When Horses Had Wings (17 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

I
discovered that attorney services, like so many other needs I couldn’t afford to buy outright, could be purchased on installments. It said so right there in the TV schedule ad.
Easy Payment Plans
. So with money I’d pulled from my meager savings account, I put a lawyer on layaway.

I told Zachary Swindle that I’d pay him a hundred dollars a month until I’d paid him the five-hundred he charged to handle a “no-fault” divorce. No telling who dreamed up that term,
no-fault
. To me, there was no such thing. More like maybe a “can’t-get-anyone-to-accept-the-blame” divorce. Anyway, I had no idea where I’d get the rest of the money to clear my debt.

Swindle took pity on me, accepted my deposit, and agreed to file the necessary paperwork to start my divorce process. “Long as there’s no property and you can agree on custody issues, I can do it for that amount.” Leaning back in his worn, split-vinyl chair, he clasped his hands behind his head. He eyed the hundred-dollar bill I’d handed him like it might be counterfeit. “You have any children from this marriage?”

“One,” I said. “A five-year-old son.”

Swindle canted forward and grinned. “That’s about all it takes to provoke a custody battle.”

I wondered what about that comment amused him, though I wasn’t overly worried. No judge in his right mind would grant custody of a child to Kenny. In fact, I couldn’t wait to itemize Kenny’s faults to someone who’d be my advocate. No longer did I feel powerless in this relationship. For once, Kenny would have to listen to me—because I had a lawyer.

Swindle took the bill I’d given him and sandwiched it between his calendar pages. “What are your living arrangements with this child?” He stared at me as if that might have been a trump question. “Does he live with only you? Nobody else?”

“Mostly.” I fidgeted one foot against the rolling casters attached to my chair. “He stays with Kenny a lot on weekends,” I clarified.

The lawyer scribbled on a ruled yellow tablet. “Anybody else live in your home?” He didn’t give me time to answer before he continued, “Home or apartment?”

I replied fast before he could throw another question on the pile. “Apartment. And it’s just the two of us there.”

“And your husband? Where’s he live? Anybody else live with
him
?”

Now we were getting somewhere. “He lives with his
momma
. And they live in
her
house, in Lolaville.”

Swindle canted forward, squinting. “Does she
work
?”

He was beginning to annoy me with all his quizzing. What did Neta Sue’s profession have to do with my divorce? “Yeah. She cleans office buildings.”

“And when does she clean them?” Swindle crooned with excitement, as if we were playing Clue and he’d right then identified the correct killer.

“At night, when they’re empty.” For an educated man, he didn’t seem too swift. Already I wondered about this guy’s courtroom capabilities.

Swindle lit up like the Town Hall Christmas tree. “Ah…you said Mr. Murphy works nights? Right?”

I nodded.

“That means that no one can be home in the evenings with your son.”

“Right!” I mirrored his sudden excitement. But then I remembered that a week earlier Kenny had mentioned something about requesting a transfer to the Water Utilities Department—working dayshift. When I shared this update with Swindle, he looked like maybe he’d lost an erection.

“Okay,” he said, collecting himself. “You work, I know. What about your evenings? Are you home at night with the child?” He twirled his fat pen the way he might have held a fine cigar, if he’d had one.

“Yeah, pretty much.” I marveled at his oversized writing tool and his pudgy bulldog face. If he’d been on
Perry Mason
, he could have easily played the part of a mobster.

“What do you mean? Are you gone part of the time?”

He was getting a bit testy for my tastes. “I just signed up for a few college classes.” Why was I suddenly feeling defensive? How else could I ever make a decent living to support my son? “I go on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from six to eight.”

“In the mornings?” Swindle’s words sounded more baritone than before.

“No.
Evenings
.”

“And your son? Where’s he while you’re taking these classes?”

Where the hell did he
think
? In an alley? On a bridge? Playing at the city swimming pool? “He’s at daycare. Where he stays every day while I’m working. They have an after-hours program.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Why? Does that make me
unfit
or something?”

Swindle shook his head. “No. No, it doesn’t.” The man could shift moods faster than Kenny. “But Mr. Murphy might try to say that, because you work
and
go to college at night, you’re not available to meet your child’s needs.” Swindle put down his pen and looked at his watch. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

~

Two weeks after he’d been transferred to the Water Department, Kenny received the notice of divorce. Unfortunately, his new position must have offered ample phone privileges because, in the middle of the afternoon, he had no difficulty calling me at my job to let me know how he felt about being served with those papers.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You said this was gonna be a temporary separation! You lyin’ bitch!”

I pushed aside my pink message pad and swiveled my secretarial chair to face the wall behind me. “I never said for sure, Kenny. I never said that I wouldn’t file for a divorce. I just wanted some time to think about it. And I’ve thought about it. This is what I want and—”

“What you
want
don’t have nothin’ to do with what I’m talking about,” Kenny blustered. “You remember what I
tode
you, Renee?”

I could practically feel the heat of his breath seeping through the telephone. Of course I remembered. How could I forget?

Kenny didn’t wait for me to respond. “You’d
better
. ‘Cause you’re
not
divorcing me! You hear me?”

My heart felt like it might leap onto my desk calendar and land smack on today’s date—December 2. At any minute, my bladder would release and cause me to pee in my chair. I couldn’t listen to him talk to me like that any longer. Using something my coworkers called secretarial discretion, I disconnected his call.

Instantly, one of my other two phone lines rang.

Reluctantly, I answered.

“You goddamn bitch! Don’t you dare hang up on me again!”

I forced myself to speak. “You can’t call me here at work. It’s against company policy,” I said, as if that would throw him off track. “Goodbye.”

The third square phone button lit up. I watched it flash and listened to the buzz until whoever was calling hung up.

Right after the lines grew quiet, Mr. Wilmot, my boss, called out from his corner office. “Not answering the phones today, Ms. Murphy?”

“Yessir. It’s just that my husband’s been bothering me. I think that last ring was probably him again, so I didn’t answer.”

Wilmot ambled over to my desk. I noticed a strange knot inside his lower jaw. “And what if it
wasn’t
him, Ms. Murphy? Did you ever stop to think it might have been someone important? Someone I needed to speak to?”

“No, sir.” I cowered. For a split second, I didn’t know who he was. The men in my life were all beginning to look alike: my daddy, my husband, my attorney, my

boss—everyone but Anthony. Each seemed dedicated to reminding me that I didn’t measure up in some regard, couldn’t do things right. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through, I guess. I was so upset.”

Wilmot leaned over my trash receptacle and spit out a wad of chewing tobacco. “Well, see to it that you answer the phones from now on. And stop letting your personal life interfere with your work.”

~

After he learned of Kenny’s telephone threats, Swindle recommended something called a restraining order. During my temporary hearing, which I presumed was some kind of practice run for the lawyers, Kenny’s attorney agreed to Swindle’s request for this legal restraint—provided the order was mutual. Maybe someone ought to have told him Kenny was the one with the gun.

All in all, Swindle said the hearing went well. But since I wasn’t awarded any child support, I wasn’t sure what he used for criteria. “There’s a few logistics to work out with child visitation,” he said, pausing inside the courthouse lobby to wave goodbye to his opponent. “It may take some time to resolve those.” He faced me again. “And, of course, that’ll require some additional fees.”

I dug into my purse and handed him the fifty dollars I’d managed to save from my daycare budget. By taking my vacation at Christmas, I’d been able to stay home with Sean during the last week of his school holiday break. Kenny had kept him during the first week, so I’d saved nearly a hundred dollars. But I’d already spent part of that on Sean’s Christmas presents.

I was short on the full hundred I’d promised Swindle, but he said not to worry. “Maybe you’ll get a tax refund,” he observed. And I fully expected I would. However, I’d kind of hoped to buy a bed with it.

My living room sofa wasn’t big enough for both Sean and me to sleep on. Ever since I’d insisted that Kenny stop retrieving Sean from my apartment, Sean had refused to sleep in his own room. Though his transfers between households went much smoother for Kenny and me now that they took place in the Dairy Queen parking lot, for some reason, Sean didn’t adjust well to the change. Steadily, he grew more vocal about his new routines and contacts, including his daycare workers, who he said made him take too many naps. “They won’t even lemme get up or talk,” he whined.

Time and again, in the middle of the night, I awoke to find Sean sneaking into bed, or should I say “into sofa,” with me. More than once, in a state of confusion, instead of shuffling to the restroom, he slipped off the couch and peed in the kitchen trashcan. He’d walk, more asleep than awake, following the same pattern he’d taken to get from his bed to the bathroom in our old duplex. But since he was sleeping in my apartment living room, that path led him directly into the kitchen.

The rapid adjustments I’d inflicted upon Sean had been more than his five-year-old mind could handle. As much as I hated to acknowledge it, Sean had enjoyed his prior lifestyle and Kenny’s daily companionship. I realized, though somewhat after the fact, that what had invigorated me had been excruciating for my little boy.

“Momma, I want to sleep in here tonight,” Sean said late one January evening. “It’s dark in my room.” He stood before me, hugging his pillow and wearing his Superman pajamas, though he’d removed the cape. Before I could protest, he wedged one foot under my blanket and climbed in.

Great. I could hear it now. Some social worker would likely take issue with Sean’s sleeping habits. I expected a visit from Family Court Services any day. The court-ordered social study to evaluate Sean’s living arrangements was required, Swindle said. Truth be told, that social worker would try and determine which of us, I or Neta Sue, best favored June Cleaver. That was the equivalent of asking which most resembles apple pie, mincemeat or pumpkin. But what was I supposed to do? I’d tried every gimmick I could think of to encourage Sean to sleep in his own bed.

“Seany, what about that new night-light Momma bought you? Doesn’t it help make your room brighter?”

“Nuh-uh.” He shook his head hard, his baby-fine locks falling forward into his eyes. He carefully situated his pillow, rooted his head under my neck, and squeezed my waist.

I forgot all about becoming a model mother. Caving to his request, I kissed the top of his head.

“When’s Daddy coming back to get us?” Sean asked, his voice a whimper.

“Oh, sweetie, Daddy didn’t leave us. This is our new home, now. And Daddy has his own...with Grandma Murphy.” How could I make the idea of a grown man living with his mother sound completely normal? “I left Daddy because I wasn’t happy living with him anymore. Daddy hasn’t left you.” I brushed a lock of hair across his forehead. “I took you with me because I didn’t want to leave you either.”

“But I want you
and
Daddy.”

“I know you do, Seany. I know. But Mommy and Daddy don’t get along anymore. So we’re not going to live together.” I folded the blanket across his shoulders and snuggled up to him. “Now let’s get some sleep.”

At two o’clock in the morning, a flash of light startled me awake. I checked the pillow next to me and noticed Sean missing. The sounds filtering from the kitchen were the unmistakable noises of someone opening the refrigerator door.