by Lee Robinson
“Well, you know I’m here for you,” says Ellen. And she is, of course, but even Ellen can’t put herself in my place, can’t imagine what it’s like. Nobody can, unless they’re living it. “Are you coming to the book club meeting?” she asks.
“I haven’t read the book.”
“Come anyway. You haven’t been in months,” she says. “Want me to pick you up?”
“I’d have to arrange for the night sitter…”
“You can’t just hole up every night with your mother,” Ellen says. “She wouldn’t want that for you.”
Ellen is right, of course. But then almost nothing about my life is what my mother wanted for me.
My mother wanted me to get just enough education to carry on an intelligent conversation, but not so much, God forbid, that anyone would ever mistake me for an “intellectual.” She wanted me to be able to earn a living, but only on a temporary basis while I supported a husband through law or medical school, or in case of dire emergency, such as sudden widowhood. “You’d make a wonderful administrative secretary,” she’d say, “or a teacher.” She’d gone back to teaching after my father died. But—though she never actually said this, I knew what she thought—it would be a bad idea for me to think about a career. “Those women can be so … oh, you know … men don’t like them.”
My mother wanted me to have children—two or three, more than that would be tacky—and do volunteer work with the Junior League and church committees and learn to play a civilized sport that would keep me from getting fat. Tennis or golf, maybe, with stylish outfits.
She wanted me to have a nice house, kept spotless by a maid who’d come no less than twice a week, and a big yard full of azaleas and camellias, tended to by a black man who knew to knock on the back door if he needed something but did not expect to be invited inside.
What she wanted for me was what she’d always wanted for herself.
* * *
The night before the first hearing in Hart v. Hart, Mom and I sit on the balcony at sundown. I do some research on my laptop while she watches a Navy cruiser head out toward the ocean. When it’s time to go inside she says, “Lost something.” She’s always losing things—the TV remote, her purse, her toothbrush—but this time she points to the photograph that has slipped out of the file and fallen to the floor.
I reach down to get it. “Want to see my newest client?” I ask her. “His name is Sherman.”
She studies the photo, runs her index finger over the dog’s face: lively dark eyes, long whiskers, pert black nose. Then she hands the photo to me. “I’m so sorry…” she says, her voice, as always these days, a little shaky.
“What, Mom? What are you sorry about?”
“Our dog…”
“We don’t have a dog.”
“Brownie.”
“That was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it. You thought you were doing the best thing for him.”
“He might … He might come back.”
“No, Mom. He won’t come back. You gave him away, remember?”
But of course she doesn’t remember.
Love Gone Bad
In a country where half of all marriages fail, we’re still pretending divorce doesn’t exist, and Courtroom 4 of the Charleston County Family Court reflects that. It’s a cramped room—nothing like the grand space of the “big court,” the criminal court, which has a different set of judges and a great deal more prestige. Family court is a world unto itself, a court with an inferiority complex, and though the county has just spent millions on renovations, no amount of money can change that. It’s a place of sadness and secrets, booze and bruised faces, battered lives. There are no juries here, just the beleaguered judges who sit day after day listening to the latest installment of “Love Gone Bad.”
My ex-husband Joe, who’s been a judge for ten years now, says family court is where we hide our dirty laundry. In the criminal court, we air it out. During particularly gruesome murder cases the benches are packed with people. Here in family court, though the proceedings are technically open to the public, there’s a tradition of secrecy and barely enough room in the courtrooms for the litigants and their lawyers.
It’s strange: The most sensational and gruesome murders may shock us, frighten us, but they don’t shame us, because we think of the accused on trial downstairs as not at all like us. He’s another kind of being, a “monster,” a “maniac.” He’s evil. We tell ourselves we could never do what he’s accused of. The sins that truly threaten us, that fill the transcripts of the family court, are the private betrayals, the quiet little violations that go on every day in our homes and families. If we haven’t yet committed sins like these, we know we’re capable of them.
I sit on one of the two benches behind Mrs. Hart and her lawyer, Henry Swinton. On the other side of the courtroom are Mr. Hart and Michelle Marvel. We rise when the court reporter comes in and expect the judge to follow, but the reporter’s just retrieving a file from the last hearing, so we’ll wait some more. Mrs. Hart and Henry Swinton ignore me, conferring with each other in whispers and mumbles. Michelle Marvel takes this opportunity to shake my hand. Her lips open to reveal her very white and remarkably straight teeth, teeth made even more startling by her thick red lipstick.
“This is my old friend Sally Baynard,” Michelle says to her client, although we are not and have never been friends. “Sally, this is Rusty Hart.” Mr. Hart doesn’t look capable of committing adultery, though I try not to jump to conclusions. Everything about him has gone gray: his eyebrows, which need trimming, his sparse hair, even his eyes. The buttons of his gray jacket strain against the push of his belly.
“Baynard,” he says to me, “Isn’t that the judge’s name?”
Michelle Marvel jumps in before I can answer. “We can talk about that later, Rusty.” She pulls him back to his seat. Mrs. Hart and Henry Swinton are still whispering, their heads almost touching. They could be a couple, though I know Henry’s at least a decade younger. They both have the same impeccable rich-Southern-White-Protestant taste in clothes and trim, well-maintained bodies.
At last the court reporter opens the door behind the bench. “All rise,” she says. Joe follows close behind in his rumpled black robe. He once told me how much he hates the robe. What he really means is that he hates his job. He thought it would be a stepping-stone to a judgeship in the big court. It wasn’t. His family connections won’t be enough anymore, and he dreads the politicking and the necessary self-promotion.
“Please be seated,” Joe says. He opens the file, nods to the court reporter. “Motion hearing in the case of Maryann S. Hart v. Russell B. Hart. Actually, two motions. Mrs. Hart requests a reconsideration of the court’s temporary order insofar as it gives her possession of the residence on Sullivan’s Island, and Mr. Hart moves for temporary custody of the dog, who … ah … which … who is now, ah, in Mrs. Hart’s possession. The parties have both submitted affidavits in support of their positions.”
Henry Swinton rises as quickly as pomposity will allow. “Your honor, it’s my client’s position that the motion for custody of the dog should be dismissed as a matter of law. A dog is not—”
Judge Baynard has anticipated this. “We’ll hear Mrs. Hart’s motion first, since it was filed first. Mr. Swinton, please tell me why it is necessary—pending a trial of this case—for your client to move out of the Sullivan’s Island house into the home downtown. As I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, the court is not inclined to modify temporary orders.”
“Your honor, as you know, Mrs. Hart’s decision to separate was not made without a great deal of—”
“Mr. Swinton, tell me what’s changed here. A month ago your client said she preferred to stay in the beach house until trial.”
“Yessir, that was our position, but Mrs. Hart has found it too painful”—at this point Swinton pats his client’s shoulder as she dabs her eyes with a tissue—“to live in the house that was the scene of Mr. Hart’s adulterous relationship.”
Michelle Marvel rockets upward, her short skirt showing off her legs in all their glory. “My client absolutely denies any such conduct,” she shouts, “and further, Mrs. Hart had already obtained the detective’s report—which, by the way, certainly doesn’t establish adultery—before the first hearing in this case, when she asked for temporary possession of the beach house.”
“I’m not deaf, Ms. Marvel,” Joe says, “and nobody in this room is deaf. Now,” he nods toward Henry Swinton, “I’m waiting for you to tell me why your client can’t make herself happy—not forever, mind you, but only until a trial in this case—in a nice house on the front beach in one of the best communities on the East Coast.”
“Judge,” Henry Swinton perseveres, “Mr. Hart’s paramour lives next door to the Sullivan’s Island home. Under the circumstances, Mrs. Hart feels—”
A protest rumbles up through Rusty Hart’s throat and explodes into the air. “Paramour? That girl’s not my paramour, for God’s sake. She’s just a friend. But while we’re on the subject, why don’t you ask my wife what she does when she disappears for hours at—”
Judge Baynard cuts him off, but kindly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to let your lawyer do the talking, Mr. Hart. Mr. Swinton, anything else?”
“As your honor will see from my client’s affidavit, she also feels that Mr. Hart isn’t able to manage the housekeeping at the downtown house. Friends have reported that the place is a mess.”
“Isn’t there a maid?” asks Judge Baynard. “I seem to recall that there are maids for both houses, isn’t that right?”
“Yessir,” replies Swinton, “but as your honor can imagine, the maid needs supervision, and this is especially necessary in the downtown home, which is three floors and, uh, approximately twelve thousand square feet. Mrs. Hart—”
At this point Michelle Marvel rises to speak, but before she can get the words out, Joe Baynard issues his ruling: “I don’t see any change of circumstances or urgency here. Plaintiff’s motion denied. Now, before we move on to the motion about the dog, let me explain why I’ve asked Sarah Baynard to be here. This is the…” He flips through several pages of the file in front of him. “… third or fourth motion involving the dog, if I’m not mistaken. I’m a dog lover myself, but family court judges have their work cut out for them just trying to take care of human beings, so, as I notified you all several days ago, I’ve asked Ms. Baynard to serve as guardian ad litem for Sherman, and to assist me in providing for his welfare. Do either of you lawyers have any objection?”
Henry Swinton rises. “Your honor, our objection is not to Ms. Baynard. We all know,” and now he turns around to face me, his voice saccharine, “what an outstanding attorney she is, what a tremendous asset to the Charleston bar—”
“Succinctly, Mr. Swinton,” says Judge Baynard.
Swinton clears his throat. “Our objection is not to Ms. Baynard, but to the notion that an animal is entitled to a guardian. We’re not talking about custody here.”
“You could have fooled me,” says Judge Baynard.
Swinton continues: “While my client adores Sherman, she does not elevate him to the status of a human being. Your honor’s temporary order provided that she have possession of the dog while this case is being litigated, and there’s simply no evidence that she’s not taking proper care of the dog. If your honor would like us to research the matter further, perhaps both parties could file briefs.”
“I’ll hear from Ms. Marvel,” says the judge.
Michelle’s voice is saturated with smugness. She’s already won one argument and she assumes she’ll win this one. “Your honor, as my client’s affidavit sets forth, we have information that Mrs. Hart is only walking Sherman once a day, and that in fact she’s often not doing that herself, but assigning that task to the maid. Mr. Hart has always enjoyed walking Sherman—”
“Thank you, Ms. Marvel, you may sit down. Ms. Baynard,” the judge says, looking my way, “we appreciate your willingness to be here today. Is there anything you’d like to say about the legal issue?” He motions for me to come to the witness stand.
I know it doesn’t matter what I say. My ex-husband has already decided that this dog needs an advocate, and neither Michelle Marvel nor Henry Swinton dares object to having me as the chosen one because they risk pissing me off. Even if they wanted to appeal, the appellate courts are unlikely to interfere at this point, so they’re stuck with me.
But I give a little speech anyway because I’ve done my research. “Thank you, your honor. As you know, for thousands of years, the law has regarded animals as personal property—no different, and even perhaps less valuable, than furniture. This is changing. In the past decade, courts have begun to treat animals as beings with recognizable interests. In a majority of the states, pet owners can now establish trusts for their pets. There are laws in every state against animal abuse. In some states, owners of deceased dogs may claim noneconomic damages—pain and suffering—in malpractice cases against veterinarians. So gradually the law is recognizing what we all know and believe: that animals can suffer, that humans suffer when they lose a cherished pet, and that the relationship between an owner and a pet is qualitatively different than the relationship between an owner and a piece of furniture. While there is still a great deal of controversy over whether courts should use such terms as ‘custody’ and ‘visitation’ when dealing with animals, it is not uncommon for judges to approve agreements between the parties to a divorce which provide for the welfare of their pets. And in this particular case, your honor, it’s clear to me from my preliminary review of the file that both Mr. and Mrs. Hart love their dog and that they will do anything in their power to assure Sherman’s welfare, including cooperating with a guardian to protect his interests.” I nod first toward Mrs. Hart, and then toward her husband. They nod back. What else can they do?
Judge Baynard thanks me and orders that I be appointed guardian ad litem “to protect the best interests of Sherman, a miniature schnauzer,” that I receive five thousand dollars as temporary fees, to be paid equally by the parties, and that both parties cooperate fully as I investigate the case. He denies Mr. Hart’s motion for temporary custody of the dog, but grants him visitation every Wednesday from three to seven and every weekend from Friday at 5:00 p.m. to Sunday at 5:00 p.m.
It’s a testament to Joe Baynard’s skill as a judge that both parties leave his courtroom looking equally disappointed. As for me, I feel a strange mix of anxiety and determination. I have no idea how to represent a schnauzer, but I remember the photo, those deep-set, dark eyes, and I’m determined not to let him down.
Or maybe, I think as I gather my notes, it’s not just the dog I want to protect, but the judge, who looks miserable. Is it this frustrating case? His job? His failing marriage? He motions for me to approach the bench. “Thanks for agreeing to do this,” he says to me as the lawyers and litigants for the next case come in. He adjusts his robe, which is too big for him. “You’re performing a real service to the court.”
I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself: “If you have any concerns, your honor, you have my cell number.”
For Better or Worse
I’ve heard it said that women who work together often end up having their periods at the same time, as if their body chemistries shared a secret sisterhood. I suspect this is a myth, but I can testify that for many years my secretary Gina and I were united in our monthlies, sharing both the box of tampons under the office sink and the usual complaints. And about a year ago I noticed her reading an article about menopause at about the same time I was beginning to skip a period every now and then.
Gina and I are both nearing fifty, but our attitudes toward this inescapable fact are utterly different. Gina fights it with all her might. She was queen of the prom at Ashley River High School and first runner-up for Miss Charleston. She’s still very pretty—my clients remark on it, especially the middle-aged divorcing males—but various parts of her are beginning to sag and wrinkle despit
e her constant efforts to prop them up and smooth them over. She goes to the gym three times a week and spends a good portion of her salary on facials and manicures and pedicures, none of which delay the inevitable.
“It’s unavoidable,” I tell her. But it’s easier for me. I’ve never been pretty, at least not in the startling way Gina is. “You’re quite handsome,” my mother used to say when I was a teenager obsessing about my flat chest. Her choice of adjectives wasn’t helpful. “And your face has such refined bone structure.”
At forty-nine I look about the same as I did at forty—a few more gray hairs, a few more wrinkles, but still the same basic Sally Baynard: green eyes, short brown hair, and slim but unremarkable figure. My maintenance is minimal: a haircut once a month, a daily application of discount face lotion with sunscreen, and a lot of walking. I walk to the post office and the courthouse when the weather permits, and I walk when I’m angry or sad or frustrated, which means I walk a lot. Gina says the walking won’t defeat flabby abs, and she’s right, but I can’t stand gyms—all those desperate people on treadmills and stationary bikes, running and cycling and lifting weights, driving themselves crazy.
Gina once dragged me to her gym. I was the only woman there in shorts and a T-shirt. Everybody else wore shiny, skin-tight outfits that smoothed their bulges and kept their butts from bouncing as they sweated their way toward the ideal body. “I hate this,” I said to Gina. She thought I meant the exercise. I never went back.
I don’t want to give you the impression that Gina is one of those women whose devotion to bodily perfection is a sign of a vacuous mind. No. Gina is brilliant. If her mother hadn’t steered her into the beauty business at an early age (she was Little Miss something at age five) and brainwashed her into believing that she’d be a movie star (a delusion that ended with a bit part in a B-grade flick filmed in Charleston), Gina might have gone to law school instead of taking a secretarial course at Trident Tech. I taught her how to do legal research, and when she has time she helps me revise my briefs. She also has the ability to step back from the morass of details, to see the big picture with amazing clarity. Whenever I’m dizzy from reading depositions, reviewing accountants’ charts, and going over my own notes about who did what to whom, I can depend on Gina to help me make sense of it.