Almost Like Being in Love (39 page)

ubiquitous

Craig.

5.
Remember what he taught you and go for broke.

KESSLER’S SHELL

351 Kemble Street

Utica, New York 13501

Dear Craig,

No matter what happens in court this morning, I just wanted to say thanks for kicking ass the way you have, even all those times we came up short. Also for keeping an eye on my kid when I couldn’t be there to do it myself. And for trying to make me think that $300 was enough to even the score. (Come on, Craig. I may not know law but I know that I can’t replace wheel bearings for less than $271 in labor. And that only takes me two hours.)

If Charleen says she’ll marry me 'and she will, you think?( I’m going to ask you to be my best man. But come to think of it, you already are.

Thanks for making us family.

Jody

Noah Kessler

6026 Foxhound Run

Saratoga Springs, New York 12866

June 12, 1998

ATTORNEY-CLIENT COMMUNICATION

VIA FACSIMILE

Craig McKenna, Esq.

McKenna & Webb

118 Congress Park, Suite 407

Saratoga Springs, New York 12866

Dear Craig,

Good news. Frau Schneller tried to sabotage us by putting my rabbit’s foot in the washing machine, but the joke is on her because none of the blue came off. So it still works.

I have to go get my haircut at Kiddy Corner (give me a break), but I’m keeping my pager on. So as soon as court is over, call and tell me what happened. If we lose, I’ll probly be depressed and mope and kick rocks because I’m sad and flunk out of sixth grade and not get into college and turn into a burgler. But guess what? The circus is coming to Albany and if you take me there three times, maybe none of those things will happen.

Noah

Craig McKenna

Attorney notes

If Charleen and I were Ally McBeal, we’d each have six thousand very white teeth, yuppie hair, perfect bodies, witty friends who didn’t know what the far side of 30 looked like, a salty judge who nonetheless owned a heart of gold and whose acerbic ripostes gave the impression that he’d earned his law degree at the Improv, and a caseload so teeming with freckled faces, lovable grandmas, and other testaments to the richness of our souls, not even Rosemary’s Baby could have ruled against us. But Charleen and I aren’t Ally McBeal.

“This is what it feels like the first game of the season,” whispered Jody apprehensively. “I wish I was wearing my cup.” Beside him at the mile-long petitioner’s table, Charleen squeezed his hand and winced.

“Jody?” she implored. “Would you do me a huge favor?”

“Anything.”

“
Don’t
tell that to Judge Costanzo.”

The cavernous courtroom, with its Doric columns and ornate inscription over the bench '“Built to Intimidate” in Latin(, was beginning to fill up with the usual collection of plaintiffs, defendants, and salivating onlookers who apparently couldn’t wait to dine on human suffering until Jenny Jones and Oprah dished out their daily doses later in the afternoon.
Either Costanzo has a heavy docket this morning, or some
people really need to get lives
.

Jody was dressed in a form-fitting charcoal gray pinstriped suit that Charleen had helped him pick out, a powder blue Armani shirt, and a navy-and-crimson tie that—taken as a package—was unable to mute the broad shoulders, the tousled hair, or the little-boy twinkle that he wore like a signet. I had no idea whether or not he was going to impress His Honor, but one thing was certain: if he walked through the West Village looking like that, there wouldn’t be anything left of him at the other end.

“Good morning, Charleen,” oozed an oily voice to our right, interrupting our group excursion into muffled panic. We all glanced up at the same time. There was Larry Dysart, attired in sharkskin, with all nineteen nose hairs intact.

“Good morning, Lawrence,” she replied evenly.

“Best of luck,” he offered, leering at my partner’s breasts.

“You too,” she countered, in a voice colored with every shade but sincerity. Clearly disappointed that she hadn’t offered to blow him on the spot, he took a seat at the respondent’s table and glowered at us.

“Who was that?” asked Jody suspiciously.

“Larry Dysart,” replied Charleen, interlacing her fingers with his. “He’s the reason we need lawyer jokes.”

I was about to say something tacky, crude, embarrassing, and unnecessary, but at that moment I spotted Clayton. He’d just taken a seat in the third row—and even if he hadn’t been on the lam since Monday, I’d have had trouble recognizing him. His shirt was rumpled, his usually erotic stubble had begun to evoke unsavory images of Fidel Castro after the Bay of Pigs, and he had “sleepless in Saratoga” branded across his forehead. His eyes met mine only briefly—but long enough to assure me that we were still on the same team.

“Clayton’s here,” I sighed happily, feeling both human and catty again for the first time all week. “Who looks worse? Him or me?” My confederates both turned to wave at him, with Jody adding a thumbs-up to the bargain.

“You do,” said Charleen finally.

“It’s a draw,” said Jody.

“Court will come to order,” said the bailiff.

Show time.

Superior Court of the State of New York in and for the County of Saratoga

JODY B. KESSLER,

) CASE NO. Fam. 81699

)

Petitioner,

) FRIDAY, JUNE 12, 1998

) 10:00 A.M.

vs.

)

)

ANNETTE KESSLER MUELLER,

)

)

Respondent.

)

__________________________

)

HEARING ON PETITION FOR JOINT CUSTODY

The Honorable John J. Costanzo, Judge Presiding

TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS

Attorneys for Petitioner, Jody B. Kessler:

Craig S. McKenna, Esq., Charleen Webb, Esq.

Attorney for Respondent, Annette Mueller: Lawrence F. Dysart, Esq.

1 BAILIFF:

Superior Court of the State of New York for the

County of Saratoga, the Honorable John J. Costanzo presiding. All rise.

2

3

4 THE COURT: Be seated.

5 BAILIFF:

In the matter of Kessler vs. Kessler, docket number 81699, Hearing on Petition for Joint Custody.

6

7 THE COURT: Are counsel and parties present?

8 MR. McKENNA: Craig McKenna and Petitioner, Your Honor.

9 MR. DYSART: Lawrence Dysart, Your Honor. Mrs. Mueller is in 1

Europe with her husband, but I have notarized

copies of all financial statements and affidavits should the Court require them.

2

3

4 THE COURT:

Thank you, counsel. That won’t be necessary.

5 MR. McKENNA: Shit. He’s not even going to consider it.

6 THE COURT:

What was that, Mr. McKenna?

7 MR. McKENNA: Excuse me, Your Honor. I thought I was mumbling.

8 THE COURT:

You weren’t.

9 MR. McKENNA: It won’t happen again.

10 THE COURT:

Mr. Kessler, may I ask you a personal question?

11 MR.KESSLER:

Yes, sir.

12 THE COURT:

Exactly how many times are you going to

petition this Court for custody of your son?

13

14 MR. KESSLER:

As many as it takes, Your Honor. Sooner or

later you’re bound to throw me a fastball.

15

16 MR. DYSART:

Objection, Your Honor.

17 THE COURT:

Overruled, counsel. Sit down and shut up.

18 MR. KESSLER:

Was that the wrong answer?

19 THE COURT:

No. Unfortunately for the taxpayer, it was the

right one.

20 MR. KESSLER:

Then can I have him? I wanted to take him to

Nantucket next weekend, and they have this

deal where if you buy your tickets early, you

can get them at half—

21

22

23 THE COURT:

Mr. Kessler—

24 MR. KESSLER:

—we’re going fishing so I can show him how to

hook an angler—

25

26 THE COURT:

Mr. Kessler, I understand how you feel—

27 MR. KESSLER:

Then why won’t you give him to me!

28 THE COURT:

Because you can’t afford him! Do you think he

won’t need braces just because you love him?

You think Princeton’ll let him in for free

because he says you’re his best friend? Mr.

Kessler, there’s a great deal more to it than

that. There shouldn’t be, but there is. And if

you can’t—

29

30

31

32

33
(Mr. Bergman rises.)

1 MR. BERGMAN: Excuse me, Your Honor.

2 THE COURT:

Are you a party to this action?

3 MR. BERGMAN: I am now, Your Honor. Clayton Bergman. I’ve got a hardware store on Putnam Street, three

hundred acres by Saratoga Lake, and a new

partner who’s sitting at the petitioner’s table.

4

5

6

7 THE COURT:

I presume you’re referring to Mr. Kessler?

8 MR. BERGMAN: Look, Your Honor—I have eighteen condos and a dozen houses to put up in the next five years, and I can’t do it by myself. So Jody’s going to be running construction while I handle the store,

and he’ll probably wind up making more than

you and me put together.

9

10

11

12

13 THE COURT:

Mr. Kessler, is this true?

14 MR. KESSLER:

Uh—yes, sir.

15 THE COURT:

I see.

16
(His Honor confers with the bailiff.)

17 THE COURT:

Court will recess for five minutes.

18 BAILIFF:

All rise.

Craig McKenna

Attorney notes

Larry Dysart looked as though he’d been stabbed through the heart with a pitchfork, Charleen hadn’t quite rebounded from the shock either, and Jody was bewildered beyond the point of comprehension—usually he’d be out on the sidewalk by now, attempting to explain to his little boy why we’d failed again.

“What does a recess mean?” he asked tentatively, not daring to believe the obvious.

“It means extra innings,” murmured a white-knuckled Charleen, gripping his arm tightly. “Hold your breath.” Recognizing a tender moment when I saw one—and having a few of my own on deck—I made myself scarce.
What did Celeste Holm say to Gary Merrill while he was
cradling Bette Davis? ‚I guess at this point I’m what the French call
de trop.”

So I mumbled my excuses and tore up the aisle.

Clayton was waiting for me in the marble foyer outside of Department A, but before I could say anything, he put a finger to my lips and pointed to a burnished oak door across the hall.

“What’s in there?” he asked furtively.

“Empty jury chambers,” I replied, mystified.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand. As usual, he led and I followed—but for once it didn’t yank my chain the wrong way.

Especially after he’d flipped on the lights in the musty old room and wrapped me up in those big arms of his.

“First things first,” he sighed, stroking my cheek. “Craig, I’m so sorry.”

Though I was absolutely determined to make him crawl through lit kerosene before I even
considered
relenting, my resistance wilted as soon as he kissed me—and by the time we’d come up for air, we’d already lost a full minute of the four we had left before recess ended.

“Sir Galahad,” I chided him, toying with his chest. “Rescuing Jody in the nick of time. What a hot dog.”

“Well,
somebody
had to bail your ass out,” he grumbled. “That’s part of my job, isn’t it?”

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Ever since Utica when he mapped out the whole Saratoga Lake project between dessert and coffee on two napkins and a menu,” he confessed, practicing the fingers-through-my-hair thing even though he already had three gold medals and a bronze in that particular event. “I’d have clued you in sooner, but it would have meant calling a cease fire.”

By then I was ready to forgive him just about anything—and he knew it.

“Clay, why don’t we just forget—”

“Honey, wait,” he insisted, pushing away from me as he stumbled for the right words. “There’s something I need to say and it isn’t easy.”

Inwardly, I panicked. If it was “goodbye,” I didn’t want to hear it—now or ever. But that’s not what he had on his mind.

“I—I want you to run for office,” he stammered finally.

What? Hello
?
Who are you and what have you done with Clayton
? It was perhaps the first time in twenty years that he’d stunned me speechless.

In fact, I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told me he was really Lady Bird Johnson.

“No, you don’t,” I blurted.

“No, I don’t,” he blurted back. “But if it gets this thing out of your system—”

“Clay, it’s not a thing, and I may never get it out of my system,” I protested. “
Then
what happens?”

In reply, he reined me in so tightly that my chin was grafted to the hollow of his neck. Uh-oh. Bad sign. This was a maneuver usually reserved for birthdays and crises—and I wasn’t going to be 39 for another seven months.

“Honey,” he whispered gently, “the only reason I own a store is because I like knowing where things are. And marrying you just so I can keep you in one place isn’t a good enough excuse.” There was the briefest of pauses as he took my hand in his. “Look, we’ll probably work this out the way we always do. But we may have to make some choices this time.” Without any further prompting, my eyes began to well with tears.

“Don’t say that,” I mumbled, burying my face in his shoulder. Either he hadn’t heard me or he didn’t want to, because all he did was kiss me again—and after we’d pulled apart, he stared at my mouth and grinned.

“I’ll be damned,” he marveled. “You do have a dimple.”