Happily Ever After?

by Debra Kent

  My mother pulled herself together and went back to mingle among her guests. It was strange to see her so lively and, actually, happy. But why wouldn’t she be? My father was at rest, and the house was filled with life, with food and flowers, with family and good friends, neighbors. And she was the center of attention. For a moment, she could forget that her husband and life companion, her best friend and soul mate, was gone forever. Eventually, the house will be empty again, the flowers will have wilted, the food will be eaten, and she will be alone. She is still relatively attractive. I wonder if she will want to date eventually.

  I don’t want to think about that now.

  Mom came into the kitchen. “Guess who has stopped by?”

  “Who?”

  “Your Detective Avila.”

  I should have been happier to hear this. Michael walked in with a big bottle of whiskey. I took it from him and set it with the others.

  “Valerie, I’m so sorry.” He hugged me and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  I asked him to sit with me on the porch and he complied, despite the fact that the air was muggy. He looked so handsome in his dark blue suit.

  “Can I ask you something?” I started.

  He looked apprehensive. “Sure, I guess.”

  “Why haven’t you married?” I blurted out.

  His eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t expected the question, obviously. “Well, first I was all involved in police - academy and then my job, then Mom got sick and Dad really needed me, and my brother is a good-for-nothing bum so I couldn’t rely on him to help—” Michael smiled. “Too much information?”

  “Not at all.” At this point I felt I could ask him anything. “So, you’re not gay?”

  “Are you kidding? Do I seem gay to you?”

  I wanted to say, If you’re not gay, why haven’t you tried to get me into bed yet? How come you never use your tongue when you kiss me? But just then my mother walked in. “Oh, there you are!” She winked at Michael. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother wink before. “Honey, would you help me inside for a minute? I need a big strong man to help me with something.”

  Michael sprung to his feet. “At your service.” He looked at me. “We’ll continue our discussion later, okay?”

  I watched Michael helping my mother in the kitchen, talking with family and friends, charming my sisters and their stodgy husbands. He really did fit right in. My sister Teresa gave me a wink and a thumbsup sign behind his back. He was perfect.

  So why wasn’t I madly in love?

  My father’s burial was at noon the next day, and by 8 P.M. the house was finally emptied of visitors. With Finola and Tim gone, we decided to remove the sheets from the mirrors, restart all the clocks, restore the guest room.

  Of course, our family gatherings wouldn’t be complete without at least one unpleasant confrontation. “I hear you’ve already got Dad’s camera,” Julia said, accusingly. “Don’t you have enough money to buy Pete fifty new cameras?”

  “Actually, I probably have enough money to buy a camera factory, Julia, but this wasn’t my idea. Dad wanted Pete to have it.”

  “Oh really? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Listen. If it were up to me, you could have the damn camera and anything else you want to take from Dad’s closet, but he was very clear about this. He said he wanted Pete to have the camera. I’m sorry if that’s a problem for you.”

  “I’ll bet you are.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She stretched a sheet of Saran Wrap over a plate of brownies. “Miss High and Mighty,” she spat out. “All of a sudden you’ve got all this money and you think you’re the boss and it’s not even your money.”

  “Listen. Julia. We’re all really strung out now. Dad’s gone, it’s stressful for everyone. Please. Let’s pull together, at least for Mom’s sake.”

  “Don’t play therapist with me.”

  I know that families can get ugly when it comes to divvying up a dead person’s belongings, but I never thought that would happen in my family. I realized that Julia had a whole storehouse of resentment against me for all sorts of injustices. For being the baby in the family. For winning my father’s affection. For having a relatively compliant child while her own kids have been diagnosed with ADHD.

  “Whatever you say, Julia. Let me know when you’re ready to talk like two adults.”

  But that time never came. Julia and her family packed up the van and left before dinner. I haven’t heard from her since.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  July 27

  I just received the oddest e-mail from the neighbor behind my house. At first I wondered where he had gotten my e-mail address, and then I remembered that Lynette had put together a phone and e-mail directory for our subdivision, in the deluded hope that it would help create a sense of community. Here’s what he sent me:

  Valerie Ryan:

  Your sycamore trees are planted on my property line. You must move these trees at once or I will have no choice but to cut them down.

  Bill Stropp

  I can’t believe this! Those trees are as tall as apartment buildings. I can’t possibly move them, and it would be obscene to cut them down, especially in a subdivision where full-grown trees are as rare as all-brick homes. I don’t know much about this guy. He owns a chain of tire stores. I heard that his wife left him for a Goodyear rep, moved to Arizona with the kids. Lives alone in the house. House is for sale. I immediately wrote back, in my most delicately diplomatic style:

  Dear Bill,

  Thank you for expressing your concerns about the trees. I hadn’t realized that they were planted on your property. I’m so sorry about that, and I wish there was something I could do. Since they are too big to move, and it would be a shame to remove them, perhaps I could pay you for the property they occupy. How does that sound to you?

  Val

  Then I got this response:

  It sounds ridiculous. I want those trees moved.

  Bill Stropp

  As if that wasn’t enough excitement for the day, I got a call from Roger. I saw his name on Caller ID and decided not to pick up the phone. “Valerie. It’s Roger. I’m suing for custody of Pete.”

  At first I found Roger’s message amusing. What an arrogant twit! Did he actually believe in his stony black heart that he had even the remotest chance of gaining custody of Pete? I just had to call Omar, if only to share a laugh. I paged him and he called back right away.

  “Valerie, I was going to phone you tomorrow,” he said. I could hear the clatter of plates in the background, the cheery din of casual entertaining. Omar, I reminded myself, had a normal life, a wife who loved him and friends who enjoyed his company. He didn’t spend the last forty-eight hours dragging dead bodies around his house, bickering with greedy siblings, struggling with distant relatives who believed you were bound for hell because you were a godless heathen. I pictured Omar in a linen shirt and khaki pants, fingers wrapped around a chilled stein of imported beer. I never met his wife but I imagined her slim and chic and gracious.

  “Roger is suing you for custody,” Omar said.

  “Yes, Omar, I know. That’s why I paged you. I thought you’d get a kick out of it.” I managed a chuckle. “Can you believe this? What a joke. Right?”

  Omar didn’t say anything. “I mean, Judge Mendelsohn hates Roger. Judge Mendelsohn sent Roger to jail, for God’s sake!”

  “Judge Mendelsohn retired last week.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Val. Judge Mendelsohn. The judge who hates Roger. The judge who sent Roger to jail. He retired last week.”

  I felt my throat constrict. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I was at his retirement party. As a matter of fact, he and his wife are probably on a Carnival Cruise ship right now. Heading for the Mexican Riviera.”

  “Shit.”

  “Listen, I can’t really talk now and we can
’t do anything at this hour anyway. Why don’t you try to get some sleep, I’ll try to make some calls, and we can talk again in the morning. Okay?”

  No, not okay, I wanted to say. Why should I let you go back to your genteel party while I’m facing the possibility of losing my son? “Of course, of course,” I said instead. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “No bother at all. Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Click.

  I suppose I could go online and shop ’til I drop, but suddenly I don’t feel like spending money. I feel like throwing up.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  July 28

  This just gets worse and worse. I talked to Omar this morning. Roger is definitely suing for custody, Judge Mendelsohn has definitely retired. Though destitute, Roger found himself a lawyer, the same one who represented him in the trial. Richard Sloan.

  “He’s doing it pro bono,” Omar informed me.

  “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “I’ve got three theories. One, he’s doing it out of the kindness of his heart—not likely. Two, he’s hoping for a bonus down the road, once Roger’s flush again.”

  “And when’s that going to happen?” I asked.

  “Who knows?”

  “And what’s theory number three, Omar?”

  “Theory number three is a long shot, but I’m wondering if Richard’s wife hates you.”

  “Jazzy Sloan? Why would she hate me? She doesn’t even know me.” Jazzy and I traveled in two entirely different hemispheres. She was the darling of the Junior League, the patron saint of the arts, Queen of the Mushroomheads.

  “She knows about your generous donation to the hospital foundation. Maybe she’s threatened by you. Maybe she’s jealous. Who knows?”

  “Okay. So Roger’s suing for custody. He has a good lawyer working for free. Now what?”

  “Let’s see who replaces Judge Joseph. For now we sit tight. And we don’t panic.”

  So that’s what I’m doing. I’m sitting tight. And I’m not panicking. Yet.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  July 29

  Sent Pete to Hunter’s house and dragged myself to the mall today. What a nightmare. Nordstroms was having some kind of big sale and the parking lot was jammed. People were parked illegally in the fire lane, in handicapped spots, in service lanes. Inside, the mall was clogged with overheated shoppers. I bought Pete a robot puppy and giant Lego set with something like nine thousand pieces, half of which he will lose by the end of the week.

  I stopped at Eddie Bauer and who should I see but that stupid Bill Stropp. I walked in just as he yelled out, “Does anyone actually work in this damn store?” and watched as the harried young manager scurried up and apologetically explained that two employees had called in sick. “That’s not my problem,” Bill shot back. He held up a black jacket. “Now do me a favor and find me this in an extra-large.” Bill Stropp has a wrestler’s body, wide shoulders, thick neck, thick arms. For a heterosexual guy with no female at home to monitor his wardrobe choices, I thought he’d dressed surprisingly well. Steel blue silk T-shirt, clean stonewashed jeans, a black belt and black Doc Marten boots. His graying hair was cropped close, his eyes heavy-lidded and slate gray, his face rutted by a few old acne scars.

  I still owe him a response to his last e-mail. I hate him.

  Michael called me on my cell phone. He had tickets to tonight’s basketball game and wanted to know if I’d join him. I took a rain check. I really need to be with Pete tonight. I told Michael about Roger’s plan to sue for custody, and about Judge Mendelsohn retiring, which he already knew. “Let’s hope you don’t get Judge Willis,” he said.

  “What’s wrong with Judge Willis?” I asked.

  “He’s the poster boy for the fathers’ rights movement,” Michael told me. “He’s always getting quoted. National Fatherhood Initiative, men’s movement, Malicious Mom Syndrome, that sort of thing.”

  “Malicious Mom Syndrome?”

  “Oh, you know, a woman makes her kid wear flipflops in the snow to prove that her ex-husband isn’t paying enough child support. Or she intercepts birthday presents, then says, ‘I guess your father forgot your birthday again this year.’”

  It sounded horrible. Yet not entirely implausible. I wouldn’t do it. But I understand the inclination.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  July 30

  Roger and his girlfriend left a present for Pete on the porch. I was tempted to throw it in the trash, and then I remembered the Malicious Mother Syndrome and put it on his bed instead.

  July 31

  I went online today and foraged for information on Judge Willis. Michael was right about him—he is a poster boy, for some nutty group called the National Men’s Liberation Front. The NMLF website carries many helpful features, like:

  Fighting For Custody: Avoiding the Pitfalls

  Parental Alienation Syndrome: A Case for the Courts

  Growing Up Fatherless: The Risks

  Father Still Knows Best

  An End to Matriarchy: Make It Happen

  There’s one section devoted to poetry, like this inspiring verse:

  Bitch, You Took My Boy Away

  BY FLOYD L. HENDERSON

  Bitch, you took my boy away

  Just because you had a better lawyer.

  Now I’m standing in the foyer

  Reading Tom Sawyer

  To myself.

  Another section, snidely entitled, “A Mother’s Love Is Like No Other,” is filled with such news blurbs as:

  Portland woman sentenced to 18 months for cocaine use during pregnancy. Father wins full custody.

  Amanda Reynolds, 31, of Burbank, CA, stabs 2-year-old in the head with ice pick.

  Birmingham, Alabama, woman suffocates newborn, dumps body in petting zoo.

  In a long article on custodial rights, Judge Willis is quoted as saying, “Fathers are not sperm donors. They are the very foundation of a family, the most vital key to a child’s successful future. The tradition of awarding custody to mothers simply because they have the reproductive equipment to bear children is simply misguided and it is a tradition that I will not indulge.”

  Judge Willis awarded full custody to a man convicted of raping his sister-in-law.

  I hated to call Omar at home but I was hyperventilating. I was in the grip of a full-blown panic attack. I told him what I’d found online.

  Omar sighed. “Valerie, Valerie. Didn’t I tell you to sit tight? You shouldn’t be researching this guy. You’re only going to drive yourself crazy. You know that, don’t you?”

  I detected a paternal, if not patronizing tone in my attorney’s voice. “Why shouldn’t I get a head start on defending myself against Roger and this wacko judge? Am I supposed to sit back while Roger and his lawyer plot their plan of attack?”

  Omar relented. “Well, we don’t know for sure if Willis our judge, but if it makes you feel any better, why don’t you meet me Thursday at noon and we’ll do some strategizing of our own.”

  I didn’t want to wait until Thursday. This had the urgency of an abnormal Pap smear. Waiting felt dangerous, risky. I was scared. But Omar explained that he had to be in court and had absolutely no time to meet me. “Okay, Omar, I’ll see you Thursday.”

  ’Til next time,

  V

  August 1

  Michael called today to check on me. He’s such a sweetheart. He invited me to dinner but I don’t feel comfortable leaving Pete, and I’m not ready to invite him to the house while Pete’s home.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  August 2

  I finally found the time and stamina to respond to Bill Stropp’s e-mail. I took a different approach this time.

  Bill:

  I’ve thought about the trees. They’re too large to move and I really don’t want to cut them down. We’re so lucky to have trees in our subdivision. Haven’t you enjoyed the shade they pr
ovide, and the birds that build their homes in the branches? These trees are such an important part of our landscape. Please think about it. Please?

  Valerie

  I debated whether or not to add that last “please.” It sounded so whiny, so childish. Oh please, Mr. Bill, pretty please with sugar on top? I stared at the word for a long time. I decided to leave it in.

  I got back this response:

  Valerie:

  I have thought about it. The birds are noisy. I don’t need the shade. Raking the leaves is a major nuisance. I’m not a tree hugger. Humans are as much a part of the landscape as the trees. As far as I’m concerned, my needs are as important as any bird’s.

  Bill

  I fired back:

  I can’t do anything about the birds but I’d be happy to pay for the raking of your leaves.

  And he sent this:

  Don’t bother. As for the birds, I can take care of them myself. It’s hunting season and I’m an excellent shot.

  Arrrggghhhh!!! This man is driving me crazy!!

  ’Til next time,

  V

  August 3

  I finally met with Omar today. “How’s this all going to shake out—assuming that Willis is our judge?” I asked.

  Omar grinned. “You know what they say about ‘assume.’”

  I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “Please, Omar, just answer the question.”

  Omar’s expression was sober now. He set out a thermal carafe of coffee and two mugs. “Sloan isn’t a father’s rights lawyer. That’s a good thing. But since Willis is such an activist for fathers’ rights, it probably doesn’t matter whether Sloan knows his stuff or not.” He took a sip. “And that’s not such a good thing. Of course, they’ll try to impugn your character. That’s standard.”