Entering Normal (19 page)

Relative to custody.

No way he can do this, she tells herself. No fucking way Billy's going to get Zack. No way a judge will take a child from his mama and give him to a man she isn't even married to, a man who didn't want him in the first place.

Will he?

CHAPTER 26

ROSE

OPAL'S OUT THERE WORKING IN THAT GARDEN—NOT that you could call a puny plot like that a real garden. Her skinny little body is cloaked in a man's shirt—Tyrone's, most likely. The two are thicker than thieves. The girl's probably fixing to ask him to move in. Rose wouldn't put anything past that one. She pulls the shade down and returns to the kitchen.

Today's the day. She can't postpone it any longer. Much as she'd like to ignore the mole, no ointment she's bought to date has done one thing to relieve it. She's going to have to see someone. Doc Blessing is out of the question. He'd feel bound to tell Ned.

She finds the phone book, flips to the yellow pages. Lord, but there's a lot of doctors. Who would believe six pages of listings? She points a finger, lets it land on the page. Dr. Alan Magneson. General Practice, says the fine print after his name. This sounds like what she wants. Springfield is far enough away so she shouldn't run into anyone she knows.

She copies out the number. She'll call after lunch.

She's mashing up the eggs for a salad when she hears screaming from the yard next door. She practically drops the bowl getting to the window. There's the two of them—Tyrone's shown up since she last looked over—and they're rolling in the grass. Right there in open view of anyone who cares to watch, Tyrone is on top of Opal. Next thing, they're kissing. Well, why don't they just
do
it right out in plain sight? No better than a pair of mating dogs.

She returns to the eggs, but finds she's lost all appetite for lunch. She refrigerates the salad, pours herself a glass of iced coffee. Finally she dials the doctor in Springfield.

“Dr. Magneson's office,” a voice says.

“I'd like to make an appointment with the doctor.”

“Are you a patient of his?”

“No.”

“I see. Do you have a referral?”

The question throws her. “No,” she finally says.

“I'm sorry, Miss—”

“Mrs. Nelson.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs Nelson. The doctor isn't taking new patients at this time. We can't see you without a referral.”

“Oh.” Rose doesn't bother with good-bye. Referral? This is going to be more complicated than she thought.

At the end of the Physicians listing she reads:
Also See Health Clinics
. She flips back to the Hs, finds an ad for “Health Connections,” which doesn't sound very medical.

Women's Health Services of Springfield
another ad proclaims.
Services.
Connections.
Are these people doctors or repairmen?

She dials the “Services” number.

“Women's Health Services of Springfield,” a bored voice recites. “Health care for women.”

“Yes. I'd like to make an appointment with a doctor.”

“Gynecology?”

“What?”

“Do you want to see a gynecologist?”

“No. Just a regular doctor.” She's not about to go into detail with some stranger.

“Is this urgent?”

Is it? She supposes not.

She is given an appointment for three weeks from today.

When she thinks to look outside again, Tyrone and Opal have gone inside. She's thankful for that.

IT'S 2:00 A.M.

Rose is sitting in Ned's recliner, staring at the TV. With the money these people have to spend, you'd think they could come up with something better than the garbage that's on.

She hits the remote, sees a muscular blond woman in a bathing suit and Nikes jumping on and off a platform. Her ponytail swishes from side to side as she bounces up and down. Her smile shows a lot of teeth, so white they look unreal. Behind her, two men and two women are also stepping on and off platforms, clapping their hands to what must be music, although Rose doesn't know for sure because she has the sound turned off. She doesn't need Ned waking up.

She clicks the channel button. Another blond, this one demonstrating a comb that makes her hair look fuller. A number flashes on the screen. You can order by a credit card. for $19.99. For a
comb
.

Click. Another actress who looks vaguely familiar peers out at Rose. She smiles, revealing a set of impossibly white teeth. Dentists are becoming rich off these women. Before and after pictures of other women appear on the screen. The actress is promoting a line of cosmetics. Rose adjusts the sound so she can hear. The whole kit— foundation, blush, lipstick and lip liner, two kinds of shadow, eyeliner, mascara, something called a “concealer”—costs $119. Imagine. She turns the sound back off.

Click. A man demonstrates hair products for men.

Click. Another nearly nude body. A man with grotesquely developed muscles—you can see the veins—speaks into the camera while a blond girl in next to nothing demonstrates a machine that as far as Rose can make out from their gestures is supposed to reduce your stomach.

Her own stomach is beyond help: soft, doughy, scarred. With a mole that is not going away but is probably nothing. Probably.

And what if it is something?
Cancer.
There, she thinks it. The big C. “Cancer,” she says aloud to the blond who is now performing an apparently unlimited number of sit-ups. She has a stomach with muscles you can actually see. With no moles. The woman screams health.

Click. And if it is cancer? She makes herself say the word again. Will she get treatment? Chemo? All that poison they pour in your system that makes you go bald? Will she tell Ned? Well, she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

She hits the remote again. An old black-and-white movie floods the screen. As far as she knows, there's no cancer on her side of the family. Heart is what she thought she'd have to watch for. Her father at sixty. Her mother at fifty-eight. One minute ironing the Thanksgiving tablecloth—the large damask one—and the next collapsed on the floor. Dead by the time the rescue squad even arrived.

Women's Health Services. She doesn't like the sound of it. Probably for people on welfare. Black people. A sudden thought horrifies her. Lord, she hopes she hasn't gotten herself involved in some abortion place.

On the screen, the scene is so dark Rose has to squint. She stares at the actor. Someone she had never liked, though she can't for the life of her think of his name. Big beefy man. He's wearing a uniform. World War II movie. Nothing she wants to watch. The name comes to her as she points the remote, removing him from the screen. Robert Mitchum.

Click. The Shopping Channel. It amazes Rose the things people will buy. Shapeless sweat suits in lavender and aqua. Sweaters. All kinds of tasteless jewelry. Absolutely no guarantee about quality. The camera zooms in on a doll. A collector's item, according to the text scrolling on the screen. A limited edition.

Opal makes better dolls that that.

Opal.

Rose can hardly stand to think of the girl. By suppertime, it was all over town she'd had papers served. Matters like that are supposed to remain confidential, but little chance of that in Normal. Rose herself saw the police cruiser in front of the house. Of course at first she thought they'd come for Tyrone and felt guilty she had never warned the girl. But it wasn't about Tyrone at all. The boy's father was going to try and take him away. Opal isn't the most stable girl to have a child, but she is Zack's mother. Rose knows she loves the boy.

After they'd eaten, Ned—Ned, for heaven's sake—suggested she go over there and let Opal know they were here if there was anything they could do, but she didn't. She couldn't look Opal in the face. Couldn't take on more sorrow. She had more than enough of her own.

A noise from outside draws her attention, and she pulls the drapes aside to see a glimmer of light on metal. A car has pulled to the curb halfway between their house and Opal's. She cannot see the driver, but imagines him staring up at her. She feels a fluttering beneath her heart. The streetlight pools wetly on the car's roof, its hood. She thinks it's black, although she's not certain. It could be dark blue, even green. If the police should question her, press her to identify the color, the make, if it is American or foreign, she knows she could not say, although Ned would know in an instant. It's male, this ability to pick out the make and year of a car a mile off, identify it just by the shape of the front grill. But why is she thinking of the police?

When she checks again, although she has not heard an engine start up, the car is gone. As if it has never been there, as if conjured up out of her own guilty mind. She stares at the curb, as if there she will find evidence of its existence. The night is quiet. In the distance she hears a dog howling.

CHAPTER 27

OPAL

OPAL CHECKS THE ADDRESS SCRIBBLED ON HER PAPER, hoping there's a mistake. The building is run-down. A dump. The lawyer's office is sandwiched between a storefront tax service and a shoe repair shop. A shoe repair shop. Not a good sign. You don't need to be an Einstein to see that.

She slows, scans the street for a parking spot. It's metered parking here. Parallel. She hates to parallel park. The rear end of the Buick always ends up half in the street. Shit.

She finds a place on the next block, backs in, cutting the wheel sharply, but ends up three feet from the curb. She pulls out, backs in again. Sweat trickles down her ribs. She's already late.

Lucky for Billy he's in New Zion, out of range. If he were here, no telling what she would do. She's fit to be tied. Mad as a wet hen. Pissed off. En-fuckin'-raged.

When she thinks of him back in January, standing right in her front hall and giving her all that sweet talk about wanting them to be a family, saying he loves her when all the time he's been planning to try and take Zack from her . . . Well, when she thinks about this she could spit bricks. No way it's going to happen. No way she's going to lose Zack.

She has tried calling but has only been able to reach his answering machine, his low, lying, Southern voice. “Listen, you sorry son of a bitch,” she shouted into the tape, “if you think you're going to take my son away from me, you're as wrong as a man can be.”

One thing for sure, she's not going back to New Zion. She'll drink ground glass before going back there. The farther she and Zack are from Billy, the safer she feels. Maybe she'll sue
him
. See how he likes being served with papers, having to get a lawyer.

Inside the tiny entry, she finds a door marked
Vivian Cummings
. She has looked the lawyer's name up in her baby names book. It means “lovely, full of life.” A good omen, she thinks, although doubts sweep in when she opens the door.

There are a couple of straight-back chairs. One scarred table holds an overflowing ashtray and a tabloid newspaper. Despair and defeat huddle in the air.

A second door bisects the far wall. She hears a phone ring behind it, the muffled sounds of a conversation. Silence. She pictures Vivian Cummings.
Lovely. Full of life.
And blond. Vivian is such a blond name. She wonders how Ty knew of her. Is she an old girlfriend?

She taps her foot impatiently. It's not like there are clients lined up. Finally a woman opens the door. She's overweight, gray haired, and wears a suit Melva wouldn't see fit to give to charity. This woman is a long way from lovely. Certainly not anyone Ty would have dated. Opal recognizes a misfit when she sees one. Jesus. She could just
kill
Billy.

“Opal Gates? I'm Vivian Cummings.”

Well, duh. She shakes hands and follows the lawyer into the inner office, a space that reeks of cigarettes and is only marginally larger than the waiting room. Opal is no health freak, but a person's lungs could contract disease just walking through this place.

Vivian lowers herself into the desk chair. “You said on the phone you were served with a summons?”

“Yes.”

“Got it with you?”

Opal opens her tote, takes out the papers, hands them over. She consoles herself with the thought that Ty said this woman is good.

Vivian picks up a pack of Winstons, shakes one out, lights it, takes a deep drag that she holds for a beat before exhaling. As if her craving is momentarily satisfied, she takes up the papers and scans them, frowning when she's done. “Not a lot of time before the hearing,” she says. “It's scheduled for the twenty-eighth.”

As if she can't read. She doesn't need to pay God knows what an hour for this nicotine-fixated bitch to tell her things that an idiot could read on her own.

“I'll need some background,” Vivian says, taking another deep drag. “You're not married to this—” She refers to the papers. “—William Steele. Correct?”

That is one mistake she's avoided. “No.”

“And you've never been married to him?”

No matter what Ty said, this woman is not the fastest engine rolling down the track. “No.”

“Let's start with the paternity issue. Is there any question that William—”

“Billy,” Opal says.

“That Billy is the father?”

“No.”

“Do you have any formal arrangements with him?”

“Arrangements?”

“Visitation rights. Things like that.”

“No.”

“Has he ever mentioned anything about formal custody arrangements? Anything like that?”

“No.”

“And he's never denied he's Zack's father?”

“No. That's why this doesn't make sense. Everyone knows he's Zack's daddy. Why is he making such a big deal about it?”

“Well, one reason is that establishing paternity is the first step in requesting custody, and it looks like he wants to gain custody,” Vivian says.

“But he can't do that, can he? I mean, there's no way he can get Zack, is there? I'm his mama. How could he even think he could get custody?”

Vivian takes another drag, using the time to study Opal. “Let's back up a little before we get to that question. First thing. House rules: I need you to tell me everything. No secrets. No lies.”

“Why would I lie?”

“I could come up with an easy dozen off the top of my head, but let's not waste time. You agree? No lies?”

Opal nods.

“Okay. Let's start with your move to Massachusetts. When did you relocate here?”

“Last September.”

“And why did you leave North Carolina?”

Fuck. She might as well be back in school, or talking to Melva. “It's a free country.”

The lawyer leans back in the swivel chair. “Two pieces of advice: Get used to answering questions because, believe me, it's just beginning. And get the chip off your shoulder. It won't help you here, and it sure as shit won't help you in front of a judge.”

Get the chip off her shoulder. What is this woman? Melva's clone?

“Understand?” the lawyer asks.

“Okay.”

“So why did you move here? Did you have friends or family here? A job?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“So how did you land here?”

Opal doesn't mention the three tanks of gas or the importance of signs. This woman has as much imagination as a basket of chips. “I've always wanted to live in Massachusetts,” she says, making her voice soft and sweet. “Since I was a little girl. I thought there would be more opportunities for Zack. Down the road. College and things like that. I like to think ahead.”

The lawyer leans back and squints at her through a stream of smoke. Opal fears she's overdone it. She'll have to be careful.

“No question, the fact that you left North Carolina complicates things. Under normal circumstances, a father can't be denied the rights of paternity. By moving here, Billy can make a case that he's being denied his rights.”

“But he didn't even
want
Zack. He wanted me to have an abortion.”

“Well, he wants him now.” She refers again to the papers. “It's in your favor that he waited six months to file. Otherwise you'd be heading back to North Carolina to have the case heard there. The thing that concerns me is that he's asking for full custody, not shared. That means he's prepared to fight.”

“Billy always wants what he can't have.”

“To get sole custody, he will have to prove Zack would be better off with him, that he is the more fit parent. Is there any reason a judge would rule that Zack would be better off with him? Because that's what he—or she—will be looking for.”

“That's flat-out ridiculous.” No one could take better care of Zack than she does. Certainly not Billy. Opal can't even imagine him
trying
it: making meals, doing laundry, listening to him, tucking him in every night. Jesus.

“Here's the picture. The court's job is to determine what's in Zack's best interest. The system is set up to protect the noncustodial parent—in this case Billy—from changes like a move out of state. Like it or not, Billy, as Zack's legal father, has rights, and the system is designed to shield those rights, Now, it's not as cut and dried as it seems. They'll take into consideration Zack's current relationships with both you and Billy. Although the relationship of the noncustodial parent is not necessarily the determining factor in deciding best interest, it's definitely something they'll be looking at. Does Billy have an ongoing relationship with Zack?”

“He's seen him once in the past six months. Not exactly what you'd call ongoing.”

Vivian scribbles a note on her pad.

“What about before you left North Carolina? Were you and Zack living with Billy then?”

“Shit, no.”

“And did he have a relationship with Zack then? Did he see him regularly? Share the care of him? Have him visit overnight?”

“Occasionally. If it didn't interfere with his life.” She's tired of the questions. She wants this woman to tell her there is no way she's going to lose Zack, no way Billy is going to get custody. That the idea is ridiculous. She wants
reassurance
.

“What about his parents? Did Zack spend time with them?” Vivian stubs out the cigarette, lights another.

“No. They didn't want anything to do with Zack or me.” As far as Billy's parents are concerned, she is Satan incarnate.

“What about support? Does he give you money toward Zack's expenses?”

“Only for the past two months. He's sent a couple of checks. I thought he was feeling guilty.” Now she understands. How could she have believed they came without a reason?

Vivian adds another note to the pad. “And at present there aren't any formal arrangements for visitation rights?”

“You aren't getting the picture. Billy never asked for any. I told you, he never even wanted me to have Zack.”

“Was he ever abusive? Ever hit you or Zack?”

“No.”

“Drink heavily? Take drugs?”

“No.”

She scribbles out a few more sentences. “Anything you want to add? Anything you think might help? Anything we haven't covered?”

“What will happen at the hearing?”

“The judge will listen to the petitions. He'll appoint a guardian ad litem.”

“A guardian.” Opal's heart actually stops. “For Zack?”

“That's the name, but try and think of it as an advocate. Someone who will investigate; talk to you and Zack and Billy, maybe friends and coworkers; try and get a picture of Zack's life; and then report the findings—along with a recommendation—back to the court. Hold on. Let me check something.”

She flips through a calendar, runs a finger—nail-bitten, Opal notices—along the page. “One piece of good news for you. Judge Carlyle is sitting that week.”

“That's good?” Opal clutches on to the first hopeful thing to come out of this woman's mouth.

“She's fair. Won't come in with a bias. Hearing custody cases really is a job for Solomon. I won't go so far as to say Judge Carlyle is the wisest judge in the county, but she really tries to be fair.”

This is the best thing Vivian Cummings has said so far. Anyone who's trying to be fair, who's concerned about Zack's best interest, that person would
never
take Zack away from her.

“We'll meet again before the hearing. Go over everything.”

“One thing,” Vivian says as Opal prepares to leave. “From here on in, assume you're being watched.”

“Watched?”

“Billy's probably hired an investigator. That's what I'd tell him to do if he were my client. Custody cases have a way of turning nasty. What about you? Do you drink?”

“No. Only a beer every now and then.”

“Do drugs?”

“No.”

“That's two things we won't have to worry about muddying the waters and prejudicing the judge. And Zack's healthy? No illnesses. No accidents?”

Opal sinks back into the chair.

“What?” Vivian says.

“There was an accident. He broke his arm.”

She makes a notation on the pad. “When?”

“Last fall.”

“How?”

House rules: No secrets. No lies.
“He fell,” she says without the slightest hesitation. “In the tub.”

“Where were you?”

“Downstairs.”

“Were you alone with him?”

“What the hell are you suggesting?” This was the hospital all over again.

“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm getting information. Information you can bet Billy will have. Were you alone with Zack when he broke his arm?”

“No. My neighbor was there. Rose Nelson.”

“Lucky for you. We'll have a witness if they try and make a case for neglect.” Busy writing down Rose's name, Vivian does not see the fear on Opal's face.

SHE PICKS UP ZACK ON THE WAY HOME. NOT LATE. SHE'LL BE on time from now on. Every day. She'll do everything absolutely right. She'll be a great mother. A perfect mother.

“Look,” he says. “We made puppets.” He holds a brown paper bag out to her. His fist is inside, making the bag bob up and down. “Guess what it is?” He's giving her his biggest smile. Even the
idea
that Billy could take him pulls the breath right out of her.

“It's great, Zack.”

“But guess what it is.”

She takes her eyes from the road long enough to study the bag, sees the jagged fringe along the top, the red-and-orange bolts beneath the nose. “A dragon,” she says.

“Right,” Zack says. “You guessed.”

No way Billy would have known. Not in a million years. He wouldn't have a clue. She hugs this small victory close.

“MAMA? IT'S ME, OPAL.” SHE PAUSES, WAITING FOR SOME sign that her mama will comfort her. Lord knows, she could use some comfort. Through the connection, she hears Melva's tired sigh as clear as if they were in the same room, as clear as a pin dropping, like that advertisement for the long distance company.