Breach of Promise (27 page)

I did keep telling myself that. Over and over, for the next several days.
I told myself that at Josephina’s. I told Roland.
God was going to get me through this, because I was in the

right. God was going to overrule the judge. I’d wait them all out, Paula and Troncatti and the judge—and Maddie, too. I’d earn her trust back, one visit at a time.

She’d have to remember the good times. The moon dance. The buried treasure. You couldn’t just rip those out of a child’s head, if that’s what they were trying to do.

Even though a little voice, sounding like Linda Blair in
The Exorcist,
kept suggesting they could, oh they could. Day after day they could feed her whatever line they wanted about me and the acid of that would coat Maddie’s mind, burning away all of the good things.

It was enough to drive a guy with an anger problem into kicking a baby seal. What kept me sane was knowing that a visit with Maddie would be coming soon.

Meanwhile, my only job was to keep it together, check in with my group, show the court proof of attendance and all that.
Ruff ruff
See Mark jump. See Mark jump through hoops.

“Daddy , I can’t sleep.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I miss Mommy.”
“So do I.”
“I’m scared for her.”
“Scared?”
“What if she falls in the ocean?”
“She won’t. And even if she does, she’ll have a floatie.” “How do you know?”
“Because Mommy’s smart, like you, and she’ll think of that.” “You’re smart, aren’t you, Daddy?”
“Sure I am. I’m smart enough to be your daddy, aren’t I?” “Then if you’re smart, tell me how to go to sleep.” “You crawl right up here with me. I’ll sing to you until you

sleep.”
“Please don’t sing, Daddy.”
“All right, no singing. What would you like me to do?” “Just be with me.”

The day before the monitored visit I went to Ralph’s and bought a bag of chocolate chips and all the ingredients needed to make cookies—butter, flour, eggs. I could have snagged Pillsbury premade dough and slapped them on a cookie sheet (which I also bought at the store), but that would have been cheating. In my mind at least.

I wanted to make these cookies from scratch, for Maddie, to be able to tell her I did it all by myself—what she used to say when she first tied her shoes or did her own braids.

No one will mistake me for some guy on the Food Network, but I whipped up some pretty good dough. I ate a couple of scoopfuls myself, and it tasted right. I preheated the oven, following the directions on the bag of chocolate chips, and spooned out the dough on to the sheet.

The first batch came out smelling as sweet as you please, a party in my nostrils. I couldn’t wait and picked up one of the warm beauties before it was cool enough, and put the sloggy thing in my mouth, chasing it with milk. Heaven.

I made another batch, let them cool. I poured another glass of milk and had about six of them. Then I put the rest in a big baggie and secured it with a twist tie.
I was ready to meet my daughter.
But not ready to sleep.
I just couldn’t, so I paced around the apartment, TV infomercials softly playing in the background. At various times I could have been a real estate millionaire, sculpted my body using a machine made mostly of rubber, become a master chicken chef with the touch of a button, or emerged wrinkle free after subjecting myself to weeks of some new goop from Sweden.

None of that appealed to me. Instead, I tried to appeal to God. I tried to pray, but the words kept failing me. My mind was all over. I think I know what it must be like to be in a cell in solitary confinement.

I needed help and knew who to call.
“Hi, Nikki.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Mark?” “Sorry it’s late.”
“That’s okay. Is everything all right?”
“I’m going to see my daughter tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic. So does that mean you have—” “It’s a monitored visit. I’m still on notice with the court. There’s

“What is it?” Her voice was full of concern. I wanted to be with her. It was good I wasn’t.
“I think Paula and Troncatti are getting into Maddie’s head.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but the last time Maddie was so different. I’ve heard stories about parents who try to turn their children against the spouse they’re divorcing. When a kid is Maddie’s age, it’s easy, I understand. I need Maddie to see that I’m the same father she once couldn’t get enough of.”
“Of course I’ll pray.”
I didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. “I don’t have many friends left in this town.”
“You have a family. Here at church.”
Family. Was that even possible?
“Thanks,” I said.
“Try to get some sleep,” Nikki said.
Fat chance.
When I got off the phone I went out on the balcony. The moon was almost full and I could feel the memory of Maddie in my arms. And I just looked up at the sky, and in my head some words flashed.
Okay, God, I don’t want to be a star. I want Maddie. I want to be part of her life. I don’t know why you let the Troncattis of the world have all the success and never take them down. I don’t care anymore. I don’t know why you took Paula away. I know I’m not supposed to hate anybody, but I do. But I’ll give that all up if you’ll just get me back with Maddie. Just please, please, give me my daughter back, and let her remember the way things were and make her want to be with me, God. Is that a deal? Just make it happen. Please, please, please.

Seeing Renard J. Harper again was like a family reunion. He greeted me with a warm handshake and a smile. Called me Mr. Gillen.

“Better’n most, not as good as some,” Harper said. “How you been?”
“Model citizen, baby.”
Harper laughed, the way a friend does when he wants to encourage you. We were in the parking lot at Woodley Park, where they have a man-made lake and ducks. Maddie loved ducks.
I was anxious to tell Harper what I’d been up to. “Been doing anger management, cleaning up my act. No driving wild. No smashing bottles.”
“All right!”
“I mean, you’ve got to look at the positive, right?”
“Always.”
“And that’s what I’m doing. I know it’s not going to be easy, but I’m doing it for Maddie.”
“That’s the way.”
“Going to let her take it slow with me, I won’t force anything. Just sit and listen. Won’t even say anything if that’s the way she wants it. Just being with her, that’s the first step, right?”
“You’re gonna be all right, man. I know it.”
I showed him the bag of chocolate chip cookies I’d made. Opened it up so he could smell them.
“Take one,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Come on. See if I passed the test.”
He smiled, took a cookie. A moment after the bite he nodded his approval. “Good job. Oh yes. My mama used to bake all the time. Cookies. Cakes. That’s why I’m in such good shape.” He patted his tummy, which was round in a comforting sort of way.
There was a little bit of wind today, making tiny whitecaps on the lake. A couple of paddleboats were out there. And the ducks, of course. Maddie and I would crumble up a cookie or two and feed them. Real duckie treats.
We took a bench near the parking lot. “You think it’ll be better this time?” I said. He wouldn’t know, but I had to hear somebody say it. I was so nervous my hands were shaking.
“I’m sure it’ll be,” Renard J. Harper said. “All you have to do is relax.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“Take a deep breath. Think about happier times.” “When were those?” I said with a laugh.
“Oh, I can remember.” Harper smiled. “Radio days. Back before rock took over everything. I remember my mom listening to the radio, and the DJs saying simple things like, ‘Here’s Nat King Cole singing “Stardust.”’ And then you’d hear Nat King Cole, and then the DJ’d say, ‘That was Nat King Cole and that great old number, “Stardust.”’ You’re too young to remember.”
“I’ve heard of Nat King Cole,” I protested.
“You had real groups back then, too. Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Sally Jesse and the Raphaels—”
“Sally Jesse . . . you’re messing with me!”
“Just wanted to see if you were listening.”
And I was, and I wanted to kiss Renard J. Harper. He was playing with me, helping me forget my nerves, setting me at ease. The guy was a saint. He even sang me a little more of his country song, “You’d Be So Nice to Slide Home To.”
When I looked at my watch, I was surprised to see twenty minutes had passed. It was now 11:40. Maddie was ten minutes late.
“What happens if she doesn’t come?” I said.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be here. If they don’t bring her, that’ll look bad. You haven’t done a thing, and I can see what it’s doing to you. Just relax.”
But I couldn’t. I kept fiddling with the twist tie on the bag of cookies.
“Tell me about your acting,” Harper said.
“I don’t think acting’s for me anymore,” I said.
“No way.”
“Yeah.”
“What makes you say that?”
I shrugged. “The business, I guess. So much of it now is based on plugging in the right look. There’s not much respect for acting anymore. I mean, actors who wanted to make it in Hollywood used to go to New York and train on the stage. Or the studio would make them take acting lessons. Now some guy who looks like he had his jaw cut for Mount Rushmore walks off a soap and into the movies because he’s got some fan base made up of teenage girls.”
“Not like you have an opinion or anything.”
“Did I run off at the mouth there?”
“I like a man with opinions.”
“Funny, when I was first with Paula, she said the same thing.” I stopped a second, feeling transported. “I told her the same thing about acting and she agreed, and we used to talk about doing some stage work together, but of course realized there’s no money in that. Pretty soon, it always comes down to money. And now she’s got it.”
The wind was all I heard for a long moment. Then I looked at my watch.
“Could be traffic,” Harper said.
But the knot in my stomach was telling me it wasn’t traffic. It was telling me Maddie wasn’t going to be here. Period.
It was at 11:55 that Harper gave in. He took out his cell phone
and made a call. I couldn’t listen to that. I walked to the edge of the lake and started tossing a few cookie crumbs to the ducks. I became instantly popular. There was so much delighted quacking I didn’t hear Harper walk up to me.
When I turned around and saw his face my soul dropped.
“Bad news,” he said.

Alex’s receptionist looked at me, eyes wide, and said, “She’s with someone. If you can call—”
“Get her,” I said. “Now.”
The poor girl must have thought I was strapped with a bomb or something. She looked at me that way, got up, and sort of backed into Alex’s office.
A moment later Alex herself came out, took one look at me, didn’t say a word. She went back into her office and walked out a middle-aged woman who seemed confused but understanding.
“I’ll call you with the details,” Alex told the woman, who gave me a look before she went out the door. I could only wonder what she thought.
“Come in,” Alex told me.
The moment I stepped in the office I couldn’t stop shuddering—shaking wildly like a man caught in the Arctic in his underwear. The rage was so intense behind my eyes I couldn’t focus. For a moment I couldn’t even speak.
“I got a call from Jennings,” she said.
“What—”
“Please have a seat, Mark.”
“No way.”
“Are you going to just stand there?”
“No, I might walk around a little.”
“I know what you must be feeling, believe me.”
“I don’t think you do, Alex. I was sitting there waiting for Maddie. Waiting for her with all the ducks. You know what happened? I stepped in duck doo. It was perfect. I was standing there rubbing my shoe on the grass as Harper tells me they’re not coming. They’re not going to let me see Maddie anymore. They think they can pull this—”
“Mark, please—”
“I’m sick of this! What are they trying to do?”
“Wear you down.”
Yes. Exactly. The words rang true. Wear me down emotionally and financially. They were certainly doing a great job.
“What can I do?” I said. “I’m running out of money to pay you, Alex, and I’m not going to be able to afford you from my tips.”
“Don’t worry about money. I can still petition the court.”
“Petition?”
“They may award reasonable attorney’s fees.”
“And may not?”
“Maybe.”
“I can’t ask you to take that risk.”
“Forget that for now.” There was something in Alex’s eyes that told me she was not being completely level with me. Not that she was deceptive, just not willing to give me the whole nine yards.
“Alex, what’s going on? Did Jennings tell you—”
“Why don’t we schedule a hearing date, then you and I can—”
“What aren’t you telling me?” I hit the edge of her desk with my fist. It hurt but the pain didn’t matter to me.
“If you sit down, I’ll tell you.”
The words were ominous in her mouth, like an executioner taking an order for a last meal. I threw myself into a chair.
Alex paused a moment and took a breath. “You’ve got to understand something, Mark. This happens in more cases than I care to think about. Most often it’s a desperate lie.”
“What is?”
“Paula is accusing you of sexually molesting your daughter.”

There’s a long stretch of asphalt in the rural part of Orange County called the Ortega Highway. It meanders along an old Indian trail, past dark green oaks and golden grasslands, up into the Santa Ana Mountains where you can still glimpse the occasional mountain lion or a red-tailed hawk circling around in the sky. As the highway climbs up into the hills you have rock walls on one side and steep canyon drop-offs on the other.

It’s a narrow snake of road, and some say it’s the most dangerous road in the state of California. Sections of it have catchy nicknames like Dead Man’s Curve, Ricochet Rim, and Blood Alley.

Alex told me this was a desperate ploy, this sexual molestation charge. That it wouldn’t hold up, that we had remedies. But I no longer believed her. I no longer believed anything. If you couldn’t trust God, if you could pray and not get anything in return, how could you trust a lawyer?

I drove. I had to drive, and I was drawn to the road where there are more accidents every year. It’s one of only two main arteries connecting homes in Riverside County with jobs in Orange County, so the highway lures more and more lunatic commuters every year. They speed, drift over the center line, pass illegally—even on blind curves—to advance their place in the string of cars, trucks, and big rigs.