An Ex To Grind

An Ex to Grind

Chapter One

Let me begin with a few words of caution for women in their thirties and younger: if you think sexual equality is a non-issue, a relic from your mother’s or grandmother’s bra-burning past, a subject that’s so yesterday, think again. The debate over it is back in a new and particularly insidious form, and I need to warn you about it. Please don’t groan and say, “Sexual equality? She must be an alarmist.” I know what I’m talking about.

You see, this isn’t about whether women can succeed in the workplace. That’s a given. It’s about whether our success has cost us; about whether the fact that we’re running companies and winning Senate seats and performing delicate brain surgeries has made us vulnerable to men who will glom onto us for our bucks, not our boobs.

I’ll be specific. I was a thirty-four-year-old woman in the once-male-dominated field of financial planning, pulling in a high six figures as a vice president at the Manhattan-based investment firm of Pierce, Shelley and Steinberg. I was well regarded and well compensated, because I was good at helping my already wealthy clients become more wealthy. The sexual equality thing never crossed my mind.

But then something snapped me out of my complacence. I began to notice that with women grabbing more and more of the big-ticket jobs, men were being relegated to the so-called pink- collar ones. Suddenly, women were the doctors, the lawyers, and the college presidents, and men were the nurses, the paralegals, and the librarians. We were undergoing a seismic shift in our culture, and I realized there had to be a consequence.

Well, there has been a consequence. Men, discouraged by our growing dominance, are starting to shrug their shoulders and drop out of the workforce altogether, leaving it to us to support them. Take a look around if you don’t believe me. Ask your friends. It’s happening, and it’s throwing off the balance, impacting both the way we hook up and the way we break up. This still isn’t hitting home for you? To be honest, it didn’t hit home for me until it hit my home.

In the early years of my thirteen-year marriage, my ex-husband was the breadwinner. Then his career ended abruptly, and I became the breadwinner. At first I wasn’t concerned about our change in roles. A study had just been released reporting that wives were outearning their spouses in over a third of households, so I knew I wasn’t the only woman bringing home the bacon. I accepted the fact that if you’re the partner who’s up, you should assume responsibility for the partner who’s down, no matter which gender you are.

But then my ex-husband’s bout with unemployment became chronic, which is to say that he didn’t lift a finger to find himself a new career. The marriage unraveled. We couldn’t handle the role changes after all. But as distressing as that was, the divorce was worse. Why? Because I got stuck assuming responsibility for the partner who was down, even though we were no longer partners!

I was forced not only to hand over a huge chunk of my assets to my ex but to pay him alimony too. “Maintenance” they call it in New York state. Whatever. We’re talking about me having to write checks to the guy every month for eight years. I was a good and generous person who gave to numerous charities and never cheated anybody out of anything. But this? Well, I balked, to put it mildly.

Maybe you’re thinking that if we’re the big achievers now, we should stop whining and just fork over the cash in the divorce. But here’s the thing: when it’s your turn, you won’t want to fork over the cash any more than men did when they were hogging the power seat.

Did I go to extremes in my effort to wriggle out of my legal obligation to my ex? Sure. Do I regret what I did to him? Deeply. But I was caught up in that nutty fantasy about men — that even as we’re out there conquering the world, they’re supposed to be the strong ones, capable of rescuing us, or, at the very least, providing for us.

It’s all so confusing, isn’t it? Well, maybe this little story of mine will help sort things out.

Or maybe it’ll simply confirm that equality, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholden.

“Sign here,” said my divorce attorney, Robin Baylor, a fortysomething black woman with impeccable credentials. Harvard for her undergraduate degree. Yale for law school. Louis Licari for the auburn highlights that were expertly woven through her short, spiky hair. The two of us were sitting in her elegantly appointed, wood-paneled conference room at a table the length of a city block. She had just passed me the gazillionth document pertaining to Melanie Banks (me) vs. Dan Swain (my ex). “It’s the last one,” she announced.

“Promise?” I said with pleading eyes as I glanced at the huge file she had on Dan and me. So much paper. Such a waste of trees.

“Trust me, yours wasn’t as complicated as some,” she said, and she wasn’t kidding. She’d handled my friend Karen’s divorce, which became a truly unsavory affair after it was revealed that Karen’s ex was not only an insider trader with the SEC breathing down his neck but also a bigamist with two families on opposite coasts. “You’ve waited out the year of legal separation, and now you’re just signing the conversion documents. Once these are filed, you’re divorced. Case closed.”

“Closed?” I said. “I wish. Thanks to this settlement, I’m tied to Dan for seven more years. Having to pay him while we were separated was no picnic, but having to write him checks for the next… Well, the whole thing makes me sick.”

“We had no choice. If we’d gone to trial, the judge could have awarded him more, given the disparity in your incomes and the duration of the marriage. I explained that to you.”

“I know.” I nodded dejectedly at Robin, who, despite having a conference room that reminded me of one of those men-only grill rooms at country clubs and practically cried out for cigars to be passed out and smoked, wasn’t a shark. She was compassionate as well as conscientious. She baked little sweets and brought them to the office for her clients, if you can believe that. How women with demanding careers found the time, not to mention the motivation, to actually turn on their ovens was a mystery to me, not being a multitasker myself. But at that very moment, there was a plate full of homemade cookies on the table — chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin — and over the course of our meeting, I scarfed down several of each. And I didn’t even like raisins. But “like” had nothing to do with it. I’d gained fifteen pounds since Dan and I split up, and while I wasn’t a tub of guts by anyone’s standards, I’d discovered that eating, along with plotting his death, had become enormously satisfying. “I’m not blaming you at all, Robin,” I added between bites. “It’s the situation I can’t stomach.” I avoided looking down at mine. I was sure that fourteen of those fifteen pounds had settled there.

“Whether it makes you sick or not, he’s entitled to the spousal support,” she said. “This is the new millennium, Melanie. Things have changed. It’s not a symbol of weakness anymore for men to take money from women if they need it to maintain their lifestyle.”

“If they need it. Those are the operative words. Dan could maintain his lifestyle by himself if he went out and got a decent job.”

“He had a decent job. He was a wide receiver for the Giants.”

“Yes, and now he’s gone from being a wide receiver to a wife receiver. I throw him money; he catches it.”

She laughed. “Come on. He didn’t blow out his knee on purpose.”

No, the injury wasn’t Dan’s fault. It had happened in a game against the Redskins in only his third season as a starting receiver, and it extinguished the shining light he’d become. Before the accident, he’d been a hero in New York, the fans chanting his nickname — “Traffic! Traffic!” — wherever he went. But then came cruel disappointment. He was in the act of making a spectacular catch when he was clobbered by two defensive backs. One climbed on his shoulders, the other wrapped himself around his legs, and the result was a horrifying tackle, sending the top half of his body one way, the bottom half another. I could hear the snap of the cartilage all the way up in the wives’ box. When you’re married to a professional athlete, you’re supposed to steel yourself every time he gets hurt, reassure yourself that your guy is doing what he loves and be grateful for all the money he’s making. But then came the diagnosis, the surgery, and the end to his promising career as well as the nullification of his lucrative contract. He was lost and stayed lost. “What is his fault is that he didn’t try to do anything after he blew out his knee,” I said.

“That’s not true,” she said. “He did try sports broadcasting.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

We both laughed then, knowing he sucked. On the two NFL broadcasts for which he’d been hired to provide color commentary, he stammered, forgot to smile, seemed confused by the directions coming at him from his headset, wasn’t clear which camera was on him. He was devastated by his performance, but he was even more devastated when the phone stopped ringing and similar gigs were not forthcoming. I did what I could to prop up his spirits and boost his self-confidence. I adored him and hated to see him so miserable. But he couldn’t get over that he had failed. “He should have taken lessons,” I said. “They have communication specialists who train people to be on television, but he was too macho to ask for help.”

“I wonder if he might have improved with a few more chances,” said Robin.

“They gave him another chance, remember? He went on the air after four scotches and referred to a female reporter as ‘sweetcakes.’ And that was before he threatened to moon his co-anchors.”

She winced at the memory. “He was so out of it that night. I actually felt sorry for him. Why didn’t he ever go into coaching?”

“A good question. I kept telling him, ‘You love the game. Coach a high school or college team. There are schools in the Tri-State area that would be thrilled to have you.’ And every single time, he shook me off and grumbled, ‘I’ll never be one of those losers.’ Instead, he became a loser. Now, except for the occasional ribbon cuttings and collectors’ shows, he parties while I work. How is it fair that I have to pay him?”

“As fair as when men pay their ex-wives who don’t work.”

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

She smiled. “I am on your side, but I have a lot of male clients, so I have to see things from their perspective too.”

“Lucky you.” I reached for another cookie. As I chewed the first mouthful, I decided to try to see the situation from Dan’s perspective, just to prove to myself that I could be as fair-minded as Robin. But I couldn’t do it, couldn’t get past the twin images of writing him a check and then watching my bank balance shrink, couldn’t take the sight of those disappearing zeroes. The mere thought of losing money gave me nightmares, and it had been that way since I was a kid. My mother died when I was two, leaving me with a father who was only marginally employed, was often in a drunken stupor on the couch covered in empty beer cans, and was constantly moving us from one crappy place to another — sometimes in the middle of the night — just so we could beat the eviction notices. I made a decision at a very young age that money meant security, stability, and happiness, and that my goal in life was to accumulate a lot of it. How could I surrender even a piece of that security to a man who seemed capable only of frittering it away?

“Mel, you okay?” asked Robin.

“Fine,” I said, not fine at all.

She patted my shoulder with her perfectly manicured fingers — the same fingers that baked cookies. I guessed she was one of those women who wore rubber gloves in the kitchen. “Before I send you out into the world,” she said, “I want you to stop resisting and start accepting.”

I laughed. “You sound like a therapist. Do you charge extra for that?”

“No, and you should take my free advice. Stop making Dan the enemy. He may not have a high-profile job anymore, but his celebrity made it easier for you to do yours. He put you through business school, introduced you to his jock buddies, got you your first big clients. He was the ideal husband in some respects, and the eight years of spousal support is the court’s acknowledgment of that.”

“Ideal husband?” I scoffed. “He was the one who trashed the marriage. Not only did he give up on himself, but he also got on my back about my long hours at the office and my — what did he call it? — corporate attitude. That’s the irony of all this. He wanted me to cut back at work and then didn’t think twice about helping himself to the spoils of that work. He lives like a prince now, thanks to me, and it’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.” I slumped down in the chair and played with the ends of my hair, which was light brown, shoulder length, and wavy. Winding it around my index finger had become my other nervous tic, besides eating.

“Let it go, Mel. Let him go. Move on with your life and find somebody else.”

“I don’t want somebody else after this fiasco,” I mumbled.

“Then pray that he finds somebody else,” she said.

“Why would I want him to be happy?” I said, twirling my hair with even more gusto.

She shook her head at me, as if I were missing her point. “Didn’t you read this agreement?”

“Oh, right. If he remarries, I get to stop writing him checks. Like that’ll happen.” I forced myself to leave my hair alone and placed my hands in my lap. “After the way things turned out he’s as down on the institution of marriage as I am.”

Robin shook her head again. “I’m talking about the cohabitation clause, stipulating that if Dan lives with another woman for a period of ninety days, the spousal support is terminated.”

I sat up straight. “Right, right,” I said, remembering now. “He doesn’t have to remarry. He just has to shack up with someone.”

“For ‘ninety substantially continuous days.’ That’s how it’s worded. Which means that he can take a break from her every once in a while, but once he reaches ninety days total, he invalidates the agreement.”

I blinked at her, feeling a glimmer of an emotion I couldn’t identify. Hope? Glee? Something. “How awesome would that be if he had a three-month fling and I didn’t have to pay him anymore.”

“You’d be off the hook, it’s true,” she said. “But if he’s so turned off to relationships, I wouldn’t count on him entering into one. And let’s face it: he may be unemployed, but he’s not stupid. He’s not going to risk losing that monthly maintenance unless he falls madly in love, and what are the chances of that?”

“Slim to none,” I conceded and felt the hope, glee, or whatever it was evaporate.

“Okay, then. Back to business. Sign this last document and we’re through here.”

I scribbled my signature in between all the Whereases and Heretofores, put down the pen, and exhaled noisily. “That’s it. I’m officially divorced.”

No sooner was that pronouncement out of my mouth than I was overcome by melancholy — sort of a heavy, invasive sadness. Sad because I had loved Dan once. Sad because our marriage was the only period of my life when I’d felt the stability I’d craved as a child. And sad because it was now final and irrevocable that I was forced to share custody of Buster, my sweet pug, the dog Dan had given me for our fifth anniversary. That’s right: Buster was supposed to be mine. But the minute we started negotiating the settlement, Dan claimed that my twelve-hour workdays made me unfit to be the dog’s sole guardian. After months of haggling — he said he should get Buster and I should be granted visitation and I said I should get Buster and he should be granted a visit to hell — we agreed on the shared custody bit. We alternated weeks. Every other Monday morning, I would hop in a cab with Buster and drop him off at Dan’s on my way to the office. And the next Monday morning, Dan would hop in a cab and drop Buster off at my place on his way to — well — wherever it was he went on Monday mornings. To the gym, probably, followed by lunch with the boys, followed by a game of poker, followed by a massage and/or nap, followed by a hot night on the town. All of it with my money, mind you.

On second thought, sad didn’t begin to describe my feelings that cold December day. Pained was more accurate. “Mel?” said Robin as she stood up and regarded me. “Are you crying?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I never cry.” I rose from my chair. As I did, a cascade of cookie crumbs fell from my skirt onto the carpet. “Sorry about the mess,” I said. “I’d offer to pay for a cleaning crew, but all my spare change goes to you-know-who now.”

She sighed, frustrated that she’d failed to bring me around. “You weren’t listening when I said it was time to let go and move on, were you?”

“Yes, yes, I was listening.” I forced a big smile. “And I’ll try to follow your advice, Robin. I will.”

Forced smile aside, I meant what I’d said. I really didn’t want to become one of those bitter divorcees who can’t go five minutes without bashing her ex — women who poison all their relationships with their vitriol, bore everyone to death with the same twisted stories, and end up miserable and alone, a pathetic victim. No, I would suck it up, act like the sort of gutsy dame I fantasized my mother would have been if she’d lived, and move on. That was the plan, anyway.

Robin and I said good-bye and gave each other a professional careerwoman hug — i.e., we held each other for a nanosecond, making sure not to smudge our lipstick.

As I walked out of the conference room, I felt her eyes on me, and I sensed that she hadn’t bought my declaration of goodwill; that she had deemed me yet another client who’d been freed from the bonds of matrimony only to become entangled in the bonds of acrimony. She had me pegged, all right. Yes, I left her office with the best intentions, but I’m sorry to report that the case of Melanie Banks vs. Dan Swain wasn’t closed, despite all the pieces of paper we’d signed. On the contrary, the acrimony — the madness — was just getting started.