March 22, 1993
Conrad looked around Judge Tweety Bird’s office and fiddled with his watch. She was playing the waiting game again, and he didn’t like it one bit.
“Honey, stop fidgeting.”
Conrad glared at Mimsy The leather band of his new watch cut into his wrist, reminding him with every pinch how much he missed the satiny gold of the Rolex. He hadn’t gotten a quarter of what it was worth, but selling it and the Mercedes had bought him a little time. He had lied to Mimsy, too, telling her that the Mercedes was beginning to develop transmission trouble and that a mugger at Mud Island had stolen his watch.
He didn’t feel guilty about the lies, just mildly disgusted that his wife would accept such a stupid story so readily. She didn’t think to ask why the mugger hadn’t taken his wallet and credit cards, or why he hadn’t simply gotten the transmission fixed. She just swallowed it all and gave him a day’s worth of sickeningly sweet consolation over his losses.
If she only knew. The clock was ticking down—Mario had called twice yesterday, and one of the clients whose money he had borrowed had been after him about the pension account. Conrad had actually put the client on hold, disconnected him, and then unplugged the telephone so it would look as if he were having trouble on the line. What would he stoop to next?
A phrase came back to him from deep in the recesses of his memory, some poem an English teacher had crammed down his throat years ago: “I choose never to stoop.” He couldn’t remember the poet or the context, but it was a sentiment that appealed to him. If Judge Dove would just get off her honorific behind and get this situation dealt with, he would never have to stoop again.
The door opened and Her Honor entered the room.
“I see you’re here bright and early, Mr. Wainwright,” she said as she rolled her leather chair into place behind the desk. “With good news for me, I hope.”
“I’m afraid not, Your Honor,” Conrad answered. “I spoke with my mother and tried to reason with her, but she is simply not capable of rational response. She is still holding my granddaughter hostage, and—”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it hostage, Con,” Mimsy interrupted. “Little Am is being well cared for and actually seems to be enjoying herself.”
Con leveled an acid glance at his wife and then turned back to the judge. “I believe that time is of the essence here, Your Honor. There’s no telling what my mother might do if she goes into one of her . . . ah, spells.”
“Spells?” Mimsy squealed. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Con? Amethyst has never had a spell of any kind in her entire life.”
“Whose side are you on?” he whispered under his breath.
“Why, yours, of course,” she responded, tempering her tone to match his. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, don’t help. Just keep quiet.”
The judge pulled her glasses down her nose and stared at Conrad. “Mr. Wainwright, you say you’ve attempted to reason with your mother. Precisely how many times in the past week have you spoken with her?”
Conrad squirmed. “Ah . . . several, Your Honor.”
“Several. As in five or six?”
“Not quite that many times.” Con coughed loudly and cleared his throat.
“Three times? Four? A number, please.”
Conrad lowered his eyes and fought to keep his composure. Male bashing, that’s what it was. Give a woman power, and she’d use it against a man every time. It was something in their nature, like a praying mantis eating her mate before the act was even completed. Judge Harriet Dove might as well have skewered him onto a spit and lit the fire.
“Mr. Wainwright? I’m waiting.”
“One,” he mumbled.
“Speak up, if you please. Did you say ’one’?”
You heard me just fine the first time, he thought, but he didn’t say it. “One, Your Honor.”
“You spoke to your mother once.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Entirely against his will, the yes came out with a vicious hissing noise, like the sound a snake makes as it prepares to strike. The hostility and disdain he had been trying to hide were not lost on the judge.
“You will keep a lid on your temper in this room,” she commanded curtly. It reminded him of something his mother used to say to him as a child: “You will not speak to me in that tone of voice.”
“Yes ma’am.” There it was again, that sarcasm he was trying so hard to curb.
“You are an attorney, is that correct, Mr. Wainwright?”
“That is correct.”
“Then I assume you know I can slap you with a contempt citation before you can blink twice.”
Conrad felt a hot flush creeping up his neck and into his ears. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“I’d advise you to watch yourself. I wouldn’t think twice about doling out a hefty fine and a week in the county jail.”
Mimsy leaned in and put a hand on Conrad’s arm. He flinched at the touch, but suppressed the desire to jerk his elbow away. “Why is she so mad at you?”
She’s not mad; she’s enjoying herself, Conrad wanted to retort. But he couldn’t risk saying that or any of the other uncomplimentary words that came to mind to describe Judge Dove.
Her Honor let out an exaggerated sigh. “All right, Mr. Wainwright. I’ll be perfectly honest with you. I despise what you’re doing here, and I strongly suspect you are not being completely candid with this court. But nevertheless, I have in front of me a motion to declare Amethyst Noble incompetent, and much as I would like to throw you and your motion out onto the sidewalk on your respective derriéres, I cannot ignore my responsibility under the law.”
A lightning flash of hope struck in Conrad’s heart. “You’re going to sign it?”
“Not so fast. I will sign nothing until I hear from all parties involved, face to face. I’m issuing an order for Amethyst Noble to appear before me in these chambers on Friday at 5:00 P.M. And I want your granddaughter present for the proceedings as well. What’s her name?”
“We call her Little Am,” Mimsy piped up. “She’s named Amethyst, after her great-grandmother.”
“Certainly not my choice,” Con muttered.
The judge ignored him. “Little Am.”
Con jerked to attention. “But Judge, you don’t really want to see her. I swear you don’t.”
“And why not?”
“She’s—well, she’s just a child. A teenager. She doesn’t know what’s good for her. She dresses all in black, with this ghastly white makeup, and—”
“How old is your granddaughter, Mr. Wainwright?”
“Seventeen. There’s no telling what she might say or do, Judge.”
“Is she mentally ill? On drugs? Unable to speak for herself?”
“No, Your Honor. At least I don’t think so.”
“Then she will appear before me. And that’s final.” Judge Dove signed the order and slid it across the table for his inspection.
Conrad picked it up and scanned it. “Does it have to be Friday?”
“Too soon for you?” The judge gave him a sly smile and held out her hand. “I can make it two weeks from Monday.”
“No, uh, Friday’s fine.” He handed the order back to her.
“I’ll have the sheriff serve the order, then. And I’ll see you back here on Friday. Five o’clock. And don’t be late.” The judge got up from the chair and placed her hands squarely on her desk.
“And Mr. Wainwright?”
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“Let’s let our little meeting on Friday be the end of this, all right?”
I can only hope, Conrad thought as he gave the judge an affirmative nod. Or it may be the end of me.
“Well, well,” Amethyst mused as she held the judge’s order out for Little Am to inspect. “Looks like you and I will get our day in court.”
Am took the paper and perused it. “A woman judge. Cool.” She folded it up and handed it back to Amethyst. “You sure you’re okay with this, Grandam?”
Amethyst nodded. “My own son wants to have me declared incompetent, take my house, and have me committed to a nursing home for the rest of my days. What do you think I should do about it, child?”
Little Am cocked her head. “I think you should fight like—” She paused and grinned. “Like crazy”
“Then we go before Judge Dove on Friday.”
“Yeah, but why does she want to talk to me?” Am countered. “I’m just a teenager.”
“You don’t think a judge would be interested in what a teenager has to say?”
“Why should she be? Nobody else is.”
Amethyst smiled and laid a hand on the girl’s cheek. To her delight, Little Am didn’t flinch or move away, but leaned into the caress as if hungry for a loving human touch. “I’m interested, child.”
Little Am ducked her head sheepishly. “I know you are, Grandam. At least I do now. This time last week I wouldn’t have been so sure.”
The affirmation warmed Amethyst’s heart. They had come a long way during their week together. “Now, I have no idea what kinds of questions Judge Dove will ask you,” Amethyst went on, “but I have one for you.”
“Fire away”
“What do you want to do?”
“About what?”
Amethyst sighed. “You don’t have to stay with me until Friday. You’ve been here a week already. I know you probably miss your friends, and the mall, and whatever it is you do when you’re not in school. What do you do, anyway?”
“You probably don’t want to know” Am grimaced. “But some of it I won’t be doing anymore.”
“All righty, then,” Amethyst said, employing one of Am’s favorite phrases. “I guess we won’t pursue that line of discussion. But if you want to leave, go back home, I won’t ask you to stay. You have a life apart from your ancient great-grandmother, and—”
Amethyst stopped suddenly as Little Am’s face sagged into a mask of dejection. “You don’t want me to stay?”
The tone was plaintive, like the cry of an abandoned child—a feeling Amethyst remembered vividly, even after nearly eighty years. “Of course I want you to stay,” she amended. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”
The girl’s expression brightened, and she sat down on the hassock and motioned Amethyst into the chair by the fireplace. “Hey, I have to go back to school in a week anyway. I can wait a few more days to find out whatever’s been happening while I’ve been gone. Now, where were we?”
Amethyst gazed with love and astonishment at the young girl who bore her name. Was this the same child who came to her door a week ago looking like a ghoul and skulking around with a chip on her shoulder? “You want more of the story?”
“You wouldn’t dare stop after Harper’s death, would you? That’s a worse cliff-hanger than All My Children.”
"All My Children?”
“It’s a soap, Grandam. I wouldn’t expect you to know about it.”
“That’s a relief. You’re talking about television, I presume?”
“Yes, I’m talking about television. But yours is a much more interesting story.” Am held up a hand. “Just a minute. I’m going to get a can of Diet Pepsi and come right back. Want anything?”
“A glass of tea would be nice.”
In a couple of minutes Am returned from the kitchen with a pitcher of tea, a two-liter bottle of pop, tortilla chips and Oreos, and two glasses full of ice.
“You plan to be here a while, do you?” Amethyst joked, eying the supplies.
“As long as necessary.” Little Am handed over a glass of tea and poured a diet drink for herself. When she was settled in the chair opposite Amethyst’s, she waved a hand impatiently. “I’m ready Proceed.”
Amethyst took a long drink of her tea, leaned her head back against the chair, and closed her eyes. “Harper’s death was hard on me, and taking care of Father until he died compounded the struggle,” she said quietly. “But I got through it, and time passed almost without my realizing it. Before I knew it, Conrad was nearly grown. . . .”