The War of the Roses: The Children

by Warren Adler

  “I know that, Dad.”

  “Truth no matter what the consequences,” Josh had intoned.

  “Don’t you believe me, Dad?” Michael said, his eyes begging, swallowing hard, his upper lip beginning to tremble. “Mom does.” He looked toward Victoria, who opened her arms and embraced him, rubbing his back.

  “You know I do, darling,” Victoria said.

  “Mikey wouldn’t lie,” Emily suddenly squealed. She had been watching the proceedings from the foot of the stairs and was visibly upset by any questions concerning her brother’s fidelity. “Nobody lies in our family.”

  At nine, Emily lived in a world of complete belief in the goodness of all people. She particularly adored, doted upon, believed in, and supported her brother in all things. Happily for their parents, it was a two-way street. Both Victoria and Josh had nurtured this idea of sibling solidarity in their children and were delighted that their wish had become a reality.

  Born, according to plan, one year apart, Victoria, an only child, had yearned for such an alliance. Josh, having experienced the strength and comfort of the sibling bond, had eagerly supported the idea. There was an irony in that, Victoria knew, since she was not exactly keen on the zealous solidarity of Josh’s relationship with his sister Evie, although she understood why they had clung together so tenaciously over the years. Considering what had happened to their parents, the Roses, she had tried valiantly but unsuccessfully to temper her judgment.

  “We didn’t mean to upset you, darling,” Victoria said, turning to Emily, throwing her a kiss. Then she turned to her husband. “This is overkill, Josh.”

  “You realize, Michael, that there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Josh pressed, obviously ignoring her comment.

  “I know that, Dad,” Michael said. His eyes had grown moist and the tip of his nose reddened. Victoria and Josh exchanged knowing glances and the interrogation abruptly came to end.

  “I do believe you, son,” Josh said, adding, “One for all and all for one.” He reached out to tousle the boy’s blonde hair. Victoria put her hand over Josh’s and motioned to Emily who bounded to join the embrace.

  “Trust is everything in this family,” Victoria said.

  “I know that, Mom.”

  Michael looked from one parent to the other, then crossed his heart.

  “I never doubted you for a minute,” Josh said, kissing Michael’s cheek. Then he kissed Emily on the head and Victoria on the lips.

  “That ends it,” Josh said. “We will not have our children harassed.”

  ***

  As she drove, panic had turned to indignation. The old lawyerly aggression had surfaced. Abuse that child and I’ll sue your ass, she heard herself say in her mind.

  Memories of earlier legal tangles surfaced, dramatic confrontations with smug lawyers from the greedy insurance companies defending their suspect turf from the equally suspect plaintiffs whose cases she had manipulated and manufactured, mostly from trumped up medical evidence and fictional scripting.

  In those career days, as a single practitioner in the seedy negligence law business, she was living testimony to the case for tort reform. Once she had enjoyed the hurly-burly challenge of walking the thin wavy line between the micro margins of corruption and alleged legality. Love and marriage had demanded a higher level of moral turpitude and parenting had sealed her fate, motivating aggressive psychic reconstruction.

  Hadn’t Michael assured them of his innocence? The Rose family built their lives on a rigid standard of absolute honesty. It was the bedrock of their behavior. The Crespo girl was imagining things.

  As she approached St. John’s, the Episcopal school that went only to the second grade, she had worked up a good head of exasperation. Emily was waiting for her with her two friends at the school entrance.

  “Hi Mommy,” Emily said excitedly as she jumped into the back seat of the car with her two little friends. The girls chirped together like hyperactive sparrows.

  “Seat belts, everyone?”

  “All except Bobbie,” Emily giggled.

  “I hate seat belts,” Bobbie said, reluctantly fastening hers. “Tattle tale.”

  “I’m not a tattle tale,” Emily said. “Am I, Mommy?”

  “No way, darling. Seat belts save lives,” Victoria said, offering the homily from her ever-growing collection. She headed the car in the direction of the ballet class.

  “See,” Emily said.

  “You have to be very careful in this world, girls,” Victoria said. “Safety first.”

  More homilies burst from her by rote. “Never take anything for granted. Always be prepared for every eventuality. Accidents occur when you least expect them.” She rattled them off without thinking, her thoughts fixed on what would soon occur at Pendleton Hall.

  “I have to stop by Mikey’s school,” Victoria said.

  “Is Michael alright, Mommy?” Emily asked, ever sensitive to her brother’s fate.

  “Michael’s fine, sweetheart,” Victoria said, skirting the issue.

  “Daddy says everything is good now, isn’t it Mommy?”

  “Daddy is right,” Victoria said, wishing her daughter would drop the subject.

  “My Daddy knows everything,” Emily opined, bragging slightly.

  Through the rearview mirror, Victoria glanced at Bobbie’s face. It was pale and unsmiling. Bobbie was the child of a nasty divorce, and the father was, according to the mother, a deadbeat dad. Victoria’s heart went out to the little girl. She knew the drill and had warned Emily to desist from making too many effusive complimentary references to her own dad.

  “Remember what we talked about, Emily?” Victoria reminded her, with a quick look at her daughter through the rearview mirror.

  “What, Mommy?” Emily asked with a look of genuine puzzlement.

  “You know.”

  “No I don’t.”

  Victoria felt a growing sense of frustration.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  “Oh,” Emily said, suddenly remembering. “You mean about Daddy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m sorry, Bobbie,” Emily said. “I forgot.”

  Again, Victoria glanced at Bobbie’s face through the rearview mirror. The girl’s eyes were glazed and her lips tightly pursed. She felt the old hollowness in the pit of her stomach, the familiar sensation that she had grown up with. There was no cure for it.

  “Now if I’m a little late, girls,” Victoria said, deliberately changing the subject and, hopefully, the mood, “just wait inside the door and listen for my honk. I’ll honk three times like this.”

  She honked the horn three times, much to the consternation of the driver in front of her who raised a middle finger salute. She mimed a gesture of apology and the girls started to giggle.

  ***

  The Crespos were waiting in the anteroom of Mr. Tatum’s office, both rising in tandem when Victoria crossed the threshold. It was a gesture of impatience, not respect. They wore dour, unsmiling expressions. Helen Crespo faintly nodded acknowledgement. She wore a gray sweatered dress cinched tightly at the waist to emphasize her imposing breast work. Her husband eyed Victoria coldly through his little round glasses, reminding her weirdly of old photos of European intellectuals. He turned to Mr. Tatum’s nervous gray-haired secretary.

  “You can tell Mr. Tatum that Mrs. Rose has arrived,” Mr. Crespo said.

  Mr. Tatum ushered them to a conversational grouping consisting of two facing upholstered sofas and a large winged leather chair obviously to be occupied by him. This was, unquestionably, his domain, and he ran the school with tight-fisted authority. Although there was a board that tended to administrative and financial matters, Mr. Tatum was the sole voice of academic authority. It was he who decided what students entered the school and what infractions constituted expulsion, a not-uncommon action in a schoo
l with a waiting list that went on into infinity.

  “I know this is short notice, Mrs. Rose,” Mr. Tatum began apologetically. He wore a gray herringbone jacket, charcoal gray flannel pants, a striped tie over a crisp, white shirt, and tasseled loafers. He had the look, feel, and image of someone who commanded respect. His expression struck her as kindly, but neutral.

  “To put it mildly,” Victoria said, eyeing the opposition. Staring them down had been a powerful weapon in her legal arsenal.

  “It happened again yesterday, Victoria,” Helen Crespo said. “Madeline came home hysterical. We demanded this meeting and Mr. Tatum has obliged.”

  “Haven’t we been through this? Once again I ask: did she see him do this?”

  Both Crespo’s exchanged glances.

  “She saw him eating it?” Helen Crespo said.

  “Must we go through this yet again?” Victoria sighed. “This is worse than circumstantial. It proves nothing.”

  “The child became hysterical in class,” Mr. Tatum said. “Which raises the stakes of this issue considerably. I was immediately summoned. I called Mrs. Crespo, who was at home.”

  “I was at my studio, as usual in the midst of making a single stem vase, very intricate work. Mr. Tatum’s call was completely unnerving. Needless to say, the work was spoiled. You see…”

  “Helen called me and we took Madeline home,” John Crespo interjected. “We were up all night with her. So you see this is no small matter, as far as we’re concerned.”

  “This time we did not confront Michael,” Mr. Tatum said, exchanging glances with the Crespos. “We thought it best to discuss this situation with you first. I’m sorry Mr. Rose is not present.”

  Two against one, Victoria thought. She looked pointedly at Mr. Crespo.

  “Both my husband and I are satisfied that Michael is telling the truth. His word is good enough for us.”

  “Do you know what it means for a child not to be believed?” Mr. Tatum said with mild admonishment. “Not by her teachers or her fellow students. Really, Mrs. Rose, it is beginning to affect her psychologically. The child is….”

  “It has to be resolved,” John Crespo said pedantically, taking off his little glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “The child feels alienated, isolated, surrounded by hostility. Somehow we have to clear the air, Victoria.”

  “Michael is not a thief or a liar, John. It is the primal axiom in our household.” Her gaze drifted pointedly from one Crespo to the other. “To us, a lie is original sin. It has been drummed into our children since birth. Madeline is fantasizing.”

  “Once, I acknowledge, she could be fantasizing,” John Crespo said, carefully refitting his glasses. “Twice could be fantasizing. This has been a repeated offense. She is certain that Michael is the thief.”

  “I’d be very careful with your choice of words, John,” Victoria snapped, her eyes boring into those of her antagonist.

  “How else would you characterize it, Victoria?”

  “It is an accusation without merit, based on the hysterical comments of a child. In a court of law, John, a child’s testimony is often rejected on those grounds.”

  She felt herself growing lawyerly now, deliberately intimidating and aggressive.

  “This is not a court of law, Mrs. Rose,” Mr. Tatum said, his implication clear. I am the law here was his unmistakable message. “We are simply looking for a solution to a dilemma. We are in a kind of a double bind here. Although it might seem minor in terms of the objects at issue, it has, in fact, become a major circumstance. Both children are good students. Michael’s a natural-born leader, a role model, a kind of hero to his peers. And Madeline is a lovely girl.” Victoria looked toward the Crespos. “She has become even more withdrawn than before these….” Mr. Tatum coughed politely into his fist. “These allegations.”

  “Allegations?” Victoria snapped. “These are a couple of kids, dammit. And the issue is candy, for crying out loud. Just candy. What is going on here?”

  “What’s going on here, Victoria,” John Crespo snapped, “could be a matter of some consequence to Pendleton Hall. We do not intend to remain silent.”

  “We intend to be quite vocal, Victoria,” Helen Crespo chimed in.

  “That would be your style, Helen… being vocal… interminably,” Victoria said, regretting it instantly. Helen shot her husband a challenging stare, which he ignored.

  “We’re talking full-court press,” Mr. Crespo said, lips pursed in anger. “Media exposure, perhaps lawsuits.”

  Victoria looked swiftly toward Mr. Tatum, noting a quick shrug and an eyes-to-the-ceiling gesture of frustration. Above all, Mr. Tatum feared anything that might reflect badly on the school.

  “On what grounds?” Victoria asked.

  “Whatever fits.”

  “You’ll be dragging the school through the mud,” Victoria shot back, noting Mr. Tatum’s brief nod.

  “So be it. What we want is justice for our child.”

  “We’re talking Milky Ways here, not nuclear proliferation,” Victoria said, shaking her head in outrage, fighting for control. She wished she had postponed this confrontation until Josh could be present. She felt beleaguered, blindsided, unprepared. In her legal battles, she had always been overprepared. She had calculated every possible angle. Displays of emotion were performed on cue.

  “The Rose boy lied,” John Crespo said, “and it has deeply affected my daughter. We demand satisfaction, Mr. Tatum.”

  John Crespo turned his attention to the headmaster.

  “As you can see, Mrs. Rose, they feel rather strongly,” Mr. Tatum shrugged. “Hence my urgency.”

  “What the fuck would satisfy you?” Victoria exploded. “Stand Michael in front of a firing squad before the student body? On the testimony of some pampered little maladjusted brat? I think you’re both a couple of shits.”

  “No need to get smutty, Victoria,” Helen Crespo cried in shock, sitting up stiffly, pushing out her big boobs. It was obviously her ultimate gesture of indignation.

  “And don’t point those missiles at me, Helen,” Victoria said. From the corner of her eye she noted that the blood had drained from Mr. Tatum’s face. She paused for a moment, sucking in a deep breath.

  “I have a solution,” she said, forcing a smile that made her mouth ache.

  “Perhaps we’re getting somewhere,” Mr. Tatum said hopefully.

  “Remove the cause,” Victoria said. She could see by the glances of confusion between the Crespos that she had been too subtle. She shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. “Stop giving her those fucking Milky Ways.”

  “Can you believe this?” John Crespo said.

  Mr. Tatum remained silent, exchanging what Victoria interpreted as a private glance of camaraderie. Helen Crespo by then had fully returned to her rocket-poised posture of indignation.

  “Don’t dismiss the logic out of hand, John,” Victoria said, finding her old prosecutorial voice. “Good nutrition notwithstanding, candy is a temptation to any child. Someone with a sweet tooth could find the temptation irresistible.”

  “Someone did,” John Crespo said. “Your son.”

  “Thank you, Captain Queeg,” Victoria sighed, wondering if they would get the Caine Mutiny reference. “Where are your comfort balls?”

  “You have a filthy mouth, Victoria,” Helen Crespo sneered.

  “Not those balls, Helen,” Victoria replied.

  “I’ll show you balls, Victoria,” John Crespo said, raising his voice for the first time. Obviously, the reference had touched a hot button. “You asked what would satisfy us. I’ll tell you what. Expulsion, that’s what. Nothing short of that.”

  Unable to remain seated, Victoria stood up.

  “Do you people really want a settlement of this issue?” In her mind, she was back in her office now across from City Hall in Manhattan in
full ball-busting mode. “That’s not a settlement. That’s a demand. You want court. I’ll give you court up the gazoo. I am a lawyer admitted to the bar in the state of New York. For my child, I will fight to the death.”

  Victoria could see by the sodden expressions on the face of the Crespos that her strident attitude of intimidation had found its mark. It surprised her to discover how easily her old aggressive posture had erupted after so long in hibernation.

  “We’re not used to this kind of treatment, Victoria, we….” Helen Crespo began. Victoria could tell the woman was winding up for a stream-of-consciousness assault. She looked at her watch.

  “I’m sorry. I have to leave, please forgive me.”

  With that, she nodded her good-byes, then turned on her heels and walked swiftly out of the office, a ploy often used in her practice to humiliate potential litigants and give them time to reflect.

  ***

  Back in her car, heading back to the ballet school, she felt energized to the point of explosion. She needed to vent and dialed Josh’s cell phone. She couldn’t get through. For some reason lately he had either neglected to charge the battery or had forgotten to turn it on. Frustrated, she opted against leaving a message through his office voice mail. She was too hyper at the moment for the nightmare of press one, press two, and press three routines. Instead, with a mixture of hope, dread, and anxiety, she called her mother in Ft. Lauderdale.

  “As long as you truly believe he’s telling the truth,” her mother said after Victoria had reiterated the events. Her mother’s voice held its usual combination of cynicism and arrogance. Time and her own life’s experiences had, Victoria wanted to believe, eroded her mother’s influence on her. Knowing her mother’s advice was tainted with bitterness over her own failed marriage, she was, as always, wary but combative.

  It had been a lifelong struggle for Victoria to find the right balance between tolerance, guilt, and understanding. It was hard not to respect her mother’s strength and independence and the awesome sacrifices she had made on her behalf. Victoria considered their relationship terribly complicated, even maddening, but miraculously enduring.