The Wedding Party. Robyn Carr
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twenty-five company Christmas parties. I—”
“Played tennis, bridge and golf, got manicures and pedicures and facials, had to build a room onto the house just for your clothes…And you had the goddamn Christmas parties catered!”
The loud report, like that of a gun, caused the Samuelsons to shut up abruptly and bolt apart, turn and…. And it was only Charlene, in the doorway with a party popper. Confetti drifted lazily to the floor, a curling piece of lavender streamer hanging off Mrs. Samuelson’s large bosom, while Mr. Samuelson’s bald head had collected a few glitters.
They both recovered from the sudden fright and looked with some relief toward the arbitrator. This was a couple dissolving after four decades; there were bound to be issues. A certain amount of rage was expected in this field. But as Charlene knew only too well, they must not be allowed to run amok. A little chaos could lead to a lot of tragedy. Domestic discord was the most volatile and dangerous of all.
“You may leave now,” Charlene said. “I will ask Pam to get Judge Kemp on the line for me. I’ll tell him that arbitration is not possible in your case, and suggest you be bound over for a full divorce trial. You will each have to secure private counsel. I wouldn’t consider taking on either of you as a client even if I could. And don’t be too surprised if you find the judge considering a hefty fine.” Mr. Samuelson, “the only one who put any money in the goddamn mutual funds,” became especially ashen. “As an officer of the court,” she told them, “I’m obligated to tell him that you were nothing but discourteous and uncooperative, wouldn’t consider the simplest of requests—like taking a seat in the waiting room—were a continual disruption to the entire office building and have made no progress at all in two meetings. There is very little question, this divorce will cost you more than a boat. Probably more than a boat, a car and a house.”
“Now just you wait a minute—”
“And,” Charlene barked with heat. She was small of stature but should never be mistaken for slight in any other way. “If you speak to me in a tone that carries even the slightest disrespect…” she began. The door to the conference room slowly opened and Ray Vogel stepped inside. Charlene had convinced the whole office building to agree to her choice of security service for this very reason. Ray, like his fellow security officers, was big, young, muscled and armed. When he frowned, he looked positively lethal. “Give me a moment, Ray.” She turned back to the angry-faced couple. “The slightest tone of disrespect will be accompanied by a contempt and perhaps assault charge. And naturally another hefty fine.” This wasn’t true, but one look at Mr. and Mrs. Samuelsons’ faces said they believed her thoroughly.
“Now wait a minute,” Mr. Samuelson tried again, but in an entirely different tone. “There’s a lot of emotion here, and I admit we got a little carried away, but we can still work this out—”
“No, you’re entirely too late,” Charlene said. “We’re all done listening to you curse each other, demean each other and make a mockery of a system designed to protect and respect the family.” Mrs. Samuelson smirked and crossed her fleshy arms over her chest. “And before you get all smug, Mrs. Samuelson, let me remind you that when push comes to shove, he will probably still have the financial advantage in a trial. You might succeed in hurting him, but not without doing substantial economic damage to yourself.”
Her mouth dropped open even as her arms un-crossed and fell to her sides. Charlene lifted one corner of her mouth. “Perhaps one of the children will take you in.”
Mrs. Samuelson looked stricken.
“Okay, let’s go,” Ray said, holding the door open.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute—”
“Go!” Charlene commanded. Then she turned around, went back into her office and closed the door. She leaned against it and listened to the murmurings that came from the conference room. She could hear Ray’s occasional deep voice urging them to leave. The voices carried a decidedly different timbre than what she had greeted this morning. She looked at her watch—8:07. She went to her desk, took a sip of her coffee and a bite of her bagel. A person shouldn’t have to endure this kind of reprehensible behavior first thing in the morning, she thought. She often wished she could just get a glimpse of what these two were like in marriage, because it was difficult not to assume that the divorce was long overdue.
There was a tapping at the door. She checked her watch—8:11. Another fact that never failed to fascinate her—the worse the couple, the quicker they could modify their behavior if money was involved.
Pam stuck her head in the door. “They’d like to know if you’d consider giving them another chance,” she said.
“Ask them if they understand this will be the last time.”
Mr. Samuelson’s glittering head and halo of thin, frizzy yellow hair popped into the door opening. He came to Pam’s shoulder. He grinned triumphantly while Pam looked down at him with obvious distaste. “We understand,” he said.
“Good,” Charlene said. “We’ll start with the boat.”
Three hours later, the Samuelsons departed quietly. Not happily, not even politely, but at least quietly. They had worked through part of their settlement, and had kept their rancor under wraps. The pressure for them to behave had been so intense that Mrs. Samuelson was messaging her temples with her fingertips as she walked out and Mr. Samuelson was holding his oversize gut with both hands, lest it explode.
Charlene went into her private bathroom and splashed cool water on her cheeks. It was a professional coup to be chosen by the court to arbitrate any kind of settlement. Having made a name for herself in the practice of family law meant that usually Charlene was going to be dealing with divorce property or custody—two areas rife with explosive emotions. But this was hard. It took its toll of a morning.
She heard the intercom on her desk buzz, but she ignored it, remaining in the bathroom. She sat on the closed toilet lid, leaned back, kicked off her shoes and held a cool cloth over her eyes, dampening her short brown bangs in the process.
After twenty years in the business, there were very few surprises. It was always about the boat and the savings account, about who brought home the bacon and who didn’t. Even in the new century, when most marriages were made up of dual working partners, it always boiled down to who did the dishes and who earned the highest salary.
She unhooked her bra and let her rib cage expand briefly. She wiggled her toes into the thick carpet beneath her feet. She could not have borne more than three hours with those two. They gave divorce a bad name.
But she had pulled it off, gotten them to sit down and begin dividing things. A few more meetings and it would be done. The judge who had assigned her would be impressed. So what if it took her a while to recover. It was worth it to win the further admiration of the courts. The city was overrun with sleazy divorce lawyers, but there were only a pocketful of respectable unsharky family lawyers, of which Charlene was one. That is not to say her clients wouldn’t get what they deserved; she took very good care of them. More important, they would leave the proceedings with their self-respect.
The intercom on her desk buzzed again. “Okay, okay,” she said to herself, tossing the washcloth into the sink, slipping her feet back into her shoes and hooking up her bra. She applied some makeup to her cheeks, a little lip gloss to her lips, and squinted critically into the mirror. She looked tired even though she’d slept quite well the night before. She knew what that meant. It was time to seriously consider having her eyes done. A little nip, a little tuck, not a new face, but one that just didn’t seem to age at the speed of light.
Charlene didn’t give herself much slack; she was a perfectionist from nose to toes, professionally and personally. You don’t become successful by relaxing your standards. It was taxing, but nothing worth having came easy.
She flushed the toilet even though she hadn’t used it. She just didn’t want anyone to think she had locked herself into her bathroom to recover from the Samuelsons. No one should think she needed recovery. Not even Pam.