Small Victories, Great Expectations

On a November morning, Kate Wood has her day in court while her former campground neighbor, Kerrie Ramsey, faces 20 questions from her 5-year-old. At Lou's Restaurant in Hanover, waitress Ginny Macomber deals with missing homefries and a new relationship. Down the road in West Lebanon, Barry Seaver finds an unwelcome visitor at the Habitat for Humanity house.

Chapter Four

When Kate Wood looks around the courtroom, all she sees are sharp angles and unyielding surfaces.

The bare, cream-colored walls. The fluorescent ceiling lights. The blank, slate chalkboard. All add to the Franklin County Courthouse's sterility.

Waiting for the family court judge to appear from his chambers to hear her child-support case, Kate rests her elbows on the plaintiff's wooden table. Her face is buried in her hands. She wishes she could get up and walk around or read the paperback she brought with her.

At the very least she'd like to move to the gallery with her mother so she could entertain herself by perusing the graffiti carved into the backs of the wooden benches.

"I Luv Rich."

"F... you."

Kate lifts her face away from her hands and yawns.

It was nearly midnight before she finished work at McDonald's in West Lebanon last night. Her mother had roused her at 7 to make the trip to the Greenfield, Mass., courthouse.

Kate's daydreaming is interrupted by a nudge from her lawyer, indicating the judge has entered the room. Kate's mother found Jim Smith three years ago after calling nearly every law office she could find in the western Massachusetts Yellow Pages.

Observing his rumpled suits and tussled hair, Kate took an immediate liking to Smith. He wasn't slick. Unlike many of the other lawyers her mother had called, he didn't require $5,000 up front.

Kate scrambled to come up with a $1,000 retainer, but in three years since then he has never asked for another dime, although she's sure her bill is now thousands of dollars more.

"People like Kate need a voice," says Smith, who has practiced for more than 20 years. "I have other cases that allow me to do this."

Kate's case has struck a nerve with Smith. He is annoyed by the defense's strategy, which he believes is typical for these types of child support cases. He says the defense knows Kate doesn't have much money, so the longer they can drag out the case, the better the chance he will tire of working for free or Kate will just give up.

Smith is also convinced that Kate's former boyfriend has the ability to pay. Anatoly Matlis was earning more than $50,000 a year as a software engineer before enrolling in graduate school. Smith also knows that Anatoly is living with his parents in Marblehead, Mass., an oceanfront community north of Boston.

Kate, 24, and Anatoly, 25, were never married and their daughter was born after they split up. Anatoly visits 3-year-old Olivia about once a month, often taking her to the Montshire Museum in Norwich.

The only other contact Kate and Anatoly have is at the Greenfield courthouse. As she sits on a bench in the hallway, Anatoly, with his wavy hair and long sideburns will stride past in his leather jacket, acknowledging her with a quick nod.

On this particular morning, Anatoly's lawyer has come to the courtroom alone. Standing before the judge, Smith is the first to speak.

"Your honor, my client has not received a single penny in child support since last August," he says, motioning to Kate. "My client is now owed more than $3,000.

"They're holding this money hostage."

Without looking up, Smith points a finger at his courtroom opponent. Mark Berson is short with a round face. He wears dark, pinstriped suits and tassled shoes.

"Your honor," Berson begins, "as far as we're concerned it's almost an accounting matter."

Kate perks up. "Accounting matter?" she thinks. That's one she has not heard before.

Kate would have received the $3,000 earlier, Berson says, "but my client had difficulty liquidating his retirement account."

"Are the funds available now?" the judge asks.

"Yes, your honor," the lawyer replies.

Berson explains that his law office has been holding the check for several weeks because of a letter it received from Massachusetts officials, saying the money should be sent to the state, which would then forward it to Kate. He was holding onto the check until the court could clarify the matter, Berson says.

"OK," the judge says. "Let's make sure she gets the money."

It will take a couple of days, Berson says, because he must wait until his office has received a written copy of the judge's order.

The judge shakes his head. "I'll write the order immediately."

Then, he turns to Kate. "Can you wait while the order is typed up?"

Kate nods. After the order is typed, she can take it to Berson's office across the street. She will be given a check for $3,000 – the most money she has ever held in her life.

Kate follows her lawyer out of the courtroom, stopping in the hallway. For the first time in more than 30 minutes, Kate speaks.

"Thank you," she says to Smith, a quick smile spreading across her face.

AT LOU'S RESTAURANT IN HANOVER, the customers come in waves, especially on weekends. From the time the door opens at 7 in the morning until the last cup of coffee is served at 3 in the afternoon, Ginny Macomber measures her breaks by the number of puffs she can squeeze from a cigarette before heading back on the floor.

This morning, she is one of three waitresses working the 16 booths and tables. Another handles the lunch counter. The number of waitresses is kept low intentionally. "If I put two more waitresses on, nobody could make a living," says Toby Fried, the restaurant's owner and baker.

Ginny survives on her tips. She's lucky if the $2.58 per hour she earns in base pay covers her income taxes and the $300 a month health insurance for her and her 8-year-old daughter. In her 18 years as a waitress, Lou's is the first place she's worked that has offered health insurance at a price she could afford.

At 36, Ginny has a gravelly voice with ocean blue eyes and thick blond hair that she is constantly pushing behind her ears.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Meg Ryan?" a male customer asks.

"All the time."

A couple of booths down, Ginny spots one of her customers with his hand in the air. "What you want, hon?" she asks.

"I didn't get my homefries." He points to the poached egg and hash on his plate.

"It doesn't come with homefries," says Ginny. "I can get you a order if you'd like."

"Are you sure? The last time I was here I got homefries."

She brings a menu to his table and points

to the meal he's ordered.

"See, it doesn't mention homefries, but if you want some I'll get them for you."

The man never looks up from his plate.

Two Hanover police officers are waiting by the cash register for a table.

"Where's your station, Gin?" one of them asks.

"Over here, guys."

She pulls a wet cloth out of her apron and cleans off the table.

"Have a seat," she says. "I'll be right with you."

On the way to the kitchen, Ginny stops in front of the mirror at the waitress station.

"What are you doing tonight?" another waitress asks Ginny.

"Going out to eat."

Ginny is excited about a new guy she has met from Fairlee. A co-worker from Lou's introduced them. Popping an English muffin into the toaster, she gives her co-worker a few details.

"He's an electrician, owns his own business," she says.

He is in the process of getting a divorce, she continues, and has two kids, including a daughter the same age as Briana.

"He's got a lot of baggage," she says, "but I do, too."

Ginny giggles.

"Working in Hanover, I thought I'd meet lots of doctors and lawyers."

She lives just across the Connecticut River in Norwich, a haven for doctors, lawyers and the idle rich. It is a place where nearly one-quarter of the households report annual incomes of $100,000 or more and real estate brokers refer to houses that sell for $200,000 as starter homes. The town's library posts a sign on the front door announcing the arrival of a national investment newsletter.

Outside of having the same ZIP code, Ginny doesn't have much in common with the majority of Norwich's 3,500 residents. She rents a two-bedroom ranch where the buzz of traffic is a constant reminder that one of her closest neighbors is Interstate 91.

She moved to Norwich three years ago because it was close to work -- a major consideration when you're a single parent -- and has an elementary school with a strong reputation.

"I don't know how much longer I'll be able to afford it," she says.

Her three-year lease expires in a few months. Ginny knows her $750 monthly rent is a bargain. Her landlord could easily get $1,000.

"I can't afford to pay much more than seven-fifty," she says. "I hate the thought of moving, but we may not have a choice."

KERRIE RAMSEY, A RESPIRATORY THERAPIST at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, has barely gotten her son buckled into his seat before he asks to play a guessing game. At age 5, Sam has figured out a good way to pass the time when his mother is behind the wheel.

"It's a jungle animal," Sam begins.

Kerrie realizes there is no way around this.

"Does it roar?" she asks.

"No."

"Does it have tusks?"

"No. Give up?"

"OK, Sam, what is it?"

"Tasmanian Devil."

Kerrie senses this is going to be a long ride. They are on their way to Wells, Vt., a tiny town 30 minutes past Rutland on the New York border. Riding with an acquaintance, they are making the trip to pick up her 17-year-old son Matt's 1984 Pontiac Fiero, which he just bought for $500 from a co-worker of Kerrie's who lives in Wells.

Now, Kerrie must get the car back to their house in Quechee, where it will sit in the driveway all winter because Matt does not yet have his driver's license and Kerrie wants him to wait for spring -- and dry roads -- to get it.

The car has been at a mechanic's for nearly a month, waiting to be picked up after getting a new alternator. At the garage, Kerrie pays the $196.88 bill with Matt's money. The Fiero, a two-seat sports car, has a manual transmission. Kerrie is not looking forward to the 70 miles of shifting ahead of her on the return trip to Quechee.

"Twenty questions?" Sam asks from the passenger seat.

"Not now, sweetie," replies Kerrie. She flicks the ashes of her cigarette out the half-opened window. A few minutes into the trip and Kerrie has already discovered one of the car's many flaws: The driver's side window opens only part way.

Early in the trip home, Sam comes up with a new game to play. He is counting how many times his mom stalls the Fiero.

Stopped at a traffic light, Kerrie grinds the gears. The car's engine goes silent.

"Six," says Sam.

"Great, Sam."

After a few turns of the ignition, the car is lurching forward again. Relaxing for a moment, Kerrie takes one hand off the steering wheel and brushes Sam's straight, brown hair out of his eyes.

As they approach Rutland, Kerrie stalls the Fiero at another traffic light. A line of impatient drivers starts forming behind her.

Moving again, Sam jiggles the stick shift. Kerrie slaps his hand. "Don't do that."

In Rutland, they pull into McDonald's. Kerrie looks over at her son, breaking into a smile.

"How many, Sam?"

"Eighteen."

ON A SUNDAY MORNING shortly before Christmas, Barry steps outside the First Baptist Church in downtown Lebanon. After raining most of the previous day and night, the weather is turning colder.

It feels like snow. Barry wishes he had brought a heavier jacket.

Leaving the church, Barry figured he could no longer put off doing what had kept him awake half of the night before.

He returns to his apartment, just around the corner, and changes out of his church clothes. He puts on jeans and work boots.

He drives his 1990 Volkswagen Jetta to the house Habitat For Humanity is building near the Lebanon-Hanover line. As always, the mud room door is unlocked.

Except for him, the house is empty. He walks across the kitchen's plywood floor and past the unfinished, studded walls, which still need to be insulated before the Sheetrock can go up.

In the hallway, he turns left and starts down the basement stairs. He takes only a few steps before stopping.

"God, I can't believe this," he mutters.

Water covers the basement floor. Ever since he first spotted water leaking into the basement a few weeks ago, Barry comes to the house after every rain storm.

It has never been this bad.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he steps into water, 6 inches deep in some spots.

He knew what the problem was: the house had not been built high enough. As a result, runoff from Route 10 comes through the driveway and settles against the foundation.

After a few minutes of standing in the water, he starts back up the stairs. He stops halfway up and sits down.

He knew what the Habitat for Humanity leaders would say. Don't worry, everything will be OK. We just need to get the sump pump hooked up.

Barry couldn't help but be discouraged.

"Every place I've ever lived has had water in the cellar. I haven't even moved in and I've got this to deal with."

ON THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY -- one of two days each week that Habitat for Humanity volunteers work on the house -- Barry does not show up to help. Dean Kellogg, Habitat's foreman, can't recall Barry ever missing a work day since the project began in October.

On Saturday, the next time Habitat volunteers came to work, Barry is again missing.

"Where's Barry?" a volunteer asks.

Dean can only shrug his shoulders. "I don't know."