Twilight Child (40 page)

 THEY
stood near a stairwell off the lobby. It was the only private place
they could find. Molly, less for support than comfort, held on to the rail
facing Charlie and Forte. People came and went, climbed the stairs, appearing oblivious
to anything but their own thoughts. Occasionally, she heard laughter, which
sounded incongruous and irrelevant. Mostly, her thoughts were on Charlie and
what he had done. Although it hurt to think about it, she had agreed with
Charlie. It was pointless to put Tray, Frances, and Peter through any more
ordeals.

 A court
decree could not be the answer to this dilemma. You couldn't decree boundaries
for human emotions.

 “Yes, you do
have the right to ask her to withdraw the petition,” Forte said. He seemed
annoyed and was quite obviously reluctant to do so. “Of course, she doesn't
have to grant it.”

 “Why not?”
Charlie asked.

 Forte
hesitated.

 “It depends
on how adamant Judge Stokes is on offering her ruling. She could be hung up on
it.”

 “I don't care
about that,” Charlie said.

 “It's over
for us. Simply tell her it's over,” Molly added.

 Forte tapped
his chin and inspected them both.

 “I think
you're being extremely foolish,” he said tartly. “You've gone this far. You're
yielding to the emotion of the moment. That's dangerous. My advice would be to
hear it out.”

 “What for?
Our minds are made up.” Charlie looked at Molly, who nodded affirmation.

 “That's just
the point. You think your minds are made up. Then you'll walk out of here and
the doubts will begin to set in. And the loneliness. You'll wake up in the
middle of the night and wonder, did I do the right thing? Nothing is going to
change. You were miserable being separated from your grandson before, and
you'll still be miserable.”

 “Rather us
than him,” Charlie said. “We'll get through it somehow, won't we, babe?” He
reached out and took her hand.

 “Sure we
will.”

 “What about
all that stuff about it being unnatural?” Forte asked.

 “It is,”
Charlie said without hesitation. “But the kid is happy. He's got a good life. A
brother. Another one on the way. Why louse that up with tension he doesn't
need? She's a good mother. I can't fault her there. And he's a good father.”

 “You realize
that you're being a martyr. Both of you.”

 “Best interests
of the kid. Isn't that what it's all about?”

 “What about
all the other grandparents faced with this problem? Maybe the issue might be
clarified for them?”

 “You guys,”
Charlie said, shaking his head. “Always looking for the glory of it. You're getting
paid anyhow. If she rules in your favor, you'll be a hero. If not, you'll wait
for another client to walk in the door just like us. We've done the right thing
by Tray. That's all that matters for us. We're not guinea pigs, we're just
plain people.” He turned to Molly. “That's us, babe?”

 “That's us.”

 “But you've
gone this far—”

 “Too far,”
Charlie muttered.

 Observing
him, she realized that although he was agitated, he was not faltering. She saw
glimpses of the old Charlie, the good and strong and faithful, trusting man. My
Charlie. Just you and me, babe, she told herself. Oh, she was sure there were
dark moments ahead for both of them. You couldn't excise such deep emotions
from the human psyche. But the old couldn't depend on the young for solace.
Above all, they'd have to make it on their own. Her head spun with plans.
They'd go away. She'd give up her teaching job. She was getting too old for
those know-it-all young principals. Maybe Arizona. There was a lake there
somewhere. . . .

 Forte looked
at the clock. It was getting late. Everyone would be seated now, waiting for
them.

 “I think we'd
better go,” Molly said. They started up the stairs. Before they entered the
courtroom Forte paused.

 “Remember
this,” he said. “If you change your minds, you'll have to start again from
scratch. This way, you might have some insurance. If she rules against you,
there's nothing lost. You've already decided that you won't press to visit the
boy. But if she rules for you, then you've at least got an option. People
change their minds all the time. We're all human.”

 “I've noticed
that,” Molly said. Hand in hand, Molly and Charlie proceeded into the
courtroom.

 The others
were already seated, the judge in her place. Tray looked up and smiled from
where he sat between his parents, who watched them move to their seats behind
the table. Peck also observed them. He seemed disheveled, like an overgrown old
bear without claws and teeth. No longer fearsome.

 But when Peck
turned away, Molly noted that Frances continued to look toward her. Her head
nodded, and a smile formed on her lips. Molly nodded back. It's all right, she
wanted to say. Can you forgive us? Their eyes locked, and she imagined that her
look transmitted an affirmative answer.

 “Court is now
in session,” the voice of the clerk boomed.

 Judge Stokes
raised her head and looked over her half-glasses. She had been making notes.

 “I have
reached my decision in this case,” she said, clearing her throat, scanning the
faces in the courtroom. Molly looked at Forte. He sat rigid, looking in front
of him.

 “As you are
well aware—” the judge began.

 “This is not
what we discussed,” Charlie said, turning to the lawyer. “You were to stop
this—”

 The young
lawyer's expression did not change. The judge looked at them, frowning. Charlie
turned toward Frances and Peter. “I asked him to withdraw this—”

 Charlie stood
up and turned to the judge. “You can't do this—I gave them my word.”

 The judge
banged her gavel.

 “Will you
please be seated, Mr. Waters,” she said.

 “But he
didn't do what he was asked to do.”

 A nerve began
to palpitate in Forte's jaw. “Trust me,” the lawyer said. “You have nothing to
lose.”

 “You have no
right to do this,” Molly said.

 “Will you
please keep your clients under control, Mr. Forte,” the judge said. “I have no
wish to order contempt citations.”

 “It's all
right. Just sit down,” Forte said.

 “No. I won't
stand for it.” Charlie looked helplessly toward Frances and Peter.

 “You're
trying my patience, Mr. Waters,” the judge said.

 “I want this
case dropped,” Charlie shouted.

 Again, the
judge banged the gavel.

 “I
want . . .” He looked around him, then at Molly.

 “It won't
matter, Charlie,” Molly said, conscious of his embarrassment. She turned toward
Frances, noting tears running down her cheeks. Tray looked troubled and
confused. “Let it alone, Charlie.”

 He looked at
Forte with contempt and slumped back into his seat. Molly leaned over and
kissed his cheek. “It won't matter either way,” she said.

 “As you are
all well aware,” the judge began again, “the law in this state is not explicit
on the point being argued in this courtroom. This is not a custody battle. Nor
is there any decision required on a division of tangible assets. The issue here
is and has always been the best interests of the child. This is the
centuries-old common law.

 “What
is
in the best interests of this child?” She paused and took off her glasses. “We
had a nice little chat in my chambers. Now, it is difficult to assess the state
of anyone's mind and spirit in the brief space of one hour. Certainly, it is
doubly difficult in the case of a child.” She looked toward Tray and flashed
him a broad smile. “But since I am charged with such a judgment, I have
concluded that this particular child is a well-adjusted, bright, cheerful,
quite happy boy. This is a child who is obviously loved and cherished by his
mother and his adoptive father.”

 “What's the
point? It's only words,” Charlie whispered. Molly put a finger on his lips and
he quieted.

 “The question
then is, does this well-adjusted happy child need the visits of his natural
paternal grandparents to enhance the quality of his life? Could those visits be
disruptive, inimical to the child's welfare? Would they, in some way,
debilitate the child's emotional state? Will they create problems that are
disruptive to the Graham family unit and, by a kind of emotional fallout, have
adverse consequences for the boy? I suppose that each of the opposing sides
might have brought expert testimony by psychiatrists and social workers to this
courtroom, each contradicting the other, which might have influenced my
judgment.” In a nervous gesture, she put her glasses on again, but they slipped
to the tip of her nose, and she pulled them off. “The inclination of the case
law is to leave well enough alone.” She paused and seemed to be wavering. Molly
wondered why it was taking her so long to get to the point. She looked at Tray,
who had apparently gotten bored and was now busy drawing pictures on a yellow
pad. Enough, she thought. She wanted to go home.

 “What we are
dealing with here is not a science.” Again, the judge paused, her gaze
wandering over the people in the courtroom. “We are dealing here with the most
volatile and unreliable of human characteristics—emotions. It seems to me that
in all human endeavors there is not exactly an overabundance of love—genuine,
unselfish, honest, and caring. And when you find it, you should never ever
deprive it of its natural outlet. A child, in my opinion, needs as much of it
as he or she can get.” The judge shook her head for emphasis. “It is obvious to
me that the boy in question has been blessed with a cornucopia of caring and
affection, to which his grandparents have been copious contributors. How can a
child lose by being the recipient of such caring?”

 “See what I
mean? We've won,” Forte whispered. Molly felt a brief stab of elation, which
quickly passed.

 “Doesn't mean
anything to me,” Charlie muttered.

 “I am,
therefore, granting the petitioners their right of visitation on a basis of
time and access to be worked out between the parties, but not to be less than
once a week.”

 Charlie
turned to Molly, obviously confused, but said nothing. Peripherally, she saw
the big lawyer begin to rise, then sit again when the judge continued to speak.

 “Naturally
this decision can be appealed.” She looked directly at Peck.

 “I fully
intend to,” the lawyer replied, jumping up from his chair. Molly saw Frances
tug sharply at Peck's sleeve. The lawyer looked at her and sat down abruptly.

 “No point in
staying,” Charlie said, getting up. Molly rose with him. The judge continued to
speak, but Molly did not fully comprehend what she was saying. They moved past
the seated young lawyer, ignoring his upturned face. Nor did they pause for a
last look at Tray, although Molly could feel his eyes watching them.

 “It wasn't
really his fault, Charlie. He believed in it from the beginning. Remember?”

 “He forgot
who was the client.”

 “Say what you
want. He won our case.”

 “His. Not
ours.”

 He brooded
for a moment, pausing in the aisle.

 “How can she
judge how we should conduct our lives?” Charlie asked.

 “That's her
job,” Molly responded as they walked slowly out of the courtroom. “And it was a
wonderful speech. I'll give her that. It turned out that she has a lot more
feeling than I thought.”

 “She was
right about Tray,” Charlie said. “He is a happy kid. And that's what counts. He
sure doesn't need us.”

 “But we need
us. Right, Charlie?” And the truth is, we need Tray, she told herself.

 “You and me,
babe.” She heard the catch in his throat. Deliberately, she did not turn to see
his tears.

 Holding
hands, they walked down the stairs, finding themselves once again in the ornate
marble lobby, dominated by the large statue of the blind lady of justice.

 “Maybe she
should take that blindfold off and see life as it really is,” Charlie said.

 Molly did not
respond. Behind her, she heard a persistent tapping, a light step descending
stairs, then a click-click growing louder on the marble floor as it moved toward
them. Before they could get to the entrance, they heard his voice.

 “Gramma!
Grampa!”

 Turning, they
saw Tray, who was moving fast. Arms out, they caught him jointly and hugged him
against their bodies.

 “Mommy said
”—he was out of breath—“Daddy, too.”

 She smoothed
his hair and touched his cheek, finding Charlie's fingers already there.

 “They said I
don't have to go back to school today so maybe we could do something—”

 “Sure . . .”
Charlie swallowed, turning to flick away tears with his sleeve.

 “Not a bad
idea,” Molly managed to say.

 “We could go
back to the house,” Charlie said, clearing his throat. “That tire swing is
still there.” He shook his head. “May be broken.”

 “I can make
some fried chicken, the way you like it.”

 “Gee.” The
boy hesitated.

 “And maybe
you can help me fix that swing.”

 “But we have
to make it higher, Grampa,” Tray said, straightening, calling attention to his
recent growth.