Custody, page 23
“Were they dated?”
“They were, Judge. 1998 to 1999. My son—” Suddenly he turned bright red. “Her son, the baby, was born in July of 1999.” George Weld’s eyes filled with tears. His face looked as if he’d been set on fire.
Judge Parsons looked at Mrs. Weld. “What can you tell me, Georgina?”
Georgina swallowed. Her jeans strained over her corpulent thighs. Her red-and-black flannel T-shirt looked hot in the courtroom, and two sizes too small. Even without her bruises, she did not seem like a temptress, but by now Kelly had learned that temptation and desire raged in almost every heart.
“The baby’s his, Your Honor,” the wife said meekly. Desperately she added, “I swear it’s his.”
“Liar,” George Weld sneered.
“What about the letters from Mr., uh, Frank?”
Georgina went white. She swayed. She looked as if she were about to faint. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak.
“Okay, Mr. Weld,” Judge Parsons said calmly. “I think we’ll go ahead and order the DNA testing. For you, your wife, and your son.” She scribbled some notes in the folder. “Now,” she said, looking up, “it costs about three hundred dollars. Who’s going to pay for it?”
The husband snarled. “She should!”
“Do you have a job, Mrs. Weld?” the judge asked.
The wife shook her head. “I did. I stopped working when the baby came.”
“Do you two have a joint checking account?” When they both nodded, Judge Parsons said, “Then you’re to pay the costs from your joint checking account.”
“That’s not fair, Your Honor—she’s the whore!” the husband shouted.
“You’re getting your DNA test, Mr. Weld.” Judge Parsons peered at the other man, her face calm and patient, until the angry husband settled down.
“Now. Mrs. Weld. Mr. Feldmar. We’ve got a motion for temporary orders from you.”
Georgina Weld whispered.
“Speak up.”
“Your Honor.” Tim Feldmar took charge. “You can see for yourself that Mrs. Weld has been assaulted. Last night she came home from buying groceries to find her husband in a rage.”
“Wouldn’t you be in a rage if you discovered your wife was a whore?” George Weld shouted.
The judge made a not-now gesture with her hand.
“Mr. Weld accused Mrs. Weld of infidelity. He threw the shoe box at her, hitting her in the head. Then he slapped her, spat in her face, and when she tried to leave the room, tripped her so that she fell, hitting her head on the coffee table. He would have continued had not the neighbors, hearing the noise, intervened and called the police. When the police came, Mr. Weld refused to leave the house and had to be taken forcibly.”
Wearily Judge Parsons looked at the defendant. “What do you have to say, Mr. Weld?”
“In the first place, Your Honor, any man would lose their temper when he found out what I did. In the second place, a shoe box—you know how light those things are. I didn’t throw a knife or a heavy pot. And sure I tripped her, but how was I to know she was going to fall that way and hit her head? She probably did that on purpose to get sympathy. And of course, I refused to leave the house. It’s my house. She’s the whore. She should leave. She can go live with—”
“All right, Mr. Weld. That’s enough.” Judge Parsons tapped a red fingernail against her lips. “I’m going to sign a 209A. Mr. Weld, you’re to stay away from your wife and your house for a month, until the results are back on your DNA tests.”
Weld’s face turned purple. “That’s not fair! It’s her fault! Why am I being punished?”
“Mr. Weld, you have a one-year-old child living in your home. Our first priority is the welfare of that child, and it’s in his best interests for the child to remain in his home, in the care of his mother. His mother won’t be able to take care of him if she’s disabled or in the hospital.”
“Where am I supposed to live?”
“I’m sure you have friends, Mr. Weld. There are always inexpensive residential hotels. Also, you’re going to have to go over to Superior Court now, to see what they want to do with you. You might not have to worry about where you’re going to stay.”
“That’s so bogus!”
“Mr. Weld.” Judge Parsons stared the man into silence. “I’ll see you and Mrs. Weld again, when the DNA results are in.”
“Dr. Madison? Dr. Lawrence will see you now.”
Mont entered the psychiatrist’s office, shook the man’s hand, and looked him over.
He was not impressed. The other man wore black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black vest. He looked like a late-night television comedian.
On the other hand, Mont reminded himself, he probably looked like an antiquated old fart. He’d lost so much weight recently that his summer-weight blazer hung from his bones like a sail on a windless day.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Madison,” Dr. Lawrence said. “And I want to thank you for coming in.”
“I’m glad to come. I’d like to do anything I can to help Tessa.”
“Could I offer you some lemonade? Coffee?”
“Thank you, no.” Because I piss all the time as it is, Mont added silently. He didn’t want to have to get up in the middle of the session.
“You’re a physician?”
“I am. General practice.”
“Not so many of those anymore.”
“No. No, these days people prefer to specialize. And with good reason. We have such amazing technological assistance.”
“Do you still practice?”
“No. Oh, no.” Mont shook his head. “Too old. Too forgetful.” Better not let him think I’m senile, Mont quickly told himself. “I’m thinking of writing a book.”
“Oh, yes?”
“About my forty years as a GP. Sort of an All People Great and Small sort of thing, only about humans.”
“Sounds good.”
“Well, I’ve seen a lot of changes in medicine in my lifetime.”
Dr. Lawrence nodded. “And, I suppose, a lot of changes in family life.”
“That’s true.”
“What would you say is the most significant change?”
Mont considered. “Well, I don’t know if I could single one out. I suppose first I’d say the general motility of people today. When I was young, people grew up, married, and lived where they were born. Near their families. About two decades ago, anyone who worked for a corporation had to go where the corporation sent them. These days people move where their interests lie: tech whizzes to California or Seattle, sun worshipers to the Southwest. Young kids move to big cities. So on. I consider myself fortunate that only one of my children has moved far away. Most of my friends’ children live clear across the country.”
“You and your son are close?”
“Yes, I think so.” Mont felt his face sag. “Randall was closer to his mother. She died this year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s been hard for all of us. I think Randall’s making an effort to spend time with me so I don’t feel lonely, and I appreciate that. He’s always been a good boy. Dutiful.”
“Yes. Randall seems to prize duty.”
Mont peered at the shrink. “That a bad thing?”
“Not at all. It’s just unusual. Duty isn’t something a lot of people even talk about these days.”
“Well, I don’t want to make him sound like a priss. He’s never been that.”
“No. But he has been—he is, I believe, idealistic. As is Anne.”
“That’s true. I’ll tell you one thing I think Anne and Randall have in common: they’re too hard on themselves. They both think they have to fix the world all by themselves, and in the process, they end up doing harm to themselves and those nearest them.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Mont slapped himself on the forehead. “Oh, Christ, what an old fool I am. I don’t mean harm.”
Dr. Lawrence smiled reassuringly. “I think I know what you mean.”
“Do you?” Mont shook his head. “You’ve met them both, right? They both have trouble seeing the trees for the forest.” He stroked his forehead. “Yes. That’s what I mean.”
“The individual gets lost in the larger picture?”
“Right.”
Dr. Lawrence leaned back in his chair. “You’re a doctor,” he said. “And you seem wise.”
“Well. I am a doctor,” Mont acknowledged with a smile. “Better leave it at that.”
“Tell me about Tessa. About Tessa and her parents.”
Mont pondered this a moment. “I had a sort of speech prepared, full of sound and fury, blasting Anne and praising Randall. Because I do want Randall to be given custody of Tessa. I do think that’s the best thing for her. But I find, now that I’ve gotten right down to the wire, that I have no real yearning to denigrate Anne. She’s been a good mother to Tessa. Assiduous in her caretaking. While Randall has been”—Mont cleared his throat—“a less than perfect father. Especially in the early years. Of course, that’s common. I mean, Anne, like many women, tended to believe she was the only person who could take proper care of Tessa when she was an infant. She was the kind of mother who hovered if someone else held the baby. When Madeline and I visited, when Madeline asked to hold Tessa, Anne was nearly in agony. She was always saying, ‘Don’t let her head droop,’ or ‘You’ve got the bottle tilted too far.’ I’m a doctor, and Anne was still terrified if I held Tessa. My theory—and you can bet Madeline and I discussed this a lot—was that Anne’s mother, Sarah—have you met Sarah?”
“No. Anne’s parents live on Nantucket, as you know, and won’t be able to get off the island. They’ve got a house full of immigrants.”
Mont grinned. “I’ll bet they do.”
“You were saying that Anne’s mother—?”
“Sarah. She’s wonderful. Full of life. And more idealistic than Randall and Anne put together and magnified to the tenth power. But she never had much time for Anne. She was raised by a nanny, so she never learned how to cuddle and doddle and coo. So Anne never learned how to show affection. Add that to the fact that Anne’s seen a lot of disaster in her life, as a nurse, you know, and what you’ve got is a mother in a pretty much constant state of alarm, whose main concern is keeping her child safe. So, Tessa’s safe, and she’s clean, and she’s fortunate, but in many ways she’s deprived.” Mont wrinkled his forehead. “Have I gotten off track somehow?”
“Not at all. You’re being very helpful. Tell me about Randall as a father.”
Mont pulled a face. “Now that Tessa’s growing up, he’s becoming just about the best father a man could be. When Tessa was an infant, however, and a young child, he didn’t have as much to do with her as he would have liked. It was too much of a struggle for him. Anne saw Tessa as her child, and she guarded her jealously. For example, if he tried to toss her up in the air—I remember this happening when Tessa was about three—Anne went crazy, sure Randall would drop her. She made such a fuss about it, about everything, it was just too much of a battle for him to interact much with Tessa. As time passed, Anne’s energies were focused on the child, and her house, her committees; she shut Randall out. So Randall found, how shall I say this, other outlets for his affections.”
“Anne says Randall is promiscuous.”
“I’m afraid she’s right. Although I do believe, over the past year at least, Randall’s been a model of chastity. You know he’s planning to move back to the farm?”
Dr. Lawrence checked his notes. “I didn’t know that.”
“I believe he’s just recently decided. I think it’s a good idea. I’ll always be there in case Randall gets called out in an emergency. Plus, Tessa’s got a good girlfriend across the road, Brooke Burchardt.” Mont leaned forward. “Randall is trying to do what’s right by Tessa. He spends a lot of time with her now and plans to spend more. He’s changing his life so he’ll be able to spend more. He made a real effort—I saw him make that effort—to make a go of his marriage with Anne. Now he’s going to make an effort to be a good father to Tessa.”
Dr. Lawrence wrote on a pad. Scratching his forehead with the eraser end of his pencil, he looked over his notes, then up at Mont. “Is there anything else you think I should know? About Tessa, or Randall or Anne?”
“I don’t think so,” Mont said.
The two men rose and shook hands, and the psychiatrist thanked Mont again for coming in. As Mont made his creaking way out to his car, he searched his mind, worried: Was there something else he should have said?
Kelly hadn’t been lying when she told Jason that after each day she was seriously exhausted. If one could breathe toxic fumes while working in a polluted factory or mine, then one could just as easily breathe in the toxic fumes of all the anger, bitterness, hatred, and sorrow that steamed from the people who passed through the courtroom each day. She left the court stricken with a sort of emotional flu. Many judges alleviated this, Kelly knew, with several medicinal shots of whiskey, and Kelly didn’t blame them.
Her way to exorcise her body and mind was to run. Each night she went back to the hotel, changed into running gear, and headed out. She liked running in a strange town. The unfamiliar scenery claimed her attention, and the new roads with their sudden turns compelled her to stay in the present. She ran for an hour, returning to her hotel room physically drained and moderately brain-dead. She stood under a blissfully hot thundering shower, wrapped herself up in a terry-cloth robe, and enjoyed a room service meal while watching television.
It was a pretty efficient way to avoid thinking of her own life.
Friday began with a divorcing husband and wife who couldn’t agree on anything. Most terribly, they couldn’t agree on custody of their two children, a boy of seven and a girl of five, who had been adopted at birth.
Judge Parsons was a compassionate woman, willing to wait patiently for each individual to be given his or her chance to express himself. This was often a crucial moment for a person, Parsons assured Kelly, their rightful moment to stand before a judge and ask for justice.
Friday afternoon the wife’s lawyer was cataloguing the list of expert witnesses he’d lined up to testify to the wife’s brilliance as a mother and the husband’s failure as a father when the husband suddenly blew up.
“All right!” he yelled, standing up, holding his arms up as if surrendering. A slender man, a computer entrepreneur with buckets of money, his normally pale face was suddenly flushed bright crimson. “I give up. I give up completely. Give the bitch custody of the children. Total, sole, complete custody. Oh, I’ll pay the child support, but I relinquish all rights to them. I won’t have them on weekends or evenings, I won’t call them, I won’t even see them.”
“Mr. Dollard,” Judge Parsons said, “if you can’t control yourself, I’m going to have to ask the court officer to help you control yourself.”
With a sudden transformation that was somehow chilling, the husband curbed his emotions. His entire demeanor changed.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. I apologize. But I would like to say, Judge, I do mean what I said. I surrender completely, all access to the children.”
“Well, now, Mr. Dollard, I’m not sure that would be wise. Not for you, and especially not for the children.”
“It’s all right. They’re not really my children anyway.” Shooting a smug look at his wife, he said, “I’ll get married and have my own with someone who’s not barren.”
At this, the wife burst into tears.
“It’s late in the day,” Judge Parsons sighed. “And the end of the week. Counselors, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to adjourn court now and let your clients have some time to consider the way this case is going. I’m not happy with it at all, and I bet you aren’t, either.” Addressing the Dollards, she said, “Take the weekend. Get some rest. Think about your children. Think about these young people whose lives you hold in your hands. I’ll see you Monday morning. Okay, people, court’s adjourned.”
Kelly followed Judge Parsons out of the courtroom into the privacy of her chambers.
“What a pair!” Judge Parsons said. “Plenty of money, good education, and a lifetime of bitterness ahead. I’ve seen this before. They’re going to be in and out of this courthouse like boomerangs, doing everything they can think of to aggravate one another. But this relinquishing the children bit is a new one on me.”
Randall’s rounds at the hospital Friday morning were grueling. He’d had to deliver too much bad news. Seen too many faces tighten with fear, too many wives’ and children’s faces sag with sorrow. The acrid stench of dying, open wounds, vomit, and foul breath clung to him, the moans and cries of those suffering rang in his ears, and he thought of his mother in her dark grave and his father in his shortening years. He felt deluded and helpless in his attempts to ameliorate the indignities of old age. He felt heavy with his own mortality.
At his office, all day long, there was more bad news to give. From experience he knew that this happened, that sometimes things went in cycles. For days his patients’ complaints would be caused by nothing more ominous than cataracts, high cholesterol, and heartburn, and then all at once everyone who walked through the door was diagnosed with cancer, Parkinson’s, or Alzheimer’s. And this afternoon his nurse and first lieutenant, Pam, who ran his office with brisk humor and efficiency, had had to leave early to deal with her teenage son who’d been caught with pot in his school locker during a surprise drug-dog sweep.
At six-thirty Randall found himself at his desk, through for the day but depressed and exhausted. He was so hungry his stomach cramped, but he couldn’t face any more take-out or microwave dinners. He could go to a restaurant and buy himself a proper meal with a decent wine, but the thought of sitting by himself at a table was just too bleak.
Perhaps he’d call Mont, see what he was up to. As Randall reached for the phone, it rang.
