The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  “What. The. Fuck.”

  Doug King leaned farther forward, his face contorting a little bit. “Mr. Walker? Hello? This is Doug King, senior corporate partner at Bacon Payne. We’re preparing everything for the transfer. Such a generous donation—”

  “What. The. Fuck. Stop calling my office, you morons. Does no good deed go fucking unpunished?”

  “Mr. Walker, there must be some misunderstanding. We expected you here—”

  “Well, obviously, asshole. Can’t I just give a fucking gift? You idiots need me there to wipe your ass too? You can’t just messenger papers to my office like anyone who actually gets shit done in this town?”

  It was more than a little satisfying to see Doug King turn white, pick up the phone and murmur apologies like a schoolboy, but the flip side was that anyone capable of inspiring such behavior in Doug King was one scary guy.

  I opt against sharing that story with Lillian.

  “He’s the CEO of Options Communications.” She nods, letting the gravity of this sink in.

  “Oh. Have they become clients?”

  “Not yet, but I can think of sixteen partners who will shit a brick if we go after him. And on top of that, Ethan says this consult, the ex-wife, is a mess.” She frowns. “I hate wasting my time.” She looks at me.

  “If it would help, I could do it for you?”

  I don’t for a second think that Lillian Starling will seriously want me to substitute for her in a consult. She has practiced for over thirty years and bills at nine hundred dollars an hour. A monkey can tell the difference between us; certainly a client in distress who had waited weeks for an appointment will not be pleased.

  Apparently, that is exactly what Lillian wants. “Molly, you just get it. I love having someone who gets it. You sure you’re comfortable with this? It’s not too much for you? You have the list of attorneys that we refer to?”

  She doesn’t wait for a response. “Kim will give it to you. Also, have her set up a conference room so you’re not meeting in your office. That would be embarrassing even for this Walker woman. What will you tell her?” She stops herself, cocks her head and extends both palms in a gesture that makes me think of Don Corleone—equal parts proud and possessive. “You’ll figure it out, I know.”

  She picks up her phone and starts dialing, my cue to leave. “Oh, Molly—”

  I turn, hoping for one last pearl of wisdom.

  “I forgot to tell you. I’m having a night for us, just my girls. We’ll have drinks before the firm holiday party on the seventeenth.”

  I’m not sure who her girls are, but I’m glad to be one of them.

  6

  ____

  fern walker

  I had anticipated an hour of hostility and blame, and I wouldn’t have thought any less of Fern Walker if that’s what she had delivered. Fern is extremely gracious about the bait and switch, though. She understands, she understands. Lillian must be so busy. This must happen all the time (never, that I know of, actually). And she has been through a divorce, so she knows that associates are very much the muscle of the operation. She is just so grateful that I can take the time to listen to her. Yes, Fern Walker seems downright lovely, no easy feat for anyone consulting with a divorce attorney, let alone someone who spent years with that tyrant I heard on the phone.

  I watch her as she fidgets with the string of a lemon-ginger tea bag, steeping in her mug. She has delicate features and the kind of proportional tiny figure that men love. Her hair, shoulder length and prematurely gray, hangs over her dark eyes in sharply pointed bangs.

  Fern could probably be very attractive if she spent one-quarter of the time on her appearance that the rest of our clients do. Now, though, she looks like it’s all too much—her delicate features have been colonized by her bone-tired expression and puffy eyes; her hair is tangled into a half-completed ponytail. The two plastic drugstore bags that she’s schlepped into the meeting evoke what I think of as subway New York, the city in which real people live and get the stuffing beaten out of them by attempting the basic acts of daily life: getting their laundry done, going to the post office, commuting. And though her appearance is downright disheveled by Bacon Payne client standards, I have a sense of déjà vu. “You look familiar. Do you mind if I ask where you’re from?”

  She nods, as though this is a perfectly reasonable way to begin. “Pittsburgh. You?”

  “North Carolina.”

  There’s a moment of silence during which Fern stares into space. I lean forward. “Why don’t you just start by telling me why you’re here?” I tell myself this is a fine start, professionally appropriate, even as I sense that Fern is too distracted to realize that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.

  “Bob and I got divorced two years ago. We have two kids. Anna is six and Connor is three. I’m here about them.”

  “How long were you married for?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Was it a messy divorce?”

  “It was pretty simple actually. We had a prenup.” She smiles weakly. “I mean Bob Walker without a prenup—would never happen. So everything was pretty set—I made a copy of the agreement for you.” She reaches into her canvas tote bag, pulls out a yellow file folder and hands me a neatly clipped stack of papers from the top of the pile. “The thing is, I wasn’t myself at the time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was still sort of shell-shocked and not coping all that well when we finalized things. After Connor was born, I had postpartum depression for a little over a year.”

  “That sounds rough.”

  “I spent a lot of time in bed, unable to handle any of the things I used to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Being organized and on top of things is—well, used to be—my thing. Before Connor, I was in charge of running the house, you know? Bob used to call me CEO of Home, Inc.”

  “How romantic.” I say it without thinking, but before I can apologize, Fern’s lips purse in the ghost of a smile.

  “It really was a full-time job, with everything Bob has going on: signing up Anna for classes, buying her clothing, furnishing the houses, interviewing the babysitters, planning the meals, doing school applications for Anna, the charity work, all of that.

  “But after Connor was born, I was in such bad shape that I just sort of stopped. I mean, not just the house stuff. I stopped doing anything: brushing my hair, teeth, you get the picture. And Bob tried to understand for the first few months, but when it dragged on, he just sort of stepped in and started dealing with all of it himself. He’s very driven, very successful, as you know. I mean, it’s obvious, I guess. And he doesn’t deal well with sickness or weakness. I think because of his father. He drank, and Bob, well, he always thought it was disgusting how his dad would check out and disappear for weeks, and then he saw me doing the same thing.”

  “That seems unfair.”

  She shrugs, as if to say, what’s the difference?

  “Were you officially diagnosed?”

  “Oh, yeah. I saw several doctors—my OB referred me to a psychologist and a psychiatrist. I also tried acupuncture, took progestin, which is supposed to be a more natural therapy. I was breast-feeding, so at first I didn’t want to take anything. Then we tried the more gentle meds that wouldn’t be passed through my milk. Finally, after a while, I just stopped breast-feeding so I could take the strong stuff. That worked, but it was a slow process.”

  “And by then the marriage was over?”

  “Exactly. After Connor turned one, I started to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but it was too late for Bob. I don’t think he’s ever really got over the image of me as this crazy, needy person.” She wraps the string around her tea bag and squeezes out the excess water. “And I was pretty bad. I guess I understand why he left.

  “The one thing is, and the reason I’m here, I was supposed to have a lot of time with the kids. I moved out of the apartment after the divorce—it was in the prenup that I would—
and the kids stayed there, which just made sense given my mental state. The agreement says that Bob has primary custody in terms of decision making but that when I can handle it and when things are appropriate, we’ll go to a fifty-fifty schedule. That sort of never happened. We’ve been divorced for a year and a half and I’ve seen them less and less.”

  As she flips open the agreement, I examine her again. God, who does she remind me of? This is going to drive me crazy.

  She opens to a tabbed page. With a ridged fingernail, she points to a custody provision that echoes what she said. There’s a minimum schedule that she’ll see the kids no less than twice a week and one weekend day every other week. It’s a far cry from a fifty-fifty schedule.

  “How much less? What’s the last time you saw them?”

  She looks at her hands. “Two months ago. I had asked to see them for a Saturday. Bob said yes. Sometimes he says yes, sometimes he says no. I planned a great day: the Natural History Museum because Connor likes dinosaurs, or at least he used to, lunch at the burger place and then a movie. Bob called and said they were too scared to go with me for the whole day, but I could take them to a movie. I met them outside the movie theater, and they didn’t even hug me.” Her eyes water as she recounts her children’s reaction. “They were with their nanny the whole time. She sat next to Connor at the theater and unzipped his coat because he didn’t want me to do it. They told me that they weren’t allowed to have popcorn because it’s a choking hazard. Can you imagine what that’s like? Your own children telling you what they’re allowed to eat? And then after the movie, they asked their nanny if they could please go home now. She made them thank me for the ‘nice movie.’ Like I’m a stranger. They don’t call me Mommy or even Mom anymore—they stopped that last year.”

  “Did you see them much before that?”

  “We haven’t had much time together this year, just a handful of visits: some dinners, a lunch and some trips to a bookstore or toy shop, always with their nanny.”

  “Any phone calls?”

  “I’ve called every day. I’ve walked by their schools a few times to try and see them, but it hasn’t worked, which is probably for the best because I might’ve caused a scene.”

  “You’re prepared to sue for custody?” I’m not trying to challenge her, but I am worried, whether she can handle the fight.

  Fern returns her attention to her tea bag string, wrapping it around her finger twice like it will serve as a reminder of something. “I have this hope,” she says, her voice breaking, “that if I start strong, really stand up for the rights that I have, once he knows that I’m serious and that I’m well enough to be trusted, we can settle out of court, respectfully, without pulling the kids between us. And then, in twenty or thirty years, he and I will be laughing about all of this stuff and maybe share a dance at their weddings.”

  I nod, not because I think this is plausible, but because her eyes, still on the tea bag, light up as they envision what I recognize as a fantasy—Robert Walker will pulverize her into mincemeat the first chance he gets. “Fern, I hate to bring this up, but Lillian’s fees are very expensive. A custody battle like this, it will take hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  “Of course.”

  “You should definitely ask that Robert pay for counsel fees, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll get them. Any lawyer at this level is going to ask for the money up front.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Oh, good. Did you get enough in the divorce settlement?”

  “Um, a little under a million. I put most of it in the apartment, but about two hundred thousand dollars is in a retirement account.”

  I have no idea what Robert Walker is worth, but my guess is that to him a million dollars is chump change, just enough to cover landscaping of the manicured shrubbery around the infinity pool.

  “So, nothing liquid? How would you pay counsel fees?”

  “Oh, I’ve looked into it. I can break into my retirement and take out a home equity loan on the apartment. And I have a steady job managing the office of my friend Brian’s flower shop, Petal and Stem.”

  “I know that place. And that provides you with enough income to finance legal fees?”

  “Not really.”

  I must have winced because she quickly adds, “If it comes to it, I could always borrow from some friends too.”

  I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair, gathering it into a ponytail as I think. If Fern takes on this fight, she’ll have nothing left to live on.

  “Don’t worry about the money. I will come up with it, I promise. I’ve never been late with paying a bill and I’m not going to start now.” She blinks quickly as if to stop from crying and stares at the wall for what seems like a minute. Then she touches my sleeve. “Please. I need help.”

  I stammer something about needing to talk to Lillian before taking the case and I rattle off some names of other attorneys she should contact, but I know as soon as I hear it.

  It’s the exact same plea. The exact same wounded, desperate look in her eyes.

  I can feel a pressure in my chest—a heart squeeze—as I realize that I haven’t met Fern Walker before. She, or rather the wounded desperate look in her eyes, just reminds me of Karen Block.

  And this time, I know better than to make any promises.

  7

  ____

  a textbook case of parental alienation

  I met Karen the summer before my third year of law school, while volunteering at my law school’s AIDS clinic. I was really excited about the work—no making outlines from pages of lecture notes, no cramming, no test taking, just assisting on some cases under the careful eye of a supervising instructor. There was only a handful of clients and they needed help with simple but necessary paperwork—things like disability payments and the occasional employment discrimination issue.

  One afternoon, I went down to the offices at the scheduled time to assist Dorothy Golds, my professor, with an intake meeting for the upcoming semester. I had done a couple before, no big deal.

  A young woman was standing just inside the doorway, shifting her weight from side to side.

  “Are you here for the clinic?”

  She nodded, head down, her long brown bangs momentarily obscuring her eyes.

  There was no sign of Dorothy, so I introduced myself and escorted her to the interview room.

  “Name?”

  “Karen Block.”

  “Age and birth date?”

  “I’m twenty-three. Um, born April twenty-fifth.”

  “And when were you diagnosed?”

  “Diagnosed?”

  “Yes, HIV positive or AIDS. When? It doesn’t really matter. I just need the date.”

  “Um, not. I mean, I don’t. I don’t have HIV. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “But this is an AIDS clinic. All of our clients have—”

  “Listen, I don’t have AIDS—”

  “But if you don’t—”

  “Listen, shut up about freaking AIDS, all right? My husband is going to kill me.”

  She’d gotten married three years ago. They had a volatile relationship, she’d said, and occasionally their arguments got physical. Last week, Tim found out she’d been cheating on him. It wasn’t a big thing—she had just hooked up with an ex-boyfriend a few times. He hadn’t hit her, hadn’t yelled, just looked her dead in the eye and told her he was going to kill her. And she believed him. She had been staying at her sister’s apartment, but he knew where she worked; he knew her friends; he could find her. And he would. She knew it.

  Yes, she had gone to the cops. But she had no bruises, no evidence that he would follow through. They couldn’t help her. She thought maybe she needed a protection order or whatever they were called, not that it would help, but at least it would be something. Or just someone in her corner. Someone who could tell her what to do, where to run, how to hide, get a judge involved. She’d called a lawyer but they wanted one thousand dollars up front and
she didn’t have that. She worked at the university—laundering the towels and uniforms of the university athletic teams—and her friend from work had told her to come here, to the law school.

  I told her to wait right there. Dorothy was leaning against the receptionist desk, flipping through mail. When I burst out with the story, she sighed, blinking her eyes with great effort—not this tired scenario again. With an air of resignation, she reached over to the file cabinet and grabbed a few papers stacked on the top, her button-down shirt coming untucked from her pants in the process. She stuffed the shirt ends back in sloppily with one hand as she led me into the interview room.

  Karen sat, staring down at her cutoff jeans, as Dorothy thrust the list at her and explained, no, very sorry, we can’t get involved in criminal or domestic violence matters. No, that’s not what we do here. One of the organizations on this list should offer assistance or shelter or whatever you need. Yes, really, that’s all we can do.

  Karen ignored the list, waved it away actually, and walked slowly to the door. I wished her good luck, in the same benign tone I would if someone had bought an ice cream maker at my parents’ store. But it was enough to make her turn and grab my arm.

  “Please,” she said, not breaking eye contact for what seemed like minutes. I had never seen a look like that before—dark, haunted and broken. “Please. I really need help.”

  “Try calling one of the people on the list.” My voice was still in salesperson mode as I pulled my arm away from Karen’s grasp, replacing it with the list of referrals. “I promise. It’s what they do.”

  Karen accepted the list and resignedly folded it into quarters, the expression on her face shifting from a clear, focused terror to a closed-off blankness, like a computer monitor succumbing to a virus by blipping out into fathomless black.

  Still, I was satisfied. All I wanted out of the moment was for everyone to play her part without a scene: Dorothy and I as the do-gooders, politely disseminating helpful information; Karen as the grateful recipient of our largesse, taking the list with an appreciative smile and going on her way.