Co-operative

In spring of 1993 my then husband waltzed into to my bedroom and casually announced, “I want to sell the house.”

It would take a writer of Chekov’s genius to fully convey to you the depth of my shock and despair at this edict.  I loved that house second only to my children.  It was my haven and I wanted nothing more than to die there and leave it to Natasha.

(The kids and I had already discussed my future estate plan. Nick was fine with it. He was bored with Winnetka and, more importantly, was holding out for the Snowmass ski condo.)

As stunned as I was, I recovered my equanimity long enough to say no.

And Bill needed my cooperation.  The house, after all, was marital.  And thus began his long war of attrition.

Every week Bill would come in and cajole, wheedle or threaten me.

“If you were a good wife, you’d sell it.”

Or “I’m sick of paying all those gardeners’ bills.  You don’t earn the money to keep this place going.”

Or “We can’t afford two places any more.”

Followed by the coup de grace.

“If you don’t sell it, I will divorce you.  You won’t get enough money to run it and you’ll have to sell it in the end anyway.”

He was relentless.

At that time I had nothing to go on regarding our true financial situation. But I was sure that we could afford our house and our Colorado condo.  After all, Bill’s financial mantra had always been “Live for today but plan for tomorrow.”

And he always paid himself first.  He put money away and we never lived up to his earnings.  He was adamant about this fiscal policy.

But his other fiscal policy was that his earnings were nobody’s business.  He guarded these numbers with his life.  I certainly was never privy to them.

He never told me that he was making seven figures in salary alone at that time. (I only found out the truth many years later when our tax records were subpoenaed during our trial.)

All our joint tax returns had always been sent to his office.  I was made to sign them when they were blank- or with his hand covering the bottom line.

Hell, Bill would cover his pin number when we drove to the ATM together.  He never wanted me to know how much money he actually had.

So crying non-stop, I listed the house, and crying non-stop, I started looking for somewhere else to live.

I did not want to live in the city.  I’m a rose garden kind of gal.  But Boss Ross was determined and into the city we went- armed with Bruce Gregga, our interior designer, along for support.

There was only one real candidate.  An old (read “vintage”) co-op apartment on Lake Shore Drive.

Its owner had died years before and the heirs didn’t want to pay the assessment any longer.  Btw, it was a complete gut job- which vastly increased its appeal for me.  After all, I was in no hurry to move.

Bruce gave it his blessing, we made an offer, and when Kenny and I were on our annual brother-sister Snowmass ski trip, a fax came through from Bill.

“Congratulations,” it said.  “This is your new address.”

But before we could move in, there was one other tricky step that we had to negotiate before we could call East Lake Shore Drive home.

We had to pass the Admissions Committee’s smell test.

The board of directors had to get social references, pore over all our financials with a fine tooth comb, and then meet with us before they could decide if we were indeed worthy.

This was a co-op.  We would all be in it together- from paying for the upkeep on the twenty-unit building to having to meet occasionally in the old (read “vintage”) elevator.

So they wanted to know how solid our stock portfolio and our characters were before they said “Welcome aboard.”

Bill was in charge of the blue chip Part A.  I headed up Part B.

References, references.  I wanted to prove that we could be good neighbors so the first place I went was to our neighbors on Locust Road- the Fowles.

Both dead now, I’m sorry to say.  But wonderful people and truly sorry to lose us as I explained what we were about to do.

“I was afraid you were going to tell us you were moving,” Fran cried.  “I’m so sorry.”

Not half as sorry as I was- but they were more than happy to write us a reference attesting to our good neighbor policy- and dedication to keeping up our property values.

My next stop was my pal, Beverly Blettner.  Bev died in 2011, but before she went, she defined the word “doyenne.”

She was the queen of fundraisers and spent much of her time crusading for the American Cancer Society, Rush- Presbyterian Medical Center, the Museum of Broadcast Communications, Brookfield Zoo, the Illinois Eye Bank, the Chicago Historical Society, Goodman Theater, and the Boys and Girls Club of Chicago.

Her name on a social reference would be solid gold and when I prevailed upon her to write me one, she came through like aces.

I then scanned the list of the co-op board.  All men, all old (read “vintage”) W.A.S.P.’s – and one guy trying to pass himself off as one.

As luck would have it, I had another ace in the hole.  I knew the “passing guy’s” cousin.

I asked her for a reference.  She wrote us a glowing one- and told me to say hello to him from her at the meeting.

Bruce had the final piece of advice for me.

“Wear gray and keep your mouth shut.”

Which is exactly what I did.

The codgers asked a few questions.

Kids? Check.

Noisy?

Boarding School.

Check.

Meeting adjourned.

Then the board took the packet of our detailed financials and scurried off to reconvene over drinks at the Coq D’or at the Drake Hotel.

The next day Bill got the call.  But it wasn’t from any of the old codgers.  It was from a total stranger.

“You don’t know me,” he started.  “But I’m holding an envelope that seems to have all your tax documents and stock transactions in it.  I thought maybe you’d like it back.”

“What?!” shouted Bill- aghast at the notion that someone had his unauthorized hands on his most precious financial secrets. “Where did you find it?”

“In the men’s room at the Drake.”

A little detective work later revealed that one of the old coots had accidentally left it behind when he went to attend to a leaky prostate.

And now a total stranger could read all about it.

Better him than me, I guess.

Happy Valentine’s day tomorrow, dear readers.

May Cupid be cooperative.