“Svetlana will take care of it all.” Lillian promises this with a confirming nod at Svetlana, who smiles, briefly and close-lipped. “How is Molly’s dad occupying himself while we pamper? I mean, he could have come too, of course.”
“He wouldn’t be caught dead.” My mom and I both laugh at the thought of my dad squashed at the table, looking confused, his large hands being buffed by one of the ponytailed, white-coated nail technicians, and she replies, “He’s back in North Carolina. With the store, we try not to have both of us gone at once.”
“You have a store?”
My mom gives me an odd look, questioning, I’m sure, how I’ve spent such quality time with Lillian and not mentioned this fact. “Yes, we have a little specialty kitchen store.”
“That sounds charming.” Lillian, genuinely fascinated, launches into a series of rapid-fire questions that are surprisingly knowledgeable for someone whose silverware is probably handled only by a housekeeper. What brands do they carry? Do they have cooking demonstrations? What is my mother’s favorite cheese? Are the hours torture? Who does the hiring and firing decisions?
Finally, Lillian stops, resting back against her chair. “I’m really impressed. Building a shop is hard work. It’s like having a baby.” She winks at me from across the salon and I unsuccessfully try to imagine Lillian taking a maternity leave, tending to a newborn’s needs. “I see where Molly gets her work ethic now.”
“It’s not a perfect situation.” My mom’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Unfortunately, we just don’t have an employee we trust enough to leave the store with.” The subtext of course is that they can’t actually afford a manager; their staff is composed of college kids doing shift work. It’s unsaid, but when I hear Lillian’s follow-up question, I know that she has intuited this.
“Where are you staying? There are so many great hotels in Midtown.”
“I stay with Molly.”
“Oh, Molly has a guest room?” Lillian sounds impressed.
My mom shakes her head. “A studio.”
“How wonderful,” says Lillian, as though she’s downright moved by our bond. “Like a slumber party.”
“Like a slumber party,” says my mom in a fond echo.
I meet Lillian’s eyes and try to read her expression. Not sympathy. Not pity. But dawning comprehension, as though she’s placing me, has put a piece of the puzzle together.
__________
Later, after Lillian makes a show of pulling out her American Express card and insisting to us that all of the manicures are her treat—she wouldn’t dream of it any other way—and several rounds of kisses and embraces between the five of us, as though we’re all headed off to war instead of the weekend, my mom and I hurry down Fifth Avenue toward our restaurant.
“So how bad was that?” I say as soon as we’re a block away from the salon.
“I don’t know,” says my mom. “It was kind of fun.” She holds out her nails, a pale glossy plum called No Boundaries, in front of her. “I don’t even hate the color so much. I’ll tell you, though, that Lillian?”
“Yeah?”
My mom pauses, long enough for me to identify a sliver of emotion passing through me—it’s hope. I am dying for her to open the door, to say something caustic and derisive about Lillian, the salon, New York City, anything.
Because then I could laugh in agreement and come clean: about Lillian’s suffocating expectations, about Fern’s nightmare and about how I might be able to help her. I can’t introduce a discussion on any of these topics, of course; I’m not about to volunteer that I’m anything other than the very personification of the Grant family’s upward mobility—if I’m not, then what was the point of their sacrifice? But if she brings it up…
“What about Lillian?” I lead, trying to keep my voice neutral.
My mom tentatively touches her thumbnail with the tip of her index finger, testing the polish’s dryness. “She’s good people, huh? I mean, a lot of noise, all that talk about beauty routines and the Svetlana stuff, but deep down, she’s got substance. I can see why you’re so loyal to her.”
I nod, unable to bring myself to verbally agree. “You really liked her?”
“I did,” says my mom. “But I’m easy. I like anyone who appreciates my daughter, which Lillian most definitely does. If you stick with her, just stay the course and watch carefully, I bet you can achieve everything that she has.”
And we leave it at that.
20
____
the insufferable heat wave
In the months since my nondate with Caleb, I have been a search engine monk: no extracurricular Internet research on anything except the Walker case. I had actually begun to consider the idea of going back on the dating market, even agreeing to a blind date with some cousin of Holt’s coworker. After today, though, no way.
As I sit next to Fern on the pilly brown and orange couch in Emily Freed’s waiting room, I’m reminded of the blind dates I went on when I first moved to New York. It’s all coming back to me—the in-your-face awkwardness, like a roadside accident that it’s impossible to look away from, and the way time passes at the speed of congealed molasses.
Fern and I are both dressed nicely and are doing our best to emit friendly, calm vibes. Claire perches on a ripped avocado green chair opposite us. It’s one of those “difficult” colors that I’ve heard Duck talk about, but Claire’s neat white pants and summery sky blue tunic make it look cool and fresh. Graham stands next to her, hovering protectively like a gangly attack mantis.
So far, we win gold stars for attempting to appear as though this situation falls within societal standards of normalcy. Graham has been a willing participant in exchanging stale pleasantries, volunteering that this crazy August heat wave has been insufferable. Despite this, there’s an African elephant in the room. We are waiting for Emily to emerge from her office and fire the starting gun for Fern’s first court-mandated visit with her children.
I break the silence. “So, is Risa coming tonight?”
Graham’s mouth becomes a small narrow line. “Not tonight.”
Of course not—without Robert here, what’s the point of a show? “And where are the kids?”
It’s Claire’s turn to frown. “When she’s ready”—she nods toward Emily’s closed door—“Hannah will bring them in.”
Fern shrinks back into the couch, her face tight. I’m not sure whether she’s offended at Claire’s presumptions, just nervous or both. Claire examines her nails, palms up, sighs and retrieves her phone from her bag. There’s a nonchalance to her gesture that belies her words and I wonder what she’s thinking, whether it’s surreal for her, to be involved in this fight. One day she accepts a job at Options, presumably thinking only that it’s a good career move. Jump ahead a couple years and she’s living with the head of the company, a substitute mother to his kids. It would be a lot to handle. Claire catches me staring, her flared nostrils indicating that she is not, at the moment, putting herself in my shoes, or imagining whether our perceptions of each other might be different had we met on adjacent treadmills at the gym rather than in the courtroom.
The door opens and Emily steps out before recoiling a full step backward. We’re not the intended inhabitants of this waiting room—four full-grown adults crammed into a tight space filled with stained stuffed animals, picture books and decades-old Highlights magazines.
“Where are Anna and Connor?” Emily says to Claire, whom she met last week during the kids’ pregame visit.
Graham strides forward. “Ms. Freed, I’m Graham Allesser, Mr. Walker’s counsel. I’m here on behalf of Ms. Dennis.”
Emily nods politely but her eyes dart around as though she’s looking for the hidden camera. “You can go.”
Graham clears his throat and fixes his eyes on a point across the room. “Sorry, Ms. Freed. Ms. Dennis wants to make sure the kids are okay. She thinks it will go better if she’s here.”
Emily shakes her curly ponytail and exhales through he
r nose. “Whatever. But lawyers—out of my waiting room. Mom, come on in”—she gestures to Fern—“and whoever has the kids, get ’em. They’re needed for this.”
Fern stands up, rather shakily, and with a wan smile directed to me disappears into the room.
Graham, still in the same spot, winks both eyes. “But where should we go to wait?”
“Not my problem.”
Graham and I walk just far enough around the U-shaped hallway to be out of sight.
“Listen,” I say. “Why don’t we both leave? It’s not like we can really do anything today anyway.”
“Go right ahead,” he says, extending his arm down the hall as if to say, After you.
I roll my eyes and slide down the wall to sit on the floor. We grab our BlackBerries and ignore each other until the wailing starts. When the elevator doors ding open, it gets louder: a tonsil-vibrating yell, an accompanying shriek and urgent adult voices. Graham and I both peek around the corner.
A blond ponytailed young woman—Hannah, I presume—carries Connor toward Emily Freed’s office as he bellows, kicking his legs like a pudgy pissed-off roadrunner. At least Connor is portable. Anna has grabbed on to Claire’s pants leg and is doing her best to pull her back into the elevator. Claire, pained, stops and squats down. “Sweetie. Anna, honey. The judge has ordered this. Sweetie, you won’t be left alone with her, I promise. Mama will be right there the whole time.”
Emily Freed’s door opens and the whole screaming gang limps through the door of her office, which hiccups shut. Graham and I look at each other, stunned enough for the moment to forget our allegiances.
“That was nuts,” he says.
There’s muffled screaming for a little while, which recedes, then flares, then recedes, then flares again. Graham and I eye each other uncertainly. He makes a few furtive steps toward the door, only to retreat when the crying stops. Finally, the screaming escalates again and Graham takes long, determined steps toward the door as though he’s worried he’ll talk himself out of going in.
He opens the door just as Emily starts to walk out.
“Ah, Mr. Allesser. You’re still here.” Her voice is flat. “Ms. Dennis needs to leave the building and not come back for forty minutes.” Emily has her hand on Claire’s back and gently pushes her out of the door. Hannah follows, looking a bit dazed.
“Ms. Freed, with all due respect, Ms. Dennis has every right to be there. She promised the kids—”
Emily shakes her head. “I don’t know or care about her rights. All I know is I’m supposed to supervise and ease the visit between these children and their mother. If this one bursts into the office every minute, I can’t do my job.”
She and Graham stare at each other for a second.
Emily speaks, breaking the standoff. “I can either tell the judge that you interfered with the visit or you can get the hell out. Your call.”
Claire sniffs and dabs her swollen red eyes with a rolled-up tissue. Emily’s voice softens. “There’s a coffee shop around the corner. Why don’t you go wait there?”
Graham puts his arm around Claire and she collapses into him, sniffling against the backdrop of the screams. He pushes the elevator button.
When it dings open, Graham and Claire shuffle in, Hannah trailing after them. Before the doors close, Graham stops them with his hand and sticks his head out.
“You coming?” he says to me.
Claire is quietly sobbing in the elevator. I look pointedly at her. “I’ll take the next one.”
He nods.
I sit back down in the hallway and listen. Within ten minutes of Claire’s departure, the screaming stops. I picture them all in there, eyeing one another cautiously around a game of Candyland; Fern tentatively bridging the gap by asking gently about Connor’s favorite color, Anna’s teacher’s name. They are questions she shouldn’t have to ask, but still, for the first time, I know that it’s not too late for her to find out the answers.
21
____
wwmd (what would machiavelli do?)
In the week after my mom’s visit, I’m back to my spy games, ducking out of Bacon Payne’s building, and soaking up the late-summer sun during my two-hundred-foot walk to the headquarters of Molly Grant, PC, for a mail check. I’ve been doing this so much that for the first summer since I moved to New York, my wrist bears the faint lines of a watch-strap tan.
I pull open the heavy glass door with CENTRAL OFFICES written on them in white lettering. Dottie looks up from behind the desk, smiles and disappears into the back office. She comes out carrying a thin beige envelope and pushes it toward me with a cheery “Here ya go.”
McDunn and Associates is written on the return address in a flowery cursive. I’ve called Risa about fifteen times since our court date, to no avail. Each time I dial, the phone is picked up by one of two voices—Cold and Colder. Cold is a receptionist with a clipped British accent who feigns complete ignorance about when Ms. McDunn will be available to talk. Colder is an outgoing voice mail message in which a different, even chillier British voice informs me that Ms. McDunn is not available but I am free to leave a message. Several times, I have called and asked to speak to Graham, but he’s never around either.
I wonder exactly what Risa is doing at these moments when she’s unavailable for a work call—trimming topiary in the shape of her wolfhounds? Holing up in a bunker with Robert Walker, the two of them in army fatigues, chomping on cigars and pointing at strategy diagrams pasted on the wall? My least favorite scenario is that she’s standing by the receptionist desk, dissolving into giggles each time I call.
Even though Risa won’t deign to chat with me, I don’t feel ignored. Last week, she served me with a ten-inch-thick document requesting that the case be dismissed in light of new information regarding Fern’s mental state, that the visitation schedule cease immediately and that Fern pay for fifty percent of the court costs. It was all bunk, but I still had to respond.
I rip open her letter and read it, standing on the nubby red carpet of the Central Offices lobby.
Dear Ms. Grant:
I have received the message that you called me but have been unable to reach you. Please call me at your convenience to discuss the Walker matter.
Very truly yours,
Risa McDunn
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
Dottie looks up and frowns.
“Sorry.” The letter tucked in my bag, I head back to Bacon Payne, muttering—quietly, for Dottie’s sake—about Risa’s mad genius: after ignoring my pile of phone calls, she’s somehow flipped the obligation back to me and memorialized that obligation in a form to show the court. Still talking to myself, I pop into Jodi’s Deli—the midpoint between my two offices—hoping to find some peace of mind amidst the store’s rows of dusty apple-flavored soy chips and Lorna Doones. I’m at the register paying for my sandwich—the virtuous-sounding Garden Veggie Delite—when my Molly Grant, PC, cell phone rings. I pick up with one hand, grabbing the flimsy green cellophane bag with the other. “Molly Grant.”
“Roland Williams here.”
I hurry outside the deli, cell phone clutched to my ear, and find an empty spot under the awning to talk.
“Hi, Roland. Nice to meet you over the phone.” This is what I know about the court-appointed lawyer for the Walker kids: he worked in the family courts for legal aid for twenty years, after which he cofounded his own firm, Williams and Douglas, LLP. He’s active in the Brooklyn Bar Association, he’s well regarded in Kings County and he happens to be black, which is notable only because of the homogeneity of the matrimonial bar. Bacon Payne corporate group, white-bread in its own right, looks like the United Nations compared to most Bacon Payne matrimonial cases: white judge, white lawyers, white clients, white experts, white witnesses.
He launches right into it. “I’m calling to set up a meeting with my clients. Can you help me arrange that through Ms. Walker?”
“Well, the children currently live with Mr. Walker, so it
might make sense to call Risa McDunn.”
“Yes, I’ve tried, but my attempts have been unsuccessful.”
“Oh, well, nice to know I’m not the only one getting the silent treatment there.” I chuckle, stopping when I realize Roland is not laughing along with me. I strip the humor from my voice in an attempt for a more professional tone. “My client sees Connor and Anna twice a week, so maybe we can try to work out something during her visits.” Fern won’t want to give up her time, but it’s important to cooperate with Roland. I’ve seen it before—an expert’s opinions of the parties and their attorneys influencing her feelings about the case.
“I didn’t realize that was the extent of her visits.”
“Well, that’s it for now, but things are going great. We’re working on more time and Emily Freed—that’s the neutral child specialist—she’s helping to undercut the effects of the parental alienation—” The transitions have been rough with both kids, especially Anna, shy and teary at the beginning and end of the visits. Fern says the good time in the middle—reading together, coloring, once even venturing to a playground, where Emily Freed retreated to a faraway bench—keeps expanding.
“Ms. Grant. I’m really not interested in hearing the slant. I was just hoping for some logistical assistance, but I’ll write a letter to both you and Ms. McDunn about scheduling something.”
He hangs up and I notice Everett approaching me from the door of the deli, flimsy green bag in hand, his pasty skin fluorescent in the bright sun. Crap. How much did he hear?
He lifts his face up to the sun and squints. “Hey! Molly. You got food from the deli? Moi aussi. Isn’t this day awesome?” Now that my hazing period is officially over, Everett treats me like a frat brother from a bad eighties movie, the same as everyone else he considers a bud. “So, I’ve been meaning to tell you, big congrats on that decision.”
The Love Wars Page 15