Martha Calhoun

by Richard Babcock

  “Well, don’t worry,” said Reverend Vaughn. “I think it’s going to work out.” He was bouncing from foot to foot, trying to be cheerful. I smiled, but I kept glancing down the corridor, where Mr. Moon was talking intently to Mrs. O’Brien. The prosecutor’s head shot up and back in short jabs as he made his points.

  “And if it gets to that, I’ve got a secret weapon,” the minister went on. He tapped his jacket, over the inside pocket. “I even wrote a little speech—a sermon—in your behalf. If we need to, I’ll pull that out and give the judge some fire and brimstone.”

  “Did you pray?” asked Bunny dully.

  “What?” said Reverend Vaughn.

  Mrs. O’Brien, her head bowed to listen to the prosecutor, suddenly looked up at me. Her eyes were ice.

  “You know—pray,” Bunny said. She put her palms together and rolled her eyes up in her head. “That’s what a minister’s supposed to do, right?”

  “Oh, pray. Yes, well, I’ve been doing that all along for Martha,” Reverend Vaughn said.

  Mr. Moon walked back into court, but Mrs. O’Brien just stood there, staring icily at me from down the corridor. I understood exactly: Everything was lost. It occurred to me suddenly that Reverend Vaughn had been all wrong in his sermon last Sunday. There is a giant wheel that just keeps rolling forward. Even if you don’t see it, the wheel is always there, tracking you, bearing down. There’s no escape, that seemed so clear to me now.

  “I don’t think prayers do any good,” said Bunny.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Mrs. O’Brien returned to her seat on the bench without saying anything, and for the next hour she sat silently by herself, her shoulders pressed stiffly against the wall At three, Josephine finally summoned us. Inside, the high, church-like space of the courtroom looked even more vast and unfriendly than before. Far down in front, Sergeant Tony and Mr. Moon turned to watch our entrance. Walking beside Bunny down the long center aisle, I had the feeling that I was participating in some momentous ceremony, like a wedding or graduation, and that I had to move with a slow, solemn step to keep the mood of it all.

  Mrs. O’Brien followed us down to our table in front, just beyond the lip of the judge’s bench. She took a chair to my left. Her anger billowed off her, and finally she said in a low, muttering voice, “You should have told me about last night.” She couldn’t look at me when she said it.

  I started to say that I wasn’t quite sure what to make of last night—that I’d had so much on my mind I hadn’t really been able to digest everything. But I stopped myself. She’d just think I was making another excuse. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You Calhouns.” She made a smacking noise with her lips. “I sometimes think you care more about embarrassing me than you do about solving your own problems.”

  Judge Horner came in reading from a handful of papers. In all the courtroom, for several minutes, there was only the sound of the papers he was rustling. I looked up and watched the overhead fans making their slow turns. It seemed they couldn’t possibly do any good, couldn’t possibly cool the air while moving at that lazy, silent pace, so far above.

  At last, Judge Horner put the papers down. “This hasn’t worked out, has it?” he said.

  Mr. Moon and Mrs. O’Brien exchanged glances. After a moment, Mr. Moon stood. “I take it your honor is referring to the incident last night.”

  “Yes, last night. What was going on out there, anyway?”

  “Drinking,” said Mr. Moon. “All underage. Those parties out in Banyon’s Woods are getting worse, and the police have decided to clean it up.”

  “Well, last night was one thing, and last week was another,” the judge said. He picked a sheet of paper off his desk and waved it in the air. “This escapade with Boggs running around drunk and naked. I thought we were getting involved here to do some good?”

  “They’ve made it worse,” said Bunny loudly.

  The judge glared at her. “I’m not going to have any outbursts today, Mrs. Calhoun. This isn’t the country club, where you can just shout out when you want. Any outbursts like last time, and I’ll throw you right out.” He turned to the prosecutor. “The same goes for you, Mr. Moon. Today’s going to be nice and calm and orderly.”

  “Yes, your honor,” said Mr. Moon.

  Bunny raised her hand. “Can I say something?” she asked.

  The judge nodded.

  “Why are we doing this without Martha’s lawyer?”

  “Her lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He couldn’t make it.”

  “Well, who is he? Why didn’t he contact the court?”

  “Simon Beach.”

  Mr. Moon cleared his throat. “Your honor, if I may address that. Mr. Beach phoned me this morning from Carbondale, where he’s been called on business. He warned me that Mrs. Calhoun may try to claim that she’d retained him in this matter. But he said he told her specifically that he doesn’t handle juvenile matters and wouldn’t take this one on. He’s authorized me to make that representation to the court. He’s not her lawyer, your honor. That’s just a figment of her very active imagination.”

  Judge Horner turned to Bunny. “Well?” he said.

  Bunny scowled and hunched down in her chair.

  “The county is ready to proceed,” said Mr. Moon.

  Reverend Vaughn and Mrs. Vernon had sat down together in the first row of spectator seats, and Judge Horner now asked who they were. Mrs. O’Brien stood and made introductions.

  “I didn’t recognize you in that pretty dress, Mrs. Vernon,” said the judge.

  Mrs. Vernon blushed and fought with a handkerchief in her lap.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Reverend Vaughn. “I hope I can be of some help here. I’ve spent a good deal of time with Martha lately.”

  “Yes, I know who you are,” said the judge. “I hope you can help, too.” He straightened the papers on his desk. “Well, let’s get on with it and build the record. This is a fact-finding hearing to determine whether the circumstances justify the county getting involved on a long-term basis. If I so determine, we’ll have a separate hearing on the girl’s disposition. All right, Sergeant Tony, let’s hear from you.”

  For twenty minutes, Sergeant Tony went over the police reports and read from his notes. He talked in a nasal, bored tone, one that I’d never heard from him before. His sentences were flat and run-on; there were no cracks to get in, no places to interrupt him. He was talking about me, though he had it all wrong. This Martha Calhoun was a stranger, a character out of a book or a movie. She had sex on her mind; she chased after little boys; she hung around with her mother’s boyfriend; she stayed out at wild, teenage parties; she had no conscience. Sergeant Tony was like the last person telling a long story in a huge game of telephone—nothing but a few scattered facts were left of what had really happened. And yet, there was a kind of truth to what he said, or really, there were little pieces of truth all stitched together. It was as if he had taken a few twigs off a tree, woven them into a basket, and then held up the basket, saying, “This is a tree we’re talking about.” It would never have occurred to me to do that—it never occurred to me that you could do that. But when he was finished, nobody objected. Mrs. O’Brien sat with her chin on her chest. Bunny stared at the courtroom wall. Judge Horner thanked Sergeant Tony, and the officer sat down.

  Francis X. Moon then stood up. He put on a pair of glasses with heavy black frames and proceeded to read from a long, yellow legal pad. He’d made a list, an accounting of every incident in the police files that involved our family, and the list went on for page after page. The incidents started before I was born, when neighbors called the police because of a loud argument between Bunny and my father. Later that same month, Bunny filed a robbery claim, saying Jeremiah P. Calhoun had run off with the car, the toaster, the silverware, and a bunch of other things. There was a gap of a few years and then a report about someone named Joe Burford driving a car ove
r the sidewalk and onto Bunny’s lawn and passing out on the horn. The next year, an unidentified man was seen yelling at the house in his underwear. The neighbors chased him away.

  Soon Tom appeared, and his contacts with the police took up several pages: Tom painting names on a wall at the school; Tom caught breaking into the bowling alley; Tom throwing rocks at cars from the Hanson Street overpass; Tom digging holes in the Little League diamond; Tom over and over and over—more than I ever imagined. He’d been gone long enough now that I’d almost forgotten how bad it had been, how Bunny and I had driven down to the police station so regularly that it was almost like doing the laundry, a chore you expected every week.

  Tom dominated Mr. Moon’s list for those years, but Bunny was there, too. She bounced some checks; stores complained. And there was more boyfriend trouble. Once Wayne Wadlinger got mad about something and started throwing furniture and things out of the house onto the lawn. Half the living room was scattered over the front yard before the police arrived. Another time, Lester Vincent got drunk, climbed out a window on the second floor and stood on the edge of the roof, threatening to jump. He was only about ten feet off the ground and would have landed in nice, soft grass, but the police came that time, too.

  Even I made Mr. Moon’s list. Years ago, when I was about five, I was out at the country club with Bunny, and I noticed a small riding mower—one of the first I’d ever seen—sitting on a hill next to the clubhouse. Bunny was off somewhere and the mower looked enticing, so I climbed on and pretended to drive. I bounced on the seat and turned the steering bar. Of course, nothing happened. I reached down and pulled a lever. Suddenly, the mower started to roll downhill. I remember thinking for an instant, “Oh, boy!” and then smashing into the window of the basement pro shop. Glass rained down all around and people screamed. I wasn’t hurt, but the pro shop was a mess. I’ve never forgotten that: “Oh, boy!” and then smash.

  Beside me in court, Bunny managed to turn and smile when Mr. Moon got to the pro-shop incident.

  When the lawyer reached the end of his list, he took off his glasses. He was a dark little man with shadowy olive skin. Even the top of his head had a dark, bruised look, where it wasn’t covered by strands of black hair. “Those are just the reported incidents, your honor,” Mr. Moon said. “There were others, too petty to make it into an official police report. And who knows what went on in that house that we never found out about. For five or six years there, we practically had to have an officer working full time on this family alone.”

  “Oh, come on,” groaned Bunny.

  I was afraid Judge Horner was going to throw her out, but he just asked if she wanted to comment.

  “We weren’t any worse than a lot of other families,” Bunny said. “I know my son used to get in trouble, but so did a lot of other boys. The difference was that whenever anything went wrong in this town, the police would come knocking at our door, blaming Tom.”

  “Do you want to dispute any of these incidents?” the judge asked. “Mr. Moon is putting them in the record, and I’d be perfectly willing to listen to your challenges.”

  “Awww, what good would it do? You need a lawyer to dispute and mine isn’t here.”

  “I’ve explained you don’t need a lawyer in juvenile court.”

  “Well, he’s got one.” Bunny wagged her thumb at Sergeant Tony.

  “Mrs. Calhoun,” said the judge, raising his voice, “I’m not in the habit of arguing about something that’s already been settled.”

  “Jeeezzz,” hissed Bunny, looking away.

  “Ah, perhaps we could go on,” said Mr. Moon.

  Judge Horner nodded.

  “Your honor, I wasn’t happy about the direction this case was taking even before the girl showed up last night in Banyon’s Woods,” the prosecutor said. “I know Mrs. O’Brien had some hope, but I frankly didn’t see it. Look at the facts. We put her in a foster home and twice she goes off on a visit with her mother. Each time, they end up in a police report. What kind of a message is Mrs. Calhoun giving us?”

  The lawyer paused to see if the judge would respond. When nothing happened, he went on. “The issue in this proceeding is whether the county is justified in intruding into the familial relationship. Obviously, we don’t want to do that except in the most aggravated circumstances. But that’s what we’ve got here. I look down the road and see nothing but trouble for this girl.” He glanced quickly in my direction. “The question is, your honor, is the girl getting the kind of supervision and guidance at home that will ultimately be in her best interests? The answer is obviously no. Not only has Mrs. Calhoun raised one son who was a constant problem for the police and the people of this town, but when her other child gets in trouble, Mrs. Calhoun just acts more irresponsibly. She gets more reckless.”

  Bunny snorted and crossed her arms and legs. Her head sank into her shoulders.

  The prosecutor looked down, rubbing the bridge between his eyes. When he looked up, he sighed. “Let me get it all out and on the record,” he said. “I’m sorry to bring it up in front of the girl, but it’s relevant to this matter. Two weeks ago, your honor, you yourself told Mrs. Calhoun to settle her affairs. Everyone in the courtroom knew exactly what you meant. Well, she hasn’t settled her affairs, not by a long shot. Ever since her daughter moved out, Mrs. Calhoun has been maintaining an open and adulterous relationship with Edward Boggs. The neighbors know about it, the community knows about it, the police know about it. She stays overnight at his house, and sometimes he stays with her.” The lawyer shook his head again. “It’s, it’s … it’s enough to make you sick, your honor—and this, when her family is at stake.”

  Bunny thrashed in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs and shifting from one side to the other. Judge Horner asked if she wanted to say something.

  “Yes, your honor. I want to say, ‘So what?’ ” She sat up and pushed her head toward the judge. “So what? Lots of people who aren’t married have friends, and what’s wrong with that? I mean, we aren’t in Russia here. These have been very hard times for me. First you send my son to jail. All right, so he had problems, but he was my son. And now you take away my daughter. What do you expect me to do? I felt empty, unhinged. I hated stepping into my house. Without my children, I didn’t want to live there. I thought about burning it down, I really did. I needed someone to talk to, and Eddie was there. He was the only one. My mother’s dead, you know.” She paused. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips. “Of course,” she went on, “if my daughter comes back, I won’t need Eddie anymore. I can live without him. Once Martha comes home, he’s out of my life forever.”

  Judge Horner stared down evenly at Bunny. He had on the same checkered sports jacket that he’d worn at my first hearing. I remembered how innocent and unprotected he’d looked at the restaurant, in his white shirt and brown tie.

  “Can I ask Mrs. Calhoun something?” said Mr. Moon. He was still standing.

  “Certainly.”

  The lawyer turned to face Bunny. “Mrs. Calhoun, are you married?”

  “Of course not. My husband left home years ago.”

  “Let me put it this way, Mrs. Calhoun. Are you divorced?”

  “Well—”

  The lawyer turned back to the judge. “That’s adultery, your honor. What kind of example is that for a child?”

  “I couldn’t afford a divorce,” shouted Bunny.

  “All right, Mrs. Calhoun,” said the judge, motioning for her to calm down. “Let’s put that behind us for the time being. Let’s hear from you, Mrs. O’Brien.”

  The social worker pushed herself up quickly from her chair. Her green shift rose and fell as her chest heaved. She looked at the judge and sighed, puffing her cheeks and blowing out air noisily. “I feel defeated, Judge Horner,” she said. “There’s no easy way to put it. I feel defeated.”

  “Go on,” said the judge.

  “I don’t want to make excuses. The simple fact is that I haven’t made any difference.” She spoke i
n a calm, mournful voice. “Over the past two weeks, I think I’ve come to know these two well. Bunny Calhoun is willful and arrogant. She has little self-awareness, little understanding of the depths of her problems. But she does have a job, and she does run a household. She can function quite adequately if she puts her mind to it. Martha is basically a nice girl—a bit of a homebody, too lacking in confidence—but a good girl at heart. Her problem is that she’s under her mother’s sway—far, far too much under her mother’s sway. She needs to become her own person, to develop her own values quite apart from her mother’s. That’s a serious problem, but something I felt I could deal with. Indeed, I spent hours working with both mother and daughter. We all worked hard. Bunny was difficult, but I thought progress was being made. Yesterday I even told Martha that I’d recommend that she go back with her mother.” Mrs. O’Brien paused and looked fleetingly down at me. “And then I came to court today and heard about last night. I was shocked at what happened, shocked that Martha would get involved, shocked that she hadn’t told me.” Each time she repeated the word, the warm air in the courtroom took on an electric charge.

  Mrs. O’Brien stopped to catch her breath. In talking, she’d unconsciously sidled over toward me, and now she was only inches away. With the exertion of the speech, her coldness had disappeared, and I detected a faint, warm fragrance coming off her, something not unpleasant, something close to the smell of a baby.

  “What’s discouraging, your honor,” she went on, “is that I think I see a pattern in this family that’s being repeated elsewhere. It’s new and very worrisome. The Calhouns have problems, but they aren’t like some families. They aren’t like some families with a long history of crime and poverty and trouble. There are families I know—you do, too, Judge Horner—that you just look at and get discouraged. They simply don’t have the ability to set themselves right, and you know there’s nothing you can do to help. But the Calhouns are different. They’re reasonably intelligent, they aren’t poor. They have the ability to be an almost normal family. But they choose not to. I see this going around now, and I get very worried. It’s something I never saw three or four years ago. People are choosing the wrong things. They’ve got the ability, they’ve got the opportunity, and they just choose bad over good.”