Soul Man

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Soul Man - book excerpt

Chapter 1

Death is not the end. For me, it marked a new beginning.

It was a frosty Sunday afternoon in February in Kansas City. Snow was forecast for that night, although they expected little accumulation. The gray overcast skies darkened the day, accurately reflecting my feelings as I arrived at Panera Bread near the Country Club Plaza.

Keep it together. I can’t give my wife the satisfaction of seeing me have a breakdown. I thought to myself as I went inside.

My divorce attorney, Amy Fitzgerald, met me there. She came highly recommended by a friend who recently suffered his own need for her services.

The divorce had not been my idea, although admittedly, my stupid indiscretion precipitated the process. However, Linda’s rapid escalation from anger to divorce led me to believe separating had already been on her mind. My actions only hastened the inevitable and provided the excuse.

I arrived first, naturally. I hated being late—for anything, which was in stark contrast with my soon-to-be ex-wife. I considered arriving ten minutes early, on time. Linda thought getting there ten minutes late was too soon.

I had just settled down at a table when Amy made her appearance, dressed in a sharp blue business suit, black purse over her left shoulder, and a brown portfolio stuck under her right arm. She cut a nice picture. Being with an attractive woman, even if it was strictly professional, dulled some of the pain. I appreciated her being on-time.

I rose to greet her, taking her offered hand in mine and giving her a quick, friendly shake. Her hands were soft, but her grip firm.

“I know Linda’s attorney, Donald McFadden,” Amy began after we exchanged pleasantries and secured our coffee and pastries. “He is aggressive, to say the least. Some call him cutthroat.”

Amy was in her early thirties, with bottle-blonde hair, blue eyes, and matching blue-frame glasses. She came up to my lower lip, making her about 5’4” tall, or a couple of inches shorter than Linda. Amy possessed an appealing, athletic build with a disarming smile.

“Fortunately,” she continued, “Kansas does not recognize infidelity as grounds for divorce. So, the primary issues are dividing the assets and child custody. You told me there would be no alimony, correct?”

I shook my head.

If anyone were to get alimony, it would be me, given having no income, thanks to the suspension of my license. But I should be okay. I hired a young psychiatrist to take over my practice until my suspension ended.

“What about custody?”

Custody—sounds like someone’s being arrested. In a way, it is a type of prison. Only I’m the one locked out rather than in. How am I going to survive without Anthony and Brittany welcoming me home every night?

The thought nearly had me tearing up, again.

Stop it. You’re going to lose it in front of your attorney. If you can’t hold yourself together now, what hope do you have when meeting with Linda and her attorney?

Amy continued as she referred to her notes, “You mentioned you agreed on joint custody, with the kids living primarily with her. You will have them on weekends and at some points during the summer. Is this correct?”

I nodded. “The biggest issue remaining is making sure our assets get divided equitably, so I can make it until I start earning money again.”

At least Linda is making the divorce as easy as possible. But that doesn’t change the fact she wanted it in the first place. I made one mistake. One. Don’t people deserve a second chance?

“Let's see what we have." With that, she pulled a stack of papers from her satchel.

The rest of the conversation was rather boring—reviewing details of our assets, etc. I did not expect a problem as Linda and I had talked (against our attorneys' wishes) and agreed in principle on most things. It was about getting the divorce that we disagreed.

We met on Sunday because that was the only time everyone could get together. Linda always put work first, and her schedule was often chaotic. I’m sure the kids were at her parents’. I wondered if they knew what their mother was doing.

Then the time to leave had come—time to terminate my marriage—eighteen years of my life. Eternal love no longer. Two wonderful kids. How could it just end?

Amy said she would meet me at McFadden's office because she wanted to "freshen up" a bit first. Why do women have to speak in code when they need to go to the bathroom?

Outside, the darkening gray clouds and chilly air furthered my gloom.

****

McFadden’s office was only a few blocks away. I pulled into the parking lot, my mind numb, emotions drained. I wiped away the tears that had formed and begun their trek down my cheeks.

As I parked my car in the second row, a metallic blue BMW 6 Series car identical to mine parked a few cars away caught my attention. What were the odds? It even looked to be the same model year—2021. At least whoever owned it had good taste.

I locked the car and ambled towards the front door. Despite the chill, I needed the slow pace to steel myself, knowing what lay inside.

When I entered, the air provided misleading warmth. A receptionist greeted me, a perky brunette in her late 20s. I wondered why they had a receptionist come in on a Sunday. Was she here only for this meeting? If so, was it policy or for show?

“Can I take your coat?” she asked with a disarming smile and sparkling bright green eyes matching her top.

I smiled and raised my hand, declining. “No offense, but the less time I spend in this building, the better. I suspect I will want to make a quick escape.”

She smiled and nodded knowingly, then led me to a nearby conference room. The room reeked of money, with rich mahogany furniture, including a beautiful table and a set of six high-back chairs. Four blank legal pads accompanied by an expensive pen lay on the table in front of each chair. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined each wall, save for the large picture window. Outside, bright white flecks floated down from their lofty perch; each one unique, yet all the same.

I took off the aforementioned navy-blue cashmere overcoat, draped it across the back of a chair, and sat in the one next to it.

“Can I get you a refreshment?” the receptionist asked.

“I don’t suppose you can get me a Scotch?”

She chuckled and shook her head.

I flashed a brief smile. “A Diet Coke would be great.”

She nodded and went over to a refrigerator hidden inside one of the mahogany cabinets. Retrieving a soda, she made her way to me and handed me a can of nicely chilled Diet Coke. “The others will join you shortly.” With a warm smile, she left.

Having seen Linda's car in the parking lot, I knew she was already here, probably discussing strategy with her attorney before our meeting. I strongly suspected keeping me waiting would be part of their plan. I pulled out my phone and settled back, making myself comfortable.

Amy arrived shortly thereafter. She was accompanied by the receptionist, who, without asking, went to the refrigerator and retrieved another Diet Coke. Amy smiled and thanked her by name—Sonya—as she settled into the chair next to me.

Damn, why didn’t I ask Sonya for her name? I’m so consumed with my own troubles, I’ve forgotten common courtesy.

We exchanged small talk for a few minutes before Linda and her attorney joined us.

I caught a whiff of my wife's favorite perfume as I rose from my chair. Perhaps more than anything, the fragrance brought home the significance of the occasion, rekindling happy memories—of our love, our family, followed quickly by overwhelming grief. I struggled to keep it hidden.

Why was she in such a rush to get a divorce? The affair lasted all of one month. I should never have told Linda…stupid! Next day, I’m shopping for a new place to live. Now, six weeks later, she’s filing for divorce, and my license suspended for a year.

I fought to keep my eyes from leaking. Being too damn sensitive was a perpetual problem for me. At least it made me more empathetic with my clients.

I couldn’t help admiring my wife. She looked stunning, as she often did. Linda had long, black hair with brown eyes and a disarming smile, which she knew how to use. She was usually the most attractive woman in the room, no matter how large the space.

The attorney's appearance took me back. This man could have passed for my brother—my older brother. He had my dark brown hair, although his was sprinkled with specks of gray. I put him in his mid-to-late-forties. Adding to the similarities, he also had my hazel eyes, height, and a similar formerly athletic build. To be honest, though, it appeared he still exercised on occasion. He wore an expensive tailored suit, complete with matching hanky and silk tie, and a Rolex adorned his wrist. That's where the similarities ended, as I had on khakis and a polo shirt. The way he stood, completely erect, with shoulders back, head extended, exuded extreme confidence, if not arrogance.

After making brief eye contact with me, he turned his attention to Amy. His eyes sparkled, and a slight smile formed as he gave her a quick nod. They clearly knew each other.

Linda spoke first after giving me one of those disarming smiles. "Dr. Reynolds."

I nodded. "Dr. Reynolds," I replied. The routine never got old. We met at medical school where I was a fourth year, and she a lowly first year. What started as an innocent conversation in the cafeteria became a romance that eventually led to marriage and two kids. I went into psychiatry while Linda became a Pulmonary/Critical care specialist. Linda surprised me when we got married by taking my last name. It turned out she was old-fashioned. I had assumed she would keep her last name of Jacobson when we got married, which would have been fine with me.

She grinned, which seemed silly, given the circumstances. "David, let me introduce my attorney, Donald McFadden. Don, this is my husband, David."

I took a step forward and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you, Don."

He took my hand with a firm grip, perhaps a bit too tight. "Good meeting you as well, Mr. Reynolds,” he said with a wry smile.

Any friendly thoughts I might have had instantly disappeared. No doubt, referring to me as "Mr." instead of "Dr." was a deliberate slight and a reminder of my currently suspended license. Message delivered. It also made me think he might have been the one to have turned me in.

"I like your coat," he added, nodding at my overcoat. "I have one just like it…Pinstripes?"

I nodded, knowing he referred to the men's store on the Plaza and not the suit pattern. To have so much in common with this asshole greatly bothered me, and I was confident in my characterization of him.

However, throughout the meeting, Don acted professionally and cordially. Yet his body language and eyes glared hostility toward me. It felt personal. Why? I anticipated some from my wife, not her attorney.

The opposite was true when he gazed at Amy. She returned his friendly demeanor, even flashing a slight smile on occasion.

Did she just bat her eyes at him?

So what if they were friends outside the office? The possible conflict did not bother me. Linda and I agreed on the primary issues and wanted to make this divorce as painless as possible. Not just to get it over, but to protect the kids. Contested divorces adversely affect the children caught between warring parents. We were committed to minimizing their pain. Their parents splitting hurt them enough, no need to make it worse.

Yet, this bothered Don, who acted like a caged tiger, waiting to pounce on his helpless prey. Fortunately, his professionalism prevented him from sabotaging the proceedings. Perhaps having Amy by my side helped.

While Linda and I desired a painless process, it was not a quick one. Many assets needed to be reviewed, evaluated, and divided equitably. Fortunately, Linda had no desire to punish me further, knowing being separated from the kids punished me more than anything else could. She was right.

After ninety long minutes, we reached an agreement on everything. No fists flew. No tempers flared. All very civil. Partly because I gave in whenever an issue came up. While the divorce may have been inevitable, my actions were the precipitating cause. Guilt is a powerful force.

After the meeting, we all shook hands. Linda and Don took the elevator upstairs to finish the paperwork. Given it had gone about as well as it could have, I did not rush out. Instead, I played the gentleman and waited for Sonya to retrieve Amy's coat, so she and I could walk out together.

The air had grown chillier outside. The gray sky was now black, the darkness interrupted only by city lights and tiny white specks floating down innocently, swirling in the light wind, reflecting rainbows from the streetlights. Flecks, like God's dandruff, momentarily appeared on my shoulders before disolving.

Amy congratulated me on surviving the proceeding, although that’s like being praised for surviving a car wreck with only severe injuries. Exchanging small talk, I escorted her to her car. She informed me that the paperwork would take a few days to be completed before it was ready for my signature. She anticipated no surprises or problems.

I opened the car door for her.

“Thanks, David.” Amy smiled and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“I still believe in old school chivalry. Thanks again for your help, Amy. Have a pleasant evening.”

I know I’m not. A bottle of bourbon with my name on it awaits me in my new home, and I fully intend to utilize its numbing abilities.

As I turned to make my way to my car, I bore the blast of an emotional tsunami washing over me, halting me in my tracks. My marriage was over. Eighteen years of living with one woman, gone with a stroke of a pen. No kids running around, no sharing their every triumph and turmoil. My stomach added its protest, threatening to reject my lunch. Water welled in my eyes, preparing to escape as flakes of snow touched my cheek, melting instantly.

Her smile, her laugh, her fragrance, her gentle touch. God, I still love her. What the hell am I doing?

I resumed my erect crawl toward the car, completely distraught, aware of nothing but my sorrow.

The emotional fog enshrouded me as I reached for the door handle. To my surprise, the door failed to open. I tried again and again, with each repetition leading to increasing frustration, then giving way to anger.

Haven't I been through enough today?

I rammed my hand into my pocket and withdrew my keys. Spying the unlock button, I repeatedly mashed on it, to no avail. Frustrated and angry, I banged on the door, cursing loudly—mad at the door, mad at the divorce, mad at Linda, mad at McFadden, mad at me, mad at the world.

Somehow in my anger, I noticed a Starbucks coffee cup in the cupholder. I did not have coffee in the car today—I hadn't been to a Starbucks in weeks. Feeling very foolish, I realized I was at the wrong car. Anger became embarrassment, which only made me madder.

As I wallowed in anger, frustration, and self-pity, I saw out of the corner of my eye a man approaching, striding purposefully through the quickening snow. His very appearance intimidated. He was several inches taller than me, thinner, younger, with a significantly more athletic build and long black hair with matching thick beard. His broad shoulders and muscular frame were noticeable even though he wore a heavy black jacket, Chiefs’ cap, and carried a backpack slung over his left shoulder. The coat was open, revealing a gray sweatshirt underneath, matching the sweatpants he wore. The ever-swirling snow, now coming down harder, partially obscured the shadowy figure, making him even more mysterious. His sunglasses, perched on his nose in the darkness, added to his mystique.

Who the heck is this? Sunglasses? Really? Is he expecting a blinding snowfall?

I assumed he owned the car I appeared to be breaking into. I was about to apologize. As he approached, though, he did not seem like a guy who had a $70,000 plus car. His clothes were old and well-worn, his beard unkempt, and his shoes dirty and tattered.

Given the circumstances, I wasn't in the mood to be trifled with, as the emotional turmoil returned with a vengeance, especially my anger. The well-lit parking lot had obvious cameras covering every inch, making it unlikely the man was there to rob me, although I could not rule out the possibility.

Truthfully, part of me relished a confrontation—I needed something, someone, on which to vent my pent-up anger and frustration. This panhandler picked the wrong time to approach me.

"Look," I said to him in a stern voice as he drew nearer. "I'd like to help, but I have no change. Sorry." I started to turn away, but he kept coming. Now fury prevailed.

"Listen…" my speech stopped by the sudden appearance of a gun in the man's left hand—made more threatening due to the silencer attached.

What the hell?

The absurdity of what I was experiencing delayed any flight. Instead, I simply stared at the weapon then at the man—frozen—not from fear, but complete lack of comprehension. My brain refused to process what my eyes saw. Slowly I began to raise my hands in surrender.

I was not given time to complete the act.

The flash, pop, and pain came nearly simultaneously. Agony such as none before overtook my being, the impact slamming me against the car. Still conscious, I clutched at my chest, hands wet with warm blood against the cold air. As I slowly slid to the pavement, another flash, pop, and phenomenal pain. I lacked the breath to scream.

Why?

My mind filled with anger, anguish, agony, and astonishment.

The moment froze in time. My senses flared with hypersensitivity. As the third bullet tore its way into my flesh, the nerves sent waves of pain to my brain; the sound of it impacting my rib cage made its way to my ears, as the odor of burning flesh assaulted my nose. Intense agony overwhelmed me.

Then nothing. Nothing at all.

The excruciating torment vanished in an instant. The joy from the release of pain overwhelmed. Darkness. Silence. No sensation. Emptiness. Astonishment accompanied relief. I was still there…

How am I still conscious?

Gradually I became aware of a soft light glowing dimly ahead of me, growing slowly in intensity. As I watched, a long, dark tunnel formed, stretching before me, inviting.

This is it. I’m really dead…

What do I do now?

The light grew more intense.

Is it approaching me or I it?

The last of the air escaped my lungs, mixing with the snow-filled cold air, as I headed toward the light.

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