“This is Jodi,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot.
“Hey, it’s Brant.”
“Hi. What’s up?” Even though I know he’s probably calling to wish me a happy birthday. Thirty-five. Good Lord.
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Well, that sounds serious.
“Okay.”
“I was, well, um, I was wondering about what happens to our financial arrangement if I decide to have children.”
I let this sink in a little bit. Our financial arrangement. When Brant and I got married, he brought with him just over $115,000 in student loans. Since Jill and I both had educational trusts from our maternal grandparents’ estate, I had been able to cover all the costs of my education, including living expenses. And since the trust had been very well managed and was established with the possibility of covering not only undergrad, but all the way through medical school, law school, or a Ph.D. if we desired, I used less than half the money in the trust for school. After looking at our long-term financial plans before the wedding, we realized that we were going to be better off if we used the rest of the trust to pay off Brant’s debt. When we got divorced, Brant insisted on paying me alimony. I said it wasn’t necessary, even though at the time I was concerned about what sort of life I was going to be able to make as a freelance writer. But Brant brought up the student loans and said that if I had let that money keep growing during the seven years we were married, it would have nearly doubled by now and I would be more financially secure. So I let him do the math, and we came up with a monthly amount that would allow him to pay off that obligation within eight years. When we signed the divorce papers, it was listed as “maintenance,” the new word for alimony, and for the first year of my new singlehood, that cushion helped me get through the months when I didn’t earn much.
When Spinster Inc. was born and started to make some money, I thought about telling Brant to forget the rest, but Jill and the aunts talked me out of it. They said that the only reason I had taken on the obligation of paying off those loans was to secure my financial future with Brant. When that future ceased to include Brant, then the benefit was eliminated and needed to be recouped. So I continued to deposit his monthly check into an annuity to let it begin earning back what had been lost. We never talked about it. It came in the mail, I deposited it, it was never late, we didn’t bring it up. Until now.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say.
“Well, I was wondering what happens to the alimony if I decide that I want to have children,” Brant says. He and I have never thought of it as alimony. It has always been “the student loan money.” Apparently that has changed.
“With me?” Is he suggesting we have a baby?
He laughs. “Of course not with you. I know you don’t want kids.”
Oh, my God.
“Is Mallory pregnant?”
“No.”
“Are you guys trying?”
“No, of course not.” He sounds slightly defensive.
“Are you talking about getting engaged, waiting a year, getting married, then having a baby? The traditional sort of calendar?” I ask.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And how exactly does our arrangement play into that?” I don’t know where he’s going with this, but I don’t like the way it’s started.
“Well, to be honest, I can’t afford to have a baby and pay your alimony.”
I pull into my parking space at the office and shut off the engine. I’m officially livid. My alimony. The fucker. “Um, Brant, first of all, that isn’t true. And second of all, this isn’t alimony, it’s a repayment of an educational loan. And it has nothing to do with Mallory or what the two of you decide to do.”
“Actually, I think it does,” Brant says.
I’m trying to stay calm. I know that this has nothing to do with me, and is probably the result of Mallory whispering poison in Brant’s ear. But at the moment, this knowledge is doing nothing to mitigate my anger. “Brant,” I say calmly, “I don’t know what is prompting this conversation.”
“What is prompting this conversation is the fact that my monthly financial obligation to you is excessive and will prevent me from having children if I decide to do so.”
“Has Mallory found another job?” I ask.
He hesitates and then replies defensively, “No.”
“I see. Well let me make a recommendation. If you and Mallory are beginning to discuss having children, then I suggest that she get a job and participate financially in your life together so that you will be able to afford to have them. I don’t believe there are any precedents for an ex-wife paying her ex-husband child support for a hypothetical future kid he may decide to have with his new girlfriend.”
“Well,” Brant snaps, “it’s nice to know where your principles are!”
My principles! That shit. I cannot contain myself anymore. “Look, Brant, when you and I split up, we had several agreements between us. It was your idea to pay me back for the money I had laid out to pay off your student loans. You were the one that did the math, you are the one that came up with the monthly amount, you are the one that stood in front of the judge and said that it was important to you to include this in the settlement. And we both agreed at that hearing that neither one of us would seek to alter or change the arrangement in any way. We also agreed between you and me that we were going to work very hard to maintain a friendship between us, and I think so far we have done admirably well. We both also knew that eventually one or the other of us would find a meaningful new partner in our lives and that that would probably change the nature of that friendship. However, it is clear to me that Mallory is so insecure in her relationship with you that she cannot stand that you and I are in healthy communication with each other. Now, if she needs for me to be the shrewish, money-grubbing ex-wife, and to make you believe that, too, in order to feel comfortable and solid in her relationship with you, then I feel very badly for her indeed. And worse for you. But your relationship with Mallory is none of my business. However, your relationship with me is of direct concern, and I think that you are at a point where you should be very,
very
clear with me, and with yourself, whether this is a friendship you would like to continue. It doesn’t say anywhere in any rule book that you and I have to be friends. I personally believe that it would be a shame to lose fifteen years of friendship over the pathology of a woman you’ve only known for four months. But that is your choice. As to the issue of money, I find it personally offensive that someone who takes home a six-figure salary would even dream of claiming that he couldn’t afford to have children. We both know that there are single mothers making $30,000 a year supporting not one, but several children and themselves. So it is preposterous for you to even attempt to convince me of that, regardless of whether Mallory is working or not. But I would truly like for you to think long and hard about what is important to you, and if maintaining a friendship with me is important to you, then you are going to have to figure out how to deal with this particular issue.”
“Well, it’s interesting to know how you feel. I suppose I will have to think about it. In the meantime, I thought I would give you warning that the extra money I usually send is going to stop immediately, and the total monthly amount will revert to what was agreed upon in the divorce settlement.”
When we signed the divorce papers, the monthly amount was based on splitting the total into equal installments over the course of several years. At the time, both Brant and I agreed that neither one of us would be claiming the money on our taxes. When the apartment we had shared went condo and Brant decided to buy it, it suddenly became important for him to take the tax deduction available for the maintenance he was paying me. Because we hadn’t figured on him claiming it, we also hadn’t figured on it becoming taxable income for me. So Brant suggested that he would add an extra $300 per month to the total amount he was sending so that it wouldn’t become a tax burden for me. I had agreed to that arrangement, but we never signed anything to that effect. Apparently, he was now going to stop sending that extra $300 a month. Meaning that I was going to have to pay the taxes on the money he was repaying me. The action of a petulant child, pouting because he didn’t get what he wanted. Jill’s words are ringing in my ears. I have no responsibility to be friends with this man. It doesn’t make me a bad person if I cannot maintain a healthy relationship with my ex-husband.
“Brant, I have to go. If you feel that you can no longer send the tax money, that is your choice. However, the arrangement for the monthly amount stands. You have a good long think about the future of our friendship, and you feel free to tell Mallory from me that she can have you. I don’t know if you have made clear enough to her that I was the one who sought the divorce. And that I have no designs on attempting to get you back. I am not a threat to her. However, if she really needs for you to hate me in order to feel solid in her relationship with you, and if you need to go along with that so that things are comfy for you at home, then I will be happy to oblige. You call me and let me know what your decision is.”
“Fine, I’ll do that.” And he hangs up.
I click my cell phone off. I’m shaking, I’m so angry. I take a deep breath, grab my purse, get out of the car, and head in to tell Jill about the latest development.
Happy fucking birthday.
“Okay, here it is,” Kim says. “Anne Fisher is going to be running a piece next week.”
Shit. Double shit.
Anne Fisher is a local conservative journalist with a poison pen. Who sort of happened to be in my class at U of C, and whose boyfriend I sort of slept with before they broke up, and who sort of happened to be in a room a few years back where I was sort of referring to her as a talentless hack sort of within her earshot. My first really big PR snafu, and one that had been biting Spinster Inc. in the tush ever since. Proof that you should be careful who you piss off along the way; you never know when they will prove dangerous later. Anne uses us as some sort of negative example at least once a month in her column and makes no bones about the fact that she supports the Christian Right when they take us to task for our advice on relationships. This is sure to be a ferocious lashing out at us.
Mike Thomas got his article printed last week as promised in the Sunday
Sun-Times
Controversy section, a very balanced and brilliantly written feature about the company and Jill’s engagement, and he included all kinds of great quotes from our work that talk about how to keep a committed relationship alive, as well as quotes from supporters. He downplayed our “single” stuff and really highlighted our work as empowering women to live their best possible lives, and to determine for themselves what those lives should look like. We love him very, very much.
But we knew that once his piece ran and the press release hit, we were going to get slammed. Conservative radio has been lashing us all week, there has been a small but loud group of protesters outside the offices every day, and Wal-Mart has just informed us that they are considering severing their relationship with us and will potentially be returning all Spinster items to the warehouse. Nationwide. The accountants are guestimating that Spinster will conservatively post a 14 to 18 percent drop in merchandise sales this quarter, and that is before the hit we’ll take if we lose Wal-Mart. And while some people have been equally loud in their support of us and our message, it is sinking in that this whole wedding fallout isn’t minor.
Jill clenches her jaw. “What else?”
Paige looks at me and then back at Jill. “Krista is having some trouble getting the network guys to return her calls.”
“So what does she think that means?” I ask.
Paige’s acrobatic eyebrows are stiller than I have ever seen them. “I think she believes that they are not going to talk to you until they see how the wind is blowing. She says we should sit tight, keep on with damage control, and wait it out.”
“Okay. Thanks for the update. Keep us posted,” I say. Paige and Kim nod and head out of our office.
“This is such ridiculous
bullshit
!” Jill slams a hand on the table. “First, we’re antimarriage. Now, when I’m getting married, which they should see as some sort of victory, they are saying we’re frauds! I fucking hate these people.”
“Deep breath, Sis. We’ll weather this storm. They have to wake up every day and be them. How icky is that?”
“And I’ve ruined your birthday.”
“First off, Brant ruined my birthday. And second, this isn’t about you; you haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I still feel shitty.”
And I hate that a tiny, bitter part of me likes that she feels shitty. But this is a very bad time to do the I-told-you-so dance.
“Don’t feel shitty. We’re doing everything we can. Let’s get out of here before the traffic gets insane, okay?”
“Okay.”
Jill and I finish up our last couple of workday tasks and then head for home.
“Make a wish!” Aunt Shirley says as I lean over my birthday cake, the same cake I have had since I was old enough to eat cake: Aunt Shirley’s famous banana cake with chocolate frosting.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I wish for continued health for the aunts. I wish for continued happiness for Hunter and Jill. I wish for Mallory and Brant to go away and leave me be. I wish for the current press crap to resolve itself without irreparably damaging the business. I wish for these last seventeen pounds to miraculously disappear. But when I get ready to blow out the candles, the only wish that really surfaces is for Connor to call. Both Abbot and Ben have made their best efforts to make me feel like a princess today. From Abbot, I got a delivery of flowers so enormous it is practically obliterating my dining room table, with a card promising a real present when I see him Sunday night. And Ben made a mini website devoted to all the interesting things that ever happened on my birthday throughout history. But my wild Irish lad has not been in communication yet today, despite reconfirming our date for tomorrow two days ago and asking what my plans were for my big day. Maybe by the time I get back upstairs there will be a message.