“Judge Dawson? Really? IloveJudge Dawson.” Louisa sits in the chair in the corner of the room, next to her mother’s bench. When Martin left the court there were two female justices, and Judge Dawson was one. She’s younger than Martin by eight or ten years and still holds her seat; there’s talk that she’s in line for the next chief justice appointment. At a summer barbecue Louisa once attended with her parents when she was home from college Judge Dawson beat every single person, kids included, in badminton, wearing a knee-length skirt.
From where they sit Annie and Louisa can’t see the door to Martin’s study but they hear it open and close and soon enough Judge Dawson enters the room. She rivals Annie for the award for Most Elegant Older Woman, in her sundress and sandals, with her dark hair swinging around her chin and her gold hoops and her lipstick just so. How is it, wonders Louisa, that she’s surrounded by women who look like they stepped out of a J. Jill photo shoot while she can scarcely find a clean bra? She likes to imagine that she too will age into such grace and composure, but she fears that one can’t add after the baking something that wasn’t in the recipe in the first place.
Annie and Louisa both stand. “Nina!” says Annie. “How did it go?”
Judge Dawson’s eyes are damp. She hugs Annie long and hard and says something so quietly and so close to Annie’s ear that Louisa can’t hear it. Whatever it is makes Annie smile. Louisa’s father was on the court for twenty years; the other justices were his best friends and colleagues, and the spouses of the justices became close with each other too. It really was a family.
“Oh, Annie,” says Judge Dawson. “Annie, Annie Annie. And you, Louisa.” She takes Louisa’s hands in both of hers and squeezes them. “How lovely you are. How grown-up.”
“Oh, well,” says Louisa, feeling embarrassed and undeservingand actually not so grown-up after all—her insides are somehow just as chaotic as they were when she was in her teens and twenties. “I mean, thank you, but.” (She wonders if by “grown-up” Judge Dawson means “aging poorly.”)
“A tenured professor! Writing a book, your mother told me when I arrived. I’m not a bit surprised at all you’ve accomplished, you know. I’m just impressed.”
What Louisa wants to say is,If by writing a book you meanavoidingwriting a book, then yes, I am writing a book.What she actually says is, “I’m so glad you came by. I know how much my dad appreciates it, even if he doesn’t always show it.”
Judge Dawson’s skin is milk white—a combination, Louisa supposes, of extremely responsible sun care and all of those hours spent indoors, in chambers, reading briefs and writing responses andthinkingand doing Very Important Work. Louisa remembers reading once that Ruth Bader Ginsberg, may she rest in the most peaceful peace imaginable, got by on only a few hours of sleep almost every night. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, the commitment these judicial careers have required, the brainpower, the sacrifices. On the superior court and then later as chief on the state supreme court Martin was a relentless advocate for Maine’s drug courts, which allowed nonviolent drug offenders to receive substance abuse support and judicial oversight instead of jail time. How many naysayers had called Martin soft on crime in those early days? How many fights did he have to wage to get the funding? How many people did the drug courts keep out of the state prison system, where they would have languished for decades? Martin had attended the court graduations of some of these people; he’d told Louisa and Annie with tears in his eyes about young mothers being reunited with children who had been removed from their care.
“Sit down,” says Annie. “Visit with me for a few minutes. Won’t you have tea or coffee?”
“Tea would be perfect,” says Judge Dawson.
“I’ll get it,” says Louisa. “You two catch up.”
Teapot, the burner, mugs, and tea bags. Milk and sugar set on a small plate. She balances the plate on her forearm while she holds a mug in each hand. When she enters the dining room Judge Dawson is telling a story.
“—that time when somebody organized a spouses’ lunch while we had our annual meeting?”
“I remember,” says Annie.
“And Robert went, of course, because he’s always so good about these things, even though sometimes he has to take the day off work to do it. And somebody thought it would be a good idea to organize something after the luncheon, remember that, for the spouses? This was before Sandy Lopez joined the bench, so Robert was the only husband, among all those wives.” She holds her sides and leans over, practically shaking with mirth. “And they choseknitting!”
“Knitting!” repeats Annie, reaching across the table and laying her hand on Judge Dawson’s arm. “Oh of course, I remember the knitting! That woman with the Christmas sweater that she’d made herself, yes, I’ll never forget it. And what a sport Robert was about it. His yarn got tangled almost immediately, and there he sat, not a hint of self-consciousness on him, just working away at it! Oh, Robert.” She shakes her head. Then, “Thank you, sweetheart,” when Louisa sets down the mugs and the cream and sugar.
There is one of those pauses that happens sometimes in a conversation between two people who are comfortable enough with each other not to fill in the spaces just for the heck of it, and in that pause Louisa is overcome by a sense that Judge Dawson and Robert have it right. Robert is a judge’s husband, yes, but he’s also a school principal. Maybethisis how you build a life, a marriage, a history, a legacy. Maybe you go to the luncheons, and you try your best to knit, whether you know the difference between a moss stitch and a stocking stitch or not, and you don’t let it bother you if you arethe only person at the table with tangled yarn. Maybe you work as a team.
“Sit with us, Louisa,” says Judge Dawson. “Where’s your tea? Didn’t you make yourself one?”
Louisa can’t bring herself to intrude. Also, she doesn’t drink tea. To Louisa tea is a last resort if you’re all out of coffee.
“Oh, I wish I could,” she says. “But I want to check on the kids. Make sure they’re not drowning each other, you know.”
“I’ll say goodbye now then,” says Judge Dawson. “I’m having lunch with my Radcliffe roommate at Archer’s, can you believe it? And then I’ve got to go straight home after for a reception tonight. You remember how it is, Annie. The obligations.”
“I remember,” says Annie. “I certainly do.” She smiles; there’s a hint of sadness in her smile. “Sometimes I miss all of that, for both of us. And then sometimes I don’t miss it a bit.”
Judge Dawson stands and opens her arms to Louisa, and the way she embraces Louisa—not like a mother, not like a friend, but somewhere in between—makes Louisa’s throat ache, and she’s glad, after all, when she walks down to the water, that it’s hot and sunny by the rocks, and that Claire and Abigail are squabbling over the lime-green raft that Matty has blown up and anchored within spitting distance of the shore, because the children give her something else to think about, besides her father, besides the delicate balance of her marriage and her work, both of which lead her somewhere she doesn’t really want to go.
After Nina leaves, and Louisa is back up at the house, Pauline returns from the grocery store and announces that she put in an order for two pounds of lobster meat at Jess’s that she’ll have to go back for; it wasn’t ready on her way through town. She’s making her famous bisque.
“I’ll do it!” says Louisa. “I’ll get it, I’d be happy to. I want to walk the breakwater anyway. I’ll pick up the meat on the way back.”
“If you’re sure—” says Pauline. She says it in the Maine way:sho-wah.
“Positive.” Louisa sees now that Hazel has joined the raft party; all three of the girls are crowded on it and Matty is still on the rocks, the bend of his shoulder suggesting—what? Shyness? Sadness? Deference? The loneliness of being the sole male in the household, excepting Martin? Hazel, Louisa can tell, is a southern force, circling like a cyclone around Matty’s heart. She considers asking him to go with her but she’s sure he’ll say no, and also the breakwater is just an excuse—what she wants as much as the walk is the opportunity to sort through the complicated thoughts Judge Dawson’s visit has left her with.
She stops at the parking to the breakwater and makes the short walk to the rocks, thinking about the story of the knitting luncheon. It’s a funny story, but it’s also not, because behind each justice is an invisible spouse, like an elf in the workshop, toiling away with all the drudgery of toy building while Santa gets to drive the sleigh. Her mother’s sole job was being that elf. Her phone rings as she begins to make her way onto the breakwater. It’s Steven. She’s glad to see his name of the screen; she’ll answer, and she’ll tell him what she’s been thinking about. She’ll tell him that they each need to knit for the other person sometimes. Metaphorically, obviously. They would both be terrible knitters.
“Hey. You answered!” He sounds rushed. “I have something to tell you. Well, not tell you. Ask you.”
