Sing You Home Read online

  GLAD. Gay & Lesbian Advocates & Defenders. Winter Street, Boston.

  I grab the newsletter and carry it back into the kitchen, where Zoe has wilted at the table. I pick up the telephone from where it's landed beneath a windowsill and dial the number in the advertisement.

  "Hi," I say brusquely. "My name's Vanessa Shaw. My wife has just been served with a lawsuit by her ex-husband. He's trying to gain custody and control of frozen embryos we had hoped to use to start a family, and he's making it into an evangelical, right-wing, gay-bashing, precedent-setting case. Can you help us?" The words come out in a furious flood, until Zoe has lifted her head from the table and is staring at me, wide-eyed. "Yes," I tell the receptionist. "I'll hold."

  Muzak fills my ear. Zoe was the one who told me that the company that invented all that awful elevator music went bankrupt in 2009. She called it musical karma.

  She walks toward me, taking the newsletter out of my hand and glancing down at the ad for legal services.

  "If Max wants a fight," I tell her, "then that's what he's going to get."

  When I was twenty-four I broke my ankle playing pond hockey the day after Christmas. I snapped clear through the fibula, and a surgeon affixed a metal plate to my bone (the last time, I like to say, that a man will ever screw me). Although my teammates got me to the ER, my mother had to come stay in my apartment because I was completely incapacitated. I could hobble around on my crutches but couldn't get on and off the toilet. I couldn't hoist myself out of the bathtub. I couldn't go anywhere at all, because my crutches slipped and skidded on the ice outside.

  If not for my mother, I probably would have wasted away on saltines, tap water, and bad soap operas.

  Instead, my mother stoically helped me in and out of the bathroom. She washed my hair in the tub so I wouldn't lose my balance. She drove me to and from the doctor's appointments and stocked my fridge and cleaned my house.

  In return I bitched and moaned at her because I was really furious at myself. Finally, I hit a nerve. She threw down the plate of food she'd made me--it was a grilled cheese sandwich, I remember, because I complained about it being American cheese and not Swiss--and walked out the door.

  Fine, I told myself. I don't need her.

  And I didn't. Not for the first three hours, anyway. And then I really had to pee.

  At first I hobbled on my crutches to the bathroom. But I couldn't lever myself down off them onto the toilet without the fear of falling. I wound up balancing on one foot and urinating into an empty coffee mug, and then I collapsed back on the bed and called my mother.

  I'm sorry, I sobbed. I'm helpless.

  That's where you're wrong, she told me. You're not helpless. You need help. There's a big difference.

  On Angela Moretti's desk is a sealed glass jar, and swimming inside is what looks like a dried prune.

  "Oh," she says, when she sees me looking at it. "That's from my last case."

  Zoe and I have taken the day off from work to meet with Angela at her office in downtown Boston. She reminds me of Tinker Bell on speed--tiny, talking a mile a minute. Her black curls bounce as she lifts the jar and moves it closer to me.

  "What is it?"

  "A testicle," Angela says.

  No wonder I didn't recognize it. Beside me, Zoe chokes and starts coughing.

  "Some asshole got it bitten off in a barroom brawl."

  "And he saved it?" I say.

  "In formaldehyde." Angela shrugs. "He's a guy," she replies, by way of explanation. "I represented his ex-wife. She's got a same-sex spouse now, and the jerk wouldn't let her see her kids. She brought it to me for safekeeping because she said this is the most important thing in the world to him and she wanted it as collateral. I kept it because I liked the idea of having the plaintiff by the balls."

  I like Angela Moretti already--and not just because she keeps a reproductive organ on her desk. I like her because Zoe and I walked into this office and nobody batted an eye to see us holding hands--out of solidarity and nerves, I suppose. I like Angela because she's on our side, and I didn't even have to try to convince her.

  "I'm really scared," Zoe says. "I just can't believe Max is doing this."

  Angela whips out a pad of paper and an expensive-looking fountain pen. "You know, life changes people sometimes. My cousin Eddie, he was the biggest bastard north of New Jersey until he shipped out during the Gulf War. I don't just mean cranky--he was the kind of guy who tried to hit the squirrel with his car when it ran across the road. I don't know what he saw in that desert, but when Eddie came home, he became a monk. God's honest truth."

  "Can you help us?" I ask.

  Zoe bites her lip. "And can you tell us what it's going to cost?"

  "Not a dime," Angela says. "And by that I mean, not a dime. GLAD is a nonprofit organization. We've been in New England for over thirty years protecting the civil rights of people who are gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual, and questioning. We brought to court the precedent-setting case of Goodridge v. Department of Public Health, which said it was unconstitutional to not allow gay people to marry--and as a result Massachusetts became the first state in the country to allow gay marriage, back in 2004. We've fought for gay adoption rights, so that the unmarried partner of a child's biological parent can adopt that child and become a second legal parent--without the biological parent having to relinquish her rights. We have challenged the federal Defense of Marriage Act. Your case fits into our agenda completely," Angela says, "just like your ex-husband's case fits in with Wade Preston's agenda."

  "You know his lawyer?" I ask.

  She snorts. "You know the difference between Wade Preston and a vulture? Frequent flier miles. He's a homophobic nutbag who travels around the country trying to get states to amend their constitutions so that gay couples can't marry. He's this millennium's Anita Bryant and Jesse Helms all rolled up into one and stuffed in an Armani suit. But he also plays hard and tough, and it's going to get ugly. He's going to drag in the media and put the courthouse in an uproar because he'll want to get the public on his side. He's going to make you the poster children for unmarried heathens who aren't fit to raise a baby." Angela looks from me to Zoe. "I need to know that you two are in this for the long haul."

  I reach for Zoe's hand. "Absolutely."

  "But we are married," Zoe points out.

  "Not according to the great state of Rhode Island. If your case was being brought to a Massachusetts court, you'd have a much stronger position than you do in your home state."

  "What about the millions of straight couples who aren't married but have babies? Why isn't anyone questioning their ability to raise a child?"

  "Because Wade Preston is going to make sure this is viewed as a custody case even though we're not talking about children, we're talking about property. And anytime there's a custody case, the morality of your relationship is going to be on the hot seat."

  Zoe shakes her head. "Biologically, it's my baby."

  "By that argument, it's also Max's baby. He has as much legal right to the embryos as you do--and Preston is going to say he has a better moral plan for that unborn child."

  "Well, he's not exactly the model Christian daddy," I say. "He isn't married. He's a recovering alcoholic--"

  "Good," Angela mutters, writing on her pad. "That might help. But we don't know yet what Max wants to do with the embryos. Our position is going to be to paint you as a loving, committed couple with strong roots in the community and respect in your individual professions."

  "Will that be enough?" Zoe asks.

  "I don't know. We aren't going to be able to control the wild ride that Wade Preston's about to launch, but we've got a strong case, and we're not going to let him roll right over us. Now, let me get some background information from you. You were married when?"

  "In April, in Fall River," I say.

  "And you're presently living where?"

  "Wilmington, Rhode Island."

  Angela writes this down. "You live in the same house?"