by Warren Adler
Both her mother and father had been late babies, and her grandparents were long gone when she was born. So there was only Uncle Walter on whose doorstep she had stumbled, a secondary victim of the Vietnam war. Just the idea of that was enough to cripple her with self-pity for a time, until she realized that she was doomed to spend her life in Uncle Walter’s bakery unless she acted in her own behalf, which she did. Chuck had arrived with his promise of what seemed like a normal life; but soon she was back to square one, powerless and, once again, lonely.
She had done light office work until Tray arrived. That first year with Chuck was almost bearable. But when Tray came, it seemed to be the signal for Chuck to leave.
As she drove, Frances felt her mind drifting too deeply and precariously into the past. Actually, such rehashing of her earlier life had become less and less of a bother until Charlie had shown up that day in school and foolishly tried to tamper with the new environment she had created for Tray and herself. Because of that, she had lost ground, and now there were these occasional bouts of painful memories that tended to float in and out of her thoughts at the oddest moments.
She turned into her street and made a hard right into the driveway. The sight of their four-bedroom colonial provided instant relief and put her back in her original happy mood. They had chosen the model with an old brick facade and big bay windows in the dining room and kitchen and an extravagant fieldstone fireplace that covered one wall of the den. It was spacious and cozy at the same time, and she had decorated it in her favorite colors, beige and fawn for backgrounds and olives and reds for accents. People said she had a flair for decorating, and she was entertaining ideas of studying the art when the kids became semi-independent. Besides, it gave her an excellent answer when the social queries shifted to the future.
“I have a yen for professional decorating,” she would say, pausing. “When motherhood moves from full to part time.”
Tray bounded out of the car and made faces at Goldy, the Labrador that now stood on its hind legs barking a greeting behind the kitchen bay window. Tray stuck fingers inside his puffed cheeks and crossed his eyes. The dog responded with louder barking, leaving mist marks on the panes.
Frances lifted the baby out of the car seat, opened the door, stepped over the pile of mail on the hall floor, and deftly avoided Goldy’s surge toward the front lawn bushes. The tall clock in the hall struck five, which meant she was running slightly behind a self-imposed schedule that culminated in cocktails at seven with Peter and dinner at seven-thirty. Tonight, she decided, was a dining room night. The announcement of her news required a bit of human engineering.
She gathered up the mail, put it on a kitchen countertop without looking at it, changed the baby, put him in the playpen, prepared the children’s dinner, and put two baking potatoes in the oven for her and Peter. Then she made a salad, put out the steaks, and set the dining room table with the good crystal and silver and cloth napkins on the lace tablecloth. She was conscious of purring along at a high energy level, which augured well for a good pregnancy. Her two earlier births had gone off with peasant-woman routine, even with Peter in the room during labor and delivery of Baby Mark. It was all she could do to stop him from taking pictures. Again, the past intruded. When Tray was born, Chuck had been out hunting with his father and she had had to interrupt Molly at a PTA meeting to get her to drive her to the hospital.
Maybe I could send my daughter off by herself to be born, she thought, as she uncorked a good Beaujolais to let it breathe, as Peter had taught her.
“I’ve come a long way from Dundalk, baby,” she said often to Peter.
“It’s only thirty miles.”
“And a thousand light-years.”
“You exaggerate.”
“But I have narrowed the gap, haven’t I?”
“There wasn’t any. It was all in your head.”
Computers, which made them a good living, were only one side of Peter Graham. He not only liked fine wine, lovely paintings, good books, and classical music, he took the time and exercised the patience to make Frances understand why it was important to make a place for these things in her life. Above all, he was tolerant of her lack of education, and she never felt put down.
She ascribed finding Peter to pure luck, which she superstitiously refused to analyze. There was such a thing as accepting a good thing with grace and not repeatedly counting her blessings as if she were afraid they would go away. But she let him go on about his own good fortune in finding her. Although she wouldn’t dare admit it to him, she always loved hearing him say it—especially in the afterglow of their lovemaking.
“What I always wanted was a family,” he told her from the beginning. “Wife, kids, house, dog, love, security, friendship, devotion, absolute honesty, kindness.” He paused. “All of it. Satisfactions of body, spirit, and emotions.”
“I wish I could put things that way,” she said in response.
“They’re just words,” he said. “It’s in the doing. And in that regard, you’re more eloquent than I am.”
It was little touches like that which made Peter so endearing.
So she had happily converted what were essentially her most potent skills, motherhood and wifehood. As it turned out, she offered much more in good household management than he had any reason to expect. On her part, she asked him, acutely conscious of her naiveté, to “teach her things,” a request that he had eagerly begun to fulfill by unraveling for her the mysteries of the home computer on which she assiduously kept all the household information. He also joined her in a daily helping ofThe New York Times on the ground that it would give them both a world view, stressing that it would also force him out of the narrow tunnel vision of most scientists and engineers. It was, indeed, an accurate measure of their security that she wasn’t the only one confessing her shortcomings.
All this came under the heading of truly balancing the equations that had eluded their first marriages, including the part of it they called, with stifled giggles, “bedhood.” That element of the equation seemed in perfect balance. Maybe too balanced. She wondered if her upcoming little revelation would require some adjustments on one or another side of the equal sign.
After the children’s dinner, she let Tray watch television and settled down to the mail with the baby at her breast. She was still making good milk, and the marvel of watching and feeling the process of his acquiring nourishment in this way always filled her with the sweet warmth of indescribably joyous feelings.
She opened the mail, junk mail first, then bills, then what seemed to require slightly more concentration. One letter in an impressive envelope caught her eye and she assumed it was for Peter. It was only after she had gone through the pile that she noted it was addressed to her. She was puzzled at the return address, Banks, Pepper and Forte, and turned it over a few times before opening the envelope with the tip of her nail.
It took only the first line of the letter to spark her rage. She felt the blood rush to her head. Her breath grew short and gasping as she shifted her weight in the chair. The abrupt movement made Baby Mark lose the nipple although his little lips continued to suck. Frustrated, his frown deepened and his face grew scarlet, but before he could let loose with a scream, she had the nipple in place again. With that brief movement, the letter had floated to the floor, requiring her to detach the baby, pick up the letter, and begin the nursing process again.
“I have been retained by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Waters to seek legal means to secure visitation rights with their grandson, Charles Everett Waters III.”
The words, she knew, would be indelible in her memory.
“Rights!” she cried. Again her body twisted in anger and again Baby Mark lost the nipple. This time she returned it before he realized it was gone, smoothing his head with gentle caresses and kissing his little hands. She resented this terrible imposition, this intrusion, this breaking of the sacred rhythm between a nursing mother and her child. How dare they? She tried to calm herself, to conc
entrate on the baby’s need for contentment, to tamp down her outrage.
“How dare they?” she whispered, trying desperately to cap her indignation. Hadn’t they agreed to let her and Tray alone? Selfishness. Pure selfishness, she decided. Hadn’t she made it clear to Charlie when he precipitated that ridiculous incident at Tray’s school by lying to the school authorities and interrupting his class on the pretext of giving him that silly wagon? It was confusing to the child, perhaps damaging. He had a new father, a father more authentic than the original, and new grandparents. Peter’s parents, although they lived in upstate New York, were as solicitous and loving as any grandparents could be.
Besides, she had made peace with the idea, for which she took equal responsibility despite the fact that it had been Peter’s suggestion in the first place. It wasn’t that Peter was cruel or jealous. He hadn’t a mean streak in him. He was thinking of their new life, and he had every right to begin without the problems of yesteryear. Hadn’t he spent years in purgatory because of a terrible first marriage? And hadn’t she done the same? Of course, it had hurt to make the break, knowing Charlie’s and Molly’s attachment to Tray. But it had to be done. There was simply no sense complicating Tray’s life, confusing him. Not now. Perhaps someday. She granted that possibility. But not now. Not yet.
Logic temporarily assuaged emotion. Surely she and Peter could not consciously have dismissed the possibility that Molly and Charlie would react in some way. They simply had not prepared themselves to deal with it. Well, they’d have to now. Deal with it they would, she thought pugnaciously. After all, Tray and their little immediate family were the number one priority. Not Molly and Charlie, however one might understand—even sympathize with—their point of view.
It was hard enough for the child to bear another man’s name. Nor was it easy for Peter, either. But she had drawn that line herself. There was no way to erase Tray’s father. She did not have that right. Right? The word from the lawyer’s letter jumped into her mind. Well, she also had rights over the life of her child.
Her mind was so far away from her present task that at first she did not see that Baby Mark had fallen asleep, his lips losing their hold on her breast. She eased him upward over her shoulder and patted him gently until he let loose a contented burp. She held him for a moment more, savoring his warmth, as she squeezed him gently. Why can’t people get their priorities straight? she thought. Certainly a mother knows what’s best for her own child.
She carried the baby upstairs and put him in his crib, then came down and briefly stood behind Tray while he watched Sesame Street with intense concentration. Frances got down on her knees behind him and enveloped him in her arms. Her chest heaved in a stifled sob. Her eyes misted, and she sniffled and brushed away an errant tear. Tray, oblivious to his mother’s anguish, continued to be absorbed in the program.
“Never,” Frances said, releasing Tray and standing up.
“What, Mommy?”
“I said never.”
He looked up, confused, then turned again toward the television set. Frances rose and went back to the kitchen. By then rage had turned to resolve, and she picked up the letter and read it through.
“I have been retained by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Waters to secure by legal means visitation rights with their grandson, Charles Everett Waters III.” She paused and allowed herself a deep breath. She read on:
“Forty-nine states, including Maryland, now recognize the right of grandparents to petition the courts to seek legal access to the natural offspring of their progeny whether divorced or deceased when it has been denied. Before we petition the court for a hearing on this matter . . .”
Something seemed awry. A red flag rose in her mind. He is trying to be cunning, she decided, telescoping what might be coming next. She was right.
“. . . my clients believe that this matter can be settled amicably through reasonable negotiation of the parties, and given a cool appraisal, it may not be necessary to pursue protracted and costly litigation. My clients have urged me to make this view known to you and to implore your cooperation.
“With this in mind, they have asked that no action be taken by this office for two weeks from the above date so that you may have sufficient time to consider this proposal.” At this point, she expected the homily and was right again. “Domestic relationships are often complex and entangled with emotion which can sometimes translate good intentions into inadvertent and preventable destructive patterns. In this case, it would seem that loving grandparents, who have already suffered the devastating trauma of a child’s loss, should not have to bear the additional burden of losing the comfort of their natural grandchild.
“Surely, the loving interest that can be provided by sincere grandparents cannot possibly be interpreted as being adverse to the child’s interest. Indeed, most psychologists would agree that the grandparent relationship greatly enhances the child’s mental environment and should not be withheld. My clients are hopeful that, in the light of what has been presented and your own compassion and awareness of what is truly in the best interest of your child, you will reconsider your position and agree to an arrangement whereby my clients can visit their grandchild on a regular basis.
“Sincerely Yours, Robert Forte, Esq.”
On second reading, her agitation accelerated. She felt put upon, victimized. They were setting the big guns in place behind a smokescreen of reason, elaborately laced with guilt-provoking subtleties. Behind the smokescreen was the very real threat of expensive litigation, emotional trauma, a whole gamut of hurtful and time-consuming events.
She fingered the expensive stationery, in itself an implied threat, noting that the address, in the complex overlooking the rejuvenated Baltimore port area, was a further persuader that this was not a law firm to be taken lightly. So they had generously given her two weeks to mull things over, she thought bitterly, folding the letter and slipping it back in the envelope. Time enough for that, she decided, bravely slapping her thighs as she stood up. Dizzy suddenly from rising too fast, she braced herself for a moment against the table, remembering her pregnancy and the hopefulness with which she had looked forward to dinner tonight.
“They’re ruining everything,” she whispered, as she brought the wooden bowl filled with salad to the dining room table. It was annoying to be forced to deal with this new aggravation, she thought, a notion that only increased her anger. Before leaving the dining room, she poured herself a glass of Beaujolais from the opened bottle and gulped it down like medicine.
Peter, who was compulsively punctual, arrived at seven. Tray popped up from his seat on the leather hassock in the den and rushed to embrace him, his eyes searching for the “tingies” that Peter frequently brought. Tingies were toys and computer games and athletic equipment that, by now, had filled all the chests and shelves in Tray’s room. If there was an element of bribery in it, Frances let it pass without comment, pleased that Peter balanced his largesse with ample helpings of discipline, dispensed fairly and nonviolently. He never raised his voice to the boy in anger or lifted a hand to inflict punishment. Indeed, it was he who advised leniency when she chose a harsher mode of discipline.
Peter and Tray went through a ritual of guessing before the new tingie was presented.
“You’ll spoil him,” Frances rebuked, a gesture that was also part of the ritual. They both watched Tray tear off the wrapping.
“Chess,” Tray squealed, unveiling the computer game currently being pushed on television.
“Isn’t he a bit young for that?” Frances asked. She, too, had appeared for their mutual homecoming embrace, which meant more tonight than ever, and she stayed tucked in Peter’s free arm.
“Mozart wrote his first symphony at the age of three,” he countered. “Let him get an early start. It builds confidence and mental agility. Right, Tray? And it’s a lot better than Pac Man.”
“Right, Daddy,” Tray said, going off to his room to try out the game on his Atari.
While Peter w
ent off to the bathroom, Frances put the steaks on and checked the baked potatoes. She had, she realized, forgotten to freshen her makeup, a new habit she had acquired in this marriage. With Chuck, her appearance had almost become a matter of indifference, and his absences had accentuated her tendency to forget what she looked like. Her private prenuptial resolution was to keep her physical assets well tuned and polished, more as a gift to Peter than an expression of insecurity.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her often.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she would shoot back.
The fact was that he was very well made. It irritated her to make clandestine comparisons between Peter and Chuck, but she simply could not help it. After all, she had known only two men in her life. Where Chuck had been heavily muscled from a strenuous outdoor life, Peter was thin, more delicate, and shorter, with a flat belly and fine hair on his arms and legs. Peter’s hair was jet black, his eyes dark; Chuck had had hair the color of spun gold and eyes cobalt blue like his mother’s, both genetic gifts handed down to Tray.
Some physical comparisons were, well, embarrassing, almost odious. Chuck had begun to develop a hard, pooching gut and his body had bulk and heaviness, which emphasized his rather bovine indifference in their infrequent lovemaking. Peter was wiry, less to hold, but far more agile and original, as well as considerate, in his approach to her. Chuck took. Peter shared. To put it another way, when she gave, Chuck accepted it as if it were his rightful tribute. Peter accepted with gratitude and warmth.
There were times, she confessed to herself, when the physicality of the two of them became a bit jumbled in her mind and the differences blurred, but those were becoming less and less frequent. Intellectual comparisons were simpler.
