The Widow

Chapter 10

Monday morning, Simon stumbled out of The Closet, in his gym shorts and a T-shirt, went downstairs, and sat at his desk. It was not yet seven, so he had a full hour before Matilda arrived and started planning his week. He needed more than an hour. He needed to be in a tiki bar on a beach somewhere, sipping a tall iced drink and watching the waves roll in while his mind went numb with meaningless thoughts.

Aside from having fun with his kids, the weekend had been a tough one. He was still trying to adjust to the fact that his wife was now on the prowl, and he was making progress on that front. The real trouble was the tournament. He was getting wiped out. In the family pool, Janie, sticking with her mascot selections, had won ten games and lost only two. Paula, still picking the best-dressed coaches, was nine and three. Buck and Danny were even. Simon, the serious gambler and true expert, had won four games and lost eight. Last place.

But the five dollars he’d lost at home was nothing compared to the shellacking over at Chub’s, where he was down $7,000, a personal record. He was certain he would get it back with the Final Four, but his confidence was wavering.

He sipped strong coffee and checked in with several online gambling gurus who blathered on with piercing analyses while covering their butts — one picked Duke, another picked Kentucky, another Wisconsin. What was a desperate gambler to do? He looked at his daily calendar and saw nothing but the same slog. In fact, for the entire week he could not see potential fees of more than $2,000.

The Final Four. Only three games left in the tournament, the season. At one point, way back in early January, he was up $4,500. He bounced around during conference play and finished the regular season up $3,000. When he was winning he wanted to play more, and when he was losing he wanted to play even more to catch up. But, as always, he kept his focus and knew his limits. At least he kept telling himself that.

The Final Four. Wisconsin, Duke, Michigan State, and Kentucky. None of which he’d chosen two weeks earlier during bracket mania when every single fan was so much smarter. He stopped fretting and stepped back into The Closet where he managed another shower in a cheap glass tube a client had installed for $500. The water was almost warm and barely dripped from a head that was gathering some ominous form of mold. He banged his elbows on the rickety glass panels and was finished in under a minute. He dressed quickly in khakis, a white shirt and a tie, and went downstairs to the office kitchen for more coffee. The Closet was not equipped with a real kitchen.

In the fridge he noticed a new collection of cartons of diet drinks lined up in a neat row on Tillie’s side. Seltzers flavored with asparagus and other green vegetables. Weight loss practically guaranteed. Simon smiled and shook his head and almost felt sorry for the poor girl as she battled the bulge.

Promptly at 8 A.M., she was not there. Simon listened for the front door to open and the other familiar sounds of his secretary arriving for work. She was rarely late. At 8:15, he thought about calling her, certain that there was a problem. But he waited, and at 8:30, he heard her noises. She always tapped on his door and said “Good morning, Simon.” When she did, at 8:30, he was buried in a document, as if too busy to be concerned with her tardiness.

She walked in and said, “Hey, I know it’s eight-thirty, but I have a new schedule. I’ll come in at this time from now on and leave at five-thirty.”

To make such a decision without asking him was irritating, but he acted nonchalant, as if he didn’t care when she came and went. Same with his wife. He was plotting to get rid of both of them. “And the reason is?”

“I’ve joined a new gym and my class runs from six-thirty to seven-thirty. I need time to run home and shower and such.”

In her desperate search for a toned and pliant body, she had changed gyms several times, with no success. “Okay, we’ll give it a try,” he said without agreeing or disagreeing. For a second she wanted to assert herself and establish her own boundaries, but it was Monday morning, not the best time for a quarrel. She bit her tongue and managed a fake smile, then turned and left his office. As she was leaving, Simon, out of habit, checked her out. Was the asparagus juice working? The new gym? Was it his imagination, or was Tillie actually shedding a few pounds? Or was it that, since he now had the green light from home, he would quite naturally look at women with a different eye.

One thing was certain: On the top-ten list of ways to thoroughly screw up your life, having sex with an employee was somewhere in the first three slots. The laws on sexual harassment were brutal.

Where was gambling on the list?

His thoughts returned to the Final Four, but the phone was ringing now. Wounded and angry people out there needed lawyers.

Ten minutes later, Tillie stuck her head through the crack of his door and said, “Simon, got a minute?”

“Sure.” He wasn’t working yet, still pondering free online tips from Vegas oddsmakers.

She took a step in and said, “I still have an open file on Eleanor Barnett. She hasn’t called in some time. You want to close it?”

Simon thought for a moment as if he really had to make a decision. “Give it a week or so. I doubt she’ll be back.”

Tillie nodded and disappeared. She returned to her desk and typed notes on her iPad, for personal use only. She had just caught her boss in a lie, one that was probably of some significance, though she didn’t know for sure. A friend who worked in a realtor’s office had seen Simon in the deli last Friday when Matilda took the day off. He was having lunch with Tony and Mary Beth Larson and an older lady. She called Mary Beth to chat about an insurance matter for one of their clients. They talked all the time and enjoyed the local gossip. Out of the blue, Matilda asked if Mary Beth and Tony had witnessed the execution of a will last Friday. Mary Beth hesitated, just long enough to arouse suspicion, and said yes, they had. For a Ms. Eleanor Barnett, a lovely lady.

Matilda took it in stride as if she was on top of things and ended the call. If Eleanor Barnett signed a will, who typed it? In her twelve years with Simon they had prepared and executed hundreds of wills, and, to her recollection, he had never typed a single one. Nor had he presided over the signing without involving Matilda.

Simon could be a complicated soul and had his flaws, but he was not a liar. When telling stories and spinning yarns he could embellish with the best of them, but on serious matters he would never lie.

Until now.

During the lunch with Tony and Mary Beth Larson, Simon could not help but notice that Netty was easily impressed with a grilled chicken Caesar that did not appear to be fresh. He suspected her diet was the typical bland fare of an old widow who seldom cooked and ate from a can.

Simon invited her to another lunch. She accepted with great enthusiasm, which was not surprising. He suggested Chinese, then Afghan kabobs, then falafel. She had never heard of the last two and was suspicious of the first. With great patience, he explained that he enjoyed foods from everywhere and wanted her to have the same experience. If they tried something they didn’t like, no big deal. They would simply go somewhere else next time. Game on. She couldn’t wait to get out of the house. He offered to pick her up at home, primarily because he was curious to see where and how she lived. If her Lincoln was fifteen years old, how about her furniture and rugs? He assumed she had simple tastes, but was it all an act to fake out family and friends and keep prying eyes away from her fortune? Simon spent far too much time pondering these things.

Netty stiff-armed him by insisting that they meet at the restaurant. She was proud that she was still able to drive while most of her friends had had their keys confiscated. Who were these friends? He had so much to learn.

They met at a Greek restaurant Simon had visited before and liked. It was on the edge of town, on the main highway headed toward Washington, far enough from Main Street. He desperately wanted to avoid any chance of bumping into Wally Thackerman at lunch, something that happened maybe once a year. The odds were slim, but weird things happen and he could not imagine the aftershocks of such an encounter. There would be suspicions, then accusations, then fights and so on. Wally would automatically assume Simon was poaching a client, and a wealthy one at that.

They ordered lamb stew with kabobs, rather heavy dishes, with pita bread and water to drink. She wanted to know about his family. She didn’t have much of her own and was curious about his. Simon tried to shift the conversation back to her side of the table. He certainly didn’t want to brag on his children, nor would he dare discuss the broken marriage. He painted a pleasant portrait of things at home and figured he could be more truthful later. He asked about her stepsons, Clyde and Jerry Korsak, and realized immediately that was out of bounds. Her niece and nephew remained a mystery. It had been at least forty years since the entire family had been together for a summer weekend in the Catskills, a disastrous gathering that ended badly and sent everyone scurrying in different directions, evidently for good.

She had been married to Vince Barnett back then. Vince had clearly been her favorite husband, her first love. They had married young, tried desperately to have a family, traveled a lot because they were childless, and she was devastated when he died suddenly at the age of forty.

After about forty-five minutes, the lunch grew tiresome. Netty seemed to have few interests and seldom left the house. She spent hours watching daytime television as she pieced together jigsaw puzzles. They said goodbye in the parking lot and Simon watched her weave away, one foot on the brake, straddling lanes, oblivious to the angry horns behind her.

As he drove back to the office, he was stuck with the nagging thought that she might live another ten years. Then he was angry with himself for once again dwelling on her demise. It was imperative that he stop thinking about her last will and testament and focus on simply being her friend.