Then Charlie
began to whistle old tunes, saying little. She recognized one from an old
movie, a song of lost love and longing. She shrugged off the sad note of memory
and touched his thigh, hoping that they weren't just little frightened kids
whistling in the cemetery.
 He parked the
car in the big lot under the building, but before they got out, he turned to
her.
 “You don't
have to worry about me anymore, babe,” he said. “I'm cool as a cucumber. No
more temper tantrums.” His hand reached out and he spread his fingers. “See?
Steady as she goes.”
 “That's good,
Charlie,” she said, pecking him on the lips. “It'll make a big difference.”
 “I've got
you, babe. That's the difference.”
 He slid
quickly out of the car, and they took the elevator to the lawyer's office.
 From the way
the lawyer's eyes darted toward her, she was certain that Charlie's outward
appearance of confidence was a surprise to him. As always he stood up to greet
them and gestured them to sit down in front of his desk after the inevitable
offer of coffee, to which they consented. Molly estimated that this was their
seventh personal visit with the lawyer. At first she had tried to keep a record
of hours spent to check the bills, which kept coming with relentless punctuality.
He had estimated the pretrial expenses as eight thousand dollars, and they were
swiftly approaching that figure.
 “For the
best, it costs,” she had assured Charlie. The assurance was double-edged, since
neither of them had ever paid out that kind of money for lawyers.
 “Highway
robbery,” was Charlie's muttered response every time he saw the bills.
 But the bills
were paid almost as fast as they were delivered. They were not ones to let
bills pile up. Consequences of their class insecurities, she supposed. She
wondered if Frances and Peter were paying their bills as promptly.
 “Well, the
battlefield is cleared for action,” Forte said. “Unfortunately, we're stuck
with the woman. Sometimes these things work in our favor. She might bend over
backward to be more open, to establish herself as an individual independent of
personal emotion.”
 He
intertwined his fingers and leaned back in his chair, as if his mind were
drifting.
 “Depends on
the way we play it,” he continued. “We have to go in strong and optimistic.”
 “That's us,”
Molly said.
 The lawyer
looked at her archly.
 “It will
depend more on style than substance,” Forte mused.
 Molly looked
at Charlie, who shrugged.
 “Picture a
woman in her mid-forties, tough, an achiever, two teenagers, widowed early,
thrust on her own resources. No one to protect her.” He paused and looked at
them pointedly. Molly saw it immediately.
 “Unlike
FrancesâMrs. Graham,” she said.
 “It didn't
come to me until this morning,” the lawyer said.
 “But that
might have been her conscious decisionâto make it on her own. Not to be
dependent. There's a whole new world out there, they tell me,” said Molly.
 “No mother in
her right mind turns down a breadwinner,” Charlie interjected. The lawyer
smiled.
 “Think it,
Mr. Waters. Don't say it,” Forte said. “But it's the line I intend to follow.”
 “I'm
confused,” Molly said.
 “I've got to
bring this down to a level that this judge will understand. Security, for
instance. The lengths to which people will go for security. Money.”
 “Money is not
the issue here,” Charlie said, fully aware of his pose of self-assurance.
 “Not
directly,” Forte said. “Follow my reasoning. We know that our opponents' lawyer
is going to try to break down your credibility, cite instability and such. I've
told you all that before.” Molly stiffened, remembering what she had edited out
of her reported conversation with Frances. “It might be wise to put forth a
strong argument that a pact was made with the new husband, a trade, if you
will, protection, support, that is, money, in exchange for total capitulation
on the issue of”âhe made quotation marks in the airâ“ âthe past.' That would
make the new husband the villain, the evil influence. I'm not sure, but if we
can transfer the enmity, your quarrel, from your daughter-in-law to her new
husband, we might be able to come in on her subconscious level. The idea of
enslavement and control. It presses the hot buttons of achieving women in
today's climate.”
 “You mean
make Peter the evil manipulator?” Molly asked, masking her uneasiness.
 “It might be
easier than you think,” Forte said. “Down deep it might actually be the cause
of the problem. But it has its dangers.”
 “Like what?”
Charlie asked calmly, as if the idea already had great appeal to him.
 “It could drive
a wedge between her and her husband. These things can get out of hand in a
courtroom. If we hit her where she is most vulnerable, we could force the first
shot between them, stimulate resentment that could undermine their marriage.”
 “None of my
business,” Charlie said, continuing to smile. “What happens between them is
none of our business. We're out of that, aren't we, Molly?” He turned toward
her.
 “I wouldn't
want them to break up over this,” she said hesitantly.
 “It's just
not our business,” Charlie said emphatically, but with complete control. “I'm
not interested in their domestic bliss. I just want to have the right to see my
grandson.”
 “I mention it
only as a possibility,” Forte said, backtracking, noting her concern. “In a
way, it depends on what kind of hardball they play. There are lots of ways to
view the matter. It all boils down to one thing: God is the Judge and the judge
is God.”
 “I'd like to
avoid that, if we can,” Molly said suddenly, noting the tentativeness of the
lawyer's suggestion.
 “I wouldn't,”
Charlie said with an air of finality.
 “How can it
help Tray if their marriage goes sour?”
 “Now, now.
I'm just speculating. What you don't want is to wind up with blameâ”
 “I don't
understand any of this,” Charlie said, his cheeks flushing. She did not like
the direction in which this was going.
 “It's a
possibility,” Molly replied softly.
 “The
objective here is to win,” Charlie said, his voice a decibel lower. “And
whatever we have to do to win is what we have to do. That's what we're paying
for. I don't care about these other things. We can't be responsible for what
happens to them. That's not fair.” It wasn't quite indignation, Molly thought,
although the turmoil just beneath the surface was beginning to show.
 “We're not talking
here about fairness, Mr. Waters. I just feel it's my duty to lay these things
before you. Among our options on which way to go in this case, that issue has
to be considered. I didn't mean to alarm you. After all, I'm not a
psychologist, only a lawyer.”
 “I think you
should remember that,” Charlie said with authority, still wearing his mask of
control. It was beginning to worry her.
 But the
lawyer's words had frightened her. She hadn't considered such a possibility. As
always, Molly noted, the young lawyer was elegantly cool. He was, however,
studying Charlie carefully with his large brown eyes.
 “Domestic
relations are like ecology,” he said slowly, as if the words were being
carefully chosen. “You inject a new life-form, and it changes the character of
the environment. Relationships are very fragile. They depend on silent
compacts, under the table deals, shaky compromises, perceived trust. The
courtroom is a battlefield, but the armies ranged against each other are
shadows. The real people and motives are sometimes hiddenâ”
 Charlie shot
Molly a look of confusion. Forte, she felt, was deliberately talking over his
head, and she resented it.
 “Of course we
understand that, Mr. Forte,” she said, nodding toward Charlie. It was all
gloss, she decided suddenly. He was patronizing them, showing his contempt.
Empathy had been merely a sales pitch. He was a professional simply doing his
job for money. It occurred to her that she had never thought otherwise, but it
annoyed her just the same.
 “Just what is
he trying to say?” Charlie asked, scratching his head.
 “That when
the bomb goes off, the damage is unpredictable,” Molly said, oddly proud of the
metaphor and Forte's nod of approval.
 “What the
hell do either of you know about bombs?” Charlie said, his voice rising for the
first time that day. Recovering quickly, he changed his tone. “I can tell you
about bombs. I've seen enough of them in my time. You always knew that they
were coming, and when your sixth sense told you they were on the way, you hugged
the ground and prayed. After all, you had no control over them. The object was
to do everything you could to protect your own ass.” He narrowed his eyes and
looked at the lawyer. Then he winked at Molly. “You're the CO, pal. Take the
objective. You give the orders, and we do it your way. Don't give us all these
warnings and such. I don't give a tinker's damn who gets killed or wounded on
the other side. As long as we and Tray come out alive.”
 “You really
don't understand, do you, Mr. Waters?” Forte said with a sigh. Molly could see
that Charlie was totally confused by the lawyer's comment, just when he felt he
had illustrated a profound philosophical point. She braced herself for what she
knew was coming.
 “Understand
what?”
 “If you come
over like that, you're dead in the water.”
 “Like what?”
Charlie looked helplessly at Molly.
 “Hate, Mr.
Waters. It will turn off the judge faster than an ice cold shower.”
 “Hate?”
Charlie's smile dripped with sarcasm. “I love my grandson.”
 “He doesn't
mean that, Charlie,” Molly whispered. But it was too late to soften the blow.
 Charlie's
gaze flitted around the room. He bit his lower lip and rubbed his cheek. She
could see his confidence wilt like a water-starved plant.
 “If you come
over like that in the courtroom, you'll blow our case. The objective is for us
to portray you and your wife a victims who are worthy of compassion. We want
your sense of victimization to be gut-wrenching for the judge. If you show her
that you hate your daughter-in-law and her husband, our case is finished. Don't
you understand that, Mr. Waters?”
 “Of course he
understands that,” Molly said. Too late to stop it, she knew she was making
matters worse.
 “You make it
sound like I'm a helluva liability,” Charlie said lamely, making an effort to
regain his composure.
 “Only if you
drop the mask.”
 “The mask?”
 “You've got
to hide your feelings of antagonism for your daughter-in-law and her husband.
No tantrums. No projecting animosity. Anything that detracts from the image of
the wise old Gramps is the kiss of death.”
 She noted
that Forte was no longer pulling his punches, no longer patronizing. He was
cracking the whip, taking charge. Wasn't that what Charlie had asked for?
 “You want me
to keep my mouth shut?”
 “As much as
possible. Answer all questions in monosyllables. You have only one message to
deliver. Your love can be an asset to your grandson. No matter what they say or
how they say it. No matter what sins they attribute to you and Mrs. Waters. No
matter how your character is abused. No matter what parental crimes you and
Mrs. Waters are accused of. You are not to react except as innocent victims and
good Christians. What you must show that judgeâalwaysâno matter how difficult
it gets is”âhe paused and watched themâ“the other cheek.” He got up from his
chair, his strong, slim figure a picture of contained energy. Coming round his
desk, he stood over them. “You must think of yourself as martyrs. Christ on the
cross. Do you understand that, Mr. Waters?” He looked at Molly. “Mrs. Waters?”
 But both she
and the lawyer ended up training their eyes on Charlie, who was obviously
squirming.
 “I don't know
if I can be that good an actor,” he whispered hesitantly.
 “He's no
hater, Mr. Forte. His bark is worse than his bite.” Her efforts at placation
seemed hollow and insincere. She searched her own heart. Did she hate Frances
and Peter for taking Tray from them? No, she decided, she did not hate. Hate
was an emotion to which they were both strangers. Charlie couldn't hate. Not even
Frances. All he wanted to do was love. Just love. She reached out and touched
Charlie's arm, and he patted her hand.
 “I just
wanted to make it clear,” the lawyer said, walking back behind his desk. “I
don't like to lose.”
 “The question
is,” Molly began, “what do we win if we win?”
 “We win the
right to see Tray,” Charlie said. “That's what we win.”
 “But what
will he see when he sees us?” Molly whispered.
 “Good
question, Mrs. Waters,” the lawyer said. But he made no attempt to give an
answer.
 JUDGE
Annie Stokes frowned as she watched her daughter Peggy reach for
the butter. Peggy must have noticed, and her reaction was predictable. She
sliced a larger sliver from the stick and spread it thickly over the raisin
toast. Then she thrust the toast belligerently into her mouth and noisily
chomped off a large wedge.
 “No lectures,
mother,” Peggy said through her stuffed mouth.
 “I wasn't
giving any.”
 “But you were
thinking of it.”
 “So now
you've become a mind reader?” As much as she would promise herself, she could
not resist the sarcasm. It had almost become second nature between them, a kind
of verbal Ping-Pong. Peggy was sixteen and difficult, growing more difficult by
the minute. In the last year she had put on twenty pounds and her figure, once
merely well-endowed, had run to fat. Like Harold, Annie thought. It had killed
him at thirty-seven.
 Unlike her
other daughter, nineteen-year-old Laura, a straight-A sophomore at Harvard,
Peggy was having a tough time of it. A nagging problem, Annie sighed, despite
her certainty that the root was Harold's early death. It did offer a convenient
explanation. But, unfortunately, not the cure. As always, when memories of
Harold and how he died surfaced in her mind, her stomach froze, its contents
congealed. Did he, beneath it all, have a suicidal compulsion to eat himself to
death? He might have just as well slit his throat. Always with the memory had
come the old blame. But hadn't she tried her best to help him fight this
compulsive need he had had to gorge himself? Hadn't she tried everything?
 A
dispassionate observer might have seen his death as comic. Certainly it was
ludicrous. It had occurred at a celebration of sorts. Peggy was one month old,
and this was to be the beginning of yet another new chapter, a last gasp before
Harold turned himself in to the doctors to shed the fat that was sure to kill
him.
 “You have a
wife and two daughters, Harold. You owe it to me, and to them.”
 Finally, she
had decided, her one-note perpetual message had hit home. He had promised, and
with his promise had also come vows of greater frugality. No more bad real
estate deals. No more wild investments. No more compulsions, unrealistic
hunches, and aspirations.
 That night in
New York was etched irrevocably in her memory and the recall of it was
relentless and inescapable, unbearable in its fidelity. She saw his face, sweat
pouring down his cheeks as he shoveled in the ample portions that represented
double helpings of Mamma Leone's best culinary effort.
 “This may be
my last chance,” he had told her, his face beet red with the effort. By then,
he had bulked to nearly 270 pounds and smoked three packs a day. At least he
had called it accurately, which was much more than he had done in life.
 It was so
ugly, so humiliating to die that way, right there at the table, red pasta sauce
sliding down his shirt. In retrospect it seemed like a scene in a black comedy.
People at the other tables cast irritated glances at the resuscitation squad
that had to be called in, or simply did their best to contemptuously ignore the
scene, obviously angered by so gauche a gesture as dying disgustingly in a
crowded restaurant where they had come to relax and enjoy themselves.
 Her reaction
then, which time had not eroded, was indignation and helplessness, and she had
vowed never to be helpless again, never to tie her tail to a kite on which she
did not hold the anchoring string. Except for Peggy. That string was always
slipping, and errant, unforeseen winds buffeted the kite.
 He had left her
with two small children, no insurance, massive debts, and worst of all, an
inheritance of cloying pity. Poor little widow Annie. Sad eyes seemed to follow
her everywhere, and she would imagine the soft clucking murmurs of observers.
Faced with the stark reality of her situation, she did not crawl quickly back
into dependence. She simply became more determined than ever to rise above the
debacle. For that she was grateful. It was the best legacy she could have had,
although she knew in her heart she could never forgive him for his early and
ignominious exit.
 When Peggy
reached once again for the butter, Annie could not contain herself, swiftly
removing the plate to her end of the table.
 “Mother,”
Peggy whined.
 “Look in the
mirror. You'll get the message. You can lay out a whole deck of cards on your
backside.”
 “Well, it is
mine,” Peggy pouted.
 “It will
destroy your self-image. Make you hate yourself.” She had tried everything,
everything that also had not worked with Harold, from being overly supportive
to simply ignoring the problem. It didn't matter. Peggy was relentless. Calling
attention to the problem only made it worse. But she couldn't help herself. It
was even more difficult to remain silent.
 Yet, she was
certain she understood the heart of their problem. Peggy was created in
Harold's image, a genetic match so precise that it ensured his immortality.
Where was that piece of herself? Annie had wondered, even at the moment when
she inspected the soft, round little body for the first time, counting its
fingers and toes? Had the child known even then?
 Based on the
presumption that self-knowledge was the beginning of wisdom, she had set about
to root out any prejudices within herself that might hurt the child. This took
the form of innumerable conversations with an imaginary Peggy.
 “You hate me
because you hated Daddy.”
 “I didn't.”
 “And you were
mad at him for dying.”
 “I resented
fate for taking him away so soon.”
 “Not true.
You wanted him gone. And you see him in me.”
 “I love you.”
 “How can you
if you hated him?”
 “That's a
lie.”
 “It's the
truth.”
 Intelligence
and logic were things you called upon to solve all problems. The fact was that
she had started out not loving the child, not with the same zeal and passion
she had for her older daughter, the one that did not remind her of Harold, the
one loaded with her own genes. Then, oddly, as Peggy grew more and more like
her dead husband and her efforts to resolve the dilemma inside herself grew
more frenetic, she began to love her more. And the more she loved the child,
the less she could convey the sense of it to her. Worse, Peggy grew more and
more certain that she was unloved, more and more convinced that she was only
her father's daughter, more distant and alienated.
 Yet she
continued to try. A time would come when Peggy would have to cope with life on
her own, put aside the role of hurt child, and enter the jungle of competing
adults. For that, she needed every advantage, every edge. And she was showing
increasing signs of lagging, falling badly behind.
 She was
already getting failing grades, and unless she straightened out, she would
never get into college. For Annie that was a vowed goal that had to be
fulfilled. For Peggy's sake. Even the girl's social life, which had started out
with such promise, had been reduced to a few close friends, all of them of
dubious motivation. It was awful watching history play out a repeat performance
of what she had gone through with Harold.
 Nor had she
neglected seeking outside help. Professionals sought out professionals, didn't
they? Unfortunately, the two psychiatrists she had seen merely confirmed what
she already knew. They also confirmed that it was the child who needed the
help, not the mother. But Peggy had refused to see either of them.
 “I'm not
crazy,” she had told Annie with a vehemence that suggested that further
discussion was useless.
 Peggy reached
across the table with her knife and sliced off another heavy gob of butter.
Annie watched with resignation.
 “I could
cry,” she said.
 “No you
couldn't. You don't cry.”
 “You're my
daughter, and I love you.”
 “It doesn't
necessarily follow.”
 “I can't bear
to see how unattractive you're making yourself.”
 “Then don't
look.” Peggy stuffed the heavily buttered raisin toast in her mouth. Her cheeks
inflated.
 “In life,
when you fall behind, it's very difficult to catch up,” Annie said. It was
actually a homily that might have worked well with Laura if she had needed it,
which she didn't. It had had just the opposite effect on Peggy. “You are
falling behind, you know.”
 “Don't be
such a judge.”
 “It's second
nature now,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. The fact was that Peggy
hated her being a judge, despised her success. That, too, she felt she
understood. It had something to do with the humiliation of her dead father.
Always, she took that into account. And in the end, it wrecked any relationship
with a man that might have flourished in her long widowhood. That was the
silent trade-off with her daughter. At least her staying single had made their
life together tolerable, although barely.
 But to cope
with each other, they had to deal in euphemisms and evasions. For example,
Peggy's stated reason for opposing Annie's judgeship was money, or the lack of
it. To become a judge, Annie had chosen to give up a lucrative salary in one of
the city's most prestigious law firms. That meant that Peggy couldn't have the
car she had been promised, or some other extras that today's teenagers
expected. The real reason, of course, was the old one. Again, knowing the
reason changed nothing. On the other hand, Laura had been approving,
supportive, proud. But then, Laura was a different story. Laura had gotten a
scholarship to Harvard.
 “It's what I
want to do with my life,” Annie had explained to both her daughters when her
appointment to the bench was being considered. It had always been her first
career choice, even when Harold was alive. His sudden death very nearly put an
end to that dream. She was in her last year at the University of Baltimore Law
School, not the most prestigious school in the country, but convenient for a
mother with two children, and, of course, she could take night courses. Harold
had been supportive of her ambition. Perhaps he saw what was coming.
 After
Harold's death, it wasn't moral and emotional support that was needed. It was
money. It took some doing to get herself through her last year. She'd had to
hold down a full-time job, on top of caring for the kids and going to school.
She could have gotten a loan from her parents. Harold's parents, too, although
poorer than hers, offered modest help. She refused, less out of logic than
instinct. She cast herself in a heroic role, the struggling widow and mother.
In fact, her independence gave her good feelings about herself. It taught her
that anything was possible.
 “It's my
life,” she told her own parents and in-laws. “And my responsibility.”
 “What are
parents for?” her mother had protested. Harold's parents, on the other hand,
might have been relieved by her refusal. Harold's death, she sensed, had made
them resentful that she had survived him. She wasn't completely certain that
this was true, but it did inhibit her desire to be around them. In fact, she
detested being around them. She hated being, for them, a reminder of Harold's
short and failed life. Nor could she shake the feeling that they secretly
blamed her for the loss of their son.
 As for the
girls, at first she allowed them frequent visits. They lived in Philadelphia,
an hour on the train from Baltimore. They would always come home from these
visits laden with gifts, especially of good things to eat that Gramma Stokes
had made. She wondered silently if that had been the root of Harold's problem.
 “You really
should tell them that they're spoiling you both,” she told them, not without a
note of subtle rebuke. It worried her, too, that the Stokeses were completely
nonjudgmental in terms of the girls, perhaps frightened that the children, the
only real evidence of Harold's existence, would slowly drift away from them.
She understood that, of course, although it did not thwart a nagging worry that
somehow the relationship was not completely healthy. She longed for the day
when the girls would develop interests that would inevitably rearrange their
priorities and slacken their visits. To her relief, it came soon enough.
 “Just tell
them that I have other plans.” First Laura, whose studies became the number one
passion of her life. Then Peggy. In Peggy's case she was becoming more and more
gregarious, long before her present stage of rebelliousness.
 “I'm not
going to do your dirty work.”
 “They'll
think I'm encouraging you to stay away,” Annie said.
 “They'll
think that anyway,” Peggy told her.
 “Then you
explain it.”
 “What should
I tell them?”
 “The truth.”
 “You think
they'll be hurt?”
 “There is no
substitute for the truth.”
 It was all
part of Annie's theory that people had to meet their responsibilities head on.
Telling the truth was part of that recognition.
 Annie's
mother, on the other hand, could not understand her ideas on total
independence. “It's no sin to accept help from your parents.”
 “That has
nothing to do with sin. I want my girls to be prepared to function without
depending on anyone else.”
 “Sometimes
people have to depend on other people.”
 “You've done
your job,” she told her mother. “I have no right to live on your dole.”
 “But why
punish the girls?”