Happily Ever After? (13 page)

“Shit.”

“Listen, I can’t really talk now and we can’t do anything at this hour anyway. Why don’t you try to get some sleep, I’ll try
to make some calls, and we can talk again in the morning. Okay?”

No, not okay, I wanted to say. Why should I let you go back to your genteel party while I’m facing the possibility of losing
my son? “Of course, of course,” I said instead. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother at all. Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Click.

I suppose I could go online and shop ’til I drop, but suddenly I don’t feel like spending money. I feel like throwing up.

’Til next time,

V

This just gets worse and worse. I talked to Omar this morning. Roger is definitely suing for custody, Judge Mendelsohn has
definitely retired. Though destitute, Roger found himself a lawyer, the same one who represented him in the trial. Richard
Sloan.

“He’s doing it pro bono,” Omar informed me.

“Why the hell would he do that?”

“I’ve got three theories. One, he’s doing it out of the kindness of his heart—not likely. Two, he’s hoping for a bonus down
the road, once Roger’s flush again.”

“And when’s that going to happen?” I asked.

“Who knows?”

“And what’s theory number three, Omar?”

“Theory number three is a long shot, but I’m wondering if Richard’s wife hates you.”

“Jazzy Sloan? Why would she hate me? She doesn’t even know me.” Jazzy and I traveled in two entirely different hemispheres.
She was the darling of the Junior League, the patron saint of the arts, Queen of the Mushroomheads.

“She knows about your generous donation to the hospital foundation. Maybe she’s threatened by you. Maybe she’s jealous. Who
knows?”

“Okay. So Roger’s suing for custody. He has a good lawyer working for free. Now what?”

“Let’s see who replaces Judge Joseph. For now we sit tight. And we don’t panic.”

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m sitting tight. And I’m not panicking. Yet.

’Til next time,

V

Sent Pete to Hunter’s house and dragged myself to the mall today. What a nightmare. Nordstroms was having some kind of big
sale and the parking lot was jammed. People were parked illegally in the fire lane, in handicapped spots, in service lanes.
Inside, the mall was clogged with overheated shoppers. I bought Pete a robot puppy and giant Lego set with something like
nine thousand pieces, half of which he will lose by the end of the week.

I stopped at Eddie Bauer and who should I see but that stupid Bill Stropp. I walked in just as he yelled out, “Does anyone
actually work in this damn store?” and watched as the harried young manager scurried up and apologetically explained that
two employees had called in sick. “That’s not my problem,” Bill shot back. He held up a black jacket. “Now do me a favor and
find me this in an extra-large.” Bill Stropp has a wrestler’s body, wide shoulders, thick neck, thick arms. For a heterosexual
guy with no female at home to monitor his
wardrobe choices, I thought he’d dressed surprisingly well. Steel blue silk T-shirt, clean stonewashed jeans, a black belt
and black Doc Marten boots. His graying hair was cropped close, his eyes heavy-lidded and slate gray, his face rutted by a
few old acne scars.

I still owe him a response to his last e-mail. I hate him.

Michael called me on my cell phone. He had tickets to tonight’s basketball game and wanted to know if I’d join him. I took
a rain check. I really need to be with Pete tonight. I told Michael about Roger’s plan to sue for custody, and about Judge
Mendelsohn retiring, which he already knew. “Let’s hope you don’t get Judge Willis,” he said.

“What’s wrong with Judge Willis?” I asked.

“He’s the poster boy for the fathers’ rights movement,” Michael told me. “He’s always getting quoted. National Fatherhood
Initiative, men’s movement, Malicious Mom Syndrome, that sort of thing.”

“Malicious Mom Syndrome?”

“Oh, you know, a woman makes her kid wear flipflops in the snow to prove that her ex-husband isn’t paying enough child support.
Or she intercepts birthday presents, then says, ‘I guess your father forgot your birthday again this year.’”

It sounded horrible. Yet not entirely implausible. I wouldn’t do it. But I understand the inclination.

’Til next time,

V

Roger and his girlfriend left a present for Pete on the porch. I was tempted to throw it in the trash, and then I remembered
the Malicious Mother Syndrome and put it on his bed instead.

I went online today and foraged for information on Judge Willis. Michael was right about him—he
is
a poster boy, for some nutty group called the National Men’s Liberation Front. The NMLF website carries many helpful features,
like:

• Fighting For Custody: Avoiding the Pitfalls
  
• Parental Alienation Syndrome: A Case for the Courts
  
• Growing Up Fatherless: The Risks
  
• Father Still Knows Best
  
• An End to Matriarchy: Make It Happen
  

There’s one section devoted to poetry, like this inspiring verse:

Bitch, You Took My Boy Away

B
Y
F
LOYD
L. H
ENDERSON

Bitch, you took my boy away

Just because you had a better lawyer.

Now I’m standing in the foyer

Reading Tom Sawyer

To myself.

Another section, snidely entitled, “A Mother’s Love Is Like No Other,” is filled with such news blurbs as:

Portland woman sentenced to 18 months for cocaine use during pregnancy. Father wins full custody.

Amanda Reynolds, 31, of Burbank, CA, stabs 2-year-old in the head with ice pick.

Birmingham, Alabama, woman suffocates newborn, dumps body in petting zoo.

In a long article on custodial rights, Judge Willis is quoted as saying, “Fathers are not sperm donors. They are the very
foundation of a family, the most vital key to a child’s successful future. The tradition of awarding custody to mothers simply
because they have the reproductive equipment to bear children is simply misguided and it is a tradition that I will not indulge.”

Judge Willis awarded full custody to a man convicted of raping his sister-in-law.

I hated to call Omar at home but I was hyperventilating. I was in the grip of a full-blown panic attack. I told him what I’d
found online.

Omar sighed. “Valerie, Valerie. Didn’t I tell you to sit tight? You shouldn’t be researching this guy. You’re only going to
drive yourself crazy. You know that, don’t you?”

I detected a paternal, if not patronizing tone in my attorney’s voice. “Why shouldn’t I get a head start on defending myself
against Roger and this wacko judge? Am I supposed to sit back while Roger and his lawyer plot their plan of attack?”

Omar relented. “Well, we don’t know for sure if Willis our judge, but if it makes you feel any better, why don’t you meet
me Thursday at noon and we’ll do some strategizing of our own.”

I didn’t want to wait until Thursday. This had the urgency of an abnormal Pap smear. Waiting felt dangerous, risky. I was
scared. But Omar explained that he had to be in court and had absolutely no time to meet me. “Okay, Omar, I’ll see you Thursday.”

’Til next time,

V

Michael called today to check on me. He’s such a sweetheart. He invited me to dinner but I don’t feel comfortable leaving
Pete, and I’m not ready to invite him to the house while Pete’s home.

’Til next time,

V

I finally found the time and stamina to respond to Bill Stropp’s e-mail. I took a different approach this time.

Bill:

I’ve thought about the trees. They’re too large to move and I really don’t want to cut them down. We’re so lucky to have trees
in our subdivision. Haven’t you enjoyed the shade they provide, and the birds that build their homes in the branches? These
trees are such an important part of our landscape. Please think about it. Please?

Valerie

I debated whether or not to add that last “please.” It sounded so whiny, so childish. Oh please, Mr. Bill, pretty please with
sugar on top? I stared at the word for a long time. I decided to leave it in.

I got back this response:

Valerie:

I have thought about it. The birds are noisy. I don’t need the shade. Raking the leaves is a major nuisance. I’m not
a tree hugger. Humans are as much a part of the landscape as the trees. As far as I’m concerned, my needs are as important
as any bird’s.

Bill

I fired back:

I can’t do anything about the birds but I’d be happy to pay for the raking of your leaves.

And he sent this:

Don’t bother. As for the birds, I can take care of them myself. It’s hunting season and I’m an excellent shot.

Arrrggghhhh!!! This man is driving me crazy!!

’Til next time,

V

I finally met with Omar today. “How’s this all going to shake out—assuming that Willis is our judge?” I asked.

Omar grinned. “You know what they say about ‘assume.’”

I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “Please, Omar, just answer the question.”

Omar’s expression was sober now. He set out a thermal carafe of coffee and two mugs. “Sloan isn’t a father’s rights lawyer.
That’s a good thing. But since Willis is such an activist for fathers’ rights, it probably doesn’t matter whether Sloan knows
his stuff or not.” He took a sip. “And that’s not such a good thing. Of course, they’ll try to impugn your character. That’s
standard.”

I could feel the thunderclouds roiling in my skull, the prelude to a colossal migraine. And I felt such despair. I couldn’t
believe we were having this conversation. It was all so impossibly surreal, the idea that Roger might wind up with full custody.
My mind raced ahead to nightmare scenarios. Surfer Girl insisting that Pete call her “Mommy.” Watching Pete through Roger’s
living room window like some Peeping Tom. I forced myself to stay focused.

“Valerie, Are you absolutely sure that Pete is Roger’s child?”

The question knocked the wind out of me. “What?”

“I’m sorry, Valerie. But I have to ask.”

“Yes, I am quite certain that Roger is Pete’s father. I’m not the pathological philanderer, remember?”

“Yes, of course I do. But if all else fails …”

“Failure is not an option, Omar.” I started to cry. “I can’t lose Pete. I’d kill myself.”

Omar grabbed my wrist. “Hey. Don’t you dare think that way. And don’t you ever,
ever
let anyone else hear you say that. Roger and Sloan would have a field day with a comment like that. Do you understand me?”

I was sobbing now.

“Look. You wanted to do this, not me. I told you to relax and sit tight until we knew who the courts were assigning to the
case. But you insisted. And so here we are, talking worse-case scenarios. But that’s all we’re doing, Valerie. We’re talking.
You’ve got to pull yourself together.”

He slid a new box of tissues across the table. I grabbed a handful and wiped my face. My mascara was all over the place. I
hadn’t planned on crying today.

“At the risk of making you even more miserable,” Omar began, and I braced myself. “Roger is going to sue for child support.
My guess is he’ll be aiming for twenty thousand a month, maybe more.”

“You’re kidding, right?” But I looked at Omar’s face and knew he wasn’t.

“The good news,” Omar said, “is that you can afford it.”

I guess that’s true. But it didn’t make me feel any better.

It’s two in the morning. I can’t sleep. What will Sloan say about me? That I cheated on my husband? That I
put my own clients at risk by skipping out of work? That I tried to break into my supervisor’s e-mail account? That I left
my home every day to work downtown while my husband stayed home with Pete? It’s all true. But it hardly compares with Roger’s
history.

Unless we get Judge Willis.

’Til next time,

V

I fell today. Flat on my ass. Slipped on a piece of cracked sidewalk. As I flew through the air, I had the following train
of thought: I’m slipping because my neighbors refuse to fix their sidewalk. I really should complain to them. I could even
sue them. But I haven’t fixed the cracks in my walk either. Which means that people could just as easily slip in front of
my house. And if they do, and if they know about my divorce settlement (and it appears that everyone in town does), they might
sue me. So I’d better start repairing my sidewalk. I’d better go to Walmart and buy some concrete mix.

Who should I see at Walmart but Mr. Bill Stropp himself, the lunatic, the tree hater, the maniac who lives behind my house.
He was in the hunting goods department (big surprise), and I watched as he picked out some sort of rifle. He felt its heft
in his hands, hoisted it onto his shoulder, peered through the sight and
aimed the gun at the fishing rods hanging overhead. I suppose I should have run in the opposite direction, but something held
me there.

It didn’t take long for him to notice me. “Hey. It’s the tree hugger,” he said with a smirk.

I smirked right back at him. “Going hunting?”

“You bet,” he said. “Bear hunting.”

“Smokey or Yogi?”

He squinted at me through those heavy lids of his. “Lemme guess. You’re not just a tree hugger, you’re a save-the-whales type
too.”

He ran his hand over his short hair and shook his head. “Actually, it’s Alaskan brown bear. Heading out to the Canadian coastal
range.” He lifted the second gun to his shoulder and pointed it at the sleeping bags on the wall. “Nothing like an Alaskan
brown bear. Biggest sonofabitch I ever laid eyes on. Stands eight feet tall on his hind legs. Twelve hundred pounds of pure
terror.” He put the gun down. “Wanna come along? I could use a good cook.”