The Good Mother

by Sue Miller

When they’d finished, the judge talked for a moment to the clerk. Carney listened attentively. The clerk and the judge agreed that Janie’d better Xerox this stuff. Carney was sent to the second floor, carrying all his papers with him. He looked at no one as he walked to the door.

  “O.K., next case,” the judge said as the doors whumped behind me. “Come on, let’s go, the next one!”

  The clerk pulled another folder from the stack, handed it to the judge. For a few minutes he stood talking to the judge with his back to the courtroom. They laughed about something. Then the clerk turned around. “The Dunlap matter,” he said and looked up expectantly.

  “Sit here,” Muth said. He got up.

  Fine too went up without Brian. The two lawyers—slender Fine, bulky Muth—huddled in front of the clerk. The judge watched them over his glasses. I couldn’t hear them over the room’s breathing sounds. My own blood seemed to slam noisily in my ears. The judge suddenly spoke up. “You agree on the guardian?” he asked the lawyers loudly.

  They seemed to be saying yes.

  “Yeah, well, let’s get a stipulation.” He nodded over and over at what they were saying. “Yeah. The family service folks.” He listened a minute more. “All right then, off you go. Let me see it when it’s done.” Muth and Fine turned and headed in opposite directions out of the maze of desks and pews in front of the bench. As Muth approached me, I could hear the door swing shut behind Brian and Fine.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “We’re all set?”

  “We’re all set in here for the moment.” I stood up and followed his broad puckering back out of the room. He was wearing an expensive linen suit, but it looked, as all his clothes did, slightly rumpled.

  Outside he caught my elbow, bent over me in his courtly way. “We’re headed for the family service officer here. Now remember I told you about her visit? So just relax. Everything’s going great from our perspective.” We walked down the long corridor, the high ceilings echoing our footsteps and, beyond them, a kind of universal din. The corridor fed into a large waiting area with a high dome over it. Most of the noise was generated here. A crowd as ragtag as what you’d find in any bus terminal: children jitterbugging around, yelling to each other, a large brown woman trying to nurse a wailing baby. There were even a few people with suitcases and the patient hopeless air of having taken up residence. Muth and I skirted them, turned left down another dark, echoing hallway.

  Halfway down it, Brian sat on a bench against the wall. The glass door next to him was open. Muth stopped outside it, turned to me. “O.K., the deal is, the lawyers go in first and talk to her about what we’re asking for. Then she’ll want to see you, and Mr. Dunlap.” He nodded towards Brian. “Then we’ll all confer together, in that order. O.K.?” He was talking softly, as though to exclude Brian. I nodded and sat down, and he stepped behind the glass door and closed it.

  Brian and I sat at opposite ends of the long wooden bench. I was closer to the door, could hear behind the frosted glass the murmur of our lawyers’ voices; but the activity in the echoing hallway made it impossible to pick out anything that was being said. Brian got up from the bench, paced down the hall, stood for a while by the waiting area. I watched him from a distance. When he started back down the broad hallway towards me, I stared straight ahead. He sat again, and the bench rocked slightly with his weight. I thought of all the times I’d wanted to call him, to speak to him in the last few weeks; of how sure I’d been that all it would take was my physical presence, my voice, for him to realize he was wrong about me. But now that he was here I felt in his implacable silence the distance he’d traveled from me. It was as though there were a thick substance in the air between us. I felt charmless now, not female, not sexual, not anything to Brian. Some process had begun which had seized me and already transformed me, in his eyes and my own.

  I looked over at him. He too was transformed—calm, impervious. I looked down again quickly when he shifted weight. My hands were knotted tight in my lap, the white bone showing under the skin, the freckles dark. The difference between us was that Brian knew all about these peculiar legal steps. He knew what to expect, how to ride events. He was at home with Fine, even with Muth, my Muth, in a way I would never be. I looked at him again, the expensive suit, the relaxed posture. I thought of Leo in his borrowed jacket and felt suddenly helpless.

  After a while, the lawyers came out, carried on a friendly burst of conversation. The family service officer was behind them. She leaned out and beckoned beyond me, to Brian. As he went in and shut the door, Muth sat down next to me.

  “You O.K.?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “You look scared,” he said.

  “I am,” I whispered.

  “No need to be,” he said. “You just relax, be yourself. She’ll just want to know sort of how it happened. You just downpedal the whole thing, like I told you. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “But don’t pretend like it’s not important. She wants to know you’re sorry. That’s very important here, and with the G.A.L.”

  “G.A.L.?”

  “The guardian, the shrink.” He lifted his delicate hand, used it to weight his words. “You’re sorry, Leo misunderstood you, maybe you both used bad judgment, you know. But basically you’re involved, you’re concerned, et cetera. You get it?” He bent towards me, and I had the momentary impulse to rest my head on his shoulder, to ask him to hold me. Beyond him, down the hall, I could see Brian’s lawyer leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, watching us. He was small, dark, feral, as unlike Muth as I could imagine someone being. I nodded at Muth, sat straighter.

  “I’ve told her our concerns, you know, that you need to see Molly, all that stuff. I think that’s all set. Everyone’s real happy with the guardian arrangement, so I think we’re in a good position here. Real good. Now,” he gestured with his head down the hall, “I’ve gotta make a few calls back to the office about some stuff, so I’ll head out. I’ll be back by the time you’re done. I’ll see you then, O.K.?”

  I said it was, and he walked gracefully off down the hall. As he passed, Brian’s lawyer said something, smiled slightly at him, then took another drag on his cigarette.

  Brian’s voice rose and fell inside the room. The family service officer had a light voice, too soft for me to hear. When she asked him something it was like a musical absence, a rest. Every now and then I could hear a word or two Brian said—absolutely, criminal. I watched my hands. Fine sat on a bench further down the hall, lighted another cigarette. I sat there for fifteen minutes or so. When Brian finally came out, he looked down at me, a clean contempt in his face. I saw that it had been feeding his rage just to talk about me, and I was frightened.

  “Mrs. Dunlap?” the light voice said.

  I stood and she held the door open for me. She was a big faded blond woman who had once been very pretty. She still had that carriage, that confidence. Her skin was flawless, though now lined, slightly pouched at the jawline; and her makeup was very careful, very restrained. She wore a pink dress. She seemed impeccable, innocent, and she reminded me of my mother. I wondered what horrors she had dealt with today, every day, whether the ugliness my life had become was of any consequence to her.

  “I’m Mrs. Harkessian,” she said, when the door was shut. She held her hand out and I shook it. “Anna Dunlap,” I answered. Her grip was firm.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  The room was tiny, but had the same high ceilings as the hall, so the space above our heads was ample, mocked the box we sat in. There were a table, four chairs, a window, then the high walls, painted a worn, pale blue. The room had been partitioned at one time, and the blank sheet rock cut brutally into the elaborate molding at the baseboard and the ceiling. I sat by the window. Outside, below me, three workmen watched a fourth slowly stirring cement in a wheelbarrow.

  Mrs. Harkessian sat too, and explained to me that she just needed to ask a few questions. Her tone was apologetic, as though I
were doing her an enormous favor by granting her this interview. She began. The questions were at first harmless—What did I do? Could I describe the arrangements I’d had for childcare? Had I had other relationships since the divorce? How serious was my relationship with Leo? Then she focused on him. How long had I known him? Could I tell her a little about his background? When did I start bringing him to the house? Had I noticed anything unusual in his relationship to Molly? Did I know about the specific episode which had triggered Mr. Dunlap’s complaint? Was I present? So I just had Mr. Cutter’s description of it to go by? Had Molly seemed upset around this time? What was my attitude about what had happened?

  At first I was nervous. I could hear the fear in my own voice, in my breathlessness. But somewhere midstream I found a persona in which to answer the questions and I began to feel more comfortable. I frowned. I took each one very seriously, and I carefully disposed of it, as Muth had instructed me. It was as though her polite professionalism, her sincerity, suggested an answering image for me. Mr. Cutter, I said, had misunderstood my attitude about issues relating to sex. Though it was clear to me how the episode could have happened, I didn’t condone it. As I talked, I kept thinking of my mother, of how I’d lied to her in high school, the long elaborate stories entirely fabricated about what had gone on at parties. Yet this was all the truth, everything I was saying to Mrs. Harkessian. What made it feel the same way?

  She mentioned that Mr. Dunlap thought there had also been times when Mr. Cutter and I had Molly in bed with us. Could I explain to her my thinking about that?

  I looked down at my hands for a moment; remembered Muth’s advice. I shook my head. “It was a mistake, I know that,” I said. “I was very caught up in my feelings about Leo, and I just didn’t give enough thought to Molly, to what might be confusing or difficult for her in all of it. She was doing so well, she seemed to like him so much. It was as though we were a family.” I paused. “In my defense, I guess, the one time we were . . . having intercourse, she was asleep.”

  Her face firmed, suddenly looked younger, tougher. “But you did actually have intercourse at least once while the child was in bed with you?” My heart stopped.

  I should have lied, I realized. This was something they couldn’t have known except from me or Leo, and I’d given it to them. Then, unbidden, tears rose to my eyes. I felt a nearly vindictive joy at their arrival. I stared through them at Mrs. Harkessian’s pretty, unmoved face. “Yes,” I said softly, as though feeling deep shame. One tear spilled over, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. “But she was asleep. She’d had a bad dream and I’d comforted her about it.”

  “I see,” she said, and bent her head to make a note.

  Then she looked up and smiled coolly at me. “One last question,” she said. “If the court makes it a condition of custody that you keep Mr. Cutter away from Molly—which would certainly alter your relationship with him—would you be willing to do that?” She tilted her head slightly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She made another note, smiled again, folded her hands. Now, she said, Mr. Muth had told her my main concern was getting to see Molly soon, and she could certainly understand that. Was there anything else I wanted to ask about, wanted to add? No? Well then, she’d get Mr. Dunlap again, and the lawyers.

  They all trooped in behind her from the hall. Brian sat down, but Muth and Fine remained standing, behind Brian and me. Mrs. Harkessian sat down again too, and looked around at the lawyers. “Now, let me explain my role to the Dunlaps for a second if you will, gentlemen,” she said.

  She looked at me and Brian. “Since there’s a guardian appointed here,” she said, “what I’m really responsible for is just laying out the ground rules temporarily for both of you. Mr. Dunlap’s concern is simply not to put the child at risk during this period. Mrs. Dunlap’s concern is to be able to see her regularly until the question of custody is settled. And the court is concerned with both these issues too. I think what I’m going to recommend to the attorneys and ask them to work out is that Mother be able to see the child at the intervals agreed on.” She looked sternly at Brian. “But that Mr. Cutter must be out of the house, nowhere around during those visits.” Now she looked at me. I nodded. “And I’m going to recommend that the child be kept where she is, basically in Father’s custody, except for visits, until the trial, to avoid shifting her back and forth unnecessarily.” Brian leaned back suddenly and I looked at him. He was faintly smiling. He glanced back at Fine. Fine’s eyes, under the heavy lids, flickered to him and quickly away. I understood this was a victory for them. “But I’m going to stipulate that the trial be speedy, ask to get back within six weeks or so. O.K.?” Muth and Fine made agreeable noises. She looked again at me and Brian. “Do either of you have any questions?” she asked. Brian shook his head.

  “When will I be able to see Molly?” I asked.

  “You’re overdue for a visit now, aren’t you?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “You guys work that out for as soon as possible, then,” she said, looking up at the lawyers. “Now, who’s got the good handwriting here?” she asked. No one answered. “Come on, you guys, let’s get this going. I’m going to start dictating this thing.”

  “I’ll do it,” Fine said. He stepped forward. Brian shifted closer to me to make room for him, and Fine sat down at the table. He smelled strongly of some gingery aftershave.

  Mrs. Harkessian dictated in her firm light voice. That the parties agreed upon a psychiatrist to be appointed by the court to examine the child and make a recommendation as to custody. That we would come back to court within six weeks. That during the interim, Brian would have physical custody, but that I would see her regularly. Muth and Fine haggled a little over the language, but mostly we sat in long silences listening to Fine’s pen scratch on the yellow paper. When we were through, Mrs. Harkessian looked it over quickly. Then she said, “Great!” She looked up at Muth. “You want to check it, counsel?”

  She handed it over Brian’s head, and Muth read it, moving his big head slowly up and down.

  “O.K., looks like we’re all set then,” she said. She passed it first to Brian, then to me, for our signatures. Then she stood up. We all rose. As the lawyers sidestepped past her to the door, Brian had to move back towards me to make room. He stumbled over my foot and caught himself by grabbing my arm. I felt his weight momentarily on me and reflexively held out my other hand to steady him. As though I carried infection in my touch, he recoiled from me. The lawyers were in motion, on their way out, but Mrs. Harkessian watched us steadily and smiled her pretty smile.

  I didn’t get home until after five, because I waited until Muth and Fine had gone back before the judge again. The telephone was ringing when I walked in. It was Leo. I told him everything had gone fairly well, that the court date was set for October. He wanted to come over, but I asked him not to, said I wanted to be alone. As soon as I hung up, though, I couldn’t bear the idea. I called Ursula. She said she’d stop for pizza and be over in about an hour.

  “I hope you like anchovies,” she shouted up from deep in the stairwell.

  “A little goes a long way,” I said.

  “Oh, shit, you don’t like them?” She sounded genuinely stricken. She leaned into the open space, her hand to her bosom. Her face was a white circle below me. I couldn’t see her expression.

  “I love them,” I said. “I’m ecstatic to have about two. The rest I’ll just pick off and give to you.”

  “Thank God. Then it all works out for the best. I like dozens,” she said, disappearing. She panted up the last flight of stairs. She was wearing high-heeled sandals and very short shorts. Delicate silver stretch marks gleamed on her outer thighs. She bent her face, with its smudgy innocence, into the air next to me and made a kissing sound.

  “Was it terrible?” she asked, pulling back, frowning.

  “Not really,” I said. “I find I’m very good at discussing my guilt.”

  “Fuck guilt,”
she said. “It’s all relative. Can you imagine if I ever had to expose my sex life? It’d make Moll Flanders look like she needed hormone therapy.”

  “You don’t have a kid.”

  She was trailing me, clomping loudly down the long dark hallway. I’d set the table for us in the dining room.

  “Do you want wine or beer?” I asked.

  “Beer. And the reason I don’t have a kid is ’cause I’m too irresponsible. And you’re not. So I don’t want to hear about guilt.” She set the pizza down, moved to the piano and began to play the piece she’d been working on when we’d stopped her lessons for the summer, a sonatina by Beethoven. I went into the kitchen. I was standing at the counter, looking in the messy utensil drawer for a churchkey, when she stopped in midmeasure and called out, “Everyone knows you’re a good mother, Anna.” And then a minute later, “My God, smell these anchovies.”

  My eyes had clouded quickly with tears. No one except Ursula had said anything positive to me about being a mother since Brian had set this whole machine in motion. She’d gotten back from her visit to New York about a week earlier, and since then she’d been in touch with me daily. She was aggressively, assertively in my corner. It was to get this, I realized abruptly, that I had called her tonight, that I wanted her more than I wanted Leo, whose presence only made me doubt myself.

  “Did I tell you my anchovy theory of sex?” she yelled.

  I thought of my open windows, imagined neighbors called in to testify about my social life, my friends.

  I wiped my eyes and called back. “Just a second.” I found the churchkey, brought it and two beers back to the table. She was pulling the pizza apart, setting a piece on my plate. The big box flapped open, and the smell brought saliva to my mouth. I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. All I’d had were three or four cups of machine coffee as I sat, a stray among strays, in the waiting area of the courthouse.

  “What’s your theory?” I asked, sitting down.

  “Well, you remember that guy I was going out with last fall? Mike Levine? Who mostly liked oral sex?” She said this as someone else would say, “Who had brown eyes,” or “Who was a doctor.”