In truth, did anyone care what happened to Julius Caesar’s old lady? Did anyone even ask her that question? Did anyone stop and put a friendly hand on the widow’s shoulder and say to her, “Calpurnia, old thing, what’s to become of you? Whither goest?”
On the 14th of March in 44 BC, Calpurnia had a premonitory dream that her husband would be assassinated the following day on the steps of the Senate. She attempted to dissuade Caesar from going to the Senate, but her warnings were dismissed by her husband, not to mention his duplicitous staff and future assassins, as the foolish pratings of a pseudo-seer and addled conspiracy theorist. Vindicated in spades, Calpurnia might have derived a modicum of satisfaction from the knowledge that had Caesar listened to her he might have lived to see another day, though probably not much more than that, as things were going. Keeping her wits about her, she gathered up Caesar’s papers and the famous will, turned them over to Marc Antony who, following his inflammatory speech, decamped, rushing off to let loose the dogs of war and leaving poor Calpurnia to fend for herself. Or so Solitaire suspects.
Childless, over the hill, the object of much sexual mockery at the hands of Caesar’s latest mistress, the widow was probably bundled off to some remote old ladies’ home in the Appenines where she perhaps sat in the loggia of an evening tiresomely telling and re-telling her attendants and superannuated soul sisters that “If only Julius had heeded my warnings he’d be alive this very day… but, of course, he never listened to a word I said.”
There are two questions a widow asks herself upon the death of her husband:
one, what’s to become of me? And, two, how much money do I have?
Actually, the questions should be asked in reverse order because obviously the answer to the second will largely determine the answer to the first. Essentially, they are one and the same question.
On the second morning after Em’s death, Solitaire receives an early morning phone call from a pleasantly solicitous woman by the name of Mrs. Ruth Babcock, who is calling on behalf of the Family Liaison Office at the State Department to help steer Solitaire through the logistical and financial procedures entailed in the loss of a spouse. As soon as she opens her mouth, Solitaire can tell that Mrs. Babcock is a very nice woman who not only lives in a different time zone from Solitaire, but in a different time warp.
“You are aware, I suppose” Mrs. Babcock says gently, “that your husband’s pension will be reduced by about half; are you also aware that the pension will be frozen for a brief period while the new amount is calibrated?”
Alarm bells sound, but not too loudly, for Solitaire thinks that with a good high-speed computer this recalibration should take approximately two minutes or less. “How brief a period are you talking about?"
“Probably not more than two months.”
Solitaire gasps, “Two months!”
Mrs. Babcock is sympathetic. “It is rather a long time. But you know … it’s the bureaucracy… “ Her voice trails off.
Into the dumbfounded silence at Solitaire’s end of the line, Mrs. Babcock states that the April pension, which has already been received, must be returned to the State Department, which will then pro-rate what is owed her from the 1st to the 6th, the date of her husband’s death. The remainder will be paid to her at the recalibrated rate some months hence. In effect, she will have no income for three months.
“Have you any idea what that new rate might be?” Solitaire asks. “Just a ballpark figure?”
“I don’t think I can tell you that,” Mrs. Babcock replies. “These numbers are so variable. You should call the Office of Retirement at the Department and they’ll help you. They’ll send you a packet of forms to fill out. And you’ll have to send them several documents: your spouse’s death certificate and birth certificate, as well as your marriage certificate. Here’s the phone number.”
Mrs. Babcock asks if her husband had taken out any life insurance. Her tone is rhetorical, almost embarrassed, as if even to ask such a foolish question of someone of Solitaire’s standing, a respected member of the State Department family, the wife of a retired ambassador, were a damnable insult.
No, Solitaire confesses, no life insurance. She recalls various discussions of the life insurance question with Em at several stages in their lives, she repeatedly dismissing it as a jinx … a juju … tantamount to casting a hex against oneself … and he mildly protesting that it was irresponsible, but eventually concurring. They had, they agreed, more uses for the money then than later.
The last time the subject of life insurance had come up, she had retorted with spirit, “I refuse to bet against you!” Em looked thoughtful, as if he were on the point of remonstrating with her idiotic logic, but then let it go. “Apres moi le deluge,” he said with a wry smile, and she had laughed.
“Well… “ says Mrs. Babcock, “there’s bound to be some group insurance, but it won’t be much. You’ll have to contact FEGLI – Federal Employees Group Life Insurance.”
Solitaire, of course, has no knowledge of any acronymic entity called FEGLI, but she is given a number to call.
What about long-term care? Do they have that? No.
There is a short pause in this exchange during which Mrs. Babcock is almost certainly contemplating the financial shambles of this woman’s life. It is hardly the first time she has dealt with fiscally ignorant, confused, stony-broke widows. Indeed, there is a whole section of FLO devoted to the care of these exigent women and their families. Nevertheless, she is clearly taken by surprise in this case. But Mrs. Babcock has one last arrow in her quiver and she uses it now. “Well,” she concludes – and Solitaire can hear her smiling brightly – “I should say that this would be an excellent time to put your savings to good use.”
“Our savings… ” Solitaire mumbles, “yes, of course … a very good time.” Can Mrs. Babcock possibly believe, she wonders, given the mass of evidence leading to the exactly opposite conclusion, that Solitaire has savings – savings! – on which to fall back?
She snaps her cellphone shut, lays her head face down on the kitchen table and tries to breathe. She smacks her forehead – just between the eyebrows over the bridge of her nose – lightly, but not too lightly – on the edge. She does this several times, each time a little harder, then pauses. Unless she intends to do herself in, she has no wish to crack her skull or break her nose. She tries yoga breathing – in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Maybe she's not doing it right. The panic continues to rise. What’s to become of her? How will she pay her mortgage? Her colossal credit card bills? Her taxes, which are due in exactly one week? Her blood is pumping, swarming up her arteries with the fury of rampaging vandals; the beat of her heart quickens, growing louder, thudding like the tramp of advancing boots. Her vision clouds, her throat constricts – she’s well on her way to a full-blown panic attack.
Her dog Fu pads over and lightly licks her ankle. She looks down; he looks up. His eyes are large for his size, slightly protuberant in the way of Shih-tzus, small black reflecting pools. They hold eye contact for a moment, then she reaches down and scratches him behind his ear. She feels her blood begin to back down, boots receding, invaders retreating. Her breathing slows; the tsunami of panic sweeps past.
Solitaire would like to think that her dog’s ankle-lick is the kiss of consolation, but she knows that in fact he’s reminding her that it’s time for breakfast and a walk. He loves her because when he looks at her he sees an oversized, ambulating Milkbone.
“Goddamn sun!” A woman with blue-black skin and a huge coif of coiled, oiled Depp-like dreadlocks flings off the blanket, sits up, frowns down at her still-sleeping mate and rises stiffly, the chunky embodiment of a disgruntled sleeper awakened betimes.
She accosts Solitaire. “What’re you looking at?”
Silently, Solitaire walks on with the dogs. The woman, clad in what looks like Army-Navy surplus and boots, heads for an oversize squat blue drinking fountain used mostly by thirsty pooches, immerses her head under it and shakes it vigorously. She strolls to a nearby trashcan, but then spots Solitaire and tacks over to her.
“Say,” she says agreeably enough, “you wouldn’t happen to have some spare cash, would you? I’d sure like to get some coffee and a comb.”
“A comb?” Solitaire looks at this Gorgon hair and is so awed at the sheer enormity of the task that she can’t even form a conception of it.
“Yeah, you like to comb your hair, don’t you?”
Thinking of her own lank locks, slack in the zero-humidity Arizona ozone, Solitaire nods wordlessly. She says she’s sorry, but she has no money with her. The woman shrugs philosophically … and they part. When Solitaire gets to her car she looks back and sees the woman rooting through the trash barrel. She is appalled. Actually, she is picturing herself – mortgage unpaid, foreclosed upon, homeless, crushed by debt, credit cards snatched from her, not enough money to purchase a comb for her lifeless hair, let alone Clarins moisturizer for her tinder-dry skin – and is on the point of driving home to search for cash when she looks in the glove box et voila! finds a dollar bill. Overjoyed, she drives over to where the woman is still pawing around in the trash barrel (mostly a trove of dog turds), jumps out of her car and sprints over, the dollar clutched in her fist.
“Here,” says Lady Bountiful, thrusting it at her exultantly, “it’s all I could find, but you could at least get a coffee.”
The woman examines the bill. “Not at Starbucks,” she says.
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