by Lee Robinson
“He charmed his way in. Anybody with the judge?”
“He’s working on an order, but I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
She buzzes her boss. “Sally Baynard’s here … No … I didn’t ask her…” She turns to me. “What’s this about?”
“My motion to bifurcate in the Hart case.” I say this loud enough for him to hear through Betty’s receiver. “And some related matters.”
“It’ll be a few minutes,” says Betty.
“I’ll wait.” Sherman sits on my lap, content to let me rub him under the chin.
“Looks like you’ve got a new boyfriend,” Betty says.
I wait ten minutes. “Would you remind him I’m out here?”
She knocks on the door to his chambers, steps inside. There’s some conversation, then she comes out. “He doesn’t think it’s advisable for you to discuss the Hart case with him unless the other two lawyers are present. And he said to remind you that you can submit a supporting brief for your motion.”
“No,” I say firmly, “I’m not going to wait any longer.” I walk right past Betty, fling open the door.
“What do you think you’re doing, barging in like this?” My ex-husband pushes the desk drawer closed, the one where he keeps his stash of fingernails. I let Sherman off the leash. He’s happy to have new territory to investigate. He disappears under the desk, comes out with one of Joe’s shoes.
“Give me that!” Joe shouts.
I’ve practiced my speech on the way to the courthouse. It’s short, to the point: “I know I’m violating the rules of professional conduct by coming over here to talk to you without notifying the other lawyers in the case, but you’ve forced me into it. You have two choices: (1) grant my motion, because you have no good reason to deny it, or (2) refuse to schedule the motion, and I’ll report you to the judicial ethics committee.”
But then I can’t stop. “And when I make my report I’ll tell the committee what’s REALLY going on here: you appointed me as guardian ad litem for this dog, not because you want someone to protect his interests or even someone to settle the case, but because you have the crazy idea that you’re still in love with me.” I try to control my voice, but I hear myself shouting. Sherman crawls back under Joe’s desk.
“I didn’t file the case, Sally,” he says, “so I don’t know how you can think—Would you please take my shoe away from him before he—”
“You didn’t have the guts to be up front with me, to say, Sally, I’m still in love with you, so you involved me in a case that’s likely to go on forever, because these people will never settle, and you’ll have the pleasure of having me captive in your courtroom for a dozen motion hearings and then a trial that will take—what would you say—two weeks, three, a month?”
“Sally—”
“And then when you found out that the vet and I had … that we’d been to dinner together … you got jealous, decided you’d punish me with that ridiculous order giving me temporary custody of Sherman. But you know what? I like having him around!”
“If you don’t calm down I’m going to have to call a deputy,” he says.
“Fine. Throw me in the lockup. I don’t care, but the dog will have to go with me.”
“Okay,” he says, “I admit it wasn’t good judgment, the way I’ve handled this Hart case, but I’ll grant your motion, and we’ll get the dog part of the case over with, let things settle down, and then you and I—”
“Stop it, Joe!”
“I know you still feel something for me. We’ve never really let go of each other.” Before I know it he has his arms around me. “Don’t deny it.”
“Please stop.” He still smells the same, feels the same.
“You’ve never thought about getting back together?”
I pull myself away from him. “That’s irrelevant.”
“The rules of evidence don’t apply here, Sally. You want me to be honest. What about you?”
“Of course I still care about you, but—”
“You’re not answering the question: Haven’t you thought about us giving it another try?”
“Why would anything be different?”
“Because we’re both a lot wiser.”
This makes me laugh. Sherman emerges from under the desk with the shoe. “Is this wise? What you’re doing right now? What about Susan?”
“Susan doesn’t care.”
“I don’t believe that. Have you been to counseling?”
“No, it wouldn’t do any good.”
“You have to try.”
“It’s that vet, isn’t it?” We stand nose to nose. “Come on, answer me.”
“Joe, when you can tell me you and Susan have been to counseling—and I don’t mean some token visit—then maybe we can continue this conversation. Come on, Sherman, let’s go.”
* * *
“Who’s on the schedule this afternoon?” I ask Gina when I get back.
“Rick Silber. Harold Duncan, to prepare for his deposition. Some college student who wants to intern next summer.”
“I don’t even know if I want an intern this summer. Ask her—”
“Him.”
“Ask him to call back in May.”
“Want to hear something funny? Last time Rick came in, he asked me if I thought he was attractive.”
“Wow, that was direct.”
“But it wasn’t like he was making a pass or anything. He said he just wanted my honest opinion.”
“And?”
“I told him he’d be more attractive if he got rid of the goatee and stopped wearing socks with his sandals.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. Come to think of it, I should have told him to get himself a regular pair of shoes. Oh … I almost forgot to tell you. His wife dropped her counterclaim. Her lawyer sent the dismissal order this morning.”
“So, Rick should be happy. Have you let him know?”
“I thought you’d want to tell him yourself. Oh, and about the Harts. You asked me to call them and set up some times for them to visit with Sherman.”
“Not together. Separately.”
“Right. I can’t reach either one of them, but I’ll keep trying.”
* * *
When Rick Silber comes in he kicks off his sandals, revealing—no socks this time—his tiny, tender-looking feet. He assumes his usual lotus position on my sofa. Sherman sniffs around the sandals, but rejects them. “I don’t like dogs,” Rick says. “It’s kind of irrational, but—”
“He doesn’t bite. Sherman, come over here, honey. Good news, Rick. Your wife dropped the counterclaim. It’s over.”
“She’s always been the one who controls everything.”
I can’t believe this. I take a deep breath. “Let’s go back to the beginning of the case. You left Debra, moved in with your graduate student, and after a year of separation you filed for divorce. Your wife counterclaimed adultery, we were gearing up for a big battle, and then she got cancer. Then your graduate student left you, you told me you didn’t want to go through with the divorce, but I explained that we still had to defend against the counterclaim. And you were miserable, right?”
“Right.” This is about the time he’d start to pull at his goatee, but the goatee is gone.
“So now, for whatever reason, Debra decides to drop the counterclaim, and you’re still unhappy.”
“I know, I’m screwed up.”
“Rick, the case is over now. There’s really nothing more I can do.”
“I know, I think that’s why I’m so … I don’t know … I’m going to miss talking to you and Gina.”
“Last time we talked you complained about my fees … like I was making up work so I could charge you for it.”
“You know I didn’t mean it. You’ve been very patient. And Gina’s been really great, too.”
“I’ll pass that along to her.”
“I don’t mind paying if I can … you know … if I can keep com
ing in every now and then.”
“Rick, your case is over. Now if you ever decide you want to go ahead with a divorce—”
“No. That’s probably why she dropped the counterclaim. Her cancer’s the really aggressive kind. She probably won’t last six months.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes. The whole thing just makes me feel like a total jerk.”
“You’re going through a difficult time.”
“It’s my wife who’s going through hell. Do you think, now that this legal stuff is over, I should call her, apologize?”
“I don’t know your wife, how she’d react.”
“But you’re so … You always seem to know how to handle everything.”
“If you knew what’s been happening in my life lately, you wouldn’t say that.”
“I don’t know why that makes me feel better, but it does,” Rick says.
Dog King of the World
When I walk into the kitchen with Sherman, Delores scowls. “Well, if it isn’t the Dog King of the World. Fancy as he is, he ought to know better than to leave his calling card on the carpet.”
“What?”
“Back in your bedroom, in the corner by the dresser. You didn’t see it this morning?”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t have left it for you to clean up.”
“I didn’t clean it up. I don’t do dog poop.” She lifts her eyelids extra high so I’ll know she’s mad. “If you got a boyfriend, I don’t know why you have to keep his dog.”
“The dog doesn’t belong to him.” I feel my face getting hot. “Anyway, this is my private life.”
“It’s not private when your mama wakes up from her nap this afternoon hollering about some man in your bedroom. I said, ‘You calm down, Miz Margaret, there’s no man in that bedroom.’ I took her in there to see for herself, but she kept hollering. Her mind’s a mess, but this isn’t in her mind!”
“It won’t happen again.”
“You do what you want to do with your love life and all, but just remember she’s a sick woman. You need to find a place for her, but it seems like you got other things on your mind.”
“I looked at that one place. I have two others to see. How’s Charlie?”
“Feeling real puny. His sister’s helping out, but he’ll do better when I’m with him full time.”
“I hear you, Delores. I do.”
“Sit down and relax a minute before I go.” Her voice softens. “I was just heating up your mama’s supper. Right, honey?” My mother smiles weakly. Sherman has finished his peregrinations around the condo and comes back to the kitchen. “You! You sit down, too!” Delores commands, but my mother reaches for him and he lifts his front paws to her knees, begging to be held. “All right, honey,” she says to my mother, “you can hold him until supper’s ready.”
While my mother is preoccupied with Sherman, I motion for Delores to join me in the living room.
“Delores, you wouldn’t put Charlie in a nursing home, would you?”
“No, but I’m in a different place in my life than you are. When I finish here, Charlie’s going to be my whole life. I’m done raising my children, done with everything else except this one thing. So I’m ready.”
“I wish I were more like you.”
“And maybe I wish I was more like you—smart and sassy, a lawyer and all, no money problems, all that—but we are who we are.”
“I’ll miss you, Delores. And she’ll miss you.” I look over at my mother, who seems perfectly content with Sherman in her lap. “I know I haven’t been very sensitive about your situation with Charlie.”
“I’ll tend to that. You tend to this situation here. And don’t forget the situation back in your bedroom.” She laughs when she sees my confusion. “I mean that pile of you-know-what over by the closet. It’s getting pretty ripe, lying there all day. Even Dog King of the World’s got stinky poop.”
* * *
When she first moved in with me, after the Alzheimer’s diagnosis, my mother would follow me around the kitchen, looking over my shoulder, making suggestions—I think you might want a little more salt in that. If you leave that in the oven too long, it’s going to dry out—until I wanted to scream. But lately she’s lost interest in food. I sit across from her, coax her. “Try to finish that, Mom.”
She nods, her mouth full of mashed potatoes, then spits them out, mostly onto the plate but some onto her blouse. “Mess,” she says.
“Mess is right, but don’t worry, we need to wash this blouse anyway. What about some meatloaf?”
“No,” she says, and points to her sweatpants. “Mess.”
Now I smell it. “Okay, we’ll deal with it.” I help her back to her bathroom, Sherman following close behind. My mother holds onto the back of the toilet as I remove her soiled pants and underpants, wipe her bottom, then unbutton her blouse. Sherman buries his nose in the pile of clothes on the floor. “Stop it, Sherman!” I yell. He backs off, chastened, and sits obediently while I shower her off and help her into a fresh diaper. It makes me sad to see how she tolerates this indignity. She’s always taken such pride in her pretty underwear, those satiny, lacy things that now lie unused in the drawer. When I open it to get a clean undershirt—she’s given up bras, too—there’s the scent of lavender sachets. Once I would have thought those sachets were silly. Now I miss the mother who put them there.
I get her settled in bed and Sherman hops up beside her, licks her face, then nestles on the end of the bed, between her feet. She’s calmer with him nearby, content. “I bet you’d like to keep him, wouldn’t you, Mom?” I say, and she nods, but I realize it’s cruel to involve her in my fantasy. “Want a story?” No, she’s too sleepy.
I leave the door open a crack, go back to the refrigerator to scrounge for something, but nothing appeals. This is one of those nights when the silence doesn’t soothe; it stirs up all my worries. What am I going to do with my mother? How will I tell her I’m putting her in a nursing home? Will she even understand what I’m saying, and if she doesn’t, is that a blessing?
And what’s going to happen to Sherman? It’s an absurd idea, impossible, but I imagine myself on the witness stand: Your honor, I’ve concluded my investigation. While I’m convinced that both Mr. and Mrs. Hart are fully capable of caring for Sherman, I’m also convinced that if you choose between the two of them, the dispute will never end. I’m not a psychologist, yet it’s clear to me that the fight over Sherman isn’t about what’s best for him, but about what’s broken in the Harts’ marriage. How will they ever work together in Sherman’s best interest? I could recommend that you award custody to Mrs. Hart and give Mr. Hart visitation with Sherman, or vice versa, but this would only involve the dog in their continuing bitterness. Look how many motions they’ve filed, many of them concerning the dog. There will never be a “final order” in this case. They won’t ever stop. The only solution is to give him to a neutral third party.
And in my fantasy, my ex-husband looks down from the bench at me, comes to his senses enough to say, What about you, Ms. Baynard?
And then the fantasy gets even better. Tony Borden, who’s sitting at the back of the courtroom, stands: Your honor, as you know, I’ve been involved with Sherman his whole life, almost five years now. I’ve come to know both Mr. and Mrs. Hart very well, and although I believe that they are each fully capable of giving Sherman a good home and meeting his needs, I agree with Ms. Baynard’s assessment. I believe your idea is the perfect solution to a difficult situation. If you decide to allow Ms. Baynard to keep Sherman, I will of course do whatever I can to assist her.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sally!” I hear myself saying. Am I losing my mind, like my mother?
I try some TV for a while, CNN. Trouble in Afghanistan, Pakistan. Shootings in Chicago. The stock market up.
My own stockbroker left a message a couple of weeks ago but I haven’t had time to call him back. I know what he’s going to say, You might want to think about being a
little less conservative with your investments. Maybe I’m too cautious with my meager nest egg, but I can’t afford to lose any of it. If I have to raid my retirement account to pay for a nursing home, I’ll be the Dowager of Domestic Relations until I drop. I turn off the TV, rummage through a stack of magazines for something soothing, but everything seems either too real (home-grown terrorists, global warming, the coming water shortage) or too unreal (mother-daughter bonding through cosmetic surgery). Maybe, I think, the real and the unreal are merging in some cosmic screwup, and I’m right in the middle of it.
I call my friend Ellen. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“I just dozed off. Terrible day in court,” she says.
“What happened?”
“Mistrial. Defense lawyer was drunk.”
“Not somebody from the P.D.’s office, I hope.”
“No. That young guy from the Holz firm. He was acting weird during his opening argument, wobbling over to the jury box, slurring, then he fell asleep after I called my first witness.”
“I thought he’d gone to rehab.”
“Guess it didn’t take. His wife will probably be calling you any time now. Anyway, what’s up?”
I tell her about my meeting with Joe. “I feel terrible about it.”
“Sounds like you handled it well.”
“I think he felt rejected.”
“That’s the way he should feel.”
“I know, but he really needs a good friend right now.”
“Right. It just can’t be you. You know that—that’s why you told him you wouldn’t talk again until he’s been through counseling. By then you’ll be out of the dog case.”
“He could still deny my motion.”
“I don’t think he’s that irrational. He’ll grant it, he’ll schedule a short trial on the dog-custody issue, and that’ll be it. You’ll feel a lot better when this case is over.”
“I guess so.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“I’ll miss the dog.”
“So get a dog.”
“But it won’t be Sherman.”
“You’ve really fallen for that little guy, haven’t you?”
“When he looks at me with those eyes, it’s like he knows how I’m feeling.”