She can see the edge of her house on Kentucky Avenue from where she’s parked, but she can barely remember the woman who used to live there. That woman had been pretending to be so many things she wasn’t, had disavowed her past. She is finally herself, Polly Costello. The old nickname, the surname she was born with—they were like some beautiful architectural feature in an old house, hidden by years of “improvements.”
She has timed it right. Gregg, who has to be at work at 9:30, pulls out at 8:55. She’s pretty sure where he’s going, so she hangs back as he drives north, then west. Yep, he’s still parking Jani with his mother all day. Savannah Hansen must love that. She’s the kind of grandmother who prides herself on how young she looks, used to say things like, There was this man at the Bel-Loc Diner who thought Pauline and I were sisters, isn’t that hilarious? The guy was legit legally blind and just making polite small talk. Yet if Polly said that, she would be petty. She was expected to ignore Savannah’s silly pride, her bizarre competitiveness.
She doesn’t risk getting too close to Savannah’s house, so all she can see of Jani is her profile. Brave girl. Polly’s not sure why that word, brave, pops into her head, but there’s something so upright about this daughter, a little soldier marching on. She always knew Jani would be okay. Gregg lifts her from her car seat and she walks up the sidewalk, her grandmother waiting in the open door. Savannah Hansen is wearing a sundress, way too short, tight and bright.
From there, Polly goes to see Joy. It’s unclear how much Joy understands, what she knows, but Polly never doubts that her daughter recognizes her. The staff lets them have thirty minutes alone. Joy’s fourteen, and she won’t be allowed to stay past her eighteenth birthday, at which point the state will have to find another placement for her. Soon, sweetheart, soon. But what is soon to Joy? How does Joy experience time? People thought time in prison moved slowly, and it did. Yet those days were no slower than Polly’s days with Ditmars, and much easier to pass. No fear, no lows. No highs, either, but that was okay. What is time like for Joy? Polly spells out “M-a-m-a” on Joy’s board, and Joy spells it back. But what does it mean to her? The woman who’s never there, who could never be there?
Polly’s final errand, the real business of the day, is to an office in midtown Baltimore. It’s a self-consciously hip place, especially for Baltimore, a converted firehouse. Of course this guy kept the pole, which is at the center of the reception area. He probably makes jokes about it.
Sure enough, when Barry Forshaw ushers her into his office, he says, “How do you like the new digs? I kept the pole for dancing late at night. Want to give it a try?”
She can’t even be bothered to show him how offensive that is. “Look, I know you don’t do marital law, but Gregg is really dragging his feet now that we’re separated. Is there any way I can make him file?”
“You want a divorce? I thought you were concerned that he’d leave you if he knew about your past.”
Shit, she forgot that she told Forshaw that she wanted to keep the settlement a secret for now because Gregg didn’t know she had been married before. Or how it ended.
“It’s not going to work out. I left him back in June.” She lowers her eyes to her lap. “There are—well, I can’t talk about it.”
“If you left him, you have to wait for two years.”
Two years? She can’t believe it.
“Isn’t there any way to make it go faster?”
“He can file after one year from the separation, citing abandonment. He has cause. You don’t.”
Oh, she has cause.
“What would make him file?”
“Christ, Pauline, I don’t know. I never met the guy.”
“Can you move the money to—what do you call it? Like, a Swiss bank account or something overseas?”
“Offshore. I guess that could be done, but I’d have to charge you for it.”
“How much more of my money do you want?”
“I’m a lawyer. I charge for my time.”
“You already have 40 percent of my settlement. Isn’t that enough?”
“I explained that. If you had let me take it to trial, we were looking at a chance for a much bigger payout. You were the one who wanted a sealed settlement, and that’s why the hospital was so eager to give you what you wanted. I could have made two, three million on my usual 30 percent. Instead, that’s what we got total. And you can have your money whenever you want.”
“If Gregg knows about it, he’ll try to take it.”
“He can try, but he won’t succeed. Look, I don’t do marital law, but any half-decent divorce attorney can shield that money from him.”
“I’m done paying lawyers,” she says. “I just want to get out of my marriage as quick as possible, no complications. I was going to go to Reno, but—that’s not going to work out.”
“Fine. Do it your way. There’s an argument to be made, Pauline, that you’re being penny-wise, but pound-foolish. Hire a divorce lawyer.”
An argument to be made. He has to think that. He’s a lawyer. His livelihood depends on arguments having worth. She looks around his office. It’s filled with antiques, stupid things that clearly mean nothing to him, trophies purchased to celebrate cashing in on the misery of others. Babies with cerebral palsy because of botched deliveries, steel workers with destroyed lungs, lives and bodies ruined by drunken drivers.