Chapter 12: The Freeze Hearing

The Litchfield probate courtroom smelled of floor wax and wet wool.

I sat in the third row of the gallery in my charcoal suit.

A reporter sat on one side of me, and a retired woman who had come for the show sat on the other.

Calvin sat at the petitioner's table with his rumpled folder open.

He had not slept, and he had shaved badly.

When he turned his head and found me, his face went briefly, privately soft.

Then it went back to stone.

The judge was a gaunt, tired woman with half-glasses on a chain.

Across the aisle sat Neal with his lawyer, in the best suit he owned.

Lindy's chair next to him was empty.

I looked at it for a long moment.

She had not come, and I had known she wouldn't.

"The family's motion to dissolve the suspension of distributions," said the judge.

"Mr. Weldon's counsel, you may call your witness."

"The petitioner calls Marcella Underhill."

My mother walked to the stand in black wool, with one hand on the rail.

She was sworn in a clear, low voice.

She sat down, folded her hands and looked at the judge.

Then she began to cry.

It was beautiful.

The tears came slowly, one at a time, and she let them run without wiping them away.

The courtroom leaned toward her.

"Mrs. Underhill," said the lawyer gently. "Tell the court about your daughter."

"She was the kindest girl.

She was always so quiet.

I thought it was shyness."

My mother pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.

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