Ask Amy

If you don't already have it, start some good psychological counselling right away. Ideally, the two of you also should get couples counselling as a divorcing couple. You and your spouse need to live apart starting right away. If you move out, you don't have to abandon your home entirely. Even a rare overnight--in your separate bedroom, alone--wouldn't be a big problem, but don't make a habit of it. How cooperative do you expect your spouse to be in this divorce?

"He's a fighter. He likes to win," Amy told her.

"Okay," Madelyn said. "We'll be prepared for the worst."

The bumpy night had begun. Then it got bumpier. At last, the flight crashed and burned.

* * * * * 11

To no one's surprise, Carl retained an experienced lawyer in Hartford and filed a slew of petitions, motions, challenges, pleas, writs, demands for documents.... Amy didn't understand all this legal witchcraft very well, and I understand it still less, so don't ask me to explain his tactics here. Attorney Sternglass assured Amy that most of these writs and whatnot were predictable and could be dealt with. About 40 percent of them in fact were legitimate and reasonable. The other 60 percent were the spouse "being an asshole." That was the legal term she used.

In time, Carl's goal became clear enough. Since preventing the divorce was impossible, he would salve his bruised ego by damaging Amy as much as he could--psychologically, financially, occupationally, even medically (stress being bad for your body).

I thought of my own divorce eight years earlier. Destroying me had not been one of Marcia's goals. She just wanted to end the marriage, preferably with as little pain and suffering as possible on both sides. Obviously, the girl just wasn't cut out to be a high-powered insurance executive. I toyed with the idea of sending her a thank-you note.

Amy maintained an office outside Boston, where her small staff worked. Sternglass' prediction had come to pass, and Carl had snarled up her finances and damaged her cash flow so badly that Amy had to lay off two of her staff. That at least freed up more space, and Amy began the long process of moving her part of the business from Woodstock back to Boston. "Ask Amy's" operations took a hit from the problems of moving and from the staff reduction.

The divorce proceedings themselves were taking a surprising amount of Amy's time. Her lawyer frequently requested new documents and new financial figures, and Carl's lawyer was constantly demanding them and others. In-person meetings with both teams of lawyers and Amy were necessary. Plus, because her office files and accounts were now split between Woodstock and Boston, Amy spent hours a week commuting back and forth. The newer files and records were stored electronically, accessible from anywhere, but the older ones were on paper, some of them in Boston, most of them still in a bank of file cabinets in Woodstock.

Carl wouldn't move out of their home, so Amy had to. She took a small suite in a "motor lodge" that offered monthly rates--another expense she could now barely afford. I could give her plenty of understanding, affection, and support--but now, on her lawyer's advice, we got together much less than before. We still were able to see each other a little and, once in a while, spend the night together at my house.

Carl changed the locks at their house. Amy had to get a court order requiring Carl to allow her unrestricted access to her office space and reasonable access to the rest of the house. Carl's attorney mailed keys to the house and the front gate to Amy's attorney.

* * * * * 12

Amy's column started showing signs of the strain she was under. Her advice was occasionally erratic... or hard to understand... or just very different from what the newspapers and her readers expected her to say.

"Dear Worried: If your wife has suddenly changed her phone password, unfriended you on social media, and set up a new bank account, you probably did something wrong. Ask yourself: Is your relationship with that new girl at work actually as innocent as you wish your wife believed? Do you really think that giving your wife roses will wipe away all your own high crimes and misdemeanors? Especially if the roses are from the supermarket. Women can tell when flowers are serious and when they aren't. As we used to say back in my old neighborhood, you can execute Sacco and Vanzetti, but you can't Con Edison!"

"Ask Amy" lost a few newspapers, and Amy got a few concerned emails and phone calls from her syndicate. Meanwhile, the stress of her divorce process kept increasing. The demands of Carl's lawyer were getting harder to meet; Amy's own legal bills were growing; her cash flow was getting even more precarious. The people in the suite next door at the motel liked their television loud. The new complaints about her column only increased the stress she was under.

Soon Amy's advice became not only odd but downright transgressive. Editors refused to print some of the questions-and-answers. Sometimes they just yanked the entire day's column. Web sites popped up with titles like, "The 'Ask Amy' Replies They Wouldn't Let You Read!"

"Dear All-Too-Tempted: OF COURSE you should have sex with your old high school boyfriend. That's what class reunions are for! If your husband loves you as much as he claims, he won't squawk about a little harmless nostalgia. If he does start pissing and moaning, just tell him you know more about that little business trip to San Francisco than he thinks."

That one lost her the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Manchester Union-Leader, the Lawrence Journal-World, and the Sunbury Daily Item.

* * * * * 13

Then Carl delivered what he doubtless considered "the decisive blow."

The Boston Globe and the Hartford Courant broke the story at about the same moment. AP wire service immediately picked it up and sent it nationwide. TV and cable immediately grabbed it. Newspaper headlines around the country included these:

"Family Advice Columnist in Sex Scandal--Caught in Connecticut 'Love Nest.'"

"One Set of Rules for Amy, Another Set for Everyone Else?"

"Trusted Columnist Accused of Betraying Husband, Readers."

Typically, the New York Daily News tried for something punchier: "Better Ask Someone Else."

One of the telephoto shots showed Amy and me, hand in hand, on one of our after-dinner strolls around my neighborhood. The other, time- and date-stamped, showed Amy leaving my house and heading to her car in my driveway at 8:05 AM. I'm standing in the doorway. The private investigator Carl had hired was good: I had not an inkling that anyone was even looking our way.

Neighbors--their identities withheld--told reporters of an attractive woman who occasionally called on me in the evening and was observed leaving the next morning. An unfamiliar car occasionally was parked overnight in my driveway. The vehicle was found to be registered in the name of Carl Vandenberg, of Woodstock, Connecticut. Carl was found to be the husband of Amy Vandenberg. Many of the news reports neglected to mention the divorce proceedings entirely; some incorrectly stated that Carl had recently filed for divorce after discovering his wife's sexual infidelity.

At least sixteen different editorial cartoonists depicted Amy as Hester Prynne, scarlet "A" blazing boldly on her chest.

FOX News emphasized that the state that hosted Amy's crime spree has a Democrat governor, high taxes, liberal abortion laws, pornography in every school library, too many job-killing labor unions, "wokeness" everywhere, and among the most oppressive anti-gun laws in the nation. No wonder so many of its most prominent women specialize in hypocrisy and adultery. No wonder the state university's football team hasn't won a game since anyone can remember.

The next morning, the features syndicate announced that it had dropped "Ask Amy," effective immediately. Amy had a handful of speaking engagements still on the books; otherwise, she was now pretty much unemployed--in addition to all her other woes.

I texted her and tried to call her several times, just wanting to touch base ... and let her know I'm available if she wants to talk with a friend. She did not reply. Later she told me she had turned off her phone. It was "ringing off the hook" with calls from reporters. The media also had found Amy's motel and were camping out in the parking lot in their vans. She suspected they were watching her house too. She might see if a friend near Boston could put her up for a night or two.

The media didn't ignore me, but they considered me a bit player in this Fallen Woman melodrama. The gist of most of the mentions was, "Who is this guy, and why did Amy take him to bed, of all people?" Of course, they neither knew nor cared about either answer.

Not everyone turned on her. Amy did receive a sympathy card with a kind personal note from former cartoonist Scott Adams and then one from Garrison Keillor. Her estranged sister in Evanston called for the first time since their mother's death.

At work, I got a few funny looks and an occasional wink and thumbs-up, but I didn't suffer any real damage. The Town of Vernon wasn't going to fire its town planner for a little off-duty fornication, or adultery, or whatever sin of the flesh I had committed. If that became precedent, they'd have to fire a third of the Town Council, a good chunk of the police force, and at least one employee of the Office of the Town Clerk. My sins were committed on my own time, at my own expense, at no cost to the town's taxpayers, with no dereliction of duty, and with a lady from another municipality entirely.

No, the town government didn't hurt me. Everyone else did, when they destroyed Amy.

* * * * * 14

The story broke on Wednesday. On Friday evening Amy called me to touch base. I did what little I could to comfort her. She told me she was staying with a friend in Marblehead and would call again when a good time came.

Monday afternoon Amy called me at work. She was attending to some business nearby, in Hartford. Could she come over for dinner, stay a few hours? She couldn't spend the night, unfortunately, but she wanted to see me. Could we do that?

I rescheduled a meeting, took another couple hours of vacation time, and left work early. On the way home I hit the supermarket for some lemon sole and salad greens for dinner.

Dinner was nearly ready when she arrived, about five. The fish just needed to be popped into the broiler. Before that, we sat in the living room and had a glass of wine. To me Amy would always be beautiful, but anyone else would perceive her as very tired, highly stressed, even haggard. Her very sharp mind appeared duller tonight. She would pause in mid-sentence, searching for a common word that eluded her... or maybe straining to recall exactly what she had been in the process of saying. Next to her on the sofa, I just hugged her and listened patiently. At last she felt hungry, so I broiled the fish, and we ate. She had another glass of wine with dinner, and that seemed to help.

As we ate, Amy explained her plans for the evening. The Women's Club of Topeka in fact had not cancelled her speaking engagement, and she was flying out on Thursday. Amy saw this event as a very welcome bit of normalcy and also support in the midst of her ongoing calamity.

Amy had three or four standard speeches, but the texts were rubrics. She needed to plug in some references to current events, and she especially needed to plug in some amusing questions she had received from the local region--in this case northeastern Kansas. Amy couldn't find much in her online records, so she would have to go through the file cabinets at Woodstock. She planned to work on the speech until late tonight and then sleep in her bedroom--unless Carl had already turned the room into something else. She had texted him that she was coming tonight.

"What can I do to help?" I asked.

"Take me upstairs and make love to me."

Upstairs, I removed and hung up her suit jacket then, as she stood, unbuttoned and removed her white blouse. Her breasts looked as lovely as ever in the silky bra. I caressed them through the thin fabric, enjoying the feel of her in my hands. Her nipples stiffened less than usual, though. Then I dispatched her bra. Before I could remove her skirt she made a request.

"Strip naked for me, Alan?"

No problem, and Amy seemed to enjoy the show. When I was done, she reached forwards and lightly grasped my still-limp penis.

"So small and soft," she said. "Such an unimportant looking part of a human body. Compared to the back, the legs.... People get so upset; people make such a fuss...." I didn't bristle at the "small" part. I understood what she was trying to say. Tears were in her eyes.

"Vaginas too," I offered.

"Yes. A small little pocket. Tucked away where almost no one can even see it.... People get so angry at you...." I held her tightly for a minute, until her breathing calmed and the tears stopped. Then she stood back a step, tried to smile, unclasped and unzipped her skirt, let it fall to the floor. Her pantyhose followed. Then, looking me in the eye, she slowly pulled down her silky panties and stepped out of them.

I gazed at her naked form. Her posture was less erect than usual; otherwise, her body was as lovely as ever. It was mainly her face that showed the strain she was under. It looked older, tired, battered. Her expression seemed a bit vacant. None of that affected the deep feelings I had for her, of course, or even my desire for her; it just increased my concern.

She climbed into bed, and I followed. We held and kissed for awhile as we caressed each other's body. Then I moved between her legs to lick her pussy.

She inhaled loudly through the mouth several times as my tongue zig-zagged about her labia, poked at her vagina, gently caressed her clitoris. That was a sign she was feeling pleasure--as was her rapid moistening. In time I focused more and more on her clitoris, and each hand kneaded a breast. She became wetter and wetter--her own contribution as much as mine. Several times she looked like she was about twenty seconds away from an orgasm--but each time the excitement subsided. About the time my neck began to ache, she called for Plan B.

"Come back up and let's fuck, Alan. I don't think I'm going to come tonight.... It's fine. An orgasm or two more, or less, doesn't matter. I just want to make love with you.... Come lie on your back, and I'll get you up and running again."

I did, and she did--rapidly flicking her tongue under the glans of my penis, then taking pretty much all of me into her mouth and sucking hard.

"Stop!" I had to say. "I'm close to coming already. God, you are good!"

"Aren't I, though?" she replied, smiling. Wonderful: her sense of humor was again beginning to show a little, at last.

She climbed onto my erect cock and rode me cowgirl for a few minutes. I focused on not coming, but those beautiful brown-tipped breasts jiggling away were not helping. Always the gentleman, I brought a finger to her clitoris, but after a minute she brushed it away. Then Amy made things worse for me--or even more wonderful, depending on your perspective. Keeping my cock inside her, she stretched out her warm, soft body on top of mine, held my head in both hands, and kissed me tenderly. Rocking my hips, I moved my cock back and forth inside her. Then she rammed her tongue into my mouth.

I blurted, "Amy, I'm going to..."

"Yes: come in me. Come in me."

The orgasm hit me suddenly and hard. It seemed to last a minute, though I'm sure it was only several seconds. I was glad I was lying down. I wrapped my arms around Amy and held her tight as I recovered my breath--and for a minute or two after that. I realized I was very close to loving her. Or perhaps I already did.

Amy broke our embrace and rolled off me. "That was wonderful, Amy," I said.

"For me too." She gave me a quick kiss and sat up. I gazed up into her face. The hints of relaxation and playful humor were gone. Once again she looked hard, stressed, battered.

"Amy, call it a day and spend the night here. That'll recharge your batteries a little. You can go to Woodstock and work tomorrow morning."

"I'd love to, Alan, but I can't. There's a ton of things I have to do before I head to Kansas. I've got to do some of it tonight. Besides, my lawyer wants us to tone down our affair until I get the decree. If I don't show up tonight, Carl will figure I'm with you, and who knows what mischief he'll make out of that." She got up and started dressing.

"I'm hardly a secret by now," I reminded her.

"Apparently law is part theater, Alan.... I'm paying good money for Madelyn's advice, so I might as well take some of it. I have to play a role.... I can't impress the court as a strumpet or a libertine, blatantly flaunting her sins and crimes. A decent woman who's made a mistake or two is okay.... I have to go now."

"You're very, very stressed," I said. "I don't even think driving tonight is that good an idea. Plus you've had a couple of drinks." I tugged up my trousers.

"I have to go, Alan. You are wonderful, and seeing you tonight was wonderful, and I wish I could stay, but I absolutely have to go... so it's settled. With luck we can see each other again before I fly off to Kansas. I'll call at least. Okay?"

I remembered the last time she had said "it's settled." Right after our reubens, at Reinhardt's. An hour later we were lovers.

"Okay, Amy. But I'm worried about you. Please be careful."

She gave me a smile and a quick kiss. I followed her downstairs and saw her to the door, watched as she backed out of the driveway and drove off into the night.

* * * * * 15

For reasons unknown, she didn't just go down to Route 44 and then head east. That would have been the easiest and safest way home. Instead, she took I-84 northeast to an odd exit basically in the middle of nowhere. Then she took a complicated series of back roads mostly eastwards through the woods. The roads were rural, narrow, twisty, hilly, mostly unlit, mostly unmarked, without reflective striping. A long-time resident of the area, Amy would know how to navigate. With a good map, I could probably do it in daylight. I wouldn't attempt it at night. She made it okay as far as Westford.

They found her car the next morning on the outskirts of Eastford, at a curve, fifty feet down a hillside, smashed against a couple of trees. The airbag had deployed, but it hadn't helped enough. The damage to car and trees indicated a fairly high rate of speed. They did not find recent skid marks up on Westford Road.

It could have been just a stupid accident by a person who shouldn't have been driving in the first place--maybe a moment of confusion or a lapse of concentration or a misreading of the road. It could have been suicide. It could have been somewhere in-between.

I don't know how thorough an autopsy the county did, but apparently they didn't find anything interesting. Blood alcohol must have been below the legal limit; no narcotics of course; no markers of a heart attack; no indications of foul play. If they found semen in her vagina they didn't mention it. The authorities ruled the death an accident.

The court mooted Amy's divorce action. Carl was no longer a soon-to-be-ex husband but now a widower. When probate court finished dotting every i and crossing every t, he would inherit all of his widow's estate--including rights to the name "Ask Amy." The Battle of Woodstock was over. Carl had won, decisively.

You can imagine my own feelings. "Devastated" comes close enough.

I didn't attend the viewing. The purpose of a viewing is to comfort the survivors. Though the media would have welcomed my presence, I doubted the survivors would have. And comforting Carl Vandenberg was near the bottom of my bucket list.