Twilight Child (17 page)

 “I remember.”

 “There's lots
of other things, too. Your old basketball.” Suddenly he couldn't remember.
“Lots of things.” His mouth was going dry.

 “The lady
said you came to say good-bye.”

 “I told her
that just in case she wouldn't let me see you.”

 The boy
hesitated and frowned.

 “Mommy said
you went away. You and Gramma.”

 “She said
that?”

 Tray nodded.

 “She said you
would be away for a long time.”

 He felt as if
his insides were filling up with some corrosive acid.

 “We—we didn't
go away,” Charlie said haltingly. “We still live in the same house. Do you
remember that house?”

 “I remember.”

 “And your
daddy?”

 “My daddy?”

 “My son
Chuck. Your daddy.”

 The boy
shifted his weight from foot to foot. The frown deepened on his brow, and he
rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

 “You mean the
daddy that went away?”

 “Your mommy said
that, too?”

 “Yes.”

 “Do you miss
your daddy?

 “The one that
went away?”

 “My God,
yes.”

 He felt the
rising hysteria, the beginning of panic.

 The
gray-haired woman poked her head out of her office and watched them for a few
moments.

 “You must let
him go back to his class,” she said.

 “In a
minute,” he snapped from over his shoulder.

 “Now really,
Mr.—er—was it Graham?”

 “No, not
Graham. Waters. Like his.” He did not take his eyes off the boy.

 He heard her
voice closer behind him.

 “I resent
that attitude, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

 “As soon as
I've said good-bye.”

 He moved
toward the boy and knelt in front of him. Tray looked at him with growing
confusion.

 “Your grampa
loves you,” he whispered. Tray said nothing.

 “We didn't go
away. We live in the same house. Do you remember all the good times we used to
have?” He gripped the boy's shoulder. “Do you remember?”

 The boy
seemed too confused to answer and, without realizing it, Charlie began to shake
him.

 “You remember
the good times we used to have? The fishing? And we were going to get a new
sailboat, and we played ball and told jokes and laughed a lot—”

 “This has
gone far enough,” the gray-haired lady said, running back to her office. When
she came out again, it was with another, slightly younger woman.

 “I've called
the child's mother. And this is the principal.”

 Charlie
ignored them both.

 “I want to
come and visit you, Tray. Would you like to visit me?”

 The boy
continued to inspect him, then nodded tentatively.

 “Can you ask
your mommy if you can come and visit us at our house?”

 “Can Daddy
come, too?”

 “Daddy?”

 “My daddy,
the one that didn't go away. He got me a computer.”

 “Wouldn't you
like to come all by yourself? So it will be just you and me and sometimes
Gramma. We really miss you, Tray.”

 He had the
boy in a tight clutch now. At first Tray tried to squirm away, but then gave
up.

 “It's obvious
that the child wants to go back to class. Don't you, Charles?”

 “Yes, Miss
Flagler,” the boy said in the rhythmic way that children address authority.

 “Tell your
grandfather to let you go, so that you can get back to your class.”

 He turned and
looked at Charlie.

 “I don't want
to miss my turn, Grampa. You should hear how good I read.”

 “I'm sure
you're terrific. Gramma's got lots of books. When you come over to visit,
she'll show them to you. Maybe read some.”

 He embraced
the boy and drew him close to his chest, caressing his head. The boy seemed to
be struggling to avoid smelling his breath.

 “We miss you,
son. We miss you very much. You just don't know how much.”

 The boy
continued to squirm.

 “You're
squeezing too hard, Grampa.”

 He heard a
woman's clicking footsteps behind him, but he did not turn to see who it was.

 “Mommy,” the
boy screamed.

 “I miss you,
son. I miss you with all my heart and soul.”

 “I've tried
to get him to go, Mrs. Graham,” the principal said.

 “It's my
fault,” the gray-haired lady said apologetically.

 He felt a
firm hand on his shoulder.

 “I want you
to release that child this minute,” Frances said, her voice rising. “I will not
have this.”

 “I wasn't
speaking to you,” Charlie said, still not turning to face her. He felt a grip
on his arm.

 “Please,
Charlie. This is no way to behave.”

 “If you don't
mind, I want to visit with my grandson.”

 “As you can
see, your grandson wants to go back to his class,” the principal said.

 Charlie tried
to ignore the cacophony around him, to concentrate on the boy. He loosened his
embrace but continued to hold the boy by his upper arms.

 “I just
wanted to see if you miss your old Gramps,” Charlie said. The boy,
half-smiling, looked over his shoulder at his mother.

 “I—I miss
you, Grampa.”

 “I don't know
what to do, Mrs. Graham,” the principal said.

 By then,
another woman, obviously Tray's teacher, opened the door of the classroom,
surprised at the drama going on outside.

 “The class is
waiting, Charles,” she said.

 “I better get
going, Grampa,” Tray whispered.

 “You must let
him go,” Frances said, gentler now.

 “You'll tell
your mom that you want to visit with us, won't you, Tray? Maybe we'll get that
sailboat for the summer, a real beauty. What do you say?”

 “You may
force me to call the authorities,” the principal warned.

 “It's all
right,” Frances sighed.

 “I'm going to
have a lot more time now, Tray,” Charlie said. He was drenched with
perspiration. “Now, Gramma and I are expecting you, right?”

 The boy
looked at his mother. Charlie embraced him again, then released his arms and
stood up as the gray-haired woman took him by the hand and led him to his
teacher. She patted him on the head and quickly closed the door behind him.
Suddenly, he remembered the wagon and started after him, pulling it. The
gray-haired woman barred his way.

 “You can't—”

 “He forgot
the wagon.”

 “I'll see
that he gets it, Charlie,” Frances said. Finally, he turned to look at her. Her
face recalled reality, and he felt suddenly exhausted and empty.

 “I'm sorry
for this,” the principal said. “We handled it badly.”

 “There was
nothing you could do,” Frances said.

 Charlie
looked toward the classroom. He felt trapped and helpless, a fool. For a moment
he felt disoriented.

 “Will you be
all right?” the principal asked Frances, who nodded. Charlie felt her eyes
burning into him. He turned his own away in embarrassment. He tried to say
something, but his throat seemed to have closed on him.

 When they
were alone in the corridor, Frances shook her head.

 “There was no
need for this, Charlie,” she said. “You disturbed the child. It wasn't fair to
him.”

 “I just
wanted to . . .” When he could not go on, she nodded.

 “I understand
that. Truly I do.”

 “No you
don't,” he stammered.

 “You're just
hurting yourself. Don't you see, it's best for him. He's confused by the
intrusion. I don't want that. He's been happy. Adjusted. He doesn't need this.
Can you understand that?”

 “He's my
grandson. I just wanted to see him.”

 “I don't want
him to have to contend with this. He's doing beautifully. He has a good life.
His father—Peter—loves him. Leave him alone. Perhaps someday the time will
come. But it isn't now.”

 Reality in
full force had come hurtling back by then. The turmoil inside had been replaced
by a dull ache. The stupid, blind hopefulness that had driven him here was
disintegrating.

 “I miss him,
Frances,” he said, coughing into his fist.

 “I'm sure you
do. But think of him, his welfare.”

 “You don't
understand.”

 “I do. I
really do.”

 He felt the
walls closing in, trapping him. He had to get out. Turning, he felt his knees
unlock as he began to move away.

 “I won't let
this happen again, Charlie. I'll do anything to stop it.” She caught up with
him and spun him around, forcing him to look at her. “I swear it. Even if it
means the police. I want my child left alone. Do you understand that?”

 He could not
find words to answer, hurrying away, gaining speed as he moved toward the door.
Opening it, he looked back suddenly and saw only the little wagon. But he did
not break down in tears until he reached the main highway back to Baltimore.

 Happy
birthday, he muttered to himself. As always, that memory seared him, bringing
back the anger and the pain. But by then he had explained it to himself,
although the disappointment lingered and festered. Of course the child would
not have been enthusiastic, given the fact that he was certain Frances had
tried to erase Tray's memory of him and of his natural father. Wasn't that part
of what this fight was all about?

 The rain,
instead of abating, was getting worse. He rinsed out his coffee cup, then
looked at the clock. The morning was disappearing rapidly and there was still
no call from the lawyer. Again, he picked up the phone.

 “I'll see if
he's in,” the receptionist said.

 Another match
to dry tinder, Charlie thought. Why can't they tell the truth? Of course he's
in. His finger tapped against the kitchen wall. Time ticked away like dripping
molasses.

 “Yes, Mr.
Waters.” Forte's voice was smoothly officious.

 “I was
expecting your call,” Charlie stammered.

 “You were?”
The lawyer sounded surprised.

 “The two
weeks are up. They were up yesterday.”

 There was a
long silence.

 “Oh yes.
Apparently there was no response.”

 “Not to me,”
Charlie said with growing hostility.

 “Then I guess
we have no choice but to file.”

 “Whatever it
is, I think it should be done quickly. She mustn't be allowed to get away with
this.”

 “It won't
happen overnight,” the lawyer said. “And it's sure to get messy.”

 “I don't
care,” Charlie said.

 “In that
case, I'll file the petition.”

 “As fast as
you can.”

 “They could
still throw it out on a technicality. I told you our case is weak.”

 “No it's
not,” he blurted, noting the long silence that followed.

 “I just want
you to be prepared,” the lawyer said calmly. “I wouldn't want to mislead you.
The laws of adoption are quite tight—”

 “You said all
that. He's my grandson, and one way or another, I'm not going to lose him.”

 “I
understand, Mr. Waters. I'll file today.”

 “I'm not
kidding around.”

 “I'm very
aware of that.”

 His mouth had
a metallic taste, and he noted that his heartbeat had accelerated. Deep in his
gut he felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation and danger. The reactions
seemed familiar, and he searched his mind for some thread of memory. Combat.
That was it. The moment before the moment of truth. But he did not tell this to
the lawyer.

 FRANCES
and Peter sat in the lawyer's conference room on one side of the
long, blond wood table waiting for Henry Peck to arrive. If there was anything
to be thankful for in this absurd situation, Frances decided, it was that the
lawyer's office was in Columbia, only ten minutes from her house. From the
beginning, she had had a nagging fear that they would have to go to downtown
Baltimore, which would have meant more time away from Mark. Being involved in
these proceedings was not exactly the most profitable way for a pregnant
nursing mother with household obligations to spend her time.

 She looked at
her watch and expelled a noisy sigh of frustration.

 “I haven't
got the time for this,” she said. “No matter what, I intend to be back for the
baby's twelve-thirty feeding.”

 “But you left
a bottle with the baby-sitter,” Peter said.

 “He still
likes mine better.”

 Peter
shrugged and tapped his fingers on the table.

 “It's not
exactly convenient for me either.”

 “I know,
darling.” She patted his other hand, relenting. “It's the nausea making me
irritable.”

 “Maybe it's
too much for you. I can always handle it alone.”

 “I'm afraid
it's really more my problem than yours.”

 “Now that's
not fair,” he said.

 “What's
fair?” she asked, offering a smile to chase the sudden seriousness.

 “I just don't
want you aggravated,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it.

 “No one said
it would be easy,” she sighed, slipping a dry cracker from her purse, nibbling
it, and washing it down with coffee from the cone-shaped cup in front of her.

 Henry Peck
rushed in, full of apologies, taking his place at the head of the table. He was
a big man with a pink face that continued its color over his bald pate. A huge
paunch bulged under his vest, impressively hung with a double looping chain
attached to a gold watch that he clicked open, shaking his head.

 “I originally
came here to work less, not harder,” he said, opening the file he had brought
with him, quickly reviewing the material. Reading, he rubbed his nose with the
back of his hand. He kept his hair longish along the rim of his pate, which
would have been eccentric enough without the string tie and round, steel-rimmed
glasses. “As I said on the phone, we'll have to answer the petition. We can't
ignore it.”

 “But have
they got a case?” Peter asked.

 “Not in my
opinion. The adoption laws of Maryland are quite strong.”

 “Then why are
they suing?” Frances asked.

 “Anyone can
sue anyone.”

 “Even if the
law is against it?” Frances pressed.

 “Even then.
Which is why I'm going to ask for a technical hearing. We might just get it
thrown out of court right away.”

 “That would
be great,” Peter said.

 “And if we
don't?” Frances persisted.

 “We go to
court.”

 “And then?”

 “They present
their case. We refute. In my opinion the law is with us. But it is not unusual
for a judge to be swayed by emotion or a powerful presentation. Which only
means that we have to appeal. In this case, I can't believe we could lose on
appeal.”

 “But if their
case is so weak, why are they suing?” Peter asked.

 Peck
shrugged.

 “Desperation.
Harassment. Who knows what people's motives are? The fact is that there are now
forty-nine states that have laws saying that grandparents have a right to be
heard. Grey clout. That's what it is. Organizations of older people showing
their muscle. Seventy-five percent of all older Americans are grandparents. And
most legislatures are made up of older people, too. Not to mention judges.”

 “That sounds
ominous,” Peter said.

 “It's
reality. But the law is still the law. Did they try to protest the adoption?”

 “No.”

 “That was
their first mistake.”

 “But the
judge can still decide in their favor, force these visits?”

 “I'm not
saying it can't happen. There are examples in other states—New York, for
example. They have a law now that deals with cases like yours, where adoption
has taken place.”

 “But this is
Maryland,” Frances said.

 “That doesn't
mean they can't cite situations in other states. I'll protest, of course, but
the judge is the judge.”

 Frances had a
sudden sinking feeling that only intensified her nausea.

 “I can't
believe this is happening,” Frances said. It had been a repetitious comment on
her part, but it exasperated her to know that such things could occur.

 “Believe it,
Mrs. Graham.”

 Because he
was large, Peck also seemed overbearing and blunt. Peter had told her that he
had researched the various lawyers who dealt with domestic matters and Peck was
considered an excellent choice, and that it was no coincidence that he was in
Columbia. The upwardly mobile, middle-class planned community had the perfect
demographics for domestic difficulties. Peck was no fool, Peter assured her.

 “I want only
what's best for my son,” Frances said, addressing the lawyer with what she
hoped was the appearance of uncompromising resolution.

 “Our son,”
Peter corrected.

 “That's still
the rule of law, folks. The best interest of the child is always the major
consideration in a matter of equity dealing with such issues. It's on that
point that we go to work.”

 “They're
being selfish,” Frances said. “They're not thinking at all about my—our—child's
welfare.”

 The big
lawyer sucked in his breath.

 “You're right
on the money. That's the issue. Will the visits of the grandparents be good or
bad for”—he looked at the petition—“for Charles Everett Waters the third.” He
scratched his bald pate.

 “I see you
didn't change the boy's name.”

 “He did know
his father,” Peter said. “We certainly didn't want to take that away from him.
Did we, Frances?”

 Frances shook
her head.

 “Do you think
it will have a bearing on the case?” Peter asked.

 “You can't
tell. But I doubt it. Actually, I think we can show that you did not want to
obliterate the boy's past completely, weakening the grandparent's contention
that their visits will enhance the child's interests. Our job will be to show
that these visits will have a deleterious effect on the boy.”

 “How will you
do that?” Peter asked.

 “That's what
I get paid for,” the lawyer said, smiling.

 “What about
the effect on the grandparents?” Frances asked. They could, she knew, portray
themselves as worthy of compassion. Indeed, they could appear very sympathetic.
At times, she felt that sympathy for them, and it hurt and made her feel
guilty. But she was certain that her decision was in Tray's best interest. No,
she had no doubts about that. Otherwise, why would she be here?

 “That's a
good question, Mrs. Graham. But the courts are still deciding in favor of the
child's ultimate welfare. And there is still the powerful argument that a
mother”—he turned pointedly to Peter—“and a father know what's best for their
child.”

 “Thank God
for that,” Peter said.

 “But it
doesn't mean we can let down our guard. Judges are always setting new
precedents. At the moment there is no case at issue on this point in our state.
But there could be. It could happen in this case. I mention it not to alarm
you, but to give you all aspects of the downside. I'm just saying that it's
creeping into decisions in other states, and it's possible that the judge could
look in that direction.” He rubbed his nose. “So far, it has never happened in
Maryland. The welfare of the child is still the paramount consideration.” It
seemed to her that he had unwittingly ventured too far out into muddy water and
was now backtracking.

 “So the judge
is everything,” Frances said.

 “I'm afraid
so.”

 “How can a
judge know what is best for my child?”

 “That is one
contention, Mrs. Graham, that you must never, ever allow, even in your most
secret thoughts. Think of the judge as God. It will help you understand why we
are here and what we must do. Our job is to convince God that we are on the
side of the angels and that your dead husband's parents are on the side of the
devil.”

 Frances
shivered at the image, but she said nothing.

 The lawyer
looked at her through his round steel frames, his eyes glowing like hot coals.

 “Why then,
Mrs. Graham, will you not let your deceased husband's parents visit their
natural grandchild?”

 She hadn't
expected the question, nor the lawyer's deadpan expression. She frowned and
took a deep breath.

 “You mean why
would their visits be bad for my child?”

 “I'm afraid
that you would not have the luxury to rephrase the question in a court of law,”
the lawyer said pedantically, his expression rigid.

 She looked at
Peter.

 “I see,”
Frances began haltingly, understanding the mock drama that the lawyer had
initiated. “Because they would confuse the child,” she said, clearing her
throat in preparation for assuming the role of witness. “He has a father now,
and his father's parents are loving grandparents. I do not believe it would be
in his interests to consider himself different in any way from the other
children. Also, before my marriage to Mr. Graham, they had begun to treat him
as if he were their dead son. I did not think that healthy. Nor do I believe
that the ideas they used to bring up Chuck—my first husband—would be beneficial
to my child in his present environment. Especially my ex-father-in-law, who is
possessive and very compulsive.”

 “So you say
their influence would be detrimental?” the lawyer asked, with exaggerated
aggressiveness.

 “Yes,” she
said, assuming an air of satisfied finality.

 “Do they
drink? Have they been physically abusive? Sexually loose? Irresponsible in any
way? Have they been unstable? Mentally incompetent? Do they fight often? What
are their character flaws? Are there any witnesses to their meanness? Have they
been demonstrably unkind?”

 Her head
whirled with the staccato speed of his questions. They seemed crude and
outlandish.

 “I couldn't
be specific,” she stammered. “No. I—I can't say—”

 “So they are
essentially decent people?” the lawyer shot back before she could finish. She
realized suddenly that she was responding too swiftly and forced herself to
become more deliberative.

 “It depends
on the way you define that,” she said.

 “All right,
how about well-meaning?” the lawyer pressed.

 “Well-meaning?”
She tossed it around her mind. “Maybe from their point of view.”

 “So they mean
well?”

 “I suppose
you might say that. . . .” she answered grudgingly.

 “I'm saying
it. Are they or are they not well-meaning, Mrs. Graham?”

 “I think this
is going too far.” Peter interrupted.

 “No. Please,
Peter. It's important.” She looked directly into the lawyer's eyes. “Yes. They
are well-meaning.”

 “Then why
don't you want them to visit your son?”

 “Whose side
are you on, counselor?” Peter asked. Peck ignored Peter's protest.

 But before
she could conceive another answer, the lawyer was at her again.

 “On the phone
your husband told me that the child's paternal grandfather paid a visit to the
boy at school.”

 “He was
extremely disruptive,” Frances answered quickly. She was beginning to feel
slightly dizzy, and the nausea was returning.

 “Oh?” the
lawyer said, shamming his surprise. “What was the boy's reaction?”

 “He was very
upset.”

 “How so? Did
he become withdrawn, hyperactive, disobedient, emotionally difficult,
sleepless, physically ill?”

 “I can't be
specific. He was”—she paused, searching for the right word—“disturbed.” She
felt Peter step protectively beside her, and she squeezed his hand to quiet
him. It was important to play this game, to hold herself together, to prepare
herself. In a courtroom, she realized, it would be far worse.

 “What were
the symptoms of this disturbance?”

 She looked
toward Peter, who frowned.

 “Confused
then. Maybe inside he felt a sense of divided loyalties. I'm not sure. I only
sense that it didn't do him any good.”

 “That is not
a very wise answer,” the lawyer said, gentler now. Perhaps he had observed her
growing tension. Had the blood drained from her face? Had her voice weakened?
Her head was spinning. “I think that a much stronger manifestation of
disturbance must be stated.”

 “Like what?”
Frances asked.

 “Something
like”—Peck hesitated—“like some difficulty that the child experienced
immediately after the visit. Something tangible. Like bed-wetting or profoundly
disturbing nightmares, loss of appetite, lack of concentration at school,
listlessness. Aberrant behavior, temper tantrums, visible depression.”

 “There was
nothing like that. Perhaps I should have been more observant,” Frances
whispered. She felt like gagging.

 “He was
extremely withdrawn as far as I was concerned, as though he was wary of me,
frightened. I saw a definite change in our relationship,” Peter interjected.
His comment surprised her. She hadn't noticed such specifics. “A father knows
his son.”