THE NEXT day, I return to the realm of business matters and tackle a long overdue task. Since October, I’ve been receiving Sam’s salary from the City through what’s called ‘supplemental compensation.’ The payments have seemed low, but I haven’t yet checked into the matter. I phone the police association, figuring they’ll be able to explain the discrepancy.
“You’re right,” the union president says to me over the phone, “those numbers don’t sound correct. You better contact our lawyer.”
I ring up their lawyer.
“Bring in your documentation,” he says, “and I’ll look it over for you.”
I gather up all the relevant papers, including Sam’s copy of the police contract with the City, where it’s still on the back of the toilet beneath his calculator.
Two days later, I’m in the lawyer’s office, my papers strewn across his desk.
“I see…all right,” he mumbles, shuffling through documents and punching numbers into his calculator. “Uh huh, hmmm…”
While he’s working, I happen to glance down at the paperwork in front of me and, for the first time, notice my husband’s handwriting on the back of his police contract:
August 9, 2000
DEPOWUCDO
UCDOC
CUCDEO
CPUCDEUOS
Sammy Pucdeuos
Clunk. This is the undercover name he’d been creating for himself last August.
“Very interesting,” says the lawyer.
I look up.
He peers at me over his reading glasses. “Are you all right?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re a little pale.”
“I’m OK.”
He tells me that from a financial perspective, a few items may need adjusting but nothing is too terribly out of whack. The City is responsible for paying me the net equivalent of what Sam would be receiving, if he was still alive, which means that the WCB lump sum and pension payout I received last fall are being deducted and will continue to be until they’re paid off at the end of year five.
I nod and start gathering up my papers.
“Not so fast,” he says. “There’s a far bigger problem here that you need to be concerned with.”
“What’s that?”
He reaches over and picks up Sam’s contract. “According to this, you’re never allowed to remarry.”
I let out a snort. “That doesn’t seem to be an issue at the moment.”
“Maybe not today—but in the future, it could be a damn big issue. Although Sam’s salary seems low now, it will go up significantly in years four and five. Plus, you’re entitled to receive a pay increase whenever the officers themselves do.”
“I know.”
“All that ends if you marry again—which is a glaring violation of human rights. Your future marital status has no relevance as to whether or not you receive Sam’s supplemental compensation. What matters is that you were married to him when he passed away in the line of duty. This is archaic.”
“Then why is it still in the contract?”
“Because nobody else has been in your situation since 1977—that was the last time an officer died on the job and left behind a spouse.” He stands up. “This is something that seriously needs looking into.”
OVER AFTERNOON tea and cookies with my dining room angel, I investigate another matter needing looking into. Based on what little I know of undercover terminology, I come up with this possible explanation for the U/C name on the back of the contract:
Police UnderCover DEtective Under Operation Sting
Corny, yes—but oh so him. As for his first name, I’m sure he chose Sam simply because it’s a common Greek name, although not quite as popular as say…John.
I call Jodie to fill her in on the day’s events, finishing with, “And guess what the lawyer told me right after I found the undercover name?”
“What?”
“That if I ever remarried, I would no longer receive his…Oh shit!”
“What?”
“The police association—that’s who Sam was talking to on the police radio in my dream a few weeks ago.”
“Huh?”
“Right after I finished his scrapbooks, I had a dream that I saw Sam talking on the radio with someone from the police association. Sam called me a slacker and told me to get back to work—but maybe he was also telling me to contact the police association because of the remarriage clause?”
“That,” says Jodie, “is unbelievable.”
A FEW days later, I meet up for morning coffee with a tanned Tom, back from Mexico. I ask him how the trip went.
“Not so good. I don’t think we’re gonna make it.”
Hooray! “How come?”
“Because she doesn’t love me the same way I love her.”
“Oh.”
“Despite what happened to Sam,” he says, “you’re very lucky to have had the relationship you did with him.”
“Still have, actually.”
Tom nods slowly. “Have you seen the movie, Gladiator?”
“No.”
“You might want to.”
“Why?”
“There’s some stuff in there about the afterlife that I think might interest you.”
“The afterlife? You were the one who told me it takes a lot of energy to miss someone I know I’m never gonna see again.”
Tom frowns. “I did?”
IN THE afternoon, Amanda joins me and the pups at the off-leash park.
“Did I ever tell you about the dream Sam had a few days before he died?” I ask, throwing the ball for Sasha. “The one where I cheated on him with another cop?”
“No. Who was it?”
“The officer with the sexy voice.”
She nods. “Hollywood.”
“Huh?”
“His nickname is Hollywood because he’s so damn good looking. And what did Sam have to say about the alleged incident?”
“He was pissed. When I actually saw the guy at Sam’s funeral the next week, it was pretty weird.”
“I bet,” she says, throwing the ball for Sasha as Sven trots along between us.
“It’s Tom I like, though.”
She turns to me. “Really?”
“Is that wrong?”
“Of course not,” she says.
“But he was Sam’s friend and boss.”
“So? That wouldn’t make it wrong…just highly unlikely.”
I throw a stick for Sven, but she ignores it and stays close. “I’ve been trying to figure out if Sam was mad at me because I slept with another guy, or because it was a police officer or…something else?”
One eyebrow goes up. “Such as?”
“Well, the dream was obviously about betrayal, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But maybe it wasn’t a guy Sam was worried about.”
Up goes the other brow. “You’re gonna bat for the other team now?”
“No.”
“Then who else would it be?”
“Me!” I say. “The only way I could betray Sam would be to betray my own self.”
“And how would you do that?”
“By not living up to my potential…not becoming a writer.”
“You are a writer!” she says. “You write every day, for God’s sakes.”
I roll my eyes. “A published writer who makes a living from her work.”
“It’ll happen. Shit—you have the tenacity of a bulldog.” She sneaks a sideways glance at me. “Kinda like someone else I knew.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, bending over to pick up Sasha’s poop.
“What did you and Sam do that day?” she asks.
I straighten up and tie a knot in the plastic bag. “What day?”
“The day he had the dream about you and Hollywood.”
“Oh. Well, that was Sunday so that’s the day…”
“What?”
“That’s the day we went to Universal Studios—the epitome of Hollywood. We were on the tram tour and I was bitching to Sam about not being able to see any movies being made—and Sam’s response was that Hollywood only shows you what they want you to see.”
Amanda throws back her head and laughs. “That’s you, all right.”