When Horses Had Wings

by Diana Estill

  I replied fast before he could throw another question on the pile. “Apartment. And it’s just the two of us there.”

  “And your husband? Where’s he live? Anybody else live with him?”

  Now we were getting somewhere. “He lives with his momma. And they live in her house, in Lolaville.”

  Swindle canted forward, squinting. “Does she work?”

  He was beginning to annoy me with all his quizzing. What did Neta Sue’s profession have to do with my divorce? “Yeah. She cleans office buildings.”

  “And when does she clean them?” Swindle crooned with excitement, as if we were playing Clue and he’d right then identified the correct killer.

  “At night, when they’re empty.” For an educated man, he didn’t seem too swift. Already I wondered about this guy’s courtroom capabilities.

  Swindle lit up like the Town Hall Christmas tree. “Ah…you said Mr. Murphy works nights? Right?”

  I nodded.

  “That means that no one can be home in the evenings with your son.”

  “Right!” I mirrored his sudden excitement. But then I remembered that a week earlier Kenny had mentioned something about requesting a transfer to the Water Utilities Department—working dayshift. When I shared this update with Swindle, he looked like maybe he’d lost an erection.

  “Okay,” he said, collecting himself. “You work, I know. What about your evenings? Are you home at night with the child?” He twirled his fat pen the way he might have held a fine cigar, if he’d had one.

  “Yeah, pretty much.” I marveled at his oversized writing tool and his pudgy bulldog face. If he’d been on Perry Mason, he could have easily played the part of a mobster.

  “What do you mean? Are you gone part of the time?”

  He was getting a bit testy for my tastes. “I just signed up for a few college classes.” Why was I suddenly feeling defensive? How else could I ever make a decent living to support my son? “I go on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from six to eight.”

  “In the mornings?” Swindle’s words sounded more baritone than before.

  “No. Evenings.”

  “And your son? Where’s he while you’re taking these classes?”

  Where the hell did he think? In an alley? On a bridge? Playing at the city swimming pool? “He’s at daycare. Where he stays every day while I’m working. They have an after-hours program.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Why? Does that make me unfit or something?”

  Swindle shook his head. “No. No, it doesn’t.” The man could shift moods faster than Kenny. “But Mr. Murphy might try to say that, because you work and go to college at night, you’re not available to meet your child’s needs.” Swindle put down his pen and looked at his watch. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  ~

  Two weeks after he’d been transferred to the Water Department, Kenny received the notice of divorce. Unfortunately, his new position must have offered ample phone privileges because, in the middle of the afternoon, he had no difficulty calling me at my job to let me know how he felt about being served with those papers.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You said this was gonna be a temporary separation! You lyin’ bitch!”

  I pushed aside my pink message pad and swiveled my secretarial chair to face the wall behind me. “I never said for sure, Kenny. I never said that I wouldn’t file for a divorce. I just wanted some time to think about it. And I’ve thought about it. This is what I want and—”

  “What you want don’t have nothin’ to do with what I’m talking about,” Kenny blustered. “You remember what I tode you, Renee?”

  I could practically feel the heat of his breath seeping through the telephone. Of course I remembered. How could I forget?

  Kenny didn’t wait for me to respond. “You’d better. ‘Cause you’re not divorcing me! You hear me?”

  My heart felt like it might leap onto my desk calendar and land smack on today’s date—December 2. At any minute, my bladder would release and cause me to pee in my chair. I couldn’t listen to him talk to me like that any longer. Using something my coworkers called secretarial discretion, I disconnected his call.

  Instantly, one of my other two phone lines rang.

  Reluctantly, I answered.

  “You goddamn bitch! Don’t you dare hang up on me again!”

  I forced myself to speak. “You can’t call me here at work. It’s against company policy,” I said, as if that would throw him off track. “Goodbye.”

  The third square phone button lit up. I watched it flash and listened to the buzz until whoever was calling hung up.

  Right after the lines grew quiet, Mr. Wilmot, my boss, called out from his corner office. “Not answering the phones today, Ms. Murphy?”

  “Yessir. It’s just that my husband’s been bothering me. I think that last ring was probably him again, so I didn’t answer.”

  Wilmot ambled over to my desk. I noticed a strange knot inside his lower jaw. “And what if it wasn’t him, Ms. Murphy? Did you ever stop to think it might have been someone important? Someone I needed to speak to?”

  “No, sir.” I cowered. For a split second, I didn’t know who he was. The men in my life were all beginning to look alike: my daddy, my husband, my attorney, my

  boss—everyone but Anthony. Each seemed dedicated to reminding me that I didn’t measure up in some regard, couldn’t do things right. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through, I guess. I was so upset.”

  Wilmot leaned over my trash receptacle and spit out a wad of chewing tobacco. “Well, see to it that you answer the phones from now on. And stop letting your personal life interfere with your work.”

  ~

  After he learned of Kenny’s telephone threats, Swindle recommended something called a restraining order. During my temporary hearing, which I presumed was some kind of practice run for the lawyers, Kenny’s attorney agreed to Swindle’s request for this legal restraint—provided the order was mutual. Maybe someone ought to have told him Kenny was the one with the gun.

  All in all, Swindle said the hearing went well. But since I wasn’t awarded any child support, I wasn’t sure what he used for criteria. “There’s a few logistics to work out with child visitation,” he said, pausing inside the courthouse lobby to wave goodbye to his opponent. “It may take some time to resolve those.” He faced me again. “And, of course, that’ll require some additional fees.”

  I dug into my purse and handed him the fifty dollars I’d managed to save from my daycare budget. By taking my vacation at Christmas, I’d been able to stay home with Sean during the last week of his school holiday break. Kenny had kept him during the first week, so I’d saved nearly a hundred dollars. But I’d already spent part of that on Sean’s Christmas presents.

  I was short on the full hundred I’d promised Swindle, but he said not to worry. “Maybe you’ll get a tax refund,” he observed. And I fully expected I would. However, I’d kind of hoped to buy a bed with it.

  My living room sofa wasn’t big enough for both Sean and me to sleep on. Ever since I’d insisted that Kenny stop retrieving Sean from my apartment, Sean had refused to sleep in his own room. Though his transfers between households went much smoother for Kenny and me now that they took place in the Dairy Queen parking lot, for some reason, Sean didn’t adjust well to the change. Steadily, he grew more vocal about his new routines and contacts, including his daycare workers, who he said made him take too many naps. “They won’t even lemme get up or talk,” he whined.

  Time and again, in the middle of the night, I awoke to find Sean sneaking into bed, or should I say “into sofa,” with me. More than once, in a state of confusion, instead of shuffling to the restroom, he slipped off the couch and peed in the kitchen trashcan. He’d walk, more asleep than awake, following the same pattern he’d taken to get from his bed to the bathroom in our old duplex. But since he was sleeping in my apartment living room, that path led him directly into the kitchen.

&
nbsp; The rapid adjustments I’d inflicted upon Sean had been more than his five-year-old mind could handle. As much as I hated to acknowledge it, Sean had enjoyed his prior lifestyle and Kenny’s daily companionship. I realized, though somewhat after the fact, that what had invigorated me had been excruciating for my little boy.

  “Momma, I want to sleep in here tonight,” Sean said late one January evening. “It’s dark in my room.” He stood before me, hugging his pillow and wearing his Superman pajamas, though he’d removed the cape. Before I could protest, he wedged one foot under my blanket and climbed in.

  Great. I could hear it now. Some social worker would likely take issue with Sean’s sleeping habits. I expected a visit from Family Court Services any day. The court-ordered social study to evaluate Sean’s living arrangements was required, Swindle said. Truth be told, that social worker would try and determine which of us, I or Neta Sue, best favored June Cleaver. That was the equivalent of asking which most resembles apple pie, mincemeat or pumpkin. But what was I supposed to do? I’d tried every gimmick I could think of to encourage Sean to sleep in his own bed.

  “Seany, what about that new night-light Momma bought you? Doesn’t it help make your room brighter?”

  “Nuh-uh.” He shook his head hard, his baby-fine locks falling forward into his eyes. He carefully situated his pillow, rooted his head under my neck, and squeezed my waist.

  I forgot all about becoming a model mother. Caving to his request, I kissed the top of his head.

  “When’s Daddy coming back to get us?” Sean asked, his voice a whimper.

  “Oh, sweetie, Daddy didn’t leave us. This is our new home, now. And Daddy has his own...with Grandma Murphy.” How could I make the idea of a grown man living with his mother sound completely normal? “I left Daddy because I wasn’t happy living with him anymore. Daddy hasn’t left you.” I brushed a lock of hair across his forehead. “I took you with me because I didn’t want to leave you either.”

  “But I want you and Daddy.”

  “I know you do, Seany. I know. But Mommy and Daddy don’t get along anymore. So we’re not going to live together.” I folded the blanket across his shoulders and snuggled up to him. “Now let’s get some sleep.”

  At two o’clock in the morning, a flash of light startled me awake. I checked the pillow next to me and noticed Sean missing. The sounds filtering from the kitchen were the unmistakable noises of someone opening the refrigerator door.

  By the time I’d risen, Sean had dropped his drawers, grabbed his privates, and sprayed his hose like a fireman.

  “No-o-o!” I yanked an empty cup from the countertop behind me, hoping to deflect the stream. But it was too late. He’d already whizzed half the fridge’s contents.

  ~

  I straightened my desk and removed my sweater from the back of my secretarial chair. Spying me, Wilmot jaunted from his office to catch my attention. In his hands he held a ruled tablet, his expression one of urgency. “I need to get this memo out today,” he announced.

  I checked the wall clock to see if maybe I’d misread the time.

  Five after four.

  Nope, I hadn’t.

  “It’s already five after.” I pointed to the official timekeeper. I couldn’t deal with his procrastinated efforts today. With regularity, Wilmot would bound out with some last-second, critical need at the close of my shift. If you asked me, he needed to take one of those time management classes advertised in the brochures he received.

  Wilmot continued toward my desk. “I’ll pay you overtime. It shouldn’t take you more than thirty minutes, but I’ll pay you for a full hour.”

  “I’d like to help, and I could use the extra money—”

  “Good.” He set the tablet on my desk.

  “But I can’t stay tonight,” I finished.

  Before I could explain, he yanked away his ruled pad and stormed back to his private office. He slammed the door behind him.

  Even if he’d given me a chance to explain, I doubted he’d have behaved any differently. It wouldn’t have mattered to him that a social worker would be visiting me that evening.

  After I retrieved Sean from daycare and arrived home to prepare supper, only an hour remained until my appointment. Instead of the canned noodles we normally had every night, I’d sprung for poultry I’d found on sale the week before. But I’d forgotten to thaw the packaged meat until that morning.

  I placed two, partially-frozen chicken breasts in the oven and prayed for a miracle.

  “Sean, did you put on the clothes I laid out for you?”

  “Uh-huh,” he answered from his room.

  Tonight I needed to look like the world’s best mother. Given my upbringing, I didn’t know exactly what that entailed. But I’d watched enough Lassie reruns to formulate an idea.

  Step One: Children should be clean, clothed, and well fed.

  Step Two: Offspring should be taught to respect and obey.

  Step Three: Moms should periodically examine their brood for adherence to Step Two.

  I set Sean’s tumbler on the kitchen counter and skittered into his room.

  With one hand, Sean rolled a small metal car back and forth across his bed surface, mussing the formerly neat spread. From behind, his clothing appeared equally disheveled.

  “Sean?”

  He turned to face me. The buttons on the shirt I’d meticulously ironed the evening before peeked at me from the wrong buttonholes. As directed, Sean had tucked in his top. But he’d done so with such gusto that the front of his pants had migrated to where a side seam should have been.

  I scrolled down to his feet. The new white socks I’d purchased had been pulled on in reverse, with the heels bunched atop his ankles. His shoe toes pointed in opposite directions.

  Thank goodness, I’d remembered Step Three.

  ~

  When Ms. Platt arrived, I was especially grateful for the bedroom furniture I’d been given only the week before: a double bed and an accent table made from one-hundred-percent walnut-grain-printed cardboard.

  “Be prepared to demonstrate that Sean and you each have your own room and that he has plenty of clothing,” Swindle had advised beforehand. I’d laundered all four pairs of Sean’s Toughskins jeans, his only dress shirt, and six long-sleeve T-shirts and hung them in his closet for inspection.

  A light tap on my apartment door announced my evaluator’s arrival. “Hello. I’m Helen Platt, Limestone County Family Court Services. Are you Mrs. Murphy?” asked the petite woman with a moon face.

  “For a bit longer. But you can call me Renee.”

  The woman who looked to be in her early fifties entered my living room, scanning the bare walls. I hadn’t hung any pictures. It was hard to justify framed artwork, I wanted to explain, when you’re struggling to pay for childcare, groceries, and a divorce. “We haven’t been here very long,” I said, apologizing for the uninviting décor.

  Platt looked into my empty dining room. “Where shall we sit?”

  “Oh, how about here?” I pointed to the corduroy couch that was better suited for sleeping than entertaining. I had to sit with my legs fully extended on the extra-wide, twin-mattress-sized seat cushions if I wanted to lean against the back pillows.

  Platt situated herself on the free-form sofa, masking any discomfort she might have felt. She looked like a decorative doll perched on top of a bed, her stubby legs outstretched. Nevertheless, she acted as if she sat on such contemporary furnishings every day.

  Sean played in his room while we talked about his care, my work, and both our schools. That woman could write faster than any human I’d ever seen. She must have been an expert in shorthand. Her burgundy leather folder remained tilted so I couldn’t see the pages her pen speed threatened to set afire.

  Checking the time—six-thirty—Platt asked, “So, do you normally eat dinner about now?”

  I didn’t think it wise to tell her that we usually had reheated canned foods or grilled cheese sandwiches, meals that required much le
ss time to prepare than roasted chicken. Excusing myself, I double-checked the oven temperature. “Yes, actually, we do,” I said when I returned. “But this chicken seems to be taking longer to cook tonight than normal.”

  When Sean rejoined us, Platt said she wanted to speak privately with him in his room. She closed the door so I couldn’t hear what was being said. But I imagined she might be asking where the rest of Sean’s apparel and toys were hidden.

  An hour later, after I’d finished piling two plates high with chicken, boxed dressing, and peas and carrots, I heard Sean’s bedroom door creak open. He and the woman assigned to judge my parenting skills waltzed into the living room together like best friends. Sean assumed his standard position at the coffee table, where we ate most of our meals.

  “I’m finished with my interviews, so I won’t keep you two any longer.” Ms. Platt glanced at the chrome and glass table surface, probably eyeing the generous portions I’d served up. “I can let myself out. Thank you for your time.”

  “What did you tell that lady?” I asked Sean, after Platt departed.

  Casually, he spooned a mound of dressing into his mouth before he answered. “She asked me if I ever got in trouble and got spanked. And I told her, ‘Uh-huh,

  Wunst…” He took a slurp of milk from his Incredible Hulk cup. “When I colored your bookmark.”

  Why hadn’t Platt asked me about that? I could have given her the whole story. It wasn’t like it sounded.

  I hadn’t punished Sean for something as petty as coloring a bookmark. I’d been up at three forty-five that morning, cleaning urine from milk and egg cartons, packaged lunchmeats and, thankfully, closed condiment jars. Having missed so much sleep, I’d been late for work that day. And Wilmot had written me up for it.

  Exhausted and worried, when I’d returned home that evening, I asked Sean to play in his room quietly so I could rest for a short while. I hadn’t planned to fall asleep, only to shut my eyes. But sometime during the six o’clock news, I dozed off for fifteen or twenty minutes.