Chapter 6: Tuesday at Ten

The lawyer's office was on the fourth floor of an old brick building with a bad elevator.

I went there straight from the church, still in my funeral suit, with the folder under my arm.

She shut the door and did not offer me coffee.

"Mr. Kemper, I'm sorry for your loss," she said. "Your mother was my client for twelve years."

"What's in the folder?"

"I can't tell you that today."

"She told me to open it with a lawyer."

"She told you correctly, and the lawyer is me."

"Then open it."

"I will, on Tuesday, at ten in the morning, in this room, with the people the law requires to be here."

"Who is that?"

"I won't say until the notices are delivered."

I put the folder on her desk.

"I want a divorce," I said. "I want it filed today."

She looked at me over her glasses.

"Your mother said you would say that."

"She said that?"

"She said, 'He'll leave her the second the dam breaks. Help him leave properly.'"

I had to look at the window for a minute.

The lawyer waited.

"I handle divorces," she said. "You don't need to pay me today."

"I have no money."

"You will," she said. "Sign here."

I signed the petition on her desk.

It took four minutes.

Six years of marriage fit on three pages.

"Don't open the folder yourself," she said, pushing it back to me. "Keep it closed. If you open it before Tuesday, someone will say you changed it."

"Changed what?"

"Tuesday, Mr. Kemper."

I took the folder and walked down the four flights because I could not stand the elevator.

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