Custody (6 page)

She’d often thought—secretly, of course—that she loved the house more than she loved her husband. And the house did seem to respond to her needs more perfectly than Randall ever had.

Something about the French Provincial house on Elm Street—its flawless proportions, high ceilings, spacious rooms—was calming to Anne, who loved, who
needed
order. Its placid cream stucco walls, square-cornered and symmetrical, provided a refuge for her, and the steep pitch of the dark green hip roof offered the illusion of a kind of convent to which she could retreat from the pressures of the cruel world. Her home was a haven in which she was the queen bee, safe at the center.

Some days it was more difficult than others to force herself from that sanctuary. She disliked leaving Tessa alone. She hated leaving her when things were unsettled between the two of them, but increasingly as Tessa grew older and more independent, things were more often than not unsettled.

Today Anne
had
to go out. The Democratic state primary election was Tuesday, September 19, and that was the election that mattered, since no Republican had won a position in Arlington for years. Anne was running against an incumbent, Marshall O’Leary, a well-loved and venerable septuagenarian who had done much good for his district and state, but who was, it was generally agreed, running out of steam. Marshall’s concerns were limited to making Arlington more pedestrian-friendly and developing bike paths; he just didn’t have the energy
these days to fight for broader issues more crucial to the Commonwealth, such as an increase in the minimum wage, or to wade into the muddy, complicated waters of health care issues.

Anne had the energy for that. She was nearly incandescent with ideas regarding health care reform, and she needed to let the constituency of Arlington know this, and soon.

Anne’s assistant, Rebecca Prentiss, had persuaded Mick Aitkins, a brilliant young videographer, to put together her campaign video, but she had to do it when he was available. Mick only yesterday informed Rebecca that he had to go off to the Cape on Monday morning to tape a series of weddings. So Rebecca had grabbed this Sunday noon appointment, even though Anne was already scheduled to attend a PR brunch at Eleanor Marks’s. Unfortunate, but it couldn’t be helped. Anne had asked Eleanor to express her regrets, and Lillian Doolittle, her campaign manager, promised to cover for her.

Mick Aitkins worked out of his home on the top floor of a two-family house on Edward Avenue. A rather bizarre-looking young man with a shaved head and a sparse goatee, Mick was slightly manic as he arranged Anne in a chair and played with the lights.

“White shirt. Not good,” he muttered.

“We’re trying to convey the idea of
nurse
,” Rebecca reminded him.

“Okay, I see, but, we’ll just …” Mumbling to himself, he adjusted this and that. Then he approached Anne. “Just here on your shirt,” he said.

“The microphone,” Rebecca interpreted.

Anne sat docilely as Mick clipped the tiny mike to her collar and ran the wire—another strand in his spider’s web of cords, wires, and cables—to the videocamera set up on a tripod.

Rebecca squatted next to Anne. “Just some powder, here.” She dabbed a sponge on Anne’s nose.

“Rouge. Cheeks.” Mick instructed.

“Got it.” Rebecca brushed blush on Anne’s face. Generally Anne disliked makeup, the film it cast over her skin, the way it seemed to be a kind of integument, available to all dust and germs floating through the air, but she understood the necessity of makeup for television ads.

“Ready,” Mick barked.

Anne leaned forward. Rebecca stood at Mick’s side, holding up cue cards, but Anne knew by heart what she wanted to say.

“Are you concerned about the health—?”

“Don’t lean forward,” Mick said.

Anne nodded and forced herself to press her spine against her chair. She began again.
“Are you concerned about the health of your parents, your children, your community, yourself? Are you tired of struggling through the indecipherable red tape of HMOs? Are you concerned about the financial health of your family? Do you care about the needs of the elderly, the health of our public schools, the lives of those unable to take care of themselves? I know I do.

“I’m Anne Madison. I am a certified registered nurse with three years’ experience at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. I have a twelve-year-old daughter, and six years’ experience on the Arlington School Committee. I serve on the Massachusetts Council Task Force on poverty, health, and nutrition.

“I’m asking you to vote for me for State Representative in the September Democratic primary. We already have a good representative, but I want to be better than good. I want to fight. I want to change things. And I will. Remember, a vote for me is a vote for health.”

“Cut,” Mick said. “That was okay, except your slogan’s pretty lame, Anne.”

“I disagree. Health is an issue—”

“Vote for Anne Madison, for the health of it,” Mick said. “That’s what you should say.”

Anne flinched. “I don’t think—”

“I do!” Rebecca exclaimed. She clapped her hands. “Mick, that’s brilliant. Anne, come on, think about it. It’s very catchy. It’s memorable.”

“It’s slightly inappropriate.”

“Not at all.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit … vulgar?”

“No, Anne, it’s brilliant. Trust me.”

“Very well.” Anne leaned back in her chair. “Do you want me to say the entire thing again?”

“No. Just the last bit. I’ll splice it.”

“Start with
Remember
,” Rebecca coached.

Anne nodded. “Remember, vote for Anne Madison, for the health of it.”

“Cut,” Mick said. “Anne. You look like you’re sucking limes.
Health
is not a bad word.
Hell
isn’t going to offend anyone. Smile when you say your last line.”

“He’s right, Anne. You need to look friendly.”

Anne nodded. “Ready?” She took a deep breath. “Remember,” she said, and smiled—

“Teeth,” Mick called.

“What?”

“Let’s see your teeth when you smile!” Rebecca added. “Think of something pleasant,
something that makes you happy.”

Anne swallowed. She used to smile at the thought of Tessa with her hair in braids tied in ribbon, rushing up to hug Anne after school, presenting her with another painting for the refrigerator. She used to smile at the thought of Randall, when they were newly married, volunteering with her to help campaign for whatever Democrat was running for president, governor, or senator, meeting for dinner to plot strategy with other like-minded people.

These days, however, the thought of her child and her estranged husband only made her heart feel heavy.

For God’s sake! Rubbing at a spot on her skirt, she thought desperately. Couldn’t anything make her smile? Rebecca and Mick waited impatiently.

Looking down, she forced herself to still her hand.
What
, she thought.
What?

Like a floodgate opening, the image came to her, and she felt the tension release her shoulders, free the rigidity of her jaw.

She imagined her study at home, at the back of her deep white house. Her desk, orderly and serene. The calendar, the clock, the letter opener, the blotter. Everything lined up precisely, perfect, obedient, attending.

She said, “Remember, vote for Anne Madison, for the health of it.” And she smiled as she spoke.

Driving home, Anne considered the week ahead of her. Every morning except Sunday she rose at five-fifteen, exercised in her basement work-out room, showered; then woke Tessa and had her breakfast of green tea, juice, and a Ry-Krisp cracker while Tessa ate her cereal.

Tomorrow morning she had a general strategy conference at seven-thirty with Rebecca and Lillian. Carmen would arrive at six-thirty to organize breakfast for the three women in the morning room. Tea, croissants, pastries. Anne would have only tea, but the other two women were always delighted to find a tray of delicacies awaiting them. They worked better that way. Carmen could also get Tessa dressed, fed, and off to her day camp while Anne showered and dressed. Thank God for Carmen.

At ten a young man was arriving to teach Anne how to build and use a computer database to list all pertinent information about her constituents. At noon, she had to leave for lunch at the
Ritz to join several members of the Democratic Party in a discussion about the upcoming presidential and senatorial elections. At three, she had—something—she couldn’t quite remember, some meeting, and then at four, she was having tea with the board she was chairing on the Working Family Agenda—

She remembered, with a jolt, what the three o’clock meeting was.

It was with the guardian
ad litem
the judge had appointed two weeks ago at the pre-trial conference. A psychiatrist. Dr. Martin Lawrence.

The supposed function of a guardian
ad litem
was to represent the best interests of the child in a custody battle.

This set Anne’s teeth on edge. How could any stranger, any man, a psychiatrist to boot, with his erudite knowledge of bizarre human eccentricities, his undoubted professional penchant for interpreting the mildest of frailties as perverted or sick, possibly interview members of a family two or three times and then make a logical, useful recommendation?

It made her ill to think of it. And it made her furious.

And worst of all was the realization that she was helpless to change anything. It was ordered by the court. It was part of the hideous process Randall was imposing on her with this senseless divorce.

She reminded herself that Addison Bemish, her lawyer, had assured her she would do just fine. Last Thursday they’d spent two hours discussing every question the psychiatrist would want to ask. And she could be charming when she needed to be. So she would be flawlessly charming.

It helped that she was not the only one forced to see him. Randall had to, and Tessa, and others in their immediate sphere: Carmen, whom Anne could count on to speak favorably about Anne, and Mont, Randall’s father, who, of course, would be on Randall’s side.

Tessa’s appointment wasn’t until next week. After Anne met this Martin Lawrence, she’d know how to approach Tessa about him, how to coach her to respond to his intrusive probing. All Tessa had to say, surely, was that she wanted to remain with her mother. And Tessa would say that, wouldn’t she? Addison had assured her that in ninety-five percent of all cases, custody was given to the mother.

Still, it was too bad all this had to happen now, when she wanted to focus on her campaign!

The brunch was being given by Eleanor Marks in the Markses’ glass-and-wood postmodern mansion hidden behind a high cedar fence on Brattle Street. Cars lined the street for blocks in all directions; they had to park on Oak and hoof it to Brattle to follow the group of women hurrying up the walk.

A woman in a maid’s uniform stood at the gate. “Just through there,” she said, gesturing toward the open front door.

Kelly and Donna joined the crowd streaming through the maze of huge sheets of glass, white plaster walls, Ionic columns, and a freestanding bronze staircase. African masks scowled down at them while bulbous fertility idols gleamed from behind glass cases. Heading toward the sound of voices, they found themselves in a jungle-green atrium around a free-form pool where clusters of women chatted, munching on the canapés served to them on silver platters.

“You’re here!” Adelaide Stein swept up to encompass them in hugs and emanations of Joy. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Before Kelly could answer, a tiny, thin, leather-skinned female tottered up to them on four-inch heels. Her head seemed disproportionately large for her body, and it was a wonder that she could stand, let alone move, so laden was she with heavy gold jewelry.

“
Judge
MacLeod! My dear!” She seized Kelly’s hand. “May I congratulate you. We’re all
so
proud of you! We’ve watched your career with such interest and we’re so excited to see, if you will, justice”—she interrupted herself to trill a laugh. “—being done!”

Kelly murmured, “Thank you.” She hated being targeted for attention like this, so quickly she turned toward Donna. “I don’t know whether or not you’ve met my friend Donna Krebs.”