In an effort to regain my client’s attention, I rustled the papers lying under my fingertips and leaned forward compellingly.
“Your husband’s attorney is going to have some very personal questions for you on the stand, Dorothea. Are you prepared to answer them?”
“I feel so shaky, Allyson. Is there any way we could postpone this?” Dorothea Chapin evaded, meeting my gaze for a brief moment before glancing away.
“It’s already been continued twice.” I endeavored to speak with restraint, but a tension headache had begun to massage my temples with painful fingers. The woman was impossible! “You’re the one who filed for divorce. At some point, you’re going to have to face the music.”
She murmured an inaudibly fretful reply and pleated her handkerchief with coral-tipped fingers. I watched with fascinated interest, expecting the fragile material to tear at any moment.
It held and I returned to the list of points enumerated on the legal pad lying on the desk. Locating the last item, I placed my finger on it for emphasis. “Now as to the question of maintenance, would you be willing to agree to split the difference in our proposals?”
The verbal fencing continued. Mrs. Chapin was adept at keeping up her guard while I tried to extract answers of more than one syllable, probing beneath the defensive shell of apathy for a concrete basis with which to work.
Under questioning, she insisted she currently had no intention of compromising on the maintenance issue. She deserved every penny she was demanding; she wanted him to suffer.
In the next breath, however, there was a faint murmur of worry over her husband’s back problem. His health insurance didn’t cover the necessary therapy twice a week. I ignored this interjection for the defense and continued to mine for nuggets of information.
Domestic violence? No, he’d never struck her. He wasn’t even the type to raise his voice when upset. Mr. Chapin had the annoying tendency of retreating to his office at the college whenever tension hovered over the household. At least that was where she thought he was hiding. It was impossible to verify, but she had her suspicions about a bleached blond majoring in English...
Despite the concentration on the task at hand, I found a fragment of my attention straying to the case as a whole. Heart-wrenching divorces seemed to be the rule lately and not the exception.
Mrs. Chapin was the newest member of my divorce clientele. Although fashionably attired, her make-up had been applied with shaking hands and the pallor of her features was accentuated by violet shadows under the eyes. A dazed expression hinted of many sleepless nights.
I tried in vain to conceal my exasperation. Dorothea’s passive refusal to assist in clarifying her desires with regard to settlement had been the biggest stumbling block to negotiations in this case.
Dorothea Chapin remained motionless in her chair, only the restless hands betraying her inner turmoil. Some women reacted to the stress of divorce proceedings by retreating into themselves, wrapping gossamer illusions around their delicate psyches and avoiding situations that would force them into making a decision. Others tried to overcome the strain with bright chatter, strewing meaningless smiles and empty gestures during their interviews.
Several of my clients had managed to deal with the stress in a calm, positive manner, but Dorothea Chapin lacked the necessary emotional fiber. Pain gleamed through the chinks of her poise, giving the appearance of a porcelain doll who had been dropped, its perfect features slightly cracked, damaged beyond repair.
I checked my watch with a sigh. We had been shut into my closet-sized office for over an hour and it was difficult to judge how much of my patient briefing had filtered through the numbing fog of Dorothea’s exhaustion. Pen in hand, I ran a final check for any points which had not been covered, successfully concealing apprehension about my pupil’s performance. Like a doctor or nurse, one struggled to avoid becoming emotionally involved with the sufferer. Divorce cases were similar to treating a critically ill patient, the cure sometimes beyond my skill.
Gathering up my papers and Surface computer, I slid them back into a fawn shaded briefcase with the gold clasp. The briefcase had been a birthday gift from Andrew... With an effort, I wrenched my thoughts from straying down that tantalizing footpath and rose.
“Please remember not to bring up suspicions about your husband’s infidelity. Your petition is not based on the grounds of adultery. Try to stay calm under questioning and keep your answers brief. Look at me if you need any coaching. Don’t make Judge Merrick strain to hear you. He becomes irritable if he has to continually ask a witness to repeat herself.”
Mrs. Chapin stood up in response to my crisp gesture toward the door. I had learned the hard way that sympathy would only start her crying again. The smooth patina of the oaken desk was streaked with fingermarks and two tiny dots of moisture, indicated that several tears had escaped the fumbling stabs of the handkerchief.
The desk had been a witness to many sobbing confidences over the last few weeks. The sharp increase in the percentage of tearful sessions among my clientele was discouraging. Where were all of the calm, everything-laid-out-on-the-table-and-agreed-to divorces my colleagues talked about? Divorces were an easy way to earn a good fee, an older lawyer had informed me just the other day over lunch. Get an adequate retainer, prepare the papers, one trip to the courthouse and it was all over. No heartbroken sobs, no midnight calls from women whose lives were crumbling around them, no children made frantic by the prospective loss of a parent or by the necessity of having to choose between Mommy or Daddy ...
The courthouse was only five blocks from the office and I elected to cover the distance on foot. Perhaps a brisk walk in the winter air would bring a little color to my client’s cheeks and orientate the distraught woman to her surroundings.
Dissolution of Marriage. The phrase wrapped in tissue paper the old-fashioned stigma of the word ‘divorce’. I sometimes wondered about the meaning behind the words. What was being dissolved? The bonds of matrimony? A personal relationship? Could this be accomplished merely by obtaining a piece of paper signed by a judge? From the high percentage of post-decree cases, it seemed to be just the beginning of a nightmare for most women.
Dorothea carefully placed one foot in front of the other, a gliding automaton. Did the downcast eyes note the wind-nipped faces of the passers-by, the colorful panorama of the traffic on the street and sidewalks? Shoppers laden with packages and bags boasting the logos of trendy boutiques jostled each other with friendly grins. Everyone still seemed to be maintaining a holiday mood and goodwill to their fellow man. The “walk” signal flashed abruptly and I nudged my silent companion into motion once more. A workman in a denim coverall and knitted cap was deftly manipulating a screwdriver as he took down a pine wreath from a street light.
Glancing down from his perch in the bucket of the endloader, he nodded a greeting. I smiled back and nimbly skirted a toddler bundled in a parka and muffler. The sight of the child triggered another traitorous memory. One of Andrew’s whimsical smiles as he mentioned his hope to one day raise a large family. “If my wife is agreeable, of course,” he had added, with an inquiring lift of shaggy brows in my direction.
I winced away from the remembrance. The image obediently vanished and was replaced by the courthouse looming in stately splendor on the right. Dorothea’s lips were pressed together tightly and one hand clawed at my sleeve in supplication.
“I can’t go through with this, Allyson.” She was trembling visibly, eyes anguished.
I halted, oblivious to the press of people around us. I felt the stab of intense empathy for Dorothea, an empathy which I had refused to acknowledge up until now.
“Answer me truthfully, Dorothea. Do you want this divorce? Yes or no? If you don’t want it—fine. We’ll have it dismissed. Otherwise, we’re going to ahead with this hearing.”
“I think I want the divorce—but do I have to be there? I haven’t faced my husband since I had the papers served on him.”
He
r lips quivered, dread lurking behind the uneven layers of make-up.
Unaware until we had stopped moving of the strength and bite of the wind, I shivered and studied the face of my companion, attempting to pierce the veil of exhaustion. Mrs. Chapin seemed oblivious of the cold, despite being inadequately clad in a thin coat.
“Yes or no, Dorothea? I need an answer!” My voice was purposely harsh and demanding, stimulating the dazed woman to respond.
“I’m so confused. I guess it’s because...I realize now...he doesn’t love me anymore!” The forlorn wail was an echo of many similar voices, keening softly in my memory. I flinched away from the anguished sound, demandingly audible, rising above the steady traffic noises form the street.
Dorothea had managed to touch a raw nerve, to spotlight the stumbling block which loomed between Andrew and me. How many times had I heard it? The miserable recital of love, which had faded, become indifferent or turned to snarling, vengeful, hatred. The tales of hurtful words, the low voiced confessions of affairs or of the discovery of a partner’s infidelity. Or perhaps the couple no longer cared, merely co-existed in the same house as distantly polite roommates. Neither spouse was able to shatter the cycle of pain unaided. The agonizing emotion of the process and the despairing interviews were beginning to affect my own relationships, my own responses.
I became aware that Dorothea Chapin was regarding me in surprise, startled out of self-absorption by the flicker of distress which must be visible on my face.
“Is something wrong?” she whispered uneasily. In our relationship as attorney—client, I had been a strong confidant, the one who shouldered the burden and kept the divorce moving toward fruition. Now it seemed to her that the last bastion of defense had been challenged and found unsteady.
With an effort, I pulled myself together and spoke in a reassuring tone. “I’m ready to proceed. Are you?”
“Let’s get it over with—the suspense of waiting is making me ill.” Her voice broke on the last words.
The divorce court was located on the fourth floor of the building which housed our county judicial system. I led the way out of the elevator onto the familiar black and white tiles. The squares reminded me of a narrow chessboard, with the hallway’s occupants the chessmen whose steps mirrored their decisions in reality. Moving forward, retreating, changing the balance of power—with personal happiness the prize for victory.
The hall was crowded; divorce court was a very popular place these days. Suddenly I froze, breath catching painfully at the sight of a familiar tilt to one man’s head.
Andrew threaded his way with determination through the throng of attorneys and clients with a thin, studious looking man in tow. The sight of Andrew’s broad shoulders straining the tweed of his suit sent a quiver of excitement dancing up my spine.
With an abrupt gesture, he grasped my arm above the elbow and drew me away from my startled client, his rugged features in a startling contrast to the gentleness of the spirit existing within the husky frame. Mrs. Chapin remained frozen by the bank of elevators, cringing away from the confused hubbub of many voices.
“Andrew! What are you doing here? I thought we agreed not to see each other for a few days.” I kept my voice low, but indignant.
“I was pining away for a glimpse of your brown eyes,” he retorted and grinned at the resulting sparks the remark generated. “I’m a gentleman. I keep my word. Bill Douglas went home at 10:00 a.m. with the flu and they dumped the Chapin divorce file on my desk. As an associate attorney, I have to bark when they say ‘speak’. Your name was listed as opposing counsel and I thought I’d better prepare you for the shock of seeing me before you had an audience.”
I stiffened angrily at his rallying tone but with a quick change of subject, he moved to the case at hand.
“Are you and your client ready to proceed, Allyson? My client informs me that his soon-to-be-ex-wife is, and I quote, ‘A watering pot with creeping tendrils winding into his wallet’.”
‘He didn’t say that, did he?” A reluctant smile accompanied my question as I visualized Dorothea leafing out before my eyes.
“Allyson, the man is an English professor! His abuse of the language indicates how much this situation has affected him. Is Mrs. Chapin willing to back down from her stand on the maintenance issue? You must be aware that she not only wants the shirt off his back, but also has an eye on his cuff links and the gold fillings in his teeth.
I withdrew my sleeve from his grasp with dignity. “No comment. We’ve made our position quite clear in our correspondence with your firm. See you in court, Mr. Stevenson.”
Returning to the little eddy in the current of traffic which indicated where I had abandoned my client, I gritted my teeth. He could he speak to me in such a teasing manner after our bittersweet parting? Didn’t he understand the turmoil and emotional upheaval I was going through?
Pausing outside the courtroom, I discovered that our case was third in line on the call-up sheet. We entered the echoing room with its cold marble floor and hard chairs. Following an ancient tradition, we, as plaintiffs, chose the right-hand side of the room while the defendants seated themselves on the left.
During the wait to appear, I reflected back over my relationship with the man sitting across the room. Introduced at a Bar Association meeting through the happy accident of his spilling coffee on my skirt (to this day he refused to admit that it had been on purpose), our warm friendship gradually began to change into something deeper, more personal.
Our date Sunday evening had been spent viewing some of the Christmas lighting displays that were still in place. Over the last two weeks, Andrew had been attempting to intrude plans for the future into the relationship while I struggled to hold him at arm’s length. The intoxication of Andrew’s presence, however, was beginning to bulldoze through my defenses. A kiss could make me dangerously agreeable.
At the bailiff’s direction, the assembled gathering rose with a rustling of coats and files to honor the entrance of the judge. I followed suit automatically, my mind still on our last meeting.
Parked on a hill overlooking the city, with the twinkling lights below and the stars gleaming above, Andrew had conjured up a thermos of hot chocolate from under the front seat of his car. We toasted each other with steaming mugs before we kissed deeply, delightfully. Andrew then displayed the ring as it nestled on a bed of velvet, refracting the light of a thousand stars, his declaration of love falling on my ears with the sweet ring of truth. I felt a deep surge of love in return for this bear-sized man and had actually parted my lips to speak—to accept the proposal offered so beautifully.
Suddenly harsh echoes of the past few weeks clambered in my head, the tears, the vanished love, the broken marriages. Wincing away from the ring cradled in his hands, I had pleaded for time. Time to consider, time to gain the courage to reject or accept him.
The first case was going forward swiftly; it was a “civilized” divorce. Mrs. Chapin was following the proceedings with breathless interest, lips parted; her mask of tense withdrawal had been stripped away. I glanced over at Andrew. His head was bent over some papers removed from his briefcase, reassuring his client with his tranquil confidence.
Could I refuse when a man offered me his heart? Did I love him enough to take a gamble on marriage? I wanted someone to assure me that divorce wouldn’t rear its ugly head to shatter my happiness. I’d seen it happen often to my friends; the very thought was devastating. Other brides had taken this important step with confidence shining in their eyes. Why did I hesitate?
The next case was called. The couple glared at each other around their respective counsel, bitter lines evident around the husband’s mouth. I shuddered. Would the flame of love and passion turn into ashes for me as well?
Images from the past rose up to offer evidence in Andrew’s favor. There was the night spent at the hospital while my mother underwent emergency surgery. Desperately afraid and alone, I dialed his number with shaking hands. When he answered in a haze
of sleep, I blurted out my fears in a torrent of words. Ignoring the time factor of 2:00 a.m., he had responded by padding into the lobby within minutes, pajamas concealed under a trench coat and eased the endless hours of waiting with a strong arm around my shoulders. Throughout the long, agonizing minutes, the impression of drafty corridors and starched, rustling staff workers was overshadowed by the warmth and power of his hand in mine.
Another slide clicked into the viewer of memory. Early last spring, I had been stricken with a mild case of bronchitis. Unable to gather the strength to fix a meal, wash dishes or pour a glass of orange juice, I huddled in bed and wondered with despair who I could call for assistance. The impersonal, modern apartment building in which I lived had not yielded any close friends among my neighbors.
Interrupted in a bout of self-pity by a knock on the door, I staggered out to find Andrew on my doorstep clutching a bag of oranges and grapefruit, a plush pink teddy bear in tribute to my nickname for him, and a bouquet of glorious daffodils. Bursting into tears of relief, he tucked me back into bed and dosed me with fresh citrus fruit and penicillin. Andrew then straightened up the apartment and washed a load of sheets and towels. Undeterred by my cough, red nose and streaming eyes, he had remained to sit by the bed and offer comfort and companionship.
My turn to repay his kindness had come when his father was stricken with a fatal heart attack. I drove Andrew to the airport on a Sunday evening, listening quietly to his rambling discourse on his relationship with his father and the agonized self-examination as to why he hadn’t been there when it happened. Just before boarding the plane, Andrew turned back and enfolded me in a close embrace, squeezing my breath out with the strength of his feelings.
I could never forget the good times: picnics, rides in the country, sitting by the fire watching the light play on his reddish hair, exploring our differing views and opinions with a passion. We had sipped together from the mixture of the joy and pain which made up the potion of love, both ingredients inexorably intertwined. We had a powerful bond between us—one that was mysterious, priceless, timeless. Why then was I still afraid?
Love Has The Best Intentions Page 6