Twilight Child

by Warren Adler

  “Sometimes it still pays to talk,” Forte said.

  “Pays you, you mean,” Charlie blurted. Molly shot him a rebuking glance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Forte. I’m just so damned disappointed.”

  “I know,” the lawyer said, studying them. “But this doesn’t mean that there isn’t some form of action to be taken.”

  “Like what?”

  “There are always steps before litigation,” Forte said slowly. “We could petition for visitation rights, show determination, and hope that your former daughter-in-law and her new husband, rather than go through the hassle of hiring a lawyer and contesting the petition, might”—he shrugged and looked up at the ceiling—“come around.”

  “And if they don’t?” Molly asked.

  “It might be worth a shot,” the lawyer said tentatively.

  “But you said—” Molly began.

  “I know what I said and I know what I would do if I were a judge. But who knows, we might draw a judge who makes a decision counter to prevailing law, which means that they could take it and appeal to a higher court, where it is likely to be reversed.”

  “So why do it?” Molly asked.

  “To wear ’em down,” Forte said. “It depends on your commitment.”

  “Our commitment?” Charlie said, his voice rising again. “All the way, that’s our commitment. Whatever it costs.”

  “That’s another side to the coin, Mr. Waters. You’ll have to come up with a five thousand dollar retainer against my hourly rate, which is two hundred dollars an hour. This could cost up to ten thousand, and double that if we go to appeal.”

  The costs shocked Charlie, and he felt he was not hiding it very well. Again, he looked helplessly at Molly, who said it for him.

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “How serious are you?”

  “It’s our lives,” Molly said.

  “It could be a total disappointment.”

  “No more than it is now.”

  “And very painful.”

  “You’ve got grandparents, Mr. Forte?” Charlie asked.

  “The extended family is a cultural phenomenon among the Italians.” Forte said, a little pompously, but offering a broad smile. “If you must know, I get a kick out of my grandparents. They give me a chance to practice my Italian. Se niente va bene, chiama nonno e nonna. ”

  Charlie looked at him blankly.

  “It means,” Forte said, “‘If nothing else is going well, call your grandfather and grandmother.’”

  “I like that,” Charlie said, brightening. “Let’s hear it again.”

  “Se niente va bene, chiama nonno e nonna.”

  Charlie repeated it with a bad accent, but he felt better now, more favorably disposed to the younger man. Molly smiled, and her cobalt eyes twinkled their approval.

  “It changes nothing,” Forte said, sitting down at his desk again and making another cathedral out of his long delicate fingers ridged with fine black hair. “Are you really ready for this? I kid you not, Mr. and Mrs. Waters, if we carry this forward, it will curdle your guts. I want you to understand that. The deck is stacked against you. And even if, by some remote chance, you win, you might actually cause more damage to the child than by leaving him alone. Only time will tell on that, though. The mother could continue to be hostile and resentful even if the judge grants you visitation rights, and this is bound to reflect on the child and his mental health—”

  “I’m a teacher, Mr. Waters,” Molly interjected with passion. “I have never seen a sincere expression of love and support hurt a child.”

  Forte tapped his fingers together lightly.

  “And you’re convinced that all avenues of reconciliation have been exhausted?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Charlie said. “Maybe if she sees we mean business, she won’t want to hassle it.”

  “What are their economic circumstances?” the lawyer asked.

  “Good. He’s a computer engineer with a good job. And she’s still got twenty thousand dollars from Chuck’s insurance, which is proof of how much he cared for her and Tray.” It was a tenuous argument, he knew, but he persisted in it just the same.

  “It may only make them more stubborn in their resistance. I have seen families literally ruin themselves in litigation.”

  “So we’ll fight harder,” Charlie said. He looked at Forte’s face for a long time in silence. “How can anyone think that our seeing Tray is going to hurt him?”

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows, his lips forming what seemed to Charlie to be a knowing smirk. He was beginning not to like the fellow again.

  “If they contest, they will do so on the ground that your physical presence will be harmful to your grandson’s interests.”

  “They’ll be laughed out of court,” Charlie said with rising bravado.

  “Even in today’s world the mother is rarely laughed out of court, Mr. Waters.”

  “Not after we get through with her,” Charlie said.

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Waters. What is your contention? Is she an incompetent mother?”

  He felt a growing discomfort again and avoided looking at Molly. Sweat had broken out again under his shirt. His mouth had gone suddenly dry. He’s playing with me, Charlie thought. Testing.

  “No. I wouldn’t say that,” Charlie answered after a long pause.

  “A good mother, then?”

  “Generally speaking.” He was determined not to be tricked.

  “Is she a drunkard, a dope addict, physically unable to take care of the boy?”

  “None of those,” he answered, offering Molly a thin but confident smile.

  “The boy’s home environment is wholesome? The adoptive father: Is he loving and devoted?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t live there.”

  “When she lived with your son, was there any reason to question the way she ran her home and cared for the boy?”

  A nerve began to palpitate in his jaw. His confidence ebbed.

  “You never really know what goes on behind closed doors.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If she was a good and faithful wife, maybe Chuck would have stayed closer to home.”

  “Are you saying she was unfaithful?” Forte paused, nailing Charlie with his eyes. Charlie looked at his hands, which suddenly felt clumsy and uncoordinated. He deliberately did not look at Molly. Why was the lawyer sparing her, he wondered?

  “Depends on how you define that,” Charlie mumbled.

  “Come on, Charlie,” Molly said. “She wasn’t that at all.”

  “Jumping in the sack a couple of months after Chuck’s death—what do you call that?”

  “She had no obligation to a dead man. She was not being unfaithful.” Molly addressed herself to the lawyer. “She was a good and loyal wife.”

  “There you go, defending her again,” Charlie said with rising fury. “The fact is that he felt better being away from her.”

  “There are men like that. Chuck was like that,” Molly said softly.

  “He was a damned good husband and father.”

  “I don’t think that argument will hold in court, Mr. Waters,” Forte interjected. “Was he away for very long stretches of time?”

  “Sometimes for six, seven months at a time,” Molly said. “Then he’d stay two weeks and be off again.”

  “When you talk to my wife, you have to be very careful,” Charlie said, knowing in advance that he would catch hell for what he was about to say. “On some things the women stick together.”

  “I’m only trying to tell him the truth,” Molly said, a flush rising on her cheeks.

  “The truth!”

  “That’s exactly the point, Mr. Waters, the truth is often obscured by a mishmash of emotions.”

  “How can we win if she goes on like that?”

  “This is not a custody battle, Mr. Waters. Tearing down the character of Tray’s mother will not further your case. The issue here, aside from the very obvious one
of your having no rights as grandparents, which may preclude our ever getting into court in the first place, is, unfortunately, your character—yours and your wife’s. If we get a hearing, and they contest, their ploy will be to paint you, and her previous marriage, in the worst possible light. At least that’s what I would do. The only way you can win is by proving that you and your wife will enhance the child’s wellbeing.” He put his hands flat on the yellow pad. “What I’m saying is that any way you cut it, this will not be easy. I’m trying to give you something of a preview of what you both can expect.”

  “You trying to talk us out of this?” Charlie asked, trying to maintain his composure despite his growing agitation. He felt he had made a botch of it.

  “In a way,” Forte shrugged. “I don’t want you to have any illusions that if you go through with this it is going to be a joyride. It’s going to hurt, hurt everybody it touches.”

  Not you, Charlie thought. He had stopped sweating and now felt a chill.

  “You don’t think we have a chance in hell, do you?” Charlie asked with a glance toward Molly.

  “He didn’t say that, Charlie,” she said. “He’s only saying that it’s not going to be easy on us.”

  “Well, dammit, it’s not easy on us now.”

  “Would you like me to leave the room while you talk it over between you?”

  “No need for that,” Charlie snapped. Was it condescension he detected? Hell, the wounds were all open and bleeding—what was there to hide?

  “And there’s the expense to be considered,” Forte said.

  “Who can forget that? At Bethlehem my last rate was eighteen bucks an hour.”

  “There are no bargains in this business, Mr. Waters,” Forte said lightly.

  “I know. You get what you pay for.”

  “And no guarantees,” Forte added. It was as if he was deliberately turning the knife.

  Charlie turned helplessly to Molly, who reached over and patted his thigh.

  “There’s only the two of us, Mr. Forte. We’ve got money put aside. And I’m still teaching. We’re committed to this.”

  What good was all the money they had put away over the years, Charlie thought, the careful planning, the scrupulous accounting? It wasn’t as if they’d had more than one child. Wasn’t in the cards, Charlie thought, although they both had wanted more. Having Chuck had been a big risk to Molly as it was. No, he decided, in the face of losing Tray forever, money had little value.

  “It’s not the money,” Charlie muttered. It annoyed him to feel the taste of defeat before the battle.

  “It would be wrong to take this case without presenting the emotional and financial risks. Legal recourse is always a last resort, and a favorable decision doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve won anything,” Forte said with a touch of contrition in his tone. “I know I’ve been rough, but the reality is that the going will be much rougher than what I’ve given you. What I want is for you to be sure, absolutely certain in your mind that this is the way for both of you to go. It would be wrong to pursue this if you have the slightest doubt in your mind.”

  “We’re not dumb, Mr. Forte.” He was instantly sorry for the inadvertent flash of anger. “What I mean is that you’ve made it quite clear.”

  “Now would you like me to leave the room?” the lawyer said gently.

  Charlie looked at Molly. Anger had seeped away. What was left was a kind of void, a circumscribed place with hurt around the edges.

  “No need for that, Mr. Forte,” Molly said, reaching for Charlie’s hand, clasping his fingers. “There’s no other way for us. At our stage in life you don’t get over things. Itis wrong for her to keep us from seeing our grandson, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t want anything I say to color your decision,” the lawyer said.

  Charlie felt Molly’s eyes exploring him. He deliberately did not look at her. It can’t be only for me, he thought. It has to be for both of us.

  “Do you think you can handle it, Charlie?” Molly asked gently.

  He really wasn’t sure, nor was it a question he wanted to confront. In a way it was like death, he realized. It had to be faced. The alternative was to be eaten up alive by longing and frustration, to fester in bitterness and regret. He’d lost a son through no fault of his own. Was he prepared to lose a grandson? He had walked into this office with a commitment in his heart and gut. He tried to prepare his mind for an answer that would be scrupulously honest. No sense fooling himself. Was the cause worth the pain? He felt himself nodding, but that wasn’t the whole truth.

  “I’ll try my damnedest, babe. I just know in my bones it’s right.”

  “So do I,” Molly said firmly.

  “No second thoughts?” Forte asked.

  “None,” Charlie said. He took a deep breath, feeling better. Like in his memories of combat. Once you hit the beach, the fear congealed somewhere in the back of your mind.

  “All right then,” the lawyer said, his own relief apparent as well. He opened a leather folder in which was a clean yellow legal pad. “Let’s get down to business.”

  Molly reached over suddenly and put her palm over the pad.

  “First the answer to my question,” she said.

  The lawyer looked up startled.

  “Which?”

  “It is wrong, isn’t it? What she’s doing? To Tray and to us?”

  The lawyer swiveled back in his chair and rubbed his chin, his eyes darting from face to face. It was Charlie’s question as well, spoken for both of them.

  “It’s very hard for a lawyer to do his best for a client in whose cause he does not believe.”

  Molly lifted her palm.

  “That’s good,” she said nodding her head. “That’s very good. Don’t you think so, Charlie?”

  He squeezed her hand in response.

  4

  FRANCES guided the Datsun to a spot at the curb which gave her a clear view of the school’s side door. Then she flicked the ignition and the car shuddered into silence. Taking a tissue from the box beside her, she wiped the baby’s spit-up from his chin and nuzzled his cheek. The baby purred contentedly and smiled. He liked rides, liked to play with his little toy steering wheel. Mostly, he curled over and bit into it. He was eight months old and teething.

  She looked at her watch. It was ten minutes to four. She liked to be earlier. Better to be prudent than to worry the child. In five minutes he’d be running out the door, jacket unbuttoned, arms akimbo, flushed with the fever of excitement, the inevitable drawing flapping in the breeze. He would be doubly excited today, the first day of rehearsal for the school play. He had been cast as a raindrop. The girls were snowflakes. She grinned, a trill of laughter bubbling in her chest. A raindrop?

  Maybe she had a snowflake growing inside of her? She giggled out loud at the illogic of the image.

  “Would you like a sister, Baby Mark?”

  She kneaded her knuckle into the baby’s belly, which was partially protected by his diaper. Ticklish, he smiled and squirmed. He was a happy baby. Why not? She was happy. Peter was happy. She couldn’t wait to tell him the news that she was pregnant. Six weeks and counting, the doctor had said. So much for the rhythm method. She hadn’t wanted to start the pill while nursing, and they had discussed a two-year wait before trying for—another joke between them—the caboose. One more try for the girl, he had agreed. She laughed out loud and gently flicked the baby’s chin with her thumb. “Shows to go ya,” she whispered. “Ah never knowed what love can do,” she hummed.

  Then she saw Tray, skipping out ahead of the others, not pausing to button his jacket, taller by a head than the others in the second grade. He was big and handsome like his father. She brushed aside the memory, leaned over, and opened the door on the passenger side.

  “It’s chilly, Tray,” she cried when he hopped in. Reaching over the baby, she kissed his forehead and buttoned him up. “How many times must I tell you?” He showed her the drawing.

  “Very good, Tray.” She held
it up and turned it upside down. “What is it?”

  “A sailboat in the woods.”

  “No water?”

  “It’s in the water, only you can’t see it. It’s a creek.”

  She let it pass. At first she had been sensitive about reminders of Charlie. Now she took them in stride. After all, he could have come up with a sailboat image from anywhere. She started the motor and eased the car into the street.

  “I did good as a raindrop,” Tray said. “The snowflakes were gross.” He made a face.

  “You don’t like girls, eh?”

  “Yuck.”

  You’ll get over that, she thought, smiling at the images that danced in her head. Peter had given her a whole new point of view about that part of marriage. A flush warmed her cheeks suddenly as she realized that in their lives, sex was as good and sweet and natural as breathing air. Not like it had been with Chuck. There was a huge chasm between acquiescence and desire. She deliberately chased away the intrusive thought. Such comparisons were odious, she told herself firmly.

  She eased the car through the Columbia traffic. Wide curving streets and a rational stoplight system made daytime driving easy for those with the occupational specialty of full-time mother. She looked at her burgeoning brood beside her and grinned. The title she had acquired had a certain cachet.

  “And what do you do, Frances?” It was a question without novelty in her new circle, mostly the couples from Peter’s high tech company shop.

  “I’m a full-time mother.” She would pause and look them straight in the eye.

  “How wonderful.”

  The object was to head off the inevitable “And what did you do before?” No response could adequately describe the truth of what she had done before, since much of it had been done to escape the four walls of loneliness while Chuck was off on adventures far from home. Temp work wasn’t exactly a career, although she could have said she had been an executive secretary. Receptionist would have been closer to the truth.

  But not quite the whole truth. Her most active occupation had been working behind the counter of her Uncle Walter’s bakery in northwest Baltimore. A chop for a chop, he had told her, which meant that his largesse of room and board had to be paid for with hard labor. How she had hated that sense of powerlessness and obligation. Not that Uncle Walter, her late father’s brother, was a cruel man. In his mind, he was doing the right thing by his orphaned niece. How could he know the anguish and loneliness an adolescent girl had to endure?