Some Bright Morning, I'll Fly Away

by Alice Anderson

  It was about four weeks after Katrina, and we’d escaped to the French Quarter for the relief of an air-conditioned hotel room, hot gumbo in bowls, strong drinks, and a life away from the destruction that was Ocean Springs.

  “When the shadows of this life have gone, I’ll fly away. Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly, I’ll fly away.”

  After that, every time the band saw me coming with a kid on my hip, they’d just quit full stop whatever song they were on and break into “I’ll Fly Away.” And weekend after weekend, as the days after Katrina grew long, I’d sing that song again and again, wishing I really could fly away.

  HANDGUNS, HARD-ONS, AND THE HEADLESS HORSEMEN

  The day arrived for the final trial. I flew into Gulfport the night before, the spare lights of the coast a stark contrast to the bright lights of New York. I checked in to a depressing residence near the courthouse. Long gone were the FEMA trailers in rows on the fairgrounds. Now a brick courthouse with white columns stood in downtown Pascagoula. Everyone kept mentioning what a fine building it was, but to my eyes, everything looked miniature and insignificant. I could have stayed with friends, but I found myself wanting to be alone. I felt like Ocean Springs was no longer my home. I just wanted to go to court, get it over with, get my babies, and get out.

  Morning came quickly. I woke, took a long shower in the dark, and put on my drag. I looked in the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door and tried to see what the people in court would see: blond, Southern, upright, sweet, motherly. Buffalo texted me: you got this. we don’t need him or his money. after today we are free.

  Buffalo and Norris and Norman had all cautioned me against fighting too hard. They knew what fighting had cost me in court in the past. All that mattered was keeping custody, getting divorced, and being free to live outside of Mississippi, away from Liam.

  I walked over the courthouse. Lana and Tammy were already there, waiting on a bench outside the courtroom.

  “Addison’s inside,” Tammy said, adding, “Is Dr. Colette coming? Hopefully no maxi pads today!” We laughed and they both stood up and hugged me.

  It wouldn’t be the huge crowd of that one, terrible hearing almost a year before, but I was lucky to have a group of people who were willing to testify for me. Tim Burr would be here, and a group of my closest friends, and the kids’ teachers. Jack Calhoun walked by and winked at me. “Lookin’ good, California,” he said quietly.

  Right on his heels, Liam came in with his new attorney. Buford had fired him when his DUI came to light. Buford was a shark, but there was one thing he would not tolerate and that was a liar. And Liam made Buford look like a fool. So Liam got fired.

  I’ll never forget when Addison let me know. She’d called me up and as soon as I answered, she said, “Buford fired him.”

  “Come again?”

  “He fired him.”

  “I didn’t know you could get fired by your own lawyer.”

  “Well, you can. I mean, that’s what Buford calls it. He’s just removing himself from the case. After all his nastiness, he has this weird moral high ground and claims to refuse to work for clients who lie to him, so Liam has to get a new attorney.”

  “This has to be good news, right?”

  “Right.”

  I didn’t know much about Liam’s new attorney, but he looked to be at least a normal human being in comparison to Buford Cooter Garland—no baby-blue suit, no black alligator boots, no swollen red face.

  Just then, Addison popped out of the courtroom wearing a black suit, strappy silver high-heeled sandals, her hair a copper blond that set off her eyes.

  “Wow, you look great,” she said to me. I knew I looked very different to everyone. It was like I went away and brought the real me back to town.

  “Thanks, Addison; you, too. Are we starting?”

  “Judge Taylor is about to announce the day’s docket. Do you want to come in?”

  “Sure.” I picked up my handbag and walked in. The formal courtroom put me at ease and made me more nervous at once. No more FEMA trailer courtroom.

  Judge Taylor called the court to order and went over some business. It was all a blur to me. The courtroom was full of people from various dockets. Addison addressed the court, pointing out that I had flown in from out of town and requesting that our case thus be given priority to be addressed today. She didn’t want us pushed back to another day. Judge Taylor agreed and said he’d like to tackle one simple divorce ahead of us that involved no children or property and that we’d start our case immediately following. Addison signaled us to sit tight. She leaned and whispered, “Dr. Colette isn’t here yet anyway.” I nodded.

  The other case got off to what seemed like an easy start but quickly devolved into a huge battle over custody of a talking parrot. The lawyers argued, the plaintiff and defendant cussed and spoke out of turn, and finally, when the defendant screamed out, “She taught him to call me ‘Fucking dickhead’!” Judge Taylor had had enough.

  He banged his gavel on his stand. “Order! Order! We will recess this case while the parties meet with their attorneys in conference regarding custody arrangements of the bird. I would like to advise the parties that I have a case involving actual minor children, and I will not waste time listening to y’all bicker and complain about a talking bird. Is that understood?”

  Both parties agreed, and all involved left the courtroom. Addison and I and Liam and his attorney came forward to the plaintiff and defendant tables, and Jack Calhoun approached Judge Taylor with some documents, stopping to give the court reporter copies.

  “How’d you do at camp this weekend, Bubba?” Jack asked Judge Taylor.

  “Pretty good, pretty good. You?”

  “Fantastic. Shot two. Set for fall. Saw you got a new firearm.”

  “Sure did. It’s a looker, too, pretty nice piece.”

  There I sat, worrying about losing three vital pieces of my heart, and they were talking hunting.

  They might as well have shot me on the spot.

  There was a little more discussion, and it was discovered that Dr. Colette was on her way. Addison said we’d get started shortly.

  I went to the restroom, fixed my lipstick.

  Back out in the hall, I texted Buffalo: about to start, terrified.

  Buffalo texted back: we are strong, it’s almost over. we will be the buffalo family and he will not be able to touch us. he has no idea what he’s up against.

  Many times, the Mailers had told me that if I just got out of Mississippi with custody of the kids, got to New York, and established residency, we’d get one of their many attorney friends to decimate Liam the next time he tried to cross me. It felt good to have their collective power secretly behind me on this final day of battle.

  I still believed this was the final day.

  Eventually, court began. Everyone had to take the stand: me, Liam, Tammy, Lana. Everything that happened in the last year was rehashed. The original attack, the abuse allegation against Avery, the DUI, the kidnap attempt at the fall festival, my departure to California, the abuse of Grayson in the hotel. I kept expecting them to spring Buffalo on me, but they never did.

  When they put Tammy on the stand, they asked her what Liam’s demeanor was that day at the fall festival.

  “Creepy!”

  “Can you be more specific?” Liam’s attorney asked.

  “Just creepy. Look at him,” Tammy said, her New Zealand accent stronger than ever, pointing at him sitting across from her. “Look at him right now. Look at his pants! I can’t tell if that’s a handgun or a hard-on!”

  The courtroom burst out in laughter.

  Judge Taylor banged his gavel and asked for order.

  Jack Calhoun looked at me, and I, holding up three fingers casually next to my skirt, mouthed the words, Circus, act three.

  He smiled.

  They let Tammy step down and called Dr. Colette. Liam’s attorney didn’t want to talk about Dr. Colette’s report or the letter she’d wr
itten after his DUI and deceit had been discovered, of course. He wanted to talk about my poetry. About “the masturbation Christianity” in my poetry. About the prostitutes in my poetry. About sexual abuse in my poetry. Dr. Colette V. Colette had already made clear to me how she felt about this line of thought, how small-minded and backward she thought it was. Soon enough, she lost her patience.

  “Look, the headless horseman!” she bellowed, her Southern accent drawling the words as she pointed a finger to the back door of the courtroom. So convincing was she that the courtroom entire turned and looked toward the back door.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Colette?” Liam’s attorney inquired.

  “You’re talking to me about a book of literature as if it’s a personal diary, as if it’s the truth. Do you not know the difference between imagination and truth, sir?”

  Liam’s attorney stood silent in his tracks for a moment.

  Dr. Colette continued, “Mrs. Rivers is a writer. We tend to grow them here in the great state of Mississippi. You may have heard of one or two. If Mrs. Rivers is not fit to be a mother because she wrote some poetry, then there are a great many people in this great state whose children y’all better be ready to go round up and collect. Furthermore, Dr. Rivers married her when she’d already published this book, which, I might add, the very reputable publishing house of New York University Press saw fit to print. Now, if you’d like to ask me about how Dr. Rivers is addicted to alcohol or how he falsely accused Mrs. Rivers of child abuse or he lied during his psychological evaluation or he failed his evaluation miserably or how I recommended Mrs. Rivers receive sole physical custody of the minor children, I’d be happy to answer those questions. I am not, however, prepared to entertain questions regarding how a work of literature affects one’s fitness to be a parent, because the two have no correlation whatsoever except that perhaps being a writer makes Mrs. Rivers a more sensitive and insightful parent.”

  Liam’s attorney had no further questions.

  After that, there were very few remaining issues. Liam wanted his paintings back, and Judge Taylor allowed him, because they were a gift, to purchase them from me at some cost. Judge Taylor divided the marital assets (what was in the bank) evenly. The trickier part was investments, commercial properties, and the like. It became clear that these negotiations would require several more days of trial. I texted Buffalo.

  Buffalo texted back: give him what he wants. give him everything. he can keep his dirty money. we don’t need it. we’ll create our own life. bring the kids and come home.

  And at the end of the day, that’s exactly what I did. I gave him all the things that were important to him: money, his paintings of me, the house, the commercial properties, the cars, investments, the clinic I’d built him.

  And I walked away with only this: sole physical custody of the sweet three, and my freedom.

  In a terribly inconvenient twist, Liam negotiated, in a last show of power since the children would continue to live on the other side of the country from him, for the last two weeks of summer until school started. I signed the final divorce papers, booked a new flight back to New York, and went back to my Buffalo and my beloved Mailers.

  THINGS LOST

  I stood at the luggage round for a good twenty minutes at LaGuardia, wondering where Buffalo was before I started to entertain the notion: maybe he wasn’t coming. Just then, my matching black suitcases with the pink leather trim came out, landing with a thud in front of me. Suddenly, I wished I could chuck my stupid suitcases in the dumpster. I fished my phone out of my handbag and dialed Buffalo. No answer.

  Dragging my bags behind me, I made my way out to the taxi line. Maybe something went wrong. I texted Norris: hey, beautiful. i’m back. no buffalo at the airport. is everything okay? love you.

  Norris replied: love you sweet girl. i think buffalo will text you soon.

  The taxi line was long, and the night was hot and sticky. Finally, I got a cab and got inside.

  “Where to, honey?”

  “Um, Carroll Gardens, I guess.”

  “Address?”

  “Can you just go in that direction for a bit first, please?”

  I was getting worried. Buffalo always met me at the airport. Where was he?

  Oh. Maybe they were planning a surprise.

  A party.

  A celebration!

  That must be it.

  I texted Norris again: no word from the buffalo, can i swing by there and see you on my way home? tales to tell.

  There was a long pause before she replied.

  I imagined a great panic in the Mailer apartment, great arguments and discussion about game plans, and shifting of champagne bottles popping ahead of time. I leaned my head back on the taxi seat, letting the lights of Brooklyn wash over me, finally relaxing into the realization that I’d finally endured the final trial day and won. Even though they weren’t with me now and it didn’t quite yet seem real, I had won full custody and nothing could stop me now. Sure, I’d given up security and the future was unknown, but I would build a new life. Anything was possible. I had a whole new family and a man who loved me at my side. And in two weeks I would pick up the sweet three, and happily ever after would begin at last.

  Just then my text chimed.

  Norris: i don’t think so, love.

  My heart dropped.

  The text chimed again.

  Buffalo: meet me the cuban place.

  Okay, settle down now, crazy girl. You’ve been in Mississippi two days entire and you’ve lost your mind. Poor Norris is probably not feeling well, Buffalo worked late, and you’re expecting their whole lives to revolve around your silly little Mississippi trial. The disaster’s over. Relax.

  I gave the cab driver the address of the Cuban place on Court Street and closed my eyes until we arrived.

  Buffalo came out to meet my cab, paid the fare, took my bags out of the trunk, and took and stored them behind the bar. He had a table on the street already, and two beers and something for us to munch on while we waited for our meal. We’d been here so many times he already knew what I loved.

  The walls were lined with cool green tile the color of old 7UP bottles, and almost every table was filled with people enjoying the summer evening. The sound of “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps” wafted out over the tables and into the street once again, as if on cue.

  Buffalo took my hand in his, absently turning my engagement ring the way he always did, and said, “Here’s to you, angel, you did it.”

  We clinked bottles of Red Stripe and pulled long drinks of the cold, cold beer.

  “Now are you going to devote your life to making sure this doesn’t happen to other women?”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The tone of his question took me aback.

  “Well, you know me; I’m an activist at heart. Of course I want to make a difference. The family courts are broken at best, abusive by nature. But before that, I need to build a career and raise my children and write again and, hell, make some wedding plans!”

  It was then I saw the clouds pass over his eyes.

  “That’s why I wanted to meet you here.”

  From the moment I’d left the court the day before to this moment, I’d been filled with a victory song. Suddenly, it all went silent.

  “I didn’t think you’d be strong enough. I mean, it wouldn’t have been fair to tell you before the trial. I wanted to tell you after the trial—I knew you’d win. I have already taken my stuff and gone to Provincetown for the rest of the summer. You can stay in the apartment until it’s time to get the kids.”

  “You’re saying we’re over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why today? Just yesterday you told me to give him everything. I gave up alimony, all the property, all the investments, you let me give it all away. You told me to give it all away. And you knew you were going to dump me?”

  “You don’t need it. You will create a new life without his
blood money.”

  “Why? Why did you do this to me?”

  “It’s not to you, it’s for you.”

  “For me? For me how?”

  “I’m a danger to you. My history, my past, and the future I want puts you and the custody of your children in jeopardy. What if I want to do drugs? What if I want to write about it?”

  “How about you decide not to for the sake of me and my children?”

  “I can’t live a life with boundaries set by Liam.”

  “Not for me?”

  “Not for anyone.”

  With that, he walked out of the restaurant, never looking back.

  I went back to Buffalo’s place, stunned. I sobbed, cried, screamed. I was outraged. I lost my mind. I went through his apartment, searching for some other reason. Maybe he’d found someone else? I could accept any other reason except that Liam had stolen one more thing from me. I looked through Buffalo’s papers. I searched through his bathroom for a stray hair or scrap of tissue with lipstick in the waste bin. Sobbing, drinking wine we’d bought before I left for the “celebration” upon my return, I tore the place apart. Eventually, I found his journals. I sat on the floor and read them all. I learned almost nothing new. I read how much he adored his parents mostly, which I already knew. I learned that he’d proposed and dumped several people before me. When I got to the end of his journals, I sat on the floor, sobbing, realizing that I had become the thing I hated.

  I was the person who read the journals.

  I was Liam.

  Was I?

  Where was my victory song?

  Had I learned nothing?

  Sitting there on the floor, I felt like I’d lost the dignity I’d come in on. Not only had I lowered myself to Liam’s level, but I’d become the stupid girl once again, putting my needs aside in order to depend on a man.

  I was so desperate to find an answer—any answer. Between moments of utter despair, I had moments of fury at how Buffalo had done it. Part of me knew he was right, that it would have been dangerous to dump me before the trial, but it certainly was reckless to encourage me to give away everything when he knew he had no intention of staying with me.