Relax, Dillon,” my attorney says. “This suit is frivolous. It has no basis. Even if your sister isn’t willing to cooperate, we won’t have any trouble getting it thrown out. This is just a little extra ammunition on our side.”

What my lawyer calls ammunition, I call a damn uncomfortable spot to be in. The last time I saw Kimmie, she was cursing at me across a court room as the judge gave me her kids.

Today I’m back, hat in hand, hoping that the passing of a few months and the letters the kids sent have softened her attitude toward me, at least a little.

Kimmie’s been in county lock-up all this time, still awaiting her trail. Her court date is scheduled for the third week in January, so she doesn’t have much longer to wait. I’ve talked to Fox Lee, the district attorney and my very good friend, about her case. He said he couldn’t go into detail, but he believed it was inconceivable she wouldn’t see a lengthy term in prison for her role in making the meth, her role in preparing it for sale, and her primary role in endangering her children.

None of that is good news.

Keys rattle at the big metal door on the far side of this dingy, gray, visitor’s room. A second later, the door swings wide. A stocky jail bull with a heavy ring of keys in his hand steps aside to make room for Kimmie to come inside.

She’s gained some weight. Her hair has grown. She’s dressed in a periwinkle jumpsuit that makes her blue eyes shine. She looks better than she did in court, and far better than she did when she was arrested, but her expression when she sees me is still marred with anger.

“Hey Kimmie,” I say, trying to smile, feeling the awkwardness of it. “You look good.”

She huffs a laugh. “Oh yeah, I’m stylin’,” she says. “I’m all done up just for your visit.”

She’s clean, at least. That’s a start.

Kimmie takes a seat across from me and my attorney, resting her palms face down on the table.

“How are the kids?” she asks.

“They’re all really good,” I tell her. “Jordan’s getting straight As now, and it turns out he’s a math whiz. He’s going to math camp this summer. Joey started gymnastics classes last week, and he loves it. He’s like a monkey, bouncing around and doing all kinds of cartwheels and jumps.”

Kimmie smiles a little at the mention of their names.

“And Chrissy has just blossomed. She starts ballet classes at the end of the month. She’s doing great in school too. She’s got lots of friends, and two pen pals she writes to every week. She’s incredible.”

“Ballet and gymnastics,” Kimmie says dryly. “And Jordan making As.” She sighs hard, as if to cleanse herself of the dead, county jail air. “I got the pictures and letters they wrote about the cruise you took. Thank you for those.”

I nod. “When we were about to board the ship, Chrissy stopped, looking out at the view, and she said she wished you were there to see it.”

My sister folds her hands under her chin. She looks down and to the side, and I see her eyes redden as if she might cry. The moment passes. She presses all that emotion down, swallowing it, hardening herself.

“So, what’s this all about?” she asks, looking at my attorney, then settling her gaze on me.

I explain about the custody suit that Darryl’s father has filed, claiming I’ve subjected the kids to abuse due to my amoral lifestyle. I tell her he’s come to the house once, threatening to take the kids. I explain that we don’t think the suit will go anywhere; in fact we think it will be thrown out, but just the same, I’d like the kids’ mother to weigh in.

“I know you weren’t happy with the judge’s decision,” I say. “But I think you know I love these kids, and I’m doing everything I can to take care of them and make sure they’re happy and have an opportunity for a real childhood.”

Kimmie makes no response so I just press on.

“And I think you also know Henry Schmidt would be about the worst thing that could happen to them at this point. You know he’s a mean, abusive bastard. I don’t think you want your kids with him.”

Kimmie shakes her head, her expression grim. “No,” she says, leaving it at that.

“Ms. Schmidt, would you be willing to say that in court?” my attorney asks, speaking up for the first time.

Kimmie regards him with caution, then returns her attention to me.

“I hear you have a boyfriend now?” she asks me.

“I do,” I say. “His name’s Jack. He’s an EMT with the county.”

“What’s he like?”

I smile, surprised she’s interested, but happy to talk about Jack. “He’s smart, and level headed. Calm. Everything I’m not,” I say. “He’s great with the kids. They love him. I love him too. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“So… you two… you’re planning to stay together?”

I nod again. “We are staying together,” I assure her. “Forever. We’re in this for the long haul.”

“Y’all getting married?”

I gulp. “I don’t know. We’ve just been focused on the kids since I got them. Not much time to talk about anything else.”

She sighs again, seeming reasonably satisfied with my answers.

“Okay,” she says. “They’re better off with you than they would be with him. I’ll say that. I doubt it’ll make much difference, but I’ll help if I can.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders.

My attorney explains how it will be, including that she’ll be cross-examined by Schmidt’s attorney, assuming he has one.

“They’ll try and get you to be critical of Dillon, of his lifestyle. Do you think you’ll have any difficulty with that line of questioning?”

Kimmie shakes her head. “No,” she states firmly. “I never saw Dillon or any of his friends hit their boyfriends or treat them like shit. And I never saw any of them ever do anything half as crazy as the shit I’ve seen the Schmidts do. He’s got a lot of gall, calling you amoral. I could tell a few stories about that old coot that would make your hair curl.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to go there,” my attorney suggests. “But keep them in mind, just in case.”

With the main purpose of our visit concluded, I only have one more thing I want to cover.

“How’s your case coming?” I ask. “Any idea how it’s going to play out?”

Kimmie shakes her head. “My lawyer is a public defender. He’s working on it, but I don’t think he can do much. They’ve got me on so many felony charges, the minimums are looking like fifteen years if I’m lucky and get a decent judge.”

Fifteen years.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “I didn’t think it would be that long.”

“Yeah,” Kimmie says, her expression grim. “It’s a long time, and I’ll probably serve my time in the eastern part of the state, a long way from here.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll bring the kids to see you, wherever you are. The only reason I haven’t yet—is I wanted to get them settled in, confident they’re not in limbo anymore.”

Kimmie nods. “No, I understand. I wouldn’t want them to see me here, like this, in the county lock-up. I hear women’s prison is better, especially for kids’ visitation. They have family rooms with toys and fresh air. Not like this place.” She looks around the room, a space so gray and cold it feels like something out of an Eastern Bloc horror film.

“I was thinking,” Kimmie says, her voice halting, “…if I get a lot of time, it would be better for the kids… if you… just go ahead an adopt them. Raise them up with your name so they don’t have to go through life being ‘Jailbird Schmidts’.’ It’s like you said… don’t want them to be in limbo. They need to know who they belong to.”

Kimmie’s jaw is tight, her eyes cast to the side as she says this. Her words break my heart but remind me of the sister I’ve always loved. She really does want what’s best for her kids.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I wipe them away as soon as they appear. I’m a man who’s not afraid to cry, but I don’t want to break down in front of my sister just now.

“Okay,” I say. “We’ll see how your case turns out, then talk about it with all of us, the kids included. It needs to be what they want too. They should have a say in it.”

She nods, swallowing hard, fighting tears.

“What about Darryl?” I ask. “Does he feel the same way?”

Kimmie shrugs. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I’ve written him. He never wrote back. I got all my letters back in an envelope with a note from the jailer that said, ‘Mr. Schmidt asked that you stop writing him.’” She sighs hard again, and I can tell that her voice is on the edge of breaking. “My lawyer said he heard Darryl was talking about filing for divorce, which is just stupid because we’re already divorced. I don’t think Darryl’s in his right mind. My lawyer said he was in the hospital a lot, in isolation, because he was so violent and had tried to hurt himself. I don’t know what to think about Darryl.”

I look at my attorney for his reaction. He cocks his head, nodding, which I interpret as being a positive thing, should we proceed with filing for adoption. If Darryl’s lost his mental faculties, he’s in no position to put up much opposition to someone taking care of his three kids, who he actively abused or neglected for years.

“Court’s next week,” I tell Kimmie. “We’ll see you there. In the meantime, do you need anything?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Aunt Glynn and Aunt Nita are taking good care of me. They come see me every week and keep me in snacks and pocket change.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised, then not surprised at all. It’s just like those two to quietly, clandestinely make jail visits. They’ve always taken care of everybody, including me and Kimmie when we were kids.

Kimmie smiles at me. “They’re just the same as they ever were. Nosy and all up in everybody’s business. For once in my life, I’m glad for it. Uncle Charlie sent a note by them last week. He said he’s coming at Christmas. I’ll believe it when I see it. I pretty much wore out his patience. I think Glynn and Nita have been working on him though, so we’ll see.”

“I’ll work on him too,” I say. “And I’ll come with them at Christmas.”

“Bring Jack if you do,” Kimmie says. “I’d like to meet him.”

“Okay,” I promise. “I’ll do that. Thanks, Kimmie. Thanks for understanding and helping.”

She nods, giving me a sad smile. “See you in court,” she says, pushing her chair back and standing up. “Take good care of my kids.”

“You know I will,” I promise her. “Always.”

* * *

The judge—the same judge who awarded me custody of the kids the first time around—peers over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses at Henry Schmidt. She’s read the brief and heard Schmidt’s opening remarks. He’s representing himself, probably because he couldn’t get a lawyer willing to take this joke of a lawsuit, or he wasn’t willing to pay for an attorney. Either way, it’s good for us.

“Mr. Schmidt, aside from the ad hominem insults outlined in your curiously prepared court brief, and your statements regarding Mr. Manning’s abuse, do you have any evidence to support your claims, beyond just your opinion?”

Schmidt levels his eyes on the judge, then speaks. “That’s Reverend Schmidt,” he corrects her. He lifts a book from the desk in front of him and begins addressing the court, reading directly from its text.

“You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination,” Schmidt states, looking straight at the judge. “That’s from Leviticus, chapter 18, verse 22. But that ain’t all. Chapter 20, verse 13 says, ‘If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.’”

Schmidt closes his book, standing square before the judge. “That right there is all the proof I need. Dillon Manning is a notorious homosexual. He ain’t even ashamed of it, and now he’s spreading it to those children by bringing his abomination right under the same roof as the children, and they see him and his ‘friend’ doing unnatural things no child should see.”

The judge redirects her gaze toward me and my attorney, heaving a frustrated sigh.

“Mr. Manning, have you engaged in sexual activity in front of the children?”

I stand to address her. “No ma’am,” I say plainly. “And I’m insulted by Mr. Schmidt’s accusation. It’s wholly unfounded and inappropriate.”

She returns her gaze to Schmidt. “Sir, do you have anything further, other than Bible verses, which are not admissible as evidence, to offer the court in support of your claim that Mr. Manning is unqualified as guardian?”

Schmidt blinks, his jaw flexing. “He’s a homosexual. He’s an abomination. He should be in prison, not caring for innocent children.”

“Thank you, Mr. Schmidt. That will be all. You can sit down,” she says, shaking her head with disdain. Once more she returns to our side of the court room.

“Counsellor, I understand you’ve brought a parade of character witnesses, along with the children’s mother, to provide testimony?”

My lawyer stands. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Many of those character witnesses are the same ones from your custody hearing several months ago. Is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. The only additional witnesses we’ve included are Ms. Kimberly Schmidt, the children’s mother, who has volunteered to speak to her preference for her brother retaining custody of the children. She’s adamant that Mr. Schmidt not be granted custody. We’ve also called Mrs. Millicent Chance, who accompanied Mr. Manning, her son Jack Chance, and the children, on a recent vacation, spending a week with them in close quarters on a cruise ship.”

The judge nods. “I’m assuming Ms. Schmidt and Mrs. Chance both support your client’s position?”

My attorney almost smiles. “That’s a safe assumption, your honor.”

She nods, sliding her glasses back up her nose. She looks out at the court.

“Let’s save your witnesses and the court some time and get straight to a conclusion. This case is one of the most frivolous, most vapid suits I have—in almost twenty years on the bench—ever seen,” she observes coolly, leveling a disapproving gaze on the plaintiff. “Mr. Schmidt, you have wasted this court’s time, the people’s money, and you’ve demonstrated yourself as a rather unkind man. A word of advice; don’t come back to my courtroom with anything like this again or I’ll hold you in contempt. Case dismissed.”

She lifts her gavel, then slams it against the desk with a crack as loud as a gunshot.

“Next on the docket!”

I glance to my right to see Schmidt’s reaction. He’s beet red, a vein on his forehead thumping. His fists are clenched at his side and he looks like he’s wound up just about tight enough to snap.

“Told you,” my attorney says. “Absolute waste of time.”

Schmidt swings around, fixing his gaze on me. “This ain’t over,” he spits. “This is a long damn way from over.”

I feel my face grow hot and my blood rise. “It’s over, old man,” I hiss at him. “Crawl back under your rock and stay out of our lives.”

My lawyer lays a hand on my shoulder. “Relax, Dillon,” he urges. “You won. Let’s not draw the judge’s attention. Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” I agree, glaring at Schmidt who’s glaring right back at me. “Let’s go before I have to take out the trash.”