Family Trust

by Amanda Brown

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, on the airplane Becca said I didn’t have to eat the chicken. Becca says airplane food is…I forgot the word.”

  Dr. Erikson gasped. “You don’t mean ‘shit,’ do you?”

  The judge’s eyes fastened on the little girl seated beneath her. Lillian Jones took a measured approach in custody cases. But there were boundaries. Four-year-olds should not hear profanity.

  “No—it began with druh.”

  Stumped, the psychologist prepared to move on.

  “Dreck,” the woman from Stearns & Fielding volunteered.

  “That’s it, dreck,” Emily clapped her hands. This was fun, like twenty questions.

  The adults in the courtroom shared a congenial laugh. Everyone but Dr. Erikson, who pressed on. “I’m sorry, Emily. I didn’t express myself very clearly.”

  “What’s ‘express’?” the child interrupted.

  Dr. Erikson paused. “I mean I didn’t say that right. Here, let me try again. Has Becca taught you anything else? Any nursery rhymes? Any songs?”

  “No. I already know those.”

  Emily began singing “Old MacDonald” until the judge stopped her with a deft compliment.

  “What a beautiful voice,” she praised Emily. “And you’ve used it quite a bit today, with all these questions. Can we bring this to a close, Gail?” she said, in a voice that directed the psychologist rather than asking her.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I have the Rorschach test, and that’s all.”

  “Any questions about the male guardian, Gail?”

  “No,” she answered. Judge Jones looked puzzled, so the psychologist explained.

  “Edward has significant income. All our research tells us that a male guardian will be sufficient based on income. It’s the maternal influence that really counts, from a psycho-social point of view.”

  “How progressive,” quipped the judge.

  “We have one more little game to play, Emily. We’re going to look together at some shapes.”

  Emily looked scared.

  “I want Becca,” she announced.

  “No, this game is not for Becca,” answered Dr. Erikson, trying to sound enthusiastic. “It’s for you!”

  Quickly, she held up the first picture. To help Emily feel better, she promised her that there were no “right answers” for this game.

  “What’s the point of it, then?” Emily asked. The judge, laughing, agreed.

  “I’m going to call a recess,” she decided. “Give our little lady here a break.”

  CHAPTER 9

  No Wrong Answers

  After the break for lunch, Edward returned to the room where earlier he and Becca had taken the parental fitness personality test. He took his seat to wait for Becca and the court-appointed psychologist to return. Refreshed by the quick walk he had taken, his spirits raised by the first chill of autumn, Edward relaxed in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and folding his arms behind his head.

  When Becca rushed into the testing room, Edward rose. The simple courtesy of standing when a lady entered the room was so ingrained in Edward that he acted automatically.

  Becca pulled the phone away from her ear.

  “What?” she flung at him. “Where are you going? Are we switching rooms?”

  Smiling, he shook his head no, and took his seat.

  “Good,” she said. “Every minute counts.”

  She ended her call quickly, then sat down and checked her watch.

  He saw her annoyance that the evaluation did not start promptly at one, as scheduled. She really ought to relax, he thought. For a minute he watched her tap her fingers on the bag in which she carried her BlackBerry. And already he could read her well enough to know she was deciding whether she would have enough time to check her e-mail.

  “I’ve never had my personality tested before,” Edward said to Becca, who turned toward him with evident surprise. “Have you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Becca answered casually. “All the time. It’s a staple at corporate retreats,” she said. “Old hat.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Well? How do they go? Do you learn anything exciting?”

  At that minute Becca’s phone rang, and she hurried to answer it.

  “Forget the CAD,” she said gruffly. “Forget the Basle standard. Even if they adopt it, they’ll never implement it. Just go forward.” She paused. “Yeah, right. In Poland and Hungary too. I’ve got to go.”

  She listened to her caller, shaking her head with frustration that increased the longer she listened. “What?” she said finally. “Forget it. I’m out!” She paused to listen, and Edward saw her nod her head yes. He smiled, thinking she had gotten what she wanted.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Exactly. It’s the only right way.”

  She hung up and noticed Edward was watching her, waiting for something.

  “The CAD is a capital adequacy directive,” she explained.

  He shrugged, uninterested. “What about your personality tests? I’m curious—I’ve never done this.”

  She laughed dismissively. “Oh, they’re all stupid, Eddie. Always come out the same. First, a totally ridiculous bunch of questions. You know, ‘do you get angry when you are kept waiting, try to do everything yourself, race through the day, get too little rest, think there is only one right way to do something, blah blah blah,’ and of course it’s all yes yes yes, and then the management consultant people freak out and say you’re in the danger zone, and you all laugh with the CEOs and see who got farthest into the danger zone, and that’s how you bond, you know? Then you go rappelling.”

  “I see,” Edward said. He stretched his arms behind his head and was overpowered by such a relaxing yawn that he forgot to cover his mouth. Even though she hadn’t seen her father the dentist in twenty years, she reflexively noticed he had no fillings. Not one. She raised her eyebrows.

  Dr. Ben Honeywell, bow-tied and prim, entered the room clucking like a hen.

  “Tsk, tsk, friends,” he said, wagging his finger.

  They looked at him without speaking.

  “I heard a phone ringing. No no no no no.” Bizarrely, he introduced them to his index finger.

  “This is Mr. No,” he said, moving the finger hypnotically, slowly to and fro. “Mr. No says ‘no telephone calls during our session.’” The effect was not nearly as mesmerizing as he had intended.

  Becca shot a glance at Edward in time to see him stifle his laugh. She laughed out loud, her shoulders shaking. For a moment she was unable to speak.

  “Who are you?” Becca finally managed. “I mean, the man behind the finger,” she added. At that she and Edward simultaneously put a hand over their mouths in badly concealed laughter, like sixth graders looking at a teacher with a KICK ME sign.

  “I’m Dr. Ben Honeywell,” he said, keeping calm by speaking softly and slowly, and reminding himself that subjects sometimes expressed their nervous apprehension through juvenile humor. “I’m your evaluating psychotherapist.”

  “I’m Becca Reinhart.” He had not offered his hand to shake—maybe he wanted Mr. No where he could keep an eye on him. “I’ll put the phone down, but keep it short, will you please?”

  “We can’t rush our mental wellness, Ms. Reinhart,” he responded in the same artificially calm voice.

  “Then don’t tell me what to do with my phone,” she replied, staring into his face.

  The doctor ignored her, diverting his eyes from her stare as he distributed copies to the subjects of their evaluated parental fitness tests. He kept the originals at his desk.

  Edward’s eyes lingered on Becca, who was rifling through her test, vainly searching for her grade. He felt a jolt of pleasure, enjoying this energetic, colorful personality that had been so abruptly introduced into his life.

  An intense woman with a smile like the Mediterranean sun, Becca’s expansive personality made her seem as if she were the only person in the room. Yet Edward could see in the first minu
te that Becca had no consciousness of her own appeal. Obsessively occupied by her work, she didn’t give herself a minute’s thought. There was something sincere and dependable about her, yet her carefree humor struck playfully at any worthy target.

  “Where’s my grade, Dr. Honeywell? Did I get an A?”

  “You may call me Dr. Ben,” he said, mainly to Becca. “And your papers weren’t graded,” he said, adding the words “per se” in air-quotes.

  Edward hadn’t even touched his paper. He closed his eyes, wondering if he could get away with a little catnap. But the doctor was in session.

  “I have deep concerns about some of your answers on this parental fitness test, Becca. We need to discuss these issues. We must connect, today, to your essential personality—the ‘why’ in Y-O-U.”

  Becca’s phone rang again. Obligingly, she turned it off. “The O in O-F-F,” she said, mimicking Dr. Ben with her air-quotes.

  Dr. Ben took her imitation as flattery, nodded at her silenced phone and clapped his hands in the air. He seemed to think he needed to speak on two levels, with words and with obvious gestures, like a mime.

  “My main concern is the large—chasm—of difference between your answers, Edward and Becca.” He sighed, spreading his hands far apart, like airplane wings. “In layman’s terms, you’re what we would call…incompatible personalities.”

  “To each his own,” Edward said simply.

  “Who did the best?” Becca asked at the same time.

  Dr. Ben frowned at Becca. “You two will need to work together as guardians of this child, and frankly, I’m not very optimistic that two people of your opposing temperaments can get along in such a challenging task.”

  Becca rolled her eyes. “What’s the bottom line, Doc?”

  Ignoring her, he turned to the questions.

  “Here’s an example,” he said, pointing to question eleven from the Agree or Disagree section. He read the question out loud.

  “When a discussion turns to the subject of my feelings, I change the subject.” He turned first to Edward. “Edward, you disagreed. So you don’t have any trouble talking about your feelings?”

  Edward gave a good-natured shrug. “No.” Actually, since he had been raised in a home where nobody expressed anything and the people he was surrounded by never talked about anything personal, the complete answer to that question was that, since Arthur’s death and his coming to terms with his instant fatherhood, he was aware of a longing to talk to someone. His brief time with Arlene Reinhart had fulfilled this feeling. But this test left no room for explanation.

  Dr. Ben’s expression showed his approval, then darkened as he turned to Becca.

  “Becca, you didn’t answer this question. Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to talk about it.”

  He shook his head sadly.

  “We had a similar problem here on number twelve: ‘It is easy for me to see things from someone else’s point of view.’ Edward, you agreed.”

  Edward nodded his head.

  “Becca, you didn’t answer this one either. Why not?”

  Becca threw her shoulders back and her chin forward, defiantly.

  “It’s vague.”

  “How is that vague?”

  “What things? Whose point of view?”

  Dr. Ben shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Why does that matter?” he asked.

  Becca gave an exasperated sigh. “It matters. End of discussion.” She looked at her watch. “Come on, Doc, we don’t have all day.”

  Dr. Ben turned the tables. “You slowed things down yourself, Becca,” he said, “by leaving so many answers blank.”

  She tossed her shoulders carelessly. “They were bad questions,” she said. “That’s not my fault.”

  Dr. Ben strongly disagreed. “Number six here is very typical. ‘My weaknesses are my own business and I hide them as much as possible.’ Your choices were ‘strongly agree, agree’—”

  “Okay,” Becca interrupted. “I remember that one. Of course I didn’t answer it. What kind of question is that?”

  Dr. Honeywell set his jaw. “The statement is perfectly understandable. So do you agree, or disagree? ‘My weaknesses are my own business—’”

  “It’s ridiculous!” Becca said, knocking her chair backward as she stood and approached the doctor, whom Edward noticed shrinking back defensively.

  “How can I respond to a statement like that?” Becca asked an imaginary audience of supporters. She began to pace across the front of the room, waving her hands in the air excitedly. “First, of all, the statement assumes I have weaknesses. I don’t buy that. Maybe I don’t have weaknesses. How would you know?” She looked into Ben’s eyes.

  He seemed small, seated under her questioning glare. But she didn’t press the point. When Dr. Ben made no answer, she returned to her seat. Instantly she began to drum her fingers on her desk, making it clear to all concerned that she had better things to do. She didn’t notice that Edward had fixed her overturned chair during her tirade.

  Dr. Ben drew a nervous breath before speaking.

  “Becca,” he said, “even those with great strength have what…what I’ll call…‘lesser strengths.’” Again, he illustrated his concept by hooking his fingers into quotation marks.

  “Well you didn’t ask the question about my ‘lesser strengths,’” she said, making her own air-quotes, “did you? And even so, what business is that of yours?”

  “I’ll just put you down here for ‘strongly agree,’” Dr. Ben said, making a mark on her test paper.

  “And I suppose Eddie ‘disagreed,’” she said in a mocking tone.

  “Yes, in fact, he did,” said Dr. Ben.

  Edward shrugged. Becca’s defiance amused him. He knew his affable nature was getting on her nerves, and he enjoyed the sensation. Edward Kirkland was known all over Manhattan as prime marriage material. He was accustomed to an unending rain of female flattery. Yet her subtle disapproval attracted him.

  He admired Becca’s graceful, proud neck that she held so confidently. Her shoulders were tight; she seemed to bear a lot of tension, and Edward imagined how a gentle massage would affect her.

  She continued to drum her fingers on the desk as Dr. Ben flipped through the test sheets for their next humiliation.

  Impatiently, she turned to look at her coguardian, wondering how he was responding to the doctor’s inquisition. Edward, who was watching Dr. Ben with a lazy smile, looked positively careless. His legs were extended in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded behind his head: He was the picture of ease and contentment. Although the chair was small for him, he seemed to have endless patience to sit in place. He might have been watching ponies run, or boats sail, or children collecting shells, judging from his relaxed poise. Becca shook her head with amazement.

  Practically the only movement she saw Edward make was to remove his hands from behind his head to massage the muscles of his neck, or to tip his chair back from time to time. He wore a dark blue polo shirt that fit him comfortably, and when his long, tanned arms hung by his sides, they were calm and motionless.

  Becca tapped and rocked in her seat, wondering what calls she had missed.

  “Okay, folks,” Dr. Ben called out, “a couple more questions here. We asked a simple question about hobbies, Becca. You drew a line through the blank space. Do you mean to tell me you have no hobbies?”

  “Bingo!”

  “None?”

  “Right again!”

  “What do you do on weekends?”

  Becca squinted at him. “I work,” she answered plainly.

  He nodded, returning her stare a bit fearfully before picking up Edward’s paper.

  “Edward,” he said, “you have an extensive list of hobbies.”

  Edward nodded. “I tried to be thorough.”

  “I was interested in the one you listed first. Dating?”

  “Sure,” Edward said, grinning. “I enjoy dating.”

  “It’s not exactly a
hobby, though, is it Edward?” prodded Dr. Ben.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, establishing…personal relationships is a serious matter. It involves emotional interaction of some significant depth.”

  “Sometimes,” Edward said, shrugging his shoulders. “Not always.” His eyes were sincere.

  Becca nodded. He had something there.

  Dr. Ben was dissatisfied. The answer was completely unorthodox. How could he evaluate that?

  “I wouldn’t put it on a list of hobbies, Edward, as if it’s a sport of some kind, like archery or swimming,” he argued.

  “Okay,” agreed Edward, “scratch it, then. But I date just about as often as I swim.”

  “How often do you swim?” wondered Becca.

  “Every day.” Edward glanced at her, smiling. She shot him a quizzical look. Who was this clown? Didn’t he work?

  “Let’s move on,” said the psychotherapist, clearing his throat. “Edward, you have some other hobbies that are a bit more…conventional.” His eyes scanned the page, and he smiled. “I should say that your list, Edward, is quite something. It’s really…” he paused, searching for the right word. “Well, it’s really long.’”

  Edward shrugged.

  “You enjoy fly-fishing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Shooting?”

  “Very much.”

  “Shooting what?” Becca asked, turning around.

  “Whatever’s in season. Dove, grouse, pheasant.”

  “You mean you’re a hunter?”

  “Sure, hunting, shooting, whatever you want to call it. The English call it shooting, and I guess I had that in mind. I’m just back from London.”

  Becca paused. She knew the CFO of the British Company, the prospective buyer was a renowned equestrienne and shooter. As Becca recalled, he headed a well-known hunting group, right outside the city. She considered; the sad imperative that forced her and Ed Kirkland to become ersatz co-parents might have fringe benefits. Perhaps she’d gain access to a social strata closed to her because of her background.

  “Dogs,” Dr. Ben was saying, “are another of your hobbies?”

  “That’s right.”