Twilight Child (30 page)

 “I'm not
punishing them. I'm teaching them never to grovel, especially to a man.”

 “That's a
terrible burden to put on female children.”

 “I'm their
mother, and it's my choice. And I'm strong, smart, healthy, independent, and
wish to remain so.”

 “Stubborn,
too,” her mother said. Her father was at a complete loss about her attitude.
“It's all that women's stuff about making it on their own,” he told Annie.

 “It's not
‘stuff.'”

 “I think it's
stupid—whatever your gender,” her father had persisted. “We're your parents,
for crying out loud. Call it a loan, then. Don't take any of it yourself. Give
it to the kids.”

 “They're my
kids.”

 “They're our
flesh and blood, too, Annie. Never forget that.”

 “That doesn't
entitle you to direct their lives. Until they're twenty-one, they're my
responsibility.”

 How could she
explain to them that Harold's death had also taught her that adversity was part
of the human experience? The point was to be able to direct your own life,
control the decision-making process as much as was humanly possible, concoct
strategies to overcome vicissitudes. Lives should have a theme, she had
reasoned. And that was hers. Every day brought further proof of the validity of
her ideas. Above all, she wanted to be a role model for her children. Hadn't
she succeeded with Laura? Why not with Peggy?

 It had been
exciting being a lawyer in a large firm. There, she had earned her spurs, but
she made no secret of the fact that she wanted to be a judge someday. Nothing
was more important than to be a judge. A judge made decisions that mattered. A
judge helped direct the course of human events. A judge had a chance to make a
difference, to be relevant.

 “Go for it,
Mom,” Laura had said. Since both girls were directly affected by her decision,
she thought she owed it to them to let them participate in making it—or, at the
least, to hear it first from her lips. Besides, she wanted the blessing and
approval of her children.

 “It just
means you'll be busier than ever,” Peggy said.

 “Doing
important work. Not just for money.”

 “I don't
think it's so important.”

 “Well, I do,
and I'll be real proud,” Laura said, throwing a rebuking glance at her sister.
Laura had always been appreciative and admiring, had understood what it all
meant, especially what it meant to be a woman alone.

 Even from the
early stages of her widowhood, when Annie began to date, Laura had been understanding
and Peggy difficult. Indeed, the fact was that Peggy's attitude toward Annie's
male friends, despite her own understanding of that attitude, was off-putting.
She was intimidating enough to men without Peggy's microscopic observations and
nagging interference. The result had been a reticence on her part that created
a wall too high for any male to scale.

 “But it's
your life,” the men would remonstrate after her inevitable and sometimes
half-baked explanations for her rejection of their more intimate overtures.
Over the years she had been to bed with only two of them, and that had been
brief and unsatisfactory.

 “I just need
more time.”

 Her problem
wasn't time at all, she knew. Rather, it was abject fear that any relationship
would push Peggy over some emotional cliff, the consequences of which weren't
worth the risk.

 Finally, she
decided to wait until Peggy was off to college before she would encourage a
resumption of her so-called romantic life. Besides, meaningful and absorbing
work could go a long way in compensating for other comforts. Or so she
convinced herself.

 But she was
flattered when men fussed over her, and she kept herself well groomed and her
figure in good shape. There were, she knew, career advantages in being a woman,
and sex appeal was still a potent tool of manipulation as far as men were
concerned. Besides, there was no way to move ahead without their support. There
was nothing cynical or deliberately manipulative in that fact, she assured
herself. Such knowledge for a woman was as necessary as nourishment.

 “And the
interim appointment is for one year,” she explained to her daughters, taking
particular pains to be especially understanding about Peggy's sullen
objections. When it pertained to her work and ambitions, Annie's life and
course of action were clearly defined, Peggy's disapproval notwithstanding. Of
course Annie wanted her support and approval. But that did not mean that she
was going to let herself be terrorized into abandoning her career. “Then I'll
have to run for office on my own.” It was an idea that she liked. Anything that
offered a challenge and a chance to prove herself was attractive to her.

 “We'll help
in the campaign,” Laura said. “Won't we, Peggy?”

 “Not me,”
Peggy had muttered. Part of the pattern, Annie had reasoned. Anything that made
her mother happy automatically made Peggy unhappy. Nevertheless, she took pains
to explain to Peggy what it would mean, sparing nothing, explaining the long
hours and the cut in pay, which meant monetary sacrifices like the car she had
promised. She had always carefully explained to Peggy why she had made various
choices. She hoped that in this way she might teach her how self-interest
governed the decision-making process and how to set priorities and goals. When
the current stage of Peggy's discontent passed, Annie was certain that these
lessons would prevail.

 “Someday
you'll have a goal, Peggy, and you will have to make sacrifices to achieve it.
Because we're women, we have to work harder, give more. I can't very well turn
down an opportunity like this. It's what I want, what I've worked for.”

 “What about
what I want?” Peggy asked. Beneath the mask of teenage arrogance, Annie had
seen the fear and vulnerability. Why can't I be her role model, she wondered?
She was puzzled. What did Peggy really want? Her father? When would she finally
surrender to the reality? When would she accept it?

 “Why can't
you say ‘Good luck, Mommy. I'm happy for you'?”

 “Because I'm
not,” Peggy had replied.

 “Maybe when
you get older, you'll understand.”

 “She'll get
over it, Mom,” Laura said.

 “She'll have
to,” Annie agreed.

 “It doesn't
matter what I think, anyhow,” Peggy had said with a smirk, as if she actually
enjoyed the prospect of continuing antagonism and confrontation. “You always
think of yourself first.”

 “You may
learn to do that as well someday. Sometimes it's called respecting yourself.”

 She had
already made up her mind about the appointment, anyhow. Nor was she going to
let herself be terrorized by a teenager.

 The Baltimore
city judicial system required its fifteen sitting judges to alternate between
types of cases. Annie had spent her first three months in criminal court,
hearing felony cases and dispensing sentences to fit the crimes. Already, she
had gained some reputation as a no-nonsense judge who played it by the book.
With an eye on the future election, she did not want to be known as either a
sob sister or a nagging judge.

 She had
enjoyed criminal court, but her colleague and sponsor, Judge Samuel Compton, a crusty
old political war-horse and acknowledged chief of the court, had suggested she
get some “domestic squabble” under her belt, an idea that she had considered
with much hesitation.

 “It's the ass
end of the business,” he told her. “We all hate it.”

 “How come?”
she had asked. Her own legal specialty had been corporate law.

 “Tears you
up. Everybody's guilty. Everybody's innocent.”

 She had only
the vaguest idea what he meant. But since she was the most junior of the
judges, she was unanimously chosen for the chore. Actually, it was Compton
himself who had been scheduled to sit, and there was little room for refusal.

 “The best way
to handle it is to stick to the precedents. Don't try to revolutionize the law.
You'll love it. It's like reading
True Confessions
.”

 “I don't read
True Confessions
.”

 “It's not
easy to maintain your distance,” he had told her.

 “It hasn't
been difficult so far to maintain professional objectivity.”

 “We'll see,”
he said smugly.

 As in the
case of similar comments made by those whose patronage she needed for career
purposes, she withheld further comment. Besides, she imagined that men would be
more impatient in the domestic arena. Play the game, she urged herself. Half
the world was men, and most of them were totally insensitive to what made a
woman tick.

 She was, she
knew, suffering from a similar communication problem with her teenage daughter.
This, too, shall pass, she assured herself as she watched Peggy across the
breakfast table. The girl had just ladled five spoons of sugar into the coffee
cup.

 “I can't seem
to reach you,” Annie sighed.

 “But you
have
reached me.”

 “For whatever
I did, I apologize.” She felt herself getting increasingly agitated. It was a
condition she did not appreciate when she was on the threshold of a new
experience.

 “I didn't ask
to be born,” Peggy said smugly.

 “That's quite
true. But the gift of life is the best gift of all. Why can't you enjoy it?”

 “I don't
know,” Peggy said with more candor than she had volunteered all morning. Then
she shrugged and put another spoonful of sugar in her coffee.

 It's getting
worse, Annie thought, feeling resentment build inside her. Is it me? she asked
herself again. Something I've done? She resisted the temptation to ask the
question aloud.

 “This
aggravation is not very helpful. It's my first day in domestic relations. I
don't need this, Peggy.”

 “That's a
laugh.”

 “What is?” It
was, she knew, a mistake to ask. But it was better than no dialogue at all, she
told herself, rationalizing.

 “Domestic
relations. What do you know about domestic relations? You haven't even had a
husband for nearly thirteen years.”

 No thanks to
you, she thought, with a flash of bitterness.

 “I don't have
to sit here and take that, young lady.”

 “Neither do
I,” Peggy said, pushing away from the table. Her coffee spilled.

 Annie sat
there for a long time, staring at the shivering brown puddle on the glass
table. There was simply no way to reach her. Peggy had slammed the door to her
room. She wondered what was expected of her, how she could accommodate herself
to the distortions in Peggy's mind. She had contemplated therapy, had even
suggested it again to Peggy, whose indignation had turned into a temper
tantrum.

 “Now I'm
crazy!” her daughter had screamed.

 “Troubled,”
she had explained. “You can't seem to deal with your anger.”

 “It's you who
makes me angry.” Her face had flushed beet red, reminding her of Harold on that
fateful night.

 “Me?”

 Remembering
that awful scene, she decided to resign herself, at least for now. No sense
complicating her day. A judge had to stifle emotion, force neutrality, isolate
the intellect, divorce any personal strife from the decision-making process.
These were the caveats of her profession, she told herself. Indeed, perhaps they
were the very reasons she had chosen such a profession as her ultimate goal.
Someone had to sort things out, someone to whom detachment was a working
discipline.

 But the brief
injection of nobility of purpose did little to harness her inner turmoil. She
could not dismiss Peggy and her irrational anger from her mind. Yet she must do
it or be unfit to do her job. Getting up from the table, she knocked softly on
Peggy's door.

 “Don't forget
school, dear,” she said gently. She looked at her watch. She'd hoped to have
some time to review the papers her law clerk had stuffed into her briefcase
concerning the day's trial. But this business with Peggy had caused a drastic
revision in her schedule. When there was no response from Peggy, she tried the
door, which was locked.

 “Really,
Peggy, you have got to stop these tantrums.” She listened, but no answer came.
So she was now to get the silent treatment, she thought. The last one had gone
on for nearly a week.

 “Just
remember that it's a school day,” she said, waiting. Still no answer. Again,
she looked at her watch. The material in her briefcase nagged at her. She had
deliberately gone to bed early to be fresh for the new court experience.

 “I'd like to
get this settled before I leave,” she called. Still no answer. “You are not
being fair to me.”

 “Go away.”

 That was
something. At least, a response.

 “Please,
Peggy. Not today.”

 Again no
answer came. Her agitation, she knew, precluded getting any work done. She had
responsibilities, priorities. Her lack of preparation was making her anxious.

 “I have got
to leave!” she cried.

 “Then go.”

 There was no
point in standing before her daughter's locked door, she decided, trying
valiantly to refocus her attention. She'd have to rush downtown and try to get
her head together for the trial.

 “It's not
very fair of you, Peggy. Especially today.”

 She waited
for a long moment. When no answer came, she went to the bathroom and patted her
short hair into place. In the mirror, she noted her pinched look, especially around
the eyes. She put a bit of powder on her nose and forehead, but little else,
wondering if her appearance would be neutral enough for tackling the events of
the day.