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.
‘You don’t understand, Goldstein. I know every wire in that house, every fiber of wood and brick and slate. I know its pipes. Its innards. It is as much a part of me as my right hand.’
‘Spare me please, Rose.’
‘You have no sensitivity to that, Goldstein. It’s not merely a possession.’ He shrugged. ‘People like you don’t understand.’
‘Don’t get anti-Semitic. It won’t solve anything.’
‘Well, then, what the hell will?’
‘The law. There is in the end always the law.’ Goldstein stood up to his full, squat, half-pint size and, marching over to a wall of books, patted them fondly.
‘“The law is an ass,”’ Oliver said, remembering Dickens’s famous character.
‘Not as big an ass as you think. There are still some arrows in our quiver.’ Oliver grabbed the shred of hope like a drowning man grabs a piece of floating flotsam.
Title 16-904, Section C,’ Goldstein said smugly, watching his face. ‘It allows a no-fault divorce even if a man and woman live under one roof. Separately, of course. No cohabitation. The waiting period is not affected.’
‘So I don’t have to leave?’
‘No. But…’ Goldstein held up his hand. ‘Who gets the house and its contents is still up to the court. The judge could decide it’s too contentious and order everything to be sold and the proceeds split. We could appeal. It could go on for years, considering the crowded dockets.’
Oliver felt a surge of hope.
‘And my willingness to stay there. Fight for it. That will show my fervor. Maybe… my very presence will force her out.’
‘Don’t get overly ambitious. There’s still the kids to think about.’
‘Maybe she’ll see the light. Hell, she’s getting the kids. She can easily buy another place with the money I’m prepared to give her.’ He stood up and clapped his hands, then reality intruded again. ‘How in hell can I live in the same house with her? It’ll be a nightmare. Who the hell thought up such a stupid idea?’
‘The schvartzes,’ Goldstein said, getting up and starting to pace about the office. ‘Many of them couldn’t afford to maintain two domiciles, so they made it easy on themselves and had a law passed.’
‘Maybe that’s why there are so many domestic murders among the blacks,’ Oliver said gloomily, his elation disintegrating.
‘God damn it, Goldstein,’ he thundered suddenly. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t possibly do it. While she’s there I can’t possibly live in that house. The way I feel now I’ll want to strangle her every time I see her.’
‘That,’ Goldstein said, pointing a chubby forefinger, like a threatening gun barrel, at his head, ‘is what loses cases.’ He paused and moved back to his desk. ‘Number one.’ He lifted a fat pinky. ‘Do you want to lose the house entirely?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Then I strongly suggest 16-904, Section C,’ Goldstein said emphatically. A sudden thought seemed to intrude. ‘You could also make sure she doesn’t sell anything… these collections.’
‘My Staffordshire.’
‘Or your wines. Then comes number two.’ Goldstein lifted the finger next to his pinky. It stood surprisingly straight, as if he had had much practice in exercising that particular joint. ‘You have to be willing to sacrifice. You mustn’t give her a single cause for legal action. She will undoubtedly try to dislodge you.’
‘Like how?’
‘By making you miserable.’
‘I can do the same.’
Goldstein held up a hand, like a traffic cop.
‘Don’t interfere with the household. Be like a little mouse. No girlfriends in the house. Nothing she can hang a case on.’