Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  “I’ll send Ally something,” I say, “to cheer her up." What I can do from here won’t be much, but I’ll find a way to soothe my child.

  “Don’t bother,” Ellen says, her voice bearing the weight of her seventy-five years. “We stopped giving her your letters weeks ago. It was too traumatic.”

  “But she’s still…” I say, realizing Ally has been writing me, even though she thinks I’ve abandoned her. And she’s been sneaking to do so.

  There is a rustling sound on Ellen’s end of the line, then a man’s voice nearly as familiar as Tim’s says, “Claire?” It’s my father-in-law, James.

  “Yes?”

  “I hate to do it, but we’ve gotta cut ties with you,” he says. I hear what sounds like a chair dragging across the floor, as if he’s sitting down. “There’s a shit storm here you can’t possibly imagine.”

  I have nothing to say.

  “We’ve got a bushel of hate mail. Ellen can’t even get through the grocery store without someone jumping her and picking a fight,” he tells me. “There’s protestors and reporters up and down the street. Two neighborhood kids chucked rocks at Ally while she was waiting for the ice cream truck the other day, gave her a knot the size of a tangerine on the back of her head. It’s gotten out of hand.”

  I draw a shallow breath. “I understand.”

  “It’s not personal. I’ve got nothin’ but respect for you—how you stood up through all this, how you busted your ass all those years takin’ care of your family.”

  I’m glad to hear that someone finds me redeemable. “Thanks,” I mutter, “for taking care of Ally. I’m sorry you’ve had to… Tell Ellen I’m very sorry.”

  “She knows.”

  My eyes tear up. “I’m sorry,” I say again, because somehow I can’t stop.

  “Ally’ll be okay,” James says. “It’ll just take time.”

  My daughter is so strong that I have no doubt of this. “Thank you,” I say one last time. Before he can reply, I drop the receiver into the cradle, wipe my damp cheeks with my fingertips, and clear the way for the inmate who has been lingering behind me for the last few moments in wait of the phone.

  * * *

  The morning of Tim’s testimony, I am dismayed to find that the number of protestors on the courthouse lawn has ballooned by a multiple of three, at least. Inside the courtroom, my supporters have dwindled to nil. But my legal team is in full attendance, primed for whatever the day may bring. For my part, I wish to slip into an altered state of consciousness, from which I will emerge only when this whole ugly thing is done.

  The jurors file in, and for the first time, I really look at them. They are six men and six women, an even split. Zoe wanted the gender balance to favor testosterone, since, as she put it, “The mothers will eat you alive.” But that’s not how it shook out. Five of the six women who made the cut have one thing in common, though: They’re postmenopausal. My age or older. That’s one thing that went Zoe’s—and my—way: a single woman of childbearing age in the bunch. The men are trickier to figure, but Zoe tried to stack them in reverse: load up on working dads with young kids who long for simpler times and freedom. It’s sick to put it that way, but that’s what she wanted. And, for the most part, she got it.

  I crane my neck to study Tim as he enters the courtroom, the bulky double doors easing shut behind him. Do I recognize the gash on his forehead Ellen spoke of? I do. Is he limping on that twisted knee? Perhaps, but the slight swaying I think I see could just as well be my imagination. What is clearer is that my husband—my lover of more than half a lifetime—can’t muster the will to even look my way, my existence now an affront to everything we once cherished.

  Charlotte Tupper spends an extra moment eyeing her notes while Tim is sworn in, then enthusiastically begins. “Good day, Mr. Fowler.”

  Tim nods. Barely.

  The prosecutor asks a few perfunctory questions, which Tim answers with brevity and resignation, before shifting to the crux of her case. “At what point in your wife’s pregnancy did you learn she was carrying Owen?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did she tell you right away, as soon as she knew?”

  He considers this for a moment. “We didn’t specifically discuss that. There was a false test.”

  “When?”

  He dips his head toward his shoulder, squints a bit. “The middle of December?”

  “Of 2009?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, as of that time, you didn’t believe the defendant was pregnant?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But then you discovered that she was?”

  “Yes,” he says with an unmistakable glance at the prosecutor’s belly, a look that lingers a bit too long.

  “Isn’t it true that the defendant, your wife, didn’t inform you of her pregnancy until she was almost four months along?”

  His hesitation is deeper and broader than I expect. “Three and a half months, maybe. Somewhere in the first part of March. But I think she’d just found out.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “No.”

  “When in the pregnancy did your wife begin seeing a physician?”

  “The embryo transfer was in November,” Tim says.

  “But that was before the pregnancy was established, correct?”

  He shrugs. “I guess so.”

  “Between November and March, did the defendant seek prenatal care?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What spurred her to finally see a physician in March?”

  “There was some bleeding,” he says with a sigh. “She’d never had that before. We were worried about the baby.”

  “So by then you were aware of the pregnancy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s fast-forward to after the baby was born,” the prosecutor says. “How would you describe the defendant’s attitude toward Owen in the first few months of his life?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Well, for example, would you characterize her as a loving mother?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Attentive?”

  “Claire is a great mother,” Tim declares, his chin quivering. “You can’t take that away from her.”

  The prosecutor forges ahead. “Did there ever come a time when you thought the defendant didn’t show enough attentiveness to Owen’s care?”

  Tim clenches his teeth, grips the arms of the witness chair. “Owen was having some muscle spasms. I thought she could have been more diligent about getting to the bottom of things. Then again, it was probably more my job than hers.”

  “When did you notice these ‘muscle spasms’?”

  “Some time in February?” Tim runs a hand through his bushy, gray hair. “I don’t remember exactly.”

  “February of 2011?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the defendant was aware of these ‘muscle spasms’ too?”

  “I already said…”

  “At some point, was an appointment made with Dr. Lasky to have Owen’s ‘muscle spasms’ evaluated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who made that appointment?”

  “I did,” Tim says with a groan.

  “And what was the result of that evaluation?”

  Tim freezes, as if he’s the one who has been caught in a wrongdoing.

  “Mr. Fowler,” the judge says, “please answer the question.”

  “There was no evaluation.”

  “Why not?”

  Weakly, Tim says, “Owen died before…”

  The prosecutor switches gears. “How much alcohol did you drink on the night of May 27, 2011, aboard the yacht, Lucy in the Sky?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you give the court a ballpark figure?”

  Tim turns away from the jury and draws into himself. “Six or eight beers? I wasn’t counting.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “I don’t think so.”
/>   “Were you buzzed?”

  “Probably.”

  “How much alcohol did the defendant consume on the night of May 27, 2011?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But you witnessed her drinking alcohol, didn’t you?”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  “What kind?”

  “Some type of liquor. Carson was practically pouring the stuff down her throat.”

  Charlotte Tupper grins. “So she drank quite a lot?”

  “A lot for her.”

  “Would you say your wife was drunk?”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” shouts Zoe. “Speculative.”

  Judge Parsons has, for the most part, been silent enough that his presence escapes me. I notice him anew as his gaze jumps from Zoe to Charlotte. “Sustained.” His brows clench in a scowl. “Unless you have a breathalyzer result to share with us, Ms. Tupper, this line of questioning is fruitless. Get on with it.”

  “Moving along,” the prosecutor says with a nod to the judge. “Who cared for Owen the night of May 27, 2011, while all of this drinking was going on?”

  “He was nine months old,” says Tim. “He went to bed at seven o’clock.”

  In a pleading tone, Ms. Tupper says, “Judge?”

  Judge Parsons shakes his head. “Please answer the question, Mr. Fowler.”

  “I took care of him, I guess. I was a stay-at-home dad. We were used to it that way.”

  “And what about the morning of May 28, 2011? Who tended to Owen then?”

  Tim’s eyes widen. He gulps. “I don’t know. I never saw him again until…”

  “Until when?”

  “They had me identify him after the divers...”

  Ms. Tupper’s posture softens. “I’m sorry.” She leans in and slides a box of tissues Tim’s way.

  “Sure you are.”

  The prosecutor takes a step backwards and asks, “How did you discover that Owen was missing?”

  “Claire woke me.”

  “What did she say when she woke you?”

  Tim ponders the floor. “She was upset,” he says. “Shaking. I knew something was wrong before she even opened her mouth.”

  With a nod, the prosecutor says, “Please continue.”

  He draws a deep breath. “She told me the baby had fallen overboard.”

  “What time was it when she told you this?”

  “Between seven-thirty and eight.”

  “Did the defendant say when Owen had gone overboard?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How did you react to the news that your son was missing?”

  “I lost it,” Tim says bluntly. “Totally lost it.”

  Ms. Tupper studies the jurors’ reactions. “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “The defendant hadn’t contacted them already?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why not?”

  “You’d have to ask her. I assume she panicked.”

  The prosecutor should object to anything that paints me in a favorable light, but Tim is her witness and she permits his kindness to slip by. Still, she slaps him with a doozy of a question next. “How do you believe your son, Owen, died?”

  Tim pauses a long while before settling on an answer. “That’s not for me to say.”

  “That wasn’t the question, Mr. Fowler. I’m asking what you believe to be the cause of your son’s death.”

  Matter-of-factly, Tim replies, “My son drowned.”

  “That’s what you believe?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlotte Tupper crosses her arms over her belly. “Do you know a man by the name of Eric Blair?”

  Tim grits his teeth; a vein along his temple pulsates. “No, I don’t.”

  “Have you ever heard the name Eric Blair?”

  “I’ve heard it.”

  “In what context?”

  I grab Zoe’s pen, furiously scribble: STOP THIS!!! on her pad. But all she can do is frown.

  “Like I said, I don’t know the guy. I guess he’s some coworker of Claire’s from Hazelton United.”

  “Are you aware that Eric Blair claims to have had an affair with the defendant, your wife?”

  “People claim lots of things.”

  “Mr. Blair also claims to be Owen’s biological father. Are you aware of that?”

  Tim purses his lips. “There’s no proof of that. It’s ridiculous to even…”

  Ms. Tupper slinks over to the prosecution table, where her deputy passes off another sleeve with a sheet of paper inside. “State’s exhibit twelve,” she says, waving the sheet in the air. Judge Parsons okays the evidence, and the prosecutor presses it into Tim’s reluctant hand. “Please read the highlighted text for the court,” she requests.

  Tim’s features lock as he skims the words. Mechanically, he mumbles, “Fowler, Owen Richard; blood type: AB.”

  “What is your blood type, Mr. Fowler?”

  “Type A.”

  “Do you know the defendant’s blood type?”

  “Really? You’re going to…?” Tim makes a fist, rubs it over his temple. “My son is dead.”

  The prosecutor repeats, “Do you know your wife’s blood type?”

  Maybe most husbands wouldn’t, but Tim does. “She’s type A,” he says with venom. “My wife’s blood is type A.” He glances at me briefly, desperate sorrow in his eyes.

  “If I remember my high school biology correctly,” Ms. Tupper says, with less gravity than the situation demands, “two parents of blood type A cannot produce a child with blood type AB. Did you learn that in high school too, Mr. Fowler?”

  Tim’s face contorts with rage. “Screw you! Screw you and…”

  Judge Parsons frantically bangs his gavel, but a rumble of shocked gasps continues to ripple through the courtroom. Ms. Tupper hustles back to the prosecution table and awaits an opening.

  “There’s no place for that kind of outburst in this court, Mr. Fowler,” Judge Parsons admonishes once he has regained control of the room. “And I will not tolerate it. Another step out of line, and I will hold you in contempt of court. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” Tim mutters, his shoulders slack and a glazed look in his eyes.

  “Ms. Tupper,” the judge says with a sigh, “proceed.”

  The prosecutor simply takes her chair. “Nothing further.”

  Zoe doesn’t even bother standing when she says, “I have no questions for this witness, Your Honor.” And with that, my husband is mercifully dismissed.

  Chapter 22

  The circus came to Calvary two weeks after Ricky’s seventh birthday. By then, my brother passed his waking hours in a wheelchair, blinked to communicate in lieu of speaking. The bit of vision he retained was like a rabbit-eared TV in a storm, or so I imagined: fuzzy, intermittent, unreliable. Yet this didn’t stop our parents—both of them, this time—from deciding our family should pass a rare Friday evening together under the big top.

  The only good thing about Dukate Disease, as far as I could figure, was the preferential treatment Ricky got with the wheelchair. He was “disabled,” as people termed it back then, blissfully unaware of the doctrine of political correctness they were violating.

  Because of Ricky’s disability, our family garnered front row seats to The Greatest Show on Earth, a fact that spawned the most brutal exchange, or lack thereof, I have ever witnessed.

  The circus got under way with the usual procession of trained elephants, barely clad acrobats, and—in a top hat and tails—the rotund ringmaster. Then a clown car zigged and zagged onto the scene, gloved hands jutting out one side to wave at the crowd, a limp polka-dotted leg and giant red shoe dangling from the opposite window. Ten feet in front of us, the car bumped to an uneven stop, and out tumbled a dozen tiny people, made to look bigger with poufy hats and rainbow-colored wigs, billowy trousers and double-sized overalls.

  Behind us in the stands, maybe five rows back, some loudmouth started heckling the clowns
, trying to draw them our way. At the time, I thought this guy was a plant, placed in the audience to propel the act forward. But when two of the clowns scuttled in our direction, they zeroed in on Ricky instead of the heckler, made silly faces and squirted each other with fake flowers, pulled extended lengths of colorful handkerchiefs from their pockets and played tug-of-war over them. But nothing disturbed Ricky’s glassy-eyed stare, a string of fresh drool pooling at the corner of his gaping mouth.

  I searched our parents’ faces, hoping they would thwart the spectacle of humiliation befalling their dying son, but they did nothing. And though I wanted to salvage the last bit of Ricky’s dignity, I didn’t know how. So while hundreds of spectators bore holes into my brother with their tense gazes and hopeful smiles he was helpless to return, I simply held my breath, stared into the distance, and tried to reach the faraway place where Ricky’s soul now dwelled.

  * * *

  The State rests its case against me the second Wednesday of July, then my lawyer gets her shot. As Zoe promised in her opening statement, she picks the prosecutor’s theories apart, witness for witness and fact for fact, until I’m sure I will walk away from this ordeal scathed but intact.

  The problem is, I can’t walk away. Not without setting the record straight about Eric Blair, and, in the process, Owen. Not without imparting to the world that I did not betray Tim—at least not willingly. If I betrayed Owen, it should be known that I acted out of love and mercy, hope and fear. Of course, Zoe has no idea what I intend to say on the stand, or she’d never let me make such a foolhardy move. But it’s not up to her.

  When Charlotte Tupper wobbles into the courtroom, I notice that, today of all days, she appears distracted and aloof, a crucial element of her countenance having dulled and weakened. She nods at Zoe and, as usual, rolls her overloaded file cart to a jittery stop beside the prosecution table.

  I can’t stop smiling, which spooks a few of the jurors as they settle for yet another lengthy day of testimony. “Are you all right?” Zoe asks, noticing the giddy way the secrets I hold prepare to burst free.

  I am better than all right, the weight of not only Eric Blair and Owen but even Ricky and, oddly, our mother and father beginning to lift. “Sure,” I say. “I’m fine.”