The Fallins Fall Apart
 
Author: Linda Wilson AKA ranapipens4ever (rana pipens =
bullfrog–love frogs!)

E-mail: linda_31467@msn.com

Rated: PG-13–some strong language
 
Summary: A short take about what might have happened as Burton and
Anne went to divorce court in 1980.


Disclaimer: Burton and Anne Fallin and thier son, Nicholas (who does
not make an appearance in this story) are taken directly from
"The Guardian." Their respective attorneys, Stephen Barclay
and Lawrence Frankenberg and Judge Henry Ryerson are my own creation, as
is Anne's unseen but mentioned gynecologist. Resemblance to any
person living or dead is purely coincidental; similarity of events,
dates, characters or the portrayal of events is unintentional.
Janet Dillon provided her generous and invaluable assistance for this
one. The author extends thanks to her and the initial circle of
critics who first evaluated this effort.


--+-- 
 
If doctors make the worst patients, surely lawyers must make the
worst clients, Stephen Barclay, the most sought-after divorce lawyer
in Pittsburgh, thought. At the moment, his current client was pacing
his office like the caged tiger he was, and being a lawyer himself,
knew just enough about this area of the law to be dangerous–and a
real pain in the ass.

"Look Burton, you're going to have to bite the bullet
here," he said. "You're being extraordinarily generous
about the settlement,and that's fine, but this custody thing is hanging up
the whole process. I've been able to work out a deal on visitation
that's better than we usually hope for–"

"Visitation?" Burton Fallin stopped pacing long enough to aim
a look of frustration and pain at his lawyer. "Jesus Christ,
Steve, I don't want visitation, I want my son."

"We've been over this before," Barclay said. "In this
day and age the deck was stacked against you from the very beginning. In order 
to
score a hit on motherhood you have to prove that the mother is
totally unfit. And the kid himself puts a serious dent in that
argument–he's healthy, happy–well, not right now, but a
court-appointed child psychiatrist did an interview and found nothing
amiss–and the child is well cared for."

"The kiddie shrink found nothing amiss because Nicholas has
always been good at hiding his feelings," Burton said. "I
know this has to be tearing him up."

"You're his father–you don't have any professional
standing in the matter of the child's mental state," Barclay said. Burton
snorted. "The only thing we can do that might make a dent is get
some of Anne's–acquaintances–to testify."

"Steve, I've told you, I won't do that," Burton said.
"Damn it, she's my wife, the mother of my son–I can't
tear her reputation apart in open court. And besides–"

"Yes?"

"All right–I'm human. I don't want to sit there and
hear five or six guys–men I know, men I thought were my–our
–friends–describe how they put horns on me. I know I'm a
laughingstock at a country club, a political clubhouse and the local
chapter of the American Medical Association. It's not fun, Steve.
And my boy goes to school with their kids, they have dance classes, Little 
League, whatever.
Idon't want other kids to be whispering about his mother behind his back.
What would that do to him?"

"That's a noble sentiment, but all it does is put us back at
square one–two weeks in the summer, major holidays alternating every year
and alternate weekends every month."

"Two weeks. Alternate weekends." Burton's voice sounded
as bleak as he felt.

"That's the best we can do."

"Well, it stinks."

"So let me go after her. Burton–there's also the pill
thing. From what you've told me, it sounds like she's got quite a habit
there. We could try that."

"My wife is not a drug addict. And that's something else I
don't want Nicholas to hear. What kind of example is that for an impressionable
child?"

"Hey, it's a weapon. If you don't want to use it,
it's up to you. And I have to warn you, there are no guarantees. We could go 
through all
the crap you described and still lose–the judge could decide that
you were being petty and vindictive and cut the visitation back still
further."

"I can't risk that. All right–two weeks in the summer,
alternate weekends and alternating major holidays–that means I get him
Thanksgiving, she gets him Christmas, I get him Easter one year and
the other way round the next."

"That's right."

"It still stinks, but I don't have a choice, do I? Where do I
sign?" Barclay pushed the papers across his desk. "You know the
drill–where the `X' is."

Burton fingered his moustache with his left hand as he signed.
Don't let your hand shake, he told himself. "Well, that's it,"
he said.

Barclay stood up. "Ryerson is sitting right now and he's
waiting for us. We'll present these and it's all over." Each attorney
picked up his respective briefcase and they walked toward the door. "Your
son's a nice boy," Barclay said. "I hope some day he knows what you
sacrificed for him."

"I hope some day he doesn't," Burton said.

In Judge Henry Ryerson's courtroom, Anne Fallin and her lawyer,
Lawrence Frankenberg, were seated at the defendants' table.
Burton and Barclay entered and sat across the aisle on the plaintiffs'
side. Ryerson looked questioningly at Barclay.

"Your Honor, petitioner agrees to custody terms, the final item
in this action," Barclay said.

"Very well," Ryerson said. "Petitioner and defendant will
rise." Anne, Burton and their attorneys did so.

"In the matter of Fallin versus Fallin, an action for divorce,
petitioner and defendant having agreed to the settlement and the
determination of custody for the minor child, the court grants the
petition." He rapped his gavel. "Divorce is final."

Burton approached the woman who only moments before had been his wife
of 15 years, his hand extended. Anne was still beautiful, still the
only woman in the world for him. She always would be, he
thought. "Anne–" he said.

Anne Fallin lowered her eyes. "Oh, Burton–I–I'm sorry," she said.

"It's all right," her ex-husband said. They shook hands
awkwardly– like a couple of teenagers on their first date, Burton thought.
There's irony for you. The divorcees moved toward the courthouse
doors, leaving their lawyers in their wake. "Well, this is it,
then," he said as they reached the entrance. "Can I–can I call
Nicholas, just to see how things are going?"

"Oh, sure," Anne said. "Just–try to make it early on
school nights."

"Of course," Burton said."Can I drop you anywhere?
I'm parked right outside."

"No, thank you. I have an appointment with Doctor Mortenson and
that would be out of your way–you're going back to the office, I
suppose."

"Mortenson–oh, yes, your gynecologist," Burton said.
"Anything wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong–just a routine checkup." Here I
go, lying to you again, Burton. Something's wrong, but I'm not sure what, and
I don't think I have any right to ask you to help me with this, whatever it
is, so I'll just have to get through it on my own, Anne thought.

"Well–Anne, take care of yourself."

"Yes. You do that, too, Burton." She watched the man who
only hours before had been her husband descend the courthouse steps, a light
wind disarranging the thinning brown hair on the top of his head,
remembering his kisses, the feel of his body connecting with hers.
What have I done? she thought. What have I done?

The End