True continued her attack.
“Would you rather drop him off in front of a lineup of Range Rovers driven by blonde ponytails with cell phone implants?” It might have sounded like good-natured ribbing, but trust me—it wasn’t.
“I want him to be in a benign place with small classes where they don’t sell crack from vending machines.”
“Are there any children of color in the class at all?”
I blanch at “children of color.” I think I’d even prefer the old-fashioned “darkies” as the patronizing term of choice.
“I haven’t taken a poll,” I responded. Of course, if a poll were to be taken, the likely result would be one or two out of thirty, probably with doctor or TV-producer parents.
Technically, of course, Caleb is a “child of color” himself, but all of the color had been bleached and strained out of his chromosomes, at least as far as I can see. I think True was a bit disappointed. I wonder if True would have shown such an initial interest in me if I hadn’t told her the story of my black great-grandfather, Ambrose Fourchette, who worked in the cane fields in Louisiana, but made extra money lending to the black and Italian workers who were less thrifty than he was. Ambrose’s entrepreneurial spirit allowed him to send his son Junius to Dillard University in New Orleans. When Junius wanted to pursue a law degree he found it necessary to travel north to Chicago where his intelligence and perspicacity earned him a fellowship at Northwestern.
Junius then moved to Newark where he opened an office and specialized in real estate law. He was a dapper figure who frequented jazz clubs and kept a cottage near the beach in Atlantic City. He married his secretary, Lina, a white woman whose Sicilian family (he already felt a closeness to Italians) boycotted their wedding and to whom she never spoke after the marriage. They had three children, two of whom were dark and one who had coffee skin. The latter was my father, Alexander. Alexander went to Rutgers where he earned a law degree. There he met and married a white woman, my mother, Sylvia, who is coincidentally also of Italian descent, so at least in some way he followed his father’s footsteps. He invented a process for dry cleaning and opened a shop where he perfected and branded it and sold it to other dry cleaners. He and my mother moved to Scarsdale, where he bought a large white house with Monticello columns and this was where I was born. I had a difficult birth that ordained I would be an only child. I came out with a lightly tanned complexion and nappy, dark hair. Before our current cosmopolitan era my swarthy appearance might have been a handicap in the cracker-dominated upper strata of American society. I think of it now as the “new cosmopolitan” look. If I were driving a Bentley others might assume that I was an Arab prince or a globe-trotting broker of arcane financial instruments.
True continued to press. “I mean are we trying to raise one more little elitist snob?”
“True, can we not…” I implored, trying to stem the descent of the conversation.
“Really, Mitchell. I am serious.”
Her credibility here was strong. True never calls me now except when she is serious. I knew that in this moment she confused her anger at me with what is best for Caleb.
“Bayside is a gentle and nurturing place.” I engaged with her as if it made a difference. I am addicted to go-nowhere dialectic. “I think Caleb has enough to deal with under present circumstances without saddling him with big social challenges.” I said this waiting for True’s bottom line. It is rarely a long wait.
“I want him to go to Jefferson.”
“We discussed this before.”
“I know we did. But I’ve had a chance to think it over.”
“What are you saying to me?”
“I’m saying I want him to go to Jefferson.”
“You just can’t stand the idea of his going to school closer to me. You think it diminishes you as a mother.”
“I think being separated means I don’t have to listen to another self-serving, narcissistic analysis of me.”
Self-serving may be near the mark. But I would like to think that my narcissism was the chaff that was separated from me when my already pounded life and career were tossed into the wind. In this regard, I think I am a better person for what has happened to me. Nonetheless I tried to respond evenly to True.
“Fine. Now what?”
“I think he should go to Jefferson.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“He is six years old, Mitchell! I am his mother! Mothers are the ones who take care of six-year-olds, not fathers! You can teach him to play baseball when he’s eight! Get a life!”
She hung up, very much aware that by choosing the telephone for communication she retained the option of cutting me off after having delivered the last word. Experience has shown that she uses the cutoff option about one time in five. I suspected, however, that her threat was empty. Although we hadn’t made a legal custody arrangement, we had been sharing Caleb on an almost equal basis since our separation. He stayed with her four nights a week, with me for three.
It was a hard compromise at the time. I argued through my attorney that because of True’s responsibilities at the college, I would have more freedom to see to his needs and therefore should be granted sole physical custody. It was really a tactical position—a lowball first offer. I didn’t want to deprive Caleb of his mother. I just wanted to make sure I was in the picture and not relegated to taking him to Disneyland and McDonald’s on every other weekend. This position didn’t go well with True. She had issues of trust when dealing with me and I will admit that they are, considering the past year’s events, completely justified. No doubt she felt vulnerable, cornered and panicked. Although we had agreed before to work through a mutually agreed upon mediator, she precipitously hired a lawyer, a dowdy, obese, angry woman who radiated man-hater the first time I saw her.
It had to be clear to True that, if she went to court, no judge was going to send Caleb to Jefferson over Bayside. Even her harpy feminist lawyer had to know that. In family court the interests of the child always come first. I am a responsible, caring and doting father and Bayside is the perfect school. She had to lose, so there was no sense for her to push it. This was one storm I could weather. Or so I thought. Since then I have learned that the first rule of the law is that it will always blindside you.
That afternoon there was a polite knock on my door. The frozen doorbell button, a rent-control staple, had long been immobilized with thick layers of petrified paint. I opened the door to find a man in his twenties standing impolitely close to the threshold, dressed in a neatly ironed polo shirt and creased khakis. I first suspected he might be bearing long-awaited news of Jesus to any stranger who might be cloddish enough to answer the door, but then he spoke my name.
“Mr. Fourchette?”
I was torn. I didn’t like that he knew my name. On the other hand, his wide smile suggested good news. I risked a response.
“Yes.”
He raised his left hand which held some papers. As they came into view I could see that they were court papers. He offered them to me. Unthinkingly, I reached out to accept.
“You’re served.”
The papers turned to kryptonite in my hands as the server turned on his heels and left. I read them twice, put in a call to my lawyer, and then read them a dozen times more.
You must not molest, threaten, harass, batter, sexually threaten, telephone, send messages to, follow, stalk, destroy personal property or disturb the peace of True Fourchette.
I thought it was interesting that she chose to use her married name on the petition. She rarely used it otherwise, preferring to be known as True Whitbridge.
You must stay at least two hundred yards away from True Fourchette. You must stay at least two hundred yards away from 3299 Colonial Avenue.
Are we forgetting who put up half the down payment on that house? Are we forgetting who paid most of the mortgage for four years?
True Fourchette is given temporary physical custody and control of the following minor childr
en of the parties: Caleb Jeffrey Fourchette, age 6.
How could this be? How could she get temporary custody without my speaking a word? Isn’t this America?
Reasonable grounds for the issuance of this order exist and an emergency protective order is necessary to prevent the recurrence of domestic violence, child abuse, child abduction, elder or dependent adult abuse or stalking.
Reasonable grounds? What reasonable grounds could there be to keep me from Caleb?
This order will remain in effect for seven calendar or five court days, whichever is less.
The strategy revealed itself. Jefferson School began in four days. Of course! She was planning on enrolling Caleb at Jefferson during her brief window of unfettered custody. The phone rang. It was Myra, my divorce lawyer returning my call. She was third tier on her best day, but I liked her dress code (muumuus) and her relaxed, ex-hippie attitude. In retrospect I think I might have chosen more pragmatically.
“It’s SOP family attorney bullshit,” Myra said. “When there is an accusation of spousal abuse, the court will admit an ex parte seven-day restraining order without notifying the respondent.”
“If they don’t notify me, why do they call me the respondent? I can’t respond.”
“People take advantage of the statute and use it as a wedge. I guarantee you they won’t even appear to get it extended. I can lodge a bar complaint against her attorney but it will go nowhere.”
“Then I’ll enroll him at Bayside when the order is lifted.”
“She’ll take you to court. And then you’ll be petitioning to change his school instead of just enrolling him. There is potential trauma to the child. The court likes continuity and doesn’t like changes.”
“You mean this cheap shot is going to work?”
“It depends,” she replied.
“On what?”
“On how hard you want to fight. We’d have to go to court. Are you in a position to do that financially? And think about what you are willing to put Caleb through. There will have to be a hearing and he’ll probably have already settled into his new school.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“True is a mama bear and you are trying to take away her cub.”
“I am not trying to take away her cub.”
“I am just trying to explain how she feels. And what you can expect.”
“And I’m supposed to walk away?”
“Of course not. Not if you care about your son. He needs you both.”
You might be thinking that they don’t hand out restraining orders willy-nilly without at least the complainant having offered a reason. Surely True must have told the judge some kind of story to get the restraining order. The truth is that there was an area of vulnerability in our interactions that might be misinterpreted and that True brashly exploited. I regretted the incident long before the ugly legal document was thrust at me. Now I doubly regretted it. In life there is no action without reaction. In the tightening net of time, I sensed an acceleration of consequence.
“And Mitchell…” Myra continued. I know the tone. I know the facts. I expected what was coming. “This is pretty much going to wipe out what’s left in the retainer.”
“You know I’m having problems, Myra.”
“I do. But I’m going to have to ask you for a new retainer. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Can you make two thousand dollars? That will keep us going, anyway.”
“I’ll work on it, Myra.”
Chapter 3
Let me try to clarify the issue of “the incident” and the resulting restraining order by giving you some background. When I departed from our home six months ago, I made an effort to leave cleanly, taking only the clothes from my closet, a boom box and a few books and CDs. Considering the circumstances, I thought anything else might look like looting. The first week out of the house I slept on a pullout sofa in my work mate Steve’s Marina del Rey condo and I would like now to thank him for his kindness and loyalty. At the time almost all of the people I regarded as friends had abandoned me. Some didn’t return calls. Others seemed pained when I caught them on the phone and they fast-forwarded the conversations with news of appointments to get to and children to take care of.
A few years earlier, when True and I bickered over what in retrospect seems a small matter, I slammed the door and stomped off into the night without a plan. Too stubborn to come home to apologize I took a room at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills and had crab cakes at the Ivy. We reconciled tearfully the next day and made good, heavy, grasping love that night. This time there was no money for the Four Seasons, or for the Motel 6 on Santa Monica Boulevard. All my credit cards were maxed. No one but Steve would give me a bed.
The incident in question took place two weeks ago. I was at home shortly after returning from the post office for my daily book mailing. My second-floor apartment, part of a triplex from the fifties, has three smallish rooms and a bathroom. Also there is a garage facing an alley in the back that I use to store my books. The bedroom has a bed without a headboard and an Ikea dresser that emits a lingering acrid chemical smell.
The living room is sparse, but pleasant, with hardwood floors and a large window that lets in ample light. I keep it neat for Caleb. There is a sofa bed fitted with railroad train motif sheets. Caleb is a fan of trains and together we have taken Amtrak south to San Diego and north to Santa Barbara, pressing our noses against the window as the scenery rolls by.
The television has a Sony PlayStation attached and a rack of videogames for Caleb. I’m not a fan of mixing pixels with playtime, but they give me an edge in the never-ending competition with True for Caleb’s affections. At her house he has only a previous-generation Nintendo and a few outdated games.
It pains me that Caleb doesn’t have a room of his own when he is with me, but I dedicated a closet off the living room for him. When I first showed him the apartment I opened the door to the closet and told him that this space belonged to him alone and that only his things would go in there. He seemed genuinely pleased, but soon asked when I was coming back to the house to live with him and mommy.
I have a tiny kitchen with a cheap, narrow stove, a noisy refrigerator, and a small area for a table. I keep my computer on that table and my printer on a milk crate underneath. This is where each day I receive book orders, send email and print postage labels. The orders arrive as email from Amazon with a pleasant and upbeat Pavlovian ding.
The night before the incident I had returned around eight from the late drop at the airport post office. I pulled a Budweiser from the refrigerator and went to the computer to check for new orders. I sat down at the flimsy kitchen chair and touched the spacebar key to wake the computer.
My email page came to life with four new messages in my book-selling account at [email protected]. There were only two orders, a twelve dollar book and a nine dollar book. Disappointing, but at least I wasn’t totally skunked. There was a spam solicitation to buy natural herbs that I deleted. The last one was from [email protected]. I clicked on it and it appeared full screen.
Your email is being returned to you because there was a problem with its delivery. The address which was undeliverable is listed in the section labeled: “——The following addresses had permanent fatal errors ——.”
At the bottom of the page were two file icons. It was not the first time customer email has been returned. I reflexively and fatefully clicked on one.
Ding/ding/ding/ding. Something had taken over my computer and was broadcasting infected spam emails from me to every person in my address book. All of my book customers. All of my contacts from my old job. All of the friends that used to belong to True and me that now were loyal to True. Based on the returned emails in my in-box from defunct addresses, I realized that I was sending them all personal solicitations to buy Viagra from Canada.
I tried to shut down my mail program, but the mouse and keyboard did nothing. Desper
ate, I poked the power button to reboot. When the screen lit up again, there was no Windows desktop, only the infamous Microsoft blue screen of death and the cryptic message:
PAGE_FAULT_IN_NONPAGED_AREA
Win32K.sys
000050(0XFFFFFFE4,0X00000000,0X8E2DB8EC,0X00000000)
Win32K.sys - Address 8E2DB8EC base at 8E200000, Date Stamp
4549aea2
I got on the phone with tech support. They nicked me for $75 as my warranty was expired. The next excruciating five hours (at least an hour of them on hold) with tech support aren’t worth detailing. Mostly I was worried about losing unfulfilled orders and I was desperate to retrieve my data. I sat at the kitchen table, depending on the respective mercies of Sami, Gwen, Mike and Rajid, all sitting in Bangalore, all of them presumably with their own personal problems more important than my blue screen, and no doubt with a boss who docked them when they spent too much company time with one caller.
My kitchen table is the redoubtable Ikea Ingo, accompanied by three of Ikea’s classic and simple Ivar dining chairs. The Ivar is fine for sitting with a microwaved meal and reading the Los Angeles Times spread out on the Ingo but it’s a disaster as a working desk chair. After two hours planted in front of the computer on the Ivar, the lower back no longer works as a transparent and synergistic part of the body team. After I sat for five hours trying to subdue the intruder virus, my lower back attacked me with deep, recalcitrant spasms.
At three in the morning, my computer was mostly restored and I collapsed on my bed. Being flat on my stomach was the only tolerable position due to my rib pain. When I awoke at eight needing to pee, I was unable to lift myself out of the bed and needed to roll off the edge, placing my knees on the floor. From there I crawled to the dresser, grabbed on and hauled myself up, and then hobbled to the bathroom.
Standing in front of the toilet, attempting the yogic discipline of trying to empty my bladder without tensing my lower back and thus inciting another spasm, I began to ruminate wistfully on the Herman Miller Aeron chair that was still at True’s (formerly Mitchell’s and True’s) Mar Vista house. After weeks of experimentation with its controls, I had zeroed in on the perfect combination of seat height, lumbar depth, lumbar height and tilt tension. That chair and I were as one. Eight hundred dollars seemed extravagant, even in the salad days of a comfortable salary and a booming stock market, but that chair stands out as one of my all-time best purchases.
Some Books Aren’t for Reading Page 3
