Been There, Married That, page 23
The hallway smelled like sorrow and rage and disappointment and reams and reams of paper. Paper used as bricks, filled with hostile, indigestible words. Paper as health hazard, causing stomachaches and heart palpitations and sleepless nights. A forest of terrifying paper.
We can save the environment; kill the divorce industry.
I placed my hands on my knees. Steady, stop shaking.
Buzz.
Text from Lucas. Top 50! Urine play! ☺
Meanwhile, I stood out in the crowd like an Easter egg in an oil spill. I had chosen a powder-blue dress suit. I wanted to appear benign and carefree; I looked, in a word, ridiculous.
Trevor and Ulger and the guy with the hair like an abandoned bird’s nest had noisily filled a bench down the hall. Ulger’s basso voice rode over the orchestra of pain.
Waverly had called last night to tell me not to worry. “Worry is a wasted emotion,” she’d said, “like guilt. Or trust. Or happiness.”
This is what I was paying for, I’d thought.
“You’re missing something,” she’d said in her droll, flat pitch. “A piece of information. An object, maybe. A letter? Something that could stop the proceedings cold. In the eighth year of my divorce, I’d discovered he’d had an affair with a manicurist.”
“The eighth year,” I said. “And it went on—”
“Several more years.”
Strategy wasn’t my strong suit. (Neither was this powder-blue suit.) In a land where women fake pregnancy (then, oh, here comes the tragic, albeit bloodless miscarriage) to trap a guy into marriage, I couldn’t strategize. I knew women who’d seduced their hapless spouses into bed after kicking them out, to move the date of legal separation. To get more money.
I knew a lot of assholes with vaginas, too, apparently.
I needed to find me some of that pesky leverage.
Gabriela had slipped an amethyst crystal the size of a small rock into my purse this morning. “From La Reina,” she’d said, kissing the tips of her fingers. “She bring you good luck. Maybe Trevor have pequeño heart attack in court.” I was pretty sure it was a dollar store crystal, but who was I to question La Reina?
“Gracias, Gabi,” I’d said. “What time do you think she’ll be bringing the luck part? I’d hate to miss it.”
Gabriela, who’d escaped a bloody civil war, having spent a childhood shoeless and on the edge of starvation, had looked at me with enormous sadness in her eyes, then had given me a big hug before practically carrying me to the car.
I smelled a pop of gardenias. A swan dressed for a funeral floated down next to me on the bench. Her attorney, scraggly beard, large pores, was wearing a suit that had been dry-cleaned so many times it looked like it could crack. He wasn’t one of those high-end roosters with gold initial cuff links, pin-striped suits, and Italian loafers who smelled like their grandchildren’s weddings were already paid for.
“He’s trying to take the car,” the swan was saying, tapping her sensible shoes against the marble. “He wants me to not have a car. Can he do that?”
“It’s in his name,” the attorney said, bored. I hated him.
“How do I get to work?” she asked, pleading. “How do I get the kids to school?”
A man sank onto the bench on the other side of me, wearing work boots and a pressed denim shirt. He smelled like soap wrapped in an honest day’s work. “I’m willing to help her out,” he said to the attorney, who looked like a child dressed in his father’s suit. The sleeves were too long, pants dusting the floor. “They’re my children. But, I mean, she wants the juicer. I’m the only one who ever used that juicer. It was a birthday gift, you know? How is that fair?”
He used a juicer; this threw me.
Baby attorney nodded gravely, pushed his father’s glasses up his nose.
“If you would just let me do my job,” baby attorney said, his voice barely breaching adolescence, “I advised you not to communicate with her.”
“She’s the mother of my children,” he said. “Geez.”
“He wants the kids to change schools,” the swan was saying. “He won’t even pay for soccer anymore. But he can pay for his new girlfriend’s boobs.”
Ouch. My head hurt. I handed over a Kleenex (thank you, Gabi!) as her attorney slunk away in his shiny suit to use the water fountain. The man in work boots was busy staring at pictures of his children on his phone and audibly sighing.
“I hope her boobs explode,” I said to the swan. “I hope those puppies get knocked out by a soccer ball and explode all over the field.”
“What a jerk, right?” she said.
“You’re too kind,” I said. I elbowed the man. “Did you hear about the guy she was married to? Unbelievable.”
“Sorry?” The whites of his gray-blue eyes were scribbled over with red lines. I thought of Pep’s old Etch A Sketch.
“He won’t even pay for soccer,” I said.
“My kids love baseball,” the man said, blinking at the swan. “I would die before I’d take them out of baseball.”
“Hi, I’m Agnes,” I said, putting out my hand. He shook it. Warm, calloused. Capable. “I’m here for my divorce. What’s your name?”
“Hank,” he said.
“Hank, this is…” I looked at the swan.
“Alicia,” she said.
“Should we, like, meet here every week?” I asked. “Like a book club, but we read briefs instead?”
Hank smiled. Alicia smiled. Their eyes caught. My heart broke, semisweet.
“Anonymous v. Anonymous,” the court bailiff called.
“You guys should compare notes,” I said, “see who wins the worst ex award. I would play, but that’s unfair; I know I would win. You’re both long shots, sorry.”
“Nope,” Hank said, “mine wins, hands down.”
“Oh, wait a minute, Hank,” Alicia said, sitting up, her neck curving back. “I think you’ve got this twisted.”
“Anonymous v. Anonymous,” the bailiff called out.
“Seems like you guys are already fighting,” I said. “An excellent start!”
Anne appeared, tapping my shoulder. “Agnes? We’re on.”
“Oh, that’s me,” I said. “I’m Anonymous. Forget I ever told you my name.”
I looked back before I walked in the courtroom. Hank had just said something that made Alicia laugh. I smiled and thought about that dollar crystal.
* * *
“If it pleases the court,” Ulger Blecks said, banging his cane on the floor in front of the judge. “Agnes Murphy has proven herself to be a deficient, negligent, wholly unfit mother.”
Blecks was giving the performance of a lifetime or maybe the performance of just that morning. This was my first divorce, so I had nothing to compare it to. After a few more, I could judge more discriminately. But so far, I’d say watch your backs, Russell Crowe and Denzel Washington.
“He’s missing ‘homicidal,’” I whispered.
“Shhh,” Anne said.
“She allows a felon to babysit her only child, sir,” Blecks wheezed. “A thief. A drug dealer. A parolee.”
“No one’s perfect,” I whispered.
Blecks turned and trained his raisin eyes on me. I thought of angry Cabbage Patch dolls.
“And just recently, Judge, this woman was filmed collapsing at her own book signing,” Blecks said, spittle flying from the black gape above his chin. Ah, shit. I wrinkled my nose. “Ac-ci-dent included. Sir, we’d like to ask the court to commence drug testing on a thrice-weekly basis.”
Anne sprang up from the table. “Objection! This is an absolute manipulation, a complete twisting of the facts—”
“My client is only asking what’s in the best interests of his daughter,” he said. “Sir, he’s filing for an ex parte judgment of full custody, effective immediately.”
The judge, with the silver-blond hair and checkered skin of a man who grew up surfing and probably hit third point that morning, landed his gaze on Anne.
“Ms. Barrows,” he said, “I’m assuming you have something more to add.”
“I do, Your Honor,” she said. “I have quite a bit to add.”
Surreal doesn’t begin to describe the experience of being on trial for your child. What’s beyond surreal? Surreal-plus? Surreal-extra? Custody battles are fought every day, but when you become a parent, you don’t anticipate proving yourself worthy to raise your child in front of a judge. Unless you’re a professional athlete and you accidentally stick your penis in some strange woman’s vagina and here you are.
“Your Honor,” Anne said, “this is ridiculous. My client’s sister has not violated parole. She is charged with knowingly obtaining stolen property, but I had a chance to look at the police documents. It’s my suspicion that she’ll be released in the next day or so. Just in time for Ulger and his crew to wrest temporary custody from my client.”
“Objection!”
“Overruled,” the judge said. “Ms. Barrows, how do you suppose these charges aren’t legitimate?”
“I talked to the lieutenant on the case,” Anne said. “They don’t have a victim, Your Honor. No one’s reported the property stolen. This is an allegation based on a supposition. Nothing more. And it was orchestrated by Mr. Anonymous.”
The silver surfer–haired judge turned from checkerboard to pink like a gecko changing shades. This new tidbit had thrown him for a loop. I watched him carefully and a little acquisitively. He was attractive and seemingly reasonable. A rarity in Los Angeles. No wedding ring, not even a shadow of one. I wondered if he were single. I wondered if he were gay. I wondered if he were single and gay and open to change?
“Counsel, approach the bench,” he said.
Trevor stood up.
“Not you, Mr. Anonymous,” the judge said. “Your attorney.”
Ulger squeezed Trevor’s shoulder, and he fumbled with the chair before sitting down. I peered over and caught Trevor’s eye. I wiggled my fingers, giving him a quarter wave. I couldn’t help it. We knew each other. We had loved each other—or, at least, I’d loved him and he’d loved that I loved him. A small part of me (that I should probably bury) clung to the familiar. Trevor was no mystery to me. I knew everything there was to know about him. And though he was a genius in his work, he was clunky in the game of life chess.
In one breath, the room brightened with realization.
I wasn’t going to be afraid anymore.
Of course he set up my sister—of course he was going for full custody.
He knew there was a chance I might survive.
I’d never be forgiven.
I had to think like he did. I concentrated. What is Trevor’s next move?
He turned away.
I knew he’d do that! I was already good at this.
I looked ahead, straining to hear the hushed conversation between the stately Anne and the belligerent Ulger, who was making a miniseries of his disapproval, shaking his head, stomping his feet, banging his cane.
“Let’s move this into chambers,” the judge said. His eyes, the color of the murky Pacific, magnified by his aviator glasses, tracked Trevor and me. “Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous, you both may wait outside.”
“Is that us?” Trevor asked Blecks.
* * *
Outside the courtroom, I watched Trevor struggling with his phone for a full ten minutes before I decided to walk over to him.
“There’s no Wi-Fi,” I said. “No wifey, no Wi-Fi. Get it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re not going to get much service,” I said. “Try turning the Wi-Fi off; maybe that’ll work.”
He shot me with that infamous death stare that made development execs cry, then skated away as I slowly turned into an ice sculpture.
Not really. I wasn’t scared, remember?
I could see him tap on his phone.
“You’re welcome!” I said.
He turned and scowled, then went back to his lover, Siri.
“May I make a suggestion?” I’d sneaked up on him.
“No,” he said. “Leave me alone.”
“Our divorce has been so much fun, not to mention great for my figure, but can we end this circus?” I said. “Our lawyers meet once a month for book club, and they’ve probably already arrived at our magic number, the one they’ll argue this case up to.”
“I’m not going to settle,” he said. “I don’t settle. Ever.”
“You settled when you married me,” I said. Smile?
“Look how well that turned out,” he said.
He had me there. I deflated, expelling all the oxygen I’d held on to that morning.
“So how’s everything else going?” I asked. “I like the new trailer on that Hanks film.”
“Everything’s great,” he said. “Never better.”
“Terrific,” I said.
“Are you dating Gio Metz?” he asked.
I blinked. “What?”
“Are you fucking Gio Metz?”
“No!”
“Are you thinking about fucking him?” He sounded jealous. Maybe I didn’t know everything there was to know about him.
“What do you mean?” He could tell I was lying. I’m a terrible liar in addition to being a terrible mother. Someone call Blecks.
“He fucks anything that walks,” Trevor said.
I pressed my lips into a straight line.
“What if it swims?” I asked.
Trevor actually gave me a smile.
“Just don’t be stupid,” he said.
“I try,” I said.
“Hey, do you know why everyone’s into anal now? What’s that about?” He looked baffled. Then I looked baffled. We stood there, baffled together, bonding over the anal craze.
“Anonymous!” the bailiff called out.
“That’s us,” I said, skirting more anal talk. Was this the brave new world of dating? My sphincter winced as I stepped gingerly, following Trevor into the courtroom.
* * *
“We have a court order for parenting classes,” I told Dad, who liked to call me every day for divorce and Gio updates. He, like everyone else, was madly in love with Gio. And Dad hadn’t even French-kissed him. Not that he wouldn’t try.
“You need someone to teach you how to parent?” he said, practically spitting out the words. “That’s pathetic.”
“It’s also the law,” I said. “I have to go. If I don’t, I could lose Pep.”
“Who needs classes for parenting? We didn’t have those when you were kids. It’s the damn government, turning us all into sheep. Wait ’til AI has its way with us. Don’t get me started on GMO.”
“Well, maybe I can learn something,” I said. “Everything I know about parenting is from you and a quarter of a mom.”
“Me?” He sounded shocked. “I was a great father.”
“You definitely did your best,” I said, “but if you recall, I cried every day, and how many times was Fin called in for beating up boys?”
My father laughed, his proud dad psyche dining out on the memory. “You cried every day because you were a scaredy-cat. Now, your sister, on the other hand—I remember a call I got from an angry mother,” he said. “Her son came home with a black eye. The kid was a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than Fin. He was the class bully. Fin whooped his sorry ass.”
Point taken.
“Maybe that’s why, Dad,” I said, tempering my approach, “Fin doesn’t mind going to prison. She learned to settle things with her fists. That doesn’t work in the real world.”
“Let me tell you something, dearie,” Dad said and lowered his voice, which was how I knew he was heated. “The world was a better place when we settled matters with fists rather than lawyers.”
I opened my mouth to object and found that I couldn’t argue with him. I would’ve loved to pop Ulger in the mouth, but I feared he would eat it.
The intercom rang.
“I gotta go, Dad,” I said.
“Let me know next time you go out with Gio,” he said. “Be good!”
I hung up and pressed the line to the gate.
“Hey, Agnes,” a man said. “We’re here.”
I clicked on the TV to see the bank of security cameras and narrowed my eyes at the screen. Peter, “Westside’s Realtor to the Stars™” was waving at the front gate.
“I see you’re here, Peter,” I said. “But why?”
There was a pause. People talking in the background.
“My clients are spending the weekend,” he said, his voice sotto voce and mucho anxious. I heard grumbling. “Agnes … you’re supposed to be cleared out.”
19
You Can’t Go Home Again
When famous people decide to buy something, they often want it for free. That Weaselly Fuck and America’s Sweetheart wanted to buy the house. Wait. No. They were almost positive, somewhat confident, more or less committed to buying the house, but they needed to spend the long weekend in the place.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said to Peter, who didn’t bat an eye. He couldn’t bat an eye. It appeared he’d had his eyes welded—but open—by an iron. Evening had fallen, and I’d holed up with the unblinking Peter in our bar where, if you looked east, and bent over at a ninety-degree angle and shielded your eyes from the blaze of sunset, you could see all the way to O. J.’s Rockingham house.
I refilled Peter’s bourbon.
“I’m finding myself saying that a lot these days, Peter,” I said. “I’ve never heard of a man who has his sister-in-law arrested on a bullshit charge. I’ve never heard of a man who sells a house out from under his family. I’ve never heard of a man who talks to his wife about all the women demanding anal—”
“You’re not in my business, Ag,” Peter said. “In this market, you’re lucky they’re not asking for a month. The bottom dropped out, you know.”
“Don’t talk to me about dropping bottoms,” I said, sipping from my glass. “I can’t even find mine anymore.”
The famous couple was sequestered in the kitchen with the lamentable fireplace, no doubt recharging our French and German appliances (maybe I could sell them?) with their star power, while simultaneously sucking out all the oxygen in the room. With movie stars, it can all happen at once. Judging from their hushed yet urgent tones, they weren’t happy with my presence. Stars don’t like civilian-mixing unless it’s preapproved; like they’ve notified paparazzi they’ll be skipping out of James Perse at the Brentwood Country Mart between 12:15 and 12:20.
