Twilight Child (18 page)

 “Good. That's
good, Mr. Graham.”

 Peter nodded,
pleased with himself, then turned to Frances and smiled. Frances wasn't sure
what it all meant, but the lawyer did make it sound encouraging.

 “I hadn't
realized it would be so, well, complicated,” she said.

 “Worse than
that,” the lawyer said. “It's a kind of war. And in this war, lots of the
participants come away dead or wounded.”

 “As long as
it isn't Tray,” Frances said.

 “I just
wanted to give you a preview, Mrs. Graham. These will be some of the issues.
Their lawyer will be far more aggressive, I can assure you. He's tough, and
he'll go for the jugular. If you want to avoid the lumps, then you might as
well let the grandparents visit,” Peck said, pausing to observe her pointedly.
“And stop wasting your money.”

 She felt a
growing powerlessness under the lawyer's inspective gaze, which only fortified
her will to resist. But the effort was increasing her bodily indisposition. She
was beginning to see spotted floating images as her nausea increased.

 “They're the
ones who started this,” Frances said. “And I'm not going to surrender. Not
under any circumstances.”

 “They must
also know what they're up against,” Peter said. “Maybe they've decided that
since they're miserable, why not try to make us miserable.”

 “I'm sure
they've been well advised.” Peck shrugged. “They probably feel that they have
nothing to lose but money.” He rubbed his nose. “And speaking of money, this is
not going to be cheap.”

 “I'm prepared
to pay,” Frances said.

 “In emotional
terms as well?” the lawyer asked.

 “Whatever it
takes.”

 She had
already begun to pay, she thought. She felt terrible. A layer of cold
perspiration had formed on her face. She reached into her pocketbook and pulled
out a handkerchief.

 “Is there
anything wrong?” Peck asked.

 “My God,
she's pale as a ghost,” Peter cried.

 “Just a
little water,” Frances managed to say. She felt on the verge of a fainting
spell. The lawyer punched a button and ordered a secretary to hurry in with a
glass of water.

 Frances drew
out another cracker from her pocketbook, but before she bit into it, she
gagged. The secretary came in with a paper cone of water. Peter took it and
lifted it to her lips. She drank a few quick swallows and felt slightly better.

 “I'm sorry,”
she said weakly.

 “She's
pregnant,” Peter said. “It's so damned unfair to make her go through this,
especially now.”

 “Pregnant?”
The lawyer's reaction was a sudden concentration, a honed alertness. “How many
months?”

 “Two, we
think,” Peter said, attending to his wife. He took Frances's handkerchief,
dipped it in the remaining water, and pressed it to her temples.

 Peck rubbed
his nose in contemplation.

 “It certainly
raises the question of whether or not she would be up for a trial. This little
exercise is nothing compared to the emotional trauma that can be generated by a
trial. It's a factor to be weighed carefully.”

 Frances
gulped a few fresh breaths of air and felt more stable, no longer afraid of
fainting.

 “I'll be
fine,” Frances said weakly.

 “Are you
sure?” Peter asked, resoaking the handkerchief. “We have to think of you—and
the other children.”

 His reaction
brought her up short. Was he thinking more of his two natural children than of
Tray? She felt the thought an unworthy one.

 “It's
something to consider,” the lawyer said. He seemed to be probing, looking for
weak spots.

 “I'm sure,”
she whispered. Was she really? She wondered if she was overreacting to her
past, seeking a punishment far too severe for the crime. What crime? She became
confused, disoriented.

 “I don't want
to go ahead and then find that you are not up to pursuing it. I want to be
honest, scrupulously honest. This case will drain you, Mrs. Graham. You really
should give it some deep thought.”

 “But I have,”
Frances mumbled.

 “That's
enough strain for one day, Mrs. Graham,” the lawyer said. “I'm sorry if I put
you through an ordeal.”

 “No sense
pulling punches,” she shrugged. The lawyer stood up and shook their hands in
turn.

 Frances rose,
still a bit dizzy, her heart pounding. She felt Peter's firm arm buttressing
her.

 “Think it
over, both of you,” Peck said, as his eyes studied them through the round
lenses. What was he looking for? she wondered. Peter started to lead her out of
the conference room. The lawyer's voice made them pause.

 “Of course, a
nursing mother who was also obviously pregnant would have a profound effect on
the judge,” he said. “As they say, all's fair in love and war.”

 In the
ladies' room, she dry heaved, then dabbed away the perspiration and washed her
face in cold water. Then she had another cracker and washed it down with scoops
of water from the tap. Soon, she felt somewhat better, although through her
discomfort she did feel some vague stirrings of anger and resentment. Mostly
they were directed against her former in-laws, but there were others not
entirely blameless. Herself included. She wondered, too, what effect all this
emotional trauma would have on the baby growing inside her. Hadn't she read
somewhere that emotional upsets during pregnancy could have profound effects on
the fetus?

 Cupping her
breasts, she also wondered what effect all this might have on her milk, which
had flowed steadily and copiously and on which Mark was thriving. Each
proliferating danger only fueled more animosity. First Chuck, now this, she
thought bitterly, glancing suddenly at herself in the mirror, not certain if
she truly liked what she saw.

 Silently they
drove home. Before she moved to get out, Peter kissed her softly on the lips.

 “It's worth
thinking about,” he said. “You're my first priority.”

 “I don't
understand.”

 “I mean if we
can't get their petition thrown out. I don't think I'd want you to be put
through that. It really is something to consider.”

 She turned to
look at his face. He was troubled, his brow furrowed, and his hazel eyes moist
with tension and concern.

 “I have
considered it,” she said firmly.

 “I'd never
forgive myself if something should go wrong.”

 “You mean the
baby.”

 “I mean
everything. I—I love my family. I love you. I want things to be right, that's
all. It's not too much to ask.”

 “But I
thought it was you who wanted a fresh start, to bury the past.”

 “Not if it
means—well—pain. I never expected it to come to this.”

 “And what
about Tray?”

 “Maybe it
won't matter as much as we think.”

 “They're
taking us to court, for crying out loud. That's a very drastic step. And
haven't we been happy? Peter, it's been wonderful, wonderful for Tray, for us,
for Mark, and soon for the new baby. Your folks have been fabulous. Why can't
they leave well enough alone? You don't fix things that aren't broken.”

 “I'm just
worried about you.”

 “There's more
to it than just me.” She felt a brief twinge of anger.

 “I mean us.
All of us.”

 “I'm not
going to let other people decide things for me, especially as they concern my
child.”

 “Our child,”
he corrected gently.

 “I don't want
him treated differently from the others.”

 “Of course
not.”

 “I don't ever
want him to feel that he's less loved than the others. Ever.” She felt herself
going too far, but she couldn't stop herself. Memories of old longings and
loneliness danced in her mind. An image of her own lost father surfaced
vaguely, his arms around her, his beard scratchy, his deep, soft voice soothing
her, kissing away some brief flash of pain. Then bitterness intruded as she
remembered the long empty nights of Chuck's absences, wandering in the black
void of rejection and despair. They never let me have him, she thought.

 “That's not
fair.” She heard Peter's voice, but it seemed distant. “You know how I feel
about that child.”

 “I know what
you say you feel about him.” Instantly, she regretted the outburst. She moved
closer to him, and they embraced. “Forgive me, darling.”

 He kissed
away the moistness on her cheeks.

 “Why couldn't
they just leave us alone?” he whispered.

 “They just
don't understand. They never really did. Not about Chuck or me. Or anything.”

 “You can't
blame me for worrying.”

 “I'll be
fine, Peter. Really I will. It's just our baby letting us know how she feels.”

 He put his
hand on her belly and rubbed.

 “Well, she
had better behave herself.”

 They kissed,
and she slid out of the car, conscious that he had lingered and was watching
her walk into the house. Despite the affection, she felt a certain
tentativeness in his commitment to the cause, and it troubled her.

 The comfort
of Mark nursing beside her soon chased away her anxiety. There was nothing more
tranquilizing than this experience of delicious dependency, of selfless giving
of one's substance to one's own creation. She caressed the child's face,
kissing his eyes. Nothing she had ever done in her life was so profoundly hers,
so fulfilling, so joyously satisfying as motherhood. Who but a mother could
know what was best for her child?

 Finally
satiated, the baby drowsed. She burped him and let him remain beside her on the
bed, drawing his little fingers to her lips, kissing them gently. What defined
a woman more than motherhood? she asked herself. How could fatherhood compare?

 Another time
intruded, dredged up from the swamp of memory, perhaps tossed out in the recent
inner storm. She caught a flashing image of the little airless bedroom two
flights above the bakery, permeated by the ubiquitous odor of baking bread,
which had become as oppressive as the dawn-to-sundown days working in Uncle
Walter's bakery where the maddening staccato of her uncle's orders became
fearsome, simply by repetition. He was kindly, never raised his voice, but his
unceasing demands clearly delineated the extent of her debt. And she had waited
for the moment of escape.

 Her freedom
had come in the form of Chuck, her golden knight errant. There he was, climbing
the metal steps of the tower, a brave and graceful figure, alone and unafraid,
ascending into the morning mist. He wore a plaid shirt, yellow with blue squares,
that matched his cobalt blue eyes and the yellow-gold of his hair. He was tall,
made even taller by the high heels of his muddy, scuffed cowboy boots into
which he had stuffed the leg ends of his jeans. Slim-hipped and tight-butted,
he did not seem vain about his beauty, or so it appeared to her. She was
flattered by his obvious interest in her. She wasn't a beauty by a long shot,
but she did have a decent figure and, people told her, lovely chestnut hair and
good skin. Some said she was cute, although she never could be sure.

 Caught on the
razor's edge between wariness of, and desperation for, any kind of returned
affection, she was transported easily from flirtation to a heavier commitment
in a very short time. In less than a month from the moment Chuck had walked
into her life, they had become inseparable. Even in retrospect, she could not
deny to herself the power of the attraction between them. Whatever it was, it
wasn't love, not the kind of devoted, unselfish, and dedicated passionate
contract that was between her and Peter.

 Chuck was
lovely and gentle and quiet during those first months, and her memories were
untainted by her later bitterness. She had shrugged off her disappointment in
the physical side of their relationship, attributing its failure to some fault
of her own. In retrospect, she faulted herself for encouraging him into an
early marriage. Perhaps she did it simply because his father had been opposed
to it? And there was always the pressure of her potential liberation from Uncle
Walter's yoke, even though her new job made it possible to trade servitude in
the bakery for cash. In those days she'd had neither the confidence nor the
experience to analyze motives or events.

 As near as
she could figure, she got pregnant on her honeymoon in the Poconos. Even in
those days, she had eschewed the then current birth control methods, trusting
to luck and the calendar. Unfortunately, her regular cycle had given her not
the slightest margin for error—as her present condition attested. The trip had
been a gift from her in-laws. She considered it a peace offering, something
tendered more out of guilt than sincerity. So, even in the beginning she had
been suspicious, as if they were both standing by, especially her
father-in-law, waiting for their golden boy's love for her to burn out.

 To be fair,
Chuck and she had promised each other that they would not start a family for a
few years. She still had her job at the radio station, and Chuck was determined
to save some money. They rented an inexpensive one-bedroom apartment in Dundalk
and began to buy furniture on time. It seemed a sensible way for a young couple
to start out. Chuck's father helped him buy a small secondhand Toyota. She
hadn't liked the idea, but it wasn't easy to live without a car and she hadn't
protested. In fact, in those days she never really protested anything. Where
the wind blew, she went.