Twilight Child

by Warren Adler

  “You can’t imagine how terrible it will be in court,” Molly said ominously. “For both of us.”

  She pulled her hand out of Molly’s grasp. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  Molly did not respond. Frances stood awkwardly facing her for a moment, disoriented.

  “I hope Charlie is okay,” she said. At that moment a cloud passed over the sun, and it grew suddenly cold. She shivered. “It has gotten much colder.”

  “Yes, it has,” Molly replied. She looked at Frances, a slightly bemused expression on her face. “You’re right about one thing. I don’t understand any of it.”

  “I know,” Frances said as she turned away and began to stride toward the car. As she walked, a cramp gripped her, and she stopped. A flutter of pain continued for a few moments, then subsided. Peripherally, she saw Molly puzzling over her action. But when the pain had gone, she walked purposefully to the car.

  By the time she arrived home, she was genuinely concerned over the periodic cramping she was experiencing, filling her with anxious thoughts and fears for the child she was nurturing. Had the confrontation shocked her yet unformed baby? If so, she knew she could never forgive herself for exposing it to such danger. What did she expect? Through her growing panic, she was certain that she had handled her ex-mother-in-law with skill and determination. Unfortunately, it appeared that she would be paying a heavy price for her supposed strength. But such logic soon disintegrated into an ugly and illogical suspicion that perhaps Molly had brought her there to abort her baby with psychic pain.

  The offensive thought lingered, along with anxieties about Baby Mark, who turned out to be just fine. She found him dozing off in Maria’s arms. An empty bottle stood on the table beside her.

  “He hungry niño,” Maria said.

  As Frances went upstairs, the painful flutter began again with what seemed like more intensity. In the bathroom, she checked to see if she was staining. Relieved that she was not, she called the doctor, who instructed her to get into bed and stay there. It wasn’t, she knew, quite that simple. She had to arrange for Tray to be picked up, for Baby Mark’s next feeding, for dinner, for Maria to stay on. It’s all falling apart, she thought bitterly. All because I didn’t follow my instincts, because I did not put my immediate family first.

  Thankfully, she got one of her neighbors to pick up Tray and did persuade Maria to stay later than usual to feed the baby and prepare dinner, which would consist of a frozen meat-loaf dish thrown into the microwave oven, the intricacies of which she had to painstakingly describe to Maria.

  She deliberately did not call Peter at the office to inform him of her condition. No sense worrying him, she thought, dreading what she had to tell him. She tried to nap, but painful thoughts and Molly’s morbid pleas kept interfering.

  Peter arrived at his usual time. She heard Maria answering his questions in pidgin English, then his panicked two-at-a-time steps as he bounded up the stairs.

  “What is it?” he said coming into the room. He hadn’t taken off his coat.

  “Just a little pain. Nothing serious. The doctor said I should stay in bed.”

  Bending over, he kissed her on the forehead.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I feel better already,” she said tentatively, although the painful flutters continued to plague her. “I’ll be fine,” she said bravely. “The doctor said it happens sometimes.”

  “It didn’t happen before,” he looked down at her and rubbed his chin. “Did it happen with Tray?”

  She shook her head.

  “I hope it’s not too much for you, darling. It’s not easy having them one after another. Damn.” He turned away, hiding his anger with himself.

  “Don’t be silly, Peter,” she said, reaching out and touching his sleeve. “It’s just as much my fault. I just overdid things today.”

  “Well, you’ve got to stop that.” He turned to face her, offering a smile and smoothing her forehead with his hand. She grabbed his wrist and brought it down to her lips. “What the devil did you do today, Frances?”

  Gripping his wrist, she applied some inadvertent pressure. Her guilty secret was not sitting well at all. In fact, it was bubbling inside of her, aching to be revealed.

  “I saw Molly today.”

  “You what?”

  She restrained him by putting her hand over his lips and looking him straight in the eye and quickly explaining what she had done in the most succinct way she could, watching his expression run the gamut from annoyance to anger to indignation.

  “I know,” she said finally. “I was a fool.”

  “And look at the state it got you into.”

  “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I feel terrible about it. I should not have done it, although I felt I did handle it very well.”

  “She had no right to put you in that position,” Peter snapped. Then he lowered his voice. “You should have told me, darling.”

  “I know.” She felt like a rebuked child.

  “We could have checked with the lawyer. Who knows how much it has compromised the case? Besides putting you in this state.”

  “I was very foolish. I admit it. Worse, I didn’t tell you what I was going to do. Somehow I got it into my head that she was going to tell me that she was prepared to drop the case.”

  “People can be very mean when they want something badly enough, Frances. You should have shared it with me.”

  “It’s spilt milk, Peter.”

  Peter stood up and circled the room. Then he came back to the bed.

  “Bet she laid a guilt trip on you.”

  “That she did. But I coped with it very well.”

  “Except for this.” He gestured toward the bed with an open palm.

  “I don’t think you can blame this on her. It might have happened anyway.”

  “I doubt it. She created needless stress.”

  “Still—”

  “If you hadn’t gone, it might not have happened.”

  “Well, we’ll never know,” she said testily.

  “I wonder if her lawyer put her up to it,” he mused.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why would you doubt it?”

  “I’m not sure.” She felt a brief flutter and a sense of rising tension. Something more had to be said, she decided. “She said that Charlie was contemplating suicide, that she found him sitting in the den with a loaded gun on his lap.”

  “Damn,” Peter muttered. “How rotten of her.” She could see his face flush with white-hot anger, a rare occurrence. “How could she have done such a terrible thing? And I suppose she told you that the only thing she could think of to shake him out of this was for us to make a deal on Tray?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How cunning.”

  “I think you’re being too hard on her, Peter. I understand her concern. I really do. She was desperate. Charlie is probably very depressed. I didn’t quite expect it to go that way.”

  “Well then, what did you expect?”

  His aggressive manner shocked her, and she frowned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m just so aggravated. Seeing you like this.” He paused and looked at her for a moment, trying to gather some control. “Did you tell her you were pregnant?” She shook her head vehemently.

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, thank God for that. It would have blown Peck’s strategy.”

  “I’m not that stupid, Peter.” She felt a sudden surge of resentment. Peter turned away, still fighting his anger. When he showed her his face again, he was calmer.

  “It was just something you shouldn’t have done,” he muttered.

  “I know that now,” Frances said.

  “We could have avoided this. She threw this at you deliberately. That’s what she did. She would love to see you in this state.”

  “What state? I’m not in any state. I told you the doctor just said to stay in bed.”

  “If that woman causes you to miscarry . . .”


  “I’ll be fine.” Even to her, the words sounded far away, like the bleat of a lost lamb.

  He sat down on the bed and took her in his arms.

  “Why are they doing this to us? Why can’t they leave us alone? Tray is fine and happy. Everything was going beautifully.”

  Frances burrowed her nose into his neck.

  He held her and said nothing for a long time. It was comforting to be in his protective arms. He had saved her, she thought, given her a new life. He was her rock.

  “I’m so sorry, Peter,” she whispered.

  “It’s not your fault, darling. Not your fault at all. You wanted to do the right thing, that’s all. It just wasn’t right in the final analysis.”

  The words were reassuring, but they did not eliminate her anxiety.

  She stayed in bed for a week. During that time, Peter took off from work, performed the household chores and the driving, supervised Maria, fed the dog, and generally pampered her. Because of the language barrier, he expressed fear of leaving Maria in charge despite Frances’s protestations.

  “She is perfectly capable,” Frances told him. She was definitely not comfortable with his sacrifice, although she knew it was sincere.

  “You and the kids are my number one priority.”

  “But this could go on for months.”

  “So be it.”

  Thankfully, it didn’t. The pain receded, then disappeared completely, and the doctor allowed her to get out of bed and test the water.

  “I’m fine now,” she assured Peter, who, nevertheless, put in a couple of half-days at the office until she insisted that it was not necessary.

  “Now you’ve got to promise. No more capers on your own.”

  “I promise.” She crossed her heart and pecked him on the lips.

  Soon she was back at her regular pace. The rest, she discovered, had done her good. Her doctor agreed. He examined her and found her sound.

  “It was just one of those things,” he said. “Everything’s perfectly normal as far as I can see.”

  “Maybe it was my imagination.”

  “It pays to be cautious, anyhow. Don’t overdo.”

  “It’s not like it’s the first one, doctor,” she said with mock indignation.

  “Sometimes when one pregnancy follows hard on the heels of another, these little blips occur.”

  “Well, they’re scary just the same.”

  The reassurance sparked her optimism, and she tucked her anxieties away in the back of her mind.

  There were reminders, of course. Despite the two-year separation, Tray would sometimes wonder aloud about Grampa and Gramma Waters.

  “You think Grampa will still get me the sailboat?” It was a question he asked, not often, but enough to be noticed. Usually it was when Peter was not within earshot.

  “Of course he will,” she would answer casually, quickly changing the subject, wondering what else was going through the child’s mind. Somehow she felt her answers to that question and others never really satisfied him. He had asked numerous other questions when she had said good night to him after the confrontation with Charlie at the school.

  “He just wanted to stop by and say hello,” Frances told him, hoping that her noncommittal answers would deflect his attention.

  “But it was right in the middle of school. The teacher was angry.”

  “I suppose he saw that old wagon and wanted to give it to you. That’s all.”

  “Why couldn’t he just bring it here?”

  “It’s not that important.”

  She saw him frown and sensed his inner agitation. Why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone? she thought bitterly. Then she had hugged him and changed the subject once again, knowing that it had not yet settled in his mind.

  But the suit, of course, would not go away, and Peter’s frequent whispered phone conversations with the lawyer attested to the fact that it was very active indeed. Whenever she referred to it, he deflected her interest, waving the subject away as if it were a mild disturbance, not worth her concern. She was perfectly willing to ignore it, knowing that, however long the pause, the inevitable would come crashing through the window of her illusions.

  It came nearly three months after her episode with Molly. She was into the fat and happy period of her pregnancy. The baby was kicking up a storm, and it was sometimes the object of family wonder and amusement as they, children included, would touch, listen, and watch the undulating antics of the growing mound of life in her belly.

  The expectation blunted her surprise when Peter had announced one day that there was no avoiding the inevitable any longer. Peck had insisted that they meet in his office. There were decisions to make, and a trial was imminent. In a way, she was relieved.

  “Above all, I want you to remain calm,” Peter warned as they were ushered into the conference room.

  “I know my priorities,” she replied, patting her belly and offering an amused grin.

  Henry Peck carried his bulk into the office. He brought with him a fat accordion folder, which he untied with thick fingers, then slid out files and a yellow legal pad. Then he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and peered at Frances through his steel-rimmed glasses. She noted that his gaze dropped to take in her condition, not clearly visible over the conference table.

  “Lot of water over the dam since we last met,” he said with an ironic chuckle and a pull on his polka dot bow tie.

  “As you know, I haven’t really been filling her in, Henry,” Peter said, clearing his throat, slightly uncomfortable with the explanation. The first-name intimacy seemed strange, and she felt some annoyance in observing it, as if they had formed a private little alliance that excluded her.

  “I realize that, Peter,” Peck said, turning his attention to Frances. Again, he rubbed his nose. “There comes a time,” he sighed. Frances looked toward Peter, who raised his eyes toward the ceiling and shrugged.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Frances said, with some determination.

  “We’ve gone the route of petitioning the judge on a technical ruling, citing the adoptive laws and the fact that there is no point of law in this type of case and, therefore, that your former in-laws do not have a bona fide case.” Again he rubbed his nose. “He wasn’t buying. Not because we weren’t right. But Forte cited all those cases in other states, and I think the judge, being a grandparent himself, felt more comfortable with the matter being aired at a full hearing.”

  Frances looked at Peter.

  “That doesn’t sound too good.”

  “Not as bad as you think,” Peter said.

  “But it means we have to have a trial.”

  “That’s correct,” the lawyer said. He had taken off his glasses and was cleaning them with a tissue, looking at her with pale, myopic eyes. “I never did expect to win the technical issue, especially with that judge.”

  “Isn’t it the same judge that will hear our case?”

  “Usually,” the lawyer said, replacing his glasses and showing her a thin cryptic smile. “And I seriously considered a postponement, more stalling. Then we got lucky.”

  “We did!” Frances exclaimed.

  “No judge really likes these domestic equity cases. They alternate assignments every six months. This time, the old duffer got out of it, by tossing it to the newest member of the bench.”

  “And that’s good?” Frances asked.

  “I think so,” Peck said. “In fact, I’m sure of it.” Shamming a smug expression, he studied each face in turn. “We’ve drawn ourselves Judge Anne Stokes, an interim appointee. Annie Stokes is pretty sharp. And this is her first domestic relations case. She’s in her mid-forties, with two teenage kids. Lost her husband several years ago. Knows the territory, so to speak. Above all, she’s not a grandparent. And since she’s new at the game, and up for her first election, she’ll be in no mood to stretch the law and chance getting it reversed on appeal. It wouldn’t look good for her around election time. The thing is, Forte was a bit cocky w
hen the technical ruling came down. Now he’s got to eat crow.”

  “But can’t he stall, ask for a postponement?” Frances asked.

  “She’ll sit on this bench for six months. A postponement won’t look good for him. After all, he’s the petitioner. And since his clients live within the city limits it won’t be easy for him to ask to be heard in the county. No, I think he’s got to take his chances with Annie.”

  “When is the trial?” Frances asked.

  “In six weeks,” Peck said flatly, looking at her. “That will put you in the eighth month—exactly.”

  Frances looked quickly at Peter.

  “I’ve discussed it with the doctor, Frances,” Peter said. “He wouldn’t recommend it, but he doesn’t see it as a major threat. Just as long as you’re reasonably protected from undue aggravation.”

  “Which may be impossible,” Peck said.

  Frances frowned.

  “I don’t like it myself. But hear him out,” Peter said.

  She turned toward the lawyer, waiting. The baby moved suddenly, and she started, smiling. It gave a false impression of her inner feelings.

  Encouraged, Peck began.

  “As I explained earlier, the judge decides. What’s best for the child is the main criterion for judgment. Also the stability of the family unit is paramount.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his ample stomach. “Who can dispute that you are a happy, well-adjusted, loving, caring family with Charles the third as much a part of it as your natural child and the one soon to arrive?” His tongue flicked out and moistened his lips. “Now. What we must do is show the judge that Mr. and Mrs. Waters will inject a dark force into this otherwise happy situation, create tensions inimical to the family and, by obvious inference, to your son.”

  “I understand that,” Frances said impatiently.

  “I know you do, Mrs. Graham,” Peck said gently. “But we are in the business of manipulating the emotions. Granted, we have a fertile subject in this widowed lady judge. But we must strike hard and deep into the heart of the judge’s psyche. Everything counts—the obvious, the subtle, and the unconsciously perceived. In terms of the obvious we have Mr. Waters’s instability, his compulsive behavior, and“—his gaze shot toward Peter—”his suicidal tendencies—”