Twilight Child (24 page)

 “Why doesn't
he get a job?”

 “I thought he
would. Maybe after the case is over.”

 “That's not
very wise. They could stall this for months. It's not that he'll be doing any
real work on it. I'm afraid this is not a day-to-day job.”

 She knew he
was right, of course. The loss of his work had been a crushing blow. Perhaps
almost fatal. Quickly, she erased the terrible image from her mind.

 “At least I
have my work and my fifth grade kids. I understand what he's going through.
That's why I went along with the case. He needed the hope, you see.” She paused
to compose herself. “So did I.”

 “You seem to
be taking it better than he, Mrs. Waters.”

 “I don't miss
Tray any less, Mr. Forte.” She sensed a touch of indignation in her tone. “But
Charlie's the one that's down, a lot farther than I am. I have to appear strong
for his sake.” She was strong, she told herself, hating the idea that she was
stronger than Charlie. He had been through the toughening process of war, for
God's sake.

 In a brief
flash of memory, she saw him as he was then, her courageous young warrior,
ready to laugh down fate, a twinkle in his eyes and a smile on his lips. Hadn't
she always deferred to his courage and good sense, his strong, wise, manly
ways? No, she protested, he'll come back. Hadn't he protected and encouraged
her through their years together, through the dark times of her miscarriages,
her intimate failures? Hadn't he shored up her defenses, poured devotion and
trust and love into the cracks of her own failed dreams of a large, loving
family? It was her turn now, her turn to backstop him.

 “I'm thinking
of the case. Mostly the courtroom confrontations. If they mash away at him and
he blows, they'll make their case for his instability. If we don't appear calm
and kindly in that courtroom, we'll be up the creek without a paddle.”

 “You mean you
get judged on appearances,” she said sarcastically, searching the room for any
sign of Charlie, missing him.

 “On
perceptions. At least in a jury trial you've got twelve chances. In a domestic
case, you've got only one.”

 “I think if I
explained it carefully, he would get himself under control,” she said with mock
conviction.

 “Look, Mrs.
Waters. Their strategy will be to crucify you both, to exaggerate your every
flaw and to hide behind the tight restrictions of adoption law. That's bad
enough to face, and even if you clear that hurdle, they'll be defaming your
character, selling you both to the judge as bad influences on your grandson.
Our only comeback will be a strong, aggressive defense of your character, your
past, your parenting and grandparenting, your general all-around goodness and
decency. That's our case. A long shot at best. We may not even get that far.
Not if your husband blows his cork. It will turn off the judge and give their
side an opening you can put an army through.”

 “He wasn't
always like that,” she said thoughtfully. “Used to be a reasonably contented
man.” She glanced up at the lawyer. “We've had our troubles, Mr. Forte.”

 “Now that's
the attitude we need, Mrs. Waters. Be a victim. Show that. Not an angry victim.
Anger makes people seem ugly. If he doesn't get himself under control, you'll
be wasting your money. Not to mention the emotional agony of it.”

 “He can't
hide things, I guess.”

 “He has no
choice.”

 “Poor
Charlie.” The words came out before she could stop them. She had been a true
and loyal wife, an ally and a friend. At the beginning they had planned a large
family. Charlie would have been perfect in the role of wise father for a large
brood instead of investing so much in one child. It was her fault. She had let
him down. Suddenly she pulled herself up short. What am I doing? she rebuked
herself.

 “Here he
comes,” the lawyer said.

 “Look, Mr.
Forte,” she said hurriedly, “I'll handle it. He'll be fine.”

 “He has to
be, Mrs. Waters. I kid you not.”

 Charlie
strode across the dining room, trying to put some confidence in his step. See,
he will be fine, she told herself. But it was without conviction.

 “I guarantee
it,” she said, forcing her bravado, her mind searching for another course of
action. If they didn't win this case, Charlie might never recover from the
loss. Never!

 I'll have to
confront Frances one more time, she told herself. I'll beg her to save my Charlie.

The author is
indebted to Judge Paul Dorf, formerly of the Baltimore Municipal Court, for his
valuable information and insight and to Frederika Friedman for her advice,
counsel, and superb sense of craft.

 FOR
the third time that morning, Frances found herself instructing
Maria, their three-day-a-week cleaning woman, on the care and feeding of Baby
Mark. It was the language barrier that made her anxious, even though Maria had
birthed eight children in Peru and there was not the slightest doubt of her
reliability and competence.

 “No worry,
Meeses,” Maria said, patting Frances's arm. Baby Mark slept peacefully, bundled
in his carriage on the patio, clearly visible through the breakfast nook bay
window.

 “Bottle in
the refrigerator,” Frances said. She looked at the kitchen clock. “I come back
two, three hours.”

 “No worry,
Meeses,” Maria smiled, glancing at the carriage in its pool of bright winter
sun.

 Her anxiety
and discomfort were not totally attributable to Baby Mark. Her decision to meet
with Molly seemed to fly in the face of her best instincts, and she felt now as
if she were disobeying the inner voice of reason. To make matters worse, she
had not told Peter about the meeting although she had mentioned Molly's previous
calls, both of which she had cut short with a curt, “It's out of my hands now.”

 “What else
could you do?” Peter had responded. “To talk to her would only exacerbate the
situation.”

 Exacerbate!
The word had lingered in her mind from another time.

 “Wouldn't it
be wise to send them back?” he had asked then. “They'll only exacerbate the
situation.” At first she had been stunned by the question. Send back Molly and
Charlie's Christmas presents for Tray? They had been married a little over two
months, and Tray seemed to have been slowly weaned away from the idea of
Chuck's parents as central to his life. But it was the word Peter used,
exacerbate
,
that placed an additional note of confusion on the issue, and she rushed to the
dictionary to get its meaning. “To exasperate, make angry.”

 He hadn't
meant to flaunt a superior education. The word had come naturally. Yet it
seemed so much more threatening and ominous than the word
angry
.

 “He's always
had gifts from them at Christmas,” Frances had argued, although “exacerbate”
had considerably weakened her protest. She certainly did not want to have their
new happy little family threatened by exacerbation. “He must be expecting
them.”

 “A Christmas
gift demands some form of reciprocation. Are you planning to give them a gift?”

 “Well, no,”
she said hesitantly, having already determined that such sentiment would open
the door to premature communication.

 “And Tray?”

 “He mentions
it in passing, of course. I sort of turn away the idea by ignoring it. Anyway,
kids are more interested in themselves at Christmas. It's their holiday.”

 “At this
point I think we should just be concerned with reminders. No matter how you
rationalize, their gifts would come with fishing lines. Before you know it,
they would be reeling them in. Do you want to start the cycle of resentment all
over again?”

 “Of course
not. But this seems so harsh.”

 “And I
suppose I seem like Ebenezer Scrooge for suggesting it.”

 “In a way you
do,” she said. “But it probably makes sense for the moment. He does still ask
questions about them.”

 “Do you think
Tray will be upset?” Peter asked.

 “It's hard to
tell. He's adjusted so well. It depends on the way we handle it.”

 “He could do
without the pressure,” Peter pointed out, not with any burning advocacy, but in
his patient, logical manner. “Give him a little breathing room. Let's not push
over the apple cart in a moment of sentimental weakness.”

 It was, of
course, compelling logic. He had begun to call Peter “Daddy,” and the two were
growing closer by the day, with Peter making a special effort to win Tray's
trust and, of course, affection.

 “It just
seems so cruel.”

 “Not cruel.
Realistic and consistent. We've either committed to it or we haven't.”

 “But it's
Christmas. A special time.”

 “Exactly the
point,” he said gently. “It's a time of vulnerability. The question we have to
ask ourselves is, are we ready to accept the burden, the resentment, the
sarcasm and bitterness. There's a pecking order of priorities here. Leave the
door ajar, and soon we'll have the fox back in the chicken coop.”

 She didn't
like the idea, although she did agree with the concept. Even as they discussed
it, she began to resent her ex-in-laws' intrusion in her family's otherwise
tranquil and happy new lives. Actually, since her marriage, they seemed to
intrude less and less, and their influence was diminishing. No more guilt. No
more self-recrimination. No more gut-wrenching second thoughts about her
conduct.

 Molly and
Charlie's presents were spread out in boxes on the floor of the foyer. She
looked at them and shook her head.

 “It looks
like they bought out the store.”

 “You can't
blame them. They want to pound the point home.”

 “It was hard
enough telling them. I try not to think about how they're taking it.” She crossed
her arms over her stomach. She had just learned that she was pregnant. The
gesture seemed to trigger his emphasis.

 “You mustn't.
We have other concerns. We're putting together a new life. There's the house.
All the work that goes into getting it in shape. And the baby. Not to mention
Tray and his problems. His new school, a new father. And your getting used to
me. I'm sure that's not too easy either.” He was fishing for a little solace
now, she knew. Like her, he hated deliberately hurting other people. Despite
his arguments, she knew he was just as distressed as she was.

 “You've been
wonderful, Peter. I have no complaints in that department.” She moved toward
him, and he embraced her.

 “You don't
think I'm a little stodgy? Engineers have that reputation.”

 “But I know
what's beneath the surface, you see.” She lifted her face, and he kissed her
deeply.

 “It comes
down to the old question. What's best for us? Let Tray get used to the new
nest. Why remind him of the old one? At least, not yet.”

 “I still feel
funny about it.”

 “So do I.”

 She looked at
the presents.

 “It's so
much. It seems like . . .”

 “A bribe.”

 “That's one
way of looking at it.”

 Peter's
parents had already sent their gifts. They were, of course, more than generous.
But not nearly as abundant as those sent by Molly and Charlie. No, she decided,
she would leave that alone. Her new in-laws were coming for Christmas, the
first with their son's new family.

 “But I'll go
with whatever decision you make,” Peter said.

 “No you
won't. This will have to be a joint decision.”

 He looked at
her intensely, waiting. She remembered that she had stood in the foyer among
the gifts, facing him.

 “I'll just
leave one of the cards,” she said finally.

 “That's
probably the best compromise.”

 Later, it
surprised her how little she brooded over it, even knowing that it was an act
of cruelty on her part. Odd, how the mind rationalizes, she had thought, and
makes itself well again. Besides, as a genuinely loving and devoted mother and
wife, living a busy, happy life, she could not conceive of herself as
intrinsically cruel. It was like reading a newpaper story of some hideous act,
far away. It touched her for the moment, then passed.

 Not quite. On
Christmas morning, Tray went through his gifts with the usual gurgles of
surprise and satisfaction, with Peter's parents greatly enjoying the spectacle.
It was truly wonderful to see how they had taken Tray into their hearts. Tray
had responded in kind, and the whole scene was one of warm, familial affection.
Then, suddenly, Tray had asked, “Didn't Grampa and Gramma Waters send me
anything?”

 “They sent
this lovely card, Tray,” Frances said, as her heart jumped to her throat. Tray
looked at it with some confusion, started to say something, then frowned.
Seeing his reaction, Peter jumped between them with a loud exclamation.

 “Bet I can
get to the castle first.” He was referring to the computer game he had just
unwrapped, a game of knights and dragons. Tray hesitated, obviously still
wrestling with the idea of the missing gifts. Peter reached out and tickled his
ribs. The boy giggled.

 “Bet I can,”
Peter pressed as Tray squirmed.

 “Bet you
can't.”

 Frances was
relieved. A critical moment had passed. Or had it? Had it been the right thing
to do? she wondered, taking some comfort from seeing her son and his new father
eagerly at play, full of smiles. She took the card and quietly replaced it
under the tree, amid the cluttered jungle of unopened gifts.

 Nevertheless,
Frances had agreed to see Molly, whose call yesterday bore an ominous note of
desperation that somehow triggered her conscience.

 “It's
strictly between us, Frances,” Molly had said. “Woman to woman.”

 “But it won't
change anything, Molly.”

 “There's no
harm in talking.”

 “It's an unnecessary
aggravation. I have my kids to worry about. And Peter.”

 “We've never
been enemies, Frances.”

 “But we are
involved in a very delicate controversy.”

 “I'm not
asking for anything more than talk,” Molly pleaded. “Just talk.”

 “Can't we do
it on the telephone, then?” It had been her first mistake. Fight off the guilt,
she had begged herself. As she begged herself now.

 “Face to
face, Frances. Please.”

 “Peter would
never approve.” She was immediately regretful. Approval was not the proper
word. Agree, she thought. He would never agree. Approval made her appear
subservient. Nevertheless, she let it pass.

 “Just between
us,” Molly pressed.

 “But look at
the terrible position you put me in. I have no intention of changing my mind.”

 “So then where's
the harm?”

 “There is
harm in it, Molly.”

 “I promise I
will not bother you again. I promise.” Her tone was urgent, pressured.

 “Does that
mean you will drop the suit?” She felt oddly encouraged. Perhaps such an idea
was germinating in Molly's mind. “You realize, of course, that it is a terrible
disruption for Peter and myself.”

 “For us,
too.” There was a long pause. “Maybe,” Molly said hesitantly.

 “You mean
maybe you will drop the suit?”

 “There are
endless possibilities if human beings will just sit down and talk.”

 “That doesn't
answer my question,” Frances had countered.

 They had gone
round and round in that vein, but since the possibility of ending the suit had
been broached, she had finally agreed. Very quickly it had seemed more like capitulation
on her part.

 For their
meeting, they had picked a Burger King on Route 40, about a half hour from
Columbia. It was Molly's suggestion that they get there by ten-thirty, just
after breakfast and before the lunch-hour crowds would arrive. There was, she
knew, a great deal of unspoken subtlety involved even in that decision. Somehow
it seemed like neutral ground, a spot where they could appear anonymous, a
midway point between their present worlds.

 This sense of
intrigue annoyed Frances, as well. She had never lied to Peter. Not that she
had lied about meeting with Molly, but to her mind, the failure to mention it
was as good as a lie. She knew it was an exaggeration, but she could not shake
the suggestion of betrayal. Childishly, she wondered what form her punishment
would take, whether it would strike her or her children. It was awful to
contemplate and, before she reached the door to leave, she was overwhelmed by
the desire to call the whole thing off.

 Rushing to
the phone in the den, she misdialed Molly's number, discovering that it had
disappeared from her memory. Information provided it, but she got no answer.
Then she tried Molly's school. One of the clerks in the principal's office told
her that Molly had complained of feeling ill and had taken off for the day. She
knew, of course, what that meant. Still, she did not leave the house. With
growing anxiety, she paced the living room. Molly was, she was certain, on her
way to their meeting place. She looked at the tall clock in the hall. If she
left now, she would already be fifteen minutes late. Perhaps she should wait
until ten-thirty, call Burger King, and tell Molly she had had second thoughts.

 She wondered
if she should call Peter, confess her foolishness, and ask his advice.
Actually, she knew in advance what his advice would be: Don't go. She pictured
Molly sitting there in the restaurant, stomach churning with apprehension and
anxiety, watching the entering patrons, searching their faces, waiting for the
moment that would not come. Suddenly she felt a strange tightness in what she
was sure was her uterus where her new baby was growing. It passed quickly, but
it left her with worrisome thoughts. Would all this angst have any effect on
her daughter?

 With a great
effort of will, Frances put aside her increasing anxiety.

 “There's no
harm in it,” Molly had promised.

 “There had
better not be,” she told herself.

 She was
nearly forty minutes late. Road construction and traffic had held her up even
more than her initial hesitation.