“Oh God, oh God, Jay, please. Don’t do this. Don’t do this to Ollie and me. I beg you. I told you before—you can have everything if you just leave us in peace. Oh God, please bring her home to me now.”
I knelt down next to the telephone table, gasping, praying to the god of the drowning.
“Esme, it’s a m-mark on my daughter. I am required, my lawyer says, to check this out. He’s insisting. I don’t know what’s g-going on with you these days.” His voice went high suddenly. “Jesus. Coming after Paloma and me the other day on the lot? I don’t get you.” His voice went calm again. “I can tell you what’s going to h-happen. I called my lawyer and he’s going to call your lawyer. We’re going to ask for a special c-court evaluation here and I’m going to take t-t-temporary custody.”
I took a deep shaking breath. I sensed that he was about to hang up and I knew I had to keep him on the phone. The room was spinning and the receiver was my only stationary point. I held on for dear life, forcing my voice to be calm.
“Jay, listen. Jay, Ollie bumped her head on the bathroom sink this morning. You know how she spins around? She just banged into it—she was dizzy and—”
“No, I d-don’t get it, Esme. Nothing like that ever happened to her b-before, when I was around! I just keep th-thinking about what I saw in your face when you came after Paloma at Paramount the other day ...”
“Jay—Jesus! You know me, you know I’d never hit Ollie. Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to hurt me like this? And Ollie—because you have no idea how this is going to hurt her, Jay ...”
“Esme, I did you the c-courtesy of calling you to tell you this. I didn’t have to do this, Christ knows. I thought I’d be f-f-fair ...”
“You can’t keep her—you don’t have custody! I do!”
“Possession, Esme, is n-nine tenths of the law. And if there is any question of violence, the court isn’t going to side with you n-now, are they?”
“Jay, please. We said we loved each other once—please, listen to me. Let me have her back.”
“Love was another l-lifetime. Love was before you shut me out of your life.”
Tears poured down my face.
“So now you’re going to shut Ollie out of mine?”
There was silence.
“Jay. I’m going to come over there and get her. I’m going to leave now.”
“Esme, listen. You come over here and I’ll have to call the police.”
“Do what you want. I’m coming to get her.”
“Esme. There’s s-something else—really disturbing. Ollie told me that you cut her.”
“Cut her?”
“She was sitting right in f-front of me and she said, ‘Mamma cut me,’ and drew a line with her finger right down the middle of her face.”
“Oh Jesus, Jay, that’s mirror symmetry—I taught her how to bisect some shapes. Jay, she’s describing a game we play ...”
“I’m very sorry, Esme. Your b-behavior’s too weird, too u-unpredictable to—”
“Jay, I’m on my way over.”
“Th-then you’ll make this worse than it h-has to be!”
We both hung up. I got off the floor, then fell down again, sobbing. The phone rang again almost immediately and I stumbled, grabbing for it, pulling the cord, and the phone slid off the table and crashed to the floor. I fumbled the receiver into my grasp.
“Esme?”
“Jay? Jay?”
“No, Esme, it’s Terry McMahon. Are you all right? You’ve heard?”
“Jesus, you told me to let her go. You told me to let him take her tonight! Now look what he’s done!”
I was screaming into the phone. I heard myself, but I didn’t care.
“Esme. How did she get a bruise on her head?”
“Oh my God. I can’t believe you! You’re on his side! She bumped her head on the sink today. She was spinning like she always does, spinning, and she bumped ...”
I started to sob, I couldn’t talk anymore. I leaned forward, almost touching my head to my knees, and I kept sobbing.
“OK, Esme, OK. Please listen to me. I believe you. Esme?”
I took a gasping breath and sat up again.
“Tell me what I do to get her back, Terry. That’s all I want to hear from you now.”
“Well. His lawyer told me that they’re going to ask for a 4602 evaluation—”
“A what? Jesus, what’s that?”
“That’s Civil Code 4602, which means they’re asking for an evaluation of Ollie’s situation, based on their charge that she’s being abused by you—and in the meantime, they’re taking custody.”
I started to sob again.
“Listen, Esme, 4602 just means they’ll get another court-appointed psychiatrist to evaluate Ollie and he’ll also talk to you guys, her doctors and teachers and so on. I’m sure it will become obvious that she belongs with you. They’re going to watch for what they call ‘the primary emotional bond’ here.”
“I’m going over there to get her, Terry.”
“Esme. You must, under no circumstances, try to take Ollie back by force. Listen to me. It will destroy your chances of ever getting her back. The court will be convinced that you are unstable.”
“But he stole her! He kidnapped her from me! What about his stability? Where is the justice here?”
“Esme. You have got to hold on. The court will rectify all of this, I really believe that. In the meantime, you must not do anything to jeopardize getting Ollie back.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said. “I don’t know what is going to happen. I wish I could tell you but I can’t.”
I hung up.
The phone began ringing again right away, but I ignored it. I lay on the floor trying to get my breath. Ollie’s dragon sat in its red chair near my head and I reached up and pulled it to me, rocking back and forth on the floor, holding it to my heart.
Chapter 24
I TURNED OFF on a side street and drove slowly, my head half out the window, peering at the phosphorescent numbers painted on the curb, talking to myself. I’d stopped crying now and was a little calmer. It helped to be doing something: driving a car, looking for house numbers, moving through space.
News was on the radio; a weatherman predicting rain again. Unseasonable weather: Storms and lightning. Due soon. I braked: 5-0-5-2, that was it. I drove past the house and parked toward the middle of the block on the other side of the street. I switched off the ignition and sat quietly in the reflection of a street lamp. It hit me how tired I was—my whole body ached—but this was an observation completely unconnected to any action. I knew I wouldn’t sleep again till Ollie was safe with me.
I looked back over my shoulder at the house, a little gingerbread-chalet thing—carved shutters and ceramic trolls on the lawn. There’ll be a welcome mat with a smiling face on it, I thought viciously. I thought of Ollie inside that house, in the guest bed, or in a sleeping bag. We’d never been separated before, not even for a night.
I got out of the car, locked it, and crossed the street. I turned in the walk and climbed the steps. I was reaching for the doorbell when Jay came out, pulling the door carefully shut behind him with a jingling sound.
We looked at each other. The front light was on and it outlined his whole body. A fugitive caught in a searchlight: terrified.
“I’m asking you to leave,” he said. “Paloma’s calling the p-police right now, Esme. They’ll be r-right here.”
His voice sounded high and unsure. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and this made him look fragile, as if he were covering a wound. By contrast, my voice, when I spoke, sounded deep to me—oddly calm and reassuring.
“It’s all right, Jay. Just let me see her.”
“Are you c-c-crazy? Do you know what time it is? Ollie’s in bed!”
There was a pause.
“I’m tellin’ you—leave now, Esme. The c-cops are on their way.”
I moved to the right and tried to see around h
im into the house; he shifted quickly, blocking my line of sight.
“She’s awake, isn’t she? I know she can’t be asleep, Jay. For God’s sake, let me see her. Please. I’ll forget this happened, Jay—if you just let me take her home now.”
“Esme.” He rolled his eyes and laughed and shook his head, lifting his palms up to an invisible witness. “What is it g-gonna take to convince you? Ollie is staying with me.”
I moved in closer. I looked him directly in the eye. I was a bit shorter than Jay, but I felt at least his size, maybe bigger, as I faced him.
“No,” I said, “she isn’t.”
He swallowed. “Get out of here, Esme. Unless you w-want to go to jail.”
I looked down suddenly and saw the smiling-face welcome mat under my feet and laughed.
“Go ahead,” he said, “laugh. They’ll be here any s-second.”
There was a sound from the back of the house—a muffled cry, I thought, and I tried to push past Jay. He shoved me away and I stumbled backwards, almost falling down the steps. I regained my balance and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, pulling his face close to mine.
“Jay,” I said. We were eyeball-to-eyeball. I could smell the cloying lime-y aftershave he wore for Paloma. “Listen.”
He looked back at me as if he might, for a second, listen—then something else crossed his face and he wrenched out of my grip and pushed me backwards again, harder. This time I did fall down the steps, but as I lost my balance, I grabbed him and took him down with me.
We landed hard on the grass—me on my back—and I felt something metal, a sprinkler head? a troll? dig into my spine. But this was a distant, unfocused pain. The precise focus of my immediate pain was Jay. I wanted to kill him. And he wanted to kill me.
He wrapped his hands around my throat, choking me, and I kneed him in the balls and he let up. We rolled around on the grass, both of us sobbing, cursing, hitting blindly at each other.
“Get out of here. Get the fuck out of here, Esme.”
“Give her to me, Jay. Give her to me and I’ll go.”
“No, you go. Go, Esme, get out!”
We butted heads accidentally and this momentarily stunned us. We lay dazed on the grass as the police cruiser pulled up, lights flashing, radio squawking.
We struggled to get up as the car doors slammed and two enormous LAPD cops materialized on either side of us.
“Let’s break this up now, folks,” one of them said, and I felt purposeful hands under my shoulders, lifting me to my feet.
Jay and I stood, swaying, grass-stained and rumpled-looking, the cops looming over us.
“Which one of you called for help?” they asked, and Jay put his hand over his heart and grimaced like a cardiac victim.
“I d-did, officer. This w-woman here—”
“This your place of residence?”
“Well, yes. I’m staying with a f-friend.”
“Your friend is the owner of the house?”
“Yes. I called you because my d-daughter and I are staying here with my f-friend and this ... my ... w-wife, soon to be ex-wife, has come here to threaten us and try to take my daughter.”
They asked for names and we gave them and showed I.D. They asked for the name of the owner of the house. I looked at the cop on my left. He looked paternal; he was large, resigned in the eyes, but kind. The other guy was younger, but less intelligent, a little brutish, and bored.
“Officers, please listen to me. My daughter was living with me until this evening when my husband here took her away, in effect kidnapped her. I came over here to get her back.”
The cops exchanged a tired oh-shit look. Not a domestic, they were thinking, not tonight—not a goddam custody battle.
“My lawyer feels that my d-daughter should be kept from this woman—there’s a q-question of abuse. I’ve requested full c-custody from the court. She just attacked me here—right in front of the house!”
The young cop looked at me.
“Ma’am, if the court and your lawyers are settling this matter, we have no power but to leave things as they are and to request at this time that you vacate the premises.”
I turned to the older cop. “Please. My little girl is inside there. They took her away from me. She’s never been away from me a whole night before ...” I broke down and began to cry. “Please, please help me. Please help me, I beg you.”
The older cop nodded to the younger one, who took Jay off to one side of the yard. Then the older guy walked me over to a spot under a tree.
“Esme? That your name? Esme, I can’t help you here. The one who’s got the kid is the one we’re supposed to hold with, unless I see the guy’s drunk or abusive, whatever. Now I suggest that you go on home and call your lawyer and get to work on getting your child back through the courts. That’s the only way to do it. Anything else is going to get you in a load of trouble.”
I was crying so hard that I couldn’t speak. I struggled to get my breath—but the tears sprang from me. He put a hand on my arm and gave me a tissue.
“Hold on. Hold on, Esme.”
I pushed at my face with the tissue.
“I can’t leave without her. My God, my God—where would I go?”
He looked startled. “Home!”
“Don’t you see?” I cried. “I can’t go back there—everything I see there reminds me of her!”
Across the yard I heard laughter: Jay and the other cop. I smelled cigarette smoke:—they were bullshitting together. I turned and ran for the house.
“Ollie!” I screamed. “Ollie! Mamma is here, Mamma is here, sweetheart!”
Hands fell on me and my arms were jerked back behind me with a snap and I was spun around. The young cop stared at me, a look of annoyance combined with clinical disinterest: another nut case.
“Come on, ma’am,” he said without moving his lips. “Let’s go. Where’s your car?”
I nodded up the street; he glanced that way and I pulled away again.
“Ollie! Mamma will be back! I promise!”
He bent my arm again and hurried me in front of him. I could feel his fury.
“You scream and run like that again and I’ll handcuff you and book you for trespassing and disturbing the peace. And you’ll never see your daughter again. You got it?”
I didn’t answer. The older cop walked behind us. I thought that he felt sorry for me. I hoped he did. I hoped that he’d think about me the rest of the night, for the rest of his life. But after they’d checked out my driver’s license and registration, shone a flashlight in my eyes, sat me behind the wheel with many admonitions, escorted me out of the neighborhood, I knew he wouldn’t remember anything about me past the next radio call, the next nut case, the next lost cause.
So I drove. I drove for miles and I don’t remember a single destination. I zoomed through the strange lit caverns of underpasses and through tunnels and around cloverleafs. Cars pulled up next to mine on the freeway, people gestured at me, then fell back, but I don’t know why. I think that I was talking loudly to myself, sobbing hysterically. I looked up at the lit exit signs but I could not read them. I got off the freeway and on a long dark road: miles of derricks, then the ocean at one point. A gas station. Then I was back downtown. It was the blue-grey hour before sunrise; I was in Chinatown, there were people hurrying to the street markets, there were smells of fish and coffee. I felt hungry but when I thought of eating, my stomach lurched. The sun came up in Chinatown and I parked the car and sat. I was almost out of gas.
I watched the sun swell and turn over Chinatown on its great pink axis. The car windows were rose colored. People hurried in front of my windshield—they seemed to float in their bright red pants and army jackets and genderless ponytails. Newspapers and flowers and Styrofoam cups of coffee floated by and I sat and stared. At one point a man knocked on my window, offering me an orange branch filled with whistling, bobbing, singing, wind-up birds. I shook my head no and then I thought, Ollie would like that, but he was gone an
d then I realized I’d forgotten for one second that Ollie was no longer with me. I put my head back on the headrest and I waited, but forgetfulness did not come again. So I got out of the car and began to walk.
I’d walked several blocks before I realized I had a coffee cup in my hand. I didn’t remember buying it or drinking it, but the cup was empty. I had somehow wandered clear of Chinatown—I looked up at the street signs and saw I was nearing Fourth and Wall.
In front of warehouses and on street corners, in alleyways, there were people huddling and sleeping on piles of rubbish. People with faces darkened and toughened by wind and exposure, rooting through garbage or panhandling. Some of them crawled in and out of cardboard boxes or packing crates. I saw a gaunt woman with pocked skin, pushing her three children ahead of her down the street. On her back a filthy hand-lettered sign read: WE ARE HUNGRY, PLEASE HELP, THANK YOU.
I ran after her. She turned when she heard me coming up behind her, fear in her face. I saw that her left eye was blackened, and a long seamed cut like a surgical incision festered on her throat. She looked like a hatchet, something hewn from stone or shattered bone. She drew her lips back, showing her teeth like an animal, then closed them tight suddenly, pursing her lips—she did this again and again, like a mad dignitary in a receiving line: smiling, not smiling, smiling.
She stared at me and gathered her children to her, smiling, not smiling. The oldest was a little boy about seven, with an Afro, in shorts and a torn, filthy jacket. He was humming to himself. Ollie, I thought, Ollie, then stopped myself and looked at her retarded girl of five with a knee-length Ninja Turtles T-shirt on and nothing else, not even shoes, and the skinny light-skinned baby with a bubble of snot at his nose and listless black eyes.
“Whaddyou want?” Her voice was oddly gentle, soft, the harsh words dreamily stretched out. “You from the Social Service?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not from Social Services.”
I pulled a clump of bills from my bag and held it out to her. She reached out for it, then hesitated.
“You come to take my kids?”
“No.”
She took the bills, looked at them, then secreted them somewhere in her ragged coat.
Saving St. Germ Page 23
