Sing You Home: A Novel Read online

  “Showtime,” Wade murmurs, and I turn around to see what he’s looking at. Zoe’s just walked into the courtroom, along with Vanessa and a tiny lady with bouncy black curls that ricochet in all directions from her scalp.

  “We’re outnumbered,” Vanessa says quietly, but I can hear her all the same, and I like the idea that Wade’s already thrown them off their game. Zoe doesn’t look at me as she takes her seat. I bet that little lawyer gave her a bunch of rules to follow, too.

  Wade quietly dials a number on his cell phone, and, a moment later, the double doors at the back of the courtroom open and a young woman who works as a paralegal for Ben Benjamin wheels a hand truck full of books down the aisle. She stacks them on the table in front of Wade, while Zoe and Vanessa and their lawyer watch. There are books of research, books of law from other states. I start reading the titles on the spines: Traditional Marriage. The Preservation of Family Values.

  The last book she sets on top of the pile is the Bible.

  “Hey, Zoe,” the female lawyer says. “You know the difference between a catfish and Wade Preston? One’s a slimy, scum-sucking bottom-feeder. And the other one’s just a fish.”

  A man stands up. “All rise, the honorable Padraic O’Neill presiding.”

  The judge enters from another door. He is tall, with a mane of white hair that has a tiny triangle of black at the widow’s peak. Two deep lines bracket his mouth, as if his frown needed any more attention drawn to it.

  When he sits down, we do, too. “Baxter versus Baxter,” the clerk reads.

  The judge slips a pair of reading glasses on. “Whose motion is this?”

  Ben Benjamin stands. “Your Honor, I’m here today on the behalf of third-party plaintiffs, Reid and Liddy Baxter. My client is joining in the effort to have them impleaded into the case, and my colleague, Mr. Preston, and I would very much like to be heard on that issue.”

  The judge’s face crinkles in a smile. “Why, Benny Benjamin! Always a pleasure to have you in court. I get to see if you managed to learn anything I ever taught you.” He glances over the paperwork in his folder. “Now, what is this motion about exactly?”

  “Judge, this a custody battle over three frozen embryos that remained after the divorce of Max and Zoe Baxter. Reid and Liddy Baxter are my client’s brother and sister-in-law. They wish—and Max wishes—to gain custody of the embryos for the purpose of giving them to his brother and sister-in-law to gestate and bring to term and raise as their own children.”

  Judge O’Neill’s eyebrows knit together. “You’re telling me there’s a final judgment about property that the parties didn’t deal with during their divorce?”

  Wade stands up beside me. His cologne smells like limes. “Your Honor, with all due respect,” he says, “we are talking about children. About pre-born children—”

  Across the aisle, Zoe’s attorney rises. “Objection, Your Honor. This is ludicrous. Can someone please tell Mr. Preston we’re not in Louisiana?”

  Judge O’Neill points at Wade. “You! Sit down right now.”

  “Your Honor,” Zoe’s lawyer says, “Max Baxter is using biology as a trump card to take three frozen embryos away from my client—who is one of the intended parents. She and her legal spouse intend to raise them in a healthy, loving family.”

  “Where’s her legal spouse?” O’Neill asks. “I don’t see him sitting next to her.”

  “My client is legally married to her spouse, Vanessa Shaw, in the state of Massachusetts.”

  “Well, Ms. Moretti,” the judge replies, “she’s not legally married in Rhode Island. Now, let me get this straight—”

  Behind me, I hear Vanessa stifle a snort. “But we’re not,” she murmurs.

  “—You want the embryos.” He points at Zoe. “And you want them,” he says, pointing at me, and finally he points to Reid and Liddy. “And now they want them?”

  “Actually, Your Honor,” Zoe’s lawyer says, “Max Baxter doesn’t want the embryos. He plans to give them away.”

  Wade stands up. “To the contrary, Your Honor. Max wants his children to be raised in a traditional family, not a sexually deviant one.”

  “A man seeking embryos to give away to somebody else,” the judge sums up. “Are you saying that’s a traditional type of thing to do? Because it sure isn’t where I come from.”

  “If I may, Judge, this is a complicated case,” Zoe’s attorney says. “As far as I know, it’s a new area of the law that’s never been determined in Rhode Island. Today, though, we’re only convened because of the motion filed to implead Reid and Liddy Baxter, and I strenuously object to them becoming parties in this lawsuit. I have filed a memo today stating that, and, in fact, if you choose to allow prospective gestational carriers to implead this case, then Vanessa Shaw should also be a party, and I will file a motion immediately—”

  “I object, Your Honor,” Wade argues. “You already said this is not a legal marriage, and now Ms. Moretti is raising a red herring that you already tossed out.”

  The judge stares at him. “Mr. Preston, if you interrupt Ms. Moretti again, I am going to hold you in contempt of court. This is not a TV show; you’re not Pat Robertson. This is my courtroom, and I’m not about to let you turn it into the circus you’d like it to be. I’m retiring after this case, and so help me, I’m not going out in a religious catfight.” He bangs his gavel. “The motion to implead is denied. This case is between Max Baxter and Zoe Baxter, and it will proceed in the ordinary course. You, Mr. Benjamin, are welcome to call whomever you like as a witness, but I’m not impleading anyone. Not Reid and Liddy Baxter,” he says, and then he turns to the other lawyer. “And not Vanessa Shaw, so don’t file any motions requesting it.”

  Finally, he turns to Wade. “And Mr. Preston. Word to the wise: think very carefully about what kind of grandstanding you plan to do. Because I’m not allowing you to run away with this court. I’m in charge here.”

  He stands up and leaves the bench, and we jump up, too. Being in court isn’t that different from being in church. You rise, you fall, you look to the front of the room for guidance.

  Zoe’s lawyer walks over to our table. “Angela,” Wade says. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to see you, but it’s a sin to lie.”

  “Sorry that didn’t go as well for you as you’d hoped,” she replies.

  “That went just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Maybe that’s what you all think in Louisiana, but, believe me, here you just got slammed,” the lawyer says.

  Wade leans on the books that were brought in by the paralegal. “The true colors of this judge will come out, darlin’,” he says. “And believe me . . . they’re not rainbow-striped.”

  “There is audio content at this location that is not currently supported for your device. The caption for this content is displayed below.”

  The Mermaid (3:26)

  ZOE

  Lucy is drawing a mermaid: her hair long and twisted, her tail curled into the corner of the thick manila paper. As I finish singing “Angel,” I put down my guitar, but Lucy keeps adding little touches—a ribbon of seaweed, the reflection of the sun. “You’re a good artist,” I tell her.

  She shrugs. “I design my own tattoos.”

  “Do you have any?”

  “If I did, I’d be thrown out of my house,” Lucy says. “One year, six months, four days.”

  “That’s when you’re getting your tattoo?”

  She looks up at me. “That’s the minute I turn eighteen.”

  After our drumming session, I had vowed never to make Lucy meet in the special needs classroom again. Instead, Vanessa tells me which spaces are unoccupied (the French class that’s on a field trip; the art class that has gone to the auditorium to watch a film). Today, for example, we are meeting in the health classroom. We’re surrounded by inspirational posters: THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS. And CHOOSE BOOZE? YOU LOSE. And a pregnant teen in profile: NO DEPOSIT, NO RETURN.

  We have been working on lyric analys