Family Affair (14 page)

One thing to know about Layla is that she is always punctual. Always. Which is why it’s even more disturbing that the ever-precise Layla isn’t here when Sandy Dobson, a gay-rights lawyer from northern California, arrives for her Monday-morning appointment with Marvin the wheaten terrier in tow. I wonder if the whole scene with Brett at the theater has stuck with her all weekend. I had a particularly good Saturday and Sunday with Kimmy, my new distraction, the blue-eyed stunner—so freakin’ gorgeous I now finally get that whole moving-van joke—so Layla and I haven’t been in touch since she stormed out. She called my cell late last night but didn’t leave a message, and when I called hers this morning it went straight to voice mail.

I met Sandy at a benefit breakfast several months ago, and she’s made a special trip down to Los Angeles specifically for this photo session. “Can I offer you something to drink?” I ask her, as I pour my own cup of coffee. Third of the day. “Coffee?”

“That would be great, thank you,” she says, and I slowly, slowly pour the coffee into a mug, hoping that by the time I top it off Layla will be here. And by God it works.

“Sorry I’m late,” Layla says, as she tosses off her coat but leaves her sunglasses on.

“Future’s so bright you gotta wear shades?” I ask.

“Heh. Yeah. Something like that.” She walks over to Marvin and plops onto the floor where he sits. “Hey, boy.” Then she looks up at Sandy—I’m guessing she feels self-conscious, because she raises her sunglasses to the top of her head—and forces a smile. “I’m Layla.”

“Hi, Layla. Sandy. And that’s Marvin, which you gathered.”

When Layla looks up at Sandy and I watch them interact, I see something I don’t know that I’ve ever seen in Layla’s face—and I know the many looks of Layla. Aside from the puffy eyes that tell me she’s been crying, she looks hollow. Maybe that’s not the right word, but I can’t describe it any other way. Layla is so vibrant and engaging, yet there she is on the floor trying to connect with the dog, because that’s safe but human contact is somehow dangerous. Even with me? Maybe this Brett thing is more serious than the stupid little spat I’ve been imagining. But how can it be? They’ve been together, like,
forever
.

We settle in to the photo shoot, and Layla is definitely not herself. I’m sure she’s still getting great shots, but her heart’s not in it and there’s nothing I can say or do to fix it. I’m so pissed at my idiot brother I want to wring his neck.

Marvin rolls on his back to play dead. Layla snaps some shots as Sandy laughs and shakes her head.

“The irony!” Sandy says. “I swear I didn’t teach him to do that. You know, his namesake was Marvin Mitchelson, the world’s most aggressive divorce lawyer. He wouldn’t roll over for anybody.”

“Marvin Mitchelson?” asks Layla. “Never heard of him.”

“He invented the concept of palimony: marriage with no rings attached. Some actor tried to screw his girlfriend—in every way, I might add—by living with her for years without marrying her and
then dumping her without a cent, and Mitchelson convinced the court that she was entitled to half anyway. And this was in the seventies, when live-in girlfriends were considered tramps who deserved their bad fortune. I can’t even imagine living back then.

“Anyway, Mitchelson was incredible,” Sandy adds. “He could convince anyone of anything! He’s kind of a forgotten hero to women, and a personal hero of mine—though I would never have needed his services.” She gives both me and Layla a wink. “I figure he died forgotten and penniless, the least I could do is name my dog after him.”

“Too bad he’s dead,” Layla says. “Think he could have convinced a jury to let me keep my husband’s family even though the creep is divorcing me and trying to force me out?”

“What?” I practically shout. “I really don’t get this tiff you and Brett are having.” All I know is that I hate it.

“‘Tiff’? ‘Tiff’? That’s a quaint euphemism for divorce. Yep, Brett is tiffing the hell out of me,” Layla snaps, and then turns back to Sandy. “Sorry, you don’t need to hear this. And I was only kidding about keeping his family.” But I can see the wheels turning in Layla’s head as she looks hopefully back to our client. “Sort of.”

“Sadly, you can’t get legal custody of adults in a divorce proceeding,” Sandy informs us. I can almost hear Layla deflate.

“Not so long as we’re mentally competent,” I add, trying to lighten the mood. “You’d better not be suggesting that we’re a few cards short of a full deck.”

But Layla doesn’t react. I’m not even sure she heard me. She’s lost in her thoughts, and this clearly isn’t just a half-baked joke anymore.

“You’re serious?” I ask.

“I’m serious that I don’t want to lose you guys if I’m losing my husband. I love you guys, and I know it’s mutual—and it’s by
choice, not some dumb accident of birth, so why does Brett get to keep you while I get shoved out into the cold? This is a terrible time for Marvin Mitchelson to be dead. I need him!”

“Actually, this isn’t exactly a legal matter,” Sandy chimes in.

“Brett is not forcing you out of the family,” I say. “Trust me. You’re in this family. For better or worse. Clearly, right now is worse.” And with that, I pull Layla in for a hug and feel her shoulders jerk upward a few times as she starts to cry.

This sucks beyond words. I’m really going to have to smack Brett.

The morning after hearing about Marvin Mitchelson, I start to call attorneys. I probably shouldn’t have waited so long, but I didn’t know when exactly Brett was going to start proceedings. Maybe I hoped he’d change his mind.
Of course
I hoped he’d change his mind.

I’m stunned to find that the first two shysters I call have already heard from Brett and therefore can’t ethically or legally take my case; he and I are apparently drawn to the same advertisements. The third lawyer I call is just too damned expensive, and the fourth has
also
spoken to Brett.

Admittedly, a harsh rejection can put a person in an advanced state of stupid. Add to that being boxed out of all the decent lawyers you can find and/or afford, and you feel humiliated, inadequate, discarded, and alone—all lousy foundations for behavior in the average person. You start contemplating truly regrettable things, like eating saturated fat directly out of the carton of self-pity, dumping someone’s entire DVD collection curbside, or leaving phone messages for an ex in this vein: “I’m sorry to call again but I don’t know what else to do, because you won’t answer your door, and if you’ll just give this thing one more
chance, I’ll utterly debase myself to make you happy.” I don’t want to do any of these things—at least not yet.

Being a virtual orphan all these years has left me extremely sensitive to even the most minor slights and every pinprick of exclusion in any context: familial, social, professional—hell, even when I’m trying to buy a new shirt and the salespeople ignore me for ten minutes, it can feel like a spear being shoved down my throat. So as I arrive at the three-quarter mark in my box of Barbara’s Shredded Oats cereal, I’m aware that the sound of my chomping is drowned out by my pulse pounding in my ears. The rejection effect is kicking in like a shot of Jägermeister.

Through this buzzing, a commercial catches my attention and I’m sucked in like I’m being hypnotized: “Have you been wronged? Feel as though nobody’s on your side?” a man who slightly resembles Alec Baldwin says. “Then you need to call me
now
, toll-free. I’m on your side and I will
fight
for you. I will stop at nothing! And your initial consultation is absolutely free!”

I do need someone to fight for me! Someone with the young Muhammad Ali’s gift of gab and Mike Tyson’s eternal bloodlust. And as so often happens in life, at the precise moment when you need a sign, when you need a true bruiser on your side, you get … well, not exactly what you wished for, but rather Tommy Thames of Thames, Schlicter & Thames. And as the honorable Mr. Thames repeats the same stirring appeal in Spanish, I write down the number that comes up on the screen and resolve to call him.

• • •

I call Brooke from the car on my way to see this Tommy Thames, and she couldn’t be less interested in hearing about my plight. In fact, she only perks up when she hears about my meeting with a divorce lawyer, since she sees the budding potential for her to have me as a wingwoman for her nights on the town.

“We are back in business, baby,” she says. “Well, technically
we were never in business, since you and Brett were together since you were like seven years old. Trust me: This is a good thing. We are gonna have so much fun.”

“Fun, huh?” I say, not quite thinking that’s what I’d call this.

“Oh my God, I went on the craziest date last night, I forgot to tell you. This guy picks me up for dinner, and proceeds to eat a bag of potato chips in the car on our way to the restaurant. Is that not crazy?”

“It’s certainly odd,” I admit. “Did he offer you a chip?”

“No!”

“Not very well mannered.”

“Oh, it was disgusting. There were crumbs all over the car.”

“How was the rest of the date?” I ask, hoping it gets better, if this is indicative of what’s in store for me.

“Lame,” she says. “Boring. He really didn’t talk much. It was probably good that he crunched chips on the whole drive, because I didn’t notice how freakin’ dull he was.”

“Yikes,” I offer. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I fucked him. He wasn’t that bad in bed. Kept his mouth shut, so that was good. Probably won’t see him again.”

I squint my eyes to read the passing addresses and realize I need to hang up and pay attention or I’m going to pass the office. That and the fact that this conversation is completely depressing me. I say good-bye, feeling worse than before I called, and pull in to the parking lot.

Inside the building, behind a door with a prominent No Smoking sign is a smallish lobby that positively reeks of smoke. The smell wafts from the upholstery, the carpet, the walls, and the
Men’s Health
and
Woman’s Day
magazines strewn across the faux-oak
(foak?)
end tables.

The receptionist’s hair is a cumulus cloud of nicotine as she addresses me for the first time. “We’re moving,” she says, unprompted.

“Where are we going?” I want to say, but I let it drop.

“I know it’s not what you’d expect, a …” And with this, she waves her hand at the lobby and her own crowded desk. But the sentence never gets an ending. So I wait mutely as she looks around in mild disgust.

Finally I say, “I’m here to see Tommy Thames. I’m Layla Foster. His ten o’clock?”

“Of course you are,” she says. “Is it ten? I’ll let him know. And since you appear curious, this is an Early American Colonial vintage law office.”

Indeed, she is correct. If décor that resembles a patriotic seven-year-old’s bedroom—complete with a bald-eagle wallpaper border and red-white-and-blue parade-drum table lamps—is a good indication of your attorney’s total focus on legal matters, the place is a resounding endorsement.

“And the smoke stench. Oh,
awful
, I know. From Thames
senior
, God rest him. Never paid attention to the no-smoking thing. It’s enough to make me think of quitting.” She looks everywhere but at me, and clearly I am not the first audience for this commentary. “When you’re leaving in another month, you try not to get too concerned with it.”

She is obviously very concerned about the possibility that I might bolt at any second, but she overcomes her misgivings long enough to pick up the phone. “Ms. Foster is in the lobby.” She hangs up. “Why don’t you take a seat. He’ll come for you in a moment. Can I get you anything?”

You can get me out of here via the nearest window
, I think, but all I say is “No, thank you.” I am extremely reluctant to comply with her seating request, but something about this woman tells me she’s not to be messed with, despite her acknowledgment of the plight of anyone unfortunate enough to have to spend more than ten seconds in this ashtray of an office. So rather than obey my impulse to recast myself as a photocopier salesperson and get a quick dismissal, I sink with dread into a shabby side chair.

Then Tommy Thames calls to me. I see only half his body—he’s
leaning around a corner—but I note that the resemblance to Alec Baldwin isn’t as redeeming as I’d hoped it might be. His face is fatter, ruddier, and coarser, and the hair, if possible, is slicked even farther back than it was in the ad. It’s Alec Baldwin on a morning after an all-week bender.

In Thames’s office is his chair; a desk with a phone, a closed notebook computer, one legal pad, and one plastic cup; a visitor’s chair; a print of some stern old man in a judge’s robe; and in one corner, a redwood forest of file folders that seems about to topple and kill us both at any second.

“We’re moving,” he says, as he sits down and motions for me to do the same, and I see for the first time a long stain running down his suit jacket. I wonder if he doesn’t know it’s there or he does know and doesn’t care. I decide he’s blissfully unaware, just to make myself feel better. “Remind me when the injury occurred,” he asks, as he taps his pen on his long yellow pad.

“It’s not a physical injury as much as an emotional injury,” I answer. “This is sort of a matrimonial issue.”

“Certainly these things call for some measure of respect and delicacy.”

“Right now, I’m pretty upset.”

“Oh, no—we’ll definitely take the sick bastard for everything he’s got. But we step lightly at first. Now, with all sympathies to the situation … any infidelity or physical abuse?”

“Never!” I say, as I laugh for the first time in days. Brett hitting me? Never. “It’s not like that. It’s sort of more about the relationship.”

“Not exactly my forte. Been married three times, and the third one … let’s say
that
one was the reason this move has been on hold so long.”

Just what you want to hear from your prospective divorce attorney.

“Hear me out,” I say. “My husband and I are, I think, getting a divorce. So that’s easy.”

He smiles. “I’m glad you think so. But you won’t by the time we get done with this. No offense or anything.”