A Woman's Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  Then I realized the absurdity of that, given what he was doing to me. “He isn’t very good at what he does,” I stated. “He had a few breaks early in his career, but those breaks stopped coming when the economy soured. He tries, now that the market is improving, but he can’t make things work the way he used to. The more desperate he gets, the worse his judgment becomes.”

  “And ego?”

  I blew out a breath that said it all.

  “So,” Carmen said, “I repeat. It could be that he wants money. That’s what often happens in cases like this. The father uses custody of the kids as a bargaining chip. He agrees to give his wife custody, if she agrees to lower alimony. In your case, the situation is reversed. Dennis will trade custody for higher alimony.”

  “He can have it,” I cried, because if that was all he wanted, the solution was a snap. I wasn’t greedy. Having come from nothing, I prized basics over extras. I didn’t give a hoot about things like diamonds and sports cars and the four-hundred-dollar boots that Dennis loved. The joy I took in the success of WickerWise had less to do with money than with personal satisfaction. “He can have all the money he wants, I don’t care. Call his lawyer. If this is about money and a phone call will do it, call.”

  “It isn’t as simple as that, Claire. Yes, I’ll call Art, but if you’re thinking something will happen before Monday, it won’t. When the judge issued this court order, things were taken out of even Dennis’s hands. The issue in court wasn’t money. It was your ability to parent.”

  “I can parent just fine.”

  “That’s what we have to argue. But there are procedures to follow. For us, that means filing counter-affidavits answering Dennis’s charges against you. We have to convince the judge to reverse both the temporary custody order and the Order to Vacate.”

  “But if Dennis drops his objections—”

  “He won’t. Not before Monday. Not after having gone to court. Art won’t let him. It’s a matter of his credibility as a lawyer.”

  “I thought it was a matter of what’s best for the children.”

  “It is, but in time.”

  “Call him. Tell him Dennis can have however much he wants.”

  “Whoa. You need something to live on.”

  “I have plenty.”

  “What if he asks for a lump sum of ten million?”

  My laugh was a reedy sound. “I don’t do that well.”

  “He may argue there’s that and more in WickerWise.”

  “Whatever is or is not in WickerWise isn’t fluid.”

  “That won’t matter, if you give him carte blanche. He’ll suggest you borrow against the business, or against the house, or against the investments you’ve made for the kids’ education. Okay, maybe he won’t ask for a lump sum. Maybe he’ll ask for a monthly check of twenty thousand.”

  I swallowed. “We don’t live on anything near that.”

  “Maybe not in cash. But when you tally the value of the house, the cars, the clothes, when you figure in other living expenses, and entertainment and travel expenses necessary to keep him in the style to which he is accustomed, when you figure out what percentage of your business he’s entitled to because he was the one who stood by your side and helped you to build it—”

  “He didn’t help me build anything,” I cried. “WickerWise was always a quiet little aside, something I did while Dennis was doing other things. He never helped me with it. He wasn’t even aware of it being anything more than a hobby until the profits started to mount, and even then, I kept it in the background. I never made business demands on him, never insisted that he wine and dine or buy Christmas gifts for my people. I did those things for his business, but he never did them for mine. WickerWise was my baby from the start, my time, my hard work. It isn’t his. He has no claim on it.”

  “Give him carte blanche and that’s what he’ll take.”

  I was quiet then. The unfairness of it was too much.

  Carmen touched my hand. “I’m sorry for being so blunt, but it’s important you know that this won’t be simple. Few divorces are.”

  “Divorce.” I swallowed.

  “That’s where this is headed unless something gives fast. You’ve suggested marital counseling, and he’s refused.”

  “He says he doesn’t need a counselor, that he knows what makes him tick. Maybe he does. I sure don’t, not after yesterday.”

  “Do you want a divorce?”

  “He’s already filed. I don’t have much choice.”

  “But do you want one?”

  Yes, I wanted a divorce. I was furious at Dennis. No, I didn’t want a divorce. Dennis was my husband. Besides, if there was a divorce, the children would suffer. But if I was furious at Dennis, the children would suffer anyway.

  We had been married for fifteen years and seriously involved for another three before that. There had been rocky times. Oh boy, had there. But good times, too.

  “I remember being pregnant,” I said with a sad smile. “Dennis was incredible both times. He was attentive. There were bunches of flowers out of the blue. There were pictures of me and my belly that were just beautiful. Dennis was into photography then, and he was good. He made me feel special.”

  Dennis could be charming. He could be witty. When he was of a mind, he could be a wonderful companion. Yes, indeed, there had been good times. Moreover, I had wanted for myself and my children what I hadn’t had myself. I had so wanted this marriage to work.

  “Think about it,” Carmen said. “I’ll call Art and find out how serious Dennis is.” She rose and turned the datebook around on her desk. “We’ll need several hours together to do this affidavit. I’m in court later. How about tomorrow, same time?”

  “That’s fine,” I answered quickly. Tomorrow was Saturday, the weekend. I was grateful she was willing to work. “What about my children? What should I do?”

  “Nothing until we go to court.”

  I had never been in town and missed one of Johnny’s games before. “This is hard.”

  “I know. But Dennis will be watching what you do and reporting it to the judge. Better not to give him anything to use against you. Right now, the children think you’re in Santa Fe, so they won’t be expecting to see you. Call them on the phone. Tell them you’ll see them Monday night. But for now, respect the court.”

  “Like it respects me?” I asked with feeling. “There’s no justice in what it’s done.”

  “At least you have a lawyer. Hundreds of women pass through the probate courts each week representing themselves because they can’t afford counsel. Pro se litigants, they’re called. Believe you me, they get screwed good.”

  “To hear that, you’d think this was a police state. Why does anyone have to get screwed?”

  “Because the courts aren’t perfect. I like to think justice prevails in the end, though I’ve had cases where it hasn’t.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Will it in mine?”

  “Eventually,” Carmen said, but she was too slow in answering for my peace of mind.

  “Why not right away?”

  She held up three fingers in succession and ticked off, “Dennis Raphael, Art Heuber, and E. Warren Selwey. I don’t know about Dennis, but the other two are tough. Art isn’t showy, and he sure isn’t talkative, but when he speaks, people listen. As for the judge, well, he’s something of a throwback.”

  “Throwback?”

  “He believes in keeping women barefoot and pregnant. As far as he’s concerned, the humbler the woman, the better.”

  Suddenly overwhelmingly uncomfortable, I turned my hips and crossed my legs. “So the fact that I own a successful business was a strike against me even before he heard Dennis’s other charges?”

  Carmen nodded. “Most likely. Selwey’s second wife was a lawyer. She stopped work to have a couple of kids, but when they reached school age, she went back to work. She and E. Warren divorced soon after that. She took him to the cleaners.”

  “So how can he be in this court? No
way is he unbiased.”

  “It was a political appointment. He and our last governor are buddies.”

  “Hell.” I uncrossed my legs. “Hell.” I straightened. “Can we get another judge?”

  “Not for Monday. Selwey issued the order. He’ll be the one to reconsider it. But we have a strong argument—that your husband manipulated events to make you look irresponsible when you aren’t. We’ll give it our best shot.”

  I stood. Everything inside me had started to jump—I was used to doing, but Carmen was telling me to wait. Hard. So hard. “And if it doesn’t work?” I asked.

  She must have sensed that I was starting to lose it, because everything about her grew fierce. “If that doesn’t work, something else will. We’ll follow the rules until Monday, but if we don’t get a reversal, there are other things I can do. In any case, you’ll be able to see the kids Monday night.”

  “I don’t want to just see them. I want to sleep in the same house as them. I want to sleep in my house with them. If Dennis can’t stand the sight of me, let him leave the house.” I made a face. “He’s been such a pissy father. I can’t believe a judge would grant him custody.”

  Carmen took me by the shoulders. She was several inches taller than I was and had to duck her head just that littlest bit to level our eyes. “It’ll be all right, Claire. If we don’t get satisfaction from Selwey, we’ll appeal.”

  “But that takes time!”

  “If so, it’s to your benefit. Give Dennis enough rope, and chances are he’ll hang himself—tire of the kids, tire of parenting. It’s hard work. Let’s see him stick with it.”

  “I want my children.”

  “You’ll have them.”

  “I want them Monday.”

  “Then spend the weekend working. Meet me here tomorrow, and bring files with you. I’ll need financial information about your business and Dennis’s. Also, think about Dennis as a father. List the negatives. Be detailed—dates, witnesses. Our argument will be that Dennis set you up and that, in fact, you’re the more attentive, more responsible parent.”

  “In court. In public.”

  “It has to be done.”

  “What if Dennis and I reach an agreement before Monday?”

  “We still go before Selwey, but it’ll be a simpler procedure. I’ll call Art and see where we stand. Where can I reach you?”

  I was about to give her my home number, then realized that I couldn’t go there. So I opened my purse and fumbled around for a business card. “I’ll be at the office. After that, at Brody’s.”

  “To sleep?” When I didn’t answer, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I use Joy’s bedroom.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It won’t look good.”

  “But who’ll see?”

  “Anyone who wants to. Play it safe for the weekend, Claire. Stay at a hotel.”

  I wanted to argue. I wanted to rant and rave. I wanted to beg Carmen, positively beg her to get my kids back for me, in exchange for which I would give her far more than the ten thousand Lloyd Usher had demanded, and I didn’t care if she only spent eight hours on the case, the money was that irrelevant.

  But I think she already knew that. I had said as much, albeit not in as many words. I had also argued, and ranted and raved, and was getting tired of hearing my own voice in that high-pitched tone. The problem was that I wasn’t used to putting my fate in someone else’s hands. I believed that if you wanted things done right, you did them yourself. Brody was one of the few people I trusted more than I trusted myself.

  Did I trust Carmen Niko? She seemed knowledgeable. She seemed experienced. She seemed kind. She seemed to understand my situation.

  Did I trust her? I guess I had to for now.

  “Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”

  “Claire. Why didn’t you call last night? I was worried the plane went down.”

  “You would have heard if it had,” I said in an attempt at brightness. “I was late getting home. Things got hectic.”

  “I was lying here waiting. That isn’t good for my heart.”

  What could I say? I couldn’t have possibly called her last night. It was only now, riding home with Brody after meeting with Carmen, that I felt composed enough to do it. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Well. It’s done. How are the children?”

  According to Elizabeth, with whom I had talked three minutes before, “They’re fine.”

  “I take it Dennis made out well enough while you were gone.”

  Oh yes. “He did. Are you feeling any better?”

  “What did…say? I can’t hear. Something’s…with the connection.”

  “I just went through a tunnel.” Louder. “I just went through a tunnel. There. Is that better?”

  “You’re in the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I had a meeting in Boston. I’m on my way to the office.”

  “You sound tired.”

  Tired was one word for it. I wanted to tell her the others, but couldn’t. “Getting home is always hard after being gone so long. Things pile up.”

  “When will you be back to see me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I feel better when you’re here.”

  “I know. But I’ve been away from home for two weeks. I need to catch my breath and get things straightened out here before I rush back to the airport. Has Rona been in today?”

  Connie’s answer was broken by static. I left well enough alone.

  “The reception’s breaking up, Mom. I’d better go.”

  “Will you call me later?”

  “I’ll try. If not later today, then tomorrow.”

  “What are you doing later today?”

  “I have—there are things—” I was desperate to tell her, desperate to have another voice tell me how wrong Dennis was. But I couldn’t.

  “You’re breaking up, Claire. This is a terrible connection.”

  “I’ll call again soon. Okay?”

  “Okay. Bye-bye, baby.”

  five

  At its simplest, the word “wicker” means woven. Common usage makes it a noun, referring to objects made by weaving pliant twigs and willow branches around a frame. Such objects are also called wickerwork. Baskets were the earliest form of wickerwork. According to folklore, the first wicker chair came into being when early Sumerians returning from market grew tired, removed empty baskets from their camels’ sides, turned them upside-down, and sat.

  The wicker chair that had inspired my love of the medium was quite different from that earlier, primitive one. It was a rocker from my childhood that had sat on the front porch of the house next to ours. The family living in that house was one of the few in the neighborhood that was intact, the rest having lost members either to death, as we had, or to war, marital breakdown, or economic separation. They were as poor as we were, but happier. Laughter came from that porch nearly every summer night. More kisses were thrown from it, more smiles and waves, and in the midst of it all sat the rocker. There was a delicacy, a lightness to it, and a strength. As an adult looking back, I saw that that family had problems of its own. Still, I clung to the image. That old wicker rocker became synonymous with life’s joy.

  When I studied interior design in college, my appreciation of wicker took on new dimensions. The primitive quality of it intrigued me, the fact that though thousands of years had passed since baby Moses was placed in his basket of bulrushes and set afloat on the Nile, the technique of basket-making remained much the same. I knew that wicker had come to America with the Pilgrims, and that it was wildly popular in the late 1800s and early 1900s. I also knew that it had fallen out of vogue for a while, and I counted my blessings for that. At the time I was starting in the field, there were wonderful finds to be had for a song in old attics, at flea markets and estate sales. I even picked up a piece or two at the town dump. Many a weekend before and after my marriage saw me searching out antiques for my c
ustomers.

  Refinishing those antiques came naturally to me, particularly when I couldn’t find anyone else to do it well. I had the patience, and I learned the skill. In time I could recane a chair, replace broken weavers and spokes, and tighten scrollwork. And paint. Oh, could I paint. That took the greatest patience of all, working the brush back and forth, over and in and around every little thread of the weave for one coat, then a second and often a third. At first I barely charged for the work I did. I might find a matching wicker set—chair, loveseat, footstool—at an auction and earmark it for a customer, then repair it and finish it for the sheer joy of the process.

  The joy never dimmed. During the years when I was a furniture buyer for a national chain and no longer advised individual customers, I spent my free time buying and refinishing antiques, then selling them on consignment. My world opened wide when I married Dennis and had access to the storage space in his parents’ attic. Suddenly I could collect antiques at will. When Dennis and I finally bought our own home, it was filled with my finds.

  Did Dennis like wicker? He never said. What he did say was that he always knew where to find me when I was upset. Working with wicker was therapy for me.

  It was still true. WickerWise brought me pleasure, but refinishing antiques brought me joy. So there was a hidden benefit in situating the headquarters of WickerWise in Brody’s garage rather than my attic, because that garage was huge, a carriage house actually, large enough for a suite of offices and a workroom—and that workroom was a dream. It had exquisite natural light, state-of-the-art air circulation, workbenches, tall stools, storage bins, and plenty of wide-open space. I stole time to work there whenever I could. In recent years, what with WickerWise and the children both growing in leaps and bounds, that wasn’t often enough.

  Still I squirreled treasures away, because Brody’s garage had a storage loft, too. I filled it with the pieces I picked up in my travels and refinished them one by one. Sometimes I did it for a client who needed a particular piece. Other times I did it just for me.

  This was one of those times.

  Upon my return from Boston, I dropped my bags at a hotel. I did it quickly, pretended I was on business in a strange city. It was blatant denial, but I knew that if I let myself think about what I was doing—checking into a hotel on my own turf—and why, I would fall apart. I felt safer when I arrived at the office.