“Renewal?” said Barnes, straining to repress the urge to nitpick his surprising distortion.
“Surely a solid union by comparison with any similar showing Mr. Bannon can make to this court?”
“Ah,” said Barnes. Though it was the business of newal and renewal she had questioned—not the solidity—she was now fully subsided. “And I take your Honor’s point.”
In a vital organ, Tim Bannon feared. He had been a bystander, auditing this jockeying almost as pure theater, but now he registered that the repartée was aimed at defining the rest of his life. Meanwhile, Enneguess was waving a sheaf of papers in the air.
“Tell me about this,” he said to Barnes, for apparently it was The Opposition he waved. Convince me, is how Tim heard the invitation and his hopes were somewhat restored. A moment earlier, he was seeing nothing better than homophobia with a human face.
“Do you mind if I wander?” said Barnes, showing Enneguess a fraction of the irresistible smile. “Around the room, that is. Moving helps me think, sometimes.”
“The court does not mind if you think,” said Enneguess, who had little choice: she had already gained six yards on the ground. “Just so long as you don’t get Mr. Giddings thinking again.”
“I’ll try not to,” she said, widening the fraction, but Mr. Giddings was already on his feet with thinking-cap on. Enneguess apologized before he could verbalize his protest, for clearly the badinage had gone too far.
Way too far for Tim’s taste. To him, this was looking like another day in court, replete with the hollow gestures of respect and the smirking jargon. Tomorrow they would retake the stage with a fresh batch of clients. But Barnes had begun.
“Montgomery Hergesheimer was the kind of man who spent his Sunday helping Cindy with her science project. A water wheel, quite nifty, you can see it at the house. You can feel the fun they must have had.
“The kind of man who treats his son’s soccer team to pizza. Not as a reward for scoring, or winning, but for playing. Not the only such man, but one of them.
“Monty liked to bring his wife flowers and presents on days that were not birthdays, or Valentine’s Day. Everyday days. He made a game of fooling her—pretend to be in a bad mood leaving the house, then come home at noon to take her to lunch.”
“Where did they eat?” said Merle.
“All right, Mr. Giddings.”
“I apologize, your Honor, but I do wonder what all this can be about.”
“I am curious as well,” said Enneguess, gesturing to Barnes.
“They had scallop rolls at Trumball’s,” said Barnes, an artful dodge that had Enneguess pursed to whistle. Tim was impressed, too, by her casual insertion of a local detail she had only secondhand, from him.
“Jill Bannon Hergesheimer,” Barnes went on, resuming both her travels and her indolent narrative, “was the kind of woman who took in her husband’s parents when they were ill. Monty’s parents loved Jill, could never quite believe their son’s good fortune in marrying her. ‘Whatever Jill wants’ was their vote on every issue—from what to have for lunch, Mr. Giddings, to where Jill and Monty should go for a rare overnight getaway.
“Tim Bannon stayed with the children on that occasion, by the way. And The Balsams, Mr. Giddings, is where they went.”
“You do hold a grudge, Counsellor.” Merle was grinning, being a sport, but Barnes ignored him.
“Jill was the kind of mother who never missed Billy’s games or Cindy’s recitals. Who sang her kids to sleep, taught them music, read them poetry—”
“Your Honor. Please.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Giddings. Attorney Barnes, I do not believe a soul here has uttered or even considered one word of criticism of the deceased parents. I fail to see the relevance of this.”
“With respect, your Honor, I am sure you will see it shortly, even if Mr. Giddings does not.”
This was pushing it, it was wanton, and Tim flinched. The judge took it, however, after a pregnant admonitory pause. The semblant smile formed at the corners of his mouth, the spanned thumb and forefinger came up to erase it. All he had to offer Merle was a philosophic shrug.
“Motive,” said Barnes.
“Motive,” said Merle, “is not at issue here. This is not a criminal proceeding, your Honor.”
“Motive,” said Barnes, cutting back from the sideline. “Why we do what we do. Let us remember that although the expressed wishes of Jill and Monty Hergesheimer may not bind a court of law, they ought to bring serious force to bear upon it. And perhaps even greater force upon the minds and hearts of family members.
“This court would not be involved, and none of us would be confined here on this beautiful summer morning, were it not for the action taken by the Sandersons. But why did they take such an action, in direct contravention of Jill and Monty’s wishes?
“I spoke a bit about Jill and Monty so we might keep a clear sight of them today. Who they were, and how thoroughly involved they were as parents. To name Tim Bannon custodian of their children had to be a clear, conscious, rigorous choice on their parts.”
“Am I wrong, your Honor, or is Attorney Barnes stating the obvious, that we are all well aware of?”
“Not so aware, apparently,” said Barnes. “I think we need to understand why Jill and Monty made the clear, rigorous choice they made. A remarkable choice, it seems to me.”
“Oh it seems that way to us, too,” said Merle, scoring. Enneguess had to wipe one away.
“If it is not the obvious choice, as seen from the outside, the court may agree its unexpectedness only makes it more significant.”
“Though not binding,” reminded Enneguess.
“Not binding on the court, no. Would it have bound me as a sister? Would it bind your Honor, as a brother? This crystal clear wish of a sibling, on an absolutely vital issue?”
Barnes riveted her gaze on Enneguess as though she expected a response. Which she did: she expected him to form one, though he would never state it. But it was here that Tim noticed Enneguess’ rare—inhuman?—ability not to blink. Barnes’ was a steady gaze, she did not blink much herself, yet by the end of this faceoff she was made to seem a coquette.
“Have you finished?” was the only response forthcoming.
“Almost, your Honor. Since William and Cynthia were born, Tim has been a central figure in their lives. And I must remind the court we are talking about a period of eleven years. Tim often saw them weekly, never less than monthly. They pursued regular activities, shared running jokes, kept track of favorite TV shows.
“Last summer, for example, the three of them set a goal of discovering ten different lakes from which they could see Mt. Monadnock. They succeeded, too, after a world of fun and adventure together. Ask the kids to name those ten bodies of water and you will find out exactly how memorable those outings were.
“They are very close, your Honor. Tim and Cindy and Billy. They love one another. It’s the sort of unique bond that can form with an uncle, an aunt, sometimes a grandparent. Jill and Monty saw this bond, they were delighted by it, they nurtured it.…
“But now we turn to the flip side of this equation—the negative that proves the positive. Because I could talk all day of Tim and Cindy and Billy, but I couldn’t fill a fifteen-second slot on Super Sunday about the Sandersons and these children. There is nothing to say. There is no relationship to describe.
“I don’t wish to say terrible things about these people. Does Mr. Sanderson still cheat at cards? Does he cheat his customers, or cheat on his wife? Does he beat his wife or, to be fair, does his wife beat him?”
“Oh yes,” said Merle, popping up. “I can see how fair you aim to be. Objection, your Honor?”
“No need, Mr. Giddings. Don’t you worry. You can’t fool me, but she can’t fool me either.”
Tim could not read the judge, unless his extraordinary patience with Barnes meant something. At the moment, he seemed to be play-acting, leaning forward in almost a pantomime listening posture. He
all but cocked his ears.
“We don’t want anyone fooled,” said Barnes. “On the contrary, we very badly want the true state of matters within this family made manifest. Because versus Tim’s thirty, forty visits a year with the Hergesheimers, the Plaintiffs might boast one or two. Versus a hundred occasions of which Tim cared for the kids on his own, the Plaintiffs can point to one. One visit in their lifetimes, to the home of an aunt who lived a few miles away!
“And it doesn’t matter why, at this point. Some people don’t relate well to kids, or wisely choose not to have them. No doubt Mr. Giddings would like us to believe that love, or at least a sense of responsibility, is the motive behind the Plaintiffs’ effort to contravene the Hergesheimers’ wishes. And we would all rejoice to see them exhibit some affection or interest in the future that they have failed to show in the past.
“But as to fitness? It could well be argued that in naming Tim Bannon their children’s guardian, the Hergesheimers were declaring quite literally who ought not be named. Isn’t that a conclusion we would draw, objectively?
“Even setting aside the past, I doubt any guardian ad litem could fail to reach this same conclusion. Billy and Cindy will make it unambiguous. They know who they love. They know who was there for them, not just on Thanksgiving or Christmas, but on April 11 and June 17. On the everyday days.…
“And they also know who was not there.”
In finishing, finally, Barnes had finished her peregrinations directly before the judge’s rostrum. Enneguess came out from his listening posture, to listen in fact—or so it appeared to Tim. But what had he heard?
He popped his loose black sleeves, then let his arms descend slowly to the table, as though descending through water, not air. He thanked Barnes for her “thoughtful and thought-provoking remarks,” then spread the two memoranda side by side in front of him. For an instant, Tim thought he might shut his eyes and pick a winner.
Instead, he called a recess.
“What I did not hear, Attorney Barnes—though I was waiting to hear it—was the motive you attribute to the Sanderson Petition. Motive, you said, and you all but typed a full colon after it. I heard the colon, at any rate, and I waited. Motive?”
“That was the negative that proved the positive, your Honor. I can only speculate unkindly on motive, but I can say with some assurance what was not the motive.”
“With all due respect,” said Merle, “this may be too subtle for me. It’s just a rehash with some heavy topspin on it.”
“Let me hear you spin it back the other way,” said Enneguess. “I presume you disagree with the Manichean dichotomy?”
“Translation?” Say this for Merle: he did not embarrass easily, he was happy inside his skin.
“Good and evil, Mr. Giddings. Do you agree that Mr. Bannon has been the ideal Walt Disney uncle and Ms. Sanderson the wicked Disney witch?”
“Uncle, your Honor, or fairy Godmother?” Enneguess’ eyes, visible above the half-mast glasses, narrowed meaningfully. “Withdrawn. With apologies.”
“Is there anything concrete you would say in mitigation?”
“To begin with, it’s wild exaggeration. My clients have taken a great deal more interest in the children than was stated. Mr. Sanderson has a standing offer to take the boy hunting, for example, and my understanding is that the boy is eager to go.”
“Please sit, Attorney Barnes. Mr. Giddings is still at the plate. Or at the baseline, I should say, if we are having topspin.”
“Here’s the thing,” said Merle. “The kids had two loving parents, perfect parents. My clients are not meddlesome people, plus of course they have a busy life of their own. While they wished to see more of family—like us all, they had good intentions—they had no pressing need. Hell, Judge, I swear I love my sister Carol, but I haven’t even called her in months.”
“Fair enough. And that has changed, for the Sandersons?”
“The children need them now. It has become a matter of need, and of responsibility. The time for good intentions is past, if you will, and the time for good actions is at hand.”
“Ecclesiastes,” said Enneguess.
“And this bit with the ailing parents? Monty’s folks, who moved in to a soundtrack of weeping violins? Well, sure. Earl’s mom did the same. She died in the Sanderson home. Because when the time came for that level of caring, the Sandersons were surely there to provide it.”
“A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,” said the judge, sticking with Ecclesiastes.
“Exactly. And all this about positives proving negatives and negatives proving positives is a bunch of refried air.”
“Attorney Barnes, I’ll take your comment now.”
“Thank you, your Honor. Billy Hergesheimer never went hunting with Mr. Sanderson because of two serious obstacles—his mother and his father. They didn’t want him shooting animals, even apart from the question of his age.”
“It is inappropriate, you think, to hunt at age eleven?”
“Myself? No idea. We don’t hunt much in Boston. But I am aware that Jill and Monty had specifically prohibited it.”
“Well, you are a most thorough practitioner, Ms. Barnes,” said Enneguess, and Barnes heard the edge on his voice (thorough here might not be good?) and the downgrade from Attorney to a mere Mizz. She had been defrocked, made a civilian, like poor Merle. Was this judge a gun nut who thrust artillery and camouflage on his children and grandchildren?
“Thank you, your Honor,” she said. “One tries to be as thorough as possible when vital issues are at stake.”
“Excellent. Can we take that same thoroughness now and apply it to a consideration of Mr. Bannon’s personal qualities? I have been studying The Complaint—”
“The allegations are inspecific and highly prejudicial.”
“Are they untrue?”
“They are. Tim Bannon is no more promiscuous than the average single man in today’s America. He conducts his life in a dignified manner, and runs a thriving and reputable business. The Plaintiffs can no more say he is dissolute than we can say it of them. I for one do not even know what the word means.”
“You do not?”
“Not in real terms. Is there a line one crosses? If I take two drinks I am on one side of the line, whereas a third puts me over into dissolution? Three failed love affairs is okay, but a fourth becomes dissolute? What if I’m unpopular and keep losing out in the arena of love? Am I obliged to stop trying?”
“Suppose we take a fairly high hurdle, Attorney Barnes.” (Reinstated!) “Suppose we agree that a new sexual partner every month, roughly a dozen each year, constitutes dissolution?”
“Promiscuity, I would have said.”
“Fine, we have got that one too. Can you assure me Mr. Bannon does not meet the definition?”
“I haven’t cross-examined my client, but I have a strong impression of him as a decent and responsible person.”
“Shall I ask him directly?”
“It is your privilege, of course. If you do ask him, though, I hope you will also ask Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson.”
“I am surprised at you, Attorney Barnes. You know that no such suggestions have been made concerning the Sandersons’ character. Now then, Mr. Bannon?”
“Yes, your Honor,” said Tim, standing and bracing himself to lie. Did he need to lie? Twelve a year? Probably he needed to lie. Should he? Only if he could do it well; if he could fool them. He simply had no idea what would happen to his face, his hands.
“Sorry to be so personal with you right off the bat, but one a month? One hundred twenty in ten years? Have you had one hundred twenty sexual partners?”
“Most definitely not,” said Tim—stoutheartedly, he felt. This might work. “Nothing like that many.”
“One hundred? Seventy-five? How low can we go and still hear a confident denial? I am merely asking.”
“A lot lower. I would consider myself lucky to meet someone in a year, or two years, who was important enough to int
roduce to my family.” (Not bad!)
“So you have categories—important, less important, unimportant—within the range of your sexual partners?”
All right, thought Tim, if you have sex in New Hampshire it is supposed to be important. Was that the trick in Enneguess’ trick question? Uncertainly, he turned to Barnes, a clear admission (of something) to Enneguess, who pounced:
“Try this one, sir. How many unimportant partners have there been this year. Just the one year, if that helps memory.”
“May I object?” said Barnes.
“Of course you may.” (But you had better not…)
“Well, I would not wish to say this line of questioning verges on sarcasm, but it does seem grossly unfair to speculate on relationships this way. To be asked to rate human beings—”
“It was not my idea, Attorney Barnes.”
“But surely everyone, male or female, who is in the dating game, or whatever it is called—”
“Look, folks. This isn’t evidence. None of this is substantiated. We are chatting. And I am attempting to get some rough sense of the man’s habits, of how he conducts his life. Give me a plausible answer and I’ll be delighted to move on.”
“Six,” Tim heard himself croak.
He spoke reflexively, to halt the pain and embarrassment. Enneguess was going to have a number and six was a numerical way of crying STOP. Six was the biggest lie Tim could manage. To say anything less was like telling the I.R.S. you earned nine thousand dollars last year: they would only laugh and start toting up your dry cleaning receipts. Still, in the formal quietude of the courtroom, the number six seemed way high.
“Six,” repeated the judge, suppressing an exclamation point. To Tim, the judge looked like a man who had taken fewer than six lovers in his lifetime. Possibly fewer than one.
“About six.”
“You do not know? You have love affairs, even within the past year, that you can not recall?”
“No, your Honor. I meant some years are different than others. Some years there might not be any.”
A brilliant recovery. Excitement gathered in Tim’s chest as he shot this wild lie out into the room. Or not lie, technicality. Tim had very few love affairs, as he understood the term. (Continuity, planning, lots of arguments about commitment.…)
The Mt. Monadnock Blues Page 16
