Twilight Child (39 page)

 She sat for a
while longer, not knowing what more to ask. She thought of her troubled
daughter. Had she missed something? Then she looked at her watch. It was nearly
time.

 “You be a
good boy,” she said, offering him her cheek. He planted a noisy kiss on it.
Soon he would consider such things unmanly. Most of all, their conversation had
taught her what it meant to be a child again.

 Standing up
abruptly, she looked in the mirror, fixed her makeup, and patted her hair.

 “Why do you
wear a black robe?”

 “To hide my
feelings,” she said, smiling, proud of her answer. “Only it doesn't always
work.”

 The boy
nodded as if he understood.

 “We have to
get back to the courtroom now, Tray.”

 He got up
from the couch.

 “Then what
happens?” he asked.

 “I think I
know now.”

 She felt
finally that her mind had cleared. In the end all the historical legal
research, all the citations, all the printed words meant less than she had
realized. In domestic matters, the answers could be found only in that most
vulnerable place of all, the human heart.

 “ARE
you all right?” Peter asked.

 “How can I be
all right?” Frances asked. “With my child in there. He's scared to death.”

 “I don't like
it either.”

 “We're so
helpless. It's all out of control.”

 “I'm sure he'll
be fine,” Peter said reassuringly.

 “How can you
know?”

 She wasn't
reassured. She leaned against a marble pillar of the ornate lobby of the
courthouse and nervously watched the clock. The minute hand moved with
excruciating slowness.

 “You should be
thankful,” Peck told her. “She's taking him in chambers alone.”

 “He has no
business being there in the first place.”

 She was tired
of Peck's pompous surety, disgusted by the entire process of law that had
invaded her life.

 Imagining
Tray's discomfort, her own anger smoldered. The baby kicked, and she touched
her belly. Don't be in such a rush to get here, she told the baby silently. She
could see Molly and Charlie across the lobby, talking in hushed tones with
their lawyer. Occasionally Charlie would glance her way. What was he thinking?
she wondered. Was there any remorse on his part for starting this chain
reaction of unhappiness? Or was it her fault? She looked at Peter, studied him
carefully. Had she resisted because of Tray? For Peter's sake? Or because of
some deep resentment of her own? It had become jumbled in her mind.

 “I never
thought—” Peter began.

 “None of us
did, I'm afraid.”

 Again her
eyes jumped to the clock, and she pictured her little boy, her sweet, lovely
Tray, and that severe, black-robed woman locked together in her chambers. She
shivered. The very word “chambers” had ugly connotations. As in torture
chambers.

 In the past
two years she had deliberately refrained from any references to Tray's former
life, except when his curiosity demanded answers. Hadn't she always been
forthright in telling him the truth? Now all her careful nurturing was being
undone.

 “We should
have moved away to another state. At least we would have been out of the
clutches of the law.”

 “But we were told
the law was on our side.”

 “Tell that to
my son in there.”

 “Our son,
Frances. And our decision was a joint one, remember?”

 “Was it?”

 They were
silent for a long time. But with each glance at the clock her agitation rose.

 “I would have
done anything to spare you this,” Peter said. They had been together long
enough to sense each other's inner tension.

 “Only me?”

 “Tray, too.”
He paused, averting his eyes. “I'm not having such a good time of it either. I
can't believe it's gone this far.”

 “Believe it.”
Her tone seemed overly snappish, and she put out her hand and touched his arm.
“It all looked so simple when we got married, but when you take on a woman with
another man's child, you take on problems not of your making.”

 “Take on?” He
seemed hurt. “If you love someone, you buy the whole package.”

 “Buy?” Like
molten lava, resentment rolled over her. She felt suddenly alone, thrown back
to her earlier life. Abandoned. Taking crumbs from Uncle Walter's table. Her
nostrils twitched with the remembered smell of sugary cakes. A wave of nausea
broke inside of her, and she clutched the marble pillar.

 “Are you
okay?”

 “A little
nauseous.”

 He frowned,
and she saw his anxiety as he inspected her. Odd, she wondered, how she had
gone from one extreme to the other, from being barely noticed to being
microscopically observed. Better the latter than the former, she decided.
Didn't loving mean protection? And possession? It was so simple to pass over
boundaries, to move into dark areas, to be either too selfish or to lose one's
sense of self.

 “Maybe they
have a point. Maybe I am to blame? Perhaps I did overreact to the trauma of my
first marriage. But, you see, I was so afraid.”

 “So was I.”

 “I wasn't
looking far enough ahead.”

 She wasn't
sure what he meant. His quick glance seemed to take in her puzzled look.
Watching his expression was like observing gears trying to mesh.

 “What I mean
is—” he stammered. It wasn't like him to grope for ways to express himself. “I
wasn't able to see things from their point of view. To be a
grandparent . . .”

 She continued
to watch him, pondering his meaning.

 “There could
be ties there so deep we just don't understand them.”

 “Then you
think we overreacted?”

 “I'm not
sure.” He seemed awkward and uncomfortable, deliberately evasive. She was
beginning to understand.

 “Is it about
Tray? Or Mark?” She patted her belly. “Or Snowflake?”

 “I told you,
I'm not really sure.”

 “If it were
Mark, or the new baby—ours—and you were the grandfather of their children.” She
hesitated, carefully weighing the words she would use. These, after all, were
his natural children. “Would you be less confused?”

 “Yes. I think
I would,” he said after a pause, wishing, as always, to be scrupulously honest
with her. He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze.

 She nodded,
but she did not in any way feel challenged or upset.

 “It doesn't
mean that I love Tray any less,” he said.

 “I know that,
Peter.”

 “It's just
that, well, life isn't quite like a computer. There are different shadings—”

 “I'm
beginning to see that as well, Peter.”

 “Above all,
we can't let any of this come between us,” Peter said. “It musn't hurt what we
have.”

 “It won't. I
just don't want it to hurt Tray.”

 “Neither do
I.” He looked anxiously at the clock.

 “But if it
does hurt Tray, it will hurt us.” She felt the raw edges of anger.

 “Peck said
she would be gentle,” Peter said.

 “Peck again.”

 “Judge Stokes
is a mother.”

 “But not of
my child.”

 She felt her
anger continue to rise. My child is in there and I'm out here, she shouted
within herself. She imagined herself standing outside of an operating room,
waiting, her son's life in the balance. It wasn't fair. It was wrong to put him
through this.

 She wanted to
scream out her protest. It is my life. My child. Suddenly her attention was
drawn across the marble lobby. Charlie was watching her, standing beside Molly,
hesitant and forlorn. Had she tormented him with her thirst for vengeance? Or
was it Peter who had provoked him? What had all this to do with Tray? Watching
Charlie, he seemed a tiny figure in the baroque vastness, not the formidable
figure of the early days of her marriage.

 She saw him
move, start toward her. Peter, too, must have seen his movement.

 “If he starts
any trouble, he'll have me to contend with physically,” Peter said with
uncommon bravado.

 Charlie
strode toward them purposefully. Frances pressed herself against the pillar.

 But as
Charlie drew closer, his features seemed to reflect a benign calm. The pinched
lines of anger that she had seen when he was on the stand had flattened.
Through a quirk of memory and illusion, she saw Chuck moving toward her as
well. In tandem. A forgiving Chuck. Not the enemy now. Had she heard his voice?
He's my son, too. Goosebumps came up on her arms. Again the baby kicked.

 “I'll get rid
of him,” Peter said, starting to move forward. She put her arm out to stop him.

 “It's all
right. Just stand by me, Peter,” she said.

 “Could you
ever doubt that?”

 “Never.”

 She was
surprised how gray Charlie looked up close. A nerve palpitated in his jaw, and
she could see he was struggling to smile. Once he had seemed so formidable.
Dad! She heard the hollow echo of Chuck's voice and tried to see him through
her dead husband's eyes. Caught in the web of memory, she struggled to untangle
herself. He's my son, too, Chuck's voice said.

 “I'll only be
a minute, Frances,” Charlie said facing her.

 “Are you sure
this is wise, Waters?” Peter asked.

 “I don't know
what's wise anymore.”

 “I don't
either,” Frances said. She inspected him, noting the leathery quality of his
skin, weathered and blotched by the elements. Even in here, she could detect
the smell of the outdoors. Just like Chuck.

 In a long
moment of helplessness, Frances felt herself floating in a vacuum, weightless,
free from gravity and control.

 “I don't like
this business of Tray being in this,” Charlie said with a vague nod of his
head. “In there with her.” He looked down at his hands. “It wasn't my idea.”

 “Nor your
intention, Charlie,” she said with surprising gentleness.

 “I tell you,
Frances, I never wanted this. I swear it.” His Adam's apple shivered as it
moved up and down the length of wattled skin. It struck her suddenly how much
he had aged since the first time she had seen him.

 “You could have
avoided it all, Waters,” Peter said.

 “I know,”
Charlie replied, nodding. He looked down at his hands and shifted his weight
from one foot to the other. “That's why I need to say what I have to.” He
paused. Frances watched him.
Was he in some way different than she had ever
seen him
? Or was she really seeing him for the first time? Alone. Without
Chuck.

 “Just don't
upset her,” Peter warned.

 “It's all
right,” Frances said, patting his arm. He would, she knew, slay any dragon that
threatened her. But Charlie no longer frightened her. Not anymore.

 Charlie shook
his head.

 “It was
wrong,” he said, his voice reduced to a whisper. Clearing his throat, he spoke
again, finding more strength. “And I'm sorry.”

 “You're a
little late, don't you think?” Peter said. His tone lacked the venom of his
previous remarks.

 “Please,
Peter.” She turned to her former father-in-law. “I'm listening, Charlie.”

 “You know
that I wouldn't want anything to hurt that child. I or Molly. You know that.”

 She nodded.
What was there to say?

 “I don't feel
good about any of this.” He paused again. She sensed how difficult it was for
him to find the right words. “What I'm saying is that I don't want any more of
it. I know you're a good mother, Frances. And Peter here.” He looked at Peter.
“I know he'll treat the boy fine. Just like Tray was his.” Again he paused and
she could sense his determined effort to keep himself under control. “So I'm
saying that it's your say all the way. We're the outsiders now, Molly and me.
And if you don't want us around—it doesn't matter why—you've got that right, as
far as we're concerned. I see that now. Only Tray counts here. And the law is
right on target about that. So what I want to say, Frances—and Peter—Molly and
me, we're not going to force ourselves on Tray. It's just no good any other
way. No good at all.”

 “I don't know
what to say,” Peter said haltingly.

 Frances was
too stunned to respond.

 “You don't
have to say anything. We're just not going to interfere in your lives anymore.
What we want”—he took in some deep breaths to clear his throat of emotion—“is
not to give you or Tray, or any of your family, a minute's worth of pain. We've
done enough of that.”

 She watched
as he squared his shoulders, a portrait of a man relieved of a great burden.
But he wasn't finished yet.

 “I just hope
that you'll find it in your heart to forgive us, Frances. I don't want this to
sound like hearts and flowers. To put Tray through this was no good, and I hope
when he grows up, he won't think too unkindly of us. He's too good a kid. Chuck
would have been real proud of him. I'm sure of that. We did have some great
times together, and I am going to miss him. What's it all about, anyway?” He
stopped abruptly, as if he had suddenly determined that he had outstayed his
welcome. “So we're going to ask our lawyer to withdraw our petition, to stop
this whole rotten business.”

 For a moment
it crossed her mind that this could be a ploy, a tactic to get her to soften
her stand. Had she become that cynical? Quickly, she dismissed the thought.

 “I appreciate
that, Charlie. Don't think we both are oblivious to the pain of it for you and
Molly.” As she spoke, her knees began to tremble and the baby inside of her
began to kick up a storm. But it reminded her that she had obligations and
responsibilities that transcended this issue.

 “So, that's
it,” Charlie said. She noted that he rubbed his right hand against his pants
leg, a familiar gesture of his preparatory to a handshake. Only he did not
follow through, stepping backward for a few steps, then turning and moving
toward the other end of the lobby.

 They watched
him go. Molly waited for him at the other end of the hall and embraced him when
he reached her.

 “So it's
over, then,” Peter whispered.

 “As you said,
Peter, the ties are deeper than we understand.”

 “It took a
lot of courage for him to do that.”

 “Not just
courage, Peter.”

 “What then?”

 “I
think . . .” She paused. “It's a matter of honor.”

 “Honor?” He
appeared puzzled. She let it go at that. There was too much to explain, too
much to define about people in her past and the way they thought about life.
She was in a different place now, but it didn't mean she could or would ever
turn her back on the other. She glanced at the clock. The hour was nearly up.
The baby kicked.