A Cure for Night (8 page)

13

I
 
CAN'T BELIEVE
I'm eating this shit," Myra said, staring dubiously at the fast food in front of her. We'd made it about halfway back to the city when Myra had declared herself starving. We'd stopped at a food court just off the interstate. The seating area was large but nevertheless dense and chaotic, jammed with families, children everywhere, crying and running and horsing around. The fluorescent light was glaringly bright, highlighting the handful of tiny take-out restaurants, the store selling bags of chips and tacky souvenir knickknacks.

"You look incredibly out of place," I said. Myra was wearing black jeans and a dark purple tank top. She'd worn a suit jacket into Sing Sing but had taken it off once we got back to the car.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that, you know, when was the last time you actually left New
York?"

"America frightens me," Myra said, deliberately glancing over her shoulder as she said it.

"Did you grow up in the city?"

Myra nodded, picking at her french fries. "Borough Park," she said.
"All my grandparents came over during the course of World War Two. My parents
were both born in Brooklyn as post-Holocaust kids."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I just nodded. I'd known a good number of Jewish people, especially since moving to New York, but I'd never meaningfully spoken to any of them about the Holocaust, any more than I'd ever really spoken to an African American about slavery. The topics were always there, implicit on some level, hovering at the edges of the conversation, but I for one always froze at any indication that they were actually coming up.

"Where are you from?" Myra asked.

"I grew up in Holyoke, Massachusetts," I replied. I didn't have much of a connection left to my hometown; I hadn't been back there since the Christmas before last. I'd skipped it last year, having started a short time before at the Brooklyn Defenders, not feeling ready to present myself in my new humbled state.

"That's where that girls' school is, right? You get to bang a lot
of failed lesbians?"

"You've really got the wrong idea about growing up in Holyoke," I said before taking a bite of my greasy, flavorless burger.

"Were your parents professors?"

"Everyone always thinks that Mount Holyoke must be in Holyoke," I said.
"But actually the college is in another town entirely."

"So what's in Holyoke, then?"

"Nothing much. It used to be paper factories, but they've all gone
out of business."

"Oh," Myra said. "So I'm guessing your parents weren't
professors."

"Neither of my parents graduated from college," I said. My parents, who'd married young, had divorced when I was five. They still lived in Holyoke, both having remarried and started other families. I was the only kid from their marriage, although between them I'd ended up with five younger half brothers and sisters. Growing up I'd shuttled between their two households. I hadn't fit in with their new families even before I'd made the leap afforded by a privileged education. None of them had ever fully understood the life I was living in New York back when I'd had at least the appearance of success, so it wasn't clear to me that any of them really understood how far I'd fallen. It certainly wasn't something anybody ever talked about.

Myra looked embarrassed, even like she was blushing slightly. "Sorry," she said.
"When you said you'd gone to Columbia Law School, it's possible I made some
assumptions as to your background."

"You're not the first," I said, smiling, appreciating the fact that she was at least sheepish about it.
"The whole time I was at Columbia, everybody always assumed I had the same sort
of background as they did. I'd go over to people's apartments and they'd, like,
be living in this two-bedroom on Riverside, rent must have been over three grand
a month, while I was in a studio with a shared bathroom and kitchen. I'd just
pretend not to notice the differences. I'm used to people assuming I'm much more
privileged than I actually am."

"All right, Mr. Working Class Hero," Myra said, tossing a french fry at me.
"So how'd you end up at a fancy-pants law school?"

It wasn't a story I'd told in a while, though it certainly wasn't anything I was ashamed of. I decided there wasn't any reason for me not to tell it to Myra.
"I'd been a total B student in high school," I said. "After I graduated I went
to Holyoke Community, along with most of my friends. A professor there took me
under his wing. He read a paper I wrote, decided I was playing below my league,
and got me into Amherst College as a transfer."

"Just like that?" Myra said skeptically.

"Back in the sixties Amherst had adopted a policy of taking its
transfer students primarily from community colleges. It was a diversity thing."

"So you got to jump into the ruling class based on some kind of
affirmative action?"

"Lucky me."

"That must've been weird," Myra said. "Changing worlds like that."

"It was totally weird," I said. I'd felt a little like a zoo animal my whole time at Amherst, although eventually I'd learned to make it work for me, playing up my outsider status in a way that people seemed to buy into. My lack of polish and connections became a sort of asset, which I accepted even while knowing how patronizing it was.
"I never really did get used to it, if you want to know the truth."

"So what changed? In you, I mean. How'd you become an all-star all
of a sudden?"

I shrugged, embarrassed by the question. "I'd always read a lot,
taught myself things. It was just something separate from school for me. Growing
up where I did, I guess I just didn't get the idea that doing well academically
might be a ticket out."

"And I guess the rest took care of itself."

"It more or less did," I said. I'd done well academically after transferring, although I'd rarely spoken in class, had always felt like there were things that my classmates knew that I didn't. It'd been an adjustment not to feel like the smartest person in the room, but I'd welcomed it: I understood this was my gateway to a world I'd previously barely known existed.
"Other than my feeling like a complete fraud all the time, it's really been a
happily-ever-after sort of thing."

"Is that why you quit your big-firm job to become a PD?" Myra asked.
"Because you missed keeping it real?"

I was relieved to hear that Myra didn't know the story of how I'd come to join the Brooklyn Defenders. I shrugged in reply to her question, taking another bite of my burger.
"You're right," I said. "This food is disgusting."

"Well, I'm not exactly a Mount Holyoke girl myself," Myra said.

"So why did you become a public defender?"

Myra looked away, something like a smile on her face. "I usually only get asked that on dates," she said.

If she was trying to make me uncomfortable it worked. "Does that
mean I'm not allowed to ask?"

"I never thought about being anything else in terms of becoming a lawyer," Myra said.

"Okay," I said. "So why'd you become a lawyer?"

"I went to college at Purchase thinking I was going to be an
actress, realized after one semester that there was a whole other level of crazy
that was required to really try to do that for a living, figured a courtroom was
the next best thing to a stage and that I wouldn't have to audition to get the
part."

"I guess I've heard worse reasons for becoming a lawyer," I said.
"So why did it have to be working as a PD?"

"My stepdad had done a nickel at Green Haven," Myra said. "He'd
had a thing with drugs, funded it by breaking into stores after dark. He was
pretty good at it, I'm told, but a needle buddy flipped on a possession with
intent and ratted him out."

"That's rough," I said. "He okay now?"

Myra nodded. "This was all before he became my stepdad," she said.
"It's ancient history. Now he thinks prison's the best thing that ever happened
to him. He cleaned himself up, got his life together. Six months after he got
out he met my mom, and they've lived happily ever after, as far I can tell. But
he kept where he came from with him. He goes to prisons now, does counseling
stuff to try to help guys be ready for life on the outside."

"So you're following in his footsteps."

"He doesn't see it that way," Myra said. "He never wanted me to do
this. I think he'd be happier if I was doing what you used to do and making a
quarter million a year."

"That doesn't mean you're not following in his footsteps."

"I suppose it doesn't, no," Myra said. She picked up a french fry, looked at it for a moment, then put it down.
"Well, I'm not exactly full, but I do feel like I'm about to throw up, so maybe
we should call it a lunch."

WE WALKED
out to Myra's Volvo. "So," Myra asked, lighting a cigarette as we settled into the hot car.
"Any big plans for tonight?"

"I've got a party I've got to go to."

"You sound excited."

"I promised my friend I'd go," I said. "But I never pretended that
I wanted to."

"Why not?"

"It's a friend from my old law firm. I guess that's just not my
world anymore. To the extent that it ever was."

"I bet he'll have really expensive booze," Myra said as she pulled out of the parking lot.

"You want to come?" I asked impulsively.

"I don't go to parties where I don't know at least three people," Myra said.

I wasn't sure what had just happened. I didn't know if I'd just asked Myra out, and I didn't know if she'd just rejected me if I had. Perhaps neither. I'd been dreading going to Paul's party, and would've liked to bring reinforcements with me. I'd also been reacting to our conversation; it was the first time I'd felt Myra opening up to me, and it'd seemed to me like there was a connection, sparked by a mutual recognition in how we'd both gotten to the place that we were. Not that I'd told her my full story, of course, or even come particularly close. In truth, I hadn't really been tempted to; it wasn't something I wanted bleeding into my workplace, to the extent that I could prevent it.

Whatever I'd intended, it was hard not to be a little stung by how quickly Myra had said no. I understood not wanting to go to a party where you didn't know anybody, but her rejection had been so immediate and definitive that it was hard to sugarcoat it. Perhaps I'd overestimated what she'd actually revealed to me; she'd been very matter-of-fact in talking about her stepfather and the rest of it. Perhaps it was how she always presented herself, a way she could reveal herself without actually giving anything away. Maybe it was nothing more than her first-date patter. Not that a fast-food lunch in a highway food court on the way back from a maximum-security prison constituted a date. Unless, of course, it did.

PAUL HAD
just bought a loft in Dumbo and was throwing himself a housewarming party. He'd made me promise to come, despite knowing I wouldn't want to. The party would be full of my former coworkers, rife with reminders of my fall from grace. But Paul had insisted; he'd argued that it would be good for me.

I waited until a little after eleven to leave for Paul's, wanting the party to be well under way when I arrived, hoping it would help me blend in. I was actively dreading going, not at all sure I could face meeting up with so many people who knew about my past. Since Beth had died I'd largely stopped going out, socializing only with those very few people who didn't seem to be either judging or pitying me.

Dumbo was Brooklyn's attempt at a downtown Manhattan neighborhood, with converted lofts and high-end stores, although it was too patchy and industrial to quite pull it off, feeling more like a movie-set version of SoHo than the thing itself. Paul's building was a converted factory redone in high style, a doorman in the lobby, contemporary art on the walls, moody, abstract daubs of dark colors. The door to Paul's apartment was open, and I let myself in. I'd brought a six-pack of beer and was putting it in Paul's fridge when I heard someone say my name.

I turned and found myself face-to-face with Ted Chandler. Ted and I had been classmates at Columbia and had both joined Walker Bentley after graduation. We'd been casual acquaintances for almost a decade without ever really getting to know each other. Next to Ted was an attractive woman whom I didn't recognize. She had long, curly red hair and a kittenish smile, and wore a tight V-necked shirt that emphasized her full breasts.

Ted and I went through the motions of acting happy to see each other, after which he introduced me to the woman. Her name was Melanie; she had just lateraled over to the firm from a job in San Francisco.

"So what are you doing now, Joel?" Ted asked, looking uncomfortable as he asked.

"I'm working as a public defender here in Brooklyn," I said.

"You left Walker to become a public defender?" Melanie asked.

"I suppose you could say that," I said, glancing over at Ted.

"That's awesome," Melanie exclaimed, smiling warmly at me. I'd inadvertently captured her attention: she had the wrong idea about my career change, but there wasn't exactly a way for me to correct it.
"I mean, everybody says they're going to do the law-firm thing for a couple of
years and then go do something cool, but nobody actually does."

"Well," Ted said dryly, looking from Melanie to me, then back to Melanie,
"Joel always did have more of a sense of adventure than the typical Walker
associate."

"It would be hard not to," I replied.

"Tell me about it," Melanie said.

"There you are," Paul said, coming up from behind me. "I was
beginning to think you weren't going to show."

"Got here as soon as I could," I said. "What with all the fighting
for justice I do."

"Were you working today?" Melanie asked.

I didn't know whether Melanie was oblivious to my sarcasm or deliberately ignoring it. I decided to assume the latter.
"Actually, yeah," I said. "I just got back from Sing Sing a few hours ago."

"I was in the office all day reviewing documents," Paul said. "But
you don't hear me bragging about it."