If this were 1942, I could have syncopated my anguish to Charlie Parker on alto sax, Dizzy Gillespie on trumpet, Kenny Clark on drums, and Ray Brown on bass. Instead, I got stuck with the Goldschmidt Brothers, whose idea of dangerous is “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” played in A-minor. But it didn’t matter. After two hours, my options were clear:
1. Run for office, lose Clayton.
And what good is changing the world if you have to fall asleep by yourself? Remember Fanny Brice? “Flo, I love hearing an audience applaud—but you can’t take an audience home with you!”
2. Keep Clayton, lose Craig.
Maybe in ten more years he’ll let me pick the movie on Saturday night. Meanwhile, I can sign all of my credit card receipts “Mrs. Norman Maine.”
3. Knock off the rosé wine unless you want to lose Kessler vs. Kessler to a hangover.
How am I going to tell Noah that the court said no again? How can I look into those eyes and admit that I let him down? Even the Miles and Miles and Miles of Heart song won’t work this time.
4. Grow up and admit that Travis doesn’t even remember you any more.
But what if Charleen is wrong? That happens occasionally. Suppose he’s heading north on I-87 right now, deliberately breaking every statute in the Vehicle Code for me? What would he say when he got here? Would he let me borrow a page from his playbook?
redoubtable
Formidable, fearsome; Carlton Fisk in 1975; you in a couple of years, after you’ve won your first hundred cases.
cavalier
Chivalrous, noble; remember when the guy in the Pacer called you an asshole? That wasn’t cavalier. Remember when you pretended to lose the coin toss so I could be Smerko? That was.
ubiquitous
Craig.
5. Remember what he taught you and go for broke.
KESSLER’S SHELL
351 Kemble Street
Utica, New York 13501
Dear Craig,
No matter what happens in court this morning, I just wanted to say thanks for kicking ass the way you have, even all those times we came up short. Also for keeping an eye on my kid when I couldn’t be there to do it myself. And for trying to make me think that $300 was enough to even the score. (Come on, Craig. I may not know law but I know that I can’t replace wheel bearings for less than $271 in labor. And that only takes me two hours.)
If Charleen says she’ll marry me (and she will, you think?) I’m going to ask you to be my best man. But come to think of it, you already are.
Thanks for making us family.
Jody
Noah Kessler
6026 Foxhound Run
Saratoga Springs, New York 12866
June 12, 1998
ATTORNEY-CLIENT COMMUNICATION
VIA FACSIMILE
Craig McKenna, Esq.
McKenna & Webb
118 Congress Park, Suite 407
Saratoga Springs, New York 12866
Dear Craig,
Good news. Frau Schneller tried to sabotage us by putting my rabbit’s foot in the washing machine, but the joke is on her because none of the blue came off. So it still works.
I have to go get my haircut at Kiddy Corner (give me a break), but I’m keeping my pager on. So as soon as court is over, call and tell me what happened. If we lose, I’ll probly be depressed and mope and kick rocks because I’m sad and flunk out of sixth grade and not get into college and turn into a burgler. But guess what? The circus is coming to Albany and if you take me there three times, maybe none of those things will happen.
Noah
Craig McKenna
Attorney Notes
If Charleen and I were Ally McBeal, we’d each have six thousand very white teeth, yuppie hair, perfect bodies, witty friends who didn’t know what the far side of 30 looked like, a salty judge who nonetheless owned a heart of gold and whose acerbic ripostes gave the impression that he’d earned his law degree at the Improv, and a caseload so teeming with freckled faces, lovable grandmas, and other testaments to the richness of our souls, not even Rosemary’s Baby could have ruled against us. But Charleen and I aren’t Ally McBeal.
“This is what it feels like the first game of the season,” whispered Jody apprehensively. “I wish I was wearing my cup.” Beside him at the mile-long petitioner’s table, Charleen squeezed his hand and winced.
“Jody?” she implored. “Would you do me a huge favor?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t tell that to Judge Costanzo.”
The cavernous courtroom, with its Doric columns and ornate inscription over the bench (“Built to Intimidate” in Latin), was beginning to fill up with the usual collection of plaintiffs, defendants, and salivating onlookers who apparently couldn’t wait to dine on human suffering until Jenny Jones and Oprah dished out their daily doses later in the afternoon. Either Costanzo has a heavy docket this morning, or some people really need to get lives.
Jody was dressed in a form-fitting charcoal gray pinstriped suit that Charleen had helped him pick out, a powder blue Armani shirt, and a navy-and-crimson tie that—taken as a package—was unable to mute the broad shoulders, the tousled hair, or the little-boy twinkle that he wore like a signet. I had no idea whether or not he was going to impress His Honor, but one thing was certain: if he walked through the West Village looking like that, there wouldn’t be anything left of him at the other end.
“Good morning, Charleen,” oozed an oily voice to our right, interrupting our group excursion into muffled panic. We all glanced up at the same time. There was Larry Dysart, attired in sharkskin, with all nineteen nose hairs intact.
“Good morning, Lawrence,” she replied evenly.
“Best of luck,” he offered, leering at my partner’s breasts.
“You too,” she countered, in a voice colored with every shade but sincerity. Clearly disappointed that she hadn’t offered to blow him on the spot, he took a seat at the respondent’s table and glowered at us.
“Who was that?” asked Jody suspiciously.
“Larry Dysart,” replied Charleen, interlacing her fingers with his. “He’s the reason we need lawyer jokes.”
I was about to say something tacky, crude, embarrassing, and unnecessary, but at that moment I spotted Clayton. He’d just taken a seat in the third row—and even if he hadn’t been on the lam since Monday, I’d have had trouble recognizing him. His shirt was rumpled, his usually erotic stubble had begun to evoke unsavory images of Fidel Castro after the Bay of Pigs, and he had “sleepless in Saratoga” branded across his forehead. His eyes met mine only briefly—but long enough to assure me that we were still on the same team.
“Clayton’s here,” I sighed happily, feeling both human and catty again for the first time all week. “Who looks worse? Him or me?” My confederates both turned to wave at him, with Jody adding a thumbs-up to the bargain.
“You do,” said Charleen finally.
“It’s a draw,” said Jody.
“Court will come to order,” said the bailiff.
Show time.
Superior Court of the State of New York in and for the County of Saratoga
JODY B. KESSLER,
)
CASE NO. Fam. 81699
)
Petitioner,
)
FRIDAY, JUNE 12, 1998
)
10:00 A.M.
vs.
)
)
ANNETTE KESSLER MUELLER,
)
)
Respondent.
)
_______________________
)
HEARING ON PETITION FOR JOINT CUSTODY
The Honorable John J. Costanzo, Judge Presiding
TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS
Attorneys for Petitioner, Jody B. Kessler:
Craig S. McKenna, Esq., Charleen Webb, Esq.
Attorney for Respondent, Annette Mueller: Lawrence F. Dysart, Esq.
1
BAILIFF:
Superio
r Court of the State of New York for the County of Saratoga, the Honorable John J. Costanzo presiding. All rise.
2
3
4
THE COURT:
Be seated.
5
BAILIFF:
In the matter of Kessler vs. Kessler, docket number 81699, Hearing on Petition for Joint Custody.
6
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THE COURT:
Are counsel and parties present?
8
MR. McKENNA:
Craig McKenna and Petitioner, Your Honor.
9
MR. DYSART:
Lawrence Dysart, Your Honor. Mrs. Mueller is in
1
Europe with her husband, but I have notarized copies of all financial statements and affidavits should the Court require them.
2
3
4
THE COURT:
Thank you, counsel. That won’t be necessary.
5
MR. McKENNA:
Shit. He’s not even going to consider it.
6
THE COURT:
What was that, Mr. McKenna?
7
MR. McKENNA:
Excuse me, Your Honor. I thought I was mumbling.
8
THE COURT:
You weren’t.
9
MR. McKENNA:
It won’t happen again.
10
THE COURT:
Mr. Kessler, may I ask you a personal question?
11
MR. KESSLER:
Yes, sir.
12
THE COURT:
Exactly how many times are you going to petition this Court for custody of your son?
13
14
MR. KESSLER:
As many as it takes, Your Honor. Sooner or later you’re bound to throw me a fastball.
15
16
MR. DYSART:
Objection, Your Honor.
17
THE COURT:
Overruled, counsel. Sit down and shut up.
18
MR. KESSLER:
Was that the wrong answer?
19
THE COURT:
No. Unfortunately for the taxpayer, it was the right one.
20
MR. KESSLER:
Then can I have him? I wanted to take him to Nantucket next weekend, and they have this deal where if you buy your tickets early, you can get them at half—
21
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THE COURT:
Mr. Kessler—
24
MR. KESSLER:
—we’re going fishing so I can show him how to hook an angler—
25
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THE COURT:
Mr. Kessler, I understand how you feel—
27
MR. KESSLER:
Then why won’t you give him to me!
28
THE COURT:
Because you can’t afford him! Do you think he won’t need braces just because you love him? You think Princeton’ll let him in for free because he says you’re his best friend? Mr. Kessler, there’s a great deal more to it than that. There shouldn’t be, but there is. And if you can’t—
29
30
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(Mr. Bergman rises.)
1
MR. BERGMAN:
Excuse me, Your Honor.
2
THE COURT:
Are you a party to this action?
3
MR. BERGMAN:
I am now, Your Honor. Clayton Bergman. I’ve got a hardware store on Putnam Street, three hundred acres by Saratoga Lake, and a new partner who’s sitting at the petitioner’s table.
4
5
6
7
THE COURT:
I presume you’re referring to Mr. Kessler?
8
MR. BERGMAN:
Look, Your Honor—I have eighteen condos and a dozen houses to put up in the next five years, and I can’t do it by myself. So Jody’s going to be running construction while I handle the store, and he’ll probably wind up making more than you and me put together.
9
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THE COURT:
Mr. Kessler, is this true?
14
MR. KESSLER:
Uh—yes, sir.
15
THE COURT:
I see.
16
(His Honor confers with the bailiff.)
17
THE COURT:
Court will recess for five minutes.
18
BAILIFF:
All rise.
Craig McKenna
Attorney Notes
Larry Dysart looked as though he’d been stabbed through the heart with a pitchfork, Charleen hadn’t quite rebounded from the shock either, and Jody was bewildered beyond the point of comprehension—usually he’d be out on the sidewalk by now, attempting to explain to his little boy why we’d failed again.
“What does a recess mean?” he asked tentatively, not daring to believe the obvious.
“It means extra innings,” murmured a white-knuckled Charleen, gripping his arm tightly. “Hold your breath.” Recognizing a tender moment when I saw one—and having a few of my own on deck—I made myself scarce. What did Celeste Holm say to Gary Merrill while he was cradling Bette Davis? “I guess at this point I’m what the French call de trop.” So I mumbled my excuses and tore up the aisle.
Clayton was waiting for me in the marble foyer outside of Department A, but before I could say anything, he put a finger to my lips and pointed to a burnished oak door across the hall.
“What’s in there?” he asked furtively.
“Empty jury chambers,” I replied, mystified.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand. As usual, he led and I followed—but for once it didn’t yank my chain the wrong way. Especially after he’d flipped on the lights in the musty old room and wrapped me up in those big arms of his.
“First things first,” he sighed, stroking my cheek. “Craig, I’m so sorry.” Though I was absolutely determined to make him crawl through lit kerosene before I even considered relenting, my resistance wilted as soon as he kissed me—and by the time we’d come up for air, we’d already lost a full minute of the four we had left before recess ended.
“Sir Galahad,” I chided him, toying with his chest. “Rescuing Jody in the nick of time. What a hot dog.”
“Well, somebody had to bail your ass out,” he grumbled. “That’s part of my job, isn’t it?”
“How long have you been planning this?”
“Ever since Utica when he mapped out the whole Saratoga Lake project between dessert and coffee on two napkins and a menu,” he confessed, practicing the fingers-through-my-hair thing even though he already had three gold medals and a bronze in that particular event. “I’d have clued you in sooner, but it would have meant calling a cease fire.” By then I was ready to forgive him just about anything—and he knew it.
“Clay, why don’t we just forget—”
“Honey, wait,” he insisted, pushing away from me as he stumbled for the right words. “There’s something I need to say and it isn’t easy.” Inwardly, I panicked. If it was “goodbye,” I didn’t want to hear it—now or ever. But that’s not what he had on his mind.
“I—I want you to run for office,” he stammered finally.
What? Hello? Who are you and what have you done with Clayton? It was perhaps the first time in twenty years that he’d stunned me speechless. In fact, I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told me he was really Lady Bird Johnson.
“No, you don’t,” I blurted.
“No, I don’t,” he blurted back. “But if it gets this thing out of your system—”
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“Clay, it’s not a thing, and I may never get it out of my system,” I protested. “Then what happens?”
In reply, he reined me in so tightly that my chin was grafted to the hollow of his neck. Uh-oh. Bad sign. This was a maneuver usually reserved for birthdays and crises—and I wasn’t going to be 39 for another seven months.
“Honey,” he whispered gently, “the only reason I own a store is because I like knowing where things are. And marrying you just so I can keep you in one place isn’t a good enough excuse.” There was the briefest of pauses as he took my hand in his. “Look, we’ll probably work this out the way we always do. But we may have to make some choices this time.” Without any further prompting, my eyes began to well with tears.