The Improbable Tenant

The day had begun badly, and then rapidly worsened. She had slept poorly, and woke late; no surprise, she hadn't slept well in weeks. Now she had a mountain of mindless chores ahead, beginning with the lawn. Machines intimidated her; she wished she had kept up the lawn service.

Of course the mower had not started; it would rarely start for her. After five minutes of fruitless yanking she was in a sweat, and mad enough to spit. At that point her neighbor, her leering, dirty-minded neighbor, had appeared and offered his help. Things that don't get used enough get rusty, he observed. Things need a little lubrication and thorough, regular workouts and all would be well; he was always available. His comments were accompanied by a searching look that made her feel he was peering into her bedroom window. She could manage on her own, she told him, his help not needed, and the look she gave him told him he had gone too far. The bastard, she thought, why do they think every divorced woman is aching to jump into bed with them? He had never been even slightly suggestive while she was married.

The neighbor failed with the recalcitrant piece of junk as well, finally leaving it, cover askew, with a vague promise to try again later. Cathy was almost glad he had not been successful. After finishing some inside chores she showered, late for other errands.

She walked into her bedroom from the shower, only a towel wrapped around her, to be startled by the sight of her ex-husband standing in her doorway.

"Trent! What do you think you're doing? Get out of here!"

"Relax, will you? I told you I was coming for the pictures."

"They're on the kitchen table where I told you they would be. You walked right past them. Take them and go."

"All right, all right. I knocked first. The lady of leisure is sleeping in, I see. You know, you really should take better care of yourself. You're starting to let yourself go."

I'm not, she thought. I've never been out of shape, and I've lost weight since I got rid of you. He's just trying to get under my skin, wants to let me know he doesn't find me attractive any longer; is over me. But he had gotten to her. If he had never known, or cared, how to make her happy he still knew how to twist the knife.

She stood there while he left, feeling abused and helpless, waited until she heard the downstairs door close behind him, and wondered how her life could have become as empty as this.

She had just graduated with a degree in nursing, full of life and in love with her work when she met Trent Whitworth Richardson. An attorney, son of a partner and grandson of a founding partner of the most successful firm in the city, Trent exuded old money, prep schools and country club manners. In a matter of weeks he had entranced her with glimpses into a life she had never experienced. Why he courted her she could not imagine, but her friends and family encouraged her enthusiastically and their excitement, and his, carried her away. With no good reasons to say no, she said yes.

Later, after they were married and while she still felt kindly towards him, she decided that he chose someone of whom his family could not approve as a means of asserting himself against the life they had chosen for him and the career he could not escape. For Trent proved to be less than he appeared; while a very few men become somehow larger than life, many others are correspondingly smaller, as if nature sought balance. Cathy's husband was one of those who seek to elevate themselves by diminishing others, and he began at home. He disparaged her job; corrected and criticized her in public; disagreed with any opinion she might offer; made decisions large and small without consulting her; and handled all their financial affairs, including her own salary.

At first she acquiesced; over time, she lost the desire to resist and allowed him to take her for granted. He was far too well-mannered to fight; if she bristled, he ignored her. When her emotions drove her to assert herself, he patronized her with well-reasoned logic. He gulled her, and others, not with the skills of a con man – he had none of those – but with trained, legalese argument and a dismissive, to-the-manor-born air. He avoided conflict like a plague.

When they tried to have a child, and failed, he reasoned that she had been on the pill too long, or that she was border-line frigid. She suggested they both be tested, but the issue was closed. She began to feel lonely in his presence; there was nothing going on in their relationship.

Eventually, she began to see trouble: silence; casual avoidance; unexplained absences; out-of-town business trips without notice; strange looks from their friends, who were entirely his friends; all the usual signs. When she finally found the unavoidable proof of his infidelity she had had enough of shame, asked him to leave and filed for divorce.

But if she felt she had been trapped in his world before then, the divorce proceedings were worse by far. It had been easy even to find an attorney to represent her, once they recognized the defendant. There was further indignity; she had assumed they were fairly well off, but the proposed settlement, already approved by her lawyer, would leave her with the furniture, a used car, half the interest in their mortgaged home (which would have to be quickly sold) and a meager balance in her checking account. Not very much, she reflected, in exchange for six years of her life. She had never imagined she could feel so powerless and without hope.

And then the letter arrived. The writer, who pleaded for anonymity but clearly had to be someone from the firm with a conscience or a grudge, informed her that a serious injustice was taking place. It seemed there were assets, many assets, which had inexplicably been omitted from the defendant's sworn property list. There were interests in a strip mall, a small apartment building, land in another state, all belonging to corporations which had no names, only initials, but which could be carefully traced by the knowing researcher through a labyrinthine trail of general partnerships and holding companies to Chief Corporate Officer Trent Whitworth Richardson. There were bank accounts, stocks and bonds, even a yacht which lay quietly in its slip, never venturing out into the bay and serving only as a fornicatorium for the Chief Corporate Officer and his little punch. The writer suggested, moreover, that some of these assets may even have been overlooked in tax filings; that their very existence, if revealed, might excite the most intense curiosity of the revenue authorities. The writer conveniently listed volume and page number of land records, addresses, account numbers, even the name of the offending yacht. Cathy fairly danced to her lawyer with the information, but in what she considered at the time an excess of caution, took with her only handwritten notes from the letter.

Her attorney digested the information and smiled as he smelled blood in the water, that most delicious odor for any lawyer, and promised her great things. But after she left he had time to reflect that while Cathy was at most a temporary interest, his own career was a priority of higher standing. A scandal in the most prestigious law firm in the city would be remembered, would spatter mud in all directions, even upon opposing counsel. He therefore resolved upon a course of action difficult for a layman to understand, but which would surely meet the silent approval of his colleagues at the bar.

That is to say, he sold out his client in a New York minute. The Chief Corporate Officer was permitted to file an amended list of assets before the court, which caused no more than a raised eyebrow and knowing smile from His Honor, and amended tax returns as well (although Cathy never saw them, and who may have signed them on her behalf remains a mystery), the entire collegial process earning for Cathy's lawyer the unspoken good will of the firm and a favor to be named at a later date.

Even so, Cathy was delighted by the new terms. A modest alimony was proposed, and then doubled. A stock portfolio materialized, and a large cash settlement, all in exchange for her perpetual vow of silence. There had been a small snag; her lawyer, now deeply in the pocket of the firm, suggested too casually that he would like to see the letter; perhaps something had been missed. Cathy recalled the writer's warning and felt shock, dismay, then anger. She informed her lawyer bluntly that the letter would not be forthcoming, and that its request would cost her husband another ten thousand dollars; that if the deal was not done by close of business she would go to the IRS and the bar association as well. The attorney was flustered, appalled; he had been assured she was a soft touch. The new deal was done, and Cathy felt, for the first time in her married life, that she had been able to successfully stand up for herself. She would not have to sell the house she loved, at least not right away. With close attention to economy she could maintain the mortgage, leave in a year or so on her own terms.

It was with this economy in mind that she resolved to let out the maid's apartment over the detached, three-car garage, which they had never used. But not to an ordinary tenant; it was too small for that, but perhaps to a student from the university, who would in any case be more acceptable to the neighbors.

It was immediately after Trent left, hardly time to finish dressing, that she heard the doorbell. Assuming it would still be Trent, she jerked open the door in foul mood to find a young man on the steps. Surprised, she had an impression of broad shoulders, a boyish face with piercing blue eyes that seemed somehow tired, older; and a remarkably disarming smile.

"Mrs. Richardson? I'm Paul Hegarty. From the university. I called Thursday about the apartment."

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry, I've had so much going on. I completely forgot you were coming this morning."

The look on her face had given him pause. "If this is a bad time, I could come back later."

"No, no. The apartment of over the garage, I think I mentioned that. Why don't you go around to the back of the house while I get the key?"

"I'll meet you there."

As she walked through the house she considered her brief first impression. He did not look like an ax murderer or terrorist, but could one ever be sure? She supposed he seemed OK, but perhaps older that a normal college student. She met him in the driveway and was certain. The student seemed to read her mind, and offered the explanation that he was in a graduate program. Satisfied, she led the way to the apartment.

"You have to go into the garage for the stairs. I have only one car, so there would be room for yours if you decide to stay. It isn't much, two rooms and a bath, but there's a small kitchenette in the living room with a refrigerator, sink and hot plate."

"I don't need much space. And a garage would be great."

Cathy would have killed for a place like this when she was an undergraduate. Like the house, the garage was brick, Tudor style, with slate roof and dormers. The apartment was small, room in the bedroom only for a single bed with mattress of uncertain age, desk and dresser; in the living room a couch, chair and small table, but it was private. The student was delighted.

"This works for me. I'll take it, if it's available."

"I must tell you that there is no cable or telephone. Also, I have to insist that you have no loud parties and keep the volume down on whatever you play. I have to think of the neighbors."

"You'll never hear me, Mrs. Richardson. I have a cell phone, no TV. Laptop's on WIFI. I'm here to study."

"The name is Cathy. What is your field, by the way?"

"I'm in computer engineering. I'd like to go into robotics, that sort of thing."

"It sounds very interesting. All right, I guess we have a deal for the semester. If it works out for both of us we can talk about whether you will stay longer."

More details were exchanged, and it was agreed the student would move in that day. As he wrote a check, Paul asked "Was that your husband I passed on the way in?"

"Not any longer. We're divorced. I live alone. Part of the reason I wanted to rent the apartment was to have someone else on the property."

That explains the look, the student thought to himself. There's a lot of bitterness and pain there. Doesn't look like she has smiled for a long time.

Cathy left for several hours of errands. When she returned, she immediately noticed that the lawn had been cut and the mower put away. She called up the stairs for the student, thinking that he really shouldn't have done this; I don't want to be indebted to him.

"Paul, did you mow the lawn? How did you get the mower started? It wouldn't run this morning."

"It seemed like someone was having a problem with it, so I had a look. Just bad gas and some fouling. It's good to go now."

"Well, I really appreciate this, but I insist on paying you for your work."

"If you insist, then. My normal fee is a cup of coffee."

She smiled. "All right, it's another deal. Here on the back porch around seven?"

Nice smile, he thought, but it took an effort. "See you then."

Their subsequent, get-acquainted conversation lasted far longer than Cathy had anticipated, in fact until darkness called a halt. She learned that he was from the Midwest, parents and two siblings still in place, had worked through university with the help of a partial athletic scholarship, and little else. He, on the other hand, had been very interested in her; in her job, her interests. Public service so satisfying, didn't she think? Which had been her most interesting cases, and why? What did she like least about nursing? Before long he had her talking more deeply about herself than she had with anyone in months. Only later, as she reflected about how interesting a young man he was did she realize that she, who had always listened quietly to Trent, had monopolized their conversation.

Over the next few weeks the evening coffee settled into a two- or three-a-week ritual, always on the porch, never crossing an unspoken boundary. She found herself looking forward to these talks with the student, who was interested in, and informed upon, a wide range of subjects; who never judged, never made assumptions, never offered solutions; who simply listened, and drew her out.

And he was helpful in other ways. There had been the morning her car would not start; while she was calling AAA she saw the student under the hood. "I'll just have a look at it, if you don't mind", he had said, and in a few minutes it was running happily. "Just a bad battery connection. You're good to go now."

"Paul, you're a very nice guy."

He winced, and showed her a teasing smile. "Cathy, please, don't ever refer to a man as a 'nice guy'".

"And why not?"

"Because nice guys always finish last and they never, ever, get the girl."

On another occasion he discovered the call buzzer in the apartment, which had never worked, but after he had a look in her basement it lived again, was good to go, "so you can call me if there's ever a problem." She found herself using "good to go" at work instead of the usual hospital "OK", and laughed when she recalled its origin.

The student kept fit. A set of weights appeared in the empty garage bay, and every morning at "oh dark thirty", whatever that meant, he loped down the driveway to begin his morning run. "Clears the cobwebs", he had said, and before long he recruited her into his regimen. He introduced her first to power walking, then a week later to "the shuffle", which seemed very like jogging to her, and she began to push herself as she watched the student lap her time and again. She had not felt the energy to exercise in a long time, yet almost immediately found she felt both stronger and more confident.

One weekend afternoon, six weeks after the student's arrival, Cathy's best friend and colleague, Connie, dropped over the enjoy the sun on the porch. Cathy admired Connie for her voluptuous, Mediterranean good looks and her everlastingly positive attitude. Connie was a huge hit with her patients and a special hit with men of all ages. Connie's judgment, sadly, did not equal her magnetism. She had been briefly married to a man who had physically abused her, and her friends had only just saved her from a second disaster with an alcoholic actor who disliked gainful employment as much as he liked his vodka. Yet she remained upbeat about men, and always ready for a party of any sort.

The two had been chatting up a number of topics and the subject had turned to the student. "So how's it working out, with your college kid?"

"He's a nice young man. You may get to meet him. He said he was going to the airport to pick up a friend who's passing through and needs a place to stay tonight."

As they were speaking the student drove in, and they watched first Paul, then an enormous soldier in uniform, maroon beret and boots, unfold from the car. Connie was stunned. College kid, my ass, she thought. These guys are the real deal.

Paul, always the gentleman, introduced them to Russell Mabry. Russell, deeply tanned, made his respects in a polite Southern accent. Cathy was impressed by his uniform, ribbons, and badges but noticed that Russell's pale eyes were like Paul's: tired, or perhaps they seemed to look through her to something in the distance.

Connie had decided in a millisecond that Cathy owned first dibs on Paul and she turned her attention to the sergeant. She had seen uniforms aplenty, but rarely anyone as many as Russell, and she admired him with predatory eyes.

"So what brings you to town, Russell, and how are you and Paul acquainted?"

"Just got back from overseas, Cathy, and I had to come see the El Tee."

"El Tee?"

"That's lieutenant. Lieutenant Hegarty was our platoon leader."

"Paul! You were in the army? You never told me that."

A shrug and a smile from the student. "That was in a different life."

"And for how long were you in the army?"

"About four years."

While Cathy unconsciously started to do the math, and began to wrap herself around the idea that "nice young man" would perhaps no longer be an appropriate description for her tenant, Connie had begun to do that which she did best of all.

"Russell, so many ribbons! What did you have to do for them?"

"We call them bin badges, Connie."

"Bin badges?"

"Been here, been there."

"This one has a 'V' on it. What does that mean?"

"Viagra."

Connie hooted with laughter, put her hand on his arm. She was, she thought, going to like this guy. "I know what this silver one is; you two are paratroops. In Iraq?

Russell's voice had gone a touch throaty; he was only too conscious of Connie's cleavage, now so very close. "That's right. The El Tee, he was the best. The company hasn't been the same without him."

"Russell, I swear, just one story and you're going right back to the airport."

"Roger that, El Tee." It seemed that Russell would not be capable of addressing Paul by his given name.

Connie insisted that "the boys" sit and join them. Cathy was sent for iced tea; Connie was on a scent of her own, and would not have left the porch for fine wine. Conversation flowed, the time flew, and before long Connie suggested dinner on the grill. They had no plans, she said (never mind that she and Cathy had been discussing a movie earlier). If the guys would go out for meat and beer everything would be perfect.

As Paul and Cathy exchanged a glance, Russell hurried in. That would indeed be perfect; he and the El Tee loved nothing more than steaks and beer; had in fact been talking about just that on the way in from the airport; he and Paul would cook.

The motion carried. Cathy told herself that this was for Connie; she was obviously taken with Russell, and deserved his company. Paul was slightly uncomfortable with the thought of taking over Cathy's evening, and suspected it was not exactly what she wanted. Connie herself was as intent upon seeing that Cathy and Paul "got together", as she thought to herself, as she was upon Russell. God knows she needs a good man, and Connie's here to help.