I held the door for her. She entered as if she knew the place, chose the precise spot on the leather couch occupied by her sister, and pressed her knees together.
No facial movement, no giveaway tics, the brown eyes remained as still as taxidermy. But as I delayed by shuffling papers, she began wringing her hands just as Ree had. Reached for her hair like Ree. No braid to play with; an arched thumb stroked the bottom of a particularly dramatic wave.
“That,” she said, “was unfortunate. The little contretemps with Medea. I’d like to believe you won’t hold her assertiveness against me.”
“No problem.”
“No problem for you, but for me, it could be a big problem if she mucks things up. I’ve already paid her a fortune and she refuses to guarantee anything close to results. Some racket, this law business, no? We caregivers operate on a higher level.”
If that was a play for common ground it wasn’t backed up by anything close to warmth. She had an odd mechanical way of phrasing her words. Clipped, precise, uniform spacing between words that evoked digital processing.
When I didn’t comment, she tried something that might have ended up as a smile if her lips had gone along with the plan. “Think I should fire her?”
“Not my place to say one way or the other.”
“Of course not,” she said. “You’re just Solomon with a Ph.D., trying to figure out how to divide the baby with a minimum of bloodshed.”
I said, “Tell me why you brought the lawsuit, Dr. Sykes.”
“Why?” As if the question was absurd. “Because I had to. In good faith.”
“Faith in what?”
“Faith in optimal child rearing. Dedication to the child. You’ve met my sister.”
I said nothing.
“Soul of discretion, and all that, eh?” Connie Sykes unclasped her briefcase but left it on the floor. “You ask the questions, I give the answers. Fine. But there’s no reason to be cryptic. I know that you’ve met my sister because Medea told me you have. Then again, she was certain you’d talked to that courtroom hack, Ballister. But no matter, even if you haven’t met my sister, you’ve surely read some of the material we’ve sent you. So you understand what I’m dealing with.”
“Which is …”
“Ah, there it is,” she said, “the classic psychiatric riposte, parrying questions with questions. I learned all about that when I rotated through psychiatry in med school. What was it called — patient-directed dialogue?” She crossed her legs. “Not my cup of tea, psychiatry. Too ambiguous. More shamanism than science. I’ve heard that psychologists operate at a more data-based level.”
I said, “What aspect of your sister are you dealing with?”
“Total irrationality. Part and parcel of her psycho-emotional makeup, I’ll leave the specific diagnoses up to you. What may not be evident to you, yet, is that she’s also what used to be called of low moral character. Back when morality counted and every bad act didn’t elicit a disease label. Shall I be specific? She has little or no impulse control. Coupled with a relatively low IQ, the result has not been salutary. In sum, she’s incapable of supporting herself financially and psychologically, let alone of raising a child.”
She removed her glasses, twiddled them by one sidepiece. “Then, there’s the coup de grâce: years of chronic drug addiction and concomitant criminal history.”
“What drug is she addicted to?”
“I don’t know what currently amuses her. But I can tell you that over the years she’s admitted to sampling opiates, cocaine, amphetamines, hallucinogens, you name it. Plus far too much alcohol. Of course she denies all that, now.” She twirled a curl. “If I were you, I’d call for a hair follicle analysis. Clear up that nonsense, once and for all.”
I said, “Does she have any criminal convictions beyond three misdemeanors?”
“Ah,” she said. “So you know about those. Aren’t three misdemeanors sufficient evidence of lack of fitness, nowadays? Or have standards tumbled that low? As an expert, I’m sure you’re aware that for every conviction there are half a dozen offenses never accounted for. Per the FBI.”
“You’ve been doing your research.”
“Am I not obligated to do just that? In the best interests of the child?”
Before I could answer, she said, “Now I’d like to educate you in greater detail regarding my sister’s psychiatric profile.”
My sister. The child.
In her world, names were a nuisance.
At the onset of every evaluation, I work at keeping an open mind, but impressions form and more often than not they’re confirmed by the facts. After a few moments with Connie Sykes, observing the flatness in her eyes, hearing the machine-like diction, I couldn’t help conjuring a pathologist perched on a lab stool, observing a specimen on a slide.
I said, “Go on.”
“First off, she’s an unhealthily dependent individual. And she directs those immature impulses at a particularly unsuitable peer group.”
“Bad friends,” I said.
“She consorts with low-life degenerates whose poor character matches her own. Specifically, we need to be careful about two individuals. Either one of whom could very well be the child’s father.”
Withdrawing a manila file from the briefcase, she placed it on her lap.
“We begin with a disreputable man named William J. Melandrano. Aka ‘Winky.’ Origin of that nickname is still unknown to me but given this person’s obvious attention deficit disorder, I have my theories. Sample two is one Bernard V. Chamberlain. Aka ‘Boris.’ ”
She let out a dry laugh.
I said, “You believe one of them is Rambla’s father.”
“Neither will come forward and attest to such, nor will my sister shed light on the matter, but she’s been intimate with both of them over the years. During the same time period, which should tell you something.”
“You know this because—”
“I’ve seen them with her. The way they touched her. My sister loves attention.” She shuddered.
“Ree won’t confirm paternity.”
“Yet another indication of poor character,” she said. “Isn’t knowledge of paternity any child’s birthright? A vital component of a child’s proper development?”
“Both these men are bad influences but Rambla needs to know which one’s her father.”
“If for no other reason than to be wary.”
“How did you meet Melandrano and Chamberlain?”
“My sister introduced me to them. Prevailed upon me to hear them.” She huffed. “They’re alleged musicians. An alleged band called — are you ready for this? ‘Lonesome Moan.’ The only moaning in question is that which arises upon being assaulted by the noise they create.”
“Not virtuosos.”
“Good grief,” she said, covering her ears. “The entire situation — my sister’s milieu — is repellent. For her whole life she’s made decisions that have left her bereft of the normal material and emotional nutrients enjoyed by decent individuals. Now she’s made the supreme error of delivering a child out of wedlock. I cannot, in good conscience, visit her sins upon her offspring.”
“You believe she puts Rambla in danger.”
Giving her a chance to use the toddler’s name.
“I don’t believe it, I know it. Because unlike you and the judge and the attorneys — all of whom are intelligent enough and, I hope, well intentioned — I’m the only one able to draw upon a comprehensive data bank that offers the complete picture.”
Her foot nudged the briefcase.
I said, “All those years with your sister.”
“Must you do that?” she said. “Paraphrase everything I say? This isn’t psychotherapy, it’s fact finding.”