Twilight Child (27 page)

 “It's not
that important.”

 She saw him
frown and sensed his inner agitation. Why couldn't he just leave well enough
alone? she thought bitterly. Then she had hugged him and changed the subject
once again, knowing that it had not yet settled in his mind.

 But the suit,
of course, would not go away, and Peter's frequent whispered phone
conversations with the lawyer attested to the fact that it was very active
indeed. Whenever she referred to it, he deflected her interest, waving the
subject away as if it were a mild disturbance, not worth her concern. She was
perfectly willing to ignore it, knowing that, however long the pause, the
inevitable would come crashing through the window of her illusions.

 It came
nearly three months after her episode with Molly. She was into the fat and
happy period of her pregnancy. The baby was kicking up a storm, and it was
sometimes the object of family wonder and amusement as they, children included,
would touch, listen, and watch the undulating antics of the growing mound of
life in her belly.

 The
expectation blunted her surprise when Peter had announced one day that there
was no avoiding the inevitable any longer. Peck had insisted that they meet in
his office. There were decisions to make, and a trial was imminent. In a way,
she was relieved.

 “Above all, I
want you to remain calm,” Peter warned as they were ushered into the conference
room.

 “I know my
priorities,” she replied, patting her belly and offering an amused grin.

 Henry Peck
carried his bulk into the office. He brought with him a fat accordion folder,
which he untied with thick fingers, then slid out files and a yellow legal pad.
Then he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and peered at Frances through
his steel-rimmed glasses. She noted that his gaze dropped to take in her
condition, not clearly visible over the conference table.

 “Lot of water
over the dam since we last met,” he said with an ironic chuckle and a pull on
his polka dot bow tie.

 “As you know,
I haven't really been filling her in, Henry,” Peter said, clearing his throat,
slightly uncomfortable with the explanation. The first-name intimacy seemed
strange, and she felt some annoyance in observing it, as if they had formed a
private little alliance that excluded her.

 “I realize
that, Peter,” Peck said, turning his attention to Frances. Again, he rubbed his
nose. “There comes a time,” he sighed. Frances looked toward Peter, who raised
his eyes toward the ceiling and shrugged.

 “That's why
I'm here,” Frances said, with some determination.

 “We've gone
the route of petitioning the judge on a technical ruling, citing the adoptive
laws and the fact that there is no point of law in this type of case and,
therefore, that your former in-laws do not have a bona fide case.” Again he
rubbed his nose. “He wasn't buying. Not because we weren't right. But Forte
cited all those cases in other states, and I think the judge, being a
grandparent himself, felt more comfortable with the matter being aired at a
full hearing.”

 Frances
looked at Peter.

 “That doesn't
sound too good.”

 “Not as bad
as you think,” Peter said.

 “But it means
we have to have a trial.”

 “That's
correct,” the lawyer said. He had taken off his glasses and was cleaning them
with a tissue, looking at her with pale, myopic eyes. “I never did expect to
win the technical issue, especially with that judge.”

 “Isn't it the
same judge that will hear our case?”

 “Usually,”
the lawyer said, replacing his glasses and showing her a thin cryptic smile.
“And I seriously considered a postponement, more stalling. Then we got lucky.”

 “We did!”
Frances exclaimed.

 “No judge
really likes these domestic equity cases. They alternate assignments every six
months. This time, the old duffer got out of it, by tossing it to the newest
member of the bench.”

 “And that's
good?” Frances asked.

 “I think so,”
Peck said. “In fact, I'm sure of it.” Shamming a smug expression, he studied
each face in turn. “We've drawn ourselves Judge Anne Stokes, an interim
appointee. Annie Stokes is pretty sharp. And this is her first domestic
relations case. She's in her mid-forties, with two teenage kids. Lost her
husband several years ago. Knows the territory, so to speak. Above all, she's
not a grandparent. And since she's new at the game, and up for her first
election, she'll be in no mood to stretch the law and chance getting it
reversed on appeal. It wouldn't look good for her around election time. The
thing is, Forte was a bit cocky when the technical ruling came down. Now he's
got to eat crow.”

 “But can't he
stall, ask for a postponement?” Frances asked.

 “She'll sit
on this bench for six months. A postponement won't look good for him. After
all, he's the petitioner. And since his clients live within the city limits it
won't be easy for him to ask to be heard in the county. No, I think he's got to
take his chances with Annie.”

 “When is the
trial?” Frances asked.

 “In six
weeks,” Peck said flatly, looking at her. “That will put you in the eighth
month—exactly.”

 Frances
looked quickly at Peter.

 “I've
discussed it with the doctor, Frances,” Peter said. “He wouldn't recommend it,
but he doesn't see it as a major threat. Just as long as you're reasonably
protected from undue aggravation.”

 “Which may be
impossible,” Peck said.

 Frances
frowned.

 “I don't like
it myself. But hear him out,” Peter said.

 She turned
toward the lawyer, waiting. The baby moved suddenly, and she started, smiling.
It gave a false impression of her inner feelings.

 Encouraged,
Peck began.

 “As I
explained earlier, the judge decides. What's best for the child is the main
criterion for judgment. Also the stability of the family unit is paramount.” He
leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his ample stomach. “Who
can dispute that you are a happy, well-adjusted, loving, caring family with
Charles the third as much a part of it as your natural child and the one soon
to arrive?” His tongue flicked out and moistened his lips. “Now. What we must
do is show the judge that Mr. and Mrs. Waters will inject a dark force into
this otherwise happy situation, create tensions inimical to the family and, by
obvious inference, to your son.”

 “I understand
that,” Frances said impatiently.

 “I know you
do, Mrs. Graham,” Peck said gently. “But we are in the business of manipulating
the emotions. Granted, we have a fertile subject in this widowed lady judge.
But we must strike hard and deep into the heart of the judge's psyche.
Everything counts—the obvious, the subtle, and the unconsciously perceived. In
terms of the obvious we have Mr. Waters's instability, his compulsive behavior,
and“—his gaze shot toward Peter—”his suicidal tendencies—”

 Frances felt
an inner lurch, a thudding echo in her head.

 “I didn't—”
she interrupted.

 “Of course I
told him, Frances,” Peter said. “Also about your meeting with Molly and your
near miscarriage. It's all relevant. It can't be helped.”

 “Your husband
is right,” Peck continued. “It happens to be a good break for us.”

 “Some break,”
Frances said indignantly, confused by her defensiveness.

 “It was an
episode that required medical advice,” Peck said.

 “No question
about that,” Peter agreed. “And it did upset the family. I had to take off from
work.” He reached out and patted Frances's hand. “It's a factor.”

 “Undoubtedly,”
Peck said, waiting patiently for further comment. When none came, he continued.
“It's a big plus for us. As for the subtle, we have your condition as exhibit
A, Mrs. Graham.” She had half expected him to call her Frances and was prepared
to resent the intimacy. Instead, she merely resented the idea. Peck was
apparently quick to understand. “It's part of the game. We're in the business
of transmitting messages. And this is one that will not be lost on the judge.
Or on our opponents.”

 “We have to
use every arrow in the quiver, baby,” Peter said.

 “The fact is
that we may actually have a better case than it seemed originally. A child
should not be used as therapy for the aged. Unless, of course, the child
benefits as well. This fellow, Waters, from what Peter tells me, is easily
provoked. Am I right?”

 Although the
question was addressed to Frances, it was Peter who answered.

 “I told him
how Charlie acted on the night we left town. After Frances broke the news about
Tray. He was like a crazy man, irrational. For a minute there, I thought he was
going to attack both of us.”

 “He was very
upset,” Frances said.

 “And at the
school?”

 “He was
definitely not himself.”

 Peck shook
his head.

 “Not that
way,” he said. “On the stand, you can't say that. You will have to imply that
he
was
himself, showing his real persona. That is critical. But I'll be
briefing you on that.”

 She nodded.
No, she told herself, it would not be pleasant. And weren't Charlie and Molly
the ones who were pressing the suit? She was simply defending her position.
Think of Tray, she urged herself.

 “I
understand,” she said, feeling an inner stiffening of resolve.

 “It won't be
a piece of cake.”

 “Can I ask a
question?” Peter asked suddenly. It was the way he said it that seemed somehow
pedantic, as if he already knew the answer. Peck looked at him and nodded, as
if they had rehearsed the scene.

 “Is it
possible to postpone the trial until the baby comes?”

 “Maybe. But
it would be throwing away a good card.”

 “But can we
win without it?”

 “Who can
say?” Peck said. “In this business we deal in probabilities. That doesn't mean
my reasoning is not all wet.”

 “Sooner or
later we'll have to face it,” Peter said. “Unless they withdraw the suit, which
doesn't seem likely.”

 “I'm afraid
you're right. They have absolutely nothing to lose except time and money.”

 “It's a tough
call,” Peter said. He looked at Frances. “You're damned if you do, damned if
you don't.”

 “An axiom of
domestic relations,” Peck said.

 “I don't want
anything to hurt her,” Peter mused. She could tell he was on the razor's edge
of indecision. She felt certain now that he and the lawyer had had this
discussion before and were replaying it for her benefit.

 “I'll do
whatever Mr. Peck thinks,” Frances said, to relieve Peter of the pressure. “I'm
sure I'm strong enough. In fact, I'm in excellent shape and not afraid.”
Peter's hand reached for hers under the table and they entwined fingers. “We
might as well get on with it. Get it behind us.”

 “You're my
only worry. And the kids. All of them,” Peter said, and she knew he meant it.
She could see that Henry Peck was pleased. It was obvious that Peter had
agonized over the question with the lawyer. “If anything happens to her because
of this, I'll never forgive myself.”

 “I won't feel
too good about it either,” Frances said lightly. “And I like the idea of a
woman judge.” Although she didn't much like Henry Peck, she knew he was right.
A widowed woman in the process of raising children would surely understand.

 “So it's go?”
Peck asked.

 “I'll be as
big as a house,” Frances said.

 “The bigger
the better.”

 MOLLY
sat in the empty classroom marking the math tests of her fifth
grade children. It was a gray day, and the rain swept against the windowpanes.
She was not happy with the test results. Nearly half the test papers had shown
a failing grade. She placed the blame for this poor showing directly on her own
head. Pure and simple, she was losing her effectiveness as a teacher.

 Putting down
her pencil, she removed her glasses and massaged the upper part of her nose.
Then she leaned back in her chair and looked about the room, at the rows of
empty desks, the American flag, the blackboard with that day's examples, the
pictures of animals, and framed proverbs: DO UNTO OTHERS AS YOU WOULD HAVE
OTHERS DO UNTO YOU, A STITCH IN TIME SAVES NINE , and her favorite, TODAY IS
THE DAY YOU WORRIED ABOUT YESTERDAY AND ALL IS WELL . Only all wasn't well.

 Charlie was
draining her energies with worry and anxiety. She had managed, by constant
cajoling, to get him out of the house to look for a job. He had gotten one as a
clerk in a tire store, but that hadn't panned out. Then he had landed one as a
gas jockey in a filling station, which she had had to talk him out of, and now
he was working in a plant nursery from which, as far as she could see, he
derived some satisfaction. He had always liked growing things. At least she
hadn't come home to find him with a loaded rifle across his knees. She shivered
at the memory.

 Like a
creeping mass of volcanic lava, the worrisome aspects of her life were slowly
approaching, and she was already beginning to feel their deadly powers of
destruction. These papers, she thought, putting her hand on the top of the
pile, were proof positive that she was losing her touch.

 For years,
her teaching job, her role as purveyor of knowledge, had sustained her. Through
Chuck's death and Tray's departure, it had given her a sense of proud purpose.
Each day, as she entered the world of her classroom and looked into the eager
faces of her children, she was able to throw off the shackles of
disappointments and tragedy that had marred the last few years and pursue a
noble purpose. What she did in the classroom truly mattered. But the oasis
seemed to be disintegrating. The well was running dry.

 And here was
the evidence, she told herself, putting on her glasses again and picking up her
marking pencil. Her condition was not something you could hide, especially from
the children. They were always the first to notice. Nor had it escaped the
eagle eye of Miss Parsons, the new principal. Molly had never worried about new
brooms. Her popularity and competence had always commanded the respect of her
superiors, her students, and their parents.

 At their
conference that morning, Miss Parsons had been all kindness and concern. She
was trying so hard to be liked. Since her arrival, she had treated the staff
with deference, which was, Molly knew, the modus operandi of all new brooms.
Gain everyone's confidence first, then watch for flaws and take quick action.
Union protection might save a teacher's job, but to be judged mediocre did little
for the psyche.

 “You have an
outstanding record, Molly,” Miss Parsons had said. She had thin lips and the
tiniest hint of a lisp. Her auburn hair was frosted blonde, and she favored
beiges and browns and white blouses with large bows. Her eyes crinkled around
the edges when she smiled. Actually, hers was a big, luminous smile that
involved her entire face and, Molly decided, was the secret of her swift rise
in the school system.

 “I appreciate
that, Miss Parsons,” Molly had responded, wary of praise, since she knew she
was not living up to her reputation.

 “The spirit
of excellence is in the air these days, Molly. The board demands that we raise
the overall level of our test results. I have no doubt that you will give us
your best.”

 “I always
have.”

 “For more
than thirty years.”

 “Thirty-four
in September.”

 “If only the
younger teachers had your motivation, Molly,” Miss Parsons said.

 Molly
wondered if all this dwelling on age was an ominous sign. What came next
convinced her.

 “It's so
important for you to be an example.” Miss Parsons had folded her immaculate
white hands primly on her desk. “That's why I want us to have a special
relationship.” She turned on her brightest smile. “I'm asking for your
confidence and, of course, your frankness. If there is anything, anything ever
on your mind, I want you to know that you will have a receptive ear in this
office. Even now.”

 There was no
escaping the fact that Molly had taken more leave and sick days in the last few
months than for a like period in her entire career. But a lawyer's time was
precious and had to be programmed more for his convenience than hers. Not that
she didn't resent the implication that a teacher's time was less valuable than
a lawyer's. The fact that she was taking another half-day off tomorrow was
undoubtedly what had prompted Miss Parsons to summon her to a conference. Her
absences were certainly an inconvenience to the other teachers and an
imposition on the students at a critical time in the term. With the trial
coming up in less than three weeks, she would shortly have to ask for
additional time off. She felt the surveillance of Miss Parsons's eyes, probing
and relentless, despite the smile crinkles. Does she mean now? Molly
speculated.

 “I do have
this personal business,” Molly began tentatively, testing the waters. Miss
Parsons's silence told Molly that there was no going back, that the issue was
the real purpose of their meeting. “A legal matter that, unfortunately,
requires time. It's coming to a head in a few weeks, and I hope, one way or
another, that will be the end of it.”

 “I'm very
relieved to hear that, Mrs. Waters. These matters do debilitate one's energy
and concentration.”

 Miss
Parsons's words had stuck in her mind, and their truth was never more apparent
than at that moment with the evidence of the awful results of this test clearly
documented. Again she took off her glasses. She had hung on to her teaching job
through thick and thin. Many of the friends with whom she had started had long
since retired. Some had gone off to the South and West seeking warmer climes.
Others had found second careers.

 There was no
avoiding the fact that a dramatic change was coming to her life as well. If the
case was lost, there would be no point in staying in Baltimore. Tray's
proximity and unavailability would just be too much for her and Charlie to
bear. Nor could she sustain any enthusiasm for her job if her effectiveness was
eroded by outside pressures. What would I do with myself? she thought gloomily.

 Her life had
started out with such promise. Charlie Waters, her handsome young marine, the
warrior prince of her secret imaginings, had come up to Frederick to the weekly
dance when she was a junior at Hood College. In his dress blues, sporting a
medal for marksmanship on his chest, and with the confidence of just having
finished boot camp at Quantico, he was fully convinced that he had reached the
pinnacle of manhood and that it was his right and obligation to offer himself
up for female worship. He had never quite gotten it out of his mind that it was
he who had made the choice. Molly knew better. One look at him and her lifelong
goose was cooked. His, too.

 Nothing had
ever been sweeter than this discovery of mutual love, the delicious confession
of feeling. In those days young girls from good families scrupulously preserved
their virginity for the marriage bed, and that, too, had its own delicate
sweetness, although couples allowed some imagination and sexual resourcefulness
into the physical process of courtship. There were simple joys in withholding
and waiting, and she did both for three years while he fought America's last
good war. How wonderful it had been to be loyal and true and brave, as if any
violation of these virtues would have had the direst consequences for him on
the battlefield.

 “It was your
love that brought me through it,” he had written, then told her at last in
person. Nothing could ever surpass the miraculous joy of reunion. It was the
most vivid and heart-stirring remembrance of her life.

 In their
three years of being apart, they had written often. She wrote daily, pouring
out her dreams for their future. His response was always to agree
wholeheartedly. In retrospect, they were simple, innocent, and undemanding
dreams. It was the era of the picket fence fantasy—a little house, three
beautiful children, a car, a dog, and endless happily ever afters. Although it
had not been specified then, it must have surely included the ultimate reward
of the earned joy of being grandparents, and of a wise and painless old age.

 There was no
denying, even now, the goodness and sustaining power of the old dreams. But it
was the shock of bitter reality, such as infertility and sudden death, that was
the real test of life. It wasn't fair, especially now when one could see no
light at the end of the tunnel. Don't talk to me of the hereafter, Molly
thought, as she grew more and more contemplative about her life's ending. What
about the here and now?

 It had never
occurred to either of them to violate the caveat of the marriage ceremony that
pledged sustained union through better or worse. Well, the time of “worse” was
upon her.

 She tried to
shake herself out of these increasingly repetitive and depressing thoughts, a
goal that was growing more and more difficult to attain. After all, they had
their health. It seemed so, at least in a shallow physical sense. But a man who
sat alone in a darkened room with a loaded rifle poised across his legs wasn't
exactly in tip-top mental condition. In a swift, sudden motion she stabbed her
pencil into the paper she was marking. The point broke and, in an uncommon
gesture of frustration, she threw the useless pencil across the room.

 It wasn't
only the overwhelming number of wrong answers on the papers that made her
testy, but the recognition of so many wrong answers in her own life. I'm
flunking, too, she decided. F for wife. F for mother. F for mother-in-law. F
for grandmother, and now F for teacher. She giggled hysterically at these
conclusions. Never had she held herself in such low esteem.

 Gathering up
her papers, she put on her raincoat, shut off the lights in the classroom, and
let herself out of the near-deserted school. Rain, driven by the wind, wet her
face and stockings. It did not help her gloomy attitude.

 Driving home
had lately been fraught with sinking apprehensions. What would Charlie be like?
How low would he be? Would he be brooding and morose? It had come down to what
degree of depression she would have to confront. Her reserves of optimistic
encouragement were running out. There was nothing sadder than an overage
cheerleader doing somersaults before near-empty stands.

 She found
Charlie sitting in the kitchen, sipping from a mug of hot coffee, smoking a
cigarette and looking out into the yard. Lately their evening meal had
consisted of salad, a baked potato, and some broiled meat or fish. It was an
unspoken rule between them that whoever arrived first was to set the table,
make the salad, and put the potatoes in to bake. That none of this had been
done was, in itself, an ominous sign.

 “What is it
now?” she asked, letting her briefcase full of papers fall to the floor with a
purposeful thud. The sound startled him into alertness, and he looked at her
with some confusion.

 “You blew it,
right?” She felt her sense of control burst, and she wished she could withdraw
the tone of her question.

 “Blew what?”

 His answer
confused her.

 “Your job,”
she pressed, wanting to strike out. “Don't try to kid me, Charlie. You blew
your job. Why else would you be home so early?”

 “It's
raining.”

 “I am aware
of that,” she snapped.

 “Too hard to
work in the mud. Simple as that.”

 She felt
ashamed, humiliated. It seemed now to be the regular condition of her life.
Ever since she had met with Frances, she had had to contend with the terror of
what she had done. It gnawed at her, colored everything she did and thought.
And now she had shown her lack of confidence in Charlie, her lack of faith. Had
she also demonstrated that in the manner in which she recounted her meeting
with Frances? She had, of course, told both Charlie and Forte about their
meeting, offering, with precise editing of the most important facts, the most
graphic retelling she could muster, illustrating Frances's total intransigence
and willingness to fight to the last to enforce her and Peter's decision. But
she had, with great willpower and reluctance, omitted any reference to Charlie
and his “suicidal tendencies.” In fact, the revelation filled her with
revulsion and disgust, and she lived with the hope that, in the courtroom, the
information would be respected as confidential, although she was not overly
optimistic on that point. It was a self-inflicted agony, she had decided, her
cross to bear for the moment, notwithstanding that it was driving her crazy
with anxiety. There was no sense alarming either Charlie or the lawyer,
especially since hers could have been an over reactive interpretation. Besides,
a similar event had not occurred, although she had hidden the shells as a
precaution. Not that it mattered. He could always get more if he wanted them.

 “Thought we
might go out for dinner is all,” Charlie said. “You all right?”

 The weight of
it all was pressing down on her, squeezing her insides. There seemed to be no
way to stop it.

 “I wish we
hadn't started it,” she said suddenly, the words beyond her control. She could
see the hasty anger tremble through him.