“If you’re representing yourselves,” Judge Meyers says, “you are your own attorneys. That means you have to put your case on if you want to get a divorce today. I highly recommend watching these other nominal divorces to see the procedure, because I can’t do it for you. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, but she might as well be speaking Portuguese for all I understand.
We are not called again until over two hours later. Which means I could have showered, since, even though I’ve now sat through five other divorces, I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I walk past the gate at the front of the courtroom into the witness box, and one of the uniformed bailiffs comes up to me holding a Bible. “Mr. Baxter, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
From the corner of my eye, I see the clerk directing Zoe to take a seat at one of the tables in front of the bench. “I do,” I say.
It’s funny, isn’t it, that you have to speak the same words to get married as you do to get divorced.
“Please state your name for the record . . .”
“Max,” I say. “Maxwell Baxter.”
The judge folds her hands on her desk. “Mr. Baxter, have you entered your appearance?”
I just blink at her.
“Sheriff, have Mr. Baxter enter his appearance. . . . You want a divorce today, Mr. Baxter?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re representing yourself today?”
“I can’t afford a lawyer,” I explain.
The judge looks at Zoe. “And you, Mrs. Baxter? You’re representing yourself as well?”
“I am.”
“You’re not fighting the divorce today, is that correct?”
She nods.
“Sheriff, have Mrs. Baxter enter an appearance on her own behalf, please.” The judge turns back to me and sniffs. “Mr. Baxter, you smell absolutely pickled. Are you under the influence of alcohol or drugs?”
I hesitate. “Not yet,” I say.
“Seriously, Max?” Zoe blurts out. “You’re drinking again?”
“It’s not your problem anymore—”
The judge bangs her gavel. “If you two feel like having a counseling session, don’t waste my time.”
“No, Your Honor,” I say. “I just want this to be over.”
“All right, Mr. Baxter. You may proceed.”
Except I don’t know how. Where I live, and whether I’ve lived in Wilmington for a year, and when I was married, and when we separated—well, none of that really explains how two people who thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together one day woke up and realized they did not know the person sleeping beside them.
“How old are you, Mr. Baxter?” the judge asks.
“I’m forty.”
“What’s the highest grade of school you completed?”
“I got through three years of college before I quit and started my own landscaping business.”
“How long have you been a landscaper?”
