Chapter 1

On my 17th wedding anniversary, my divorce became final. My ex had spent the preceding year convincing me that this was, indeed, a very good thing for me. She had not convinced me that our two youngest children, still at home and in school, would find their lives similarly enhanced. That pissed me off. On the other hand, when she filed, she cited "Irreconcilable Differences". I suppose that it was accurate, though likely not in the manner she or her attorney had intended: she thought it was OK for her to have a boyfriend, and I did not. That was an irreconcilable difference for ya, right there.

Of course, for the year preceding the collapse of my marriage, I had been in what might charitably be described as a nookie deep-freeze. The Ex had given me no small amount of stool over my taking the problem in hand, so to speak, but did not take me up on my offer for her to play her trump card, and provide a more attractive alternative.

So, now that I'm providing her with a roof over her head, again, how did that happen? Ah, my friend, that is quite a tale!

Throughout our marriage, as I look back, she had played games with me, toying with my desire for her. She would promise big things, weekend after next, when the children would be at scout camp or some such thing, and repeatedly stoke the fires with alluring intimations of Good Times To Come. I would get all revved up, contemplating enjoying my (then) wife's sexy body and sexual expertise. Then would come The Weekend. And nothing would happen. NOTHING. I would hint, I would make overtures toward sexual fun times, I would flat out ask, and would either get no reply, or get told "Not now, I have a headache/my period/work/gotta finish that cold fusion reactor/logus of the bogus/a Mideast Peace conference to organize (do you, also, see a trend developing?)

Now after playing that card with me for nearly 20 years, why would she not continue this game with The New Model she had traded me in for? Of course, she continued this manipulative mess, and, The New Guy not being as patient nor as thoughtful as I continued to be, he cold cocked her. She continued the game (being slow on the uptake), and (surprise!) he popped her one, again. The good news with all this, was that the boys were with me on my week of custody when Mr. Personality performed these little laying-on-of-hands ceremonies. The good news was that she got the thumping she sorely needed. The good news was that he tossed her out. The bad news is that for some reason, she thought I would both care, and intervene to save her from the consequences of her cascade of stupid decisions, such as the decision to leave me for Young Einstein, who was nowhere near as patient as me.

I received a tearful telephone call late one night. Now I work midnights when I don't have the boys, so 0200 on a day off is no big deal to me. What was a big deal was both who was calling, and the topic of conversation.

"Bob? It's Annie. I need your help." This was a novelty. She typically spoke in monosyllables, unless she was telling me what an asshole I was.

"Really? Since the boys are here with me, what is it that I care about?" I replied.

"Lance hit me, two times, over the past week. Tonight I came home and he had piled all my stuff on the front lawn. I tried to talk to him about it, but he had changed the locks, and wouldn't come to the door. Somebody finally called the police, and they told me I had to leave and stop making a scene. I don't know where to go, or where to stay. You have to help me!"

"I have to help you? How does that work? Near as I can figure, my obligations to you ended on our seventeenth anniversary, courtesy of Judge O'Hara. I do have to confess that I'm surprised that Lance took as long to pop you as he did."

Annie responded, "You can gloat all you want, later. You have to help me right now with a place to stay tonight, and a place for all my things."

"Actually, Annie, I don't. Just like I didn't get a boyfriend, spend weekends with him while my children were home alone while their father worked 12 hour shifts 6 and 7 days a week. Just like I didn't leave my children with no food in the house while I was off with my boyfriend, just like I didn't sue you for divorce, just like that, I don't have to have anything to do with you, that doesn't have to do with the kids. You made this bed, sleep in it!"

"But, Bobbie, what am I going to do? I have nowhere to stay!"

"Annie, maybe you should call one of those girlfriends of yours, who covered for you when you were screwing Lance and your children where home wondering what they were going to eat. Or not. Either way, it is not my problem. Good night." I terminated the call then, and turned off the phone. I slept really well that night.

When I turned my phone on again in the morning, there were multiple voicemail messages from Annie, all begging for me to save her. Well, I figured, she had been able to count on me pulling her fat out of the fire for nearly 20 years, why would I change now? (Hmmm. Perhaps something about a divorce... ?) I deleted the messages, and began my day.

From time to time, the pace of my chores would slow down. During these lulls, my mind wandered. There was no question that she had hurt me, hurt me badly. Worse, and in my mind unforgivable, was the entire leave-and-party-without-providing-for-my-children issue. How, exactly, might one make up for this sort of offense? From all appearances, the boys were blissfully ignorant, caught up in their teen-aged self absorbed worlds. At their ages, that was reasonable. Paying her debt to them would necessarily destroy their insulation (so far as they yet had any) from the wreck of their parents' marriage. That left the possibility of her paying the debt, to me. What I couldn't resolve, was how to collect that debt, with collateral benefit to my children.

Now, for all of her flaws, Annie was and (so far as I can see) otherwise remains a good mother, and my sons love her. Any "debt collection" would have to be at some considerable cost to Annie, yet not remove her from her (my) children's lives. Were I to put her up in one of my rental properties, that would address her status as an Urban Outdoorsman, and support her continuing to mother our children. On the other hand, she had proven herself as deceitful, manipulative, untruthful, and generally untrustworthy. ( ... and those were her good points!) (OK, there were some affirmative good points, but not enough for me to consider taking her back, on a bet.)

Some days later, I was passing an enjoyable Saturday cleaning out my garage. As I trotted to the shredder with yet another armload of pointless mess I had saved for reasons unknown at this distance in time, I noticed a folder from my days as a landlord in Detroit. I had my share of, let us say, challenging tenants, and one's file caught my eye. This calender impaired soul had finally been offered the choice to move out, be evicted, or pay (anew) a security deposit. If he chose the new lease, in addition to the security deposit, he would have to pay a non-refundable cleaning fee, a key deposit, and first and last months' rents in advance. The deadline was the filing of the bailiff's "carry your shit to the curb" order. In total, he had to come up with $1700 in cash.

I began to jot some notes. Annie had cost me a bunch of money for my attorney, for the summer she had told me she was making our house payments (but had not. THAT was a story, right there, for another day), for the shredding of my retirement savings, and suchlike. In addition, before I would consider entangling myself with her financial idiocy (see the house payment story, referenced above), I would insist upon a cushion, as equal as I could estimate it, to the costs she would cause me the next time she fucked me. The money part was fairly straightforward, and, including my cushion, would run around $150,000.