The Love Wars (24 page)

“I know,” I say, even as I can’t begin to imagine.

Eyes closed, she presses her right palm against her forehead, as though checking herself for fever. “I figured it out, you know,” she says, dropping her hand. “Why we always meet on evenings or weekends, why I’m not supposed to call you at the law firm, and why you’re always a little on edge when we’re waiting in the hallway at court. How much trouble would you get in if your bosses found out you had taken my case?”

“A fair amount.”

She shakes her head, frowning.

“I promise, it’s not against the law or anything. It’s just probably best if they don’t find out.”

“It’s too much, Molly. It’s too much pressure for you.”

“It’s not, Fern. It actually does me some good to have an appreciative client.” I laugh in an attempt to lighten things. “You’d be surprised at how rare it is.”

She doesn’t answer.

Keeping my voice quiet, I sound as definite as I can. “Fern, if I couldn’t handle your case, I wouldn’t have taken it on.”

She nods, inhaling deeply. “Okay,” she says, making me think that perhaps I’m a more convincing actor than my high school drama teacher had thought.

I return to the kids’ bench and settle in next to Anna. She’s fairly engrossed in her book, something called
Muggie Maggie
, which she tells me is about a girl who can’t write cursive. I ask her some polite questions about it and receive nods and headshakes in response, but I can tell she just wants to read. Connor finishes his ice-cream cone and turns into a live wire, running around and climbing on the chairs. I make an offhand comment about a sugar high, and Anna responds in an adult tone that he’s a three-year-old boy and is, like, always like this.

Finally, Fern gets Connor focused on the TV screen above our heads, which is showing a cartoon about fluffy little creatures with masks. The sound is off and the creatures just seem to be running around, but that is apparently riveting enough for Connor. He stands immobilized, staring at the screen as Fern uses a wet wipe to clean his face and slips a clean red T-shirt over his head.

The hospital doors slide open and someone enters the waiting room. As we have the other twelve times someone has come in, Fern and I jerk our eyes toward the entrance. This time, I am relieved to see a small dark-haired pregnant woman with a head scarf, pushing a sleeping toddler in a gray stroller.

I meet Fern’s eye. “Maybe it will just be us today?”

She discreetly crosses her fingers.

Connor finally gets admitted and we are shuttled into an exam room. A young resident comes in, shines a light into Connor’s eyes, checks his reflexes and gives him some simple
commands. He tells us that the kid looks fine, he doesn’t think an X-ray is necessary and that he’ll be back soon.

All of a sudden, I hear yelling outside.

A female voice says, “Sir, Sir, Sir, SIR, YOU—” in a crescendo of disbelief as the door to our exam room pushes open and Robert Walker walks in, Claire right behind him. Claire is perfectly turned out in Upper East Side weekend casual—skinny jeans, high boots and an asymmetrical gray sweater.

Robert, however, is wearing a long-sleeve Hawaiian-style shirt with swirling azure and pink flowers, his potbelly shoved into linen khaki pants, above loafers and no socks, as though we’ve disrupted his annual November pig roast on the Hudson. The comic relief brought by his outfit lasts a nanosecond. Both kids freeze in their tracks. Anna silently leaps out of the guest chair that she has been spinning around in, grabs Connor’s hand and yanks him from Fern’s lap. They run to Claire and bury their heads in her legs.

“Oh, my poor babies,” she murmurs, clutching them. “Oh, Connor, where’s your boo-boo? Let Mama see it, let me see it.” They both start to cry and cling to her.

Robert steps toward Fern. “What the fuck?”

Without thinking, I step in front of her. “It’s okay, Fern. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

This incenses Robert. “Why the fuck are you even here, Ms. Grant?” He spits my name. “And what the fuck do you mean this hapless bitch didn’t do anything wrong? Why is my boy in the hospital? You can’t even watch them for one fucking afternoon? One fucking afternoon! I can’t wait until that judge hears about this. You won’t ever see my kids again.”

From somewhere, I hear “Margaritaville.” I remember that it’s Robert Walker’s ringtone, the world’s most incongruous super-villain theme. Robert reaches into his pocket, grabs his cell phone and pushes it at Claire, telling her to shut the fucking thing up.

Claire expertly presses a button, silencing it before we find out that it’s all Jimmy Buffett’s own damn fault. The kids continue wailing and Fern tries to reach over to them, but Claire body-blocks her, pushing her arms out and then bending over Connor and Anna, Lady Liberty harboring the cuddled masses.

“It’s okay, babies,” she murmurs. “We’re gonna take you home. Don’t worry. We’re going home.”

“Actually,” I say, with as much authority as I can muster, “you’re going to go home. This is Fern’s time with the kids.”

Fern is frozen and does not respond to my prompt, even as I put my hand on her back and push her gently toward the door.

Robert moves directly in front of the door, blocking it.

Fern’s cell phone rings faintly from somewhere deep in her bag.

Robert puts his face directly in Fern’s, speaking softly. “…idiot, incapable,” he continues as Fern’s phone rings again.

I nudge her so she’ll hear it. Fern does not move, so I step back from Robert, hope that Fern does not think I’m abandoning her and grab her bag from the doctor’s desk where she has left it. I fish around until I get the phone, glance at the caller ID and surreptitiously open the phone, keeping it behind my back. I hear a tinny female voice repeating, “Hello, hello, hello,” but I don’t respond, concentrating on keeping the phone open in my sweaty, slippery hands.

Robert continues, his voice a little louder. He is still planted in front of the door, his face inches from Fern’s, talking directly to her. “And this piece-of-shit hospital? What is in your head? I’m on the fucking board at NYU. Do you understand? The board. Why on earth would you send them here? Where is your fucking common sense? I have the chief of pediatrics in from his golf game, personally waiting for us downtown. And that’s where we’re going.” He takes a step even closer to Fern and pushes his finger in her chest. “Your visits with them are over.
You hear me? Over. After this, you’re never going to see these kids again.”

I step forward, phone still behind my back. “No one is taking the kids anywhere. This is Fern’s weekend with the kids. I’m telling you one more time. Please leave.”

Robert shakes his head and focuses on me, now putting his face directly in front of mine, so close that I can smell his stale cigar breath.

“You’re a child, a joke. My assistants’ assistants have more experience than you. With all due respect,” he snorts, “shut the fuck up and get out of the way.”

“Let me just say generally, to the room, um, for the record, that anyone who interferes with Fern’s time with her children is in violation of a judicial order.”

Robert Walker barks a laugh. “Oh, okay, Ms. Grant. Thank you for clarifying the record.” He looks around the room, his voice laced with disdain. “Did everyone note that for the record? My kids are not safe with your client. Period. I am taking them now. Period.” He looks at me and at Fern, and folds his arms across his chest. “You’re welcome to try and stop me, though.”

I look over at Fern, who is frozen in place, her eyes downcast. What am I going to do? Physically grab the children? Punch Robert Walker? I feel weak and superfluous and I know Fern feels worse, as Claire and Robert sweep up the crying kids and storm out, leaving the door to our room hanging open for nurses, doctors and other patients to gawk at us.

I look at the phone. The time meter is still running. I hear a shocked, tinny voice saying, “Fern? Are you there? Fern? Hello?”

Fern doesn’t respond. She’s expressionless, standing still in the center of the room, her hands opening and closing quickly in a futile motion, fists with no grasp. A peppery, jagged burn ignites in my jaw and courses to my stomach. This must be what hatred feels like. Pure, concentrated hatred, leaving no room for
nuance or any other weaker, gentler emotions; all I want is to eviscerate him, to stun Robert Walker the way he’s stunned her. The one tiny, minuscule piece of good news is that I might be closer to doing just that: Emily Freed has been there, listening at the other end of the line, for the entire time.

____

S
pending twenty-four consecutive hours at Bacon Payne is not as bad as it sounds. Sure, there’s an underbelly to every all-nighter, a moment, usually in the wee hours right before sunrise, when the fatigue and stress win out and I wind up crying in the bathroom. But before that, there’s a long stretch of quiet during which I can focus on my work without disruption, and the time flies. In the matrimonial department, when one of the other associates has to stay late too, a glorious slap-happiness can emerge, the camaraderie springing us through the night like ricocheting pinballs.

I don’t know when they hit me, my brilliant plans for tonight, but I am almost trembling with anticipation. For weeks, each time I’ve ducked into Jodi’s Deli, I’ve bought a handful of brownie bites—those processed, individually wrapped blobs of chocolate dough that could probably survive a nuclear holocaust but are somehow moist and tasty. Last week, Henry was out of the office for an afternoon meeting and it occurred to me that a good use for the brownie bites would be to sneak one in the pocket of the spare suit jacket hanging on the back of his door.

Hilarious as I knew it was, that didn’t get a response, so I kept it up, one per day: the bottom drawer of his desk, on top of his file cabinet, on his printer.

Nothing.

So late this afternoon, when Henry was stuck in the conference room, I went all out, boldly littering twenty-five brownie bites around his office: perched on the frame of his diploma, on top of his computer monitor, three sitting innocently in his chair.

That was a few hours ago and Henry has not given any indication that he’s noticed, but just the thought of him walking back into his office, straight-faced, and discovering it is enough to make me—alone at my desk—erupt into maniacal giggles.

At eight thirty, I go down to the lobby to pick up the food for the late-night crew, which tonight is me, Henry and Liz. On the way back, I walk by Henry’s office and stick my head in, scanning the room. The brownie bite that I stuck on the diploma has vanished. “Food’s here.”

“Okay.”

I stand in his doorway. Wait for a beat.

“You looking for something?” He’s expressionless.

“No.” I try to match his poker face.

“Meet you in the conference room, then.”

__________

L
iz, Henry and I sit around the marble table in the small room, peeling open the steamed lids of our plastic containers and talking about our work. Liz is preparing for a trial; I’m drafting a prenuptial agreement for a wedding taking place next weekend and working on a client’s affidavit. Henry, who has pulled more all-nighters than anyone in this critical year, is doing catch-up work, just trying to manage his substantial caseload.

I keep searching Henry’s face and finding nothing.

“What?” he says. “What?”

Finally, we’re gathering up the trash, stuffing it back into the brown bag the delivery came in, and Henry, expressionless, reaches into the front pocket of his shirt. He holds a wrapped brownie bite in the palm of his hand. “Anyone want dessert?”

“Sure,” says Liz. “But do you only have the one?”

“Oh no,” says Henry, looking me squarely in the eye. “I have several.” He reaches into his pants pocket and takes out two more.

I try to look surprised. “What’s with all the”—I press my lips together to keep from laughing, but I know my eyes give me away—“brownie bites?”

“You identified these so easily, Molly. I’m impressed with your snack acumen.” He raises his shoulders and eases them back down in a carefree shrug. “Apparently, I won some sort of contest.”

“These are heaven,” Liz says.

“Take another.” Henry slides the second brownie bite toward her without even so much as a glance toward me.

__________

B
y three thirty in the morning, I am not seeing the humor in anything; my punch-drunkenness has sobered. I’m tired and nowhere near done drafting the prenup’s provisions, one of which is a complicated contingency scenario that reduces my client’s share of the marital property if she has an affair with a younger man.

I go down to the word processing department on the twenty-fourth floor and almost fall asleep waiting to talk to Wendy, the night shift processor. On my way back to my office, I pass Henry’s office, then Liz’s. In the hour I’ve spent downstairs, they’ve both called it a night and now their office lights are off; the floor is quiet. I picture them at home, asleep, curled up in bed, and feel empty in a sorry-for-myself kind of way, like that one fall break at college, when I opted against flying home for the long weekend, and wound up wandering the deserted halls like some sort of sole survivor. Fatigued tears stab at the back of my eyes, which are bleary from staring at my computer screen. I slouch back into my office—my lights have been turned off too, to my annoyance—and flip the switch back on.

All I can see are Twinkies: in my pen cup; between the jaws of my stapler; framing the picture of me and Duck that sits on my desk; propped between my parents in the snapshot of them in the backyard, like it’s another member of the family; lying at the base of my lamp. There must be fifty of them.

I start giggling, at first quietly and then it’s more of an eruption, and soon, I’m laughing out loud, tears streaming down my face, a burst of pure joy, as golden as a Twinkie, releasing from within me and bubbling up to the surface.

____

T
o access Dr. Newkirk’s forensic report, I need the state government equivalent of a retinal scan. With an apologetic smile that acknowledges the ridiculousness, Mike asks for my ID. He examines it carefully, holding my license in his rough inky hands and squinting, eventually nodding. He thanks me and lumbers away, returning with a tattered manila file folder with “Newkirk” scrawled on the front in sloppy black-inked block letters.