Happily Ever After? (18 page)

I guess the conversation was over for now. I went down to the kitchen. I wondered whether I was, indeed, doing the right thing
by Pete in fighting for full custody. I called my mother to get her advice and she told me I’d be crazy—not just crazy, but
irresponsible—if I didn’t push for full custody.

Now it’s 2:25
A.M.
and I have to be in court in seven and a half hours and I’m too tired and worried and scared to sleep. I’ve got to try.

It’s 3:20
A.M.
I am still awake. Even C-SPAN didn’t
put me to sleep. I’m going to make myself a cup of chamomile tea.

’Til next time,

V

The tea worked. I fell asleep on the family room sofa and even though I didn’t have an alarm clock, I miraculously woke in
time to get Pete dressed, fed, and on the bus. He didn’t say anything else about the custody issue, and I didn’t bring it
up. I wanted him to go to school unencumbered by worry, though I suspect he’s plenty encumbered already.

I called Omar for wardrobe advice. How does a good mother dress these days? “For starters, don’t wear slacks or sensible shoes,”
he said. “We don’t want to reinforce any lesbian stereotypes. No plunging necklines, nothing too form-fitting. And don’t wear
a suit. We don’t want you looking like a corporate executive. A little makeup, but not too much.”

Maybe I should wear an apron. I could wheel in one of those portable cooktops, the kind they use for demonstrations at gourmet
shops. I could prepare chicken piccata during the hearing—thus proving that I’m not merely a fine cook, but a model multitasker.
“So what
should
I wear?” I said, sighing heavily.

“Hard to say for sure. The judge is a tough nut. You
don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. That’s the sort of thing he’d pick up on. Hmmmm.”

I waited. I felt like scratching my flesh off.

“Okay. Denim skirt, or corduroy jumper, something soft, something with flowers. No cleavage, obviously. No minis. Or skip
the patterns altogether. Solid pastels. No checks. Nothing black. Does that help?”

“In other words, I should dress like the Easter Bunny.”

Omar chuckled. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor. That’s a good sign.”

“I don’t have anything that fits your description.” I didn’t mention the denim skirt I bought at Paul Harris, the one that
made me feel like I was wearing sausage casing. My hips weren’t just wide in that skirt, they were elephantine. And it was
designed for minimum mobility—I could only take baby steps, not great big confident Charlie perfume strides. I tried to think
back to my breast-feeding support group—aka the Cult of Motherhood. What did those women wear? The only thing I remember about
that group was that (1) one of the women used to say “umbiblical cord” and no one corrected her; (2) they persevered with
me until Pete finally latched onto my painfully engorged breasts; (3) they encouraged us to breast-feed indefinitely, even
if your child is old enough to pull up a chair and do the
New York Times
crossword puzzle between breasts; (4) nobody except me wore makeup.

“You’re a resourceful woman. I’m sure you’ll think of
something,” Omar said. “I’ll meet you outside courtroom number four.” He paused. “Ms. Ryan?”

“Yes, Mr. Sweet?”

“We’re going to be fine.”

“If you say so, Omar.” It is now 8:45 and I still have no idea what I’m going to wear.

Jesus, what a day.

When I got to the courthouse (wearing one of Lynette’s yellow corduroy jumpers—she wore it when she was pregnant with Hunter),
Omar looked worried. “What’s wrong, Omar?”

“Nothing. It’s fine. We’re going to be fine.”

“Really. Tell me.”

“Well,” he began, running a finger under his starched collar, “it’s Judge Brand. He’s in a foul mood this morning.”

We heard the
click-click
of Judge Brand’s tiny wingtips as he hurried up the corridor toward courtroom number four. He looked like a ferret. Beady
black darting eyes, slicked-down dull brown hair, a Hitlerian mustache wedged between his nose and upper lip. He scowled and
appraised me with cold, miserly eyes. He nodded toward Omar. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Omar went to get a drink at the water fountain. “Good morning, Mizz Ryan.” It was Surfer Girl. Her hair was even longer than
I’d remembered it. She’d pulled it
into two long braids on either side of her head. She wore a short white Pleather skirt and matching jacket, a glittery white
camisole, white tights, and shiny black platform boots. She made a scratchy gagging sound. She reached into her mouth with
her long fingers and pulled out something and held it to the light. It was a pale curly pubic hair. I recognized it right
away. In fact, I’m still cleaning those freaking hairs out of the bathroom drain. Surfer Girl shrugged. “Occupational hazard,
I guess.” She moved toward the courtroom. She paused at the door. “By the way,” she said, “you have an adorable little boy.
I can’t wait to get to know him.”

“Fuck you.” I wanted to kill her. Omar reappeared and pushed open the heavy door and gestured for me to enter before him.
The room was freezing and I later learned that Brand insists on setting the thermostat to sixty-two degrees.

“Where is everybody?” I asked Omar. My mother was supposed to be there, as were Diana and Lynette.

“It’s still early. Be patient.”

Sloan was there, with two assistants, a thirtyish woman wearing a drop-dead gorgeous aubergine silk suit and a young, equally
attractive man who wore a crisp white shirt and maroon suspenders. I felt like such a jackass in my yellow corduroy jumper.
“Don’t you have any assistants?” I whispered to Omar. He smiled benevolently and put a reassuring hand over mine. “We’re fine,
Val,” he whispered. Roger swiveled his head around and winked at me. Bastard!

Suddenly the doors swung open. A man and woman stepped tentatively inside. “Is this courtroom four?” the man asked in a thick
Southern accent. He was short and fidgety, with a bushy black beard and heavy-rimmed glasses. The woman with him had a white-blond
Ivana do, her hair was swept up and held in place with a heavy gold clip.

Omar stepped forward. “You must be Kelia’s parents.” He extended a hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

I heard Roger whisper to his lawyer, “What the hell are
they
doing here?”

Omar flashed me a jubilant smile. Surfer Girl’s parents were there to testify. Based on Roger’s horrified reaction, they were
definitely
not
testifying on his behalf. “If you think this is good, just wait,” Omar whispered. He squeezed my hand. “You’ll never believe
who’s coming.”

First witnesses: Surfer Girl’s parents. They sat together at a small table on a low platform, an area designated as a kind
of witness stand. Judge Brand began. “For the record, please state your names.”

“George and Pookie Smith.” The small man with the bushy beard spoke for both of them.

“Er, Pookie?” Brand asked.

“Yes. Pookie.” The woman pulled herself up and stuck out her chin. “That’s the name my mama gave me.”

“Your relationship to Roger Tisdale?” Judge Brand continued.

George Smith hopped up in his chair. “I don’t have a relationship and I don’t want a relationship!”

“Oh, come on, Pop,” Roger whined.

“Dammit, I told you not to call me Pop. You’re as old as I am, for Christ’s sake.”

George Smith turned back to the judge. “Look, Your Highness—”

“Your Honor will do,” Brand cut in.

“Sorry. Your Honor. Kelia always does what she wants; always did, always will. That’s just the kind of kid she is. So one
day she marches in with this guy and says he’s moving in, so what am I going to say? If I tell her no, she moves away with
him and shacks up somewhere else. But telling her yes, God a’mighty, it was the worst decision I ever made!”

Pookie shook her head sadly. “If it wasn’t for Kelia, Roger Tisdale would be out on his butt in a heartbeat.”

“Damn straight,” George continued. His face was deep crimson. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and swabbed
his forehead. “He has no shame! One day I see them in the car in the driveway, going at it like a pair of rabbits, right in
the driveway, right in front of our neighbors! Like it was nothing! Like it was nothing at all!”

Pookie pulled her handbag to her chest. “That man is ruining my daughter’s reputation! And he leaves his
socks everywhere, his filthy socks! I have enough work picking up after George. This is ridiculous!” Pookie shot Roger a disgusted
look.

Omar took a sip of water and approached the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, do you think Roger Tisdale is prepared to take on
the responsibility of full-time fatherhood? Is Roger Tisdale fit to be a father?”

“Comes in all hours of the night,” George Smith went on, muttering as much to himself as to anyone in the courtroom. “It’s
crazy, I tell ya. Here we are, three forty-year-olds and my daughter there, crammed into our itty-bitty house, acting like
it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s a freak show! This bum sits around, eating our food, drinking our beer, having
his way with our little girl. Says he’s writing his next big hit, but I don’t see him doing diddly-squat! I told him, go get
yourself a job! You’re an able-bodied man. Hell, I could even get him a job at the shop if he wanted one. He could start working
today if he’d get off that lazy ass of his.”

Pookie leaned forward. “Kelia says he gets a nice check every month from his parents. One of those trust fund deals. Then
we come to find out he doesn’t get his check anymore because he’s divorced.”

“Seems his parents had the good sense to cut him off,” George continued. “Then I hear him tell Kelia he’s—how did he put it—oh,
he says, ‘Honey, I quite like slumming with your family.’
Slumming!
Can you believe that?” George pointed a stubby finger at Roger.
“I’ll tell you something, buster, our house may be small but at least I have a house. And every month I pay the mortgage and
I don’t have bill collectors come knocking on my door.”

Pookie put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Take it easy, sugar.”

“I’ll repeat the question, sir,” Omar continued. “Do you think Roger is fit to be a father?”

“Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t want a father like him.”

God, this was fun. Now it was Sloan’s turn. He stepped forward and smiled patronizingly. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Thank you for
coming today. How are you today?”

George smirked and rolled his eyes. “How the hell do you think I am?”

“It sounds like you’ve had your share of stress lately.”

“Stress? Are you kidding? That’s not the half of it.” He reached over and patted his wife’s hand. “It’s been hell.”

Sloan’s smile froze. “I understand, sir. Clearly, you and Roger Tisdale aren’t the best of friends.”

“You’re not getting the picture, buddy boy. I want that guy out of my house! Pronto!”

Sloan went on. “You’ve described a number of situations that you find annoying, and I can’t blame you. But the purpose of
our meeting today is to determine if Roger Tisdale has what it takes to make a good father. Mr. Tisdale’s goal is to get full
custody of his beloved
son. Can you understand that? And let me urge you to answer the questions and refrain from elaborating. Just answer the questions,
Mr. Smith. Are you aware that Mr. Tisdale’s goal is to obtain full custody of his son?”

George Smith scowled and looked away. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“So, the question, Mr. Smith, is this: Is there any reason to think Roger Tisdale is not fit to have custody of his son?”

“Well, how about his house? Doesn’t a good father have a home for his child? I sure hope he doesn’t expect to bring his kid
into
our
house, because that’s not going to happen, no sirree Bob. That’s where we draw the line.”

Pookie nodded enthusiastically. “I raised my babies already and I’m through with that,” she chimed in.

“Well,” Sloan went on, “let’s assume that Roger and Pete won’t be living with you. Let’s assume that Roger will have enough
money at that point to buy his own home where he and his son will live. Now, sir, do you have any reason to believe that Roger
Tisdale would not make a fit parent?”

George Smith frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “I dunno, I guess I got no reason to think that.”

Sloan stepped back and pivoted on his heel. “No further questions for the Smiths, Your Honor.”

“I have a few more questions.” Omar stood up.
“Thank you once again for coming. I know it’s not easy taking off from work.”

“Sure as hell isn’t. I’ve got thirty-two vacuum cleaners that need fixin’ and they’re all due yesterday!”

“So obviously, for you to skip a day of work, this is pretty important, isn’t it?”

“Sure as hell is.”

“Mr. Smith, may I ask, what do you think of a forty-year-old man going after a girl half his age, sir?”

“I think it’s shameful, is what I think!”

Sloan interrupted. “May I ask Mr. Sweet to please refrain from referring to Kelia Smith as a girl? She is twenty-two years
old, Your Honor. She is a woman.”

Omar continued. “Do you think a man who goes after a woman half his age, who moves into her parents’ house, and lives off
their food and goodwill, a man who has sex in the driveway in full view of the neighbors— Mr. Smith, do you think that that
man is showing good judgment?”

“Leading!” Sloan shouted.

“I’ll allow it,” Judge Brand said.

“Of course that’s not good judgment,” George Smith said.

“Mr. Smith, what do you think it takes to be a good father?”

“Well, for starters you need your own house.” He frowned at Roger. “And you need your own money.” Clearly he was missing the
point.

Omar gave him a gentle shove. “And do you think you need good judgment to be a good father?”

“Course you do. Good judgment and money and a house.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith. I’m done, Your Honor,” Omar said.

The judge instructed Kelia’s father to step down.