The Pieces We Keep (19 page)

 

T
he water feature in the corner, a huge sheet of glass atop smooth white stones, was surely meant to relax clients but only added to Audra’s frustration. She needed to be sharp and clearheaded, and the sounds of a gentle brook were causing her eyelids to droop. Though she was growing accustomed to fractured nights of sleep, the court summons from yesterday had left her tossing and turning until morning. Now, during waking hours, her body wanted to doze.

Go figure.

She kept herself awake by picking at a thread on the black leather couch. With checkered pillows and an amoeba-shaped table, the waiting area looked more like an LA nightclub than a legal firm in Portland.

At the reception desk, a twenty-something gal with large hoop earrings answered the phone with a long string of surnames. She was transferring the call when Russ Graniello appeared in a charcoal-gray suit. He wore his black hair neatly slicked to frame his olive complexion.

“Good morning,” he said to Audra. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Oh, gosh, not at all. I appreciate you squeezing me in so fast.” She grabbed her purse and stood, expecting a friendly hug. It had become their usual greeting after sharing potlucks and birthdays and more than one off-key duet of “Islands in the Stream.”

Instead, he offered a handshake.

“Come this way.” He guided her down the hall and into his office.

The room was smaller than she had imagined for a nice-sized firm. Aside from a few file folders and a single lawbook, his desk appeared too tidy for an attorney. Not one who rolled up his sleeves, anyway, and dug deep into his cases.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, and lowered himself into his tufted rolling chair. As he flipped through a folder, Audra sat down, now fully alert.

From conferences with the school principal to sessions with Dr. Shaw, these scrutinizing reviews had become regrettably familiar.

Russ began to pen notes on the documents she had faxed over the night before.

On the lateral file cabinet by the window was a framed photo of his family, exuding love and smiles. A stark reminder of what Audra stood to lose. She had dressed in tan slacks and an emerald V-neck, wanting to look nice for this meeting, but wondered if a suit would have been wiser.

“So, it appears,” he said, “that your in-laws’ primary grounds for seeking custody are based on suspicions of abuse.”

She would have presumed his inflection on abuse would communicate even a hint of incredulity. Yet from his tone, he could have substituted a thousand trivial words—
stone
,
bowl, log
—and they would have conveyed equal emotion.

“I love my son more than anything. I’d never in a million years try to hurt him.”

“Of course,” Russ said assuredly, but proceeded in work mode. “Now—just so I understand the whole situation—have Robert and Meredith ever addressed their concerns with you?”

“No,” she insisted. “They never said anything about filing a petition. Ever.”

“Sure, that’s not surprising. But what about the issues they’ve outlined? Jack’s injuries, his reclusive nature, and so forth.”

“Well . . . I suppose some of it. They brought up the bruises on his wrists once. But I told Meredith, those were from Jack’s struggle on the airplane.” Audra wasn’t sure how much Russ knew about the flight. “You see, he panicked a bit during takeoff ... but I thought he’d enjoy flying, because he’s always loved planes—”

Russ gently interjected, “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I’m aware of the incident.”

Audra sat back and nodded.

“What about your son’s birthday barbecue? Did they ever ask you about the bruises they noticed at that point?”

Audra recalled the distinct change in mood, after she’d returned from her car with Jack’s gifts. She had assumed Devon’s absence was the cause, unaware—until the petition—that Jack’s sleeves had slid up just enough to expose his marks.

“Meredith did say something while we were doing the dishes. She made a comment about it looking like Jack was still having nightmares. But that’s it.” Once more, Audra wasn’t clear how informed Russ was on the topic. “Tess might have told you, but Jack suffers from night terrors. They can be extremely violent.
That’s
the reason his room was in shambles when Meredith saw it.” Contrary to the woman’s allegation. “Sometimes I even have to hold him down to keep him from hurting himself.”

“Like the fracture to his arm?”

“Yes. Like his arm.”

This seemed sufficient enough to move on from the cast issue. But then Russ asked, “Do you know why your in-laws think alcohol was involved?”

Alcohol. The merlot she had spilled before taking Jack to the ER.

“I’d fallen asleep on the couch, holding a glass of wine. I was still wearing the stained shirt the next morning when they saw me. I hadn’t even taken a sip of it.”

“So, you didn’t pass out from inebriation.”

“God, no,” she said. “I don’t drink.”

Of course, if taken literally, the statement would be viewed as false; over the years, Russ himself had seen her enjoy margaritas and martinis firsthand. “What I meant was, I don’t have a drinking problem.”

Fabulous. Now she sounded like an alcoholic in denial. She tried again.

“Jack and I had been in the ER through most of the night. Otherwise, I would’ve been showered and dressed long before Meredith and Robert showed up.”

Russ nodded while writing down more. “This was on Memorial Day weekend, correct?”

At last, a simple objective question. “Yes.”

He proceeded to locate the pertinent section. “It says here you tried to cancel their preplanned outing with Jack, just before they discovered he’d wet the bed. Is any of that right?”

In her short time with the petition, she had already memorized each claim. As indications of abuse, Robert and Meredith had cited age-inappropriate urination, his sudden interest in violence, and the physical outburst at school. Supposedly, at the Rose Festival, his running away from Audra was another telling sign. Either that or a direct result of her dictatorship. Not only had she banned her son from “normal and healthy” children’s activities, she’d robbed him of any positive spiritual influence and made a concerted effort to erase Devon from his memory.

Was it any wonder that reading this heinous list had caused Audra to drive straight to their house to confront them in person?

Unlike then, however, she would now control her tone. “Jack just drank too much juice in the ER. Before then, he hadn’t had an accident since he was little. As far as me almost canceling on them, I was worried Jack would be too tired after such a long night. I was actually
trying
to be a good mother.”

She wanted Russ to chime in, to contend that any judge would agree she was exactly that. But he merely nodded while taking more notes.

“I also see here,” he said, “that your in-laws feel you’ve been attempting to distance them from Jack. Not just with phone calls and visits, but also moving cross-country.”

The accusation was almost as appalling as the other ones!

“Our move has
nothing
to do with them.” Her brusqueness raised Russ’s head. She returned to calm reasoning. “Since Devon’s death, Jack and I have been through a lot. We just need to start a new life somewhere else—for us.”

No question, she had made mistakes. But when it came to this case, there was only one crime to which Audra would admit her guilt: confiding too much in a couple she believed she could trust.

“I’d like to add, the only reason I ever told Meredith so much is because I was trying to keep her in, not out, of Jack’s life. I actually wanted her advice about his nightmares and his interest in ... military ... things.”

Russ suddenly turned to the next page. “I assume you’re referring to the reincarnation issue? Your theory that in another life Jack died in a World War Two accident.”

“Yes—no. It wasn’t
my
theory. It was just a theory.”

She cringed as the words tumbled out. Were these seriously the best arguments she could formulate? Keep this up and a custody battle would lead to a commitment hearing.

“Please, Russ, believe me. I am not delusional.”

He responded with an unreadable smile. After all, crazy people never accepted they were crazy. A second case of denial.

Audra unclenched her hands and folded them in her lap, an attempt to resemble the rational client who would accompany him into court.

If he took the case.

After a quiet beat, Russ set down his pen and steepled his fingers. His voice reclaimed a touch of the warmth she recognized. “Rest assured, Audra—regardless of these claims—taking a child away from his or her biological mother is exceptionally difficult in Oregon. You don’t have to be a good mother to keep your son, just not a blatantly abusive one. Frankly, a crack whore can maintain custody, so long as she doesn’t shoot up in front of her kids at the breakfast table.”

The example, lumping her in with an addicted prostitute, didn’t exactly boost Audra’s confidence.

“What’s more,” he added, “grandparents in particular are hardly ever awarded custody.”

“You’re saying it does happen though.” An important point to clarify.

“On occasion,” he admitted, “yes. But it’s remarkably rare.”

Rare. The adjective grated her nerves raw. She had grown well acquainted with the word even before losing Devon. She’d often used it herself when informing clients of the unlikelihood that the worst would befall their pet—only to later diagnose a fatal infection, second tumor, or failing organ that couldn’t be saved.

Rare,
for Audra, couldn’t hold a thimble of water.

“So, how long do cases like this usually take?” she asked, turning to the pragmatic.

“That depends. A few months after the initial filing, the courts frequently start with what they call a ‘housekeeping’ hearing.”

“And what is that?”

“That’s where the judge tries to get a gist of how long the evidentiary hearing will last. It’s also a chance to sway both parties toward a settlement. This is assuming the petitioners are serious enough to pursue the case even that far.”

That much, if nothing else, was abundantly clear. “What happens in the meantime?”

“There could be depositions scheduled. And your in-laws will probably request an evaluation of you and Jack. This would be on their own dime unless you wanted the court to appoint a psychologist, which I’d personally recommend; it could mean you’d have to split the costs, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the judge made the petitioners fully responsible.”

Evaluations. Depositions. The details swam in Audra’s head and delivered her back to her earlier question. “About how long could all of this take?”

“The standard,” he said, “is twelve months.”

She gaped, hoping she had misheard. “A whole year?” “That said, given your circumstances, I would say nine months isn’t at all out of the question.” He stated this as though he’d delivered a platter full of relief, rather than a bin of burning dollars.

Assuming he was right about her chances of maintaining custody, that still meant a large depletion of her savings. Those funds were for her and Jack to start fresh in—

Oh, no. Boston. It hadn’t dawned on her before.

“I’ve accepted a new job on the East Coast. We’re supposed to move before August.”

“I’d heard that was the plan,” he said, “and it might work out just fine. But if the case does move forward, I’m afraid you won’t be permitted to relocate until it’s over.”

Just like that, the gate leading to Audra and Jack’s future had been slammed shut. She squeezed her eyes and rubbed her temples, wishing away the entrapment.

“You know, Audra,” Russ said with a sigh, “although you might not be up for this at the moment, there
is
another option you should consider.”

With barely the energy, she lowered her hand and inclined her head.

“You could talk to your in-laws. Come to an understanding without a judge involved. Oftentimes, open and direct communication can make legal action unnecessary. Perhaps, on some issues, you could even reach a suitable compromise.”

The solution sounded so easy. A key to the gate, dangling within reach. She could picture herself grasping it.

But then a memory surfaced from Jack’s preschool days. A larger boy, to pillage a scooter in the playroom, had given Jack a hefty shove. Jack pushed back in defense. When Devon learned both kids were made to apologize, he delivered a staunch objection to the school director. Defending oneself didn’t warrant a “sorry.” Or an appeasing compromise.

The same principle applied here—even to Devon’s parents.

“I’ll talk to them,” Audra said, “when we go to court.”

 

A
t Ebbets Field, on a deceivingly pleasant Sunday, Vivian avoided conversation by looking engrossed in the game. The Yankees, in the first half of a doubleheader, had lost by a run to the Cleveland Indians and were charging back with a vengeance. She cheered and clapped on cue, all the while averting her attention from Gene.

Postponing the date had appealed to her for many a reason, but canceling at the last minute could have raised suspicion. She wanted desperately to come clean, to ask for advice. From his experience in Intelligence he could offer ideas and insight. But given her history with Isaak, asking Gene to help him seemed wrong. More than that, it would put Gene in direct conflict with his duties as an officer.

And so, all weekend she had barely slept, scarcely ate, as she racked her brain for alternatives. She had quickly ruled out her father; even if he were receptive to her plight, communicating by telegram or phone would be unwise. A letter, too, risked interception and could take months for delivery. The same obstacles prohibited her outreach to politicians; any she adequately trusted had been transferred due to war demands.

Starting tomorrow, Vivian’s eavesdropping on the switchboard would serve a new and urgent purpose: to find sympathetic contacts, preferably in the upper echelons, while sifting for any hint that Isaak’s mission had been detected.

This was the update she had penned the previous day, without mention of names, and left for Isaak in the cafe courtyard. The underside of the flowerpot had become their nightly mailbox.

He would not say where he was staying, on what means he was living, which activities filled his hours. Though he withheld these details to protect her, such maddening unknowns nibbled at her like moths upon wool.

“Vivian.” Gene’s voice snapped her to the present. He seemed to be repeating himself.

“Yes?”

“Game’s over.”

It took her a moment to decipher the meaning as literal. Tiles on the scoreboard affirmed she had missed the Indians’ efforts, pummeled by the pinstripes thirteen to one. All around, the crowd was rising, shuffling up the stairs and out of the stadium, as if rushing to evacuate before an explosion.

“Sorry,” she said lightly. She went to stand, but his hand stopped her.

“I’d like us to talk first.”

Despite the gravity of his tone, she retained her smile. “Sure,” she said.

“Vivian, I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Her body stiffened in the seat. Had she been as transparent as she felt?

With the confrontation upon her, while undoubtedly inevitable, she had no inkling where to begin.

“It’s your father, isn’t it?” he said. “You’re worried about him. That’s why you’ve been so distant.”

The excuse hung between them, inviting her to latch on. Concern for her father did, in fact, line the edges of her thoughts. And yet she could not bring herself to agree.

“I just . . . have a lot on my mind, is all.”

“You can say anything to me, doll. You know that.” He spoke in such earnest, beckoning her like a winter quilt ready to wrap her in its fibers.

Ironically, it was this warmth that increased her reluctance to tell the truth. Trapping him in this awful predicament would be unfair. Nevertheless, she could not ignore the need for help. With so much at stake, she had to try.

“I’ve been worried for my father too, but, you see . . .” Any spectators were far out of earshot. “I have friends I made back in London, when I was traveling around. We struck up a correspondence. It’s a family that lives in Germany-not Nazis, mind you. As you can imagine, I’ve grown terribly nervous about their safety.”

He shifted in his seat, though his expression didn’t alter. At the absence of dismay, Vivian continued.

“It’s crucial they leave right away. They’re hoping to make it to Switzerland, but as you know, they’ll need special papers to go that far. I’ve been trying to figure out a way. There simply has to be something I can do.”

“How many are in the family?” he asked.

“Five. There’s a woman and a couple and their daughters. They’re extremely lovely people, just stuck on the wrong side of the border. They have no desire to be there any more than you or I would.”

Vivian stopped there, careful not to say too much or to push too hard. Gene gazed out at the field and nodded to the rhythm of his thoughts. A good sign.

But then the motion morphed into a shake of his head. As if to himself, he said, “I don’t know that anything can be done for them.”

Her stomach sank, although it shouldn’t have. He was only affirming what she already knew.

“All the same,” he added, “I’d be happy to find out. Give me a day or two to snoop around. See what I can come up with.”

She brightened inside, a kindling of possibility. “Oh, Gene. You’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” he said, and drew her hand to his lips. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Enduring a pinch of guilt, she smiled without a reply.

 

The next day, as Vivian connected one call after another, she did her darnedest to keep her hopes in check. Gene could certainly come back empty-handed. As for her father’s colleagues, her dismal streak had not improved. If she arrived at no other solution, Isaak could be sacrificing his family in order to surrender.

He would do that, wouldn’t he? Surrender regardless if necessary?
I can’t turn myself in until they’re safe,
he had said. But it was an emotional statement, not a resolute vow. Going through with the mission would be incomprehensible....

The blinking of her switchboard diverted her from doubt.

“Number, please,” she answered. The gentleman sounded official as he asked for a colonel’s line. “Thank you, sir.” She plugged in the corresponding cord, rang the officer, and connected the call. But before disconnecting herself, she noted Mrs. Langtree lost in her thoughts, the other operators preoccupied.

Vivian let the curtain of her hair fall forward. Hiding her hand, she covered the mouthpiece to mute sounds of the room. She listened carefully as the men traded greetings and celebratory remarks over the victory in Midway. The naval battle was sure to be a turning point, all the newspapers had raved. These men, too, concurred on this, then proceeded to chat at length about a recent night of . . . poker.

The freedom of major nations hung in the balance and these Army “brass” were reminiscing over a queen-high flush.

A flick to her ankle gave her a start, a warning from Luanne.

Vivian switched the toggle. She rushed to the next call as shoes clacked in her direction. Mrs. Langtree moved closer, ever closer, but continued on to the last operator. A new girl sought assistance with a long-distance charge, wanting to confirm she had drafted it properly.

Vivian expelled a quiet breath. The engraving from Isaak’s necklace reinforced her motivation:
The greater the risk, the greater the reward.

Mrs. Langtree was still handling the bill when an Army officer summoned her to the door. “Might I have a word with you, ma’am?”

Muscles in the woman’s neck visibly tightened, an aftereffect of a request all too similar, much too recent. She nodded and left the room.

“What the devil are you doing?” Luanne whispered to Vivian, less a question than a charge of foolishness.

“Just getting an inside scoop,” she whispered back.

Luanne rolled her eyes, though the edges of her lips lifted. It was the second time this morning she had saved Vivian from being caught. “You’d make a terrible spy, you know.”

Vivian did not disagree.

Granted, usually she would wait until Mrs. Langtree set off for the ladies’ room before listening in on a line. But today was different. In a matter of hours Vivian would be meeting Isaak. How direly she wanted to present a significant find in person. As usual, however, she needed a higher security clearance for anything of great value. She had plenty of knowledge about troops and training, weapons and bases, even tanks, planes, and ships-yet none of this would do him much good.

She glanced at her wrist, forgetting she had left her watch at home. She swiveled toward the wall clock posted by the exit and halted at the sight. Framed by the door’s window, a stern-faced officer stared directly at Vivian.

Or did it just appear that way?

Mrs. Langtree said something to the man, then pointed in Vivian’s direction.

Vivian whirled back to the switchboard, her pulse in an instant gallop. Her hands shook as she struggled to connect a call. She felt the officer’s gaze on the back of her head. It burned through her hair and seared her skull.

“Miss James?” Mrs. Langtree was now in the room.

Vivian turned her body halfway and found no clue in the woman’s eyes. “Yes, ma’am?”

“The major needs to speak with you,” she replied. “In private.”