Young Wives

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “I don’t need those now,” Shavonne said. “I can wait until we go home. I’ll put them on then.”

  “I’m tired,” Kevon said. “Can we go home now? Can I play with Frankie?”

  And it was then that Jada realized that her children didn’t have a clue. That Clinton, once again, had failed not only her, but them. They thought they were getting in the Volvo and driving back to Elm Street. One more responsibility, the most heartbreaking one, had been laid on her shoulders. What could she tell them? What should she? That their father was a selfish man who didn’t care about their best interests? That right now they were a pawn in a stupid grown-up game?

  Jada looked at the three messy faces of her beautiful babies and her shoulders sagged. She cupped a hand over Kevon’s lovely round head. “Listen, sweethearts. Daddy wants me to take you back to him. You’re going to go back there for right now.”

  “I don’t want to,” Kevon said.

  “No, Mom. I don’t like Grandma’s,” Shavonne added. “Why do we have to visit her now?”

  Hadn’t Clinton told them anything? Jada reached her hand out from around Sherrilee’s back toward Shavonne and took her daughter’s wrist. “Listen,” she said, “Daddy and I are having a kind of fight. A big one. And he wants you to come back and stay with him there.”

  “Well, I don’t want to,” Shavonne said and Kevon put his head down and began to cry. Shavonne snatched her wrist away from Jada. “I don’t want to. Grandma only makes us bologna sandwiches and I don’t like Mrs. Green. I don’t like her house. Let’s go home.”

  Her daughter’s voice had risen high and several people turned to look at her, not that Jada cared about any of those strangers. She only cared about her kids. But how could she explain? How could a six-year-old, or a pre-teen, or the baby understand visitation privileges and contempt of court? And she had only nineteen minutes left before they were due back. “Well, I have to go away for work. When I come back we’ll all decide, okay?” Shavonne narrowed her eyes. “Let’s get into the car,” Jada said. “We can talk for a little bit in the car.”

  “I wanna go home,” Kevon wailed, and so Jada lifted him on one side while she cradled Sherrilee on the other.

  “Take the bags and let’s go,” she told Shavonne and started toward the exit, hoping her daughter would follow her out the door to the Volvo.

  25

  Court and spark

  The files had become, if possible, even higher and messier since Angie had moved “temporarily” into Karen Levin-Thomas’s office. Angie figured that was appropriate, since she was higher and messier than she had been before she committed to this work. Not higher in the sense of a buzz, just higher in energy. Her mother, annoyingly, had been right: Anger did work as a high-octane fuel. Except for brief slumps of overwhelming self-pity, Angie had lost her lethargy. Now, most of the time she was so furious, not to mention so busy, that unwinding and sleeping at night had become difficult.

  The staff at the clinic were great, and Angie actually enjoyed the joking, kibitzing, and other camaraderie. The other women were great and the two guys who worked there—one gay and one married—were just as dedicated as the women. Bill, the paralegal, was a riot, always there with a lawyer joke or a Mallomar to get you through a tough afternoon. And Michael Rice, the middle-aged married attorney, was really sweet, as well as smart. As a Yale graduate, he also should have been a snot-nose, but in Angie’s non-Ivy opinion, he wasn’t.

  It was also a pleasant surprise to find how much she liked working with her mother, not that she got to see her often. Between depositions, fundraising, and office administration, Natalie was even busier than Angie. But she managed to check in with her every day, in person or on the phone, and Angie found their exchanges very comforting. Perhaps she hadn’t been able to return to her old room, but working daily with her mother let her return to the womb at least in some psychological way.

  The work load was incredible, all of it either bleak or rage-producing or both. That was good, as far as Angie was concerned. It kept her mind off her own pathetic life and allowed her to focus on people—women—whose problems were a lot more serious than hers. Angie knew it was an escape from her own pain, but what was so wrong with escaping? Didn’t they make movies and television just to provide some?

  Now she took out the Jackson vs. Jackson case. Of all the horrible, terrible injustices, for some reason this one bothered Angie the most. It was just another messy divorce with custody rights used as leverage—something Angie would have considered beneath her back in Needham—but perhaps because she felt that she had clicked with Jada Jackson the first time they met, or perhaps because she had felt a little envious of her obvious closeness with the blond friend who’d brought her in, Angie liked Mrs. Jackson.

  She hadn’t thought about Lisa, her own “friend” at all. She absolutely wouldn’t let herself. If their friendship had ever actually existed was a real question. Lisa could have simply used her as an accessory to the affair. If Angie even began to think of the things she’d said to Lisa about her feelings for Reid, and if she thought for a moment about what Lisa had possibly passed on, she’d die of humiliation. Luckily, Reid would probably just dump on Lisa eventually—but thinking about that was letting her mind wander dangerously, she realized.

  She returned her attention to Jackson vs. Jackson. She’d been horrified by the direction Mr. Jackson’s attorney, George Creskin, seemed to be taking. When she’d gone over the file at their weekly case discussion meeting, both Michael and her mother had raised their eyebrows. Apparently Creskin was notorious, a real operator. “What do you call a George Creskin who’s been flattened by an eighteen-wheeler on I-95?” Bill had simply asked.

  “A good beginning,” the rest of them had said.

  “New low in slime bags,” he said. “Lucky Angie.”

  Unlucky Jada Jackson. The woman was coming in less than half an hour and Angie was going to have to explain her strategy. Clinton Jackson had filed a motion to show cause, and requested only temporary custody, temporary alimony, and temporary child support, but in addition he’d filed a motion to vacate and a motion for allowance to prosecute. It was such a complete barrage, such a totally relentless going-to-war mode, that Natalie had given a warning to Angie. “Be careful here,” she said. “I’ve only seen women pull this kind of scorched-earth thing and when they do, it’s usually with a restraining order.”

  “A restraining order against the husband?” Angie asked.

  “Yeah. Because he beats her or the kids or both. There’s no restraining order here, is there?”

  “Oh, come on, Mom. That woman doesn’t beat her children. She couldn’t beat her husband.”

  “No, but he could say she did.” Natalie looked over the papers briefly. “This guy wants the house, the kids, an allowance, child support, and he wants her to pay his legal fees. Is this woman rich?”

  “No, she’s a bank manager. He’s just a cheating, unemployed guy who’s been living off her for years. This thing is a total set-up, and it’s absolutely the worst kind of punishment for a woman. This case stands for everything that can go wrong for us. The guy was a bread-earner who lost his income, forcing his wife to take a job outside the home.”

  Natalie sighed. “I hate it when they do that,” she said. “Okay, let her know how hard it is going to be to get this leech unglued. Family court will definitely get a social worker involved in this one.” Natalie shook her head. “The poor woman. He’ll try to bleed her dry. Take her out to lunch, Angie. Get the petty cash from Bill. Mrs. Jackson isn’t going to get any more free lunches for a real long time.”

  “I saw the children. Thank you. Thank you so much,” Jada Jackson said, sitting in the chair just inches from Angie’s knees.

  “Hey, it was standard operating procedure. I just filed for visitation and got a family court judge who was willing to work late on Friday.”

  “But you have to help me get visitation extended. Two hours is ridiculous. And the kids wa
nt to come home. Their grandmother’s is no place for them.” Jada Jackson paused, looked out to where the view would be if the windowsill weren’t stacked so high with papers and files, and then forced herself with visible effort to look into Angie’s eyes. “I think he’s taking them over to his girlfriend’s,” she said. “Or else the girlfriend is staying at his mother’s. I don’t know, but it can’t be right. It shouldn’t be allowed. I mean, somebody has to watch Sherrilee all day and I can’t believe he’d give my baby to his … his lover.” She bent her head for a moment, gaining some self-control and then turned back to Angie. “How soon can you get me the children back?”

  “Mrs. Jackson, it’s a little more complicated then that,” Angie began. “When your husband filed his complaint he also made several motions to the court. You’ve looked at the documents?”

  Jada nodded. “I didn’t understand it all, that’s why I’m here. But I just know we have to get it all thrown out. I don’t mind about a divorce. I want one. He was cheating on me and probably had done it before. I earn a living and I pay for the mortgage and I take care of the kids. I just want my children back and he can have the divorce. No problem.”

  “Well, there seems to be a very big problem,” Angie said. “He’s asked for temporary custody—”

  “But that was just to punish me,” Jada said. “He wasn’t interested in the kids when we were together. This was just his way to be really cruel. But I know Clinton. He doesn’t want responsibility. He wants irresponsibility.”

  Angie picked up the document in front of her. “An irresponsible man,” she said. “How unusual.”

  Jada grinned a little. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure you don’t see that in your practice.”

  Angie nodded, but knew she had to get into the pain-inducing explanation of all this legalese on the pages before her. “Listen, Jada …” She paused. “May I call you that?” she asked. Jada nodded. “Jada, here’s the thing. He’s asked for temporary custody, but he’s going to go for permanent, and he’s also asked for child support and alimony.”

  “I know. But that’s just because he jumped the gun on me, right? We get that fixed up in a hearing. I mean, the judge would have to understand how unfair that was. I’ve been supporting the children and him, but just to keep us together. I’m certainly not going to do it if we’re apart.”

  “The judge may think differently,” Angie said as gently as she could. “There’s established precedent here. You are the bread-winner of the house, and he is the homemaker.”

  “Homemaker? I spent more time picking up after that man than I did picking up after the children. The only thing he made in my home was trouble. He didn’t help them with their homework. He didn’t supervise their television. He didn’t clean, he didn’t—”

  Angie wrote down some notes, but then held up her hand to stop Jada’s rant. “I believe you. But the court will see a woman who left the house every morning at quarter to six—the complaint says you did that. Is it true?”

  “Yes. To take a walk with my girlfriend. And then I came back and gave the kids breakfast and got them on the school bus.”

  “Well, not surprisingly, the complaint doesn’t mention that. It says that your long working hours left the children virtually motherless, that you verbally abused your spouse and your children with constant nagging, and that you had consorted with a possible felon whom you invited into the home.”

  “What? Oh my God, Michelle.”

  Angie watched as her client’s strength and dignity drained out of her. Angie felt awful, as if she were the person attacking this woman. She leaned over the desk. “Look,” she said. “This isn’t the truth. This is just what he has filed. We fight this, that’s all. We fight it and we win.”

  Jada’s face had turned an unpleasant shade of grayish brown. “Can you win?” she asked Angie.

  “Well, you’re going to have to help me. There are going to have to be a lot of depositions, but I’m going to do every single thing I can to make sure we win. We’ll have character witnesses on your behalf, we’ll call in your minister, we’ll bring up your husband’s infidelities, his job history. Unfortunately, we’re working against a semi-notorious attorney. This George Creskin is a real piece of work, but we’re going to do it.”

  “How much will all this cost?” Jada asked. “I mean, we were already—I was already stretched to the limit financially with the three kids and the house.”

  Angie took a deep breath, wondering why she would ever take this job. “It’s a little worse than that,” Angie said. “I’ve taken your case before our board and we will represent you for minimal fees. But I’m afraid George Creskin doesn’t feel the same way.”

  “You mean Clinton’s lawyer?” Jada asked. “What do I care about him?”

  “Well, one of these motions is a show cause motion.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. Isn’t he allowed to?”

  Angie withheld her smile. It wasn’t funny. It was tragic. “The allowance to prosecute means your husband wants you to pay Mr. Creskin’s fees because he himself is indigent while you are employed.”

  Jada stood up and slammed her hand down on the desk. “That can’t be right!”

  “It certainly isn’t right, but it is legal.”

  “So I have to pay his lawyer’s bills?”

  “No, not yet, but he’s asking the court that they direct you to. It’s another motion we have to have denied, along with the temporary alimony and the child support and, most importantly, the custody.”

  Jada tried to pace in the little space available. “This is some kind of visitation on me. Like God did with Job.”

  “I never really understood that story in the Bible,” Angie admitted. “I thought it was mean that God would let Job be tortured like that, just as a game.”

  Jada turned to Angie. “I don’t know if God played a game, but Clinton certainly is. You should have seen my children this weekend. Kevon’s socks didn’t match. The baby didn’t have a hat, my eldest hadn’t done any homework and spent three days watching television. He’s torturing me, but he’s also torturing the children. How do we stop this? What do we do next?”

  “Well, there’s one more thing I have to tell you before we put together our strategy,” Angie admitted. “This motion to vacate, do you understand what he’s asking?”

  Jada looked directly at Angie. “He wants my house, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, he wants you to leave the house so that he can move into it. With the children. For continuity for them.”

  “And who else is he going to move in with? His mother, who lives like a pig and washes her sheets once a year if they last that long? Or with Tonya, his girlfriend, who has already slept with half the men in our congregation? I won’t let her in my house. I’d burn it to the ground first.”

  “Look, we have plenty of time before we have to start setting fires,” Angie said. “What you’re going to have to do, though, is pull together a huge pile of information. You’re going to have to fill in a thousand forms. I need you to disclose your assets, your liabilities, and all the financials about your house and any of the holdings you have. Then we’re going to have to file counter motions and prepare complaints. We’ll also have to be ready for a social worker interview, which can sometimes be tricky. It’s going to be a lot of work and I’d like us to move quickly. Both for your sake and the sake of the children.”

  Jada was wringing her hands. “Look, Angie,” she said. “He’s not a really terrible man. Not really. Maybe we could just give him the house. That’s what he wants. He built it. Of course, he never finished it, but he built it and maybe he’d finish it for Tonya. Get me my babies and give him the house. That’s a trade I’ll make.”

  Angie looked down at the paper. “I don’t think George Creskin would allow that, even if your husband would go for it. There’s a real aggressive strategy laid out here. Creskin’s been known to rack up big bills, and to take a house in lieu of payment. But listen to me. We are going to combat
this roach—well, both roaches—and we’re going to win. It’s going to be fine. But until it’s fine, it’ll be bad and worse.” She looked up at Jada and realized what a very beautiful woman she was. “Are you strong enough for this?”

  “Oh, honey, I’m just as strong as I have to be.”

  “Great,” Angie said. “So let me take you out to lunch.”

  Jada looked surprised. “You don’t look like you can afford much either.”

  “I can’t, but the clinic’s got petty cash and I got a chit for it burning a hole in my pocket.” She stood up.

  “Could my friend Michelle come, too?” she asked. “She’s waiting in the car. She’s been with me throughout this whole mess.”

  “Of course,” Angie said. “If you don’t mind if we talk a little bit about all of this in front of her.”

  Jada snorted. “What do you think she and I do every minute of the day?”

  Angie nodded. “I’m going to the ladies’ room to wash up,” she said. “Why don’t I meet you in the reception area?”

  Angie did have to wash up, after she performed another pregnancy test and spilled urine all over the fingers of her right hand. This was the fifth test she’d done. She’d tried two different brands and both had given her the same result, but she was still hoping there was a mistake. She wrapped the indicator in a paper towel along with the box and packaging and stuffed it into the bottom of the wastebasket. Then she washed her hands carefully, tried not to think about what this meant, and went out to join Jada Jackson.

  As Angie and Jada walked to the car, Jada briefly outlined Michelle’s own legal problems. “Believe me, she’s not judging. In fact, she’s shell-shocked.”

  Angie thought of the world of pain out there sitting somewhere above the ether and waiting to descend; maybe more shit was falling because of the hole in the ozone, she thought. It was allowing universal troubles to flop in their hands like bird shit from the stars.