by Warren Adler
“What then?”
“I think . . .” She paused. “It’s a matter of honor.”
“Honor?” He appeared puzzled. She let it go at that. There was too much to explain, too much to define about people in her past and the way they thought about life. She was in a different place now, but it didn’t mean she could or would ever turn her back on the other. She glanced at the clock. The hour was nearly up. The baby kicked.
18
THEY stood near a stairwell off the lobby. It was the only private place they could find. Molly, less for support than comfort, held on to the rail facing Charlie and Forte. People came and went, climbed the stairs, appearing oblivious to anything but their own thoughts. Occasionally, she heard laughter, which sounded incongruous and irrelevant. Mostly, her thoughts were on Charlie and what he had done. Although it hurt to think about it, she had agreed with Charlie. It was pointless to put Tray, Frances, and Peter through any more ordeals.
A court decree could not be the answer to this dilemma. You couldn’t decree boundaries for human emotions.
“Yes, you do have the right to ask her to withdraw the petition,” Forte said. He seemed annoyed and was quite obviously reluctant to do so. “Of course, she doesn’t have to grant it.”
“Why not?” Charlie asked.
Forte hesitated.
“It depends on how adamant Judge Stokes is on offering her ruling. She could be hung up on it.”
“I don’t care about that,” Charlie said.
“It’s over for us. Simply tell her it’s over,” Molly added.
Forte tapped his chin and inspected them both.
“I think you’re being extremely foolish,” he said tartly. “You’ve gone this far. You’re yielding to the emotion of the moment. That’s dangerous. My advice would be to hear it out.”
“What for? Our minds are made up.” Charlie looked at Molly, who nodded affirmation.
“That’s just the point. You think your minds are made up. Then you’ll walk out of here and the doubts will begin to set in. And the loneliness. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night and wonder, did I do the right thing? Nothing is going to change. You were miserable being separated from your grandson before, and you’ll still be miserable.”
“Rather us than him,” Charlie said. “We’ll get through it somehow, won’t we, babe?” He reached out and took her hand.
“Sure we will.”
“What about all that stuff about it being unnatural?” Forte asked.
“It is,” Charlie said without hesitation. “But the kid is happy. He’s got a good life. A brother. Another one on the way. Why louse that up with tension he doesn’t need? She’s a good mother. I can’t fault her there. And he’s a good father.”
“You realize that you’re being a martyr. Both of you.”
“Best interests of the kid. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”
“What about all the other grandparents faced with this problem? Maybe the issue might be clarified for them?”
“You guys,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “Always looking for the glory of it. You’re getting paid anyhow. If she rules in your favor, you’ll be a hero. If not, you’ll wait for another client to walk in the door just like us. We’ve done the right thing by Tray. That’s all that matters for us. We’re not guinea pigs, we’re just plain people.” He turned to Molly. “That’s us, babe?”
“That’s us.”
“But you’ve gone this far—”
“Too far,” Charlie muttered.
Observing him, she realized that although he was agitated, he was not faltering. She saw glimpses of the old Charlie, the good and strong and faithful, trusting man. My Charlie. Just you and me, babe, she told herself. Oh, she was sure there were dark moments ahead for both of them. You couldn’t excise such deep emotions from the human psyche. But the old couldn’t depend on the young for solace. Above all, they’d have to make it on their own. Her head spun with plans. They’d go away. She’d give up her teaching job. She was getting too old for those know-it-all young principals. Maybe Arizona. There was a lake there somewhere. . . .
Forte looked at the clock. It was getting late. Everyone would be seated now, waiting for them.
“I think we’d better go,” Molly said. They started up the stairs. Before they entered the courtroom Forte paused.
“Remember this,” he said. “If you change your minds, you’ll have to start again from scratch. This way, you might have some insurance. If she rules against you, there’s nothing lost. You’ve already decided that you won’t press to visit the boy. But if she rules for you, then you’ve at least got an option. People change their minds all the time. We’re all human.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Molly said. Hand in hand, Molly and Charlie proceeded into the courtroom.
The others were already seated, the judge in her place. Tray looked up and smiled from where he sat between his parents, who watched them move to their seats behind the table. Peck also observed them. He seemed disheveled, like an overgrown old bear without claws and teeth. No longer fearsome.
But when Peck turned away, Molly noted that Frances continued to look toward her. Her head nodded, and a smile formed on her lips. Molly nodded back. It’s all right, she wanted to say. Can you forgive us? Their eyes locked, and she imagined that her look transmitted an affirmative answer.
“Court is now in session,” the voice of the clerk boomed.
Judge Stokes raised her head and looked over her half-glasses. She had been making notes.
“I have reached my decision in this case,” she said, clearing her throat, scanning the faces in the courtroom. Molly looked at Forte. He sat rigid, looking in front of him.
“As you are well aware—” the judge began.
“This is not what we discussed,” Charlie said, turning to the lawyer. “You were to stop this—”
The young lawyer’s expression did not change. The judge looked at them, frowning. Charlie turned toward Frances and Peter. “I asked him to withdraw this—”
Charlie stood up and turned to the judge. “You can’t do this—I gave them my word.”
The judge banged her gavel.
“Will you please be seated, Mr. Waters,” she said.
“But he didn’t do what he was asked to do.”
A nerve began to palpitate in Forte’s jaw. “Trust me,” the lawyer said. “You have nothing to lose.”
“You have no right to do this,” Molly said.
“Will you please keep your clients under control, Mr. Forte,” the judge said. “I have no wish to order contempt citations.”
“It’s all right. Just sit down,” Forte said.
“No. I won’t stand for it.” Charlie looked helplessly toward Frances and Peter.
“You’re trying my patience, Mr. Waters,” the judge said.
“I want this case dropped,” Charlie shouted.
Again, the judge banged the gavel.
“I want . . .” He looked around him, then at Molly.
“It won’t matter, Charlie,” Molly said, conscious of his embarrassment. She turned toward Frances, noting tears running down her cheeks. Tray looked troubled and confused. “Let it alone, Charlie.”
He looked at Forte with contempt and slumped back into his seat. Molly leaned over and kissed his cheek. “It won’t matter either way,” she said.
“As you are all well aware,” the judge began again, “the law in this state is not explicit on the point being argued in this courtroom. This is not a custody battle. Nor is there any decision required on a division of tangible assets. The issue here is and has always been the best interests of the child. This is the centuries-old common law.
“Whatis in the best interests of this child?” She paused and took off her glasses. “We had a nice little chat in my chambers. Now, it is difficult to assess the state of anyone’s mind and spirit in the brief space of one hour. Certainly, it is doubly difficult in the case of a child.” She looked toward Tray
and flashed him a broad smile. “But since I am charged with such a judgment, I have concluded that this particular child is a well-adjusted, bright, cheerful, quite happy boy. This is a child who is obviously loved and cherished by his mother and his adoptive father.”
“What’s the point? It’s only words,” Charlie whispered. Molly put a finger on his lips and he quieted.
“The question then is, does this well-adjusted happy child need the visits of his natural paternal grandparents to enhance the quality of his life? Could those visits be disruptive, inimical to the child’s welfare? Would they, in some way, debilitate the child’s emotional state? Will they create problems that are disruptive to the Graham family unit and, by a kind of emotional fallout, have adverse consequences for the boy? I suppose that each of the opposing sides might have brought expert testimony by psychiatrists and social workers to this courtroom, each contradicting the other, which might have influenced my judgment.” In a nervous gesture, she put her glasses on again, but they slipped to the tip of her nose, and she pulled them off. “The inclination of the case law is to leave well enough alone.” She paused and seemed to be wavering. Molly wondered why it was taking her so long to get to the point. She looked at Tray, who had apparently gotten bored and was now busy drawing pictures on a yellow pad. Enough, she thought. She wanted to go home.
“What we are dealing with here is not a science.” Again, the judge paused, her gaze wandering over the people in the courtroom. “We are dealing here with the most volatile and unreliable of human characteristics—emotions. It seems to me that in all human endeavors there is not exactly an overabundance of love—genuine, unselfish, honest, and caring. And when you find it, you should never ever deprive it of its natural outlet. A child, in my opinion, needs as much of it as he or she can get.” The judge shook her head for emphasis. “It is obvious to me that the boy in question has been blessed with a cornucopia of caring and affection, to which his grandparents have been copious contributors. How can a child lose by being the recipient of such caring?”
“See what I mean? We’ve won,” Forte whispered. Molly felt a brief stab of elation, which quickly passed.
“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” Charlie muttered.
“I am, therefore, granting the petitioners their right of visitation on a basis of time and access to be worked out between the parties, but not to be less than once a week.”
Charlie turned to Molly, obviously confused, but said nothing. Peripherally, she saw the big lawyer begin to rise, then sit again when the judge continued to speak.
“Naturally this decision can be appealed.” She looked directly at Peck.
“I fully intend to,” the lawyer replied, jumping up from his chair. Molly saw Frances tug sharply at Peck’s sleeve. The lawyer looked at her and sat down abruptly.
“No point in staying,” Charlie said, getting up. Molly rose with him. The judge continued to speak, but Molly did not fully comprehend what she was saying. They moved past the seated young lawyer, ignoring his upturned face. Nor did they pause for a last look at Tray, although Molly could feel his eyes watching them.
“It wasn’t really his fault, Charlie. He believed in it from the beginning. Remember?”
“He forgot who was the client.”
“Say what you want. He won our case.”
“His. Not ours.”
He brooded for a moment, pausing in the aisle.
“How can she judge how we should conduct our lives?” Charlie asked.
“That’s her job,” Molly responded as they walked slowly out of the courtroom. “And it was a wonderful speech. I’ll give her that. It turned out that she has a lot more feeling than I thought.”
“She was right about Tray,” Charlie said. “He is a happy kid. And that’s what counts. He sure doesn’t need us.”
“But we need us. Right, Charlie?” And the truth is, we need Tray, she told herself.
“You and me, babe.” She heard the catch in his throat. Deliberately, she did not turn to see his tears.
Holding hands, they walked down the stairs, finding themselves once again in the ornate marble lobby, dominated by the large statue of the blind lady of justice.
“Maybe she should take that blindfold off and see life as it really is,” Charlie said.
Molly did not respond. Behind her, she heard a persistent tapping, a light step descending stairs, then a click-click growing louder on the marble floor as it moved toward them. Before they could get to the entrance, they heard his voice.
“Gramma! Grampa!”
Turning, they saw Tray, who was moving fast. Arms out, they caught him jointly and hugged him against their bodies.
“Mommy said ”—he was out of breath—“Daddy, too.”
She smoothed his hair and touched his cheek, finding Charlie’s fingers already there.
“They said I don’t have to go back to school today so maybe we could do something—”
“Sure . . .” Charlie swallowed, turning to flick away tears with his sleeve.
“Not a bad idea,” Molly managed to say.
“We could go back to the house,” Charlie said, clearing his throat. “That tire swing is still there.” He shook his head. “May be broken.”
“I can make some fried chicken, the way you like it.”
“Gee.” The boy hesitated.
“And maybe you can help me fix that swing.”
“But we have to make it higher, Grampa,” Tray said, straightening, calling attention to his recent growth.
“Lots higher, I’d say,” Charlie replied.
Across the lobby, Molly saw Frances and Peter watching them. Charlie was too busy with Tray to notice them. Molly took a step forward, hesitated, watching them through a mist of tears. She saw Frances move toward her, equally hesitant. When they embraced, Molly was certain, it was not only a mutual contact with the body, but with the spirit as well. What passed between them was beyond words. Then they parted, looked at each other briefly, deeply, knowing that what they shared needed no articulation.
When Molly returned to Charlie and Tray, they were still deep in conversation.
“Then maybe someday we can go together and see if we can get Nasty Jake,” Tray was saying.
Charlie looked suddenly at Molly.
“We’ll have to ask your mother about that, Tray. Besides, somebody else got Nasty Jake.”
“Oh.” He seemed disappointed. Then he brightened. “Then he’s up there with my other Daddy.”
“Probably is. I never thought of it that way.”
He took Tray’s hand. Molly took the other. They started to walk toward the entrance. But at the door, they stopped and turned, as if the idea had occurred to all of them at the same time. Across the lobby, Frances and Peter watched them, smiling.
Without unlocking their fingers, all three lifted their arms and waved.
