Nathaniel had to be told about the breakup. Curtis had volunteered to pick him up from school and bring him home so we could break the news together. Unsure of what to say or how to explain the separation to a 6-year- old, I had called the pediatrician for advice.
”Make it simple,” he said. ”Don`t go into long explanations. Let him ask the questions.”
Around 4 p.m. I started pacing the floor, waiting for father and son to arrive. The enormity of what Curtis and I were about to tell him overwhelmed me. I rehearsed the doctor`s suggested words over and over again.
The two of them burst into the house, with Nathaniel talking nonstop about the activities of the day. Earlier that week, his elderly first-grade teacher had suffered a massive heart attack in class. Two days before Nathaniel had accidentally been left behind by the school bus. And it was only the first month of his first year at a new school. Now he was about to get this.
”We`re getting a new teacher!” he cried. ”She`s really pretty.”
I poured him a glass of milk and pulled a few Oreos from a package lying open on the kitchen counter, then motioned for him to come and sit on the family room couch. Curtis was already seated. I positioned Nathaniel between us. He looked a little surprised.
”Sometimes people start loving each other,” I said, following our pediatrician`s advice, ”and then they stop liking each other. Mommy and Daddy have been fighting a lot. We`ve decided to live separately so that we won`t fight anymore.”
Nathaniel listened quietly. I wondered if anything was sinking in. He munched the cookies and looked at both of us. We waited for questions. There was only one.
”Can I go outside and play now?” he asked.
Curtis didn`t stick around after the announcement. He had to get back to his new apartment to await a furniture delivery. I stood alone by the kitchen window watching my son kick a soccer ball across the lawn. He appeared to be completely oblivious to what we had just told him.
Was this normal? Should I have said more? I really needed to talk to someone, to bounce Nathaniel`s reaction off a seasoned mother. Almost without thinking I picked up the phone and dialed. My friend Meredith possessed the required combination of qualities. She was a psychologist; and, though we had never discussed personal concerns–that would have been an intrusion upon our friendship and an abuse of her professional credentials–I was certain that now she wouldn`t object to listening to me and perhaps offering a dose of objective feedback. Meredith had been my ”other” next-door neighbor for years, our homes separated by the dense woods and almost invisible to each other.
”Hello?” The lilting voice always answered the telephone with a question.
”Meredith, Curtis has left me for Jackie.” To my surprise, I couldn`t control the tremor in my voice.
For a moment there was only silence, deadly silence.
Then, ”Bring Nathaniel and come over right now. We`ll talk,” she said.
Meredith was waiting for us on her second-floor outdoor deck. Holding two wine glasses in one hand and a just-opened bottle of Bollini Chardonnay in the other, she watched us pick our way through the undergrowth of fallen limbs and branches. As we approached the house, she called out and directed Nathaniel downstairs to her 8-year-old daughter`s playroom.
We dropped into opposing chairs in her living room. I started hesitantly to talk about Nathaniel, but Meredith didn`t want to talk about him.
”Kids are resilent,” she said. ”He`ll be okay. Really. You`ll have to wait and see what happens, how he responds. He`s too young to fully understand. He`ll take his cues from you. You`ll see.”
I suspected that she was right. If Mommy got upset, Nathaniel would get upset. If Mommy didn`t get upset, then maybe neither would he. Mommy was not going to get upset.
I gave her a halting rundown of what had happened, trying to inject as much levity as I could into my account. After all, it must be pretty boring stuff for a psychologist. She stared at me.
”Phyllis, aren`t you angry?” she asked. ”How do you feel?”
I told her I felt no pain, no bitterness, no hostility. I didn`t know how I was supposed to feel, how I was supposed to act. I said I intended to maintain my composure and control so that I could objectively plan for my future and present an image of strength that my son could depend on and draw from. I was, I realize now, even rather proud at how calm I was. I didn`t understand why Meredith was looking so concerned and asking me so many questions.
”I think perhaps that rather than planning for your future,” she counseled, ”you should concentrate on the present. Think about yourself. There`s nothing wrong with that. Don`t be surprised if you have a delayed reaction. It`s like getting hit over the head, and you forget for a minute about the pain.
”I`m a strong woman, Meredith,” I told her. ”I`ll be just fine, really. Besides, Curtis and I parted on good terms. I think he`ll make an effort to do right and act in good faith. I think you`re in shock.”
She looked at me quizzically.
”He will, will he?”
On Wednesday, I waited in the outer office of Roger Spenser, the lawyer who had been recommended to me by the husband of a friend. His staff, I noticed, referred to him as ”Spenser.” Sitting in his waiting room furnished in basic attorney-leather chairs, subdued colors, bookcases filled with legal volumes, canned background music–I felt like a patient waiting to see a prominent specialist.
Then he bounded out of his office. He was perhaps 5 feet 8, his body firmly packed. He reminded me of a wrestler–strong, agile and wiry. His face was broad, surrounded by curly salt-and-pepper hair. He appeared to be in his mid-50s. Later I would find out he was closer to the mid-60s. His blue eyes were warm, sympathetic. I liked him immediately.
”Ms. Ellsworth? Roger Spenser. Come on in.”
I had prepared a summary and list of questions and, before I even sat down, I had begun to reel them off. Years of preparing briefings and background papers for employers had made me a compulsive memo writer.
”Hold on, hold on,” Spenser interrupted. ”Let me get some background information on you first and then you can hit me with your questions.”
He asked my name, husband`s name, children, age, residence, place of marriage, occupation. Was there any chance of reconciliation?
”Ah . . .” I paused, then replied: ”No.” I guess not, I thought. The apartment, all furnished in just a few days, seemed awfully final.
Only after he had completed his questions and given me a rundown of his credentials and experience was I allowed to summarize the events of the past few days.
He listened to my story, taking occasional notes.
”By the way,” he asked. ”Out of curiosity. Did you notice any recent changes in your husband`s behavior?”
At nearly 40, Curtis was a classic case of self-renewal. A type-A personality, successful businessman, he had recently taken up dieting, 6 a.m. jogs, tennis and rock concerts. Spenser nodded briskly. That kind of behavior, he said, was standard for a departing husband. Curtis had not, however, gone so far as to have his hair restyled or taken to wearing jewelry.
I listened with an increasing sense of dismay as he outlined the basic provisions of the Connecticut divorce code–a code paralleling those of almost every state in the country.
”There are three parts to the present law,” he said patiently. ”No-fault, financial settlements and custody. Under the no-fault system, either party is permitted to sue for divorce without cause. Today the most common basis for divorce is irretrievable breakdown of the marriage. This means neither party is to blame, no one is at fault. No-fault.”
I turned over Curtis`s departing statement in my head. ”Phyllis,” he had said, ”I`m leaving you this way because under the No Fault laws there is no fault. I lose nothing. There is no penalty to me.”
”When your husband said he could leave you in the way he did,” Spenser said, as if he were reading my thoughts, ”he was absolutely correct.”
Curtis had done his homework, I thought again. The game was already over and I hadn`t even arrived on the court.
”In the old days,” my lawyer told me, ”if a couple wanted a divorce, an economic bargain would be struck. You support me and I`ll give you your divorce. Call it blackmail, but it helped place a premium on the marital contract. ”Today, the liberalized divorce codes have made the process easier, but in no way has it become any fairer.
”The second part of the law involves property settlement,” he continued.
”In Connecticut, we have the concept of equitable distribution,” he went on. ”Marriage is treated as an economic partnership. In principle, all the marital assets are put into a common pot and divided.”Unfortunately, in practice, the assets are divided on a lopsided basis. Men usually have a greater income to begin with and greater earning power. They are familiar with business deals and know how to put away funds far in advance of the actual separation.
”The final settlement is basically whatever you can negotiate, or, if it goes to court, what the court will award. Unfortunately, it`s often he who holds the gold who makes the rules. The man with the deep pockets. And I say man because it usually is.”
I hesitated to ask Spenser about alimony. He beat me to it.
”Now, on the subject of alimony,” he said. ”In this state, there is no presumption of lifetime alimony. You have to prove that you need it.
I was shocked. Although I had been the ”second” income in a dual-career family, had given up a well-paid job in the city to move to the country with my husband because of his career needs and had altered my career directon to become a part-time free-lance writer for the good of the family unit, in all likelihood I would now be penalized for these efforts. My husband`s salary currently averaged more than $100,000; I earned about $12,000 a year from my various part-time efforts. Yet, since I was a woman who had worked and who could work, I would therefore probably not be awarded alimony.
The knockout blow came when he told me about custody.
”I don`t think you`ll have a choice here,” he said. ”Joint custody is pretty much the rule of thumb today. Unless a father is incarcerated, an alcoholic, a drug addict or certifiably mentally unstable, some form of joint custody is the norm. However, joint physical custody means one thing; joint legal, still another. It`s all negotiable. The custody issue is a bargaining chip.”
Bargaining chip, I thought; use my child as a bargaining chip? Negotiate, bargain, barter. It occurred to me then that we were basically talking about a business deal. My divorce was going to be based upon whatever we could negotiate. And Curtis was very, very good at negotiation.
”Don`t you think you should ask me my fees?”
”Of course,” I replied sheepishly. ”What is this going to cost me?”
”I require a $2,000 retainer up front. My hourly rate is $90. When I receive a signed contract and a check, your case begins.”
He had one more question.
”Do you know whom your husband has retained for his counsel?”
”Someone by the name of Michael Rawson,” I said. ”Do you know him?”
Spenser leaned back in his chair and tossed his pencil onto his desk. He looked me straight in the eyes.
”He`s the very best,” he told me.
I felt my stomach hit the floor.
Spenser smiled. ”Of course the word is that I`m also the best. We`re in for a good fight.”
Tune in next week as Phyllis goes to court.
