Custody (22 page)

“You look beautiful, Anne,” Randall said as they sat. And she did. She always did.

“Thank you.”

The waiter arrived to take their drink order.

“Our reservation’s at eight-thirty,” Randall said.

“That’s fine.” She smoothed her dress over her lap, touched the pearl earring on her right ear, on her left, then the pearls at her throat.

“How’s Tessa? I haven’t had a chance to phone her yet today.”

“She’s well. Carmen’s with her.”

“She seems to like camp.”

“Yes. Though she returns home terribly grubby. I can’t imagine what they do there.”

Randall smiled gently. “It’s a
camp
, Anne. They’re supposed to get grubby. That’s the
point
of camp—tennis, swimming, baseball, hiking. Seeing the great outdoors.”

“I’ve always considered camp more of a boys’ thing.”

“Yes, I know you have. And I’m grateful that you allowed Tessa to go to camp this summer.”

“I thought our agreement was that I would allow Tessa to attend camp if you kept her off your father’s horses.”

“That’s what
you
said, Anne. I never promised that.”

She went silent, turning her head away, as the waiter brought their drinks, a Scotch for him, a martini for her.

As Anne took a delicate sip, she saw a spot on her skirt and rubbed at it with her thumb. “We need to talk about Tessa.”

“All right.”

She took another sip of the icy liquor and aimed a level gaze at Randall. “I don’t want you to fight me for custody.”

“Of course you don’t, Anne. I know that.”

She leaned forward. “You don’t understand. I’m
serious
.”

“And so am I. I believe Tessa would be better off living with me, and I’m going to fight for that.”

“You’re trying to destroy my political career.”

“This has nothing to do with your political career, except that I believe it will take up more of your time, as it should, and that will affect Tessa.”

“Think, Randall. Just
think
, will you? How will people regard me when they find out I’m divorced and don’t even have custody of my daughter? You know what will happen.” Angry tears glittered in her eyes. “I can’t believe you would be so vindictive.”

Randall waited while Anne finished her martini. He ordered another for her and sat in silence while she composed herself. She looked down, away from him, at her skirt, where the spot still tugged at her thumb.

“I’m not sure we should get into all this here,” he said at last.

She glared at him. “Are you suggesting I have something to hide?”

“No, Anne. No, I’m not.” He tried to keep his voice civil. “Anne, please understand. I
want
you to win this election. I think you would be an excellent representative, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you spent the rest of your life in public government. You’re good at it. You’re
genuinely concerned, hardworking, judicious—I only wish there were more people like you.”

“Thank you.” Her hand trembled as she lifted her martini to her mouth.

“But the personal qualities that make for a fine government official aren’t necessarily the same qualities that make for a good mother.”

“How dare you imply—!”

“Stop it, Anne.” He kept his voice low but firm. “I’m not
implying
anything. I have no wish to insult you in any way, but I’m worried about Tessa. Very worried, if you want to know.”

“Tessa is just fine.”

“No, she is not. She’s terribly thin, and she’s becoming more and more withdrawn and secretive.”

Anne snorted. “She’s a teenager.”

“She’s twelve years old—”

Anne leaned forward, indignant. “How dare you correct me! Don’t you think I know to the minute the child’s age?”

“Anne—”

“The point is that she’s
emotionally
a teenager. Of course she’s going to withdraw and be secretive. It would be odd if she didn’t.”

“Very well, then. With whom is she
not
withdrawn? In whom is she confiding? Not you, not me. Certainly not Carmen, who is your confidante. Does she talk with other kids on the phone? Go to other kids’ houses? To movies with them? Shopping at malls?”

“Yes, of course she does.”

“Really? How often? Once a week? Twice?”

“She sees plenty of peers at camp.”

“What about her friends from school?”

“She knows she can invite them to our house.”

“Does she go to their houses?”

Anne shrugged and finished her drink. The spot on her skirt was making her wild; she rubbed and rubbed at it.

“When was the last time Tessa went to a friend’s house?”

Anne straightened. Leveling a vexed gaze at Randall, she said, “I refuse to be interrogated like this.”

“I’m asking you a simple question about our daughter.”

Anne looked at her glass. It was empty. She rubbed the spot on her dress. “You know
how I feel about Tessa going to other people’s houses. They let her eat rubbish there, all kinds of disgusting junk food, and they watch the very worst television shows. Have you ever seen
The Simpsons
? Or some of the videos on MTV?” Her voice took on the quality of righteousness that served her well as a politician. “That’s not even taking into account the kinds of movies her friends are allowed to watch, or the magazines they’re allowed to bring into their homes. Some of them have older brothers, so older boys hang around, with God only knows what in mind for innocent girls like Tessa. Saying who knows what to her.
Touching
her. There’s so much filth in homes these days, Randall, you know that. When I think of Tessa having to use the toilet in a home where teenage boys are allowed—” With enormous self-control, she brought herself to a halt.

“My dear Anne,” Randall said sadly. “You promised me you would see someone.”

Coldly, she retorted: “I changed my mind. I don’t need a therapist, and it would be the kiss of death if my constituents knew I was seeing one. Besides, I don’t agree with you. I don’t need any kind of psychological help. Perhaps I’m more strict a mother than others, but that’s hardly a sign of mental instability.”

“Anne,” Randall said very quietly. “Look at your hand.”

Her eyes flashed to her lap where she was rubbing,
rubbing
at the invisible spot. She clutched her right hand with her left, halting its frenetic action.

“If I am exhibiting symptoms of anxiety, Randall,” Anne stated very decisively, “it is completely understandable. You are leaving me, divorcing me, and now you want to take my child away as well. Of course I’m anxious.”

“Anne—”

“And you
know
how to help me. You can stop telling me how to mother Tessa. And you could come home. I’ve told you I’m willing to try to work things out.”

Randall studied the beautiful woman sitting across from him. “Are you willing to try making love?”

She shuddered. She could not help it or hide it, she shuddered with revulsion. “All this isn’t about Tessa. It’s just about sex. About you and your sexual needs.”

Randall leaned forward. “Anne. Please, for God’s sake, see a psychiatrist.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Anne announced. She rose.

“Anne, please don’t walk out.”

“I have nothing more to say to you.”

Randall rose as well. “Then we’ll have to leave it all to our lawyers.”

Her gaze whipped his face. “Don’t threaten me.”

“I’m not threatening. I’m merely stating a fact. If we can’t come to some kind of—”

“Anne, darling! And Randall!”

A grand dame dripping with pearls swayed across the room, her portly husband in her wake. She embraced both the Madisons, who put appropriate social expressions on their faces and made the necessary small talk until the couple sailed away toward the dining room.

“Stay for dinner,” Randall urged Anne as the couple walked away. “We have a reservation.”

“I have nothing more to say to you, Randall,” Anne said, and walked away, back straight, head high.

Kelly’s second week of training took place in Berkshire County, in the western Massachusetts town of Pittsfield. Sunday night she made the three-hour drive across the state to set up quarters for the week in a Holiday Inn. Monday morning she arrived early at the courthouse in the middle of the town’s business district.

The probate judge here was a man, as different from Judge Spriggs as night from day: Judge Samuel Flynn, a colorful American flag of a character with blue eyes, a red nose, and a white beard.

“Good morning, Judge MacLeod!” he boomed when she entered his chambers.

“Good morning, Judge.”

Jovial and energetic, Judge Flynn introduced her to the clerks, the secretaries, and as he held her robe for her to slip her arms into, told her, “Don’t worry yourself about what you’re going to have to do today. You’ll be a bit like a body at an Irish wake. We need you to have the party, but we don’t expect you to say much.”

Laughing himself into a coughing fit, he wiped his whiskers with a starched handkerchief and, without further ado, clapped his hands together loudly.

“All right! Let’s go, darlin’. Out to the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”

Opening the door, he led her into his courtroom. They settled in their chairs. His clerk handed him some papers. Like many judges with a backlog, he managed to sign the papers his clerk put in front of him and at the same time converse about something completely different.

Finally he put down his pen, blew into his whiskers, and looked out at the courtroom. “Okay, counselors. I see we’ve got a complaint for contempt. Mary Berrie and Douglas Berrie. Come on up.”

The Berries approached, each with a lawyer, the lawyers standing in the middle forming a barricade between the two people. All four gathered up near the witness stand.

“What’s going on?” Flynn asked.

“Good morning, Judge. I’m Marshall Merrill, representing Mrs. Berrie. She and Mr. Berrie were granted a divorce six months ago. Since then we’ve had to come back to court twice, first to have the court issue a restraining order, and next to ask the court to remind Mr. Berrie that he must obey this order.”

The judge glared at the ex-husband, a mild little man with illusions of a mustache. “Okay, Mr. Berrie, tell me about it.”

“It was a birthday card, Your Honor! That’s all! I only sent her a birthday card!”

“Yeah, well, look at it, Judge!” Mrs. Berrie, short, fat, pale, and not particularly clean, trembled with indignation. She thrust something toward the judge. The clerk took it from her, looked at it, and handed it to Flynn. Flynn looked at it and passed it to Kelly.

“She got no sense of humor,” Mr. Berrie said.

On the front of the card was the grim reaper, wringing his hands in anticipation. Inside, the greeting read, “Another year closer. Happy Birthday.” It was signed, “With my enduring thoughts, Dougie.” Kelly shivered. The subtext was definitely threatening.

Judge Flynn blew through his snowy white whiskers. “Mrs. Berrie, if you get any more mail from your ex-husband, don’t read it, just tear up it and toss it in the trash, okay? And Mr. Berrie, don’t send any more mail to your ex-wife. No birthday cards, no Christmas cards, no get-well wishes, nothing—do I make myself clear?”

Mrs. Berrie’s lawyer spoke up. “Judge, this is the second time Mr. Berrie has violated the restraining order. We were hoping for a more forceful action, perhaps some jail time or a fine—”

“Forget it. You’re not going to get it. Okay, what’s next?”

The couple walked off. Judge Flynn devoted his attention to another stack of papers. Kelly had no idea how he did it, but while his eyes were on a file, he saw, at the back of the courtroom, Mr. Berrie approach Mrs. Berrie with an object in his hand.

“Hey!” Judge Flynn yelled. “Mr. Berrie! What are you doing?”

The little man jumped a foot. “I, uh, I’m just giving her a present.”

“Get back up here,” Judge Flynn ordered.

The two Berries and their lawyers once more approached the bench.

“Do you want to go to jail?” Judge Flynn asked Mr. Berrie.

“Your Honor, it’s a piece of jewelry. It’s a charm. You see, every time we come to court, I give her a charm for her bracelet.”

“I don’t want his charms!” Mrs. Berrie said. “I want to start my life over without him!”

Judge Flynn blew through his whiskers. “Mr. Berrie. I don’t want to put you in jail. So would you please listen to me? I want you to keep away from Mrs. Berrie. I don’t want you to send her something, or give her anything, or phone her or mail anything to her. I want you to wait in the courtroom today until Mrs. Berrie leaves. If you’re shopping in the grocery store and you see her coming down the aisle, I want you to go in the other direction. Are you getting the picture?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Berrie said eagerly, like a good schoolboy.

“Counselor,” Judge Flynn said to Mr. Berrie’s lawyer. “Will you please spend some time explaining all the ramifications of a restraining order?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, for God’s sake.” Judge Flynn waved them away.

“Can I give her the charm now?” the little man asked.