Free Twilight Child by Warren Adler

reasonableness
prevail. What they had to tell the lawyer needed bite, sharpness, outrage. What
he feared was that her words would not excite the needed commitment on the
lawyer’s part.
    Â â€œHe’ll need
to hear from both of us,” she said sensibly.
    Â â€œLet me
start, then.”
    Â â€œJust be
calm.”
    Â â€œSteady as
she goes.” He stretched out his hand to prove the absence of tremors. It was
not a very wisely chosen illustration.
    Â The
receptionist punched a lighted button on the board and murmured into the tiny
microphone she wore on a wire, one tributary of which led to her ear. High
tech, he thought contemptuously, thinking suddenly of the plant and all the
lives displaced because of high tech. People had become like watermelon seeds,
discarded and ground up in the disposal. He felt the cutting edge of depression
surface again and then recede as the receptionist’s voice rang out, a clarion
of hope.
    Â â€œMr. Forte
will see you now,” she chirped, as if she was glad for them. Something she had
observed about them must have blunted her disdain. Now he resented her
compassion, thinking he and Molly must be transparent in their pain. He hated
showing such things to strangers. “Make a left turn and follow the corridor to
the last office.” Her instructions immediately went out of his mind and he
nearly turned right. Molly gently guided him leftward.
    Â â€œNow just be
calm,” she warned again.
    Â â€œHey, babe, I
got it the first time,” he said. His heart was beating a tattoo against his rib
cage, and perspiration had begun to crawl down his back. He noted a slight
chattering of his teeth and bit down on his lower lip to still it. Molly led
the way to an open door beside which on the wall was a gold nameplate engraved
with the lawyer’s name, Robert Forte. He stood up as they entered.
    Â Charlie saw a
full head of black curls, some tipped with premature gray; large, dark brown
eyes, thick-lashed and heavy lidded; olive-tinted skin that set off white teeth
in a boyish smile. A navy blue blazer hung over the back of his large leather
chair. The collar of his striped shirt was high, made higher by a gold pin over
which crawled the tight knot of a yellow tie. His waist was small, and he wore
a gold bracelet just below the buttoned cuff on his left hand. On his desk was
a picture of a pretty blonde woman and another of Forte and two small boys on
the deck of a sailboat. On the wall were diplomas. Charlie’s weight shifted
from foot to foot, and his eyes wavered from the lawyer’s firm gaze.
    Â â€œI’m glad you
could see us, Mr. Forte,” Molly said, jumping into Charlie’s gap of silence
after the handshakes and polite preliminaries. The lawyer’s hand felt cool,
while his own was clammy, a constant cause of embarrassment. He hadn’t
remembered to wipe his palm on his pants.
    Â â€œAs I told
Mr. Waters on the phone, I thought the case worth discussing. The grandparents’
angle is beginning to make its way into domestic law as more and more senior
citizens’ groups lobby the legislatures.”
    Â On the phone
Forte had seemed older, more sympathetic than he appeared now. A pretty boy,
Charlie thought. Too many curls.
    Â â€œCan I get
you some coffee?” he said.
    Â â€œThat would
be nice,” Molly answered. Charlie shrugged a grudging consent. He’d already had
four cups that morning. What else was there to do?
    Â He felt an
antagonistic first impression growing in his mind. Was he going to spill his
guts to this overeducated smoothie half his age? His roving gaze picked up the
word Harvard on one of the diplomas.
    Â Pressing a
button, Forte gave the coffee order into the intercom, smiling as he caught
Charlie studying the picture of the two boys on the sailboat.
    Â â€œColumbia
Thirty-two,” Forte said, leaning back in his chair.
    Â â€œI had a
Rhodes