The court summons arrived, a cruel twist of fate delivered to my small bakery apartment. Philadelphia County Court. Arthur Holbrook was petitioning for full legal guardianship of six-year-old Thomas.
The reason cited: my “vagrancy and mental instability.” The date on the summons was four years after Julian’s death, October 1974.
My landlady, a stout woman with kind eyes, stood at my door, her face troubled. “Police officers have been asking questions, Clara,” she said, her voice low. “About your… political activities.”
Arthur wasn’t just leveraging his social connections anymore. He was using the legal system, using fabricated reports of anti-war sentiments to paint me as an unfit mother. My heart pounded against my ribs.
“What did you tell them?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She sighed. “Only that you’re a good mother. But they had papers. Something about a court order.”
I had less than 72 hours before child welfare services would move to seize Thomas. Arthur’s final, most devastating blow.
“He wants to take my son,” I whispered to Salinger over the phone, the receiver slick in my hand. “He thinks I’m unstable. He thinks I’m poor.”
“He’s using everything he has,” Salinger replied, his voice grim. “We need those Bethesda documents, Clara. Now more than ever.”
Evelyn’s words echoed in my mind: “In the heavy floor safe. He keeps it there. For leverage.”
Arthur’s annual defense board dinner was that Thursday evening. He would be at the Union League, surrounded by his cronies, oblivious. It was my only window.
I made a decision, a cold certainty settling in my bones. I would go back to Spruce Street. To my childhood home, now a fortress of lies. I would get the paternity report.
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