NINE

NINE

HAPPY HALLOWEEN, I GUESS. No missing dogs or lunch boxes or coffeepots, at least. I watch Lincoln leave, the obligatory Bye-love-you as he rides off on his bike to school. I watch him pedal along the street — no sidewalks around here — and turn right until he's out of sight, with that ever-present niggling worry that something bad will happen, a stranger danger offering him a ride, a car blowing a stop sign and smacking my ten-year-old biker. The constantly raging battle between Cautious Mom and Chill Mom, the latter of whom whispers to me in her soothing voice that the kids are going to have to learn how to live in the world sooner or later, and sooner is better.

Before I leave, I set the house alarm, something I've never done because, y'know, this is Hemingway Grove. But after yesterday, it feels like a good idea.

I have court all morning. The last of the hearings involves my client Diane Worley, who sits in the front row while I stand at the bench before the Honorable George Slattery. Standing next to me, my opposing counsel argues in favor of his client, Diane's ex-husband, an asshole radiologist who left Diane and their three kids after he started making big money, trading Diane in for a younger, prettier model and moving to Chicago.

When it's my turn, I say, "Let's rewind the clock, Your Honor."

I remind him that Diane worked two jobs to support her husband, Ron, and two young kids while he completed med school and residency. That Ron divorced her two years after joining his lucrative radiology group, running off to Chicago with his pretty new girlfriend while their youngest, their third, was only eighteen months old. That he agreed to the standard 28 percent of his income for child support. That since he started raking in the dough, Ron doesn't think she and the kids need 28 percent, even though he knew his income would fluctuate. That he's breaking his word after the fact.

That Diane stopped working after Ron got into that radiology group. That she's long out of the workforce now and would have a hard time getting work as an accountant, at least at the level she once held. That their middle child's speech and occupational therapy bills are going up every month.

The judge, with his bald white head, with his wildly unkempt gray eyebrows and deep circles under his eyes, which make him vaguely resemble a raccoon, turns to me when I'm done and says, "I'm going to grant the husband's petition. I don't think the wife deserves a windfall for her husband's success."

"A windfall ?" I almost come out of my skin. "This isn't maintenance. This is child support — for the kids ."

"Counsel!" The judge turns on me. "I'm making my ruling. I'm not going to punish the husband for his success."

"Sharing your newfound wealth with your children is not punishment, Your Honor."

The judge leans forward. "I am making my ruling, Ms. Bowers. Would you like to be held in contempt?"

I look away but remain silent. These old men — they have no idea what it's like for women in Diane's situation, women who have sacrificed their prime employment years to raise children and later find themselves beholden to their ex-husbands' generosity. My hands ball into fists, but there's nothing I can do that won't make matters worse.

My phone buzzes. I slip it out of my pocket and peek at the face. Caller ID says it's my home-alarm company. Probably a low battery on one of the sensors. Since we never turn on the alarm, a battery's probably gone dead and we didn't even know it.

"… get a date from the clerk," the judge finishes. "That's all."

My phone buzzes a second time. Same number. That can only mean one thing.

As I look at a distraught Diane, shaking her head and holding back tears, I answer the phone.

"Hello, this is Marcie."

"This is Jade with Secure Alarm. We're registering a breach on the patio door."

"I'm not home. Nobody's home," I say.

"Would you like us to contact the police?"

Somebody's … breaking into our home?

"Call the police," I say. "I'll be right there."