call girl on the side, I trust.”

“Don't be silly.”

“You'd be surprised,” D.T. said, then decided not to go into it. “On Monday I'll go in for an order that will get you temporary support and I'll also try to prevent your husband from touching the marital assets while the case is pending, but I'm afraid it'll be too late. When they spring a surprise like this they've had prior advice and made protective moves ahead of time. Half the assets have probably been transferred to the Bahamas by now, but we'll do what we can.”

“What else should I do? I mean …”

“Just leave it to me, Mrs. Stone. Relax. See friends. Explain things to the kids. Talk it over with your parents, let them know you may need financial assistance for a while. If anything strange happens, call me right away. We'll try to end it all as soon as possible. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“That's the spirit. Remember, you can call me any time, day or night. I mean
any
time. I'm usually up and about at three in the morning anyway, so don't be afraid you'll wake me. Some of my best advice has been given at three a.m.” And some of the worst, he thought but didn't say. “Do you need back the money you gave me?”

“No.”

“Do you want the number of a divorced women's support group? Or a psychiatrist?”

“No. I'm fine. I just want to get this over with. How soon can we go to court?”

“Months from now. Sooner, if it's a real custody battle, since they have preference. Don't underestimate the fight we've got on our hands, Mrs. Stone. Just by being in court you're tainted, at least in most judges' eyes. Plus your husband has a good lawyer. So don't think it'll be easy. It'll be the hardest thing you've ever done.”

She didn't say anything for so long he thought she'd hung up. “I'm better than my husband at almost everything, Mr. Jones,” she said at last. “Chess. Tennis. You name it. For fifteen years I've always let him win. Every time. But not now. Not
this
time.” She hung up before he could praise her.

On the way back to his drink D.T. flicked on the radio and caught the last eight bars of Barbara Mandrell's latest. He tried to read the week's
Time
magazine but the words passed his eyes like a string of stock cars in a tight draft at Darlington. The moon ascended. The twilight deepened, pink to purple. The purple came from the cloud released by a Mexican volcano. He'd read about it. He read about a lot of things. Too damned many things. Bliss keeps company only with the ignorant, as the moralists and their lawyers were the first to recognize.

The tepid air finally began to cool. Mosquitos buzzed his face. The people down below activated their electrostatic bug zapper. ZZZZT … ZZZZZT. Altering the ecological balance for the benefit of cocktail guests. D.T. slapped at something that was sucking blood from his hand, doing a bit of altering himself, and went back inside the apartment.

He turned off the radio and turned on the TV. News. Tom Brokaw, talking about death. Five straight stories about death—wars, wrecks, typhoons, murders. D.T. had almost died once. Allergic reaction. Breathing difficulty, raging pulse, dizzy spell. Quite a scene. Embarrassing to all concerned. Now he was determined to die conveniently. In bed, preferably, or perhaps while strolling in front of a funeral parlor with a pillow under his arm. The strange thing about it was that he hadn't cared. People always asked him how it felt, and while he always lied and said he was desperately frightened, the truth was that his primary emotion was that he didn't give a damn what happened as long as something happened pretty quick. That had been while he was still married to Michele. His guess was that he would care even less if he were imperiled again today. God forbid. But then that was the problem with God. He didn't forbid nearly enough.

Roger Mudd was talking about a political scandal involving drugs. D.T. was totally uninterested in drugs, as he was in anything that didn't require skill or intelligence to accomplish. He turned off the television and called his girlfriend Barbara.