A Woman's Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  “It’s not like I’m there every two days. I stop off in Cleveland before or after business, and as for the kids, they did just fine seeing her. They understand how much it means to her when she sees them. It’s a lesson for them, you know? You can’t run away from illness. When people are weak and sad is when they need you the most. Dennis is the one setting the bad example here.”

  Carmen held up a hand. “We’re not talking about Dennis. We’re talking about you.”

  I straightened. “My mother’s condition is heart-breaking, but I don’t grieve to the point of obsession. When I’m doing things with the kids, my mind is on them. Same with work. I’m functioning just fine. Maybe I’ve missed time at home because of time spent in Cleveland, maybe my life is more hectic, but it isn’t unmanageable.”

  “When will you see your mother again?”

  “That depends on how she does, and on what traveling I’m doing for work.”

  “We need specifics,” Carmen insisted. “Dennis is arguing that he is the more reliable parent. We’re saying you are. The judge will want to know what trips you have planned and how long you’ll be gone and who’ll be with the kids when you are.”

  “Dennis will be. At least, that’s how we always worked it before. I don’t have any problem with that.”

  “The judge will want to hear that you’ll be home for a while.”

  I wanted that, too. But I couldn’t promise it. “My mother is dying.”

  “Yes,” Carmen said.

  “Have you ever lost a mother?”

  “Not to death. To desertion.”

  That shut me up. But not for long. “Do you ever see her?”

  “Never.”

  “Did you ever say good-bye?”

  “We didn’t know she was going until she didn’t show for dinner.”

  “Well, it was like that with my father. He was young and healthy one minute, and dead of a heart attack the next. There wasn’t time to say good-bye. With my mother there is. How can I not take advantage of that?”

  Small victory. Carmen looked torn. “You can. You should.” She sighed. “You just have to do it with care.”

  “I was hoping to get to see her every other week. That won’t please the judge, though.” No question. I knew the answer.

  “Not unless you take the children with you, fly out with them, fly back with them. No more letting them fly alone.”

  Had I been negligent doing that? But these were the nineties. “It’s done all the time.”

  “Not by mothers who are trying to convince judges that their children come first,” Carmen argued. “Look, Claire, I’m not saying the judge is right, just that that’s how he thinks. We have to play it his way for now. You ought to keep traveling down to a minimum, period. Obviously, if your mother takes a turn for the worse, go. But the judge will ask about business trips, too. Dennis has already told him that you travel a lot.”

  “Uh-huh. He counted. According to him, I’ve been gone thirty-four days out of the last ninety.”

  “Is he wrong?”

  “Probably not. But he never said it was too much. He never complained, other than to say we needed a nanny, but we had one once, an au pair, and she was a disaster. He wants to try again, but the kids are older now. We don’t need a baby-sitter, as much as a chauffeur. Dennis has visions of getting a cute little Swedish girl. I have visions of getting another hot shot. Besides, I don’t mind doing the driving. It lets me talk with my kids. It lets me get to know their friends. It’s good quality time. Dennis thinks it’s a hassle. Tell that to the judge.”

  Carmen grinned and made a note on her pad. Then she spread a calendar on the table. “What business trips have you planned?”

  “Nothing immediately. Brody is making a swing through our West Coast stores the week after next. I was hoping to make a round of our department store boutiques right before Thanksgiving.”

  “Too soon.”

  “Right after Thanksgiving?”

  Her pen tapped its way through November. She turned the page to December, tapped more, turned again, then back. “Can it wait?”

  “Not really. Our boutiques do a huge amount of business at Christmastime. And there are parties, and charity fund-raisers. I like to check out the setup before each one.”

  “Can’t Brody?”

  “That isn’t really his domain. He’s the numbers person. I’m the artist.”

  “Send him this time. It’s important that you be around.”

  Something didn’t feel right, something she wasn’t saying. “I understand that, but if we go to court on Monday and get the order against me dismissed, it’s done, isn’t it? Out of the judge’s hands? At least, the issue of child custody?”

  Carmen didn’t look as optimistic as I wanted her to be. “Only if Dennis cedes, but I doubt he will. He won’t give you sole custody, certainly not before a divorce settlement is reached. He may agree to shared custody, but even then the judge will probably want a study done before he makes his final ruling.”

  “A study?” A new glitch. My gut clenched. “What kind of study?”

  “Of you. Of Dennis. Of the children. It’s done by someone appointed by the court to be a guardian ad litum, someone either in social services or mental health, maybe even in law, a neutral party who interviews you and makes a recommendation to the court.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “The judge allows thirty days. Negotiations for a divorce settlement could take longer. If things get acrimonious between you and Dennis, and you can’t agree on the division of property, if we have to go to trial, we could be talking six months, even a year.”

  I let out a pained breath. “A year in limbo? I won’t survive that, not if I don’t have my kids. Get me my kids, Carmen. I need my kids.”

  I had to believe that the judge would reverse his order. I could understand that Dennis and his lawyer might have pulled a fast one when I wasn’t there to defend myself, but I would be there on Monday, personally presenting my side of the story. The judge had to see the truth then. Nothing else made sense.

  That was the major reason why, when I talked with Johnny and Kikit that night, I told them I would be home Monday afternoon. Okay, so there was willfulness involved. I figured that if the children were expecting to see me—were counting the hours, Mommy, the minutes, the seconds, as Kikit had sworn—the court wouldn’t dare let them down. We all wanted what was in the children’s best interests, didn’t we?

  six

  I wasn’t a big television watcher. By the time I was done with work, the kids, and the house, I was too tired. Sometimes I turned on the set when I climbed into bed at night, but I rarely lasted more than ten minutes before falling asleep. That didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of what Dennis watched. Often enough, bringing him coffee in the den, I had caught glimpses of “L.A. Law,” “Law & Order,” or “Murder One.” I had a better record with movies, since he and I both loved them. I remembered The Verdict, and, of course, Anatomy of a Murder, and had loved To Kill a Mockingbird enough to rent it when we were having friends over for a Sunday night supper. And then there was the Simpson trial. I would have had to be on another planet not to have seen snippets on CNN and airport monitors, in dentists’ waiting rooms, and in the Globe.

  So I expected something orderly. I pictured a single trial dominating the courtroom, with the judge decorous on his bench, the attorneys and their clients sedate at tables beneath him, the benches behind them lined with respectful observers, and the court officers at attention by the door.

  Reality was quite different. Judge Selwey’s courtroom wasn’t exactly chaotic, but it came close. Oh, yes, the judge was on his bench, but he was a small man who was in and out of his seat, black robe flying as he strode from one end of the bench to the other, grabbing a book here, waving a paper there, as though to make his presence known. Even then, aside from his clerks, the only people watching him were the three standing immediately to his right. The rows of benches that filled the room he
ld small groups, two, three, four to a huddle, whispering, murmuring, rustling papers. Two uniformed court officers were engrossed in their own conversation at the side of the courtroom, and over it all the radiators hissed and knocked.

  I didn’t see Dennis. I had been looking for him since parking my car—looking covertly, nervously, because I wasn’t sure what my reaction to seeing him would be. But he hadn’t been on the courthouse steps or in the lobby, and he wasn’t in here.

  So maybe he had decided not to come. Maybe he had realized the absurdity of his charges and wanted to save himself the embarrassment of having the order against me reversed. That was fine with me. I didn’t imagine that we would kiss and make up. I was too angry for that. But we were rational adults. We could talk. There was a way to handle marital problems, and a public forum wasn’t it. We didn’t belong in a courtroom discussing our problems before strangers.

  Carmen scanned the room for a private spot. She ended up guiding me to the jury bench, nudging me along when I thought we wouldn’t be allowed to sit there. But it was empty and far enough from the judge to allow us to talk.

  No sooner were we seated when she pulled a sheaf of papers from her leather case and leaned close. “Look these over. They’re a restatement of everything we discussed Saturday. We’ve rebutted Dennis’s charges point by point and made our own point-by-point argument that you’ve been the major parenting force all these years, as well as the major responsible force in the marriage.”

  There were four pages of numerically ordered items. I read through them, found them simple, straightforward, and truthful, took the pen Carmen offered, and signed my name on the designated line.

  Carmen took back both pen and papers. Still leaning close and talking low, she said, “As soon as Dennis and Art get here, we’ll notify Missy, the blonde over there. She’s the judge’s administrative clerk—his cousin, I believe, but nice enough.”

  I kept my voice as low as hers, whispered actually. I didn’t want to draw attention, didn’t want anyone to know I was there. “Who are all these other people?”

  “Lawyers and clients. The judge disposes of anywhere from three to seven or eight cases an hour. Social service workers sometimes show up, plus witnesses if the judge is hearing evidence. The press shows up only if it gets wind of something juicy.” Her eyes roamed the room. They were unrushed, unfazed. She seemed perfectly at ease here, and while I certainly wasn’t—I would have rather been most anywhere else—I took courage from her manner. “I don’t see any media here now,” she said. “The fellow over there, see, way at the back is just a spectator. He can’t possibly hear much from there. Mostly he reads his paper. He’s retired, I think.”

  A raised voice came from beside the bench. Our attention swung forward. After a minute, I whispered, “What was that about?”

  Carmen explained. “The man on the right is representing himself. He doesn’t know what he’s doing—a big problem with pro se defendants—so the judge was instructing him in the law. The wife’s lawyer, there on the left, objected to the judge’s instruction, claiming that it’s a conflict of interest for the judge to tell one party what to do, then to rule on the action.”

  I didn’t need Carmen to interpret for me when the judge overruled the lawyer’s objection with an impatient wave of his hand. It was ominous, that wave, a too-hasty dismissal. It belittled the woman and her lawyer, which fit in with the picture Carmen had painted of the judge. Me, I had spent a good part of the weekend denying that picture. I wanted to believe judges were named to the bench for their wisdom and inherent fairness. I had to believe that once this judge saw me in person, once he heard my side and realized how responsible and involved a parent I was, he would reverse his earlier decision.

  But there was that impatient wave, directed at a woman who looked decent enough. It seemed to me that if the judge gave legal advice to her husband, it was a conflict of interest. That, along with Carmen’s reservations about Selwey, along with what I knew about little men with Napoleon complexes and misogynous men with Orestes complexes, made me wonder what I was in for.

  “Is every woman who comes before him doomed?” I asked.

  Carmen’s eyes were on the bench. It was a minute before she said, “Not every one. He has to be careful. There have been complaints against him, even an article or two in the paper. So he walks a thin line. When the argument is compelling, his rulings are fine. He doesn’t dare buck the tide. The trouble comes when things are hazy.”

  I thought my arguments were compelling. I thought they made absolute sense. I was wondering how the judge couldn’t possibly see that—when the door at the back of the courtroom opened and Dennis came through. I felt a sharp thump against my ribs, reality hitting hard. He was my husband, now my adversary. I was having trouble making the shift.

  With him was a man who was unremarkable in every respect but his carriage. He held himself straight and walked slowly, as though he had all the time and confidence in the world.

  “Is that Arthur Heuber?” I asked.

  “That’s Arthur Heuber,” Carmen answered. “Nothing fancy or showy or slick, just solid legal skill. He’s been doing divorce work for better than thirty years. Never heard of him, huh? He likes it that way. By keeping a low profile, he takes jurors by surprise, not to mention pleasing judges who don’t want to be overshadowed.” She pursed her lips, let them go with a smack. “He knew what he was doing when he picked Selwey.”

  My eyes flew to hers. “‘Picked him’? Can he do that?”

  “Three judges sit on the probate court. When a motion is filed, it is given a sequential docket number. The last digit of that number determines which judge will hear the case.”

  “Then it’s random.”

  “In theory. It’s possible for a lawyer to manipulate the judicial assignment by picking when to file. Docketing clerks have been known to notify lawyers when the numbers roll around for a particular judge.”

  “That isn’t fair,” I said. When Carmen’s mouth quirked in agreement, in frustration, I felt a flurry of fear. “Can we change judges?”

  “Oh, I tried. Believe you me. I was here on another case last Friday afternoon and requested a continuance until tomorrow morning. That would have put us before Judge DeSantis. Not much better, but better. Obviously, since we’re here now, my request was denied. It’s not that these judges love each other, just that they won’t step on each other’s toes. Selwey issued the initial order. They’ll let him see it through. I’ll be right back.”

  She slipped off the bench, carrying the affidavits I had signed. I watched her cross to the far side of the courtroom and talk briefly with Heuber. Then the two approached the clerk. Heuber had his own papers, though I couldn’t imagine what they held. More accusations? But what? I didn’t drink. I didn’t beat my kids. I didn’t put them out on the streets to beg for food.

  Nor did I drive to endanger them in the car, or leave my daughter without medicine, though Dennis had accused me of both. Sitting here, watching Art Heuber pass his mysterious papers to Missy, I felt utterly vulnerable. Accusations didn’t have to be true to wreak havoc. The last few days had taught me that.

  My eyes went to Dennis, drawn there, I swear, by some force of his, because he was waiting, looking straight at me. He held my gaze for a deliberate minute, then calmly looked away. If seeing me had given him a jolt, it didn’t show. But I sure felt one. It brought everything back—the hurt and the fear, the anger, the shock, the disbelief—everything I had spent the weekend repressing for the sake of survival.

  I started to shake.

  Carmen slid in beside me. “Take a deep breath. You’ll do fine.”

  “That’s his favorite blue suit,” I whispered fiercely. “And the tie? That red one? I bought it for him three weeks ago. He was in the process of closing a deal, not the biggest deal he’d ever made, but something. He was getting nervous. I said it was a power tie and that if he wore it, it would bring him luck.”

  “Did it?”

/>   “Yes. So he’s wearing it today. What does that say?”

  “The Raphael matter,” came the clerk’s call.

  I was still shaking, which was totally unlike me. I had been in pressure situations before—meeting people I wanted to impress, wading into uncharted business waters, dealing with large sums of money—and had always been collected. Never before, though, had I been in a position where so much to do with me rested on the whim of others.

  Calming myself, I followed Carmen to the spot, to the right of the judge’s bench, that had been vacated minutes before. We were a foursome this time, Dennis, Art, Carmen, and I, in that order. I didn’t look at Dennis again, didn’t trust my emotions that far. I kept my eyes on the judge. He was standing against the aged wood bench, reading the papers that the clerk had handed him, the papers our lawyers had handed her. His mouth was pinched at the corners. Every minute or so, he glanced at me over his glasses. I waited for him to glance at Dennis the same way, but he didn’t. I was clearly the one on trial, the one causing the trouble, the one endangering my kids.

  I stood tall and breathed evenly, proud of my recovery—until I started to think about it. If I was calm with so much at stake, the judge might think me a heartless bitch. But if I gave in to trembling, he would think me emotionally shaky. So I was damned either way.

  What to do?

  I stayed calm. Calm had worked for me when my father had died so suddenly, though I was only eight at the time and my mother was frantic. It had worked when the money I had counted on for college had to be used when Rona totaled a neighbor’s car. It had worked when, after a year of marriage, my husband’s past sins came to light.

  Had I mentioned those past sins? No. They were ancient history, irrelevant to the present.

  The judge began to sway from side to side. He turned page after page, one set of affidavits, then the next. Finally, he tossed both down and, still swaying, looked at Carmen. She took her cue.