“And what is that?”
“That’s where the judge tries to get a gist of how long the evidentiary hearing will last. It’s also a chance to sway both parties toward a settlement. This is assuming the petitioners are serious enough to pursue the case even that far.”
That much, if nothing else, was abundantly clear. “What happens in the meantime?”
“There could be depositions scheduled. And your in-laws will probably request an evaluation of you and Jack. This would be on their own dime unless you wanted the court to appoint a psychologist, which I’d personally recommend; it could mean you’d have to split the costs, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the judge made the petitioners fully responsible.”
Evaluations. Depositions. The details swam in Audra’s head and delivered her back to her earlier question. “About how long could all of this take?”
“The standard,” he said, “is twelve months.”
She gaped, hoping she had misheard. “A whole year?” “That said, given your circumstances, I would say nine months isn’t at all out of the question.” He stated this as though he’d delivered a platter full of relief, rather than a bin of burning dollars.
Assuming he was right about her chances of maintaining custody, that still meant a large depletion of her savings. Those funds were for her and Jack to start fresh in—
Oh, no. Boston. It hadn’t dawned on her before.
“I’ve accepted a new job on the East Coast. We’re supposed to move before August.”
“I’d heard that was the plan,” he said, “and it might work out just fine. But if the case does move forward, I’m afraid you won’t be permitted to relocate until it’s over.”
Just like that, the gate leading to Audra and Jack’s future had been slammed shut. She squeezed her eyes and rubbed her temples, wishing away the entrapment.
“You know, Audra,” Russ said with a sigh, “although you might not be up for this at the moment, there is another option you should consider.”
With barely the energy, she lowered her hand and inclined her head.
“You could talk to your in-laws. Come to an understanding without a judge involved. Oftentimes, open and direct communication can make legal action unnecessary. Perhaps, on some issues, you could even reach a suitable compromise.”
The solution sounded so easy. A key to the gate, dangling within reach. She could picture herself grasping it.
But then a memory surfaced from Jack’s preschool days. A larger boy, to pillage a scooter in the playroom, had given Jack a hefty shove. Jack pushed back in defense. When Devon learned both kids were made to apologize, he delivered a staunch objection to the school director. Defending oneself didn’t warrant a “sorry.” Or an appeasing compromise.
The same principle applied here—even to Devon’s parents.
“I’ll talk to them,” Audra said, “when we go to court.”
34
June 1942
Brooklyn, NY
At Ebbets Field, on a deceivingly pleasant Sunday, Vivian avoided conversation by looking engrossed in the game. The Yankees, in the first half of a doubleheader, had lost by a run to the Cleveland Indians and were charging back with a vengeance. She cheered and clapped on cue, all the while averting her attention from Gene.
Postponing the date had appealed to her for many a reason, but canceling at the last minute could have raised suspicion. She wanted desperately to come clean, to ask for advice. From his experience in Intelligence he could offer ideas and insight. But given her history with Isaak, asking Gene to help him seemed wrong. More than that, it would put Gene in direct conflict with his duties as an officer.
And so, all weekend she had barely slept, scarcely ate, as she racked her brain for alternatives. She had quickly ruled out her father; even if he were receptive to her plight, communicating by telegram or phone would be unwise. A letter, too, risked interception and could take months for delivery. The same obstacles prohibited her outreach to politicians; any she adequately trusted had been transferred due to war demands.
Starting tomorrow, Vivian’s eavesdropping on the switchboard would serve a new and urgent purpose: to find sympathetic contacts, preferably in the upper echelons, while sifting for any hint that Isaak’s mission had been detected.
No progress. Still trying.
This was the update she had penned the previous day, without mention of names, and left for Isaak in the cafe courtyard. The underside of the flowerpot had become their nightly mailbox.
He would not say where he was staying, on what means he was living, which activities filled his hours. Though he withheld these details to protect her, such maddening unknowns nibbled at her like moths upon wool.