“I’m not in the mood to swap insults. I get Starcher tomorrow for my thirty-six hours. Any problems with that?”
“What are your plans?”
“So I have to submit my plans to you for approval? When did the court order this?”
“Just curious, that’s all. You need a drink.”
We stare at the table for a few minutes, waiting for the alcohol. When it arrives, we grab the glasses. After the third gulp, I say, “My mother is in town. We’ll take Starcher to the mall for the usual ritual whereby the noncustodial parent kills a few hours drinking coffee while the kid rides the carousel and bangs around the playground. Then we’ll have bad pizza and bad ice cream in the food court and watch the clowns turn flips and pass out balloons. After that we’ll drive down to the river and take a walk by the boats in the harbor. What else would you like to know?”
“You plan to keep him tomorrow night?”
“I get thirty-six hours, once a month. That’s 9:00 a.m. tomorrow until 9:00 p.m. Sunday. Do the math. It’s not that complicated.”
The waiter pops in to ask how we’re doing. I order another round, even though our glasses are not yet half-empty. Over the past year, I have almost managed to look forward to these brief meetings with Judith. We’re both lawyers and occasionally we’ve found common ground. I once loved her, though I’m not so sure she felt the same. We share a child. I have entertained the fantasy that we could possibly develop a friendship, one that I need because I have so few friends. Right now, though, I can’t stand the sight of her.
We drink in silence, two brooding ex-lovers who would really like to strangle one another. She breaks the tension with “What kind of person is Arch Swanger?”
We talk about him for a few minutes, then about the abduction and the nightmare the Kemp family is enduring. A lawyer she knows once handled a DUI for Jiliana’s last boyfriend, which is supposed to somehow be enlightening.
The drinks are finished in thirty minutes, a record, and we part ways without even the obligatory peck on the cheek.
It’s a challenge each month to plan an activity that keeps Starcher entertained. He’s already told me he’s tired of the mall, the zoo, the fire station, miniature golf, and the children’s theater. What he really wants to do is watch more cage fighting, but that’s not going to happen. So, I buy him a boat.
We meet my mother at a place called the Landing, a contrived boathouse in the middle of City Park. She and I drink coffee while Starcher slurps his hot cocoa. My mother is worried about his upbringing. The kid has no table manners and never utters the words “sir,” “ma’am,” “please,” and “thank you.” I’ve pushed him on this and gotten nowhere.
The boat is a remote-controlled model racer with an engine that whines like a muffled chain saw. The pond is a large man-made circle of water with a gushing fountain in the center. It’s a magnet for model boats of all varieties, and for all ages. Starcher and I fiddle with the remote controls for half an hour before everything makes sense. When he’s comfortable, I turn him loose and take a seat next to my mother on a bench under a tree.
It’s a beautiful day, with crisp light air and a brilliant blue sky. The park is crawling with people—families strolling about eating ice cream, new moms with massive strollers, young lovers rolling in the leaves. And no shortage of divorced fathers exercising their rights of visitation.
My mother and I chat about nothing of any importance as we watch her only grandson in the distance. She lives two hours away and does not get our local news. She’s heard nothing of the Swanger affair and I’m not about to bring it up. She has a lot of opinions and does not approve my career. Her first husband, my father, was a lawyer who made a nice living in real estate. He died when I was ten. Her second husband made a fortune in rubber bullets and died at the age of sixty-two. She’s been afraid to gamble on a third one.
I fetch us more coffee in paper cups and we resume our conversation. Starcher waves me over, and when I get there he hands me the controls and says he needs to go pee. The restroom is not far away, just on the other side of the pond in a building that houses the concession stands and park offices. I ask him if he needs help and he shoots me a dirty look. He is, after all, now eight years old and gaining confidence. I watch him as he walks to the building and enters the men’s restroom. I stop the boat and wait.
