Twilight Child (35 page)

 “Not
exactly.” Frances began to twist her fingers. Don't, Molly begged in her heart.
But Forte was relentless. Perhaps some things are better left unsaid, she
thought, hating the spectacle before her.

 “Mrs.
Graham.” Forte lowered his voice, appearing almost ingratiating. “Are you
afraid that your father-in-law would do to Tray what you perceived he did to
Tray's father?”

 “You're
twisting things.”

 “But it is a
factor in your decision not to allow them to visit your son, their grandchild?”

 “I don't
think so. I'm not sure.”

 “You're under
oath, Mrs. Graham.”

 He's only
making it worse, Molly thought. What good was it to bring out all these secret
antagonisms?

 “Not only
fear, Mrs. Graham. Perhaps there is also vindictiveness lying just beneath the
surface.” He paused. “Do you think so?”

 “No, I
don't,” Frances said calmly. “You're making it sound like I'm deliberately
hurting them to get even. And that's just not true.”

 “So, if you
had not remarried, you might never have prohibited your former in-laws from
seeing their grandchild?”

 “Maybe not.”

 “Then this
decision not to grant the Waterses the right to visit their own grandchild was
more your husband's than your own. It was he who barred these visits.”

 “No, he
didn't.” She seemed to be genuinely confused by the questioning, totally
unprepared for the tack Forte was taking.

 Molly's heart
went out to her. “Awful,” she whispered. Charlie did not respond, and she
wondered what he was thinking.

 “But if you
hadn't married, the subject might not have come up.” Forte paused for a moment
and looked up at the judge. “Certainly it was not the child who wanted to have
these visits stopped. He enjoyed being with his grandparents. It didn't trouble
him. Of course, nobody ever consulted him. So it must have been Mr. Graham's
decision.”

 “No. It
wasn't,” Frances's voice rose. Her cheeks flushed. “It was a joint decision.”

 “Not the
three of you. Not Tray?”

 Peck stood
up, obviously livid with rage.

 “We are
talking here of a minor child. It is precisely because of that that we are
here.”

 “I couldn't
agree more,” Forte said smugly. The two lawyers faced each other silently for a
moment. Then Peck sat down, and once again, Forte faced Frances.

 “He, your new
husband, didn't want to be reminded of your past life, as if somehow it
diminished him, made him second. Isn't that right, Mrs. Graham?”

 “This line of
questioning is ridiculous, your Honor,” Peck said, as he rose to his feet once
again.

 “It's obvious
to me that she was corrupted by an outside force,” Forte said.

 “Corrupted?”
the judge said. “That's a rather harsh characterization.”

 “In a way,
yes,” Forte acknowledged. “But not as accurate as the term
brainwashing
.”

 “I also
object to that, your Honor.”

 “Counselor?”
the judge said.

 “I'm simply
trying to show, your Honor, that none of the motivations for barring my clients
from visiting their grandchild have anything to do with the child's welfare per
se. That adult concerns have interfered with what is a perfectly natural and
life-enhancing relationship. I see no reason for an objection to that line of
questioning. It was deemed appropriate by Mr. Peck to characterize my client's
wish to see his grandson as therapy.”

 “He is
deliberately confusing the issue, your Honor,” Peck said, jumping up. “The
issue is the right of custodial parents to make decisions for their child
without interference from outside sources. This is the common law
interpretation. The distinguished counselor is trying to characterize the
child's adoptive father as an outside source, which is patently absurd. In the
eyes of the law Mr. Graham is hardly an outside source. He is the father.”

 “But the
common law is superseded by the Maryland statute that grants grandparents the
right of petition for visitation.”

 “Petition
does not mean the automatic granting of visitation rights.”

 “I'm fully
aware of the law, counselor,” Forte sneered.

 “Not adoptive
law. You're quite weak in that regard.”

 “The new
statute does imply that grandparents' rights should be considered seriously.”

 “That is
exactly why you are in this courtroom,” Judge Stokes interjected. “And I wish
you would stop your wrangling.”

 On the
witness stand, Frances looked wilted, and for a brief moment, Molly was
frightened that the aggravation would have some effect on the baby. She glanced
at Charlie, who merely shook his head and muttered under his breath.

 “It's round
the bend, babe,” he whispered.

 “Out of
control.”

 “Damned
lawyers.”

 “Poor
Frances,” Molly said.

 “Poor us.”

 “Poor
everybody.”

 But the
lawyers continued to argue, their words echoing through the cavernous room.
Then, suddenly, Judge Stokes banged the gavel. It took several bangs to get the
lawyers under control.

 “I am in
charge here,” the judge shouted. She was visibly angry, and the cords in her
neck stood out. She looked at Frances.

 “You may step
down, Mrs. Graham.”

 Frances
walked back to her seat. She was obviously shaken, and her husband rose to
embrace her. He looked at Forte with naked hostility.

 Forte sat
down, and Molly imagined that she could hear his heart beating in his chest.
His breath came in gasps, and he tapped his fingers on the table. There were
many things Molly wanted to say, but she was afraid she would lose control.
Instead, she just held on to Charlie's hand and squeezed.

 “I will not
have these outbursts in my courtroom,” the judge said calmly. She looked at
each of them in turn.

 “It would
seem that the presentation of this case is missing a very important
ingredient.” In the long pause that followed, Molly felt her stomach do
flip-flops.

 “I could, of
course, make it a court order. Under the laws of this state I have that right.
Instead I am putting it in the form of a request.” She looked directly at Peck.
“You will see to it that Charles Everett Waters the third is present in this
courtroom tomorrow at ten?”

 “No,” Frances
cried. “I will not have that.”

 The judge
looked toward Forte.

 “Have you any
objection?” he asked Molly and Charlie. But before they could reply, he said,
“Really, folks, it's your only chance.”

 “I hate the
idea,” Molly said, “of putting a child through this.”

 “It's her
prerogative,” Forte said enigmatically. “She's the judge.”

 “You can't
allow this,” Charlie said.

 “It's not my
choice anymore, Mr. Waters.”

 “But he's
only seven.”

 “I didn't
want it this way, either,” Forte said. “Now it's our only chance.”

 Then it
dawned on her, and she remembered Forte's unarticulated idea in the
delicatessen.

 “You did it
on purpose,” Molly said accusingly.

 “I only
provoked her. It's her decision. Not mine. Anyway, it's done all the time.”

 “But it's
wrong,” Molly said helplessly. “He's a child.”

 “It's also
his life at stake here.”

 “Can they
refuse to bring him?” Molly asked.

 “I could have
brought a writ of habeas corpus. I deliberately avoided that action. They
really have no choice. Except to bring the child.” All three looked at Peter
and Frances, who seemed very upset.

 “No way,”
Charlie mumbled.

 Peck stood up
and sucked in a deep breath.

 “Tomorrow at
ten, your Honor.”

 “I think it
stinks to high heaven,” Molly said.

 “Yes, it
does,” Forte responded. “But then nobody calls me until it does.”

 FRANCES
combed Tray's blond hair, defeated finally by the cowlick, which
just would not stay put with water. Just like Chuck's. She had dressed him in a
white shirt and striped tie, blue blazer with gold buttons, and gray flannel
pants, a replica of Peter's outfit.

 “My little
man,” she whispered, pressing him as close to her as her pregnant belly would
allow. He giggled and turned, putting his head against it. She stroked his
back, as if that might smooth away the impending horror. No matter how hard she
had tried, she could not view the situation in any other light.

 “I hear him,
Mommy,” Tray whispered. He had decided that when he did this, a loud response
would wake the baby. “Like a whish sound.” She had explained that the baby was
asleep in water, which approximated the truth. He continued to listen until,
finally, she tapped him on the shoulder blades, and separated him from her.

 “We mustn't
be late.”

 “Where are we
going, again?”

 “To a
courtroom.”

 “Oh.”

 She wondered
what kind of an image that word suggested. He had seemed somewhat vague,
perhaps recalling some television setting.

 “Do you know
what a courtroom is?” she asked gently.

 “A place
where people go . . .” He shrugged, obviously not quite certain.

 “A place
where people go to”—she searched her mind for adequate definitions—“to sort
things out.” No, she thought, moved by the puzzled look on Tray's face. “It's a
place where people go to settle disputes.”

 “What's
disputes?”

 “Fights. When
people can't fight their own battles.” She was still not satisfied with the
explanation. Nor, obviously, was Tray.

 “Are we going
to see people fight?”

 “Something
like that.”

 Not quite
like that, she thought. Why was she having such a difficult time explaining it?
“Because people can't seem to settle their differences,” she began. “Other
people have to judge.”

 “Do I have to
fight, Mommy?” Tray asked, proving the inadequacy of her answer.

 “Of course
not.”

 “Do you?”

 “Not in a
physical sense.”

 She felt
herself getting deeper into a verbal maze.

 “Is it like a
game?”

 “A game?”
Perhaps to some, she decided. It occurred to her suddenly that there could be
no sane explanation. Could she tell him that he was the object of some kind of
human tug-of-war? He'd think that was a game as well. Yet, she did feel
compelled to prepare him in some way. “People will ask you questions,
sweetheart. Questions about your life, about us.” She hesitated. “And about
Grampa and Gramma Waters.”

 “Are they
coming?” he asked eagerly.

 “They'll be
there, of course.”

 “Will they
ask me questions?”

 “Not
directly.”

 “What kind of
questions?”

 “Oh . . .”
She tried to act casual and matter-of-fact. “Questions about school, about your
daddy—”

 “This daddy
or my other daddy?”

 “Maybe both.”

 He hesitated
for a moment, frowning briefly, as if suddenly assailed by unpleasant thoughts.
She wasn't sure how to interpret it.

 “How come we
don't see Grampa and Gramma anymore?”

 “My God.” She
felt herself getting more agitated. “Talk about questions.”

 Sensing her
tension, he shrugged and looked out of the window while she finished dressing.

 Peter, too,
was beside himself.

 “There can't
possibly be a legal precedent for this,” he told Peck outside the courthouse,
with Frances standing beside him. “You've got to put a stop to it.”

 “Sorry,” Peck
replied. “In the state of Maryland as well as many other states, the judge has
an absolute right to do this either in court or in chambers.”

 “But he's
only seven.”

 Peck sighed
with resignation.

 “It is
becoming increasingly common for the child to have a say in the determination
of his or her own best interests if the child is competent to make a reasonable
choice.”

 “That's
nonsense. He's still only seven.”

 “It doesn't
matter. He can communicate. Believe me, it wasn't my idea. I never thought it
would go this far. What Forte did was muddy the waters, get the judge confused.
It's visitation. Not custody. It's her first domestic case. Maybe she thinks
she's going to school, and calling your son is all part of her education.”

 “Can't you
refuse?”

 “Sure. But
then you lose the case.”

 “But dragging
a little kid through this. It's wrong.”

 “As I said,
she's the judge and she has the power to do it,” Peck said with an attempt at
sympathy. He rubbed his nose. “She might choose to see him in her chambers. The
law says that both lawyers have to be present. Also a court reporter.”

 “What about
us?”

 “That's the
whole point. The object is to get the child away from the pressures of the
antagonists.”

 “Antagonists?
We're his parents.”

 “I told you
the alternative.”

 “Imagine a
little kid like that with all those strange adults surrounding him. He'll be
frightened to death.”

 Frances had
listened, letting Peter carry the argument. She could see it was futile. Having
control over one's own life was not, under any circumstances, a simple chore,
she thought, not without a tinge of bitterness.

 They had been
unable to sleep. Frances couldn't get comfortable. The baby was acting up,
offering her own protestations. Finally they had put on the lights.

 “She must be
madder than hell,” Peter had observed, watching the undulations of Frances's
midsection.

 “No madder
than her mother.”

 “I should
have never let this happen,” Peter had said, threading his arm behind her neck,
kissing her cheek. There was just enough wrist room to pat her hair. “Peck said
we had them dead to rights.”

 “He was never
really positive about the outcome.”

 “Well, we had
no choice but to contest their action.”

 “Who would
think it would ever come to this?” she mused. She hadn't enjoyed any of the
interrogation in the courtroom, certainly not her own. Nor was there any
satisfaction in the way Charlie had been quartered. “Had to be done,” Peck had
told her at lunch, brimming with optimism. “I took no pleasure in it either,”
he assured her. Now she resented not being forewarned about the possibility of
calling Tray.

 “These
lawyers play their own dirty game. It's almost as if we didn't exist as human
beings.”

 “Unfortunately,
we're in their hands,” Peter said.

 He had turned
off the lights again. Still, she couldn't sleep. Her thoughts churned as she
relived her waking nightmare on the stand. She had been totally unprepared for
Forte's onslaught. It had been relentless, without mercy. The vaunted
protection of her pregnancy had meant little or nothing. All through the
testimony she had kept telling herself that she must endure this. Forte
deliberately twisted everything, especially that implication that she was taking
revenge on Molly and Charlie. Was there any truth in that? Had he uncovered
some dark and hidden motive? Was she really capable of that? Unconsciously? She
turned the thought over and over in her mind. There was just enough of the hint
of truth in the lawyer's accusation to disturb her, as if he had stripped aside
layers of self-protection. And even if it was true—what had that to do with
Tray's best interest?

 “It makes no
sense,” Peter whispered, his voice seeping into her thoughts. So he, too, continued
to wrestle with the problem. Who needed this aggravation? Opening her eyes, she
looked at the red figures on the digital clock. It was nearly two in the
morning. “Tray, especially, doesn't need the trauma,” he said. She could almost
hear the humming logic cranking in his scientific mind. “The question is, is it
worth the pain?”

 She did not
turn to face him. Was he, as Forte had suggested, the culprit after all? Had he
brainwashed her? Was he now, in a fit of guilt and remorse, asking for
surrender? Why not? He had already proven his manliness, his fatherhood. His
place as head of the family was assured. His children were about to outnumber
Chuck's. Had the wounds of his previous marriage healed? Was there anything for
him to fear now?

 “Can they hurt
us now?” he whispered.

 It hurt to
hear. And she knew it would hurt more to respond. Was he thinking of what was
best for Tray? Or for himself? And what was her first priority? Tray? An
avalanche of questions cascaded in her mind. But no answers. Except one. This
was one decision that she would have to make on her own.

 “It's the
risk of it that's worrisome,” he sighed. It was not, she understood, the hour
for decisiveness.

 “Do you think
I've been vindictive?” she asked. It was a question for him, for herself, and
for the darkness.

 “You see how
they manipulate us,” he said with resignation. “They make us unsure of our
motives.”

 “But I was
afraid that Charlie would take Tray away from me. Like he took Chuck.”

 “All the more
reason for our doing what we did,” Peter said. “The fear was real enough to
make a difference.”

 “Maybe I also
didn't want him to be exposed to”—she hesitated, trying to think it out
clearly—“Dundalk, and all it stood for.”

 “Dig deep
enough, and you'll strike salt water,” Peter said, reaching out to touch her
hand. “Next thing you know, we'll be blaming each other. Also part of the
strategy. Divide and conquer.”

 “No,” she
said. “It won't work.”

 He kissed her
cheek, and for a long time there was silence. Then he spoke.

 “You think
it's true about me being . . . insecure?” Now it was his turn,
she thought, listening. “He made it sound as if I were jealous of your first
husband, because . . . well, because he came before me. You know
something, there's a grain of truth in that. But then he accused me of
brainwashing you into rejecting Chuck's parents. Do you think there's a grain
of truth in that, too?”

 “No. I
don't.”

 “That would
make me kind of a rat, wouldn't it?”

 “You're no
rat.”

 Reaching out,
she grasped his hand, put it to her lips, and kissed it.

 “All this is
beside the point,” she said.

 “What point?”

 “What's best
for Tray.”

 “What's best
for us is best for Tray.”

 In the
silence she thought about that a long time before they both drifted off to
sleep.

 “I wish this
thing was tomorrow instead of today, Mommy,” Tray said, standing behind her as
she combed her hair. Peter was downstairs feeding Mark, who was cranky with
teething. She listened for Maria's familiar voice, dreading the complication if
she didn't arrive on time. In fact, a feeling of dread pervaded her every
thought.

 “Why is
that?”

 “Because
today they have frankfurters for lunch at school.”

 “Frankfurters
aren't really good for you.”

 “Then why do
they have them?”

 “Good
question.”

 His remark
suggested other interruptions in his young life. The day she had gotten word
that Chuck had died, she had taken him out of the day nursery in the middle of
a game of dodge ball. When she had gotten married, she had moved him away from
his friends. Then there was Charlie's crazy visit to his school. Now this. She
wondered what effect these things would have on him, how he would handle them
in his memory. Would they resurface later as clues to maladjustments? She tried
to shake away such gloomy thoughts, studying his beautiful face in the mirror.

 “My little
prince,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Will you ever forgive us?”
All of us, she thought.

 “Does
something hurt, Mommy?”

 “Not really,
Tray.”

 “Is Snowflake
okay?”

 “She's fine.”

 Wiping her
eyes and nose, she forced a smile. “You just be very calm today and answer all
the questions with great honesty.”

 Her remark
triggered fearful images. Were they going to cross-examine this child, submit
him to what she had had to go through? Never, she vowed. That she would never
allow, law or no law, procedures or no procedures. If that happened, she would
dash out of the courtroom with Tray and insist that they immediately leave the
state, out of the reach of these people.

 Tray began to
play with her perfume bottles, opening them and sniffing. She let him. “Don't
spill any. You wouldn't want to smell up the courtroom.” He giggled and put the
tops back on.

 By the time
they got downstairs, Maria had arrived and Peter was giving her last-minute
instructions in pidgin English.

 “You no
worry,” she said.

 “No worry,”
Peter whispered. “That's a laugh.” He looked down at Tray. “Ready, Buddy?”

 “Yup.”

 She looked at
the clock in the kitchen. Earlier, they had agreed to make sure they arrived a
few minutes late to avoid any unnecessary confrontations with Molly and
Charlie, which could only confuse Tray.

 “We'd better
get going,” Peter said.