The War of the Roses

In the foyer he opened the case of the face of the long clock, and as he had done every morning for more than five years, he cranked the winding key and, checking the time against his Piaget, moved the minute hand forward by two minutes. He loved the familiar click of the pendulum on its relendess journey through time and patted the smooth mahogany of the case.

Then he looked at the familiar figures of Cribb and Molineaux and, quickly, his eyes misted.

Not today, he decided. It hurts too much. Leaving his packed suitcase in the guest room, he walked swiftly to his office. Miss Harlow had his coffee and doughnut waiting. The first bite stuck in his throat.

How can I leave my own house? he asked himself, feeling for the first time that justice, morality, decency, and fairness were on his side.

An hour later, Goldstein told him the news.

Oliver looked at Goldstein in disbelief, but he saw no relief in the man's sad eyes, the hooded lids droopy with the weight of the world's sins.

'You're lying to me,' Oliver cried, his voice rising, the words reverberating in his mind as if it were a wind tunnel.

'You can't blame the bad news on the messenger.' 'The dirty bitch.'

Oliver slapped Goldstein's desk, scattering papers with the rush of air his palm created.

'It's Thurmont. That bastard.'

'It's natural. In a divorce action it's obligatory to hate the lawyers.'

'Thank God I'm in a different kind of law.'

'Do me a favor, Rose. Leave God out of it.'

Oliver slapped the desk again, overwhelmed by rage, the injustice of it. Was it possible he had invested almost half his life in this marriage? For this? For nothing?

'How fair can a man be?' Oliver said after he had got his rage under control. 'I've given her no trouble. No custody battles. I've agreed to a generous maintenance. Surely she can leave me with something.'

'Why?'

'Because I earned it. It's mine.'

'She says she earned it, too.'

'Half. I'm willing to give half.'

Again the anger ripped at his innards and he popped two Maaloxes in his mouth.

'I won't have it. I mean it's not fair. The house is ours. OURS. She takes the OU. I take the RS. I was going to give her the full value of one-half its worth.'

'She doesn't want the value. She wants the house,' Goldstein said. 'I probed all the possibilities. I offered half the house and told her she could continue to live in it with the kids.'

'I didn't authorise that,' Oliver said, looking at Goldstein with daggers of hatred. 'You had no right to offer that kind of deal. You never consulted me about that, Goldstein.'

'I was probing. I wanted to find out how far they were willing to go. I wanted to at least show them we were reasonable. Who thought they would go this far?'

'Not me. That's for sure.'

'It won't be nice,' Goldstein said.

'Nothing is nice. Not anymore.'

'Never mind nice. The subject is wealth. Yours. She wants to strip you of everything. What have you got besides the house?'

'My Ferrari,' he said stupidly. 'A three-oh-eight GTS. Red.'

'They didn't include that. Not the wine, either. Or your tools.'

'How generous.'

'What else?' Goldstein snapped. Oliver's mind clouded. 'What about insurance?'

‘What about insurance?’

'I forgot about that. She's the principal beneficiary.' 'Change it quick.'

The idea curdled his guts. If he died now, she would receive a million. And get the house to boot. The recollection agitated him, but cleared his head.

'There's the phone.' Goldstein pointed. 'If you walked outside this building and got hit by a truck, you would be very unhappy. .. seeing that she would get all that money.'

It took Oliver a few moments to reach his insurance man, who happened to be in his office. He wanted to know details.

'Not now. Just change it to Eve and Josh. All right? Cut out Barbara.' Oliver hung up the phone without a word. It wasn't like him to be rude. But the call had made him feel better, although he still had to sign a form the agent was putting in the mail.

'I'll make arrangements to speed up the inventory,' Goldstein said. 'I want everything in that house on a piece of paper fast. Before she gets any bright ideas.'

'She had better not take a damned thing. That would be stealing. I'll give up nothing. Not the house or anything in it. Never.' His throat tightened and his voice cackled.

'Never say "never." '

'Fuck you, Goldstein.'

Oliver stood up, started to leave, then sat down again.

'I built my whole life around that house,' Oliver mumbled, his head in his hands, feeling a whirlpool of sentiment well up inside him.

'I have my workshop there. All my antiques. My collections. My paintings. It's a total thing. It can't be broken apart.' He felt a terrible sense of persecution. All those years poking around antique auctions. 'I have my wine. My Lafite-Rothschild '59's, my Chateau Margaux '64's, my Grand Vin de Chateau Latour '66's. My orchids. You don't understand. You haven't seen the place. It's a jewel. I lavished love on it. In ten years it'll double in value, maybe triple. And so will everything in it.'

He caught his breath and sighed.