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Happily Ever After?

Page 14

by Debra Kent


  ’Til next time,

  V

  August 20

  Pete is home with a stomach virus. I cleaned vomit off the carpet and all the bedding, replaced the sheets and pillowcases, and got him back into bed. Then he threw up again. I’ve got him in the guest room now. I put on Nickelodeon, but he’s too miserable to enjoy it. Poor little guy. I think I hear him calling me. Gotta go.

  I’m back. I was on my hands and knees scrubbing puke out of the kilim rug in the guest room when the phone range. It was Omar. My custody hearing is Monday.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  August 21

  Omar and I met to talk strategy. He believes it’s likely that:

  Sloan will argue that it’s in Pete’s best interests to live full time with Roger because of my “immoral” lesbian lifestyle.

  Sloan will produce Exhibit A, the photographs of me and Diana at the motel room.

  Omar says it’s unlikely that he will have pictures of Eddie and me in that same motel room, because it doesn’t bolster the lesbian angle.

  In addition to arguing for full custody, Sloan will request an immediate full reversal of the settlement, and I will be asked to repay whatever money I have already spent. (I almost had a heart attack when I heard this, but Omar insists that even under the worst circumstances, the judge won’t make me pay back the money).

  Sloan will support his case with testimony and comments from various witnesses such as Lynette.

  Omar has assured me that Roger will NOT get everything he wants. But by asking for full custody, he is likely to get at least joint custody. By arguing for a settlement reversal, he’s likely to get at least alimony or child support. Omar says that because we already have a sympathetic judge (sympathetic to Roger, that is) we must tread lightly on character issues. In other words, we’ll need to be careful in raising Roger’s infidelity/bigamy as an issue. As Omar put it, “If it doesn’t go to his competence as a father, it’s worthless.” Omar’s key strategy:

  The photographs do not prove a lesbian relationship. Omar will present Diana’s sworn statement verifying that she and I have never had a sexual relationship.

  Pete needs the stability of one home, with his mother, the parent who has cared for him during this entire ordeal.

  My current financial situation enables me to stay home with Pete and give him my undivided attention.

  Roger’s sexual activity and former “marital relationship” with a minor has made it difficult, if not impossible, for Roger to be an attentive and responsive father.

  I’m trying not to obsess about this, but I’m consumed by questions. If Roger gets full custody, am I going to be closed out of Pete’s life? Will Roger’s zygote du jour become his new mommy? (I swear, I could kill myself just thinking about that.) If Roger wins joint custody, how will Pete handle the stress of shuttling back and forth between two households? What if Pete gets angry with me and decides he doesn’t want to come back here? How will I oversee Pete’s emotional/moral/ethical development if I’m not the main caregiver in his life? What if Roger and his zygote let him run wild, let him watch limitless TV, eat only junk food … or worse—smoke pot. Drink beer. Join the skateboarding street kids in the municipal parking lot.

  I’m driving myself crazy. I’ve got to get some sleep.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  August 22

  Oh God. Pete walked in while I was pulling my custody files together. He picked one up, spotted his name, and tried to read through the legalese. He couldn’t. He asked me to read it to him. I told him as simply as possible that I was going to court to make sure that he would stay with me, but he would still get to visit with his father. He started to cry. He said he didn’t want to visit Roger. He wanted to live with him! I asked him, “You mean, you want to live with both of us?”

  “No, I mean, I want to live with Daddy. But you can come visit us whenever you want.”

  I decided not to pursue it. Pete can say whatever he wants. I’m not giving him up.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  August 24

  It’s 2:15 A.M. and I cannot fall asleep. I suppose I could have taken something but then I’d be logy tomorrow and I can’t afford that. So I’m sitting here, imagining what life would be like without Pete, torturing myself, really, picturing his empty room, empty bed. We had a perfect evening together. I made his favorite meal (pot roast, glazed carrots, mashed potatoes, Ben & Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie ice cream for dessert), got a fire going (okay, I cheated. I used a Duraflame log) and then we played four rounds of Cootie. As I tucked him in, I asked, “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to go live with Dad?”

  He blinked sleepily. “I dunno.”

  “Well, it’s okay if you feel that way, sweetie,” I told him. “Your feelings are never wrong. You can feel anything you want and it’s okay. But I hope you understand that we need to make choices that will be best for you.” I was on unsteady ground now. I didn’t want to bad-mouth Roger. That’s a lie. I wanted to say, Your dad is a bad man, Pete. He is a pathological philanderer with a predilection for young flesh. He trampled on his marriage vows. He had an illegitimate wife and now has a girlfriend young enough to be your big sister. And if you wind up living with him I will absolutely kill myself.

  “But I love my dad.” His bottom lip trembled. “I miss Dad. How come I never get to see him anymore?”

  If there is any justice in this world, there will be a special circle in hell reserved just for Roger and his ilk. Bad enough that he betrayed me. I’ll survive. I can’t say the same for Pete. “Dad never stopped loving you, sweetie. And he is fighting hard to see more of you. But …” I swallowed hard. “Daddy has problems, honey, and those problems make it hard for him to be the kind of daddy you deserve to have.”

  Pete sat up. “I don’t care if Dad has problems. I wanna be with him. And he wants to be with me. And if you try to stop him, I’m gonna hate you forever!”

  My son’s words stung like a slap. I willed myself to stay calm but I could feel tears flood my eyes. “Well, sweetie,” I began, “you’re very angry. I can see that. But I still love you. I will always love you. And Daddy will always love you too. And somehow we’re going to work this out and maybe it won’t be so easy or fun all the time, but you will always be loved and cared for because you are very precious to us. Do you understand that?”

  Pete turned his head to the wall and said nothing.

  “Pete?”

  “Can you bring me a glass of water, please? And a Milano cookie?”

  I guess the conversation was over for now. I went down to the kitchen. I wondered whether I was, indeed, doing the right thing by Pete in fighting for full custody. I called my mother to get her advice and she told me I’d be crazy—not just crazy, but irresponsible—if I didn’t push for full custody.

  Now it’s 2:25 A.M. and I have to be in court in seven and a half hours and I’m too tired and worried and scared to sleep. I’ve got to try.

  It’s 3:20 A.M. I am still awake. Even C-SPAN didn’t put me to sleep. I’m going to make myself a cup of chamomile tea.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  August 25

  The tea worked. I fell asleep on the family room sofa and even though I didn’t have an alarm clock, I miraculously woke in time to get Pete dressed, fed, and on the bus. He didn’t say anything else about the custody issue, and I didn’t bring it up. I wanted him to go to school unencumbered by worry, though I suspect he’s plenty encumbered already.

  I called Omar for wardrobe advice. How does a good mother dress these days? “For starters, don’t wear slacks or sensible shoes,” he said. “We don’t want to reinforce any lesbian stereotypes. No plunging necklines, nothing too form-fitting. And don’t wear a suit. We don’t want you looking like a corporate executive. A little makeup, but not too much.”

  Maybe I should wear an apron. I could wheel in one of those portable cooktops, the kind
they use for demonstrations at gourmet shops. I could prepare chicken piccata during the hearing—thus proving that I’m not merely a fine cook, but a model multitasker. “So what should I wear?” I said, sighing heavily.

  “Hard to say for sure. The judge is a tough nut. You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. That’s the sort of thing he’d pick up on. Hmmmm.”

  I waited. I felt like scratching my flesh off.

  “Okay. Denim skirt, or corduroy jumper, something soft, something with flowers. No cleavage, obviously. No minis. Or skip the patterns altogether. Solid pastels. No checks. Nothing black. Does that help?”

  “In other words, I should dress like the Easter Bunny.”

  Omar chuckled. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor. That’s a good sign.”

  “I don’t have anything that fits your description.” I didn’t mention the denim skirt I bought at Paul Harris, the one that made me feel like I was wearing sausage casing. My hips weren’t just wide in that skirt, they were elephantine. And it was designed for minimum mobility—I could only take baby steps, not great big confident Charlie perfume strides. I tried to think back to my breast-feeding support group—aka the Cult of Motherhood. What did those women wear? The only thing I remember about that group was that (1) one of the women used to say “umbiblical cord” and no one corrected her; (2) they persevered with me until Pete finally latched onto my painfully engorged breasts; (3) they encouraged us to breast-feed indefinitely, even if your child is old enough to pull up a chair and do the New York Times crossword puzzle between breasts; (4) nobody except me wore makeup.

  “You’re a resourceful woman. I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Omar said. “I’ll meet you outside courtroom number four.” He paused. “Ms. Ryan?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sweet?”

  “We’re going to be fine.”

  “If you say so, Omar.” It is now 8:45 and I still have no idea what I’m going to wear.

  August 25, evening

  Jesus, what a day.

  When I got to the courthouse (wearing one of Lynette’s yellow corduroy jumpers—she wore it when she was pregnant with Hunter), Omar looked worried. “What’s wrong, Omar?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine. We’re going to be fine.”

  “Really. Tell me.”

  “Well,” he began, running a finger under his starched collar, “it’s Judge Brand. He’s in a foul mood this morning.”

  We heard the click-click of Judge Brand’s tiny wingtips as he hurried up the corridor toward courtroom number four. He looked like a ferret. Beady black darting eyes, slicked-down dull brown hair, a Hitlerian mustache wedged between his nose and upper lip. He scowled and appraised me with cold, miserly eyes. He nodded toward Omar. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Omar went to get a drink at the water fountain. “Good morning, Mizz Ryan.” It was Surfer Girl. Her hair was even longer than I’d remembered it. She’d pulled it into two long braids on either side of her head. She wore a short white Pleather skirt and matching jacket, a glittery white camisole, white tights, and shiny black platform boots. She made a scratchy gagging sound. She reached into her mouth with her long fingers and pulled out something and held it to the light. It was a pale curly pubic hair. I recognized it right away. In fact, I’m still cleaning those freaking hairs out of the bathroom drain. Surfer Girl shrugged. “Occupational hazard, I guess.” She moved toward the courtroom. She paused at the door. “By the way,” she said, “you have an adorable little boy. I can’t wait to get to know him.”

  “Fuck you.” I wanted to kill her. Omar reappeared and pushed open the heavy door and gestured for me to enter before him. The room was freezing and I later learned that Brand insists on setting the thermostat to sixty-two degrees.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked Omar. My mother was supposed to be there, as were Diana and Lynette.

  “It’s still early. Be patient.”

  Sloan was there, with two assistants, a thirtyish woman wearing a drop-dead gorgeous aubergine silk suit and a young, equally attractive man who wore a crisp white shirt and maroon suspenders. I felt like such a jackass in my yellow corduroy jumper. “Don’t you have any assistants?” I whispered to Omar. He smiled benevolently and put a reassuring hand over mine. “We’re fine, Val,” he whispered. Roger swiveled his head around and winked at me. Bastard!

  Suddenly the doors swung open. A man and woman stepped tentatively inside. “Is this courtroom four?” the man asked in a thick Southern accent. He was short and fidgety, with a bushy black beard and heavy-rimmed glasses. The woman with him had a white-blond Ivana do, her hair was swept up and held in place with a heavy gold clip.

  Omar stepped forward. “You must be Kelia’s parents.” He extended a hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  I heard Roger whisper to his lawyer, “What the hell are they doing here?”

  Omar flashed me a jubilant smile. Surfer Girl’s parents were there to testify. Based on Roger’s horrified reaction, they were definitely not testifying on his behalf. “If you think this is good, just wait,” Omar whispered. He squeezed my hand. “You’ll never believe who’s coming.”

  First witnesses: Surfer Girl’s parents. They sat together at a small table on a low platform, an area designated as a kind of witness stand. Judge Brand began. “For the record, please state your names.”

  “George and Pookie Smith.” The small man with the bushy beard spoke for both of them.

  “Er, Pookie?” Brand asked.

  “Yes. Pookie.” The woman pulled herself up and stuck out her chin. “That’s the name my mama gave me.”

  “Your relationship to Roger Tisdale?” Judge Brand continued.

  George Smith hopped up in his chair. “I don’t have a relationship and I don’t want a relationship!”

  “Oh, come on, Pop,” Roger whined.

  “Dammit, I told you not to call me Pop. You’re as old as I am, for Christ’s sake.”

  George Smith turned back to the judge. “Look, Your Highness—”

  “Your Honor will do,” Brand cut in.

  “Sorry. Your Honor. Kelia always does what she wants; always did, always will. That’s just the kind of kid she is. So one day she marches in with this guy and says he’s moving in, so what am I going to say? If I tell her no, she moves away with him and shacks up somewhere else. But telling her yes, God a’mighty, it was the worst decision I ever made!”

  Pookie shook her head sadly. “If it wasn’t for Kelia, Roger Tisdale would be out on his butt in a heartbeat.”

  “Damn straight,” George continued. His face was deep crimson. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and swabbed his forehead. “He has no shame! One day I see them in the car in the driveway, going at it like a pair of rabbits, right in the driveway, right in front of our neighbors! Like it was nothing! Like it was nothing at all!”

  Pookie pulled her handbag to her chest. “That man is ruining my daughter’s reputation! And he leaves his socks everywhere, his filthy socks! I have enough work picking up after George. This is ridiculous!” Pookie shot Roger a disgusted look.

  Omar took a sip of water and approached the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, do you think Roger Tisdale is prepared to take on the responsibility of full-time fatherhood? Is Roger Tisdale fit to be a father?”

  “Comes in all hours of the night,” George Smith went on, muttering as much to himself as to anyone in the courtroom. “It’s crazy, I tell ya. Here we are, three forty-year-olds and my daughter there, crammed into our itty-bitty house, acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s a freak show! This bum sits around, eating our food, drinking our beer, having his way with our little girl. Says he’s writing his next big hit, but I don’t see him doing diddly-squat! I told him, go get yourself a job! You’re an able-bodied man. Hell, I could even get him a job at the shop if he wanted one. He could start working today if he’d get off that lazy ass of his.”

  Pookie leaned forward. “Kelia
says he gets a nice check every month from his parents. One of those trust fund deals. Then we come to find out he doesn’t get his check anymore because he’s divorced.”

  “Seems his parents had the good sense to cut him off,” George continued. “Then I hear him tell Kelia he’s—how did he put it—oh, he says, ‘Honey, I quite like slumming with your family.’ Slumming! Can you believe that?” George pointed a stubby finger at Roger. “I’ll tell you something, buster, our house may be small but at least I have a house. And every month I pay the mortgage and I don’t have bill collectors come knocking on my door.”

  Pookie put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Take it easy, sugar.”

  “I’ll repeat the question, sir,” Omar continued. “Do you think Roger is fit to be a father?”

  “Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t want a father like him.”

  God, this was fun. Now it was Sloan’s turn. He stepped forward and smiled patronizingly. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Thank you for coming today. How are you today?”

  George smirked and rolled his eyes. “How the hell do you think I am?”

  “It sounds like you’ve had your share of stress lately.”

  “Stress? Are you kidding? That’s not the half of it.” He reached over and patted his wife’s hand. “It’s been hell.”

  Sloan’s smile froze. “I understand, sir. Clearly, you and Roger Tisdale aren’t the best of friends.”

  “You’re not getting the picture, buddy boy. I want that guy out of my house! Pronto!”

  Sloan went on. “You’ve described a number of situations that you find annoying, and I can’t blame you. But the purpose of our meeting today is to determine if Roger Tisdale has what it takes to make a good father. Mr. Tisdale’s goal is to get full custody of his beloved son. Can you understand that? And let me urge you to answer the questions and refrain from elaborating. Just answer the questions, Mr. Smith. Are you aware that Mr. Tisdale’s goal is to obtain full custody of his son?”

 

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