Happily Ever After? (21 page)

The judge paused and I fixated on the phrase “neat and orderly home.” What, exactly, did he mean by that? Had someone told
him that there have been petrified remnants of a Happy Meal in the back of my Jeep since
November? Did he know I’ve bought seven Phillips screwdrivers and can’t find any of them? I prayed: God, if you give me full
custody of Pete, I swear to you I will make a neat and orderly home for my son. I’ll hang all my clothes at the end of the
day, instead of heaping them on a chair. I will organize all the crap under the sink in the bathroom. I will find all my tools
and keep them in a toolbox. Even better—I’ll build a workshop in the garage with one of those pegboards with silhouettes of
all the tools so you always know where everything goes. Dear God, please.

“Mr. Sloan,” Judge Brand began, “when you and your client initially approached me for an ex parte hearing, you were working
an angle, so to speak.” Judge Brand leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You told me you had evidence that Ms. Ryan was
in a sexual relationship with another woman. Specifically, that she had adopted a lesbian lifestyle. Mr. Sloan, I believe
you chose this particular approach based on recent events in my own life, events that I have struggled to keep private. You
attempted to use this information to your advantage. That was shoddy lawyering, Mr. Sloan. And as a strategy, it was a failure.”

Roger held his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. Omar reached under the table and squeezed my hand.

The judge turned toward me. “Ms. Ryan, I have heard testimony today regarding your competence as a mother. I have heard about
campfires and soap carvings
and burned fingers, stories your ex-husband had hoped might support his case that you are unfit to retain full physical custody
of Peter Ryan Tisdale.”

Roger stopped rocking and began paying attention. He looked hopeful.

“But if I pulled children away from their parents every time some kid experimented with matches, there wouldn’t be a child
in this county living at home. They’d all be in foster care—and even then, they’re going to explore the outer bounds of acceptable
behavior. That’s what kids do. And it doesn’t make you a bad mother because Pete did it too.”

In a rush of relief, and gratitude for the judge’s kindness, I started to sob and once I started, I wasn’t sure I’d be able
to stop. This had been the nicest thing anyone had said about me in a very long time. Omar patted me on the back as I tried
to pull myself together.

“Mr. Tisdale, I was prepared to judge this case solely on your merits as a father. I’d read your file. I knew you had a questionable
history where the ladies are concerned, but I was prepared to set that aside for the purpose of determining custodial rights.”

I held my breath. I think everyone in the room did.

“I changed my mind,” Brand said. “After rereading your file, and hearing testimony in this courtroom today, I am convinced
that your ability as a father is inextricably entwined with everything else in your life, with all the foul choices you’ve
made as a husband, with
your devious behavior, your shameless philandering, your puerile interest in young women, with your disgusting exploitation
of a Filipina teenager.”

Oh, joy! I wanted to grab Judge Brand and twirl him around the room. How I loved that man! But then his face darkened, and
he looked toward me, and I knew I wasn’t home free.

“Ms. Ryan, despite your husband’s flagrantly decrepit behavior, I do believe that young Peter has every right to know his
father. I’m doing this only for Peter’s benefit, not Mr. Tisdale’s—at this point I don’t give a damn what Roger Tisdale wants.
But Peter will flourish best if his father has some presence in his life, and that’s a fact, whether or not you agree with
me. So after careful deliberation—and with some reluctance, I must frankly add—I have decided to grant full physical custody
to Valerie Ryan, and
supervised
visitation rights to Roger Tisdale. Mr. Tisdale, you may visit with Peter Ryan Tisdale on two Saturdays per month. Ms. Ryan
will choose the specific dates at her discretion, and visits will take place at a location of Ms. Ryan’s choosing. These visits
will be supervised by Ms. Ryan or someone she appoints as her surrogate.” Judge Brand smacked his gavel. “We are adjourned.”

Omar grabbed me and wrapped me with his arms. “We did it!” he whispered, radiant with victory. I know I should have been happy.
I was granted full physical custody of my son. And Pete would still have contact
with his father, which, I suppose, was a good thing. But I’d hoped to slash Roger out of my life entirely, and now I would
remain linked to him—and his assorted girlfriends—two precious Saturdays every month, for years and years and years to come.
I wanted to cry.

When Pete got home, I hugged him long and hard. “You’re choking me, Mommy.”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “It’s just that I really, really missed you today.”

“What did the judge say?” he asked.

I pulled Pete onto my lap and kissed him on his neck, in that warm soft spot I love best. “Well, sweetie, the judge said that
you will live here with me, and your dad can visit with you every other Saturday. How does that sound?”

Pete shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” he muttered. He picked at a scab on his knuckles.

“And on those Saturdays when Dad visits, I can be there too!” I added.

“You mean, we’ll be all together? Like a family?”

“Sort of,” I said. “What do you think of that?”

Pete nodded. “Good.”

At home there was a message waiting from my mother, and another from Bill Stropp. I didn’t feel like talking to my mother,
but I needed Bill as surely as a stiff drink.

’Til next time,

V

I called Bill back last night and was grateful that he hadn’t asked about the custody hearing. He had only the sketchiest
information about my life and I wanted to keep it that way. He knew I was divorced and he knew I had a child, and maybe he
had a vague sense that I’d come into some money, but that was all. As far as I could tell, he knew nothing of Roger or his
befouled reputation, and couldn’t care less about my former career as a therapist, or about my squandering of that career.
We never talked about family or feelings, never probed the big existential questions or bothered to make small talk. And yet,
our silent collusion created an intimacy deeper than any I’d ever known with any man. “I want to see you now,” he said, and
the seriousness and restrained urgency in his voice took my breath away.

“I can’t,” I whispered, aware that Pete had reached the age of eavesdropping. “It’s not that I don’t want to. But I need to
be home. I can’t leave my son tonight.”

“When does he go to sleep?”

“Nine, nine-thirty. Why do you ask?”

“Is he a sound sleeper?”

“Yes, usually,” I said.

“Then let me come to you. Later tonight.”

My heart hammered at my chest. I hadn’t had a lover in the house since Eddie had insisted on helping me
search for Roger’s gold. There were advantages to meeting at Bill’s house. It sequestered the relationship safely away from
Pete, and I never had to worry what the neighbors might think. “No one will see me,” he said, as if he’d read my thoughts.
“Don’t worry.” When I paused a moment longer, he growled, “I need you.”

“Okay,” I surrendered, wildly flattered to be the object of his desperate desire. “Make it later. Ten o’clock.”

The line went dead and I realized he’d hung up.

I spent the rest of the evening doting on Pete, as I slowly absorbed the full import of Judge Brand’s ruling. Pete was mine.
I had sole physical and legal custody. I would raise him without Roger’s influence or interference. I would make all of the
religious, medical, educational, and ideological decisions affecting Pete’s upbringing. I have every reason to celebrate but
I can’t help feeling as if I’d failed my son. Bottom line: Thanks to me, he would be a little boy without a dad. According
to some statistics, Pete was now more likely to abuse drugs, drop out of school, and kill himself. I was thrilled to have
Roger out of my life, but I’m not sure I’ve done my son any big favors.

By nine-thirty Pete was sleeping soundly. I showered, pulled on a clean pair of stretch jeans and my favorite top, a pale
blue ribbed tank top. I spritzed myself with the cologne I knew he liked, Victoria Secret’s Angel. I didn’t want to slather
on a lot of makeup, but wasn’t quite ready to let Bill see me barefaced, so I dabbed on a bit of lip gloss.

By eleven o’clock, Bill still had not arrived. I called his house but no one answered. I figured he’d changed his mind, and
I might have been insulted if I hadn’t felt so exhausted. By 11:40 I was in bed, watching a rerun of
Taxi
and feeling sorry for myself. I clicked off the TV at midnight and drifted off to sleep.

I dreamt I was floating on my back in calm waters on a blue, sweet and sunny day. I was naked and completely comfortable.
After a bit, I swam to shore and lay on a towel in the sand, and I could feel each droplet evaporate under wide, warm rays
of a red sun. A muscular German shepherd approached and I intuitively knew that there was no reason to be afraid. I lay motionless
as the dog lapped at my face, my eyes, my lips, my neck. I could feel his weight across my chest and I shifted my position
to make myself more comfortable.

I opened my eyes. Bill Stropp was straddling me, gently peeling my tank top up over my breasts. He paid homage to one, then
the other, and I thought I might still be dreaming, until he said, “You really should find another place to hide your key.”
I arched my back and let him lavish me with hot kisses. I was half asleep but fully aroused. Then I froze—what if Pete walked
in? Again, Bill seemed to read my mind. “I locked the door.” I wrapped my legs around his waist and took him in. He felt solid
and strong and wild, and I felt the bed—no, the whole room—rock with the rhythm of our desire. Suddenly I could hear the robins
in the linden
trees at the side of the house and I realized we’d fallen asleep. The sun was rising. I opened my eyes to find him propped
on an elbow, staring at me.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “I stopped myself from asking, Who, me? “I’d better leave before your little one wakes up.” The
man really is a mind reader.

“Thanks,” I said. I reached out and let my palm rest against his hard, flat belly. Immediately there was a stirring below.
I withdrew my hand.

“Maybe we can go to the animal shelter later this week,” he said.

“Huh?”

“To find you a dog.”

“Then how will you slip into my house in the middle of the night?”

Bill smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

I lay back on the pillow and watched him pull his sweatpants over his strong legs. “I’ll think about it. I don’t know if I’m
ready for another dependent.” It was almost six o’clock. I almost offered to make him breakfast but changed my mind. Keep
it clean and uncomplicated, I told myself.

Damn. It’s almost midnight and I just remembered that Pete has a Tiger Club meeting after camp tomorrow and I still haven’t
sewn those badges to his shirt. I wonder if I can glue them on.

’Til next time,

V

Pete came home from his Tiger Cub meeting with a flier for the Dad n’ Me camping trip. “Can Daddy take me?” Pete asked. “Can
he?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said.

“Why not?” I could tell he was poised for a melt-down.

“Wait a minute, Pete. I didn’t say no. I said, I don’t know. There’s a difference.” I wanted Pete to go camping, but I didn’t
want him alone with Roger. I’d have to find a surrogate to supervise him.

But who? My own father was dead, and I wasn’t about to enlist my ex-father-in-law. “Pete, hon, I know you want an answer now
but I can’t give you one. I need to figure some stuff out.”

“I knew it,” he cried. “I’m going to be the only one there without a dad. It’s not fair!” He grabbed a tile trivet off the
kitchen counter, the one he’d painted himself at Hunter’s birthday party, and smashed it to the floor.

I could feel the beginning of a migraine thundering at my temples. I bent down to pick up the pieces. “Help me with this,”
I asked. “Get me a paper bag from the cabinet.”

“Get it yourself!” Pete screamed.

I was horrified. This was a side of Pete I’d rarely glimpsed. I knew the breakup had been hard on him—
it would be hard on any child. But I never imagined this transformation of character. I suppose I should be grateful that
he’s finally expressing his anger about the divorce. He’s not sucking his thumb anymore, he’s screaming at me and smashing
trivets. I chased him upstairs and tried to talk to him but he’d locked himself into his room—another first. When he finally
came downstairs he was calm and happy. I told him that divorce wasn’t easy, and tried reassuring him that Dad and I both loved
him, and that would never change. He nodded compliantly throughout my little monologue. I doubted he absorbed a single word.

I still need to find a surrogate for the camping trip. I’m completely stumped!

’Til next time,

V

I’m anxious to return to some semblance of a professional life. I don’t need the money, obviously, but I find it painfully
boring sitting at home while Pete is in school. Originally I thought it would be easy to fill the time. I’d work out at the
club (or with the personal trainer I have yet to hire). I’d whip up delicious meals for Pete (who currently eats only four
things: peanut butter, tortellini without sauce, toast with strawberry jelly, and dry cereal). I’d play all day with my friends
(Donna Gold is busy renovating her house, Lynette cleans all day, and I still don’t feel entirely at ease with Diana).

I really want to work again. I can afford to open any store I’d like, but I’m not the retail type. It would be hard to go
back to a staff job, dealing with the structure and pecking order, and all the duplicity and backbiting that comes with an
office job. I decided to call Dale. Maybe we could go into practice together. The more I thought about it, the more I loved
the idea.