it, but
it's not like I really knew anything. If I had, trust me, I would have
done something about it—both for her and for the kids. But when
I looked at my kids, and I looked at them closely, believe me, they
seemed fine. They didn't look messed up or haunted or any of that
shit. On the contrary, they seemed solid and happy, and they were
as loving toward Nicole as they'd ever been, if not more so. If some-
thing really bad was going on, I figured I'd see it, but I didn't see a
thing—not in them, anyway. In Nicole, though, the changes only
became more obvious with time. She became even more erratic,
looked even more worn down, and she seemed increasingly lost. It
was hard to understand. For as long as I'd known her, Nicole's head
and heart had always been in the right place. Whenever any of her
friends had a problem, they always went o her first. She was solid
and clearthinking, and she always made the right moral decision.
But that was another Nicole, and she hadn't been much in evidence
lately. In fact, in some ways it was as if the new Nicole was taking
over, and I can't say I much liked her.
One day, right around this time, I was just back from New
York, sitting by the pool, in a lounge chair, reading, waiting for
Nicole to show up with the kids. The moment they showed up, the
kids ran off to the guest house with a note for Kato. “What was that
all about?” I asked her.
“A letter for Kato,” she said. “I want him gone.”
Kato wasn't home, but the kids left the note there and they
obviously knew what it was about: “Kato's a freeloader!” “He's a
bum!” “Kato has to find a place of his own because Mom doesn't
want him here.”
I was shocked, but I bit my tongue until they were in the pool,
out of earshot. “Why do you have to go and teach them that shit?” I
said. “They're little kids. They don't need to get in the middle of it.”
She rolled her eyes and stormed off, disappearing into the
house. A few moments later, she was back. “Man, I hate that
woman!” She was talking about Michele, of course, and I didn't
want trouble, so I went into the house and asked Michele to disap-
pear for a while. “Go down to the Brentwood Mart and get some
fresh flowers or something,” I suggested. “Nicole will be gone in an
hour or two.”
Michele looked a little upset, but she knew it was for the best.
“Okay, Mr. Simpson,” she said, barely audible. “All right. Let me
just finish cleaning up the kitchen and I'll go.”
I went outside and told Nicole that Michele was leaving for a
while, and that she could relax, but she didn't seem very relaxed.
She was full of venom. “You've got to fire that woman!” she hissed.
And I said, “Nicole, look, if we get back together, Michele
already knows that you and her—it's not going to work out. But
let's just wait and see. We're still a few months away from that.”
I thought that was a pretty reasonable thing to say, but it must
have rubbed Nicole the wrong way. She went back into the house
and returned a few minutes later, looking very worked up. “I just
hit her!” she said.
“What?!”
“I hit her! I couldn't help it. I hate her attitude!”
“What do you mean you hit her?! You can't hit her!”
I got up from the lounge chair and walked into the kitchen
and found Michele sitting there, redfaced, tears streaming down
her cheeks, trying to call the cops. “I'm calling the police!” she said.
“Look what she did to me! She slapped my face!”
She kept misdialing the number-411 instead of 911—so I
went over and apologized for Nicole's behavior and tried to calm
her down. “I'll take care of everything,” I said, setting the phone
back in its cradle. “Please don't call the police.”
“You can't just hit a person and get away with it,” Michele
said, still crying.
“I know, Michele. That's what I told her. I'm sorry. I don't
know what's gotten into Nicole lately, but I'll get it handled.”
“Well I don't know what's gotten into her, either,
it's not like I really knew anything. If I had, trust me, I would have
done something about it—both for her and for the kids. But when
I looked at my kids, and I looked at them closely, believe me, they
seemed fine. They didn't look messed up or haunted or any of that
shit. On the contrary, they seemed solid and happy, and they were
as loving toward Nicole as they'd ever been, if not more so. If some-
thing really bad was going on, I figured I'd see it, but I didn't see a
thing—not in them, anyway. In Nicole, though, the changes only
became more obvious with time. She became even more erratic,
looked even more worn down, and she seemed increasingly lost. It
was hard to understand. For as long as I'd known her, Nicole's head
and heart had always been in the right place. Whenever any of her
friends had a problem, they always went o her first. She was solid
and clearthinking, and she always made the right moral decision.
But that was another Nicole, and she hadn't been much in evidence
lately. In fact, in some ways it was as if the new Nicole was taking
over, and I can't say I much liked her.
One day, right around this time, I was just back from New
York, sitting by the pool, in a lounge chair, reading, waiting for
Nicole to show up with the kids. The moment they showed up, the
kids ran off to the guest house with a note for Kato. “What was that
all about?” I asked her.
“A letter for Kato,” she said. “I want him gone.”
Kato wasn't home, but the kids left the note there and they
obviously knew what it was about: “Kato's a freeloader!” “He's a
bum!” “Kato has to find a place of his own because Mom doesn't
want him here.”
I was shocked, but I bit my tongue until they were in the pool,
out of earshot. “Why do you have to go and teach them that shit?” I
said. “They're little kids. They don't need to get in the middle of it.”
She rolled her eyes and stormed off, disappearing into the
house. A few moments later, she was back. “Man, I hate that
woman!” She was talking about Michele, of course, and I didn't
want trouble, so I went into the house and asked Michele to disap-
pear for a while. “Go down to the Brentwood Mart and get some
fresh flowers or something,” I suggested. “Nicole will be gone in an
hour or two.”
Michele looked a little upset, but she knew it was for the best.
“Okay, Mr. Simpson,” she said, barely audible. “All right. Let me
just finish cleaning up the kitchen and I'll go.”
I went outside and told Nicole that Michele was leaving for a
while, and that she could relax, but she didn't seem very relaxed.
She was full of venom. “You've got to fire that woman!” she hissed.
And I said, “Nicole, look, if we get back together, Michele
already knows that you and her—it's not going to work out. But
let's just wait and see. We're still a few months away from that.”
I thought that was a pretty reasonable thing to say, but it must
have rubbed Nicole the wrong way. She went back into the house
and returned a few minutes later, looking very worked up. “I just
hit her!” she said.
“What?!”
“I hit her! I couldn't help it. I hate her attitude!”
“What do you mean you hit her?! You can't hit her!”
I got up from the lounge chair and walked into the kitchen
and found Michele sitting there, redfaced, tears streaming down
her cheeks, trying to call the cops. “I'm calling the police!” she said.
“Look what she did to me! She slapped my face!”
She kept misdialing the number-411 instead of 911—so I
went over and apologized for Nicole's behavior and tried to calm
her down. “I'll take care of everything,” I said, setting the phone
back in its cradle. “Please don't call the police.”
“You can't just hit a person and get away with it,” Michele
said, still crying.
“I know, Michele. That's what I told her. I'm sorry. I don't
know what's gotten into Nicole lately, but I'll get it handled.”
“Well I don't know what's gotten into her, either,
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