Twilight Child (8 page)

 Charlie
forced a smile, a little less intimidated now that he had heard Forte's broad
Baltimore
O
. Boat was “boot,” which brought him down a peg or two from
his Harvard diploma and the oak panels in the reception room and the Columbia
32 and the gold bracelet.

 Forte leaned
back in his chair, playing with a black pen. Behind him, Charlie could see the
Baltimore harbor in all its resurrected glory.

 “You say your
daughter-in-law refuses to allow you to see your grandchild,” Forte said, his
eyes roaming to take in both their faces.

 Charlie
nodded. Saying it so bluntly was like blowing on live ashes.

 “That, more
or less, is the problem,” Charlie said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his
voice. He looked toward Molly, who nodded approval, perhaps of his calm, which
encouraged him to go further. “The question is, can she do that to us?”

 “Depends,”
Forte said. “There are now new ways of looking at the situation.”

 “That's what
the story talked about,” Charlie said. “And why we're here.”

 “How long has
it been since you've seen your grandson?”

 “Two years,”
Charlie said, swallowing a ball of phlegm that had jumped into his throat. “Not
since she got married again and moved to Columbia. Guess we're not good enough
for them anymore.” Molly snapped him a look of disapproval. “My wife thought
she would come around.”

 “You've
talked to her about this?” Forte asked.

 “You might
call it that.” Charlie shrugged toward Molly, who acknowledged that fact with a
nod and a pursing of her lips. Forte looked toward her, provoking an
explanation.

 “I've had
two—no, three conversations with her,” Molly said. For some reason, Charlie
held back mentioning his own confrontation on that last day and the later one
at school. Nor how awful they had felt on the last two Christmases. On the
first one, Frances had actually sent back their gifts to Tray. On the second
one, they had not exposed themselves to the humiliation. He wasn't ready to relive
that, not yet.

 “Counting
when she left,” Charlie interrupted. That was the crucial conversation, he
thought, after which Molly had said that Frances would come around, that it was
only a condition of the moment to impress her new husband, to make him more
secure by ignoring the past.

 “Left?”

 “When she
married her new husband and took Tray.”

 “What reasons
did she give?” Forte asked, turning to Molly. Somehow Charlie felt that he
hadn't quite finished, that it was too early to throw Molly the ball. At first
she looked at him, perhaps to show him her reluctance. It did not prevent her
from answering.

 “She said
that she wanted to get on with her life, that the most important consideration
was Tray and Peter, and Peter wanted to start fresh. No ties to the past.”
Molly swallowed and cleared her throat. “She said she hadn't been too happy
with our Chuck.” Her eyes glazed over for a moment, moistened, then cleared
after a deep breath. “She also said that she knew we were being hurt, but that
we had to bear that for Tray's sake. She just wanted to start all over, and we
were part of the past.”

 “Just being
damned selfish,” Charlie muttered, feeling the inevitable tightening in his
gut. “Maybe she's afraid she's gonna blow this new marriage like she blew the
one with Chuck. If she had been a good wife, maybe he wouldn't have gone away.”
His remarks, he knew, qualified as an outburst, and he shot Molly a sheepish
grin, embellished with a shrug.

 “Gone away?”

 “He worked on
oil rigs in the North Sea and the Persian Gulf. Good money, but dangerous.”

 “And he died
when?”

 “Less than
two and a half years ago,” Charlie croaked hoarsely, trying to hide the old
ache. “Fell off a rig in a storm. Probably took some damn fool chances—just
like him. Anyway, she was in the sack with Peter in no more than ninety days;
married less than six months after the funeral—couldn't stand to wait a proper
time, insulted his memory, his honor—which gives you some idea of the kind of
woman she is.”

 “You haven't
tried to see the child?” Forte studied both their faces, deliberately skirting
a response. Charlie cast a frightened look at Molly. As always, he thought, he
had probably gone too far.

 “Did you or
didn't you?” Forte asked firmly.

 “I did,”
Charlie said.

 “Did what?”

 “Tried to see
him.” Charlie shook his head. “I did see him. It turned out badly. She accused
me of harassment and threatened to call the cops.”

 “I'm sorry,”
Forte said, but he didn't press for any further explanation.

 “Can she do
that?” Charlie asked, unable to hide his bitterness.

 Forte sat
back in his chair and made a cathedral with his fingers.

 “Did the new
husband adopt the child?” Both the question and the pose seemed ominous.
Charlie looked at Molly, puzzled.

 “Yes,” he
answered hesitantly.

 “I was afraid
of that.”

 “What
difference does that make?”

 Forte
shrugged.

 “The law. I
could read it to you. In a terminated marriage the grandparents have rights.
But in the case of adoption and remarriage”—he waved his graceful fingers as if
he were blowing away the words—“the new father and his parents have all
paternal rights. In other words, in the eyes of the law, you no longer exist as
grandparents.”

 Charlie felt
as if he had been kicked in the midsection. He could see his own condition mirrored
in Molly's face, which had gone white.

 “You could
have contested the adoption,” Forte said gently.

 “That”—Charlie
cleared his throat—“didn't seem our business. How are we supposed to know about
the law?” Frances had told Molly about the adoption, but how could they know
that it would forfeit their rights? Who was there to tell them about such
things? No, they hadn't liked the idea, but what could they have done about it?

 “But we are
in fact his grandparents,” Molly said emphatically. “Law or no law. That's the
truth. That child is our blood.”

 Charlie
nodded vigorously.

 “The law is
the law,” Forte said. “And there has never been a Maryland case on that point.”

 “So she can
do it?” Charlie asked.

 “I'm afraid
so. Legally, that is. She can always claim it is in the best interests of the
child. That's the ball game.”

 “Which means
we're dead in the water,” Charlie muttered.

 “It means
that you have a weak legal case under the present law.”

 “Which
stinks,” Charlie said, discovering suddenly that he had clawed his nails into
his palms. “I don't understand any of it.”

 He hated to
flaunt his ignorance on any matter. But this confounded him. He and Molly loved
this child. And he was sure that Tray loved them. What more had to be decided
than that?

 “I hope this
won't sound insulting,” the lawyer said, getting up from his chair. He looked
out toward the harbor, shimmering in the midwinter sun, then turned around and
faced them. Charlie wondered how he really felt about all this, whether there was
any compassion or involvement. He wasn't sure. “But she must feel that somehow
your association with the child would be a detriment to his well-being—”

 “That's a
crock,” Charlie snapped, his voice rising, his fist slapping the arm of the
leather chair.

 “Charlie,
please,” Molly said, reaching out to touch his forearm.

 “But it is a
crock. We love the boy. I've been more than a grandfather. When Chuck
died . . .”

 “Not now,
Charlie,” Molly pleaded, watching him.

 “But I was
both father and grandfather to that child. And you, Molly. He was as much ours
as . . .” He felt the sputtering of overwhelming rage.

 “We know
that, Charlie. That's not the point of this conversation. Mr. Forte is
informing us of the problems because of the adoption. All right, we didn't know
what to do. Maybe they didn't realize, either—”

 “Bull. That
Peter knew what he was doing.”

 “Really,
Charlie . . .”

 “It's wrong.
It's unjust. It's against nature.” Without quite realizing it, he was now
banging both fists against the arms of the chair.

 Forte walked
to the open door and shut it, an act that made its point. Charlie settled down.

 “Tantrums
don't help, Mr. Waters,” Forte said. “I've seen enough of them to know.”

 “You haven't
seen anything like this. Not like this.”

 “You'll have
to excuse him, Mr. Forte. He's taking it rather badly.”

 “She's pretty
cold-blooded herself,” Charlie mumbled.

 “He thinks I
feel it less than he does,” Molly sighed.

 “She was the
one who said it would all pass.”

 “Not that
again, Charlie.”

 “You did,
though.”

 “All right, I
was wrong.”

 “Maybe we
could have stopped it then, nipped it in the bud, instead of crawling here to
these fancy lawyers.”

 Forte leaned
against the wall, hands folded.

 “He wasn't
always this cynical about things, Mr. Forte,” Molly said.

 “You could
have fooled me.”

 Charlie
reached for the coffee cup. The tremors in his fingers made it clatter against
the saucer. Control, he begged himself. He was silent as he sipped his coffee.

 “It just gets
me so damned mad,” he said when he had regained control. “Putting a little kid
through that.”

 “Through
what, Mr. Waters?”

 The Italian
face seemed to expand in the room, filling the space like a giant balloon. The
brown eyes grew larger, more luminous, their gaze inescapable. He felt as if he
were being turned inside out, and he didn't like that at all. It was like a
child's nightmare, where imagined shame and guilt were futilely defended
against a punishing and inevitable force.

 “Being
deprived of his grandparents' love,” Molly interjected. “In today's world a
child needs all he can get.” Charlie felt the strength of her alliance and the
image of the monster receded. “And for us as well. We need it, too.” Her hand
reached out and grabbed his, which returned the squeeze. “Some might call it
selfish. But it's a two-way street.”

 “Except that
as a legal entity you don't exist,” the lawyer said calmly.

 “Then what
are we doing here?” Charlie said. “You could have told us all this on the
phone.”

 “Sometimes it
still pays to talk,” Forte said.

 “Pays you,
you mean,” Charlie blurted. Molly shot him a rebuking glance. “I'm sorry, Mr.
Forte. I'm just so damned disappointed.”

 “I know,” the
lawyer said, studying them. “But this doesn't mean that there isn't some form
of action to be taken.”

 “Like what?”

 “There are
always steps before litigation,” Forte said slowly. “We could petition for
visitation rights, show determination, and hope that your former
daughter-in-law and her new husband, rather than go through the hassle of
hiring a lawyer and contesting the petition, might”—he shrugged and looked up
at the ceiling—“come around.”

 “And if they
don't?” Molly asked.

 “It might be
worth a shot,” the lawyer said tentatively.

 “But you
said—” Molly began.

 “I know what
I said and I know what I would do if I were a judge. But who knows, we might
draw a judge who makes a decision counter to prevailing law, which means that
they could take it and appeal to a higher court, where it is likely to be
reversed.”

 “So why do
it?” Molly asked.

 “To wear 'em
down,” Forte said. “It depends on your commitment.”

 “Our
commitment?” Charlie said, his voice rising again. “All the way, that's our
commitment. Whatever it costs.”

 “That's
another side to the coin, Mr. Waters. You'll have to come up with a five
thousand dollar retainer against my hourly rate, which is two hundred dollars
an hour. This could cost up to ten thousand, and double that if we go to
appeal.”

 The costs
shocked Charlie, and he felt he was not hiding it very well. Again, he looked
helplessly at Molly, who said it for him.

 “That's a lot
of money.”

 “How serious
are you?”

 “It's our
lives,” Molly said.

 “It could be
a total disappointment.”

 “No more than
it is now.”

 “And very
painful.”

 “You've got
grandparents, Mr. Forte?” Charlie asked.

 “The extended
family is a cultural phenomenon among the Italians.” Forte said, a little
pompously, but offering a broad smile. “If you must know, I get a kick out of
my grandparents. They give me a chance to practice my Italian.
Se niente va
bene, chiama nonno e nonna.
”

 Charlie
looked at him blankly.

 “It means,”
Forte said, “‘If nothing else is going well, call your grandfather and
grandmother.'”

 “I like
that,” Charlie said, brightening. “Let's hear it again.”

 “
Se niente
va bene, chiama nonno e nonna.
”

 Charlie
repeated it with a bad accent, but he felt better now, more favorably disposed
to the younger man. Molly smiled, and her cobalt eyes twinkled their approval.