by Joy Fielding
The objection having been ruled on and sorted out, the witness continued with his testimony. “Anyway, she didn’t say much that I was aware of. Every time I looked over in her direction she was just standing off by herself. She just stood like that, I don’t think she moved, with a drink in her hand, nursing it and sniffing—she had a cold, and I remember her nose kept running. She always seemed to have a Kleenex in front of her face.”
They’re going to take my children away from me because I used a Kleenex to wipe my nose? Donna wondered in disbelief. Kleenex user unfit to wipe her children’s noses! Damn them, she uttered into herself, she was the one who had gotten up at three in the morning to wipe their noses when they cried. (“Mommy, the nose, the nose,” Adam had always yelled at the slightest dribble.) She had wiped their noses and their tears and their glorious little round butts. But it was somehow wrong for her to wipe her own nose—even when she had a cold.
But, of course that was the whole point. She had another cold. Victor had already mentioned her fondness for the affliction. This was merely what they termed corroborative evidence. They weren’t going to damn her because she had used a Kleenex to wipe her nose, they were going to damn her because she had another cold.
“I went over at one point to speak to her,” Danny Vogel continued, unaware of Donna’s silent interruption, “but the conversation was pretty much one-sided.”
“Can you recall any of it?”
“I told her she looked lovely.” He chuckled. “She agreed with me.”
Now, it was crazy to agree, Donna thought.
“Her voice was very husky. She seemed to be suffering from laryngitis, which she got quite frequently, and so I concluded it must be painful for her to talk, especially after I tried to ask her a few questions and she didn’t answer.”
“What kind of questions?”
Danny Vogel shrugged his shoulders. “I asked her about her son—Adam. How he was, if she was planning on sending him to nursery school. She didn’t answer. She just looked at me, I remember, and she looked almost—afraid—”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“I have no idea. She didn’t say anything.”
“Your honor,” Donna’s lawyer, Mr. Stamler, said rising from his seat, “I fail to see the point of this witness’s testimony. If he is to be a character witness for Victor Cressy, that’s fine. Let him confine himself to that type of testimony, but so far anything he has had to say regarding Mrs. Cressy has been totally irrelevant. Because the lady failed to answer his questions to his satisfaction, Mr. Vogel seems to imply that there was something amiss in her behavior. Donna Cressy had a cold; she had laryngitis. Does that qualify as unbalanced behavior? Does that make her an unfit mother?”
“If I may beg the court’s indulgence,” Ed Gerber interjected before the judge could speak. “We intend to prove the relevancy of this testimony immediately.” The judge looked appropriately skeptical, but allowed the lawyer to continue.
Ed Gerber twisted his mouth unattractively, until the next question was formulated in his mind and ready to be spit out.
“Did Mrs. Cressy’s subsequent behavior at the party do anything to, let us say, arouse your suspicion as to her state of mind?”
“About halfway through the party,” Danny Vogel answered, choosing his words carefully, “there was a total transformation in her behavior. It was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Or Mrs. Hyde,” he added, laughing meekly at his joke. No one joined him, although Ed Gerber did smile. “One minute, she was sniffing and not talking to anyone and the next minute, she was yelling, and I mean yelling, in a perfectly clear voice, one that had absolutely no traces of a cold in it anywhere, and that’s how she was for the rest of the evening.” He paused, waiting for someone to object. No one did. Donna looked at the judge. His interest had been rekindled. He was listening intently.
“Did anything happen that you were aware of to occasion this change?”
“Donna was standing across from the bar—in the same position she’d been in since their arrival—when Victor walked over to her to offer her a Kleenex. I saw it in his hand, and then suddenly she slapped his hand quite loudly, knocking the Kleenex out of his hand, and pushing his arm against one of the other guests who spilled her drink—I believe it was Mrs. Harrison—down her dress. Donna got very belligerent. She raised her voice and kept it raised until they left. Every time anyone started to have any kind of a conversation, she interrupted, giving them her opinion, which always seemed to be the opposite of what everyone else was thinking. She insulted several of the guests and used obscene language on several occasions. And she was merciless with regard to Victor. Every time he opened his mouth, she made some sarcastic reply. She kept putting him down, outlining all she felt was wrong with him. Mimicking him. It was very embarrassing. Finally, Victor indicated it was time they left and she made another disparaging comment about her master’s voice, or some such remark, and then they left. I must admit we all breathed a large sigh of relief.”
Ed Gerber took a long, smug pause. “Mr. Vogel, to your knowledge, could this sudden shift of behavior have been due to Mrs. Cressy’s consumption of alcohol that night?”
Danny Vogel looked delighted he had been asked that question. He confided the answer as a schoolboy might, having been allowed to release a secret too long contained. “No,” he almost squealed. “Like I said, she just stood off to one side, directly across from the bar, and nursed that one drink I had originally brought her. She didn’t move. I never saw her get another.”
“You said earlier,” Ed Gerber continued most carefully, “that Victor Cressy was a man who rarely confided his problems to other people.”
“That’s correct,” the witness agreed.
“Now tell me, but be careful, I don’t want you to tell me anything that was actually said because that would be hearsay,” Ed Gerber said with a sly smile to Mr. Stamler, “but without going into any actual conversations, did Victor Cressy ever confide in you that he was worried about his wife’s behavior?”
“Yes, he did. On numerous occasions.”
“Did he ever express concern for his children?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of father was Victor Cressy?” Ed Gerber asked. Once again, Donna noted the tense. Had Victor suddenly passed away as well?
“From all I could see, he was a wonderful father. He was very concerned about his children, right from the time he first learned Donna was pregnant. He read all the books, went to prenatal classes with his wife—both times—and knew all the breathing exercises. He stayed with Donna all through her labor, and with Adam I think it was close to twenty-four hours—”
Twenty-six hours, you clown, Donna’s eyes screamed. And it was me who was in labor, not the jerk doing all the breathing. I was the one in pain.
How lucky you are to have such a considerate husband, the nurses had told her. Especially after Sharon’s birth, that one nurse who had beamed so glowingly at Victor. Bitch, Donna had wanted to shout, ask him about the way she was conceived!
“He was very insistent that Donna eat all the right foods. He was thrilled when she decided to nurse both children. He felt that was healthier. He was very proud of his children. He’d bring them to the office occasionally. You could just see how crazy he was about them.”
“And did you ever observe Donna with her children?”
Danny Vogel shook his head. “No.” Somehow he made it sound like a condemnation.
Donna’s lawyer was quick to take the offensive when it was his turn to cross-examine.
“Mr. Vogel,” he began, his voice clipping off his words as a typewriter dispenses letters, sharply, crisply, with determined speed, “are you by any chance a trained psychologist?”
Danny Vogel smiled and shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Have you had any extra training in any of the behavioral sciences?”
“No, sir.”
“A psychology major at the university perhaps?”
“No, sir.” The smile had vanished.
“So that you have no real qualifications, shall we say, for assessing Mrs. Cressy’s behavior?”
“Just my eyes and ears,” Danny Vogel retorted, the snake concerned and frightened, coiled to strike.
“Eyes and ears can be deceiving, Mr. Vogel, as we all know. No outsider to a marriage can ever fairly or fully assess what goes on inside that marriage, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose so.” He paused. “But Donna’s behavior was more than—”
Mr. Stamler cut the witness off abruptly. “Would you say you’re especially qualified to comment on female behavior? How many times have you been married, Mr. Vogel?”
Danny Vogel squirmed visibly. “Twice,” he admitted.
“Your first marriage ended in divorce?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your second? A happy one?”
“We’re separated,” he said, keeping his voice clearly audible while lowering his bead.
“So you’re really not much of an authority on women, are you, Mr. Vogel?” the lawyer asked sarcastically, then continued on immediately. “You stated moments ago that you never observed Mrs. Cressy with her children, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So then, you’re really not in a position one way or the other to comment on Mrs. Cressy’s abilities as a mother, are you?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Thank you, that’s all, Mr. Vogel.”
Danny Vogel hesitated momentarily before stepping away from the witness stand. He looked at Victor, who continued largely to ignore his presence, still carefully avoiding Donna’s glance as he ambled back to his seat.
Mr. Stamler—did he have a first name? Donna suddenly wondered, realizing she had never called him other than Mr.—patted her hand reassuringly. He obviously felt they had won that round. The witness had admitted he was in no position to comment on Donna’s capabilities as a mother—“So then, you’re really not in a position one way or the other to comment on Mrs. Cressy’s abilities as a mother, are you?” “No, sir,” the witness had agreed. “But—” Her lawyer had quickly terminated the testimony, but the word remained in the records. The court had heard it. She had heard it. The judge had certainly heard it. But.
She repeated it over in her mind—but, but, but, but—until, like the word middle, its meaning was reduced to an absurdity.
——
“Tell me a story.”
Donna looked over at her young son, just four years old, who sat less than an arm’s reach away, rubbing his nose with the bright blue blanket that covered his bed. “Adam, I’ve already read you three stories. I said that one was the last. We agreed that when it was over, you would get under the covers and go to sleep.”
“I am under the covers,” he said, crawling swiftly inside his bed.
“Good.” Donna stood up, feeling tired and drained, yet reluctant to leave his side. Immediately, Adam sensed her indecision.
“Please—” he said, his face already a huge grin of anticipation.
Donna sat back down on the bed next to his pillow. Adam immediately propped himself up beside her. “All right, which story do you want me to read?”
“Not read. Tell.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so tired. I can’t think of—”
“Tell me a story about a little boy named Roger and a little girl named Bethanny—”
Donna smiled at the mention of the two names—Adam’s latest friends from nursery school. “Okay,” she said. “Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Roger and a little girl named Bethanny, and one day they went to the park—”
“No!”
“No?”
“No. They went to the zoo to see the giraffes!”
“Who’s telling this story? You or me?”
Adam took a second to recollect his thoughts. “Tell me a story,” he persisted, “about a little boy named Roger and a little girl named Bethanny and they went to the zoo to see the giraffes. Would you tell me that one?”
“Okay,” Donna said, chuckling to herself. “So they went to the zoo—”
“No! From the beginning. Once upon a time!”
“You’re pressing your luck, kiddo!”
“Tell me a story about a little boy named Roger and a little girl named Bethanny, and they went to the zoo to see the giraffes. And they took some peanuts with them. But the sign said ‘Do Not Feed The Amiuls.’”
“The what?”
“The amiuls,” he replied impatiently.
“You mean, the animals?”
“Yeah.” Of course, what’s the matter with you, lady? Can’t you hear good? “Would you tell me that one?”
Donna took a deep breath. “Once upon a time there was a little boy named Roger and a little girl named Bethanny, and they went to the zoo to see the giraffes. And they took some peanuts with them. But the sign said ‘Do Not Feed The Animals.’ Okay?” Adam nodded. “And so—”
“And so?”
“And so they ate up all the peanuts by themselves,” Donna said quickly, “and had a wonderful time and went home to their mommies and lived happily ever after.” Donna kissed him gently on the forehead, stood up again and switched off the light.
“Where’s your mommy?” the small voice asked, catching Donna off guard.
She stumbled for several seconds. It was the first time he had asked her that particular question, and she wasn’t sure how to answer him. As simply as possible, she decided, hearing her voice soft against the semidarkness. “She’s dead, honey. She died a long time ago.”
“Oh.” Long pause. Donna turned to go, feeling she had said the right thing. That wasn’t so hard, she thought. “What’s died?” he asked suddenly. Donna stopped. Did they really have to get into this now? She looked at Adam’s face. Yes, they obviously had to go into it now. She sat back down on the bed, her mind searching to recall what Benjamin Spock had advised in this regard.
“Uh—let me see.” You certainly couldn’t tell a child who was about to go to sleep that death was like going to sleep, and somehow she choked on the thought of the word Heaven. Damn, she thought, can’t you wait a few days and ask then. That way, if Victor wins his suit he can deal with this little matter. “No, I will tell you,” she said aloud, Adam looking at her with sudden surprise. Victor would not win his case. He would not take her children away.
“Why are you yelling?”
“Oh, sorry.” She suddenly recalled Dr. Spock’s advice. “Everybody dies, sweetie,” she explained. “It happens to everything that lives—flowers, people—amiuls. It’s very natural and it doesn’t hurt or anything. We just stop living. But it usually doesn’t happen to people until they’re very old.” Adam was staring at her. “Do you understand? Is that okay?”
He nodded, wordlessly, crawling deep inside his covers. Again, Donna kissed his forehead. “I love you, sweetie-pie.”
“Good night, Mommy.”
Donna walked the few steps down the hall to Sharon’s room and peeked inside. Sharon immediately sat up in her crib.
“What are you doing up?” Donna asked her.
The little girl said nothing, pulling herself up in the darkness and holding her hands out toward her mother. Donna walked over and pulled Sharon out of the crib, holding her warm little body against her own. “You’re supposed to be asleep, you know.”
Sharon stared deeply into her mother’s eyes. Gently, slowly, with almost deliberate precision, Sharon lifted her right hand and brought it down in a gentle caress across Donna’s cheek. Donna hugged the little girl tightly against her. “Go to sleep, little one. I love you, my angel. Go to sleep, baby.”
Sharon laid her head on Donna’s shoulder and quickly drifted off to sleep.
“Mommy!” Adam’s voice penetrated the stillness.
“I’ll kill him,” Donna said aloud, moving Sharon back to her crib and lowering her gently inside.
“Mommy!”
Donna stepped out into the h
all, moving quickly back to Adam’s room. “What is it, Adam?” she asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice. Adam was once again sitting up in his bed.
“I want to ask you a question.”
Please don’t ask me what happens when you die, she pleaded silently. I’ll buy you a copy of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in the morning! “What is it, honey?”
“Who made me?” he asked.
Oh no! Donna thought. Not now. Not life and death both in the same night. Not after a day full of divorce. She sank back onto his bed. “Mommy and Daddy made you, honey.”
He looked at her with great curiosity in his eyes. “Out of—?” he asked, waiting for her to complete the sentence.
“Out of a lot of love,” Donna answered after a silence of several minutes, hoping, even as the words fell out of her mouth, that Sharon would never ask her the same question.
SIX
“You’re not breathing properly.”
“I am so.”
“No, you’re not. You’re supposed to be doing level A breathing. That’s supposed to come from down low in your stomach. You’re doing level B.”
“I’m supposed to be smelling a flower.”
“No, you’re not. Smelling the flower is level B. We’re practicing level A right now.”
“I’m tired,” Donna said testily, pulling herself slowly and with some difficulty into a sitting position. “Let’s call it a night.”
Victor was adamant. “If we don’t practice the breathing every day, there’s no point in going through with this.” His face was dangerously close to a pout.
“Now you decide there’s no point?” Donna questioned, trying not to laugh, “now that I’ve already put on twenty-five pounds and I only have two more months to go.” She struggled to her feet. “Not fair, Victor, not fair.”
“You’re the one who’s not being fair,” he chastised. “To the baby.”
“Oh, Victor, lighten up. What’s happened to your sense of humor? You’re so funny when we’re in class.” She waddled over to the wet bar and poured herself a glass of ginger ale. “They should see you when you get home.”
He looked stricken.
“We’ll practice tomorrow, Victor. One day isn’t going to kill us—or the baby … if we miss doing the breathing one day.”