by Unknown
He would, she was certain, never again represent Mary Carelli. But Terri thought his final argument had been all that Mary could have asked. Perhaps it was because Terri knew, as others did not, that Paget had spoken to the truth of what Mary had done; perhaps Terri only imagined that he had reached Caroline Masters. But Caroline’s last comment, a warning against passion, struck Terri as Caroline’s warning to herself.
Terri might be inventing this. Lawyers, their fears unrelieved for days on end, come to read too much into the silences and stray comments of a judge: sometimes, Paget had once quoted Sigmund Freud, a cigar is only a cigar. At least Paget had taken the part he could control to the end. But she was far less sure that the part Paget could not control – the trial of Mary Carelli and the ordeal of the tapes – would end with Caroline Masters. For a moment, she wished that life were a tape, which she could fast-forward to tomorrow, so that she would know that the hearing was over.
The tapes.
It scared her now, though she would never say that to Paget. But if he had destroyed them, and they were traced to her, the district attorney might hold her at fault. Paget would try to protect her, Terri knew, but it would hurt her career were the tapes to vanish. And Terri’s career, it seemed, was the only security she and Elena had.
She turned back to her daughter.
Elena was talking to her plastic people. ‘You sit here,’ he insisted, ‘and Daddy sits there.’
‘Who are you talking to?’ Terri asked.
‘You. You’re sitting next to Daddy.’
‘And where do you sit?’
‘Right there,’ Elena said triumphantly, and placed a plastic child between its plastic parents.
A child, Terri thought sadly, ordering the world of adults. Terri had been certain that she had given Elena no sign of her conflicts with Richie; now she searched her mind for times when she had. She found none. But Elena must have some intuition; she had spent an hour at this game of family, far beyond her usual attention span. Terri had seldom seen her so intent.
Let her be, Terri told herself. At least for a while.
Thoughtful, Terri gazed down the beach.
It was a workday afternoon. The beach was not crowded: mothers with children; a couple or two; a few singles who were used to being alone, and so walked or sat by themselves. A shirtless student type threw a Frisbee for his collie to retrieve, his bare skin stretching as he threw, as if there were hardly enough to cover his slender frame. The collie trotted eagerly into the surf, returning with the Frisbee in his mouth; he shook the water from his coat as he ran toward his master. It reminded Terri that Elena kept asking for a dog.
She turned back to her daughter. Elena had moved the figures again; now they sat at a kitchen table. The child was still between her parents.
‘Do you like playing that?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ Elena stopped, staring at her plastic family, and then looked up at Terri. ‘Why are you so mean to Daddy?’
Her daughter’s voice was part inquiry and part accusation; there was an eerie certainty in it, as though Elena knew she was speaking an indubitable truth.
Terri was momentarily speechless.
Keep it neutral, she told herself; don’t seem defensive or annoyed. Sound as if you’re merely seeking information.
‘How am I mean to Daddy?’ she asked.
Elena did not answer. But her voice still held conviction. ‘Daddy cries, you know.’
‘Have you seen him?’
Elena shook her head. ‘No. He doesn’t want to cry in front of me. He does it when he’s alone, after you hurt his feelings.’
Terri felt herself stiffen. Quite calmly, she asked, ‘Then how do you know?’
‘Because he tells me.’ Elena’s voice held a kind of pride. ‘When we’re alone, and he tucks me in at night, we talk about our feelings.’
Terri recognized the note in Elena’s voice now; the false wisdom of a child, flattered by the contrived confidences of a manipulative adult. Anger ran through her like a current. When she spoke again, it was without thinking. ‘Daddy shouldn’t say those things to you.’
‘He should.’ Elena shook her head, almost angrily. ‘Daddy says I’m old enough to know things.’
She had been foolish, Terri realized. This could not – should not – be resolved between Elena and herself, but between adults with enough compassion to know that, deep inside themselves, children wish to be children.
Terri wanted to confront Richie right away. But it would not do, she realized, to leave abruptly with this conversation fresh in Elena’s mind: the child might see the cause and effect.
‘Can I play with you?’ Terri asked.
All at once, Elena’s mood changed. ‘Okay,’ she said, and smiled up at her mother.
For a half hour, Terri forced herself to remember that she had come to play with her daughter. They did that, talking about everything and nothing, until the breeze grew too cold for a child.
As they drove home, Terri half listened to Elena. Her mind felt as cold as the breeze had been.
Richie was in the kitchen. At the sight of Elena, he bent to her and flashed an incandescent smile. ‘How’s my sweet-heart?’
His voice was almost crooning. Perhaps it was her mood. Terri thought, but something about it made her skin crawl. ‘Can you put away your toys?’ she asked Elena, and watched the little girl scamper down the hallway. She was unusually cooperative, Terri thought; she found herself wondering if, subconsciously, Elena had begun trying to keep her parents happy.
‘How was your day?’ Richie asked. ‘Court all right?’
‘Fine.’ Terri’s voice was cool. ‘And yours? Or did you spend it crying?’
Richie looked startled, and then tried a puzzled half smile. As he looked at Terri, it died there.
‘The funny thing,’ she said conversationally, ‘is that you never cry. Sometimes I’d feel better if you did. But the deepest feeling you can dredge up is self-pity, and that’s only to manipulate me. Of course, Elena doesn’t see that yet.’
Failing sun came through the window. It was dusk: facing Richie, Terri felt darkness closing around them. He watched her in silence. ‘Quit being abusive,’ he finally said. ‘People express their emotions in different ways, you know.’
‘What have you been telling Elena?’
Richie folded his arms; Terri saw the faintest glint of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘Lainie’s a smart little girl, Ter. Not even a parent can keep her from seeing the truth.’
There was something frightening, Terri thought, in the way Richie appropriated a five-year-old to corroborate his view of things. ‘Elena’s not some extension of you, Richie. She’s her own person.’
Richie gave her a knowing smile. ‘I get it. You’ve always resented it because Lainie is so much like me, and now you’re blaming me for that. Well, I’m sorry, Ter – that’s just how it is.’
Terri stared at him. ‘What have you been saying to her?’ she repeated.
She saw the calculation run through Richie’s eyes: how much to say, what spin to put on it. ‘I’m just being a parent,’ he said coolly. ‘I want Lainie to know the difference between real love and false love based on images.’
‘Oh, and what is real love? I’m not sure I’d recognize it.’
‘Then let me explain it to you.’ Pausing, Richie spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘Real love is when people make a commitment to family and carry it out, even through the bad times. It’s the opposite of this stage you’re in with Christopher Paget, an infatuation with surface instead of substance.’ There was an edge beneath his monotone. ‘I feel sorry for you, Ter. If you don’t learn to understand yourself, you’ll go from crush to crush, never finding the happiness you’d feel from accepting me as I am.’
‘At least you’d be free of someone who doesn’t deserve you.’ Terri stopped there; what she felt was too deep for sarcasm. ‘Don’t you understand? I never cared if you were the world’s greatest promoter. That was your drea
m. I just wanted us to live a real life.’
He shook his head. ‘As soon as you got a law job, you changed. All of a sudden you were afraid I’d be a bigger success than you, that you’d look small next to me.’ He threw his arms open. ‘Nothing makes you happy. It’s like right now. You want me to parent Lainie, and then you complain when I do. I can never win.’
Terri shook her head. Softly, he said, ‘You always win, Richie. But this time I won’t let you. Not with Elena.’
Richie placed his hands flat on the kitchen counter. ‘Lainie’s not like you, and she’ll never see me like you do. She’s imaginative, like me. We communicate on levels you don’t understand.’ His voice filled with authority. ‘It just is, Ter. You should rise above your jealousy and learn to see how good I am for our daughter.’
Terri could not answer. All that she could do was let reality sink in – his deep certitude, his irreparable self-involvement. He would always see Elena in terms of his own needs, and if one of his needs was to use Elena to maneuver Terri, he would do that without hesitation, certain it was best for Elena. Perhaps, Terri realized, that was the most frightening perception of all. Richie was not merely calculating: some unfathomable part of him could make himself believe what he was saying.
‘I’m leaving you,’ Terri said.
Richie stiffened. They stood there watching each other, two still figures in the semidark. The silence fell like a caught breath.
‘You can’t do that,’ Richie said at last. He made his voice calm. ‘Not without counseling. I’ll set up an appointment. Six months down the road, we’ll see where we are.’
It took her a moment to believe what she had already said, another to tell him what else she believed. ‘You have an uncounselable problem, Richie. And so do I.’
Richie looked wounded. ‘What is so wrong that we can’t fix it?’
His voice was suddenly plaintive; it made Terri sad, and sorry for what she had said. But she had said it now. ‘You can’t see other people as separate from you, Richie,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t change it, and I won’t fight it.’
‘You can help me, Ter. That’s what marriage is about.’
His shoulders slumped. He looked so alone, Terri thought, and then she remembered Elena. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘Only you can help you. It’s too late for us, and I have Elena to think of.’
His voice rose. ‘If you were thinking of Elena, you’d give her an intact family.’
Terri felt her throat constrict. ‘It’s all I ever wanted, Richie – a family. But there’s a difference between “intact” and “healthy.” We’re no good for Elena.’
The room was dark now. Richie moved closer. ‘It’s not up to you to say what’s good. It’s up to a judge, and he’ll listen to me.’
‘And what will you tell “him”?’
‘That I’ve been the caretaking parent while you’ve worked long hours with a man who just may be your lover. That I want Elena.’ He paused; the smile that followed seemed a reward for his own cleverness. ‘That I can’t provide care for her without sixty percent of your income.’
‘That’s crazy?’
His voice filled with triumph. ‘It’s the law, Ter. I’ve checked it out. And even if you get custody, you think it’s easy to find a man who wants to raise someone else’s kid? You’ll be alone.’
Terri kept her own voice steady. ‘I don’t love you,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’re a good father for Elena. I don’t think our “family” is good for Elena. So if I have to be alone, I will. And if I have to fight you for Elena, I’ll do that too.’
‘You’ll lose.’ He paused, words softer. ‘But don’t worry, Ter. Every other weekend, I’ll let you see my daughter.’
It was near the surface now: the fear that had kept her prisoner here. Some stranger, a man or a woman she did not know, would decide whether Terri could raise Elena and, in deciding, would set the course of Elena’s life. Richie would make himself be smooth and plausible; how could Terri explain to a judge how things really were? Somehow she would have to be more determined than Richie in his relentless quest for control. But even the thought made her tired.
She forced herself to speak slowly and evenly. ‘I’m taking Elena and going to my mother’s. We need to decide what to tell her.’
Richie moved closer, biting off his words. ‘We’re not telling her anything.’
‘We should. And we should do it together.’
He was standing over her now. In the dark, she could barely see his face, and only because it was so near. ‘We’re not telling her anything,’ he repeated. ‘And you’re not going anywhere.’
His voice contained an anger she had never heard before: it quavered with his failure to control her.
She tried to step past him. He moved with her, blocking her way. Terri felt her own voice shaking. ‘I am, though. Please, don’t make this worse.’
‘You don’t understand, Ter. I’m not letting you do this.’
She felt her heart race. All at once, she had to do something. She put her hand on his shoulder, pushing gently so that he would stay where he was, trying to move past him.
‘You bitch,’ he spat out.
She froze as his hand jerked upward in the darkness, poised to hit her. ‘Don’t,’ she managed.
‘Do you still want to leave, Ter?’ His hand stayed up, ready to strike unless she shook her head. ‘Or are you ready to talk?’
Terri was silent. As his hand rose higher, she flinched. ‘Don’t,’ she cried out again, and turned, running to the kitchen wall.
She heard him move behind her. Hands against the wall, she fumbled for the light switch. When she flicked it on and turned again, Richie was two feet away, his hand still raised, blinking at the light.
Terri was breathing hard. ‘Do it, Richie. Do it twice. That way the family court won’t miss it.’
Crimson spread across his face. But his hand did not move.
Terri looked into his face. ‘At least you weren’t abusive, I used to tell myself. Not like my father with my mother.’ She stopped herself, catching her breath. ‘Now I know why. Before I ever met you, I was trained to give in. The only difference between you and my father was me.’
Richie was silent, flushed, staring.
‘But not anymore,’ Terri finished quietly. ‘Whether you hit me or not, I’m leaving. And if you do hit me, I’ll make sure it’s the last time you’ll ever hit anyone.’
He gaped at her, and then anger became another expression – embarrassment, exposure. His hand dropped to his side.
Don’t let him see your fear, Terri told herself. She knew that this was not over; with Richie, things were never over until he won. Her only goal was to leave the house with Elena.
Terri made herself stand straighter, as if certain he would not strike. ‘I’ll think of something to tell Elena,’ she said. And then she walked past him, going to get their daughter, not looking back.
Carlo gazed at the cast on his wrist. ‘Guess I can’t do homework,’ he said.
They sat in a grill both had always liked: Paget for its wood and its white tablecloths, reminiscent of old San Francisco; Carlo for its cheeseburgers. Paget sipped his martini. ‘At least you can keep up with your reading,’ he answered. ‘Just flip the pages with your left hand.’
Carlo gave him a brief smile. ‘Sympathetic, aren’t you.’
‘When you’re truly maimed, Carlo, get back to me about homework.’ Paget nodded toward Carlo’s empty plate. ‘I thought you managed that cheeseburger rather neatly.’
‘I was hungry. The emergency room took forever.’
It was true enough. In the two hours they had spent waiting there, the traffic in urban tragedy had been harrowing: a battered woman with her face bruised and one eye swollen shut; an elderly man comatose from a hit-and-run; a young Hispanic shot in what Paget guessed was a botched drug deal. Paget and Carlo had watched these horrors in silence; the parade was deadening, and an emergency room was nowhere to talk about wh
at lay between them. A harried doctor had finally looked at Carlo’s X rays, sheathed his wrist in a plaster cast, told him to come back in two weeks, and sent them into the night. But the aftershock of the emergency room stayed with them; they had said little about anything, and nothing about Mary. Their brief exchange about Carlo’s wrist felt more like reflex than conversation.
They lapsed into silence again. But it seemed that neither wanted to leave; perhaps, Paget thought, both felt that rushing home would underscore their awkwardness and cast them back into the shadow of tomorrow’s ruling. What, Paget wondered, was Caroline Masters thinking at this moment? Or, for that matter, Mary Carelli?
He ordered coffee for himself, dessert for Carlo. The boy gazed around the room, toying with his unused spoon. Paget wished he knew what to say. But what he knew, and Carlo did not, felt like a weight. He had not been able to think things through.
Carlo eyed the spoon. Without looking up, he said, ‘You were great today. It’s good you did that for her.’
‘Honestly, Carlo, I’m not sure who I did it for.’ He paused. ‘Remember that first night, when you said I shouldn’t take the case?’
‘Uh-huh. I didn’t think you believed in her.’
Paget nodded. ‘I’m sorry for that. But I did the best I could.’
‘I know. I was there.’
Paget watched his face. ‘Some pretty tough things were said last night. Some of them by you.’
Carlo averted his eyes for a moment. But when he looked up, his gaze was steady. ‘Before, I was always able to count on you.’
‘I’m not a robot, Carlo. This involves my feelings as well as yours.’
‘But you were ready to desert her.’ Carlo paused, struggling to explain. ‘It wasn’t just about her; it was about you. If I can’t depend on you to be you, what can I depend on?’
‘Do you think you were fair?’
‘No. I was angry.’ Carlo hesitated. ‘Do you think you were fair?”
‘No. But I think I deserve a break from you.’ Paget leaned forward. ‘This case is a strain on me, for reasons you don’t understand. But never, ever have I wanted you not to have a mother. What I wanted was for you to be happy and secure.’