To cover the massive legal defense fees of trying to fight Arthur’s lawyers, Helen had been forced to liquidate her assets. The pristine, upper-middle-class colonial house I used to scrub on my hands and knees had been sold at a loss to cover the attorney retainers. Helen, I was told, was now living in a cramped, one-bedroom apartment on the wrong side of the city, entirely cut off from the country club social circle that had defined her existence.
They were gone. Erased from my life with clinical precision.
The screen door creaked open behind me.
Arthur walked out onto the porch. He was wearing his usual denim and tactical sweater, holding a mug of black coffee. He walked over and leaned against the wooden railing, looking out over the vast, rolling fields of his property.
He didn’t say a word. He rarely did. The General was a man of action, not conversation. But he reached out and placed a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder.
The weight of his hand didn’t feel oppressive. It felt like a shield. It felt like an impenetrable fortress wall standing between me and the rest of the world.