Entering Normal

by Anne Leclaire

  “Want me to get him?”

  “What? You don’t work anymore?”

  He runs a hand over her breast, which—if she can believe what this sweet-talking man says—is perfect. “Taking a few days off.”

  She waits.

  “Going down to Cambridge.” He moves on to her other breast. “There’s an open mike at a coffeehouse there. Ant has some connections. We might do a taping.”

  “Oh,” she says, drawing away the tiniest bit. Musicians have traveling feet.

  He pulls her back. “You could come.”

  “Can’t,” she says.

  “Zack could come, too,” he says, reading her mind.

  “He’s got school.”

  “Fuck school. Take him to the science museum, the aquarium.”

  “I can’t.” And there’s work. Since Christmas she’s only on two days a week, days she can’t afford to take off. And Ty is not exactly swimming in cash.

  “You don’t want to go?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, come. It’s simple.”

  Nothing is ever as simple as it seems. The doorbell cuts off the conversation.

  She can’t imagine who’d be ringing her bell. Rose? She gets up, pulls on her shorts, Ty’s shirt. On the way down the stairs it hits her Billy might have come back. Would he dare show his face again? Except for the checks he’s been sending since February, he hasn’t been in contact. She peeks out the window to see if there’s a black Ram pickup. What she sees is a police cruiser pulled up to the curb.

  “OPAL GATES?” THE OFFICER SAYS.

  “Yes.” Her tongue turns to cotton.

  He holds out an envelope. “Here,” he says. “I have to give you this.” He thrusts the envelope into her hands.

  “What is it?’

  “Court order.”

  He looks down at the paper he is carrying and rattles off something about a summons and a motion. Words she can’t take in float in the air. Domestic relations. Temporary service.

  “If you’ll just sign here,” he says.

  She freezes. She has no intention of signing anything.

  “Right here,” he says, pushing a pen into her stiff fingers. “To show you’ve received the papers.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look,” he says, not unkindly. “These papers have been filed in the district court, and I’m serving you with copies. There will be a hearing. You have twenty days from today to file an answer with the court.”

  “The court?”

  He shuffles through the papers. “The hearing date is set for March twenty-eighth.”

  None of this makes sense to Opal.

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “A lawyer,” she parrots. Her mind brays, A lawyer, a lawyer.

  “An attorney. My advice is to get one. You’ll need one for the hearing.”

  His voice is hollow, as if she is listening from underwater. “Hearing?”

  “At the district court. For custody.”

  Custody. The word strikes Opal with the swiftness of a snake. One summer, when she was five, during a trip to Virginia Beach, she was knocked down by a wave. Before she could get up, a second wave roared in, slamming her down in the surf. She wasn’t in real danger. Her daddy was there within seconds, scooping her up in his arms, but in the moments before he reached her, she felt panic cross over to terror. This is how she feels now. The cold shock of disbelief, then sheer and burning fear.

  “Get off my porch!” she screams. “You get the fuck out of here!”

  “Opal,” Ty calls from inside. “Something wrong?”

  “No sense getting upset, Miss Gates,” the cop says. He’s delivered papers like these before. “I’m just doing my job. As soon as you sign I’ll leave.”

  Opal’s hand shakes as she scrawls her name.

  “What’s the matter?” Ty is by her side.

  “It’s Billy. That asshole is serving me with papers. Papers. ” She opens the envelope, but the print on the page swims. “He’s trying to get Zack.”

  “You sure?”

  “That’s what the cop said. He said custody. And I’m standing here holding the damn things, aren’t I? Jesus.” She’s falling into a fast rage. “Well, here’s what he can do with his fucking papers.” She tears the first sheet in half.

  “Hey. Take it easy.”

  “You take it easy. What do you care anyway? What’s it matter to you?”

  “It matters.”

  “Why? Zack’s nothing to you.”

  “That’s not true, Opal. You know how I feel about Zack.”

  “But he isn’t your son. He’s mine. He belongs to me, and no one— least of all that for-shit Billy Steele—is going to take him from me.”

  He kneels and starts picking up the papers. “Settle down.”

  “Just leave,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Leave. Just go on. Get out.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “You always do this, you know.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make me the enemy. When you’re scared, you make me the enemy. But I’m not. I love you, Opal.”

  “Just leave.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He looks at her sadly, then bends down and kisses her. She doesn’t give in.

  “I’ll call later,” he says. “And I’m here, you know. You want me, just call. I’ll be here.”

  Which is a fucking lie. He won’t be here. He’ll be in fucking Cambridge, making a fucking recording.

  LATER, AFTER SHE’S GOT ZACK TO BED, HE CALLS.

  “How you doing?” he says.

  How the fuck does he think she’s doing?

  “I’ve got a name for you. A lawyer. You’re going to need one, and she’s good.”

  A lawyer. Money. Shit.

  “She’s over in Springfield. Works alone. Charges the lowest fee around.”

  Great. Probably on the edge of getting disbarred.

  He gives her the lawyer’s name and number, tells her he loves her.

  Words are cheap, she thinks.

  After they hang up, she retrieves the court papers.

  According to the first page, Billy wants to be adjudicated Zack’s father. This she doesn’t understand. She’s never denied Billy is Zack’s daddy. It’s on the birth certificate, for heaven’s sake. Everyone knows he’s the daddy. Why is he taking her to court to prove something everyone knows is true in the first place? What’s wrong with him?

  She continues reading. The second page is a petition for the court to appoint a guardian ad litem—an individual, she reads, whose purpose is to evaluate the family and specifically investigate issues relative to custody.

  Relative to custody.

  No way he can do this, she tells herself. No fucking way Billy’s going to get Zack. No way a judge will take a child from his mama and give him to a man she isn’t even married to, a man who didn’t want him in the first place.

  Will he?

  CHAPTER 26

  ROSE

  OPAL’S OUT THERE WORKING IN THAT GARDEN—NOT that you could call a puny plot like that a real garden. Her skinny little body is cloaked in a man’s shirt—Tyrone’s, most likely. The two are thicker than thieves. The girl’s probably fixing to ask him to move in. Rose wouldn’t put anything past that one. She pulls the shade down and returns to the kitchen.

  Today’s the day. She can’t postpone it any longer. Much as she’d like to ignore the mole, no ointment she’s bought to date has done one thing to relieve it. She’s going to have to see someone. Doc Blessing is out of the question. He’d feel bound to tell Ned.

  She finds the phone book, flips to the yellow pages. Lord, but there’s a lot of doctors. Who would believe six pages of listings? She points a finger, lets it land on the page. Dr. Alan Magneson. General Practice, says the fine print after his name. This sounds like what she wants. Springfield is far enough away so she
shouldn’t run into anyone she knows.

  She copies out the number. She’ll call after lunch.

  She’s mashing up the eggs for a salad when she hears screaming from the yard next door. She practically drops the bowl getting to the window. There’s the two of them—Tyrone’s shown up since she last looked over—and they’re rolling in the grass. Right there in open view of anyone who cares to watch, Tyrone is on top of Opal. Next thing, they’re kissing. Well, why don’t they just do it right out in plain sight? No better than a pair of mating dogs.

  She returns to the eggs, but finds she’s lost all appetite for lunch. She refrigerates the salad, pours herself a glass of iced coffee. Finally she dials the doctor in Springfield.

  “Dr. Magneson’s office,” a voice says.

  “I’d like to make an appointment with the doctor.”

  “Are you a patient of his?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Do you have a referral?”

  The question throws her. “No,” she finally says.

  “I’m sorry, Miss—”

  “Mrs. Nelson.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Nelson. The doctor isn’t taking new patients at this time. We can’t see you without a referral.”

  “Oh.” Rose doesn’t bother with good-bye. Referral? This is going to be more complicated than she thought.

  At the end of the Physicians listing she reads: Also See Health Clinics. She flips back to the Hs, finds an ad for “Health Connections,” which doesn’t sound very medical.

  Women’s Health Services of Springfield another ad proclaims. Services. Connections. Are these people doctors or repairmen?

  She dials the “Services” number.

  “Women’s Health Services of Springfield,” a bored voice recites. “Health care for women.”

  “Yes. I’d like to make an appointment with a doctor.”

  “Gynecology?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want to see a gynecologist?”

  “No. Just a regular doctor.” She’s not about to go into detail with some stranger.

  “Is this urgent?”

  Is it? She supposes not.

  She is given an appointment for three weeks from today.

  When she thinks to look outside again, Tyrone and Opal have gone inside. She’s thankful for that.

  IT’S 2:00 A.M.

  Rose is sitting in Ned’s recliner, staring at the TV. With the money these people have to spend, you’d think they could come up with something better than the garbage that’s on.

  She hits the remote, sees a muscular blond woman in a bathing suit and Nikes jumping on and off a platform. Her ponytail swishes from side to side as she bounces up and down. Her smile shows a lot of teeth, so white they look unreal. Behind her, two men and two women are also stepping on and off platforms, clapping their hands to what must be music, although Rose doesn’t know for sure because she has the sound turned off. She doesn’t need Ned waking up.

  She clicks the channel button. Another blond, this one demonstrating a comb that makes her hair look fuller. A number flashes on the screen. You can order by a credit card. for $19.99. For a comb.

  Click. Another actress who looks vaguely familiar peers out at Rose. She smiles, revealing a set of impossibly white teeth. Dentists are becoming rich off these women. Before and after pictures of other women appear on the screen. The actress is promoting a line of cosmetics. Rose adjusts the sound so she can hear. The whole kit— foundation, blush, lipstick and lip liner, two kinds of shadow, eyeliner, mascara, something called a “concealer”—costs $119. Imagine. She turns the sound back off.

  Click. A man demonstrates hair products for men.

  Click. Another nearly nude body. A man with grotesquely developed muscles—you can see the veins—speaks into the camera while a blond girl in next to nothing demonstrates a machine that as far as Rose can make out from their gestures is supposed to reduce your stomach.

  Her own stomach is beyond help: soft, doughy, scarred. With a mole that is not going away but is probably nothing. Probably.

  And what if it is something? Cancer. There, she thinks it. The big C. “Cancer,” she says aloud to the blond who is now performing an apparently unlimited number of sit-ups. She has a stomach with muscles you can actually see. With no moles. The woman screams health.

  Click. And if it is cancer? She makes herself say the word again. Will she get treatment? Chemo? All that poison they pour in your system that makes you go bald? Will she tell Ned? Well, she’ll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

  She hits the remote again. An old black-and-white movie floods the screen. As far as she knows, there’s no cancer on her side of the family. Heart is what she thought she’d have to watch for. Her father at sixty. Her mother at fifty-eight. One minute ironing the Thanksgiving tablecloth—the large damask one—and the next collapsed on the floor. Dead by the time the rescue squad even arrived.

  Women’s Health Services. She doesn’t like the sound of it. Probably for people on welfare. Black people. A sudden thought horrifies her. Lord, she hopes she hasn’t gotten herself involved in some abortion place.

  On the screen, the scene is so dark Rose has to squint. She stares at the actor. Someone she had never liked, though she can’t for the life of her think of his name. Big beefy man. He’s wearing a uniform. World War II movie. Nothing she wants to watch. The name comes to her as she points the remote, removing him from the screen. Robert Mitchum.

  Click. The Shopping Channel. It amazes Rose the things people will buy. Shapeless sweat suits in lavender and aqua. Sweaters. All kinds of tasteless jewelry. Absolutely no guarantee about quality. The camera zooms in on a doll. A collector’s item, according to the text scrolling on the screen. A limited edition.

  Opal makes better dolls that that.

  Opal.

  Rose can hardly stand to think of the girl. By suppertime, it was all over town she’d had papers served. Matters like that are supposed to remain confidential, but little chance of that in Normal. Rose herself saw the police cruiser in front of the house. Of course at first she thought they’d come for Tyrone and felt guilty she had never warned the girl. But it wasn’t about Tyrone at all. The boy’s father was going to try and take him away. Opal isn’t the most stable girl to have a child, but she is Zack’s mother. Rose knows she loves the boy.

  After they’d eaten, Ned—Ned, for heaven’s sake—suggested she go over there and let Opal know they were here if there was anything they could do, but she didn’t. She couldn’t look Opal in the face. Couldn’t take on more sorrow. She had more than enough of her own.

  A noise from outside draws her attention, and she pulls the drapes aside to see a glimmer of light on metal. A car has pulled to the curb halfway between their house and Opal’s. She cannot see the driver, but imagines him staring up at her. She feels a fluttering beneath her heart. The streetlight pools wetly on the car’s roof, its hood. She thinks it’s black, although she’s not certain. It could be dark blue, even green. If the police should question her, press her to identify the color, the make, if it is American or foreign, she knows she could not say, although Ned would know in an instant. It’s male, this ability to pick out the make and year of a car a mile off, identify it just by the shape of the front grill. But why is she thinking of the police?

  When she checks again, although she has not heard an engine start up, the car is gone. As if it has never been there, as if conjured up out of her own guilty mind. She stares at the curb, as if there she will find evidence of its existence. The night is quiet. In the distance she hears a dog howling.

  CHAPTER 27

  OPAL

  OPAL CHECKS THE ADDRESS SCRIBBLED ON HER PAPER, hoping there’s a mistake. The building is run-down. A dump. The lawyer’s office is sandwiched between a storefront tax service and a shoe repair shop. A shoe repair shop. Not a good sign. You don’t need to be an Einstein to see that.

  She slows, scans the street for a parking spot. It’s metere
d parking here. Parallel. She hates to parallel park. The rear end of the Buick always ends up half in the street. Shit.

  She finds a place on the next block, backs in, cutting the wheel sharply, but ends up three feet from the curb. She pulls out, backs in again. Sweat trickles down her ribs. She’s already late.

  Lucky for Billy he’s in New Zion, out of range. If he were here, no telling what she would do. She’s fit to be tied. Mad as a wet hen. Pissed off. En-fuckin’-raged.

  When she thinks of him back in January, standing right in her front hall and giving her all that sweet talk about wanting them to be a family, saying he loves her when all the time he’s been planning to try and take Zack from her . . . Well, when she thinks about this she could spit bricks. No way it’s going to happen. No way she’s going to lose Zack.

  She has tried calling but has only been able to reach his answering machine, his low, lying, Southern voice. “Listen, you sorry son of a bitch,” she shouted into the tape, “if you think you’re going to take my son away from me, you’re as wrong as a man can be.”

  One thing for sure, she’s not going back to New Zion. She’ll drink ground glass before going back there. The farther she and Zack are from Billy, the safer she feels. Maybe she’ll sue him. See how he likes being served with papers, having to get a lawyer.

  Inside the tiny entry, she finds a door marked Vivian Cummings . She has looked the lawyer’s name up in her baby names book. It means “lovely, full of life.” A good omen, she thinks, although doubts sweep in when she opens the door.

  There are a couple of straight-back chairs. One scarred table holds an overflowing ashtray and a tabloid newspaper. Despair and defeat huddle in the air.

  A second door bisects the far wall. She hears a phone ring behind it, the muffled sounds of a conversation. Silence. She pictures Vivian Cummings. Lovely. Full of life. And blond. Vivian is such a blond name. She wonders how Ty knew of her. Is she an old girlfriend?

  She taps her foot impatiently. It’s not like there are clients lined up. Finally a woman opens the door. She’s overweight, gray haired, and wears a suit Melva wouldn’t see fit to give to charity. This woman is a long way from lovely. Certainly not anyone Ty would have dated. Opal recognizes a misfit when she sees one. Jesus. She could just kill Billy.