by Warren Adler
As for the girls, at first she allowed them frequent visits. They lived in Philadelphia, an hour on the train from Baltimore. They would always come home from these visits laden with gifts, especially of good things to eat that Gramma Stokes had made. She wondered silently if that had been the root of Harold’s problem.
“You really should tell them that they’re spoiling you both,” she told them, not without a note of subtle rebuke. It worried her, too, that the Stokeses were completely nonjudgmental in terms of the girls, perhaps frightened that the children, the only real evidence of Harold’s existence, would slowly drift away from them. She understood that, of course, although it did not thwart a nagging worry that somehow the relationship was not completely healthy. She longed for the day when the girls would develop interests that would inevitably rearrange their priorities and slacken their visits. To her relief, it came soon enough.
“Just tell them that I have other plans.” First Laura, whose studies became the number one passion of her life. Then Peggy. In Peggy’s case she was becoming more and more gregarious, long before her present stage of rebelliousness.
“I’m not going to do your dirty work.”
“They’ll think I’m encouraging you to stay away,” Annie said.
“They’ll think that anyway,” Peggy told her.
“Then you explain it.”
“What should I tell them?”
“The truth.”
“You think they’ll be hurt?”
“There is no substitute for the truth.”
It was all part of Annie’s theory that people had to meet their responsibilities head on. Telling the truth was part of that recognition.
Annie’s mother, on the other hand, could not understand her ideas on total independence. “It’s no sin to accept help from your parents.”
“That has nothing to do with sin. I want my girls to be prepared to function without depending on anyone else.”
“Sometimes people have to depend on other people.”
“You’ve done your job,” she told her mother. “I have no right to live on your dole.”
“But why punish the girls?”
“I’m not punishing them. I’m teaching them never to grovel, especially to a man.”
“That’s a terrible burden to put on female children.”
“I’m their mother, and it’s my choice. And I’m strong, smart, healthy, independent, and wish to remain so.”
“Stubborn, too,” her mother said. Her father was at a complete loss about her attitude. “It’s all that women’s stuff about making it on their own,” he told Annie.
“It’s not ‘stuff.’”
“I think it’s stupid—whatever your gender,” her father had persisted. “We’re your parents, for crying out loud. Call it a loan, then. Don’t take any of it yourself. Give it to the kids.”
“They’re my kids.”
“They’re our flesh and blood, too, Annie. Never forget that.”
“That doesn’t entitle you to direct their lives. Until they’re twenty-one, they’re my responsibility.”
How could she explain to them that Harold’s death had also taught her that adversity was part of the human experience? The point was to be able to direct your own life, control the decision-making process as much as was humanly possible, concoct strategies to overcome vicissitudes. Lives should have a theme, she had reasoned. And that was hers. Every day brought further proof of the validity of her ideas. Above all, she wanted to be a role model for her children. Hadn’t she succeeded with Laura? Why not with Peggy?
It had been exciting being a lawyer in a large firm. There, she had earned her spurs, but she made no secret of the fact that she wanted to be a judge someday. Nothing was more important than to be a judge. A judge made decisions that mattered. A judge helped direct the course of human events. A judge had a chance to make a difference, to be relevant.
“Go for it, Mom,” Laura had said. Since both girls were directly affected by her decision, she thought she owed it to them to let them participate in making it—or, at the least, to hear it first from her lips. Besides, she wanted the blessing and approval of her children.
“It just means you’ll be busier than ever,” Peggy said.
“Doing important work. Not just for money.”
“I don’t think it’s so important.”
“Well, I do, and I’ll be real proud,” Laura said, throwing a rebuking glance at her sister. Laura had always been appreciative and admiring, had understood what it all meant, especially what it meant to be a woman alone.
Even from the early stages of her widowhood, when Annie began to date, Laura had been understanding and Peggy difficult. Indeed, the fact was that Peggy’s attitude toward Annie’s male friends, despite her own understanding of that attitude, was off-putting. She was intimidating enough to men without Peggy’s microscopic observations and nagging interference. The result had been a reticence on her part that created a wall too high for any male to scale.
“But it’s your life,” the men would remonstrate after her inevitable and sometimes half-baked explanations for her rejection of their more intimate overtures. Over the years she had been to bed with only two of them, and that had been brief and unsatisfactory.
“I just need more time.”
Her problem wasn’t time at all, she knew. Rather, it was abject fear that any relationship would push Peggy over some emotional cliff, the consequences of which weren’t worth the risk.
Finally, she decided to wait until Peggy was off to college before she would encourage a resumption of her so-called romantic life. Besides, meaningful and absorbing work could go a long way in compensating for other comforts. Or so she convinced herself.
But she was flattered when men fussed over her, and she kept herself well groomed and her figure in good shape. There were, she knew, career advantages in being a woman, and sex appeal was still a potent tool of manipulation as far as men were concerned. Besides, there was no way to move ahead without their support. There was nothing cynical or deliberately manipulative in that fact, she assured herself. Such knowledge for a woman was as necessary as nourishment.
“And the interim appointment is for one year,” she explained to her daughters, taking particular pains to be especially understanding about Peggy’s sullen objections. When it pertained to her work and ambitions, Annie’s life and course of action were clearly defined, Peggy’s disapproval notwithstanding. Of course Annie wanted her support and approval. But that did not mean that she was going to let herself be terrorized into abandoning her career. “Then I’ll have to run for office on my own.” It was an idea that she liked. Anything that offered a challenge and a chance to prove herself was attractive to her.
“We’ll help in the campaign,” Laura said. “Won’t we, Peggy?”
“Not me,” Peggy had muttered. Part of the pattern, Annie had reasoned. Anything that made her mother happy automatically made Peggy unhappy. Nevertheless, she took pains to explain to Peggy what it would mean, sparing nothing, explaining the long hours and the cut in pay, which meant monetary sacrifices like the car she had promised. She had always carefully explained to Peggy why she had made various choices. She hoped that in this way she might teach her how self-interest governed the decision-making process and how to set priorities and goals. When the current stage of Peggy’s discontent passed, Annie was certain that these lessons would prevail.
“Someday you’ll have a goal, Peggy, and you will have to make sacrifices to achieve it. Because we’re women, we have to work harder, give more. I can’t very well turn down an opportunity like this. It’s what I want, what I’ve worked for.”
“What about what I want?” Peggy asked. Beneath the mask of teenage arrogance, Annie had seen the fear and vulnerability. Why can’t I be her role model, she wondered? She was puzzled. What did Peggy really want? Her father? When would she finally surrender to the reality? When would she accept it?
“Why can’t you say �
��Good luck, Mommy. I’m happy for you’?”
“Because I’m not,” Peggy had replied.
“Maybe when you get older, you’ll understand.”
“She’ll get over it, Mom,” Laura said.
“She’ll have to,” Annie agreed.
“It doesn’t matter what I think, anyhow,” Peggy had said with a smirk, as if she actually enjoyed the prospect of continuing antagonism and confrontation. “You always think of yourself first.”
“You may learn to do that as well someday. Sometimes it’s called respecting yourself.”
She had already made up her mind about the appointment, anyhow. Nor was she going to let herself be terrorized by a teenager.
The Baltimore city judicial system required its fifteen sitting judges to alternate between types of cases. Annie had spent her first three months in criminal court, hearing felony cases and dispensing sentences to fit the crimes. Already, she had gained some reputation as a no-nonsense judge who played it by the book. With an eye on the future election, she did not want to be known as either a sob sister or a nagging judge.
She had enjoyed criminal court, but her colleague and sponsor, Judge Samuel Compton, a crusty old political war-horse and acknowledged chief of the court, had suggested she get some “domestic squabble” under her belt, an idea that she had considered with much hesitation.
“It’s the ass end of the business,” he told her. “We all hate it.”
“How come?” she had asked. Her own legal specialty had been corporate law.
“Tears you up. Everybody’s guilty. Everybody’s innocent.”
She had only the vaguest idea what he meant. But since she was the most junior of the judges, she was unanimously chosen for the chore. Actually, it was Compton himself who had been scheduled to sit, and there was little room for refusal.
“The best way to handle it is to stick to the precedents. Don’t try to revolutionize the law. You’ll love it. It’s like reading True Confessions.”
“I don’t read True Confessions.”
“It’s not easy to maintain your distance,” he had told her.
“It hasn’t been difficult so far to maintain professional objectivity.”
“We’ll see,” he said smugly.
As in the case of similar comments made by those whose patronage she needed for career purposes, she withheld further comment. Besides, she imagined that men would be more impatient in the domestic arena. Play the game, she urged herself. Half the world was men, and most of them were totally insensitive to what made a woman tick.
She was, she knew, suffering from a similar communication problem with her teenage daughter. This, too, shall pass, she assured herself as she watched Peggy across the breakfast table. The girl had just ladled five spoons of sugar into the coffee cup.
“I can’t seem to reach you,” Annie sighed.
“But you have reached me.”
“For whatever I did, I apologize.” She felt herself getting increasingly agitated. It was a condition she did not appreciate when she was on the threshold of a new experience.
“I didn’t ask to be born,” Peggy said smugly.
“That’s quite true. But the gift of life is the best gift of all. Why can’t you enjoy it?”
“I don’t know,” Peggy said with more candor than she had volunteered all morning. Then she shrugged and put another spoonful of sugar in her coffee.
It’s getting worse, Annie thought, feeling resentment build inside her. Is it me? she asked herself again. Something I’ve done? She resisted the temptation to ask the question aloud.
“This aggravation is not very helpful. It’s my first day in domestic relations. I don’t need this, Peggy.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“What is?” It was, she knew, a mistake to ask. But it was better than no dialogue at all, she told herself, rationalizing.
“Domestic relations. What do you know about domestic relations? You haven’t even had a husband for nearly thirteen years.”
No thanks to you, she thought, with a flash of bitterness.
“I don’t have to sit here and take that, young lady.”
“Neither do I,” Peggy said, pushing away from the table. Her coffee spilled.
Annie sat there for a long time, staring at the shivering brown puddle on the glass table. There was simply no way to reach her. Peggy had slammed the door to her room. She wondered what was expected of her, how she could accommodate herself to the distortions in Peggy’s mind. She had contemplated therapy, had even suggested it again to Peggy, whose indignation had turned into a temper tantrum.
“Now I’m crazy!” her daughter had screamed.
“Troubled,” she had explained. “You can’t seem to deal with your anger.”
“It’s you who makes me angry.” Her face had flushed beet red, reminding her of Harold on that fateful night.
“Me?”
Remembering that awful scene, she decided to resign herself, at least for now. No sense complicating her day. A judge had to stifle emotion, force neutrality, isolate the intellect, divorce any personal strife from the decision-making process. These were the caveats of her profession, she told herself. Indeed, perhaps they were the very reasons she had chosen such a profession as her ultimate goal. Someone had to sort things out, someone to whom detachment was a working discipline.
But the brief injection of nobility of purpose did little to harness her inner turmoil. She could not dismiss Peggy and her irrational anger from her mind. Yet she must do it or be unfit to do her job. Getting up from the table, she knocked softly on Peggy’s door.
“Don’t forget school, dear,” she said gently. She looked at her watch. She’d hoped to have some time to review the papers her law clerk had stuffed into her briefcase concerning the day’s trial. But this business with Peggy had caused a drastic revision in her schedule. When there was no response from Peggy, she tried the door, which was locked.
“Really, Peggy, you have got to stop these tantrums.” She listened, but no answer came. So she was now to get the silent treatment, she thought. The last one had gone on for nearly a week.
“Just remember that it’s a school day,” she said, waiting. Still no answer. Again, she looked at her watch. The material in her briefcase nagged at her. She had deliberately gone to bed early to be fresh for the new court experience.
“I’d like to get this settled before I leave,” she called. Still no answer. “You are not being fair to me.”
“Go away.”
That was something. At least, a response.
“Please, Peggy. Not today.”
Again no answer came. Her agitation, she knew, precluded getting any work done. She had responsibilities, priorities. Her lack of preparation was making her anxious.
“I have got to leave!” she cried.
“Then go.”
There was no point in standing before her daughter’s locked door, she decided, trying valiantly to refocus her attention. She’d have to rush downtown and try to get her head together for the trial.
“It’s not very fair of you, Peggy. Especially today.”
She waited for a long moment. When no answer came, she went to the bathroom and patted her short hair into place. In the mirror, she noted her pinched look, especially around the eyes. She put a bit of powder on her nose and forehead, but little else, wondering if her appearance would be neutral enough for tackling the events of the day.
Before she left the apartment, she went to Peggy’s door again, feeling vaguely guilty.
“Peggy,” she called softly. She tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer. “Please, darling. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
When no response came, she shook her head and went out the door. Anxiety had turned to anger. Soon, she knew, the anger would become frustration, then guilt again, and her mind would flood with flashbacks that would plumb her psyche to determine the question of how and why her relationship with her younger daughter had gone sour. The
n would come the inevitable answers. Inevitably, she would wind up blaming Harold, which was the worst part, since it offered no solutions. And what good was a judge who could offer no solutions?
The traffic on the way to the courthouse was very heavy and she arrived at her office less than a half hour from the time set for the trial. Carter Foley, her law clerk, came in from the outer office. He was a very intense, gangling young man with a prominent Adam’s apple and a wisp of moustache over his thin lips.
“Did you go over it?” he asked. “Waters versus Graham.”
“Not with the care I should have,” she admitted, without giving a reason. Although he shared much of her courthouse world, she kept her personal life to herself. She looked at her watch. “Brief me.”
She knew it was a sloppy way to begin, but she did rely on her ability to grasp things quickly. It angered her to think that Peggy’s morning tantrum had interfered with her duties. Being not fully prepared also meant that she would really have to clear her mind and listen intently to the proceedings. Sometimes, when she sat on the bench trying criminal cases, her mind wandered. When this occurred, it filled her with a gnawing sense of inadequacy, as if she was somehow being unfair, fraudulent. It was something she must guard against, she told herself, making a mental note to discuss the condition with some of the other judges.
“This is a grandparents’ visitation case,” Carter began. There was a touch of pedantry about him, which she liked, although his intellectual arrogance sometimes irritated her. She tolerated that because she was a great believer in smart backup. A judge needed all the competent help she could get. He was extraordinarily energetic and ambitious as well. For old-hand advice, she relied on the wily Sam Compton.
Carter had opened her briefcase and was poking around in the files. “Paternal grandparents have petitioned. Their son, the husband, was killed in an accident. She meets and marries another man who adopts her five-year-old boy. Now seven. The new couple decide to pursue their new life without the burdens or benefits of the old in-laws, the natural grandparents. After two years the grandparents take this action.”
