Page 55 of Precise Justice

“As you know, Professor, we can only make a recommendation to the Supreme Court. We have no authority to order fees and costs. However, if you would like to submit an affidavit of fees and costs, we will include that with our recommendation that they be paid by the complainant.”

Before anyone else could speak, a furious Priscilla was out of her chair. She almost ran to the door then crashed through it. She also managed to leave Robbie behind.

TWENTY-TWO

Dear Diary:November 28th

Today was Thanksgiving Day. Before today, leading up to Thanksgiving, I tried to think of something to be thankful for. It was difficult, to say the least.

We went to Grandma and Grandpa Powell’s for dinner. I don’t see how that could have been more painful. And I will have to do it again in a few weeks at Christmas.

I don’t remember if I ever mentioned this before. Mother Dear has siblings. All of them are younger than Priscilla. One would think that with the horror that Priscilla is, they, Grandma and Grandpa, would have the sense to stop. But no, they had to keep trying.

Her siblings are my aunts, Harriet and Renee. They also produced a male, James. He is younger than Priscilla and older than the girls. He is also full blown queer. Queer to the point where he is on the pride parade committee every year. Grandpa Eugene has not spoken to his gay son in over ten years. He will spend the entire day ignoring his son, James. It’s amazing that Iseem to be the only one of this family that is bothered by this. I asked Mother Dear about this once. She simply said, “Grandpa doesn’t approve of him.”

My aunts are both married to weak men who somehow managed to father seven cousins, all younger than me. Made up as Roberta, the cousins spent the entire afternoon staring at me.

Of course, by now, everyone knew of my transition. With the exception of Grandpa, they all think it is wonderful.

What they didn’t know was my parents’ separation. Except Grandma. The rest of them were told during dinner. It did not seem to surprise or bother anyone. It was then I finally realized what was wrong with them. This may be the most emotionally dead family ever. Including their brat children.

Robbie was lying in bed on Thanksgiving night in that stage between awake and asleep. Suddenly, her eyes shot open. Her brain had detected a loud noise downstairs and had signaled her to wake up.

Not conscious of what she had heard, Robbie lay in bed listening. All was quiet while she listened for twenty to thirty seconds. Just as her eyelids were closing, she heard it again. Someone was downstairs, probably in the kitchen.

Robbie, dressed in very modest unisex pajamas, quietly made her way to the top of the stairs. She could hear noise coming from the kitchen. Unable to make out what it was, she slowly took the steps down to the first floor. When she reached the bottom, she stopped and listened some more. Someone was crying in the kitchen. That someone could only be one person.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” Robbie asked while standing in the kitchen doorway. Priscilla was sitting at the kitchen table.

Startled, Priscilla quickly wiped the tears off her face. She moved the glass she was drinking from in an effort to hide it then said, “Oh! Sorry, did I wake you? I mean, oh, nothing’s wrong. Go back to bed.”

Robbie continued to watch Priscilla while she spoke, slurring her words. There was a bottle of vodka and a bowl with ice cubes in it on the table. Robbie’s mother was not only drinking alone, she was quite drunk.

Ignoring Priscilla’s suggestion that Robbie go back to bed, Robbie sat down. She took the chair at the opposite end of the table and watched Priscilla. While she did this, she tried to understand what she felt toward her mother. The answer was, nothing.

Robbie was staring at her alcoholic mother who was quite upset about something. Her mother was distressed and Robbie felt nothing. No anger, no love, not even hate or pity.

“What’s the problem?” Robbie finally asked, her voice inflection flat, without any empathy.

“Nothing, go back to bed,” Priscilla said. She picked up the water glass, half full of ice and vodka and took a drink.

“Right, you’re sitting down here drinking alone, drunk and crying, and nothing’s wrong.

“You’re alone, you destroyed your marriage…”

“I did not! Your father…”

“My father was your pet. You didn’t want a husband; you wanted a servant. Well, now he’s gone. I wonder what took him so long.”

“I’ll be fine. You’ll see. Why are you being such a bitch to me?” Priscilla asked.

Robbie stood up, looked at her mother and said, “I guess I’m growing up. The apple not falling too far from the tree. Good night, Mother.”

Blake Craig, Robbie’s father pulled into the line of cars at Wheaton Academy. Every morning there was a line, usually around a dozen cars in the lot of parents dropping their children off.

“I can walk from here, Dad,” Robbie said.

“You sure? I am not in a hurry,” Blake replied.