“Perhaps,” Creskin said dryly. “Your Honor, I move to dismiss the witness. If she’s not valid in the state, she can’t testify.” Creskin smiled familiarly at the judge. “It happened last Friday on the third circuit. Franko vs. Lapstone Oil. Judge Sullivan was presiding. Did you hear about it? Some guy they brought all the way in from Finland or something.”
Angie knew judges, more than anything, followed precedent, even though she had no idea who Judge Sullivan was or what Franko vs. Lapstone Oil was about.
“Witness dismissed,” Sneed said.
After that, Angie got the feeling she’d sometimes had in very bad dreams. It was as if she were in a terrible hurry, yet could only move in slow motion. She kept trying, but nothing seemed to work, and she could feel that Judge Sneed had lost interest and was losing patience, just as she could feel that she might very well be losing this case. Her drug test expert, a well-known New York technician, was dull and unconvincing, though accurate, and though the PTA president averred that Jada Jackson was an involved, carrying, competent mother, there was no drama, no strength. But Angie was afraid it wasn’t enough, that she wasn’t enough.
At last she finished with the last witness. Judge Sneed stopped drumming his fingers. She expected he would call a recess or announce that he would hand down his ruling in writing the next morning. But she had underestimated Rocket Docket. Nothing was going to interfere with his vacation. He lifted his head and looked at the two attorneys. “This was, let us recall, an emergency hearing,” he said. “It was called and given priority based on serious questions about the children’s welfare. It seems to me that there’s no question here,” the judge said. “The only interest I have are those of the children.”
Yeah, Angie thought. That and your flight to Florida.
“At this point in time, Mrs. Jackson’s apparent over-involvement with her work, her record of promotions, and hours speak for itself. The drug issue is also a troublesome one. I don’t need to recess to make a ruling for the time being.”
Oh my God, Angie thought, I’ve lost it. I blew it. She looked around the room, as panicked as an animal trying to escape a burning building. She could almost taste the ashes in her mouth.
“I grant custody, child support, and a reduced alimony to be determined subsequently to Mr. Jackson. In the meantime, I grant Mrs. Jackson supervised visitation”—he paused, as if considering—“twice a week, for two hours per session. Mrs. Jackson has two weeks to vacate the family dwelling before Mr. Jackson and the children can return.” He raised his gavel. “Case adjourned.”
“All rise,” the bailiff said, but neither Jada nor Angie could stand.
RING TWO
Men are mostly dogs and marital diplomacy is all about pleasantly saying “nice doggie” until you find a damn rock.
Nan Delano
36
Aftermath, geometry?
Angie lay as flat as her growing bulk would allow on the new mattress in her new bedroom staring up at her new ceiling. Unlike the one in her dad’s house, this ceiling did not have infinity eights spackled over it. Instead it had some kind of blown-on texture that probably crumbled as you slept. As Angie stared at it, she decided it dropped off something you breathed in as you dreamed, and caused nightmares, or maybe a cancer that would only be discovered twenty years from now. Or, worse, birth defects. Angie put her hand on her belly. It was mounded, but the rest of her had never felt lower.
She couldn’t get over how badly she’d failed in court. Failure, Angie reflected, hadn’t been something she’d experienced much in her life. She’d done her preparation. She’d gotten her expert witnesses. But a combination of her inexperience and Creskin’s sneakiness, along with the judge’s peculiarities and the lousy laws, had brought her and her case down. She squirmed as she thought of how she’d disappointed Michael, her mother, and Jada. Now she had a professional failure she knew would haunt her conscience forever. But worse, she’d failed her friend. None of it felt good.
The phone rang and Angie swung her arm out like one of those claws that drop in an arcade. Whoever it was, this phone call could be no prize, but she’d never managed to get a prize from the arcade claw, either. A failed marriage and a failed career. No prizes for her anymore.
Natalie’s voice was buzzing in Angela’s ear before she had time to say hello. “I heard all about it. He’s outrageous, that Sneed. We’re going to have to start a campaign to get him off the bench. You had, what? An hour and a half to present your case? But it isn’t like you didn’t screw up. Sneed’s outrageous, but you did screw up.”
“Hello, Mom. It’s nice to hear from you, too,” Angie said weakly.
“I shouldn’t have let you handle it. It was more complicated than we thought. And you couldn’t catch a break. Michael told me about Dr. Pollasky’s little forgetfulness. And the social worker who never showed. By the way, Bill finally reached her. Her dog was hit by a car.”
“I feel like I’ve been,” Angela said, closing her eyes on the deadly ceiling. “Not hit. Run over.”
“Look, all this can be fixed,” Natalie told her. “It’ll take a little while, a little more money, but it’s outrageous and we will pull together a request for the trial and—”
“Later, Mom,” Angie said. There was a short pause. Angie held her belly with one hand, the phone with the other.
“You want me to come over?” Natalie asked. “I can pick up a couple of sardine sandwiches. Remember how you used to like sardine sandwiches?”
Sardine sandwiches were Natalie’s favorite. Not Angela’s. The thought of a sardine swimming in the ocean, much less swimming in oil on a piece of soggy bread, was enough to make Angie seriously consider heaving. “I think I just need some rest now, Mom,” she announced, quietly but with deep certainty.
“Okay. Just know that no one is blaming you. Well, some people are, but I’m blaming Michael.”
“Oh, Mom!”
“Just joking,” Natalie said, and Angie, shaking her head, let the crane descend and drop her prize back in the cradle.
The idea of a cradle brought her hand back to her belly. She had to make a decision about this pregnancy and there was only one decision to make. She hated to think about it, but it was necessary.
The thing was, she loved children and had loved Reid. During the three years of law school, during their engagement, and at their wedding, she had looked at him and thought, “Yes. I want him to father my children.” She’d loved him so much she wanted him to be a part of her, a permanent part, and the idea of a child, a mixture of them both, had thrilled her. But now …
Angie sighed deeply. She had ruined her life. She realized that, but she had the added burden of knowing the part she’d played in Jada Jackson’s tragedy, as well.
After Judge Sneed had swept out of the courtroom, Angie had silently followed Jada, Michael, and Michelle through the hallways and into the parking lot. It wasn’t until then that Michelle had asked, “What’s next?”
“Nothing is next,” Jada said. “Nothing.”
Angie had, at first, tried to apologize. When Michelle had had to leave to get back to her kids, Michael had talked about an appeal, and then had taken Jada and Angie out and helped get Jada well and truly drunk “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe I won’t have my babies,” Jada had repeated over and over. Angela hadn’t drank at all, but listened as long as Jada could talk.
Then she offered to drive Jada home. She’d turned to Michael and asked for his address, as well. “I live where you live,” he told her, and laughed. Angie thought he was drunk or—worse—was making some kind of pass at her. But it turned out he lived in her garden apartment complex. “That’s why I recommended the agent,” he had mumbled.
So Angie was the designated driver and dropped off Jada at her darkened, empty home, then drove to the apartment building and watched Michael weave toward his own end of the complex. Exhausted, she had gone to bed, sober and sleepless and hoping she’d feel better the next morning
.
But now it was the next morning, and she didn’t feel better at all. Still, however bad she felt, she knew that Jada Jackson was feeling worse. She had to check on Jada, pick her up so that they could return to the parking lot where they’d left Jada’s car. Then she remembered this was the day her father had planned to come over and help her “fix up the dump,” as he had so graciously put it. She couldn’t do it. She knew her dad would let her off the hook, but she also knew it would leave a big hole in his weekend plans.
She lifted the phone and punched in his number. He answered on the first ring, the way people who live alone often do. “Hi, baby,” he said cheerfully. But when she told him they’d have to reschedule, she could hear the cheeriness leave his voice. First he tried to talk her into changing her mind, then he suggested that he could come over and help sort things out while she was busy elsewhere. She managed to tell him no and promised to reschedule.
Angie forced herself up and out of bed, showered, and dressed. The waistband of her leggings cut into her. It amazed her to think that there was a new life, her baby, there, under her navel. She pushed the thought away and threw a sweatshirt on, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door, though her hair was still wet.
The drive to Jada’s wasn’t long enough, because Angie knew she didn’t want to knock on the door and have to face her client and friend. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, just leave Jada in that house alone. Angie took a deep breath. It was all so unfair, she raged to herself. Maybe she had not been a great lawyer. Maybe she hadn’t even been a good lawyer, but George Creskin wasn’t so fucking great, either. He had devastated her—and Jada, a good mother, a taxpayer, a good citizen. But despite Angie’s mistakes, despite the Amazing Creskin’s cleverness and experience and tricks, she was shocked that there could be such a total miscarriage of justice.
Miscarriage. As she turned onto Jada’s street, her hand went to her belly again. Where was a miscarriage when you needed one? She grimaced. She didn’t really want a miscarriage. She wanted a baby—or to not be pregnant right now. But if not now, when? She wasn’t a kid anymore. It would take her years to ever trust a man again. And then? Then, maybe nothing.
But it was worse, much worse for Jada. None of this was fair, and Angie knew it was because Jada was a woman that these atrocities were possible. Playing fair, behaving well, working within the rules didn’t work for women. The system was created by men, run by men, and benefited men. When women came out on top, it was either a happy accident or a triumph of will equal to climbing Everest.
Angie parked her car in Jada’s driveway, walked to the kitchen door. She realized she was terrified. Here was a mountain Jada had to climb—or maybe it was a valley she had to climb out of. Angie wanted to help; after she’d taken Jada to her car, she’d offer to help her with packing.
Angie took a deep breath and rang the bell. She waited for a few minutes on the doorstep. No response. She rang again. After a few more minutes, she banged on the door as hard as she could.
Jada threw it open. “I hear you, I hear you,” she said. “The bells don’t work. He never fixed the goddamned chimes. Now he probably will, once I’m out of here.” Jada spun around and walked through the living room. Relieved, Angie followed her.
Boxes were already spread across the floor, some empty, some partially packed. And colored paper, the kind kids used in grade school, was scattered across the coffee table along with magic markers, scissors, and tape. It looked like some kind of third-grade project, but Angie knew Jada’s kids couldn’t come to the house until she left it. “When did you get up?” Angie asked.
“I didn’t go to sleep,” Jada told her. “I just threw up, hosed myself off, and then got started.” She gestured toward the coffee table. “I couldn’t bear not to leave a trace of myself,” she admitted. “Do you think that if I put notes in the kids’ pockets and hide them in their drawers and stick them in their shoes and tape them to the inside of the closet doors, Clinton would find them all and take them all away?”
Angie pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, hoping she was right.
“I cleaned their rooms and prepared for them to come home over a week ago. Except then I thought that they’d be coming home to me.” Jada sighed deeply and lifted up one of the heart-shaped bits of paper she’d cut. “Sherrilee likes sparkles,” she said, pointing out the glinting border. “Of course, she can’t read.” She shook her head, then bit her lower lip for a minute. “You think Tonya might read this one to her?” she asked, her voice hard.
Angie looked at the construction paper heart and felt as if her own were breaking. I am always thinking of you, my baby, Jada had written.
“Oh my God, Jada, I’m just so sorry,” Angie said, tears forming. “It’s all my fault.”
Jada looked at her and shook her head. “No, it isn’t,” she said. “But it isn’t all my fault, either. I have to remember that or I’ll go insane.” They stared at each other.
Angie blinked her eyes to make sure they didn’t tear. No one but Jada had the right to that right now. “There are still legal steps we can try,” she said. “Do you remember Michael’s suggestions from last night?”
Jada shook her head. “It’s over,” she said. “You know it’s over and I know it’s over. My house is disbanding. My family is disbanding.” She looked down at her hand. “Even my hand is disbanding,” she said as she pulled the wedding ring from her finger and threw it in the general direction of one of the boxes. “Our walks together are disbanding. You’ve moved. I know Michelle is still my friend, despite all of this, but now that she can come over here again, I’m moving.”
“Where are you going to go?” Angie asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
And then Angie had a good idea. “Why don’t you come and stay with me?” she asked.
37
In which Michelle reflects and her friends mirror her
Michelle was carrying the bucket down the hallway, but it was so heavy and the water kept sloshing out. She had to get to the end of the hall to wash up the stain. All the stains had to be removed immediately, but each time she got halfway down the hall, the water had all gone and she would have to go back. Finally Michelle began to cry, and as she did, her tears filled the bucket. When she got to the end of the hall, she realized she was in a prison. Behind the bars, a dark figured loomed. The stains were on the floor and on the bars. With a lurch in her stomach, Michelle realized they were bloodstains. And then she turned around and looked up and realized the looming figure was Frank, bloody and frightening and chained to the prison wall. Michelle began to scream, but before the sound came out of her mouth, she woke up gasping.
She had forgotten the dream until she started coffee in the morning. Then it came back to her, making her shiver. Of course, the events at the courthouse had stunned Michelle in more ways than she had expected. She took down another mug, lined it up on the counter, and wiped down the place in the cabinet where it had been. She began to empty each cabinet, swabbing out the bottom and putting down shelf liner. It was a mechanical process, but it gave her time to think. The outcome of the hearing was, of course, unfair and shocking; if anyone was a good mother, if anyone deserved to be with her children, it was Jada.
But it wasn’t only the injustice that upset Michelle. It was also the coldness of the whole process. None of Jada’s mothering, her sacrifices for the kids, her piety, her values, the discipline she’d instilled in them, had come through. The wrong things had happened. Justice had not been served. The children had not been served. Watching the court help to wreck Lives, to serve as a theater of lies, had made Michelle focus on Frank and his upcoming trial. At the thought of it all she’d break into cold sweats on the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades. So she’d started the cabinet project.
What would come out at Frank’s trial, she wondered now, as she put the mug and all its sisters and brothers back in the newly cleaned an
d lined cabinet. What was the truth? She couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t ask. The two of them had managed to get through Friday night without speaking to one another, except for brief exchanges in front of the children. Then Michelle had gone to bed early and slept fitfully on a tiny sliver of their bed, not even waking when Frank came in.
She’d gotten up early, cleaned the house, dropped Jenna off at hockey, taken Pookie to the vet, and had just waved off Frankie as he left with his dad for his all-time favorite activity—a visit to the hardware store. Michelle didn’t even bother to pull herself together before she put on her jacket and walked down the street to Jada’s. She’d called twice last night, but Jada hadn’t answered. God, she must have been suicidal.
She stepped quickly along the street to Jada’s. She expected the house of the dead. But when she opened the kitchen door and walked in, Michelle was surprised to hear animated voices in the house that had been so painfully silent for the last weeks. She stepped into the living room.
Jada was on her knees, putting something into a carton, and Angie was taping another carton up. Since when had these two become so friendly? Had Angie stayed over? Surely comforting Jada was Michelle’s job. For a moment she felt jealous. Then she told herself to grow up.
Jada raised her head. “Yo, Cindy! Just who I need,” she said. “I found out there’s one good thing about losing custody,” she told Mich. “No more WAR.”
“War? What war?”
“WAR. Worries About Reputation,” Jada said. “I guess I can see you now whenever we have the time—without worrying about my rep. It’s shot anyway.”
“So’s mine,” agreed Michelle. “It’s not the worst thing in the world. It saves on baking time—no more bake-sale requests.”
“My reputation is shot, too, at least as a lawyer,” Angie said, rubbing the tape on the box she had sealed. “First I walk out of my job up in Boston, then this.” She looked at the crinkled strip she’d laid down. “Maybe I could try a career as a crate packer.”
Young Wives Page 34