by Roger Herst
By the time they were seated at a table for two, he seemed ready to explode. She had never seen him so upset—not when challenged by demonstrators at the rifle range or on New Year’s Eve, when irate anti-gun crusaders had treated him like an emissary from the devil.
“I once thought I should be awarded the Nobel Prize for parenting,” he confessed, pointing both thumbs back at himself and exhaling air like a steam whistle. “What a joke.”
She didn’t think philosophic, rabbinical insights would help. Nor would a comment on how common parenting problems were. Instead, she gazed directly into his eyes to show that she wanted to listen.
“California’s a bust for my kids. The land of dreams is a grand dud. Bad schools. Bad influences. Full of people trying to rectify broken lives exported from elsewhere. I often think the government should change its name from the State of California to the State of Second Chances. The Mexicans are fleeing poverty and the Chinese, the corruption in their pathetic homeland. Then there are fugitives from the East Coast fleeing bad marriages, lost jobs, and dysfunctional families. Everybody’s in a hurry to compensate for lost time. If I let the boys stay there, they’ll probably end up as addicts or delinquents. And if they manage to escape that fate, they’ll be as shallow and ill-educated as their peers.”
“What prevents you from suing for custody?” she asked, her tone was soft and non-accusatory.
“Lots of things. To begin with, the legal costs. Once you turn on an attorney you can’t turn him off until he’s bled you dry. Suing is not about justice, but about a transfer of wealth. Plaintiffs and defendants both end up fleeced. I’ve been saving hard for my kids’ education. After the lawyers take their cut, there won’t be much left. So what will we have gained? If I’m lucky and win a custody suit, which isn’t likely given the tenor of the courts these days, the money for their education will be gone. There are worse things, but that’s not why I’ve been saving. And since Agnes hasn’t got a steady income, I’m footing her living expenses as well as Donald’s and Ian’s. If she needs a lawyer, guess who’s going to end up paying her legal fees? So from the very outset my costs will double. The smarter my lawyer is, the more I’ll have to pay for hers. The smarter her attorney, the more I’ll need to pay for mine. Two sharks will chew me up.”
His fist, tightly coiled, lay on the table. She reached over to pry open his fingers and relieve the tension. To her surprise, she found a bullet in his palm.
“When I’m nervous I hold this,” he explained in an embarrassed tone. “A habit, just a habit, signifying nothing special.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment. It’s clear you’re hurting a lot,” she said as she removed the cartridge from his palm and balanced it in her own. Heat from his fingers, stored in the copper casing, transferred to hers. The bullet struck her as inordinately heavy and compact. She tried to assess its power as an amulet, not as a lethal weapon. Joel seemed willing to entrust her with it for the moment.
He said, “I have a friend who got caught in a nasty custody suit. It almost drove him mad. The very worst in people comes out in court. Pettiness. Jealousy. Past marital grievances erupt like backed-up sewage. I know Agnes. If I press, she’ll fight like a snarling wildcat. Of course, most suits never make it before a judge or jury. When my friend could no longer pay the legal fees, his lawyer changed his tune and strongly suggested a settlement.”
“Maybe Agnes will let you take the children so she can concentrate on making movies.”
“You don’t know her. She doesn’t want something until somebody else does, then she turns into a piranha. Agnes may not want the responsibility of parenting her kids, but she won’t delegate it to me.”
A young waiter, order book stuffed into his hip pocket, stopped to inquire if they wished their glasses refilled. Gabby didn’t; Joel did.
“What do the boys want?” she asked as soon as the waiter disappeared.
He hesitated; it cost him a visible effort to reply. “What they really want is for their mother and father to get back together. They want us to be a nuclear family. Isn’t that what all kids with divorced parents want? They don’t understand why their parents split and what drove them apart. Of course, Agnes has explained to them what she’s trying to accomplish in California, but how much sense it makes to them, I don’t know. I can’t tell you that they definitely want to return to Washington and live with me. The truth is, they probably don’t. But at the same time, I think they like Washington better than L.A.”
She took his left hand in hers and returned the bullet to his palm, folding his fingers around it. “Thanks for being honest with me, Joel. Are you ready to begin legal action?”
“Once I start, there’s no stopping. I’ve got to be absolutely sure; it’s all or nothing. And I’ve got to figure out school schedules for the kids. And, of course, a new schedule for myself. I’ve always been the chief cook and bottle washer around the house. Domestic tasks don’t worry me.”
“I can’t help other than to listen, Joel. But I have one thought to share with you. From what you tell me, it sounds as though you understand the scope of the problem. If I thought there were something major that you had missed, I would remind you. But you’ve got a firm handle on the issues. That’s essential for making a good decision.”
“What would you do in my circumstance?”
“What I would do is probably different than what you should. I’ve not been blessed with children, so my opinion would sound like that of a Jesuit priest telling a married couple about marriage.”
“Forget that,“ he pursued impatiently. “I think you know about such matters and I respect your opinion. What would Gabby Lewyn do?”
It seemed to be a day for breaking her own rules. She’d vowed not to offer marital advice since marriage was difficult enough without an outsider trying to unravel its complexities. But she appreciated the feelings parents have for their children and knew how she would feel about her own. She said, “I just can’t imagine not fighting for my own kids – even if I knew it might be counter-productive. I don’t think I’d be as sober and objective as you are.”
When it was time to leave, he held her hand. The firmness of his grasp was reassuring and there was a comfortable closeness between them as they walked in silence to her Jeep, parked in a residential district a block away. He waited until she had climbed into the driver’s seat before he spoke. “Thanks, Gabby. I feel better now. It helps to talk things out.”
“Hold on to your magic bullet, Joel. I know it will bring you good luck.”
Driving home through heavy Saturday night traffic, she murmured to herself, “A million lives and a million tragedies.” That thought triggered another. Joel carried heavy family baggage into their friendship. If there was any future for them as a couple, and she realized—for the first time—she’d begun to consider that there might be, two adolescent boys were part of the equation. A sane woman would run away as fast as she could and into a relationship without troubles she had not caused nor had any hope of fixing. That line of thought remained with her until she reached her condominium. But if the logic was so clear, why, she asked herself, had she held his hand? Why had she begun to feel his pain? And why had she allowed him to introduce her into his world?
***
Once the spring tennis season began, Lydia Browner moved her students to the eighteen har-tru surfaced courts at Chevy Chase Country Club, just beyond the District of Columbia line. For Gabby, getting there was an easy commute, up Connecticut Avenue, from the synagogue. The club had recently renovated its facilities and, this time, the stodgy, all male board of directors had succumbed to modernity and designated space for a women’s locker room, equipped with sauna, steam bath, and Jacuzzi. As a tennis professional, licensed to teach at the club, Lydia enjoyed the use of a large private locker that she willingly shared with her new doubles partner.
With the return of outdoor play, Gabby became more self-assertive, a fact that pleased her coach. Doubles strategy is ba
sed on forcing the weaker member of a team into making errors and Lydia did not want opponents to be able to exploit her partner’s errors. When that occurred, she insisted, a teammate, no matter how strong, could do little.
Drill became longer and harder. Gabby’s forehand service return needed special attention. From half-court, Lydia powered trial serves at her student, forcing Gabby to react instinctively and step into the ball to position her racquet. For volley practice, Lydia’s associate pro at the club pumped bullet volleys at the Browner-Lewyn team, fine-tuning their skills at defending the middle court and drilling them to return low. No practice session was complete without at least 40 minutes of stiff singles competition. To instill the killer instinct, Lydia insisted that Gabby treat each match as a tournament match.
Gabby had long observed the modesty of women in locker rooms, how they moved to and from the showers wrapped in towels and exposing far less flesh than in they did in swimsuits. The same held true for the sauna or steam rooms. Lydia was an exception. She knew she possessed a show-stopping figure and moved through the locker room completely nude, often stopping to chat with other tennis players. Her well-toned, well-tanned form, with its slender waist and firm, tight buttocks, never failed to attract admiring, if not jealous, glances. The constant extension and contraction of her chest muscles, as she stretched for overheads and serves, had reduced the fatty tissue in her breasts to a minimum, but what was left was perfectly proportioned. In the close confines near the locker, Gabby could not avoid repetitious contact with Lydia’s flesh.
She stepped into the aisle to prevent further bumping while Lydia dressed and asked, “What makes you so chipper these days?”
Lydia flashed a mischievous smile. “Well, for one thing, Kate’s finally left. Our relationship hadn’t been working for a year and we let things trail along far too long. By the time we recognized it was broken, she was suffocating me. It's great to be single again.”
“Did she find somebody else?” asked Gabby, buttoning her blouse.
“I honestly don’t know. I’ve already expended more energy on her than I should have. Unfortunately, women who interest me come with heavy baggage. And the older they are, the more baggage they seem to bring.”
Gabby chuckled aloud, momentarily offended Lydia.
“What's so amusing?” she growled.
“I’m not laughing at you, Lydia. It’s just that the pairing of couples is so untidy. Sometimes I think that arranged marriages are more efficient. They eliminate all the fuss and leave the decision to impartial judges, not dreamers driven by hormones.”
For the journey home, Lydia wore a loose-fitting navy sweat suit, the collar turned up stylishly. Gabby had a committee meeting at the synagogue and had resumed her professional suit, silk blouse, and pumps with moderate heels—not the casual wear she preferred once her daily rabbinical duties were complete. She knew that the committee members would come casual, but they expected her dressed in business attire. Early in her career she had resented the inequality, but over the years had come to accept it as part of her job.
Her Jeep was parked closer to the club entrance than Lydia’s van was. She had just pushed the electronic door opener when she felt a restraining hand on her arm. Floodlights on the clubhouse behind them had created a pattern of shadows on the tarmac. Lydia’s head was silhouetted against the distant sodium vapor lamps. “You know, Gabby,” she said, “I’ve now got an extra room in my apartment. If Chuck doesn’t come to live with me, and I don’t think he will, I’ll need to fill it. I can’t think of anybody I’d like there more than you. We could be great together. In a way, we’re already a team. Interested?”
Shock forced the oxygen from Gabby’s lungs. Was this a proposition as well as an invitation? She struggled with a response and came up with something that sounded not only evasive, but ridiculous. “Oh well, you know, Lyddy, that I’ve got my own condo. And by the time I’m sixty, I will have paid off the mortgage.”
Lydia shook her head, her eyes now apparent in the dull light. They refused to let Gabby escape with such a feeble reply. “I’m not being frivolous. I’d like you to think about this, please.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Gabby remained nonplussed.
“No need to move in immediately. We could get to know each other—off the courts, that is. Spend some social time together. You’re a professional woman, self-reliant, and independent. That’s the kind of woman I need. Kate wanted me to be the child she needed to mother. I have no quarrel with earth mothers, only let them fawn over their own children.”
Gabby grappled with her discomfort and fibbed, “I’m sorry, Lydia, I’m seeing someone these days.” Joel Fox came to mind to validate the not-quite falsehood.
“Well, partner, just remember that you know what you get with me. I don’t mind strong competition. You know that, don’t you? But you must also know that I always win.”
“Absolutely.” Gabby sounded absurd to herself. She yanked forcefully at the door of her Jeep. “See you Thursday at practice,” she said, hauling herself into the cab. Lydia remained frozen on the asphalt parking lot.
Sleuthing
Early April
Thomas Belmont had begun the final descent into what Gabby’s doctor friends privately referred to as “the dwindles.” Though Gabby knew Chuck had a survivor’s spirit, ministering to a dying love one had stolen much of his fire. She remembered Lydia’s saying once that Chuck would sink but never perish; his excitement about things around him constantly propelled him forward, not down. Gabby was confident in his ability to cope, even through his grief.
“Noah Zentner has been trying to call you,” he reported, from his customary spot in the doorway to her study. “He won’t leave a message or a return number. Says he’ll keep trying.”
“Any ideas what he has in mind?” she asked. She often looked to Chuck, whom she believed had a better grasp of human motivations than she did.
“Nope. But he sounded frustrated and impatient. On a brighter note, he said he’d be delighted to meet at the Skulkins’ about a memorial for Bart. There was a chuckle in his voice as if he knew attendance would cost him a few shekels.”
“Rich people are like that. The Zentners have always been gracious about philanthropy, making it easy for the recipients.”
“Why not? You can only spend so much on yourself.”
“There you go, Chuck. How about a charitable interpretation? The family appreciates its wealth and wants to spread its fortune around.” Gabby was in a good mood this morning, apropos of nothing in particular, and gratified that, at least, Noah and she were talking again. Now that he was a father, it seemed thoroughly appropriate.
When he called forty minutes later, though, he didn’t sound like Chuck had reported. “Got an unpleasant situation here, Gabby,” he said, launching immediately into what was foremost on his mind. “Do you recall meeting Colin Jameson at my home? The Police Commissioner?”
“Of course.”
“He telephoned last night. Seems Chief of Police Stephen Noyas is under pressure from Representatives Lillian Green from Kentucky and Cyril Millensky from Wisconsin. Both are Democrats on the Congressional Committee for the District of Columbia. They’re demanding, not requesting mind you, but demanding instant progress in the investigation of Bart’s murder.”
“I’m glad somebody is still interested, but I’m confused,” Gabby interjected. “Why is Congress involved? I thought this was the District's jurisdiction.”
“Technically it is, but Congress can get involved when it wants. It seems that Dov Shellenberg has been complaining. He knows Green and Millensky on the reception circuit and inveigled them to intercede.”
Dov’s hobnobbing annoyed her more than she was willing to express in public. Denouncing his intervention to Noah would have been satisfying, but professional conduct demanded she issue a protective statement instead—feeble though that might sound to her own ears. “Dov brushes some pretty important shoulders on the Hill these days. Ma
ybe his complaints will light a fire at the police department.”
“No, Gabby,” Noah said. “I don’t have to tell you that city officials resent congressional meddling. The police particularly hate the feds looking over their shoulders and giving orders. They point out that the dozen different federal enforcement agencies have bloated budgets while theirs is so tight. Steve Noyas is furious and thinks a murder in his jurisdiction is not congressional business. Your colleague is stepping on very sensitive toes here.”
“I don’t know what was on Dov’s mind, but I’m thoroughly underwhelmed by what the police have done so far.”
“That’s why I called you. Colin has asked me to have Harvey, Florence, and you meet him at police headquarters near Judiciary Square. He wants you briefed by the inspector on the case, an officer by the name of Garrett Rose. Apparently, there are new developments.”
“That’s good news. Any idea what?”
“No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me when we see each other at the Skulkin home on Thursday evening.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Noah.”
“Gabby, is this a social get-together at Harvey’s and Florence’s? Or should I bring my checkbook?”
“Your checkbook, of course.”
“You understand, I hope, that all my family’s contributions are funneled through the Zentner Foundation. It must be done that way for tax purposes.”
“Of course. But I also know you’re a trustee and have a lot of clout.”
