by Warren Adler
“If you’d like, I could give you a draft opinion.”
“On which side?”
“Both if necessary. Pick one.”
“Just like that?”
“You’re the judge.”
“I’m glad you remembered.”
Peggy wasn’t home when she arrived, which, while not ominous, was certainly questionable. Annie tried to make it a point to be home for dinner, if only to show her presence and mothering authority and illustrate the necessity of “quality time” shared between herself and her daughter. Lately, it had been an illusion. Dinner had been as trying as breakfast. At night, Peggy was only slightly less surly. Nevertheless, she had tried to linger over the table, forcing Peggy into conversation. Most times it was a monologue with Annie trying to engage her daughter’s interest in the events of her day. Peggy, on the other hand, revealed little. For a time, she had volunteered to help her with homework, but that, too, had been rejected.
She had defrosted chicken breasts, but decided at the last moment on steaks instead. Steaks were Peggy’s favorite, although when Peggy asked for them, Annie ordinarily complained that they were too expensive. She took out a carton of frozen asparagus, also a favorite of her daughter’s. Hesitating, she reached for the frozen french fries, weighing the psychological implications. Something fattening might clear the air between them, she thought, act as a kind of peace offering. Her day’s ordeal in the courtroom had, without her noticing, triggered a compelling reason to find the key to end her own domestic problems. The Grahams and the Waterses were tearing each other apart, and it frightened her to think of what venom could be stirred up in domestic relationships.
While she sliced fruits for dessert, she listened to old Beatles tunes on the radio. The station was having a retrospective, and it was shocking to realize how much time had passed since they had provided the background music to her life. Harold had loved the Beatles. Memories of her early life flooded into her mind. Her life was divided into two parts, pre-Harold and post-Harold. The first part was defined by Harold’s struggle to succeed in what for him had become a hostile and alien world. The pain of it assaulted her. Everything he tried came to nothing, and this failure had taught her that the enemy of success was the inability to deal with initial rejection. Harold could never handle that. Rejection could be corrosive, debilitating, and, in Harold’s case, an instrument of death. She had learned that lesson well, along with ways to cope with it, overcome it, defeat it.
From his early demise, she had also learned the precious value of time. She became compulsive about filling every moment with a useful, productive pursuit. Life, in the final analysis, was time. Living was the efficient use of that time. And achievement was based on high-quality use of that time. It was a philosophy that worked well for Annie, and somehow she had managed to pass it along to Laura. Yes, she had sacrified for it, made compromises. Why couldn’t Peggy understand? Why did they have such a clash of perceptions?
“You want to be a judge just so you can be boss, have other people under your thumb,” Peggy had once told her during an argument. It was an observation that she had seriously considered.
“I want to be a judge so that I can help other people,” she had countered.
“Help? A judge sends people to jail. A judge hurts people.”
“That’s not true. A judge is a kind of referee for civilized society. Someone has to be sure the rules are obeyed and punish those who break the rules.”
“Punish. You’re good at that.”
“Not only punish, decide what’s the best course of action for people.”
“How can you decide when you don’t know what’s best for your own daughter?”
“Because with my own daughter I’m too emotionally involved. I can’t see the forest for the trees.”
“That’s because you don’t look.”
These arguments always devolved into recriminations and, for her, guilt. Sometimes, when the guilt became too pervasive, she blamed Harold for leaving her alone, for killing himself, for saddling her with this burden.
“Why can’t you understand?” Ultimately, that was always Peggy’s final refuge. “Why can’t you?”
Always the unanswered question, she sighed, which brought her thoughts back to the case at hand.
That morning she had been dead certain that, career-wise, she wanted nothing more in the world than this profession. It had nobility of purpose, called forth all her resources, presented exciting daily challenges. What she was doing truly mattered, changed lives. Now her resolve had been considerably reduced. It was not easy playing God.
Play it safe, she warned herself, another echo of old Sam’s advice, further buttressed by Carter’s comments that morning. “Don’t take chances on getting these decisions rolled back at you on appeal,” Judge Compton had cautioned. “It could hurt your chances in the election if someone got it into his mind to criticize your bench marks.” She remembered that she had snickered at the pun. But she wasn’t snickering now. She had already made a fatal error—she had become emotionally involved. Worse, she was coming up on both sides of the issue. Hadn’t Carter offered to write an opinion for each?
Complicating the decision-making process was the element of politics so subtly injected by her young clerk. He was, she realized, only being a realist. He’d go far, that boy. A decision on the side of the grandparents might win her lots of support from older voters. In an aging population, that was no small consideration. Some might say she was pandering to a certain constituency, a disgusting thought that she instantly rejected. On the other hand, it had a practical ring to it. Unethical as well. What had he called it—grey power? Well, if they had the clout to get a grandparents’ petition statute passed in forty-nine states, one had to sit up and take notice. Now she was sorry it had even entered her mind. She would have to bend over backward in her decision.
Peggy’s absence was beginning to nag at her now. She set the table, placed the steaks and french fries in the broiler, began to heat the water for the asparagus, and laid out the fruit salad. She looked at her watch, checked it against the kitchen clock. It was after seven. Her vague panic was becoming more defined.
She went into Peggy’s room. As always, it was sloppy, clothes were strewn around, candy wrappers were everywhere but in her wastebasket, records helter-skelter. It seemed to her more like the lair of some frightened and unhappy animal. Inspecting it now, under the pressure of anxiety, she absorbed the atmosphere of lonely desperation and abject fear.
“Peggy,” she whispered into the anguished air, assaulted now by overpowering guilt. “Have I done this?” But what had she done? Had she set unattainable standards? Unrealistic goals? Made unreasonable assumptions?
But when she left the room, she began to think that perhaps Peggy was being deliberately spiteful, making her squirm for all the imagined injustices she had allegedly perpetrated. It made her angry, but could not dissipate her anxiety. Despite all the psychological posturing, Peggy was her child, her blood and tissue, her creation, and, therefore, her responsibility. Soon, she was searching among Peggy’s things for notes, telephone numbers, clues. She found nothing. She toyed with the idea of calling the police. But she knew too much about police procedures and the negative value of publicity for someone in her profession.
Since she could barely remember the names of Peggy’s friends, there was no one to call. In fact, she couldn’t think of a single person to call except Laura. She dialed her number in Cambridge. A roommate answered.
“Sorry, Mrs. Stokes. Laura’s gone to a concert.”
“It’s nothing important, Sue,” she said quickly.
“I’ll tell her you called.”
By nine-thirty, she was frantic with worry, genuinely panicked. She called her parents in Washington.
“Did Peggy call?” she asked her mother. Background noises indicated that her mother was having one of her regular bridge evenings.
“Not here, dear.” There was a brief pause. “Is ev
erything all right?”
Despite her mother’s lack of sentimentality, she was quick to pick up signals of anxiety. Mothers know their daughters. She had told Annie that often enough. Did they really? Not if Peggy was an example.
“She’s not home.”
“Maybe she’s out with friends.”
“Could be.”
“Teenage girls are a problem these days,” her mother said with dubious authority. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” In her mother’s mind, only death and disease were “somethings.” Everything else was solvable. On the surface, she was often right. No, she decided, Peggy would never have contacted them. She had had more than enough advice dispensed to her to seek out this grandmother’s platitudes.
“You’re right, mother. Probably nothing.”
“I’m sure of it.”
She hung up, wondering if the idea of her panic would linger in her mother’s mind during the bridge game. She doubted it. Nevertheless, the call to her mother had helped take the edge off her worry. Now she had only anger to contend with.
In protest, she took Peggy’s steak out of the broiler. The best way to handle this kind of teenage protest, she assured herself, was to ignore it. She went to her desk, opened her briefcase, and tried to concentrate on her papers. The words swam in front of her, incomprehensible. Yet she remained dogged and determined, forcing herself to try to comprehend, but without any good results. Indeed, the case had begun to take on an air of fantasy. Like a soap opera. Who needs this, she told herself? I’ve got my own troubles.
Too late, she discovered that the steak and french fries were burning. Smoke filled the apartment, and she had to open the windows to get it out. By then, anger had turned to fury, and she decided that, as far as Peggy was concerned, she had done her best. She was blameless, she assured herself. People were, in the end, responsible for themselves. Weren’t they?
The telephone’s ring stabbed into her agitated thoughts. She rushed to pick it up. The voice was vaguely familiar. It was Harold’s mother.
“That you, Annie?” Mrs. Stokes asked.
“Yes.”
It had been a long time since Annie had called the woman “Mother.” Her voice was high-pitched, as if it were still distrustful of long distance.
“Peggy’s here.”
“In Philadelphia?”
“Would you like to speak to her?”
“Of course.”
She would decipher her reactions later, she decided. The relief, unfortunately, had not quite dispelled her anger.
“Mommy?” The reversion startled her.
“I was worried.”
“I’m sorry. But”—her voice dropped octaves lower—“it was Daddy’s birthday and all.”
Harold’s birthday? She recalled the date. Yes, she had forgotten. But it hadn’t been relevant for years. Not for years. And Peggy had been barely a month old when he had died.
“Are you all right? That’s what counts.”
“Yes, I am. I took the train.” A sob bubbled in her throat. “Do you forgive me?”
“It’s never a question of that between us, baby. Of course I forgive you. I love you. I can’t stand to see you unhappy.”
“I was just thinking of Daddy. And, even though I can’t even remember what he looked like, I missed him. I just missed him. Can you understand that?”
“Of course I do.” She wasn’t sure. The human heart’s a puzzle, she thought.
“I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“You can stay with Grandma and Grandpa Stokes if you want, Peggy.”
“No. I’ll be home.”
“Is everything okay with them?”
“Fine. I bought a birthday cake.”
“You did? I’ll bet everybody had a good cry.”
“It was nice.”
“I’m sorry I forgot.”
“I just needed to think about him today, Mommy.”
“I understand.”
“So I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll go straight to school. I promise.”
“Have you enough for the fare?”
“I’m sure Grandma will lend it to me.”
“Well, most of all, I’m glad you’re safe.”
“And you forgive me?”
“Of course I do.”
“And Mommy . . . I do miss you. And I’ll try much harder—”
“And I’ll try, too.”
“Would you like to speak to Grandma?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Stokes came on again.
“She’s fine, Annie.”
“I really appreciate this—Mother.” She grew suddenly hoarse and cleared her throat. “I’ll send you a check for anything you’ve laid out.” It seemed hard-edged, and she regretted it.
“No, please. We’re happy to have her. At least she remembered.” Annie heard the sigh of despair.
“Is she really all right?” Annie asked.
“She’s fine.”
“At least she had someone to come to . . .” Annie began, but she could not continue.
“Anyway, she’ll be home tomorrow. I just thought you’d be worried.” She was about to say good-bye, but she apparently interrupted herself. “And Annie—”
“Yes?”
The woman’s hesitation was tangible.
“Some people aren’t as strong as others—some need a little more loving care.” She seemed to want to say more but didn’t and hung up with a polite good-bye.
After she hung up, Annie felt relieved but somehow more troubled than ever. Her stomach churned, and she lost her appetite. Besides, she resented the implied lecture on loving care. Hadn’t she lavished loving care on Harold? On Peggy? If you weren’t judgmental, all human relationships were easy. Mindless, but easy.
She took a hot bath, and it calmed her somewhat, but by the time she slipped into bed, taking her papers with her, she found herself dealing with a new kind of resentment. Why had Peggy gone to them? What did they have that she could not provide? She could not concentrate on the case materials. Finally, she tossed the papers on the floor and shut off the light. Curling under the sheets, she began to thrash around restlessly. Her feet were icy.
She must have dozed. She wasn’t sure. The sheets were twisted and, in places, moist from her perspiration. If she had dreamed, her dreams were too terrible to remember. Sitting up, she saw the papers on the floor, leaned over, picked them up, and tried reading. After a few minutes of incomprehension, she closed the file. Everybody is guilty. Everybody is innocent.
Knowing that only increased the agony of her indecision.
Before she left the apartment, she wrote a note to Peggy.
“I do understand,” she began, wondering if it was the truth. “Let’s make today a birthday celebration for us—Daddy, too. We’ll look at each other with new eyes. Maybe we need to find our way back to each other. This I do know—when you hurt, I hurt. I love you. Mommy.”
She tried not to think of the case again until she entered her chambers and saw the smug and knowing face of her law clerk. Muttering a greeting, she put on her robe and patched up her puffy face.
“I wrote down some suggestions on what to ask the boy,” he said, handing her yet another file. She took the file, turned and looked at him, so cocksure and knowing, bloated with the arrogance of youth.
“Have you ever had a child?” she asked.
“Me?” He looked at her, squinting, as if he was trying to focus on her motive for saying this. Without giving him time to respond, she flung the file in her wastebasket and strode through the door of the courtroom.
In her chambers, she asked the boy to sit down on the leather couch, patting the space beside her. Moving over, he put his hands on his knees and looked around the office. Light from the large windows deepened the cobalt blue of his eyes. He was a beautiful child.
“I’m just as nervous as you are, Tray,” she said, offering a tight smile. He looked at her with some confusion. “Do you know why you’re here?” she asked gently.
&
nbsp; “No.”
“I thought not.” Annie shrugged. “That makes two of us.”
“What do judges do?” Tray asked. She put her arm around him.
“They judge,” she said, her smile broadening. She berated herself for giving him such an inadequate answer. “They help people make decisions that are sometimes too hard for them to make themselves.” He seemed to think about that for a long time, then nodded his understanding.
“Am I going away somewhere?”
“Now, whatever gave you that idea?” She shook her head. “Of course not.”
They sense more than we think, she told herself.
“Do you know why your last name is Waters?” she asked.
“It’s my other daddy’s name.”
“Your other daddy?”
“My dead daddy.”
“Do you remember him?”
“A little bit.”
“Did you love your other daddy?”
“Yes.” He seemed tentative.
“And this daddy? The one with your mommy now.”
“I love him, too.”
“And your mommy?”
“Yes.”
“And your gramma and grampa?”
“Which ones? Grampa and Gramma Graham or Grampa and Gramma Waters?”
“Both,” she said cautiously.
He grew thoughtful and looked around the room, then shrugged his little shoulders.
“Yes.”
“Have you seen much of Grampa and Gramma Waters lately?”
“No.” He started to say something.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Grampa Waters came to school and gave me my old wagon.”
“He did?”
“He shouldn’t have done that because it was in the middle of class, and I think the teachers were angry.”
“Were you angry?”
“No. I was scared. I didn’t want Grampa to get in any trouble.”