It's been a while since I had to appear before a judge.

I was 15 the last time. I stood accused of pilfering a pair of shoes from the Weston Favell Shopping Centre in Northampton, England. They were good shoes, too -- brown-and-tan two-tone with leather soles. I slipped them on and scooted out of the store.

It was not a well-planned crime. For one, I had failed to take into account the lack of grip afforded by a pair of brand-new leather soles on the mirror-slick floor of the Weston Favell. My efforts to evade the grasp of the lanky store detective left me shwip-shwipping on the spot, but otherwise immobile.

So it was I ended up in juvenile court, gazing, bewildered, at the thick black tresses that coiled from the judge's cavernous nose. "You knowingly and wantonly took those shoes . . . " As I remember it, I was sentenced to three years of having to listen to my mother say, "That's not how I raised you."

Twenty-three years later, on a sunny Thursday afternoon, I find myself in Courtroom No. 4 of the Cambridge Probate Courthouse, the old chill creeping through my limbs. I haven't actually done anything wrong -- well, not anything illegal -- and it seems unlikely that anyone will be calling me a "miscreant" today. This time is different. I'm accompanied by my wife, Nina, rather than my mother. And this time I feel infinitely more wretched.

Getting divorced is tantamount to admitting you told a big fat lie. Never mind standing before God -- you stood before your family and friends and vowed to devote your life to another. And now look at you: "Did I say till death do us part? What I meant was, till we get sick of it do us part." This would seem to be a far more abject transgression than stealing a pair of shoes. To make matters worse, my feelings of guilt are increasingly alloyed with the sweat-prickled anxiety of stage fright. I have no idea how divorce hearings work. Will I have to stand up and say something? Will I have to say what went wrong?

"Your Honor, frankly, we were getting on each other's fucking nerves."

There are 40 or 50 couples in the courtroom, smartly dressed, seated in neat rows -- a parody of a wedding party. As Nina and I take our places on one of the ass-assaulting benches, a woman with an Elvis pompadour approaches the bench. "The marriage," she mutters, "was never consummated." The words ring around the courtroom like a cry of "Fire!" I feel sorry for the Elvis woman. Above all, though, I feel sorry for me.

I think back to the beginning of this forlorn loop: our wedding day -- the sense of mutual devotion, the ache of possibility. I remember how Nina had begun to cry midway through the ceremony, and how I followed suit. And later, how we laughed when we realized that neither of us had eaten any cake. The smiles, the speeches, the poems, the promises. Flipping through this catalogue of regret, I can feel the boo-hoo reflex kicking in. So I do what I always do when confronted with such situations: I laugh.

It starts when a guard comes over and chastises us for drinking coffee -- "This is a courtroom, not a coffee shop!" This becomes a running joke. I threaten to go pick up the microphone and start singing, which would provoke a gruff, "This is a courtroom, not a karaoke bar!" It's all very strange. Here we are, about to end it all, and we're getting along famously. The obscuring elephant of our marriage is no longer between us. Nina looks lovely -- the way she did when we met. We chatter. We lean into each other. We giggle.

"This is a courtroom, not a comedy club!"

It is indeed a somber room. Many of the couples aren't sitting together, and those who are stare ahead in grim silence. A few of the women have that pinky hue in the T-zone (eyes, nose), which suggests post- or imminent weepage. "Take my wife . . . please."

One older couple -- mid 50s -- converges on the bench from opposite sides of the courtroom, not once looking at each other. She, bleach-blond, is dressed in a lurid sweater, which seems to say, "I am young and vibrant still!" The guy is unabashedly hang-dog, sad-eyed, disheveled. When the procedure (which takes about 15 seconds) is over, they part again, the woman to get her belongings, he slouching toward the door. As he leaves, the man steals a look back at his wife -- ex-wife -- and stares for a few seconds. As if sensing this, she turns in his direction, but he has already looked away.

When our turn comes, I am so nervous I can barely speak my name for the record. I stand there gripping the table, thinking: "Don't cry, don't." Then, in a blink, it's done. As we walk away from the stern-faced judge, Nina whispers, "Shall we high-five?" and we laugh again. Afterwards we go for coffee. I ask her: "Do you have any regrets?" If she does, I want her to lie. "No," she says. "No regrets." I keep meaning to remind her about the cake -- how we had forgotten to eat our own wedding cake. That was funny. But before I have the chance, it's time to go.

After the Great Shoe Trial, my mother and I rode the bus home in silence. I wanted to say something -- I'm sorry -- but it seemed inadequate. What do you say? The question occurs to me again as Nina drives me to the subway. Once again, there are no words. I climb out of the car. We do one of those little air-kiss things and go our separate ways.

Chris Wright can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com..

Issue Date: December 28, 2001 - January 3, 2002