by Noir, Roxie
He goes on for a moment with the formalities, and Lucinda finally catches my eye, raising both her eyebrows the tiniest fraction, an expression that I’m pretty sure means Did you know?
I shake my head ever so slightly. She turns her attention forward again.
“…so if counsel for Ms. Partlow would please begin?”
“Thank you, your honor,” the other lawyer says. He stands. He buttons his jacket in a smooth, practiced gesture, then stands behind the podium between the two desks. “First, as Ms. Partlow is now known as Mrs. Thornhill, I move that we include that in the record.”
I sit bolt upright, my head swiveling toward Crystal, across the room. She’s looking back at me, a smug, satisfied look on her face.
I look down. There’s a huge diamond ring on her finger, the man sitting next to her patting her hand comfortingly.
I feel like the courtroom is tilting. Now I’m sweating everywhere, not just my palms. Crystal getting pregnant is one thing. If she got knocked up again by accident, I — the first person to accidentally knock her up — wouldn’t exactly be surprised.
But getting married is different. That takes at least some amount of intention and forethought, two things I wasn’t sure Crystal was capable of.
I couldn’t care less that Crystal’s married. Good for her. But if I don’t know, that means she didn’t tell Rusty, either.
She didn’t tell her own daughter that she has a new stepdad.
She didn’t tell her daughter that she’s going to have a new sibling.
Cold prickles travel down my spine.
“Furthermore,” continues her lawyer. “I’d like to make an amendment to the petition.”
“What is the amendment?” asks the judge.
“I’d like to change this from a visitation hearing to a custody hearing,” the lawyer says.
I feel like the floor falls from under me. Lucinda’s already on her feet.
“Your Honor,” she says, but the judge holds up one hand.
“That’s highly unusual, on what grounds?” Hughes drones on, like a bomb didn’t just go off in his courtroom.
“Mr. Thornhill has accepted a job offer in Denver, and the Thornhills would like to amend custody in light of that,” the lawyer goes on.
I’m out of my chair before I know it.
“No!” I say.
Lucinda’s grip is on my arm like steel, but I ignore it.
“You can’t take her to Denver,” I say, my voice already rising. “She lives here. Her life is here, her family, her friends, her school, you can’t just—”
“Ms. Washington, please control your client,” the judge booms over me.
“Daniel,” Lucinda says, her hand even tighter on my arm.
I close my mouth, mid-word, but I haven’t broken eye contact with Crystal’s lawyer, my heart pounding wildly out of control.
Denver. It’s two time zones away. A thousand miles. Fifteen hundred?
“Daniel,” Lucinda says again, and I swallow hard. “Come on.”
I sit, slowly. I’m amazed that my hands aren’t shaking.
“If I may continue?” the lawyer asks in a tone of voice that makes me want to commit violence. “We’re requesting full custody, with Mr. Loveless getting the standard ninety overnights of visitation per year.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t. I bring one hand to my mouth because I think I might vomit, the courtroom closing in around me, but I don’t say anything. Already I’m afraid that I fucked myself over with my outburst.
“Your Honor,” Lucinda is saying, still on her feet. “This is highly unusual. Mr. Loveless has been the sole legal and physical guardian for nearly six years, and a change of this magnitude would be incredibly—”
“Thank you, Ms. Washington,” the judge says, and Lucinda presses her lips together, eyes blazing. He redirects his attention to the slimeball behind the podium.
“I do happen to agree with opposing counsel on this, Mr. Winchester,” he says. “This is an extraordinary request made with no warning. I’m sure you’re fully aware that the court is in no way prepared to make a ruling at this hearing?”
“Of course, Your Honor,” he says, smoothly as ever.
Denver. Ninety overnights. That’s three months; that means that they’d have her during the school year, and maybe I’d fly her out for vacations and the summer.
I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine a life where I don’t wrangle her out of bed and onto the school bus every morning, a life where I don’t help her with homework at the kitchen table, a life where she doesn’t complain while I try to untangle her hair after she bathes.
“May I briefly go over the change in circumstances?” the lawyer asks.
I sneak another glance over at Crystal. She’s rubbing her belly like it’s a crystal ball, like she’s trying to draw attention to it.
“Proceed,” says the judge.
The lawyer clears his throat. My undershirt is damp, clinging to me with sweat.
“There are several major life changes of note,” the lawyer begins. “First, my client was married one month ago to Mr. Thornhill, an executive at Prometheus Mining. They’re currently residing in Holmes Creek, where they own a home.”
I glance at Lucinda. She’s taking notes, and circles Holmes Creek. My stomach writhes. The houses there start at six hundred grand, and I have no idea how high they go.
“In addition, Mrs. Thornhill is currently several months pregnant with her second child and plans to be a stay at home mother to both of her children.”
At the other table, Crystal nods piously. She’s still rubbing her belly.
It feels like a hand grabs my heart and twists with jealousy. Not for me, but for Rusty. I can’t imagine Crystal ever rubbed her belly like that when she was pregnant the first time. I can’t imagine that Crystal made a single accommodation for her first daughter.
Hell, she admitted to drinking and smoking pot through her pregnancy with Rusty. God only knows what she didn’t admit to.
“In Denver, Mr. Thornhill will be a Vice President of Prometheus, and they’ve already selected a home in an exclusive neighborhood. Rustilina is on several waiting lists at top private schools, where she would be taught by some of the state’s best—”
The judge holds up a hand.
“You don’t need to advertise the schools to me,” he says. “Are there any other life changes?”
“Mr. Thornhill has a brother in Denver, so both girls would grow up with their cousins,” he finishes. “Again, family is very—”
“Important, yes,” says the judge. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester.”
The other lawyer gathers his documents and leaves.
“Ms. Washington, would you mind answering a few questions on behalf of your client?”
She steps smartly to the podium. I lace my fingers together on the table in front of myself, hoping that I look cool, calm, and confident, even though I feel like someone’s taken a wrecking ball to my insides.
“Let me just run down a few facts here,” the judge says, looking at his papers. “Does Mr. Loveless still reside with his daughter in the house owned by his mother?”
Lucinda clears her throat.
“Yes, Your Honor,” she says. “Mrs. Loveless is a strong presence in—"
“Thank you,” he cuts her off. “And she’s attending Burnley County Public Schools?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mr. Loveless still in the liquor business?”
“He co-owns a brewery with his brother, Your Honor. In fact, Mr. Loveless has four—”
“Thank you,” he cuts her off again. Lucinda’s lips thin, but she stands there patiently, respectfully. “And has Mr. Loveless experienced any life changes not noted in these documents? He isn’t also married and expecting, is he?”
He’s half-smiling, like this is some joke. Like the possibility of taking my daughter away from me is somehow funny.
“No, Your—”
“I’m engaged,” I say,
standing suddenly.
I say it before I can think, the lie out of my mouth and in the courtroom before I can claw it back.
Total silence follows. It feels like my heart stops beating.
“Congratulations,” says the judge, barely looking at me. “It seems that you didn’t inform Ms. Washington?”
I button the button on my sportcoat to give my hands something to do while my mind races, going ten thousand miles a second while Lucinda looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
Instantly, I know I fucked up. I fucked up and I can’t take it back, because I just lied to a judge who’s considering taking my daughter away from me.
I take a deep breath and dig my hole deeper.
“I had understood this to be a visitation hearing,” I say. “Your Honor.”
“My client didn’t realize it would have any bearing on this matter,” Lucinda says smoothly.
“May I have the lady’s name?” the judge asks, pen poised.
I hesitate, but only for half a second.
There’s only one name I can possibly say.
“Charlotte McManus,” I say.
From the corner of my eye, I see Crystal’s head whip around to look at me.
Don’t panic.
Even though you just told a judge that you’re engaged to your best friend.
“And what is Ms. McManus’s occupation?”
“Carpentry,” I answer.
“Are you cohabitating?”
“We’re not,” I say, the first truthful thing out of my mouth since I stood. “We believe in waiting until after marriage to live together.”
That part’s just to make myself sound better. I’ve never thought about it before. I’ve never been in a position to cohabitate with anyone and definitely not with Charlie.
Charlie, who is going to kill me.
“Do you have a wedding date?” he asks.
“We’re thinking next summer.”
The judge just nods, writing.
“Is that all, Mr. Loveless? Ms. Washington?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Lucinda quickly adds.
“All right, then,” Judge Hughes says. “In that case, I’d like for the plaintiff to write up another petition and have it to everyone no later than…”
I look down at the table, at Rusty’s drawing of us with a wombat.
I just fucked up.
I panicked. I never panic, except that I did just now, faced with losing Rusty to exclusive neighborhoods and private schools, to a mom who’s suddenly claiming to be someone I know she’s not, to a stepdad who could probably afford to actually purchase and house a wombat if he felt like it.
I, who live with my mother and own a business based around alcohol, lied to a judge.
I, who send my child to public schools and will only ever be able to afford public schools, lied to a judge.
Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
I’m nauseous. My undershirt is soaked with sweat, because I just told a bald-faced lie to the man who’ll decide whether my daughter stays here or moves across the country.
Unbelievably stupid.
I try to listen to what the judge is saying now, what the next steps here are, but I can barely hear him over the pounding of blood in my ears. I grab a pen and write down a word, a phrase, here and there, but I can barely listen.
Maybe it will be fine.
It doesn’t have to be a big deal. No one outside of this courtroom knows, and Crystal doesn’t even live in town anymore.
Get Charlie a fake ring, talk her into coming to the next hearing with you, and it’ll all be fine.
Totally fine.
No big deal.
“Dismissed,” the judge says, and everyone else stands. A moment later, I stand, and the judge leaves the room through a back door.
Lucinda turns to me immediately, her lips still a thin line.
“Congratulations,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say automatically.
At the other table, Crystal, her new husband, and her lawyer all stand. They file out, one by one, Crystal glancing over at me, her hands no longer on her belly now that the judge is gone.
We lock eyes. Hers are cold, blank, unreadable.
“Daniel,” Lucinda says, her voice grave.
The knots in my stomach tighten so hard I think they might break. I feel like a kid about to get chastised at school, but I also know that I deserve it.
I clear my throat.
“Yes?”
“You know that lying to a judge during a custodial hearing would reflect far more poorly on you than being a single father, don’t you?” she says.
I swallow hard. I shove one hand through my hair, my nerves jangling anew.
Fuck. Fuck!
“I panicked,” I admit, closing my eyes. “I didn’t mean to. But he was talking about letting her bond with her baby sister and having a real family and sending her to private schools and giving her ice-skating lessons and buying her ponies and—”
“—all of which is simply talk from the plaintiff, they’ve got nothing to back up those assertions—"
“—and I panicked,” I finish. “That’s all. I panicked and said something stupid and — oh, fuck me running, I can’t believe I said that.”
Lucinda sighs.
Then she puts one hand on my arm.
“Is Charlotte at least a real person?”
I just nod, mutely.
“Think she’d be willing to put on a ring and come to a hearing?”
I take a deep breath.
“I think I could talk her into it,” I say.
Chapter Two
Charlie
It’s been ninety minutes. Still no text.
I snap my goggles back onto my face, make sure that my hair’s all properly secured, and turn the lathe on again, the low hum filling the air around me. I lower the chisel until it’s biting into the spinning wood, a gap widening.
I let up on the chisel, do it again on another point, slide it down the length of the wood as it spins, cutting the square piece round. This is the ninth baluster that I’ve turned today, so by now I’m doing it on autopilot.
He can’t possibly still be in court. It’s been an hour and a half.
I frown at the wood as it takes shape: a lump here, an elongated lump in the middle, tapering off toward the top and bottom. Another bump. A line.
Usually, I revel in this sort of thing. I like turning a lump of wood into art, coaxing a form out of nothing. I like using my hands and creating something I can hold, touch, feel. It’s why I like my job.
Except today I can’t focus on it to save my life. I’m a bundle of nerves, my mind everywhere but in front of me.
He forgot to turn his phone back on, I tell myself. He was out of there in twenty minutes, everything is fine, he just forgot.
I narrow the taper at one end, careful not to press too hard. I’ve already had to scrap one of these today.
Right. When was the last time Daniel forgot something?
I can’t even think of it. I know he’s not perfect. He must forget things all the time, but compared to me — someone who routinely goes to warm up a forgotten cup of coffee, only to discover yesterday’s forgotten coffee already in the microwave — he seems like a machine.
I shake my head to focus on the task at hand, particularly since it involves sharp objects, dangerous machinery, and expensive stuff.
The balusters are for a staircase on a yacht; balusters are the spindle-things that hold up the handrail, a term I didn’t learn until the second year of my carpentry program. I learned that some yachts have staircases last Friday, when I discovered that I’d be hand-making the parts for one.
I have no idea whose yacht it is. I have no idea where on earth this yacht even is, since Sprucevale is in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains, several hours inland, and I strongly doubt the river is deep enough for a boat that big. There are some lakes around, but they don’t seem like ya
cht lakes.
They seem much more like fishing-from-a-rundown-motorboat-with-a-case-of-beer-in-a-styrofoam-cooler lakes, but I’m not a lake expert.
I examine the baluster carefully, then flip the lathe off. The whine dies down, and I take the wood off of it, put it down next to the first eight that I made.
Then I frown.
“Dammit,” I hiss out loud, just to myself. The lathe is in one corner of the Mountain Woodworks building, which is big and open-plan and constantly noisy, because someone’s always running a power saw.
These don’t match. I fucked up. The big lump tapers the wrong way, because I was worrying about whether Daniel was still in court and wasn’t paying attention. You’d think that after making eight of the exact same thing, I could have another thought for one second without screwing up, but apparently not.
I grab the bad baluster, put it on a work bench, and take another square length of red cedar. I pencil the markings on it — cut here, here, here, and here — then load it onto the lathe and throw the switch, irritated with myself.
I haven’t gotten any further than the first slice when in the corner of my vision, my phone lights up. I grab it instantly, chisel on the table, shoving my goggles onto my head.
Daniel: I need to talk to you.
Me: What happened?
Daniel: I’m coming by.
Me: It’s almost lunch time, can we meet somewhere?
No response. I fidget with my phone, shove my other hand in the pocket of my coveralls, start fiddling with a wood chip there. Nothing. He’s not even typing.
Me: What happened?!?
Me: Just tell me, I hate surprises. Come on.
Still nothing.
Me: Please??????
Daniel doesn’t respond, no matter how hard I stare at the phone. I bite my lip, watching my screen, a thousand bad possibilities flickering through my mind.
Behind me, the whine of the lathe stops. I whirl around.
William, my boss, is standing there.
“Best not to leave that running,” he says, solemnly. “Could catch something on it by accident and that’d get ugly.”