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“Why?”
“You wouldn’t put things back on a dirty shelf, would you?”
I gathered it was rhetorical.
•••
I peeked in John’s office when I walked by, and he was on the phone, his outline an indistinct reflection in the dark window. The office looked hollowed out without its screens and computers, since he had more electronics than all of us put together.
I kept going down the hall to my mother’s office, surprised to find her alone, picking up the crystal awards, legal treatises, and framed photos dumped from her bookshelves onto the floor. The burglars had made a mess of her office, which had always been my favorite, with its Danish-modern desk and chairs, vintage Norwegian rya rug in orange and blue, and framed Helen Frankenthaler posters, alive with bold colors.
“Ma, let me help.” I hustled to her, picked up some books, and set them on the low-slung couch. “I would’ve come earlier, I thought Dad was with you.”
“He’s outside checking the cameras.” My mother straightened, tucking a strand of hair behind her earlobe, where a diamond stud sparkled. Her eyebrows sloped unhappily, and up close, I could see the pencil lines underneath had worn off. She seemed unraveled, standing in the detritus of the office.
“You okay?” I asked, feeling guilty. Now my parents were the victims of a conspiracy they had nothing to do with, and I couldn’t even tell them why.
“I never realized how much I loved this office until I saw it in this state. This ismyplace, even more than the house. It’smine.” She surveyed the damage, clucking. “You know Virginia Woolf,A Room of One’s Own?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Well, the title says it all.Thisis the room that’s mine. Everything else I share, every single room in the house. But not this.”
“I understand. We’ll put it back together. I’ll help.”
“But first things first.” My mother met my eye, pursing her lips. “I’m sorry for the way your father acted with the police. He’s going to say he’s sorry.”
“You brokered that?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need him to apologize.”
“I want him to.” My mother sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “It gets old, cleaning up after him. Sometimes I feel more like a janitor than a wife.”
I felt as if my mother were letting her guard down, since she rarely talked negatively about my father. “So don’t do it anymore. You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do. He has to know when he crosses the line.”
“But, why?” I never had a frank talk with her about my father, so I went with the flow. “He won’t change.”
“I’m not trying to change him, God knows. If he hasn’t changed yet, he’s not changing.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“It’s a check on misconduct, that’s all. There has to be rules. That’s why we have laws.” My mother gestured at the lawbooks on the couch. “You know the husbands I represent, they’re angry. The wives, too. The emotionality is off the charts in my practice. You see people at the worst times in their lives. Try to stop a father from seeing his kid, or a mother. Everybody loses their minds, even the worst parents,especiallythe worst parents. They’ll fight over the cost, the alternating Tuesday/Thursday, or the ‘my weekend’/‘her weekend.’ They’ll fight over the extra day of vacation. Or whether the kid should play socceror lacrosse.Everyoneis at their worst. But you know what keeps them in line? The law.Me.” My mother pointed to a little framed motto she kept on her bookshelf,divorce is better than murder. “It’s true. That’s why it’s funny.”
“Yikes.”
“So don’t tell me that your father shouldn’t apologize. He should.”
I couldn’t let it go. “A forced apology isn’t an apology.”
“Oh, you wantmens rea, too? You want the proper intent, not just the words?” My mother smiled crookedly. “Be realistic. This isn’t criminal law, it’s civil. The standard is lower. Take the settlement you can and get out of court. It may not be a real apology to you, but it is to him, believe me. You know he doesn’t like to apologize. You have to force it out of him. Every time, it’s like you’re asking for akidney, for God’s sake.” My mother made a ball of her fist and shook it. “He has to think about someone other than himself. He has to think about you and the effect of his words on you. Because it’sright.”
That, I got. “Justice.”
“Exactly.” Her expression softened. “You know he loves you, TJ, and he knows this is a difficult time for you. We both do.”
