The Underside of Joy

thighs rubbing together in their maroon pant-suit casing. She said, ‘I’ve already spoken to Paige’s attorney. As I’ve told you, they’d like to work out a deal today with limited visitation with the possibility of increasing visitation as the children get older.’
    ‘How much visitation?’ I asked.
    She slipped on her reading glasses and scanned the document. ‘Four times a year for weekends. Two weeks in the summer. One week during Christmas vacation.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s it. She does want them to go to her house, though. She’s very adamant about that one – and is even willing to fly here to pick them up.’
    Paige sat farther down along the wall, leaning towards her attorney, a tall, older man with a red bow tie and wire-framed glasses, who was talking to her.
    Gwen went on. ‘Read the stipulation over and go ahead and sign it. And then we’ll go before the judge and tell him both parties have come to an agreement. We’ll read it in court; you’ll be asked if you consent. You’ll say yes, and we’ll be done and you’ll go home to your children.’ She added. ‘Not to mention, save a boatload of money.’
    Paige had already signed it. Her signature looped across the line; I recognized that handwriting now. I signed the paper. A few minutes later, Gwen Alterman stuck her head outside the door of Courtroom J and motioned me inside. Along the back row sat Joe Sr, Marcella, and David. I wanted to believe they were there to support me, but I knew they were making sure I behaved.
    Paige entered, walking straight, as if she held a book on her head. I recognized now that the familiar stance of hers was a brave front. Her eyes, void of makeup, gave her grief away. I knew all about No-Mascara Days.
    When we were called, we sat at the dark veneer tables in front of the judge’s bench. Paige’s attorney read the agreement in a soothing, kind voice that seemed out of place in the courtroom and softened the edges of words like custody and petitioner and visitation – as if he were reading a fairy tale with the foreshadowing of a happy ending – and if I just kept my mouth shut, everyone could live happily ever after. I focused my gaze on the bored-looking court reporter who was taking down what the attorney read. There was nowhere else safe I could look. Not to Paige and her own watery eyes. Not to the judge, who might read my face and instinctively sense guilt. Not behind me to the appointed guards of the Family Capozzi.
    Paige stood first. She held up her hand to be sworn in and agreed to the stipulation. And then it was my turn. I stood, shaking, a drop of sweat rivuleting down my back.
    I held up my hand. I saw Marcella’s hand, raised, before it smacked across my face, trying to slap sense into me. I saw Grandma Beene’s hand, raised, slapping shame into me. I would never slap Annie or Zach. And yet my raised hand was not any different; it was joining the ranks of the Silencers, hiding the whole truth, the most important truth, from Annie and Zach.
    All I had to do was say ‘Yes, I am,’ and ‘Yes, I do.’ I said yes. I closed my mouth, waiting for the next cue. I opened my mouth. I said, ‘Your Honour? Can I say something?’ My heart hammered so loudly in my ears, I could barely hear my own voice.
    The judge, who was almost bald but fairly young, probably in his late forties, smiled as if slightly amused. ‘No, you should let your attorney do the talking.’
    ‘But Your Honour?’ I said. ‘I have evidence that I need to submit.’
    ‘And why, Ms. Beene, would you want to do that? Counsel, I think you better take your client out in the hallway before she –’
    ‘Because it’s the truth,’ I said. Gwen gripped my arm. ‘And I want the truth to be known. I found Paige’s letters.’
    Marcella’s voice pierced the air. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!’ Paige’s attorney stood. ‘Excuse me, Your Honour, we asked for those letters and Ms. Beene swore under penalty of perjury that they didn’t exist.’
    Gwen also stood up. The judge said to her, ‘Counsel, is it correct that your client was asked to produce those letters?’
    ‘Your Honour, I haven’t seen them yet. I didn’t know my client found anything.’
    ‘Ms. Beene, where are these letters? And when did you find them?’
    ‘They’re at home. I found them Sunday night. Your Honour, I still think my home is the best place for Annie and Zach. But I don’t want that decision to be based on a lie.’
    The judge