The War of the Roses

Thurmont ignored the question.

'You'd better get yourself your own man quick time,' he warned. His tone was ominous.

Oliver nodded to the empty office. He knew the cardinal rule of the legal profession. Only a fool acts as his own lawyer, especially in a domestic case.

'Maybe if things cooled down a bit. . .' he began, being wishful again. Thurmont chuckled. It was the cackle of a predator and Oliver hung up. He looked at the phone in its cradle for a long time, wondering if Barbara had told the children. With shaking fingers -he had to rub them to get them to do the job - he dialed his home number. Ann answered.

'She's gone to the French Market with a new batch

'Well. ..' He started to say something. You're not part of it, he wanted to assure her.

'Is there anything you'd like me to tell her, Oliver?' 'Lots,' he answered. 'Mostly bad.' 'I'm sorry.'

It wouldn't be long, he was certain, before his wife turned her against him. The children as well. But why? If only he had some real clue to his crime. Perhaps, then, the punishment would be acceptable.

He asked one of his recently divorced colleagues for the name of a good divorce lawyer. The man, Jim Richards, answered instantly.

'Harry Thurmont.'

That's hers.'

'You poor bastard.'

He shook his head and looked at Oliver sadly. 'Run for the hills. He'll take your eyeballs.'

'I doubt that,' Oliver said. 'I expect we'll be quite civilized about it.'

'Civilized? Harry Thurmont isn't civilized. You're in the jungle now.' He thumbed through his phone book. 'Try Murray Goldstein. He's in the building. He's an ex-rabbi. You'll get lectures and lots of sympathy. You'll need it.'

'All she wants is out,' Oliver muttered. 'That's what they all say.'

He made an appointment for the same day - professional courtesy. But before he left the office he tried Barbara again, just to make sure he hadn't dreamed all this. She answered the phone.

'Still mad?' he asked gently. At what? he wondered. Hell, he thought, you don't just throw your life away. He was willing to forgive.

'I'm not mad, Oliver.'

'And you're still' - she was making him say it -'thinking about divorce.' 'Didn't Thurmont call you?'

'Yes, he did.'

'It's not a question of mad. We have a lot of practical details to iron out. The District has a no-fault provision.'

The legalese angered him. So she was already getting educated.

'God damn it, Barbara,' he began, feeling his chest heave. The memory of his hospital stay invaded his mind. 'You just can't do this.'

'Oliver, we went over that last night.' She sighed.

'Have you told the kids?'

'Yes. They had a right to know.'

'You could have at least waited for me. I mean I don't think that's quite fair.'

'I thought it was best they hear it direcdy from me, with all my reasons.'

'What about my reasons?'

'I'm sure you'll offer your own explanations.' She paused. 'We're not going to have needless custody problems, Oliver?' Her calm reasonableness irritated him. He felt burning begin again in his chest, a spear of pain. He spilled two Maalox tablets into his palm and chewed them quickly.

'I guess not,' he said, confused.

'Why disrupt their lives? I told them that we were going to live apart, but that you'd still be easily accessible. I assumed that. You are their father. I hope I didn't overreach.'

'I don't want them to suffer,' Oliver said lamely, feeling the palpitation subside. He swallowed repeatedly to get rid of the chalky taste in his mouth. She's torpedoing my life and making me a party to it, he told himself. He felt helpless. Utterly defeated.

'So that's it, then?' he asked. His ear had been groping for a single shred of contrition. He hadn't found a minute sign of it. Her response to his question was silence.

'If only I had been prepared. Seen a sign. Something. I feel like I've been shot between the eyes.'

'Don't get melodramatic, Oliver. It's been disintegrating for years.'

'Then why didn't I ever see it?' 'Part of you probably did.'

'Now you're a psychiatrist?' He had no urge to check his sarcasm. If she were in the room at that moment, he was certain he would have hit her. He wanted to smash her face, obliterate those innocent Slavic features, gouge out those hazel eyes, surely mocking him now.

'Bitch,' he mumbled.

'I expect you'll be coming by for your things,' she said calmly.

‘I suppose . ..' What more was there to say? He dropped the telephone into its cradle.

'Fini',' he whispered to the empty office, putting on his rumpled jacket and going out to keep his appointment with Goldstein.

Goldstein had a benign, Semitic face. He talked like a rabbi, an idea embellished by diplomas in Hebrew lettering hanging next to his law degree. He had a fringe of curly black hair, ringing a broad, shiny bald pate, and thick horn-rimmed glasses behind which droopy-lidded eyes offered lugubrious comments on the human condition. He wore a white-on-white shirt, Yemeni cuff links, and a striped Hermes tie. He lit up a large cigar as Oliver settled into a soft chair at the side of the desk.