October Snow

by Jenna Brooks

  Jo nodded, lost in thought.

  Max wanted her to talk, about anything, about everything; but at the same time, she worried that she didn’t have Jo’s abilities in helping people, in reaching in to another’s soul, and pulling them away from whatever was destroying them.

  Then I’ll do it my way. “You thinking about the boys?”

  Jo looked at her with some surprise at her bluntness, then nodded again.

  Max persisted. “You must miss them, Jo. A lot.”

  “I do.”

  “So what else is on your mind?”

  “Going for another misery moment, Bim?” she grinned, then turned back to the lake.

  Max didn’t answer, and after a few moments, Jo turned to face her.

  “No foolin’ around, huh?”

  Max shook her head.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything you’d like to tell me. I’d like to know you.”

  “Please. You do. More than anyone else, anyway.”

  “That’s not saying a whole lot.”

  She was determined, that much was obvious. Resigned, Jo sat across from her. “I’m really not sure what to say.” She crushed out her cigarette, lighting another right away, looking to Max as if for some kind of direction.

  “You never told me about the work you did at the crisis center.”

  “That’s right. It never came up.” She didn’t want to discuss it, not then. She had already spent what seemed like hours talking about herself, revealing things that she was sure made her look crazy.

  “Yes it did.”

  Jo felt the anxiety–even anger–creeping in, but she managed a smile. “I’m kind of worn out, Bim. Maybe we can pick it back up later?”

  “You know we won’t.”

  What’s it to you? Jo wondered, feeling backed into a corner–like she had marooned herself in the middle of nowhere with someone who wanted to invade her thoughts. “Later, okay?”

  “Fine.” Max got up, pushing her chair back with enough force that it tipped precariously. As she steadied it, she took in Jo’s expression: startled, yet guarded. And, perhaps, just a little fearful–and for that, Max felt her stomach turn over.

  Instead of following her inclination to apologize, to cover it over, she decided to push. “Jo, there’s something going on with you, and I’m afraid.” She pulled the chair back to the table. “I don’t know what it is, and it scares me.”

  Eyebrows raised, Jo looked at her with sarcastic curiosity.

  “And you know,” Max sighed as she sat down, “I don’t think you know what it is either.”

  “Well now, that’s some deep amateur psychoanalysis there, Max.”

  “And that’s some deep condescension, for someone who cares about you, Jo.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Of course you are. You’re just pissed off because…What? I touched on some kind of an emotional sacred cow?”

  “Back off, Maxine.” She crossed her legs and folded her arms, and Max looked her up and down.

  “Look at you, Jo! You don’t have to be a psychoanalyst to read the body language. It’s like you slam a door or something.”

  She stared coldly at her. “I think you’ve taken this far enough.”

  It came clear to her then. “Oh, wait,” Max’s grin was cynical. “Geez, you’re good at this.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What am I doing now?”

  “Deflecting. Creating an argument. Changing the topic. Doing whatever you can to keep me away from what you’re really thinking.”

  Jo squirmed, but kept her arms folded. “I didn’t realize you had a right to know. I think you attach a little more importance to your presence in my life than you should.” As soon as she said it, and saw Max’s wounded eyes shift to the side, she wanted to cut her own tongue out.

  Max was rising from her chair, not looking at her; and Jo, trying desperately to get the words out, could do no better than, “Wait.” She stood quickly. “Wait. Please, Maxine, I…” Her hands were balled into fists, and she was tapping the sides of her thighs, trying to figure out what to do.

  Their eyes met, and Max saw the helplessness there, the longing that her friend felt for someone to know, and to understand. She waited.

  “I didn’t mean that.” Jo’s voice was low, unsteady but intense. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said it.” Seeing the look on Max’s face, she said, “Yes, I do.”

  Max sat down, waiting, watching her.

  “You’re right. I just don’t want to let anyone know, and I…” She came around the table, holding her arms out; then she crouched and hugged her.

  Max reached up and put a hand on her shoulder. Jo was shaking, and Max was sure she was crying; but when she stood, Jo’s eyes were dry.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, hon.”

  Jo took her chair. “You’re probably the only one with the right to know.” But she decided, at least for now, that the one thing she wouldn’t mention was what happened to May Walker.

  “Then let’s get the coffee, and you can tell me.” Part of her was pleased that she had won this round; yet, she felt a foreboding as she wondered if maybe, some doors should remain locked.

  chapter 13

  JACK TAPPED HIS fingers on the arm of the chair, sighing loudly, hoping to remind the receptionist that he was still waiting. As she peered over the ledge that fronted her cubicle-style desk, he checked his watch.

  “I apologize, Mr. Seever. Attorney Patch had to work you in this morning…” Her voice faltered as she took in his insolent stare.

  He nodded curtly, picking up a magazine from the table beside him, frowning at the cover: a glossy photo of a smiling mother and an infant, with the caption Parenting the First Child.

  Just great. The stupid whore got herself knocked up. He stifled a moan.

  He had a pretty good idea of what happened in the courts when it came to women. They always had the upper hand. He smirked as he played with the idea of what a set of ovaries could buy for a woman these days.

  “Mr. Seever? You can go in now.”

  “Thank you.” He tossed the magazine down on the chair as he stood up, and strode past the desk without looking at her.

  She watched him disappear into the office. “You’re welcome, numbnuts,” she mumbled.

  Steve Patch extended his hand as Jack came in. “Good morning, Jack. Have a seat.” He indicated the thickly upholstered chair across from him. “I’ve got some news for you.”

  Jack unbuttoned his suit coat and sat gradually, as if pained. “I hope it’s good.”

  “It is.”

  Jack regarded him thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said slowly, drawing it out as though he didn’t quite believe him. His hostility from being made to wait hadn’t abated yet.

  Steve didn’t notice. “I just got off the phone with Marianne Armor, from the D.A.’s office. She’s going to bargain down to disorderly conduct, and file it.”

  “File?”

  “As in, on the shelf.”

  Jack was confused. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “It’s a common procedure. We conduct a quick hearing, and I tell the judge that Jack Seever–an upstanding businessman in the community, a New Hampshire native, never before in any kind of trouble–had a very bad day when his wife left him, and he therefore acted completely out of character. You will agree to keep your nose clean for the next year–and that means, not even a traffic ticket, Jack,” he looked at him pointedly, “and the entire incident goes away. Like it never happened.” He sat back, hands clasped over his stomach, smiling. “Three hundred dollars in court costs, and you walk away.”

  “Three hundred dollars?”

  Steve’s smile faded. “It has to pinch a little, Jack, or she’s not going to plea it down and then file an assault on a cop.” He chuckled, but he looked disappointed. “I thought you’d be thrilled.” Sobering even more then, he added, “You should be, you know–I called in favors o
n this one.”

  Faced with the displeasure of someone he needed to get more from, Jack was quick to speak. “Oh man, Steve, I’m sorry. Samantha is something of a spendaholic, and money is always a big issue for me. Thank you. Really. How did you manage it?”

  He seemed satisfied. “Well, fate did smile on us some. Your case ended up on Judge Schultz’s docket.”

  “How is that relevant?”

  “When I saw that, I decided that our strategy would be to play on his sympathies.” He got up to get a cup of coffee from the machine on the buffet, motioning to Jack, questioning if he wanted some.

  Jack nodded, listening closely.

  “Judge Schultz had a nasty divorce come his way a few years ago. Lost the house, most of the bank accounts, half his retirement–and custody of his kids.” He shook his head sadly, clucking his tongue. “It was a bad situation. I mean, the guy’s a judge, you know? He mentioned a few times that the worst thing was being so roundly humiliated in front of the legal community.”

  “I’ll bet.” He took the coffee Steve offered him. “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know…There were some pretty bad accusations flying back and forth.” He sank into the leather chair behind his desk. “To tell you the truth, I have some reservations about the guy. Made me feel a little smarmy, using the ‘women suck’ defense on your behalf, but I’m obligated to provide you with a zealous defense.” He sipped his coffee, considering it for a moment. “Anyway, I told Marianne that we were pretty confident that the good judge could be swayed to mercy, especially for a man whose wayward wife was raking him over the coals. Disappearing, cutting him off from contact, et cetera. I reminded her of a couple of favors I sent her way last year, and asked her if she really wanted to waste taxpayer money to go to trial over a case that most likely would be dismissed–and she caved.” He sighed, as if sated by a fine meal.

  Jack conjured a look of admiration. “Excellent, Steve. Andy was right–you’re the best.”

  “So, show up on Friday at the courthouse, eleven-fifteen a.m. You’ll walk out twenty minutes later and go have lunch.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, man.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Jack shifted, setting his cup on the desk. “I need to ask you about something else, if you have a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  He cleared his throat. “I think my afore-mentioned ‘wayward wife’is pregnant.” He decided he wouldn’t mention the truth of his relationship to Sam, at least not until after the hearing.

  Steve seemed inappropriately amused. “Are congratulations in order?”

  “No. Well, I mean, it’s mine, but I’m not happy about it, and she’s a rabid pro-life type. So what I’m wondering is, is there any way I can force her to abort it? Or is she the only one with any rights here?”

  He scratched at his ear, looking regretfully at him. “I’m afraid it’s her call, friend.”

  “I figured. I just had to ask.”

  “You really don’t want the kid?”

  “No.”

  “You sure it’s yours?”

  He looked away. “If I’m going to be honest, yes, I’m sure.”

  “And you want her back?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She needs to pay.

  He shook the thought off, and gave Steve his best, most mournful expression. “But I’m losing her anyway, so I guess she’ll just disappear with my kid now.”

  “Maybe not.” He pulled a business card from the top drawer of his desk. “Handled correctly, at the very least the child will keep you two in close proximity to each other for the next couple of decades. At least you’ll have that, and who knows? You may change your mind later on about being a father.” He slid the card across the desk. “I want you to call this guy. He’s the best Father’s Rights attorney in the northeast.”

  Jack studied the card.

  Q. Michael Demares and Associates

  Attorneys at Law

  Practice Limited to Father’s Rights Litigation

  “Q. Michael?” Jack asked, stifling a smile.

  “He never uses his first name. I don’t even know what it is. He goes by ‘Mickey’.”

  “What can he do for me?”

  “He’ll make sure that she doesn’t get away with the kid.” He grinned. “Or with anything else, for that matter. But one word of caution.”

  “Okay.”

  “You said your wife is rabid? This guy would make her look tame. Pro-life all the way. Don’t even mention abortion. Be distraught over how much you love the baby, and how she’s cheating you out of a chance at fatherhood. But that said, he is without a doubt the go-to lawyer for someone in your situation.”

  “He sounds like a busy man. Hard to retain?”

  “He’s doing more business than most of the rest of us, that’s for sure. If my wife ever got any ideas, I’d go straight to him.” As he rose, he added, “Tell him I referred you.”

  Jack stood, offering his hand. “Don’t know what I would have done without you, Steve. Thanks.”

  Daisy was pawing at the screen door to the deck, asking to come out. Max leaned back in her chair, tapping at the frame until it opened enough for the dog to slip through. “Good morning, Daizer. Where’s your mom?” She glanced through the door to the kitchen, to the antique, red and white clock that hung over the stove. “Wow. Nine o’clock?”

  Daisy trotted down the steps to the yard, exploring a bit before she returned to Max, sniffing at her hand.

  “Oh, your treat. C’mon.” She followed Daisy into the kitchen, finding the bacon strips and handing her a large piece. “Go eat that on the bed with Mom, okay?”

  As Daisy trotted to the stairs, Max went back to her chair on the deck. She had stayed up all night, thinking about the things Jo had shared with her, wondering how someone could go through so much and still present herself as one so unaffected. She had mentioned as much to Jo, and her response had been, “That’s the life. Did your mom ever once miss the after-church fellowshipping thing?” And then, after a pause, she added, “Did you?”

  Max had never given much thought to her own experiences, growing up under the heavy, pious oppression of a father who led a congregation while living as though he hated his wife. And his daughter. Although she could never prove it by anything specific that he said, Max often had the feeling that one of the reasons he so resented her mother was because he had wanted a son. Unless he was angry with Max, he hardly spoke to her or noticed her at all. And he rarely called her by her full name–just “Max”. When he got nasty with her and called her “Maxine”, he would draw out the last syllable, his voice dripping with contempt.

  She wondered if her mother had ever truly asserted herself, with him or with anyone at all. She certainly never stood up for Maxine. Still, as her mother was in her seventies now, Max thought about her more and more often–sometimes with a deep, aching sorrow; always, with confusion. She thought that maybe it was guilt over leaving her mother alone to contend with a man who seemed for all the world to despise her.

  Yet if she was honest with herself, it had been a huge relief to leave her mother behind. Her mother’s neediness as she aged and, Max supposed, came to understand the futility of her own life, was a burden that Max didn’t know how to handle. She recalled what Jo had said, about blaming the victim: it had been easy to walk away from her mother. It had been easy to tell herself that her mother made her own choices–bad ones–and it was her job to live with them now; besides, she could have done so much better at keeping the peace. And that very thought was the one that confused Max the most, because one of the reasons she held so much contempt for her mother was due to her doormat attitude.

  Suddenly, Max was struck by a memory, an incident between her parents. She was twelve then, and going to the Homecoming pep rally with her friend Olivia. Max and her mother went shopping together at the mall, something they rarely did, for something nice for Max to wear. They stopped for lunch, and then for ice cream; th
ey sampled perfumes, and had their nails done. They made an entire day of it. She remembered trying on hats, and her mom helping her apply lipstick for the first time that day. She bought Max her first pair of jeans, which she wore home from the store. They had held hands, swinging them as they walked; she recalled her mother’s laughter.

  Sitting there listening to the water gently lap the shore, it hit her with a stab of exquisite pain that left her breathless: she and her mother had once been very close.

  When they returned home that evening after a happy day at the mall, Max’s father had progressed from dismay, and overblown shock, to screaming epithets at his wife and putting his fist through a door. He was shrieking Scripture about beauty not being found in dressing “the girl” like “a two-bit whore.”

  Her mother had hugged her quickly, and sent her upstairs to her room; however, Max sat on the top step and listened. And Catharine Allen, the retiring, good Pastor’s wife, had said–Max recalled it clearly now: “You shut your despicable mouth. You say those things about me all the time, and that’s fine because I just don’t care anymore what you think of me. You want to quote the Bible? How’s about a few versus about the tongue being from the pits of hell? No? Okay. But if you ever call Maxine anything like that, ever again, I’ll take it to the Deacons. Right before I leave you for good.”

  Max remembered the instantaneous thrill of hope, that her mother may leave her father; then, she heard the sounds of her mother being beaten: the thuds of his fists connecting, the scuffling and banging and furniture toppling as her mother apparently tried to fight back. His grunting with the force of the blows he delivered, and her cries for mercy. Max recalled her feeling of paralysis, as she got up on her rubbery legs and made her way to the living room–where her mother lay very still, and stunned, and bleeding from several places.

  Her father was grabbing his wallet and keys. The look he gave her made her cower against her sobbing mother. Some of the blood, she recalled, had gotten onto her new jeans as she curled up next to her.

  “Take a good look at what a contentious wife does to a family, Max-eene.”

  Max felt lightheaded as she sat there, looking at the lake but not seeing it. She made a conscious effort to steady her breathing. She realized that Jo was right about another thing she had said last night: it seemed that the mother was always the one who paid.