Love Has The Best Intentions (8 page)

Gathering up my papers and Surface computer,
I slid them back into a fawn shaded briefcase with the gold clasp.
The briefcase had been a birthday gift from Andrew... With an
effort, I wrenched my thoughts from straying down that tantalizing
footpath and rose.

“Please remember not to bring up suspicions
about your husband’s infidelity. Your petition is not based on the
grounds of adultery. Try to stay calm under questioning and keep
your answers brief. Look at me if you need any coaching. Don’t make
Judge Merrick strain to hear you. He becomes irritable if he has to
continually ask a witness to repeat herself.”

Mrs. Chapin stood up in response to my crisp
gesture toward the door. I had learned the hard way that sympathy
would only start her crying again. The smooth patina of the oaken
desk was streaked with fingermarks and two tiny dots of moisture,
indicated that several tears had escaped the fumbling stabs of the
handkerchief.

The desk had been a witness to many sobbing
confidences over the last few weeks. The sharp increase in the
percentage of tearful sessions among my clientele was discouraging.
Where were all of the calm,
everything-laid-out-on-the-table-and-agreed-to divorces my
colleagues talked about? Divorces were an easy way to earn a good
fee, an older lawyer had informed me just the other day over lunch.
Get an adequate retainer, prepare the papers, one trip to the
courthouse and it was all over. No heartbroken sobs, no midnight
calls from women whose lives were crumbling around them, no
children made frantic by the prospective loss of a parent or by the
necessity of having to choose between Mommy or Daddy ...

The courthouse was only five blocks from the
office and I elected to cover the distance on foot. Perhaps a brisk
walk in the winter air would bring a little color to my client’s
cheeks and orientate the distraught woman to her surroundings.

Dissolution of Marriage. The phrase wrapped
in tissue paper the old-fashioned stigma of the word ‘divorce’. I
sometimes wondered about the meaning behind the words. What was
being dissolved? The bonds of matrimony? A personal relationship?
Could this be accomplished merely by obtaining a piece of paper
signed by a judge? From the high percentage of post-decree cases,
it seemed to be just the beginning of a nightmare for most
women.

Dorothea carefully placed one foot in front
of the other, a gliding automaton. Did the downcast eyes note the
wind-nipped faces of the passers-by, the colorful panorama of the
traffic on the street and sidewalks? Shoppers laden with packages
and bags boasting the logos of trendy boutiques jostled each other
with friendly grins. Everyone still seemed to be maintaining a
holiday mood and goodwill to their fellow man. The “walk” signal
flashed abruptly and I nudged my silent companion into motion once
more. A workman in a denim coverall and knitted cap was deftly
manipulating a screwdriver as he took down a pine wreath from a
street light.

Glancing down from his perch in the bucket of
the endloader, he nodded a greeting. I smiled back and nimbly
skirted a toddler bundled in a parka and muffler. The sight of the
child triggered another traitorous memory. One of Andrew’s
whimsical smiles as he mentioned his hope to one day raise a large
family. “If my wife is agreeable, of course,” he had added, with an
inquiring lift of shaggy brows in my direction.

I winced away from the remembrance. The image
obediently vanished and was replaced by the courthouse looming in
stately splendor on the right. Dorothea’s lips were pressed
together tightly and one hand clawed at my sleeve in
supplication.

“I can’t go through with this, Allyson.” She
was trembling visibly, eyes anguished.

I halted, oblivious to the press of people
around us. I felt the stab of intense empathy for Dorothea, an
empathy which I had refused to acknowledge up until now.

“Answer me truthfully, Dorothea. Do you want
this divorce? Yes or no? If you don’t want it—fine. We’ll have it
dismissed. Otherwise, we’re going to ahead with this hearing.”

“I think I want the divorce—but do I have to
be there? I haven’t faced my husband since I had the papers served
on him.”

Her lips quivered, dread lurking behind the
uneven layers of make-up.

Unaware until we had stopped moving of the
strength and bite of the wind, I shivered and studied the face of
my companion, attempting to pierce the veil of exhaustion. Mrs.
Chapin seemed oblivious of the cold, despite being inadequately
clad in a thin coat.

“Yes or no, Dorothea? I need an answer!” My
voice was purposely harsh and demanding, stimulating the dazed
woman to respond.

“I’m so confused. I guess it’s because...I
realize now...he doesn’t love me anymore!” The forlorn wail was an
echo of many similar voices, keening softly in my memory. I
flinched away from the anguished sound, demandingly audible, rising
above the steady traffic noises form the street.

Dorothea had managed to touch a raw nerve, to
spotlight the stumbling block which loomed between Andrew and me.
How many times had I heard it? The miserable recital of love, which
had faded, become indifferent or turned to snarling, vengeful,
hatred. The tales of hurtful words, the low voiced confessions of
affairs or of the discovery of a partner’s infidelity. Or perhaps
the couple no longer cared, merely co-existed in the same house as
distantly polite roommates. Neither spouse was able to shatter the
cycle of pain unaided. The agonizing emotion of the process and the
despairing interviews were beginning to affect my own
relationships, my own responses.

I became aware that Dorothea Chapin was
regarding me in surprise, startled out of self-absorption by the
flicker of distress which must be visible on my face.

“Is something wrong?” she whispered uneasily.
In our relationship as attorney—client, I had been a strong
confidant, the one who shouldered the burden and kept the divorce
moving toward fruition. Now it seemed to her that the last bastion
of defense had been challenged and found unsteady.

With an effort, I pulled myself together and
spoke in a reassuring tone. “I’m ready to proceed. Are you?”

“Let’s get it over with—the suspense of
waiting is making me ill.” Her voice broke on the last words.

The divorce court was located on the fourth
floor of the building which housed our county judicial system. I
led the way out of the elevator onto the familiar black and white
tiles. The squares reminded me of a narrow chessboard, with the
hallway’s occupants the chessmen whose steps mirrored their
decisions in reality. Moving forward, retreating, changing the
balance of power—with personal happiness the prize for victory.

The hall was crowded; divorce court was a
very popular place these days. Suddenly I froze, breath catching
painfully at the sight of a familiar tilt to one man’s head.

Andrew threaded his way with determination
through the throng of attorneys and clients with a thin, studious
looking man in tow. The sight of Andrew’s broad shoulders straining
the tweed of his suit sent a quiver of excitement dancing up my
spine.

With an abrupt gesture, he grasped my arm
above the elbow and drew me away from my startled client, his
rugged features in a startling contrast to the gentleness of the
spirit existing within the husky frame. Mrs. Chapin remained frozen
by the bank of elevators, cringing away from the confused hubbub of
many voices.

“Andrew! What are you doing here? I thought
we agreed not to see each other for a few days.” I kept my voice
low, but indignant.

“I was pining away for a glimpse of your
brown eyes,” he retorted and grinned at the resulting sparks the
remark generated. “I’m a gentleman. I keep my word. Bill Douglas
went home at 10:00 a.m. with the flu and they dumped the Chapin
divorce file on my desk. As an associate attorney, I have to bark
when they say ‘speak’. Your name was listed as opposing counsel and
I thought I’d better prepare you for the shock of seeing me before
you had an audience.”

I stiffened angrily at his rallying tone but
with a quick change of subject, he moved to the case at hand.

“Are you and your client ready to proceed,
Allyson? My client informs me that his soon-to-be-ex-wife is, and I
quote, ‘A watering pot with creeping tendrils winding into his
wallet’.”

‘He didn’t say that, did he?” A reluctant
smile accompanied my question as I visualized Dorothea leafing out
before my eyes.

“Allyson, the man is an English professor!
His abuse of the language indicates how much this situation has
affected him. Is Mrs. Chapin willing to back down from her stand on
the maintenance issue? You must be aware that she not only wants
the shirt off his back, but also has an eye on his cuff links and
the gold fillings in his teeth.

I withdrew my sleeve from his grasp with
dignity. “No comment. We’ve made our position quite clear in our
correspondence with your firm. See you in court, Mr.
Stevenson.”

Returning to the little eddy in the current
of traffic which indicated where I had abandoned my client, I
gritted my teeth. He could he speak to me in such a teasing manner
after our bittersweet parting? Didn’t he understand the turmoil and
emotional upheaval I was going through?

Pausing outside the courtroom, I discovered
that our case was third in line on the call-up sheet. We entered
the echoing room with its cold marble floor and hard chairs.
Following an ancient tradition, we, as plaintiffs, chose the
right-hand side of the room while the defendants seated themselves
on the left.

During the wait to appear, I reflected back
over my relationship with the man sitting across the room.
Introduced at a Bar Association meeting through the happy accident
of his spilling coffee on my skirt (to this day he refused to admit
that it had been on purpose), our warm friendship gradually began
to change into something deeper, more personal.

Our date Sunday evening had been spent
viewing some of the Christmas lighting displays that were still in
place. Over the last two weeks, Andrew had been attempting to
intrude plans for the future into the relationship while I
struggled to hold him at arm’s length. The intoxication of Andrew’s
presence, however, was beginning to bulldoze through my defenses. A
kiss could make me dangerously agreeable.

At the bailiff’s direction, the assembled
gathering rose with a rustling of coats and files to honor the
entrance of the judge. I followed suit automatically, my mind still
on our last meeting.

Parked on a hill overlooking the city, with
the twinkling lights below and the stars gleaming above, Andrew had
conjured up a thermos of hot chocolate from under the front seat of
his car. We toasted each other with steaming mugs before we kissed
deeply, delightfully. Andrew then displayed the ring as it nestled
on a bed of velvet, refracting the light of a thousand stars, his
declaration of love falling on my ears with the sweet ring of
truth. I felt a deep surge of love in return for this bear-sized
man and had actually parted my lips to speak—to accept the proposal
offered so beautifully.

Suddenly harsh echoes of the past few weeks
clambered in my head, the tears, the vanished love, the broken
marriages. Wincing away from the ring cradled in his hands, I had
pleaded for time. Time to consider, time to gain the courage to
reject or accept him.

The first case was going forward swiftly; it
was a “civilized” divorce. Mrs. Chapin was following the
proceedings with breathless interest, lips parted; her mask of
tense withdrawal had been stripped away. I glanced over at Andrew.
His head was bent over some papers removed from his briefcase,
reassuring his client with his tranquil confidence.

Could I refuse when a man offered me his
heart? Did I love him enough to take a gamble on marriage? I wanted
someone to assure me that divorce wouldn’t rear its ugly head to
shatter my happiness. I’d seen it happen often to my friends; the
very thought was devastating. Other brides had taken this important
step with confidence shining in their eyes. Why did I hesitate?

The next case was called. The couple glared
at each other around their respective counsel, bitter lines evident
around the husband’s mouth. I shuddered. Would the flame of love
and passion turn into ashes for me as well?

Images from the past rose up to offer
evidence in Andrew’s favor. There was the night spent at the
hospital while my mother underwent emergency surgery. Desperately
afraid and alone, I dialed his number with shaking hands. When he
answered in a haze of sleep, I blurted out my fears in a torrent of
words. Ignoring the time factor of 2:00 a.m., he had responded by
padding into the lobby within minutes, pajamas concealed under a
trench coat and eased the endless hours of waiting with a strong
arm around my shoulders. Throughout the long, agonizing minutes,
the impression of drafty corridors and starched, rustling staff
workers was overshadowed by the warmth and power of his hand in
mine.

Another slide clicked into the viewer of
memory. Early last spring, I had been stricken with a mild case of
bronchitis. Unable to gather the strength to fix a meal, wash
dishes or pour a glass of orange juice, I huddled in bed and
wondered with despair who I could call for assistance. The
impersonal, modern apartment building in which I lived had not
yielded any close friends among my neighbors.

Interrupted in a bout of self-pity by a knock
on the door, I staggered out to find Andrew on my doorstep
clutching a bag of oranges and grapefruit, a plush pink teddy bear
in tribute to my nickname for him, and a bouquet of glorious
daffodils. Bursting into tears of relief, he tucked me back into
bed and dosed me with fresh citrus fruit and penicillin. Andrew
then straightened up the apartment and washed a load of sheets and
towels. Undeterred by my cough, red nose and streaming eyes, he had
remained to sit by the bed and offer comfort and companionship.