A Good Divorce (6 page)

As Warren talked, I watched the flirtations around the room. There was a Scandinavian woman with soft blonde hair who looked like someone from a shampoo commercial sitting with a guy who stroked strands of his own hair between his thumb and index finger and then smelled his fingers. He looked like someone who would tie up schoolgirls in the basement and torture them with cigarette burns, but she gazed into his eyes with adoration.

As I looked around McCormick's, I felt small-town again and I missed Jude. I missed the patched jeans, the red hobo handkerchief, the scuffed oxfords, and the long-stemmed rose she'd tattooed on her midriff the week after I'd made her go to a firm dinner at the Rainier Club. I missed the looks on the faces of the guys waiting outside the Men's room at service stations when she'd emerge buckling her belt and chewing her toothpick. Jude was my middle finger to the world. I could depend on her to set down all the pretenders.

“I spent my childhood trying to shape myself into one of Mom's Jell-O molds,” she'd told me. Now she was ready to take any train out. Trouble was, there was no room for me. I could only hope that her route was a big circle and the sooner she got on the sooner she'd come back and we could work out the details of a new beginning. I'd put her on that train so many times—when she started using her maiden name, when she ditched her ring, when we put Derek in day care so she could volunteer at the ACLU, when we divided cooking nights, when we fifty-fiftied the housecleaning. I always told her everything would be fine and waved until she was out of sight, but inside I was crushed because no matter how we dressed it up, it meant there was something in our life she wanted to get away from.

We were different from each other, yet I'd have fought anyone who said we didn't belong together. I was French's mustard on a bun with a frankfurter; Jude was Poupon and Gouda. My people wore boxer shorts and Weejun loafers; Jude's people wore lacquered-candy earrings, leather clogs, and muslin. Intimacy for Jude was a communal hot tub in the raw; for me, a crowded elevator sufficed. Jude was Voltaire and I was all the czars and dictators of the nineteenth century rolled into a three-piece suit. I was a bean counter, she was the visionary. I memorized the rules like they were the Baltimore Catechism and Jude ripped them up like nasty notes from a jealous friend. I was comfortable in the middle of the pack, and Jude itched for the last spot in the chain when they cracked the whip. I looked at civilization as a cumulative process where the children took the wisdom of their parents, polished it, added modestly to it, and then passed it on joyfully to their own children. “The smart ones,” Jude said, “called their ancestors' bluff, tipped over the board, and started their own game.”

She'd chosen a hard path for herself. As soon as she'd succeed at something she'd debunk it, saying it was because someone knew her parents, or because she was white, pretty, and harmless. She wanted to be accepted on terms that bore no resemblance to her upbringing. But it was difficult to be a rebel when you lived in a spacious home with a remodeled kitchen and had two small children and a husband who worked in a downtown high-rise.

When I drove up to the house, there was a white Corvette parked in front with a personalized license plate that said
DIVORCE
. I walked up the twenty concrete steps I'd swept and hosed down so many times and reassured myself again that I was smart to be representing myself despite the adage about the lawyer who represents himself having a fool for a client. I rang the doorbell and the familiar two-tone chime sounded. Jude had removed the paper insert in the door knocker that used to say “Stapletons.” Male name dominance in the marriage name had bothered her as much as the missionary position. You could still see the scratch marks on the brass from the scissors or screwdriver she'd used to pry out the old label.

“It's Dad,” Derek called out as soon as he cracked the door.

I stepped into the hallway and cupped Derek on the shoulder. Jude had cut off her hair; it was so short that it changed the shape of her face. She was drinking from one of the eggshell china cups that were part of the wedding set she'd mothballed in the basement cupboards. I could smell Paris Interlude, something else she'd mothballed.

Charlie Johnson was across the table from her. He'd already doffed his suitcoat and was serving shortbread cookies to the kids. What a fixer this guy was. I wanted to warn them not to touch the cookies. You'll choke on the strings he's tied to them. He was easily six feet four and had huge feet, which were housed in a pair of white bucks that I hadn't seen since Pat Boone. Jude had read me a magazine article once that said male shoe size corresponded with the length of a man's organ.

“Hi, Justine,” I said, looking past Charlie.

She looked uncharacteristically self-conscious and I blamed it on the presence of Charlie. Then I realized it was probably her dress.

Jude had also dolled up, in a peasant dress with a laced cummerbund that showed off her figure and a bra that she must have also taken out of storage. “Cy, why don't you get a chair from the dining room?”

“I'll get it for you, Dad.” Derek ran into the dining room and returned with a chair that he pushed into the back of my knees. I smelled a rat. They'd already talked it over and Derek was feeling sorry for me.

Jude smiled as I sat down next to her, and I wished again that I'd lobbied the kids when I had them alone, realizing now that they'd probably interpreted my silence as lack of interest. Did I really think that Charlie was going to let the kids decide this? He'd probably choreographed this whole meeting.

“We might as well get started,” Charlie said. His eyes fluttered like he'd caught a stray crumb. He reminded me of someone about to do a card trick; no matter which card you picked he'd make it come out his way. Justine had scooted away from Charlie and she was tapping the insides of her shoes together. I'd taught her to take care of herself in Hearts by holding the Queen of Spades, the Dirty Dora, instead of passing it. That way you always knew where trouble was. “I'd like to give everyone an overview of why we're here,” he said.

Cyrus, I said to myself, this house is still half yours and so are the kids. You can either sit here on your hands and let this man fancy you out of everything or you can stand up and let the kids know you care. I still wasn't sure why I'd gone into law. There was nothing to suggest that I'd be any good at it. Although I pulled decent grades in school, I was a social bumbler with ears larger than normal that I covered with long hair, an act which some people had confused with rebellion. In my third year of law school, I still blushed when the professor called on me. And, as Jude could verify, I could be cowed in an ordinary kitchen argument. “If you don't mind, Charlie, this is family business.”

Derek, who seemed fascinated by the tall counselor in suspenders, jerked his head around in surprise. Justine grinned.

“I just wanted to make sure the kids understood the significance of what we're doing,” Charlie said.

“You'd be insulting their intelligence.”

“Cyrus,” Jude said. “He was just trying to help.”

“I think we can handle this without an outsider.”

Charlie shot me a dirty look and leaned back into the couch.

If I'd picked up my saucer just then, the cup would have tapped out a tune, I was shaking so much. “I'd like to say something to the kids; then, Jude, you can too.” Derek sat cross-legged on the floor like I was going to make up a bedtime story. Justine had finished her shortbread cookies and put her gum back in her mouth. “The hardest thing about the divorce”—I licked my lips and scratched my forehead to distract myself from the precipice I was on the edge of—“the hardest thing is to do this without hurting you two.” Instead of looking at the kids, I fixed on Charlie's shoes. “When you get divorced, you have to divide things up, which is easy enough with the furniture. Like your mom might take this couch and maybe I'd take the recliner she never used.” Derek chuckled and looked at Jude. “But how do you divide up you?” Derek tried to lighten things up by running a finger from his chin to his belt like an imaginary surgeon's knife. “You need to help us.”

“You mean we have to either go with Mom or you?” Justine said.

“Well, that's about it,” I said. “We can still work something out for weekends and vacations.”

“What about Christmas?” Derek said. “There's only one Christmas.”

“You can celebrate twice,” Jude said.

“I have a friend,” Justine said, “who lives with her mom and her older brother lives with her dad.”

“Yeah, who wants me?” Derek said.

“Derek,” Justine said, “just listen.” She was starting to get serious the way she did when Derek wanted Burger King and she wanted pizza.

“I didn't think you and Derek would want to split up,” Jude said.

“Maybe we need a divorce too,” Derek said.

The adults laughed politely and shifted in their seats. Even Charlie loosened up at the prospect of another divorce.

“Who gets the house?” Justine asked.

I looked directly at Charlie, “That hasn't been decided yet.” I didn't want the Alhambra to be the deciding factor.

“What about Magpie?” Derek asked.

“Don't be stupid,” Justine said. “Mom and Dad don't want the dog. She stays with us.”

“I have to add one legal point,” Charlie said, scooting to the edge of the couch, letting his long arms hang over the coffee table. “The decision by the kids on custody is not binding on the court.”

“Just a minute,” I said.

“I'm not saying it's input the court won't seriously consider,” Charlie said. He was scowling at me.

“I'll support the kids' decision,” Jude said. “Right, Charlie?”

Justine stood up and slapped her skirt down where a fold had caught. “Derek and I need our own meeting. This is family business.” I was reassured to hear her borrow one of my lines. While the bond between Jude and me had crumbled, the kids' bond with each other had strengthened. Publicly they still fought, but when worse came to worst, they were inseparable. Derek nodded his head and the two of them hurried up the stairs, already arguing with each other. Left in the living room, the rest of us twitched in place, trying to think of something neutral to say.

“The jury's out,” Charlie said. “Are there any more of those shortbreads?”

“Sure, the package is in the kitchen,” Jude said. “I've also got more coffee.”

Charlie followed Jude. I knew he didn't want another shortbread; he wanted to corner Jude in the kitchen and get their signals straight. I guessed that if the kids decided to go with Jude, Charlie would call it a wrap and leave her with the whole package—kids, house, and all the fringe benefits. If the vote went haywire, he'd take it to court. I hoped the kids dropped the Dirty Dora on him.

“What happened to the cookies?” I said, when they returned from the kitchen.

Charlie and Jude looked at each other and said “Oh” at the same time.

The fact that Jude seemed comfortable with this high-powered divorce lawyer shouldn't have been surprising. Unlike me, she came from a family of considerable public achievement. Her grandfather was a lawyer in Great Falls, Montana who was elected prosecuting attorney five times. Her dad was an investment banker who started work at six a.m. in their den so he could talk to people on the East Coast. He once chaired the Seattle Chamber of Commerce and I'd seen his picture on the wall with the past presidents of the Washington Athletic Club. Although Jude chafed at her family's wealth, she'd been carrying her own Visa card since she was in grade school. Her mother always chided her that she didn't have the drive of her older brother and needed to be realistic about college. “Keep your weight in check,” her mother had warned her. “You won't win a man just because you have breasts.” Jude always had something to prove.

Our fathers had one thing in common, though: they delegated child-rearing to the mothers. As manager of the Thriftway in Quincy, my dad had to open the doors and give cash to the checkers in the morning and count the take at night. When he took afternoons off, it was to golf for a quarter-a-hole with the owner. In the fall, they'd take a deer hunting trip. Once, they put their names in the draw and won goat hunting permits for the Blue Mountains. When Dad won a trip to Disneyland for the family through a wholesale grocery drawing, he cashed it in and bought a new Winchester rifle with a scope and leather carrying case.

Derek came downstairs with a list of questions in Justine's handwriting, some directed to Jude and some to me. We had to whisper our answers into his ear as he went back and forth across the room. Their questions covered the same areas that troubled me. Who would do the cooking? Would we always live at the Alhambra? Would I ever get married again? I didn't know if they considered remarriage a positive or a negative but I answered honestly. “I doubt it.”

I'd never heard of kids going with their dad as long as their mother was alive and not incarcerated, but it felt good to be fighting for them. I wasn't going to be one of those fathers who goes out for a cigarette and never returns. They'd have a father whether I had a marriage or not. As I watched Jude whispering her answers to Derek, I was struck by the thought that she might be a better mother with me out of the way. Justine used to worry because she was developing slowly compared to her girl cousins. For her twelfth birthday, Jude bought her a bra with size C cups she'd have to grow into and made sure she opened it in front of her cousins. The fact that Justine was upstairs directing this investigation was due in no small measure to her mom.

I'd never understood, though, where Jude had developed her combativeness, growing up in a home with more than enough of everything to go around. I'd made the mistake when we married of paying too much attention to her parentage, assuming that the fruit didn't fall that far from the tree. I thought her parents' polished walnut table with leaves to seat ten would someday be ours and when the grandkids came over on holidays we'd set up the game table in the TV room. I pictured Jude patting me on the shoulder to hand me the carving knife and two-pronged fork the way her mother used to do. Jude'd ask me to say grace and I'd add something personal about each of the offspring. While she was doing the dishes, I'd put the table pads into the closet, walk the dog, and smoke a rum-soaked Crook. We'd have a big Liverpool rummy game afterwards and between games I'd find a bag of stale candy kisses and put a bowl at each end of the table like her father used to do.