The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (34 page)

“I’m asking you to go see your doctor and get checked out.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

She rolled back over and put the pillow over her head. She heard John Lennon’s voice.

If the rain comes,

They run and hide their heads,

They might as well be dead . . .

She pulled the pillow off. She was not going to hide her head— not from this, whatever it was.

A
FEW WEEKS LATER,
Louise buzzed Mercedes’s phone.

“Mercedes, Darrel said to let you know we just got a settlement offer in the Franjipur case. He seems very happy about it.”

“Is he in his office?”

“Yes, and he’s alone.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Darrel had just returned from the settlement conference. He grinned from ear to ear when she entered the room.

“We’re getting somewhere. The defendants definitely don’t want to try this case and have made a very generous offer. It amounts to three times Rand’s salary at the time he was terminated. I think your domino theory worked, or is working, I should say.”

“What did Jack say about all this?”

“He wasn’t there and I haven’t called him yet. I wanted to tell you first, since this was your brainchild.”

She smiled slightly, but then her brow furrowed. “I thought Jack was going today. He told me he was planning on it.”

“He said he had some urgent business and couldn’t make it.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“Late yesterday.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. She felt her stomach clench. She had discussed the settlement conference with Jack that very morning and he had been determined to go.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be very pleased,” she said. “And so will Rand.”

“This is only the initial offer. There’s bargaining room.”

T
HAT NIGHT SHE AND GERMAINE
were working on the girl’s lines for a play the local theater group was putting on at the end of the summer. Mercedes sat cross-legged on the couch with the script in her lap while Germaine marched back and forth on the carpet, gesticulating wildly and reciting her soliloquy. Mercedes looked down to shield her amusement at her daughter’s dramatic flailing of arms and exaggerated voice modulation.

It was well past eight o’clock when they heard Jack’s car pull up
and the garage door open. He burst through the front door, which slammed behind him. He flicked his fingers in their direction, as if to wave, and stomped down the hall to the master bedroom, closing that door loudly, too. Germaine, who had paused in mid-speech and mid-gesture looked at her mother in bewilderment. Mercedes was equally astonished.

“What’s the matter with him?” the girl asked.

“I have no idea. It must be something from the office. Let’s just leave him alone. You were saying?”

Germaine resumed her impassioned speech to the citizens of Rome.

A short while later he emerged from the bedroom in his nightclothes. He stopped at the console where Mercedes always put the day’s mail. He leafed through it, looked up into the large round mirror, and saw their reflections. As though repeating memorized lines of his own, he acknowledged them and tramped into the kitchen in search of the hot meal he hoped to find in the oven.

After Germaine retired, still perplexed, Mercedes went into the kitchen and closed the pocket door behind her. Jack was finishing his dinner in the breakfast nook while staring at pictures in
National Geographic.
She kissed him on the cheek, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed into it, pushed the magazine aside, and regarded her in silence.

“Hard day?”

“I guess so.” He eyed her suspiciously.

“How were the chicken and mashed potatoes?”

He relaxed slightly. “Very good.”

She clasped his limp hand and looked at his wedding band. “Want some peach cobbler?”

He brightened and nodded eagerly.

She cleared away his dishes and brought him a bowl of cobbler
and a glass of cold milk. She sat and watched as he ate it in silence.

“We had a big day in the Taylor case. Did you hear?”

He thought for a moment and took another bite.

“Darrel was going to call you, but I guess he hasn’t yet. He said you couldn’t make it to the settlement conference.”

He said nothing, apparently focused on the flavors in his mouth. She decided to drop it.

When he finished eating, he made no move to leave the table. She held his hand again. She told him about Germaine’s work on the play and watched his face change. He seemed to soften as she spoke, but only listened. Then the realization struck her forcefully: the man before her was five-year-old Jackie Soutane, Jackie who wanted to be a good boy. Jackie who wanted his mommy. Jackie who had been brutalized, confined, abandoned, starved, reviled, and blamed for his mother’s illness and death. The hair rose on her arms.

She knew how to take care of a five-year-old. She stroked his arm soothingly and asked him if he’d like help getting ready for bed. He nodded obediently. She stood and led him by the hand to their bathroom. She spread toothpaste on his toothbrush, which he dutifully took and used. She helped him out of his robe and slippers and guided him to use the toilet. She led him to the bed. She turned down the covers and watched him meekly climb in. She pulled up the duvet. He closed his eyes and sighed. She turned out the light and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. She laid her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and smoothed her hair. Her throat constricted and her heart ached. She stifled the urge to cry. She concentrated on the warmth of his arms around her and the affection in his hands, tenderly stroking her as if she were his kitty. She listened to his breathing as it grew deeper and slower, and to the rattle in his chest. His hand stilled and rested on her head; he fell asleep. She put her arms around him and wept.

N
EXT MORNING SHE PASSED BY
Darrel’s office in time to hear him exclaim, “Jack, you’re way off base on this. We have a legal obligation to tell Rand
all
the details of the settlement offer, and to abide by his wishes if he chooses to accept it.” Silence. “I know you have the client’s ear. You’ve made that abundantly clear since the beginning of the case. . . .”

She stood outside the door, out of sight, and tried to divine Jack’s half of the conversation.

“What are you
talking
about?” Darrel asked incredulously. “This is
precisely
the sort of offer we were hoping to get. In fact, it’s higher than we imagined their opening might be. We discussed this in detail. Don’t you remember?”

Mercedes winced.

“We
can
get them to come up. There’s no doubt about that.”

Darrel was exasperated in a way she’d not heard before.

“I am asking you to evaluate it and I am
insisting
you communicate it to Rand, or I
will.
Louise will fax Melanie the document the moment we get it.”

More silence, while he listened to Jack.

“That makes no sense, Jack. We’ve said all along that we want to avoid a trial, which neither side wants. . . . Yes I’m well aware of that, but you’re not a trial lawyer, remember?”

More silence.

“But we are
light-years
away from punitive damages, with the evidence and the witnesses we have—”

“Just hold it right there. My firm has already sunk far more time into this thing than we think is justifiable.”

More silence.

“Jack, listen to me—we
have
to tell Rand. This is not your
decision to make.” Darrel’s voice had gotten louder with each salvo and now he was practically shouting.

Mercedes could stand it no more. She continued on down the hall, past the paralegal office where Simone and Lindsay were immersed in their projects for the morning. She ducked into Jack’s old office, now furnished with a bare-bones desk and chair, to be occupied by some future associate. She closed the door behind her and sat in the quiet to collect herself. Her heart was throbbing. She felt hot and thoroughly shaken.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number she’d memorized.

“Doctor’s office,” a kind voice answered.

“Good morning,” she replied. “My name is Mercedes Bell, and I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Hand as soon as possible.”

I
t was midafternoon when Mercedes arrived home from her appointment with Dr. Murielle Hand, the kindly doctor who had once been Jack’s psychiatrist and who had now agreed to see his wife in a time of crisis.

The house was quiet. Mercedes changed clothes and began her yoga practice on the carpet in the living room. With Dr. Hand to guide her she felt fortified. She began to concentrate on the postures and her breathing; she focused her mind.

At the end, she lay on her back with her eyes closed. She heard birdsong and wind in the trees, the brushing of branches on the roof. She thought about how alone she was. It had ever been so. Marriage never really changed that. It offered the illusion that one was not alone.
Solitude can be solace, if one appreciates it properly.

She got up and walked out onto the deck. The tops of the trees were swaying in the breeze high overhead, like willowy women arm in arm, moving to some ethereal music, whispering among themselves. The late afternoon sunlight cast shadows in the bushes surrounding
the emerald grass below. Everything around her seemed to be breathing. She became acutely aware of the movement of the bushes as the breeze ruffled the leaves and birds hopped from twig to branch.

Suddenly there was a great flutter and flap and commotion. An enormous pheasant, half leaping and half flying, landed on the deck just a few feet from where she stood. The bird regarded her warily, tilting his iridescent green-and-blue head with its bold scarlet patches around the eyes. Then he spread his brilliant plumage and pirouetted in front of her, stepping carefully as if he were performing in the queen’s court. He turned his back so she could admire his feathers, speckled in gold, rust, and black. He turned to face her and dipped his head, as if nodding to her. The ring of white feathers around his throat reminded her of the starched white collar on a tuxedo shirt. He puffed out his breast feathers and stood perfectly still for a long moment. Then, as mysteriously as he had appeared, he flapped his wings and leapt back down to the ground.

Mercedes peered over the railing and saw the bushes quiver where he had vanished. She looked up at the trees and watched them.

The phone rang. She ran into the house to catch it on the third ring.

“Hi. It’s Melanie. Jack asked me to let you know he’ll be dining with clients tonight and won’t be home until late.”

“Is he there?” Mercedes asked.

“Yes, but he’s in a meeting and will be leaving right afterwards.”

“Mel, is everything all right? He always calls me himself.”

“Everything’s fine. Just busy, that’s all.”

Mercedes was not convinced. “Did he say which clients?” There was an awkward silence. “Never mind, sorry I asked.”