A week later, there we all were again. Judge Randazzo’s courtroom was beginning to feel like my home away from home. And Sherman Weinstock had altered his tune. But only slightly.
“Your Honor, my clients are no longer seeking to nullify the entire 2007 will. After all, there are a number of philanthropic bequests contained therein that we would be loath to see invalidated. The action has been joined by the two limited partners of the Bronx Cheers and the team’s general manager, all of whom are in the courtroom today with their respective counsel. However, in the Amended Order to Show Cause filed with the court three days ago, you will note that the petitioners contest only a specific provisional clause contained within the will, which we believe is vague enough to invalidate that portion of the instrument. That clause specifically applies to the distribution of one of the decedent’s key assets—namely the controlling interest in the minor league baseball club known as the Bronx Cheers.”
“They’ve sucked for seasons,” the judge observed wryly. “But don’t take that as my ruling. Humor, people. Have a sense of humor.”
Mr. Weinstock then referred to the “close the circle” wording.
Judge Randazzo leaned forward. “So, Mr. Weinstock, you’re claiming the decedent was completely meshuganah when he wrote it. Mr. Gaines, obviously you have something to say about this.”
“I most certainly do, Your Honor. “I have a sealed letter written by the decedent which apparently explains what he meant by that phrase. However, that letter was not to be opened until six months after August deMarley’s death, which would mean we would not know its contents until February—another two months or so from now.”
“So what’s the rush?” questioned the judge. “Mr. Weinstock, any way you slice it, your clients are going to get bupkis. Marty deMarley forfeited his rights to the Leroy Neiman painting by contesting the 2007 will in your original Order to Show Cause, so even if the court validates it—the ‘close-the-circle’ clause notwithstanding—he stands to inherit nothing.”
“By February, tryouts for the Cheers will be imminent. I realize that this is highly irregular from a legal standpoint, but I am going to ask Your Honor for a provisional ruling at this time on the meaning of the phrase in question because it is in the interest of all parties to have a CEO calling the shots now. We have reason to believe that the phrase ‘close the circle’ refers to the reuniting of my client, the decedent’s only child, Olivia deMarley, with her own daughter, Sophie Ashe, whom she gave up for adoption at her birth twenty years ago.”
“Objection. Speculation,” protested Mr. Weinstock. “How can Mr. Gaines state unequivocally what the phrase means? The wording is open to wide interpretation.”
“Would counsel approach the bench?” A sea of dark suits stepped forward. I strained to overhear the sidebar. “Mr. Weinstock, were you acquainted with the decedent?”
“I never met him, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Gaines…for how many years have you acted as Mr. deMarley’s attorney?”
“For thirty-seven years, Your Honor.”
“And did you handle many legal matters for him in the scope of your relationship? I’m asking if the two of you had relatively frequent contact with one another.”
“I did, sir.”
“And were you personally, as well as professionally, acquainted with August deMarley?”
“I was.”
“And in your opinion, Mr. Gaines, you’re quite certain as to the decedent’s intention when he wrote the phrase ‘close the circle’?”
“It’s always been quite clear to me what the phrase means.”
“Clear as mud,” muttered Mr. Weinstock.
Judge Randazzo peered at my lawyer. “Mr. Gaines?”
“In the last months of his life, August deMarley began to regret that he had not made any effort to reconnect with his daughter. Family meant a lot to him, but he felt that love is something that is earned—that being related by blood doesn’t allow you an automatic gimme; and that sometimes people who aren’t your family are more of your family than family—if you get my drift.”
“Now it’s clear as quicksand,” quipped Mr. Weinstock.
“The Cheers were a family to Mr. deMarley. But he came to the decision that he had not been as kind to his own kin, and he sought to rectify things. I knew the man very well, Your Honor, and between us guys, he could be a stubborn prick. There was no way he was going to reach out to his daughter after pretending she was dead to him for half her life. But he knew that Olivia deMarley had given up her own daughter for adoption and he sought to effect a reconciliation in the next generation, with the hope that Olivia and her natural child would form a lasting connection.”
“That is pure speculation!” argued Mr. Weinstock. “How did August deMarley know his granddaughter would track down her biological mother?”
“He didn’t,” Cap Gaines admitted. “He was hoping. It’s not unusual for a man approaching his final months to become a bit of a softie. Or maybe he had the last laugh and was smarter than any of us, knowing Marty deMarley and his wife all too well. Perhaps he wrote the vaguely worded phrase on purpose because he counted on the will being legally challenged—in which case he knew that his daughter would inherit everything.”
“We’ll take our chances on what’s contained in the sealed letter,” said Mr. Weinstock.
“I feel like I’m in Wonderland, here,” the judge said. “Mr. Weinstock, I agree with you that the phrase in question is rather vague.”
The limited partners low-fived each other under the petitioners’ table. Linda and Marty clutched hands.
“However…that said…pursuant to respondent’s request, I’m inclined to give a provisional ruling on the meaning of the phrase ‘close the circle’ based on Mr. Gaines’s long-standing knowledge of the decedent’s mind and character. I am ordering the sealed letter to be opened in my presence in February; and if the meaning of the phrase is any different from Mr. Gaines’s interpretation, we’ll deal with it then. However—and this is a big however—as you’ve opened this can of worms, Mr. Weinstock, I’ll mix my metaphors and offer your client a bone here. Ditto of course for the other petitioners in this action—Mr. Fernando, Mr. Argent, and Mr. Weed.
“Mr. Gaines, by the time we reconvene in February, I would like to see some evidence that the circle has in fact been closed, or evidence to the contrary that it has not.”
Mr. Weinstock straightened his tie and assumed his most pugnacious stance. “Your Honor, this is highly irregular. How are you going to decide whether Ms. deMarley and her daughter have ‘closed the circle.’?”
“They’re living together now. That should in and of itself satisfy the will.” Cap Gaines argued.
“Not quite, counselor,” the judge replied. “I’m looking at this the way an arbitrator might view a Green Card marriage. Cohabitation alone is not sufficient grounds. I’m going to order a continuance, sua sponte, which will give the parties time to prepare their respective cases for a February appearance before the bench. At that time, Mr. Gaines, I expect you to put both your client and Ms. Ashe on the stand for cross-examination.” The gavel descended with a dull thud. “Case adjourned.”
No one spoke a word as we departed the courtroom. Barry Weed coughed and the sound reverberated off the walls. In the elevator Sophie said to Cap Gaines “Did we win?”
“Well…we won the chance to win,” he replied. “Kind of like getting into the playoffs. The opportunity to win the whole enchilada is there; you just need to seize it. And my advice to the two of you is to spend as much time as you can in each other’s company. Find out what makes the other one tick, your likes and dislikes, your hobbies and interests, your favorite flavor of ice cream. Keep diaries. Because Weinstock is going to tear into your personal lives and you need to be prepared to answer his questions.”
“I don’t see how the judge is going to decide whether or not I get the Cheers based on what we say on the witness stand. Our favorite flavor of ice cream? W
e could be lying.”
“You’ll be under oath,” Gaines reminded me.
“Oh, yeah. Right. But still—closing the circle is an awfully subjective thing. Frankly, I think Marty and Linda and the rest of them are right in wanting to contest that caveat!”
“Shhh! Don’t let anyone hear you say that!” Gaines looked furtively about him even though he and Sophie were the only other people in the elevator.
We stepped out onto the street. “Now go forth and get to know everything about each other. And more than that—care.” Cap Gaines shook our hands. “Make an appointment with Sheila to come down to the office in three weeks so I can prep you two for the next court appearance.” He strode back toward his office while Sophie and I headed for the subway.
By the time we got home, I had a pounding headache. It felt like all the life force had been sucked out of me. I headed straight upstairs to my bedroom and sank onto the mattress. “I don’t know why I let myself get into all this,” I moaned.
Sophie followed me upstairs with a glass of water and the aspirin bottle. “Because I want you to,” she said encouragingly. “Because I want you to inherit the Cheers. Because I care about that team just like Grampa did, and what happens to it is important to me.”
“You baseball fans are such fanatics,” I muttered, taking the aspirin out of Sophie’s hand.
“That’s what makes the game so wonderful!” She smiled.
“Nothing is worth having our private lives dragged out into the open.”
“The Cheers are,” Sophie insisted. “And I won’t let you come away from all this with nothing.”
I shook my head. “Not nothing. I have you. Getting the chance to know you is worth the weight of all the Bronx Cheers put together.” I gave her a hug and the tears began to flow. I was really missing Tom and what we’d had together. I wanted things to be simple again. “I’m sorry to lay all this on you, Soph. I should have just gone back to Colorado after Augie’s memorial. This was all too much for both of us.”
She offered me a tissue. “Stop it,” she soothed. “You know, it’s funny. When I first met you, I thought, ‘Shit! I’ve never seen someone with so much self-possession. I wish I had a tenth of her confidence and composure.’ And now—” she chuckled, “I’ve spent the last two months or so realizing that you’re a marshmallow under all that tensile steel.”
“I’m a mess, you mean.”
“Nooo…you’re just human. The coolest thing that I can say about you, as your daughter, the most amazing thing, is that it’s so reassuring to know that you’re, well, normal.”
I hugged her tightly. “I’m afraid you’ve got my number, kiddo.”
“We’re going to have a game plan, dude,” she said, jumping up from the bed. She rummaged in her desk for a notepad. “You’re not the type to relinquish control, Livy. So why let Barry Weed, and the Cheers’ limited partners, and dorky cousin Marty and Lady MacdeMarley win their lawsuit? You’re not a quitter; and if you shrug me off, I won’t believe it. I don’t want to think that of the woman who bore me.”
“Oh Sophie…” By now, I was a puddle of tears. What a sweet, sweet kid. It stung all the more that I had missed her childhood.
“You’re getting all tangled up in assuming that being a good mother is all about Band-Aids and bake sales. And that if you’re becoming my friend it means you’ve somehow failed at figuring out what it means to be my mother. You can’t play catch-up or compete with Joy. That tooth fairy’s flown the coop. And Joy will always be my mom, too. Hey—I’m the luckiest kid on the planet! I’ve got two moms and you couldn’t be more different. But what you both have in common is me. And I know you both want the best for me.” She reached over and stroked my forehead.
“Okay,” she said, trying to stay all business. That child fought her emotions as though they were dragons. “It’s all good. You’re not a bad person; you just never had to be a mom before. And I don’t want that silver-haired judge to have the slightest reason to think you’re not up to the job. I saw the way Linda deMarley was looking at you on Parents’ Day. When we were walking back from Farina Arena, she was, like, waiting for us to quarrel about something, and for you to trip and fall on your face. And I don’t doubt for a minute she would have stepped right on your spine in those stilettos of hers. So,” she added, extending her hand, “do we have a deal?”
I shook. “Deal.”
But I felt a bit bad about it. What could I do for her in return?
A few days later, Sophie’s best friend, Carleen, came to see me in hysterics. As Sophie’s “cool mom,” and given my life experience, her friends had deemed me an expert on all things related to matters of the heart—and parts farther south; den mother meets Dr. Ruth.
“Ah told Tommy DuPree Ah didn’t love him anymore,” Carleen blubbered, curled into a ball in a corner of my couch. “And he said okay!”
“She broke up with him—and he let her!” Sophie explained. “You know all about these things, Livy. What should she do?”
I regarded Carleen’s tear-stained face. Sophie spoke for her friend, because the lady ace was too emotionally overwrought to articulate. “Just because Carleen doesn’t want to be with Tommy anymore, it still really hurts her that he’s cool with that….”
“It shouldn’t be so easy,” Carleen managed to blurt between sobs. “For Tommy, Ah mean. How much could he ever really have loved me if breaking up didn’t seem to matter?”
“But you told me you broke up with him because you don’t love him anymore.”
Carleen hugged a box of Kleenex. “Yeah,…but still.”
I stroked her back reassuringly. “Time and distance is what you need. That’ll be a good start. All those clichés—‘Time heals all wounds,’ ‘Out of sight, out of mind’—are truisms as well.” For some people, anyway. Tom hadn’t been out of my mind once. But a while back, my dear friend Tessa had been the dumpee, and I counseled her to take a much-needed vacation overseas to clear her head. She came back to New York with an adorable Irishman in tow, and now they’re married. Still, it would be hard for Carleen to avoid Tommy DuPree; their paths crossed too frequently, unless Carleen really made the effort to avoid running into him.
“Thank Jesus we’re not in any of the same classes together this term,” Carleen sniffled. “But Ah have so much of his stuff. Ah even have his bathrobe!”
“I’d make a project of boxing it all up and getting it out of your life by asking an impartial third party to deliver it to Tommy.” I glanced over at Sophie who gave me such a funny look that I thought better of volunteering her services.
Carleen admitted that my suggestion made sense, but then burst into tears again, throwing herself into my arms and wailing, “Ah never thought something that was my idea could hurt so much!”
“I know, I know,” I murmured into her hair. “But that doesn’t mean it was a bad idea. Does it really make any sense to keep dating a guy when you no longer feel anything for him emotionally?”
“Then why do Ah feel so duuumb?” she sobbed.
“You’re not dumb. What you did was brave, Carleen. And mature. I’m proud of you.”
She broke the hug and wiped her nose with her forearm. “Ah think I’d better go home now,” she said, rising to her feet. “Sweet Jesus, Ah think Ah need a drink,” she mumbled.
“Not in my house, if you’re under twenty-one,” I said gently.
“Right you are!” Carleen said glumly. “Thank you, Livy. Ah got a lot to think about.” She shuffled out of my apartment, still snuffling as she headed toward the elevator.
Sophie didn’t move. “Honey, I think Carleen needs you now. Why don’t you go up to Clarendon with her tonight, make sure she doesn’t do something stupid,” I suggested. My girl looked utterly stricken. She glanced away from me to hide her tears. I scooted over to where she was sitting and touched her knee. “Hey, what’s up, Soph?”
She turned back to me with a guilty expression. “Livy, I’ve had a crush on Tommy DuPree since f
orever. And I could never tell Carleen because it would have been the ultimate betrayal even to mention it. I never did anything about it, though,” Sophie added hastily. “As soon as he and Carleen hooked up, sophomore year, I never even thought about him that way anymore. But when she told me she was going to break up with him, all of a sudden, it was, like, having your deepest wish come true maybe, except that it was a secret you had to keep from your best friend. Did that ever happen to you?”
I thought about the day I learned I was pregnant with Sophie. At first I didn’t tell anyone because I had no idea what I was going to do about it. Stay, go away, have it, abort it. Rodney was married—though at the time he considered himself separated—at least that’s what he always told me. We’d had a fling—not even an affair—and even at nineteen I knew enough to realize that becoming the third Mrs. Rodney Peterson was off the table. My roommates didn’t know about my pregnancy—not even Tessa. I was too scared, and too embarrassed, to talk about it. The last person I could have confided in was my father, and given my circumstances, the most pragmatic course was to have an abortion. A few days later, I had the Planned Parenthood phone number in my hand when Rodney called me—didn’t even meet me—to say, “Make it go away, Venus.” And that’s when I decided to have her. Because the irony was that if I “obeyed” Rodney, I wouldn’t in fact have had control over my own reproductive system; I’d be taking his orders and making his choice.
I looked Sophie squarely in the eye. “Yes, I’ve had my share of secrets like that over the years,” I said softly.
And then I confessed them.
Bottom of the Third
The other Tommy DuPree cleat dropped just before Sophie’s first semester finals.
“I have an ethical question,” she said, lifting her nose out of her broadcasting class notebook.
Choosing Sophie Page 8