A Charmed Life, page 22
The courtroom door swung open, and Clover sauntered in, accompanied by a small gray-haired man with a briefcase. She had little bright blue eyes, like Christmas tree bulbs, lit up. Her brown hair was pulled up in a horse’s tail, with a big plaid ribbon tied around it. She had on a great deal of rouge, and her lipstick had come off on her front teeth. She wore an old, shapeless winter coat, red knee socks, moccasins, and a plaid skirt and vest. The skirt was much too big for her, and to Dolly’s eyes, she looked pathetically unreal, like a child painted up and dressed in adult clothes to beg on the street at Thanksgiving. The two children had disappeared. She was walking straight toward Dolly, who lowered her eyes and laced her fingers on her lap. “Aren’t you in the wrong pew?” Clover said, in a deep husky voice.
Dolly started and looked about her in perplexity. “You’re his witness, aren’t you?” said Clover. “These are my witnesses.” Dolly reddened and jumped up, dropping her pocketbook. The uniformed man, the sheriff, was hurrying toward her. Somebody handed her her pocketbook. The whole courtroom stared while Dolly changed places. She stumbled into a seat at the end of the front row, by the witness stand, while across the room Clover took the seat she had vacated. The two “teams” of witnesses, facing each other, made Dolly think of a spelling bee or a give-away program on television. She could not imagine where they had come from, where the lawyers had found them; they were like professional mourners, too, or like floaters rounded up to vote in an election. She could not remember seeing any of them, except the milkman, before. But gradually she began to recognize faces. At the end of the back row, on her side, was Sandy’s fourth wife, Margery, the girl who worked in the grille. Across the room, on Clover’s side, was the oysterman. Next to him was one of the New Leeds Craftsmen; Dolly had not known him, with his hair combed and a shave. All of them were transformed for the occasion; that was what had confused her. In their ordinary gear, she had been seeing them every day at the post office or the First National check-out. But now they wore “city clothes” or, to be exact, parts of them. One man had on striped trousers over bare feet and sandals; another had a necktie and pearl stickpin with a pea jacket. Ancient waistcoats, long earrings, tarnished metal blouses, old fur pieces, a gold watch chain with a Phi Beta Kappa key, velvets, nodding plumes, a motoring veil, proclaimed the community’s notion of a solid respectable front. The man next to Dolly wore a white suit, like Mark Twain. But his feet, she could not help noticing, were in leather bedroom slippers. It was the same all along the row: an uneven satin hemline ended in bare legs and tennis shoes; a black tailleur, in a set of espadrilles. A kind of defiance, evidently, had set in with the feet, which refused to render unto Caesar.
A strange smell rose from the witnesses—a combination of stale alcohol and mothballs. Dolly could still taste last night’s liquor on her own breath, and she wondered whether these perfumes could be wafted up to the judge. Just below her, near the sheriff’s desk, sat a small woman in a plain suit, with a notebook and briefcase. The man next to Dolly leaned over. “S.P.C.C.,” he whispered, cupping his mouth with one hand while his elbow nudged Dolly in the ribs. “S.P.C.C.,” he repeated, opening his red-rimmed eyes very wide.
Dolly stared miserably at the network of empurpled veins in his cheeks. To her horror, she had begun to feel ashamed of these New Leedsians and to look upon them with the eyes of an outsider—the caseworker, the judge. Nearly all of them seemed the worse for drink, swollen and dropsical, or lean and red, with popping eyes and stiff veins and shaking hands. Several of the men had bits of dried blood on their faces, where they had cut themselves, apparently, while shaving. One young man—he could not have been more than thirty—had stone-gray hair and a face as white as leprosy; his arm was in a sling. And yet they were all in good spirits. It was only she who was depressed and self-conscious. Dolly could hear them discussing the judge. “He always favors the woman,” said a young man in a corduroy coat and turtle-necked sweater. “I had him when Carol divorced me.” “You’re wrong, darling,” said an old woman in slacks. “I had him and he cut off the maintenance.”
A woman with dyed red hair and a face like a monkey suddenly addressed Dolly. “Did you hear about my case?” Dolly shook her head; she had never met this person, who seemed to be drenched in the perfume called Femme. “I’ve seen you in the liquor store,” the woman went on. “I’m a friend of Paul’s. Do you know what happened to me last year? They brought me into court for lowering the birth rate.” Dolly looked perplexed. “I ran into a car carrying three pregnant women. They all had miscarriages and sued me.” The woman’s voice was loud and laughing. The caseworker looked up and frowned. Dolly reddened. “I’m a sort of jinx,” her new friend continued. “Last year, a man dropped dead on my sofa. I thought he had passed out.”
Sandy slipped into the seat next to Dolly. He had been talking with the children. “She has them coached,” he said angrily. “Her lawyer’s got it rigged up for them to talk to the judge in chambers.” Dolly indicated the sheriff. “I don’t give a damn if he hears,” Sandy muttered, lowering his voice. “She has no right to bring the kids into a thing like this. It’s criminal, having their feelings pawed over. ‘Do you love Mother best or Daddy? Come on, tell the Judge.’ Imagine what that will do to them twenty years from now.” He sat back with an air of dark satisfaction, then jumped up, in response to a signal from Barney, who had been talking with Clover’s lawyer by the window. Dolly rubbed her forehead. He was right, she thought remorsefully; such a decision was horrible for a child.
“They want to make a stipulation,” volunteered the man in the white suit, nudging Dolly again, to direct her attention to Sandy, who seemed to be arguing with his lawyer. “What’s that?” said Dolly, uneasily; she could see that Sandy was getting worked up, by his gestures. “The lawyers get together,” said the young man behind her, eagerly, “and try to agree to shorten the testimony. Clover doesn’t defend, and they fix it up with the judge to award divided custody. They always try to pull that.” The man in the white suit nodded. “But wouldn’t that be the best thing?” timidly suggested Dolly. “After they’ve got us all down here … ?” said the man in the pea jacket, looking at his watch. “If they don’t start soon, damn it, I’m going to step out for a drink.” “Oh, please don’t,” cried Dolly. “The town’s dry, Jack,” said the man in the white suit. “Local option.” The man in the pea jacket settled back on the bench. “Oh, it’s all a farce,” declared the man in the white suit. “We’re all wasting our time. We come down here to be nice, to do a favor. Who knows the rights and wrongs of these things? I don’t. I’m just a character witness. You too?” Dolly nodded. “I don’t judge between ’em,” said the man, dropping his voice, as Sandy started back to his place. “In my opinion, the best thing would be to give the children to the state. Let the town bring ’em up. The town spawned ’em, you might say.”
“Barney’s sore,” reported Sandy, sitting down. “He wanted me to compromise.” “And you wouldn’t?” said Dolly. Sandy shook his head. All at once, the courtroom grew quiet. The judge sat up, under the American flag; a woman (the assistant registrar, said Dolly’s neighbor) took her place at the other end of the judicial bench, under the state flag. Spectators tiptoed into the rear benches. The first witness was being sworn: Mrs. Mary Viera, a cleaning woman who worked by the day. “Our star witness,” said Sandy. She was a small, black-eyed person in a dark suit and white blouse—the only respectable-looking person, thought Dolly, in the whole array of witnesses. Her English was surprisingly broken, and she had a voice queerly pitched, like a parrot’s. She worked, it seemed, occasionally for Clover, and she testified to the state of the house, on the days when she came to clean. It was very dirty, she agreed, under Barney’s questioning. Cat pee (“Excuse me, Mister,”) in the corners; children’s beds dirty; food stuck on the table; food on the walls; icebox dirty, food with beards inside; grease burned on pans; dog food all over, on floors, no vacuum cleaner; old smelly mop; no light bulb in toilet.
Dolly tried to shut her ears. She hated Mrs. Viera, with her spying black eyes. The man in the white suit cupped his mouth. “Worst damn cleaning woman in New Leeds,” he whispered, with a wink, to Dolly. Sandy frowned. He was following the testimony intently, leaning forward and nodding as Mrs. Viera spoke. Bottles, yes, bottles everywhere; garbage spilled outside; children barefoot. The S.P.C.C. woman was writing in her notebook. A pair of spectators moved closer, and Mrs. Viera, obligingly, raised her parrot-voice. Barney’s voice, prompting, had a smooth, smiling tone. “And what about this fellow that lives there?”
To Dolly’s surprise, Mrs. Viera became guarded. “What fellow? I don’t know.” “Oh, come on now, Mrs. Viera,” Barney said impatiently. “You know there’s a man living there. The whole town knows it.” Clover’s lawyer rushed in with an objection. The judge leaned forward. “Is there a man living with Mrs. Gray or not?” he said to Clover’s lawyer. “Does your client deny this?” Everyone looked at Clover. “We don’t deny it,” said Clover’s lawyer, easily. “We will show that he is a paying guest.”
Barney took a step backward; the judge raised his eyebrows; even Clover’s witnesses appeared to take this as news. Sandy half-started to his feet, but Dolly pulled him down, by the leather jacket. “Proceed,” said the judge, rapping lightly with his gavel. “Have you seen this man there?” Barney demanded of Mrs. Viera. “Sometimes.” “Where does he sleep?” Mrs. Viera did not know. She was asked to describe the layout of the house. There were two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a little room, with a couch in it. “Maybe he sleep there,” she volunteered. Barney frowned. Had she ever, he wanted to know, seen that couch made up, with sheets on it? No, agreed Mrs. Viera, but most of the times she had been there, the fellow had been away; he worked, she had heard, as a truckdriver.
Sandy made a soft, groaning sound. “She’s changed her testimony,” he whispered angrily. “They all do it—these damned Portuguese. You get them in the courtroom, and they get scared.” “Where does he keep his clothes?” said Barney. Mrs. Viera did not know. Had she ever seen his clothes in Mrs. Gray’s bedroom? The courtroom seemed to catch its breath while Mrs. Viera reflected. She was not sure, she answered finally. Barney protested: this was not what she had told him when he came to her house to talk to her. “What do you mean-not sure?” he said in a hectoring tone. “Not sure,” mumbled Mrs. Viera. Sandy’s witnesses looked wonderingly at each other. The judge intervened. It was an important question, he said, and she could help the court clear it up. She must try to search her memory. “No good, Judge,” said Mrs. Viera, simply. “When he”—she pointed to the lawyer—“come to my house, he ask me if I ever see man’s clothes in Mrs. Gray’s bedroom. I say yes.” “Well?” prompted the judge. Mrs. Viera grinned. “But Mrs. Gray wear man’s clothes herself—man’s shirt, pants, old coat. This the first time I see her in skirt.”
Laughter shook the courtroom, led by Mrs. Viera. “And is that why you’ve changed your story?” Barney demanded sternly. “My daughter explain me my mistake,” said Mrs. Viera serenely, turning to the judge. “She tell me I not understanding questions.” “You mean,” said the judge, “that you sometimes saw men’s clothes in Mrs. Gray’s bedroom, but you are not sure, now, whose they were?” Mrs. Viera nodded. “Maybe hers. Maybe his.” Barney mopped his brow. Surely she knew the difference, he insisted. But Mrs. Viera would not be budged. “Maybe hers. Maybe his,” she repeated, with a gleeful look at the judge.
When Clover’s lawyer’s turn came, he started on a fresh tack. He asked Mrs. Viera how long she had lived in New Leeds and how many residents she had worked for and whether she kept a clean house herself. “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Viera proudly. “I believe you, Ma’am,” said Clover’s lawyer, who spoke with a slight southern accent. “But now tell me. The conditions you describe in Mrs. Gray’s residence—are they unusual?” Mrs. Viera looked puzzled. “I mean the dirt on the floors, the dog food, the moldy icebox, and so on—do you often see these things when you come to clean for your ladies?” Mrs. Viera brightened. “Oh yes,” she said happily. “All the time. All the time. Summer people too. Everybody live like that here in America. Like pigs.” There was a movement of recoil on the benches; the sheriff stiffened and fixed his eyes on the Stars and Stripes. “Watch what you’re saying here,” the judge commanded, sharply. “You don’t mean everybody.” “Everybody I working for,” explained Mrs. Viera. “Not poor people—Portuguese people, Finnish people, Yankee people. They keep clean house; don’t have cleaning woman.” She appeared to search for her meaning. “Rich people, college people, famous people, lawyer, writer, painter—just like Mrs. Gray. Live like bootlegger.” Another laugh rose. “I think she must mean me,” giggled a woman in Dolly’s row. “She’s pathological,” said another woman, with bitter emphasis. “I wouldn’t have her in the house.” The judge rapped for silence. “Have you ever worked for Mr. Gray?” continued Clover’s lawyer. Mrs. Viera shook her head. “But Mr. Gray just the same. I have friend who tell me—” The judge cut her off. “You can only testify to what you’ve seen yourself,” he told her. “I don’t know what this testimony proves,” he went on, in tones of irritation, to Clover’s lawyer. “The general standard of living that prevails in New Leeds,” the lawyer went on, undaunted. “I’m trying to set Mrs. Gray’s housekeeping in its context, your honor. Many of the older ladies here, in our permanent winter colony, are famous housekeepers, but the breed is dying out. Other times, other customs.”
“Proceed,” said the judge. “Would you say that Mrs. Gray was a good mother?” Clover’s lawyer asked Mrs. Viera. “Kind, considerate, thoughtful?” Mrs. Viera scratched her head. “Mrs. Gray very nice woman. Very friendly. Good mother, I don’t know.” She turned to the judge. “It’s the same like I was saying, Judge. All the women I work for, not like poor women. Easy with the kids, not strict, not scolding. But not paying attention. Not mending clothes, ironing, fixing hair, cooking, sending to church, sending to Sunday school. ‘Listen to radio,’ ‘Go away and play now.’ Open can. ‘Here, eat.’ Mrs. Gray, I think, have big heart, play with the kids, cut out magazines, draw pictures, play the guitar to them, sing. But not careful for kids. Not worrying.” “Do you think a worrying mother is a good thing, Mrs. Viera?” demanded Clover’s lawyer. “Sometimes,” she said, turning thoughtfully to the judge. “I don’t talk so good in English. What I mean, Mrs. Gray not bringing them up, not teaching, not feeding right, not putting to bed—” “And all your employers are like that?” cut in Clover’s lawyer. “Oh yes,” beamed Mrs. Viera. “Oh yes.”
Dolly’s head was aching when they went across the highway for lunch at a counter. Barney came to sit with them; most of the other witnesses, on their side, had finished their testimony, and gone off to eat at the hotel in the next township, which had a cocktail lounge. Dolly’s testimony, Barney said, was going to be very crucial, as things were shaping up. Mrs. Viera had turned the whole case upside down. There was nobody else who could swear that this truckdriver actually slept with Clover—nobody but the children, who would probably not be asked in chambers, unless the judge could find a way of doing it delicately, by indirection. And Clover had undoubtedly warned them not to tell what they knew. “Oh, it’s all so ugly,” sighed Dolly. She half-agreed with the man who said it would be better to hand all the children of divorced people over to the town. “Human nature,” said Barney, munching on a hamburger.
The trouble was, he continued, that you could never get the natives up here to come into court and tell what they’d seen. Clover never drew a shade, but her neighbors down by the bay acted as though they were blind if you tried to get an affidavit out of them. The ones who were willing to talk always turned out to have a screw loose, like Mrs. Viera, or like the milkman, who was stage-struck and saving up to go off to drama school. The kid loved to testify, but he would only describe the state of the kitchen when he brought in the milk in the mornings. He swore that he’d never looked in the bedroom window, though he walked right past it every morning. “‘I mind my own business,’ he says, with a flounce of his tail.” “I don’t see why you have to bring sex into it,” Dolly said suddenly. “I don’t think Sandy ought to do that when he believes in sexual freedom himself. You’ve got plenty of evidence to show that she’s a bad mother. “Why worry about proving ‘immorality’?” “Because that’s what the court likes to hear about, Miss Lamb,” retorted Barney, reaching for the ketchup. “Besides—let’s be frank—the S.P.C.C. has a record on Sandy. All right”—he raised a hand to forestall Sandy—“I’ll agree. That was different. That was a health fad. You kept the kids barefoot to develop their feet. And you didn’t toilet-train them, to develop their character. And you fed them on peanut butter because of something you read in a book. But the court looks at the record, damn it.” “You know what happened,” said Sandy, in a low voice, to Dolly. “The boy went to school barefoot, and the other kids threw knives at his feet. The teacher had the S.P.C.C. after me. There’s an irony for you. It was those ruffians and their parents that ought to have been investigated.” Dolly gave a gasp of pain. “But you went right on sending him,” protested Barney. “After the teacher told you to get shoes.” “How did I know?” cried Sandy. “The teacher sent a note. ‘Please put shoes on Michael.’ Nobody gave me the reason. I’d taught Michael to be brave and he wouldn’t squeal to me on his little classmates. I was damned if I’d put shoes on him, just to appease the local bourgeois.” He banged his knife down on his plate.
