Bobby glanced at Christine, whose forehead was knotted, her eyes filled with pain.
And pity! The same look she'd give a dog run struck down crossing the highway. Is that what I am… roadkill?
When it was over, when they were through hacking away at his limbs like loggers at a tree, the fog began to clear. The judge sat silently a moment, spun around in his chair and stared at the ceiling. In the moment of quiet, Bobby listened to the cough and rattle of the air conditioning and looked outside the window where the black turkey buzzards, ugly as death, floated effortlessly in the updrafts between the downtown skyscrapers.
'I don't take this action lightly,' Judge Gerstein said, whirling around to face the litigants and their attorneys. He spoke directly to the stenographer whose fingers banged away at her machine, recording the words for posterity and the appellate court. 'I'm going to grant your petition for rehearing, Mr. Gallagher and vacate the prior order, but I'm afraid this is a Pyrrhic victory for you. Based on the evidence submitted, it is the judgment of this court that you are not a fit and proper parent for custody, joint custody, or even liberal visitation. Your actions have had a deleterious impact on the minor child, and if continued-'
'No, they haven't!' Scott called out. 'Dad's fun. He teaches me a lot of neat stuff and he needs me. I mean, I need him, too. He's my Dad.'
'Young man,' the judge said sharply. 'Be quiet when an elder speaks. Please look to your mother and grandfather as role models, and not your father.'
'Bullshit!' Bobby shouted for the second time that morning.
'You're in contempt, Mr. Gallagher!' the judge fired back. 'That will cost you five hundred dollars, and if you repeat it, you'd better have packed your toothbrush in that attache case because you're looking at thirty days in the stockade.'
Bobby fought the urge to leap up and pull down the floor-to-ceiling shelves of law books, burying all of them in useless words. Despair howled in his ears like a winter wind. He had lost Scott.
'It is the further judgment of this court,' the judge continued, 'that Robert Gallagher be stripped of all parental rights, and that full custody and all decisions regarding the minor child shall be forthwith vested with the mother, Christine Kingsley Gallagher. Mr. Gallagher shall be entitled to limited visitation upon a strict schedule to be promulgated by the domestic relations child welfare unit, said visitation to take place only in public facilities such as the courthouse or court liaison offices, and only in the presence of licensed counselors from H.R.S. or the comparable agency in Texas. No overnight visitation will be permitted until such time as Mr. Gallagher demonstrates a change in attitude, lifestyle, and fitness as a parent. We'll set a report date for further proceedings in six months.'
With a bang of his gavel, the judge dismissed them and said good day.
Jailbreak Jones cleared up his files. Christine motioned to Scott to come with her.
The boy looked at his father who nodded, gave him a squeeze on the arm, and let him go.
'I'll be outside,' Scott said, hurrying out of chambers.
The judge and stenographer walked out, too, leaving Bobby and Christine alone with the whir of the air conditioning and the ticking of a grandfather clock.
'I'm sorry, Bobby,' Christine said. 'This isn't what I wanted.'
'You could have stopped it. You could have said 'no' to your father.'
'This never would have happened if you'd just let Scott go off to boarding school.'
'So it's my fault!'
'Yes, it's your damn pigheadedness. It's what led to our breaking up and all of this. You've lost everything, but you blame everybody but yourself.'
'And you've won everything. Your father must be very proud. You've turned out to be just like him.'
Bobby grabbed his briefcase and fled.
'When we won the AFL Championship, a lot of people thanked their wives. I'd like to thank all the single girls in New York. They deserve just as much credit.'
— Joe Namath before Super Bowl III
38
Am I interrupting anything?' Christine asked, when Craig Stringer opened the door to his hotel suite.
'Nah. Just watching Sports Center.' He was wearing grey shorts, a Mustangs t-shirt, unlaced Nikes, and somehow managed to look like a teenage boy instead of a pro football player nearing the end of his career.
She entered the living room of the suite, unusually neat and orderly for a man, much less a football player. The large-screen TV was on, and there was Craig, his smile filling the screen, elaborating on reaching the pinnacle, grabbing his dream, and a few other cliches that filled the endless hours of Super Bowl mega-coverage.
'Do you think my hair's too long?' he asked, studying his image on the tube. They both sat on the sofa in front of the TV. Outside the penthouse windows, the blue Atlantic stretched to the horizon.
'Your hair looks fine, Craig.'
'Yeah, but maybe I should fly Pepe in from Dallas, get it styled before the game. Afterwards, there'll be a lot of interviews.'
'It won't matter if your teammates give you a champagne shower first.'
'Good point. Didn't think of that.'
'Or if you lose.'
'Hey Chris! Don't even joke about that.' He turned his attention back to the screen. 'After the game, I'll have public appearances all over hell and half of Georgia. You think the Today show has a stylist for the guests?'
It occurred to her then that he hadn't kissed her when she came into the room, and that she hadn't kissed him. She had come straight to the team hotel from the courthouse. He was wrapped up in the televised image of himself, and guilt-stricken, she was swimming through a lake of her own misery.
'Forget about your hair,' she said. 'I need to talk to you.'
'Sure Chris. Fire away.' He used the remote to mute the sound but kept his eyes on the screen where he seemed to wink at the camera.
'The judge stripped Bobby of all his rights to Scott,' she said. 'He can't even visit our son unless it's in a courthouse.'
'Great!'
'It's not great! It's terrible.'
'Hey, knock, knock. Anybody home? You won! That's what it's all about.'
'No it's not. For all his faults, Bobby loves Scott, and Scott needs him.'
'What are you all tore up about? Where's that old killer instinct? You can't ease up in the fourth quarter. That's when you roll up the score.'
'This isn't a game. All that matters is what's best for Scott.'
'You're too soft, Christine. I'm glad the judge cracked down. Now you've got control.'
'You sound just like my father.'
'Hey, nothing wrong with that. Your Pop's the King.'
It hit her then. The man she was engaged to marry was a cheap copy of her father. The realization chilled her heart, parched her soul. Craig Stringer wore his arrogance and insensitivity as proudly as his number seven jersey. Everything in life was a competition, and opponents were to be crushed. Wasn't that Daddy's philosophy? Well, they'd succeeded. They'd crushed Bobby.
With my assistance. What have I done to Bobby and to my son?
'Anyway, I gotta go,' Craig said. 'Practice in half an hour.' He tied the laces on his Nikes, waved and smiled his ESPN smile. 'See ya later, Chris. There's some beer in the fridge and jars of cashews in the cupboard.'
Christine sat there, unaware of the passage of time. The TV played silently, an auto race on now. A breeze
