Defiled Page 10

  At the table she was ebullient as we progressed through the rituals of ordering drinks—white wine for Glenda, Crown and Seven for me—appetizers—beefsteak tomato and buffalo mozzarella salad for me, warm spinach salad for Glenda—and entrées—filet for me, petite filet for Glenda, and sweet potato casserole to share. I did all the ordering, specifying how steaks were to be cooked, selecting Glenda’s pinot grigio, telling the waiter to please space the courses to allow us time with one another.

  She lifted her glass and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  The salads arrived, and I asked how her store was doing. She owned a shop that attracted “earth muffins” and New Age spiritualists to whom she sold an eclectic combination of candles, scents, books, figurines, and even clothing. It was sort of the Florida version of a New Orleans voodoo shop. While we were married, she had devoted all her energy to it and I had gotten little attention. She knew that was the point of my question.

  “I have a good team now and a lot of regular customers, so I have time for a personal life.”

  The conversation turned to updates on families from which we had been separated for over seven years. While we were married, Glenda had lost a brother to suicide, and since our divorce she had lost her father to cancer, but her mother was well and still lived on her own in Lakeland. “You’ll have to come visit her, Randle. She always liked you.” I promised I would.

  When she asked for an update on my family, I had little to say. I considered myself an only child because I was older than my siblings and had no real relationship with them. My sister was six years younger than me and my brother was two years younger than her. It was as though my parents had decided to build a new family after discovering I would never be a fulfilling child for them.

  I recounted my father’s passing and told Glenda that my mother still lived alone in our childhood home in Augusta. Although she was mentally sharp, her physical health was in decline. I had not seen her since my marriage to Carrie had fallen apart and would have been embarrassed to admit another failure.

  Talking about my father’s funeral, I said, “I couldn’t recognize him, lying in his casket. He reminded me of a banker or a television personality. I touched his arm but it wasn’t an arm, it was a board. Why would they do that? I didn’t touch anything else.”

  Glenda reached across the table and placed a hand on my arm.

  I added, “I had to do an impromptu eulogy because the priest had no idea who my father was or what to say about him.” She squeezed my arm.

  “To make matters worse, my sister and I agreed that my brother should take control of Mom’s finances and Carrie had a hissy fit. She said, ‘You’re too soft. As the oldest child, you should take control or you’ll never see a penny of inheritance. Your brother will steal it all.’”

  Glenda looked shocked. “Was she right or just being a bitch?”

  “She’s a greedy control freak.”

  “Doesn’t say much for your taste in women.”

  The entrées arrived, and there was a break in the conversation as we served ourselves, sampled our steaks, and smiled at each other as we chewed.

  “I didn’t go to work today,” Glenda said. “Wesley was served with papers, and I didn’t want him coming around and causing a scene.”

  “I’m happy for you, Glenda, and I hope it works out.”

  She gave me a sly smile. “I think it will. How about your situation? Going okay?”

  “It’s become a dogfight, but we’re holding our own. We’re filing a petition to have Carrie examined by State psychiatrists, see if she belongs in an asylum. And my company’s IPO has been delayed, so a lot of my stock options are off the table.”

  She nodded and smiled appreciatively. Nibbling on the sweet potato casserole, she said, “So tell me again what you do now.”

  “Predictive modeling.”

  “Huh? I’ve heard of nude modeling and runway modeling, but not whatever you said. Did you mean to say perverted modeling?” Coy, having fun with it.

  “Ha ha, the guys at the office will like that one. We’ve built a tool to help doctors plan their patients’ treatment programs and preventative care. Basically, we can predict whether the patient will be diagnosed with cancer or hepatitis or heart disease sometime in the future. The bigger potential is then to predict the therapies most likely to cure their disease.”

  “Really? How do you do that?”

  “We build mathematical models that use patient histories—not just yours but millions of histories—combined with DNA, again from millions of people, to forecast medical outcomes.”

  “I’m very impressed.” She looked at me with interest. “Is this going to make you rich?”

  “You know I don’t care about that, but I will have the luxury to quit my day job so I can write and lecture.” While Glenda’s store had robbed me of her participation in our marriage, my career had robbed her of my time. I fashioned a sincere look and added, “I’ll have time for a personal life too.”

  I loved the way Glenda looked when she was thinking. Her brow furrowed, and her nose twitched like a bunny rabbit’s.

  “You’re treating this like a real date,” she said.

  “Of course, isn’t that what it is?”

  “I thought you’d just want to start where we left off last weekend—me naked, running around your backyard. Which would be okay with me, by the way.”

  “Glenda, we should have a normal dating experience and fall in love like we did years ago. This is our first date. The second date should be something fun, see if we enjoy each other’s company. On the third date, you can let me get in your pants. That’s the American average, sex on the third date.”

  She laughed, loudly enough for nearby diners to stare at us. I thought of a line from the movie As Good as It Gets: “… if you make her laugh, you got a life.”

  Glenda tilted her head. “Who taught you how to play this game? Your mother?”

  “It may sound old-fashioned, but we owe it to ourselves to be certain we aren’t making a mistake by getting back together.”

  Shrugging off my dull but good sense, she said, “You know they have private rooms upstairs for dessert and coffee. I didn’t wear panties so you can have a quickie if you want one.”

  Smiling, I said, “You are an incorrigible little wench and an irresistible temptation, but …”

  She gave me one of her patented stares. “If you think you can resist me until our third date, I’ll play it your way, but the mistake we made was getting divorced, Randle. Now we can correct that. Let me take care of you as you grow old, and you can take care of me.”

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” Mutual commitment had been a foreign concept to Carrie.

  Glenda nodded to confirm her sincerity. “Don’t take me to the beach for our next date. I don’t like sand in my crack, and I burn in the sun.”

  I couldn’t agree more, and it had been a point of contention with Carrie, whose only real hobby was baking in the sun, soaked in grease, like a turkey on Thanksgiving. While Carrie’s deep tan obscured and blurred her features, Glenda’s pale skin made her look more naked without clothing. Carrie was sexier clothed; Glenda was sexier nude. I prefer classy clothed, sexy nude.

  “We can take a ride on my boat, find a secluded spot to swim and relax.”

  “Saturday is busy at the store, but I could do Sunday.”

  That worked for me as I planned to spend Saturday on the boat with my male friends. “It’s a date.”

  We didn’t wait for our check. I threw two hundred dollars on the table like a drug dealer flush with cash, and we left the restaurant. Outside, the parking attendant took our tickets and sprinted away to find the Bronco and Glenda’s sedan. I turned to her and said, “You haven’t had a cigarette all evening. Want to have a quick smoke?”

  Her smile was part gratitude, part disappointment. “I don’t need one. I’m not nervous, and I didn’t get laid.”

  I took her in m
y arms with attendants and other waiting diners watching, and she slipped her hand behind my head and pulled me down to her. This kiss was hard, passionate. She broke away and said, “Something to remember me by.”

  We both smiled broadly. I opened her car door for her, and when she got settled behind the wheel, I said, “Text me to let me know you got home safely.”

  She gave me that long look of hers and nodded. “Okay.”

  I watched her drive away before I got into my Bronco and headed for the marina. Half an hour later, I received Glenda’s text: Home, signed with a heart emoticon.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Moving day: It would be either a parade or a funeral procession, I wasn’t sure which yet. I drove north on I-275, through Tampa and toward the country house in Cortes County, leading a moving van with three laborers aboard, and a PODS rig carrying a large portable storage container. After three days of wrangling over the property inventory, Tony cut off the debate in order to meet the judge’s deadline. As a matter of principle, I wasn’t happy with the result—Carrie would acquire most everything we had accumulated during our marriage—but in truth I cared little about the possessions Carrie coveted.

  What bothered me was that the property division wasn’t a fifty/fifty split of possessions acquired with my earnings. Why should a woman who hadn’t worked a day during the marriage walk away with a windfall of extravagant furnishings just because she had declared the marriage over? Neither the judge nor the lawyers seemed to have any interest in fairness—they just wanted to facilitate the dissolution of the marriage and declare a legal victory. I knew I should approach the moving exercise as I would a business transaction; instead, I felt combative. Tony had of course coached me to be civil and avoid confrontation; I hoped de Castro had given Carrie the same instruction.

  When the caravan pulled into the circular driveway, I saw that a ragged pickup truck was parked by the carriage porch. Carrie’s red Jaguar, top down, sat in front of the main entrance. I stopped short and got out of the Bronco as Carrie emerged from the front door. She wore sandals, shorts that were indeed short, and a low-cut top with a bare midriff. Her hair was done in the prickly style that matched her personality. I guessed she wanted to remind me of what I was losing. When she got closer, I saw that she wore the Mother’s Day present again, rubbing my nose in it. She was made up for going out and had fresh paint on all her nails.

  “You’re late,” she said flatly.

  Trying to sound civil, I said, “Hey, can you move your car so we can set the PODS container at the front door? Easier to bring things out through the double doors.”

  “No, you’ll be loading from the garage. I’ve packed your stuff and it’s all in the garage except for big items in the attic and your office.”

  “What?”

  Carrie walked toward the garage and used a remote to open the double-wide door. In the garage were boxes and totes with “Randle” inscribed in magic marker.

  She said, “Give me your remote and keys and get started.”

  I was annoyed that Carrie had once again jumped the gun, planned further ahead than I had planned. I moved toward the front door and said, “I’ll just walk through the house, check things off the list, make sure you didn’t forget anything.”

  “Stop, Randle! You can’t go in the house.”

  Two men stepped out of the interior shadows onto the front porch. One was the redneck named Larry and the other was a carbon copy.

  I turned back to my wife. “You buy them at a two-for-one sale?”

  Carrie’s face turned the color of her Jaguar, but she held her breath and swallowed her anger. “Keep your nose out of my business.”

  I figured that was a reference to Puralto. “Likewise. Next time your private investigator trespasses, I’ll shoot him.”

  Carrie looked befuddled, eyes wide, eyebrows raised. Nice acting job.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I changed the subject. “You can’t stop me from entering my own home. I pay for this place.”

  “It’s my home now, and I have a restraining order.”

  “All you have is permission to stay here while we’re separated. The house will be negotiated in mediation.”

  She scoffed at me. “Here’s how it’s going to work, Randle: Your movers will go up and get your stuff out of your office and the attic. Larry and Danny will escort them to make sure they don’t take anything they shouldn’t. You’ll sit in your car and stay out of trouble.” Carrie sounded like a mother lecturing a young child.

  I could feel the PODS driver and the movers loitering behind me, wondering how good a show this might become. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

  Not knowing whom I had called, she said, “Stop wasting time, Randle.”

  I put the phone on speaker, held it toward her.

  The operator answered, “Cortes County Sherriff’s Office, what’s your emergency?”

  I answered, “We have a domestic disturbance. Do you have my location?”

  Carrie clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. She made a sound like a wounded lioness. “Put that phone down, Randle!”

  The operator said, “Is that the other party I hear?”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “You need to hurry.”

  “Has there been a physical altercation?”

  Carrie screamed, “Give me that phone!”

  She grabbed for the phone, but I pirouetted out of the way. The movers snickered in the background. Larry and Danny headed down the driveway toward me.

  I said to the operator, “No violence as yet, but she has two men with her and I fear for my safety.”

  Larry and Danny stopped, looked at each other, and turned back toward the house.

  The operator said, “Is it your residence, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  “One of you should go inside and the other should stay outside. Got it?”

  “I get it, ma’am, but my wife doesn’t get much of anything.”

  Carrie lunged at me, but a little Mexican guy with broad shoulders and a Pancho Villa mustache stepped between us.

  The operator said, “I have a car on the way to your location. Please stay on the line with me until it arrives.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And thanks very much.”

  “No problem, sir. Just speak up if you need me.”

  Carrie threw up her hands in disgust and started back to the house. Larry and Danny inched toward their pickup truck. I put the phone on mute and told the PODS driver to drop the container outside the garage.

  To the movers I said, “Cut open all the boxes in the garage. Let’s see what’s in them.”

  The movers were all smiles as they walked to the garage. Pancho Villa said, “El jefe in charge here.”

  Carrie glared at me from the porch as I followed the workers into the garage. They cut the boxes open so I could mark items off the property list. Each box contained a random assortment of items from various rooms of the house: a toaster, a golfing trophy, a dictionary, and a small couch pillow in one; a broken DVD player, a lampshade, and a pack of shop rags in another. Fragile items were combined with heavy items; nothing was wrapped or cushioned. Some items weren’t on my inventory but had been packed because Carrie wanted to dispose of them. The packing had followed no logical pattern, so I had no idea how I could verify that I had gotten everything that belonged to me. It reminded me of movie scenes in which the wife throws the husband’s possessions out on the front lawn.

  I stacked unwanted items in a corner of the garage, repacked boxes to contain like items, and carried some of the fragile items to the Bronco. After about fifteen minutes, I heard a siren, so I told the movers to load the boxes into the container and I retrieved my file of legal documents from the Bronco. The sheriff’s car, lights flashing, pulled into the far leg of the driveway, the side that wasn’t blocked by trucks. I told the 9-1-1 operator goodbye and hung up. The deputy, young and fresh-faced, left the lights
on when he emerged from the cruiser. As I approached the officer, Carrie materialized, waving a handful of paper and yelling, “I’ve got a restraining order!”

  The officer—his nametag read “Dobbins”—looked from Carrie, hurrying toward us, to me with a question on his face. “What’s going on, sir?”

  I explained that it was a divorce situation, and I had a court order that allowed me to move my possessions out of the marital home today. However, my estranged wife wouldn’t allow me to enter the house and wanted the two guys standing next to the pickup on the carport to guard the movers while inside the house. The cop, pretending to be in control of the situation, nodded his understanding and asked to see the court order. I handed it to him as Carrie reached us, out of breath.

  Dobbins and Carrie exchanged surprised looks of recognition and anxiety. A hint of fear danced across Carrie’s face.

  Pushing her document at the deputy, she said, “I have a restraining order. He doesn’t need to go into the house to get his stuff. It’s all packed.”

  Deputy Dobbins said, “Take it easy, ma’am. Let me have a look at this document.” He indicated my court order and started reading.

  When he was done, Dobbins said to Carrie, “The court order says your husband can enter the home for the specific purpose of moving the possessions listed on a property inventory. It says right here …”—Dobbins ran a finger under the passage for Carrie—“‘enter the marital home.’”

  “He doesn’t need to,” Carrie repeated. “The movers can get his stuff.”

  Dobbins stared at her for a moment, thinking. Having reached a conclusion, he said, “I’ll accompany your husband while in the home. I’ll make sure he only takes things on the property inventory.” He glanced at me and said, “You have a list, right?”

  I produced the list from my file.

  Dobbins said to Carrie, “Let’s keep this simple. Pretty much the only people allowed in the house will be the movers, your husband, and me. Those guys”—he waved toward Larry and Danny—“have to stay outside. Move your car away from the front doors. You can come in, but please don’t get in the way.”