Blackbird Fly (8 page)

“
You want to send me to Development.
After all these years. Just what I need right now in my life, Jeff.
Because I don’t have enough changes.”

“
It’s called a promotion, Merle.
They can really use help liaising with the big firms in
Development. You know those corporate boys from your Byrne &
Loveless days, right? Lillian thinks the world of you.”

She knew ‘those boys’ all too well, and never wanted
to break bread with them again. She and her coffee steamed for a
full thirty seconds. Lillian Wachowski, who Merle had met once or
twice at social events, was rumored to be a bitch-on-wheels.

Jeff blurted, “Can I set up a meeting with Lillian
this afternoon? And of course it’ll take at least a week to train
Cortez.”

A week to learn what she’d been doing for almost
fifteen years. She felt old, useless, unwanted. And tired. She
hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in weeks. She didn’t have it in
her to fight. What would she say? She couldn’t leave because she
had the next two months blocked out in her mind? That she needed to
work to stay sane, to conquer the calendar in her head? To deal
with financial ruin and the fact that the only man she ever loved
turned out to be somebody she didn't love at all? Plus he was
dead?

She looked at Jeff, twisting his beard.
Calm
yourself.
He had his own issues, no doubt. He must have gotten
the word to trim the budget, to transfer out the high-salary
veterans, to get more cheap fellows, to serve more law to the poor
for less. Or else.

She sighed. “Sure, Jeff, give the old gal a
call.”

Merle sat on a bench in Central Park and stared at
the yellow tulips instead of attending the interborough brown bag
lunch. She should have gone, but Laura would be fine, better no
doubt, without her. Tristan had settled down, doing his homework
without nagging, and talking about going back to school in a
hopeful, even eager voice.

She dreaded this new job. She didn’t want to schmooze
corporate lawyers, ask them for pro bono time and fellowship
dollars. She hated asking for favors. She disliked most of the
lawyers she'd worked with, at least the partners and old-timers
she'd be begging for dollars. Most had a rich sense of entitlement,
and a nose for where the money was buried. From a personal
standpoint she’d have to get new clothes and the thought of
shopping made her feet ache. She’d have to start getting manicures
and dyeing her hair and wearing makeup. She smiled at a dog who
sniffed her. He eyed her suspiciously and moved on. Even stray dogs
rejected her.

Who would she be if she changed everything about
herself, put on a fancy new face to the world?

A Lawyer, of course. Someone in touch with her
emotions but able to totally compartmentalize, to understand the
motivations and emotions that are part of being a human yet stand
apart from them, use them, use others' emotions to get what you
want. Analytical, suspicious, duplicitous, ruthless. The perfect
lawyer: your worst nightmare.

Merle sighed. That wasn’t who she was, not any more.
She graduated from high school early so she could be a lawyer
sooner. Maybe it was just a goal she could see, a clear choice, a
set future. It was on her list, Annie would say, something to be
checked off, a goal met. Her father was proud, she knew that. Maybe
she’d done it for him. Annie, four years older than Merle,
graduated law school just a year ahead of her. Merle and Stasia
ended up in the same class. Annie, so brilliant, and Stasia, so
everything. How could eager, precocious, gung-ho little Merdle be
as wonderful as they were? By being a lawyer too, of course.

The lawyer, the attorney, the counselor. The choices
we make. She sighed again and pulled at her bangs.

What-what?!
Damn. The bugger was back, asking
too many questions. It had been silent, she realized now, for
weeks. Then, in the the geezer's office, listening to Harry’s will,
it flared up like hemorrhoids or a bad enchilada.

The voice was familiar, her old
friend after all these years. H
ow had it begun? Maybe a line
in a movie, maybe overheard from the noisy reception area at work:
What? What?!

She had said it just once out loud, in the car after
a tedious dinner party at the home of a partner of Harry’s. The
partner's wife had irritated her with nonsense theories about the
cause of homelessness (laziness, a taste for narcotics, bad
choices, prostitution: take your pick) and the rest of the women
had abandoned her to the hyena. The men were no help, sequestered
with whiskey and cigars, conspiratorial and secretive, as if
letting anyone overhear their strategies would derail their rocket
ride to riches. On top of it all she had a headache, a doozy, and
the red wine hadn’t helped. So when Harry had asked as they drove
home in that mock-meek way he had, what was the matter, she had
exploded. “What! What?!”

He had reflexively braked, as if she’d seen a deer or
a raccoon in the headlights. She turned to him, almost screaming.
“What do you want from me? What? What?!”

He lapsed into silence. His typical reaction to
female hysterics, with which he had little experience. She was
usually calm, rational, practical, sitting back at these awful
business dinners, reflecting on her virtue, her dutiful nature, her
patience at putting up with idiots.

After that the
What? What?!
came back —
silently, in her head — when confronted with ridiculous questions
or inane people. That happened just a few times, but enough to
stick. It began to haunt her thoughts, as if questioning what she
was doing, what she wanted, what the hell was going on with her
life. She tried not to wonder what it was really asking. Mostly it
was just there: the
what-what
, like a tic she sometimes
managed to ignore, but mostly tolerated.

Maybe it had been her subconscious trying to get her
to realize she didn’t love Harry and what the hell was she still
doing married to him. It was a theory. Then why had it returned
after Harry was dead? What did her subconscious want now? She’d had
her chance to ask Dr. Murray, the tweedy, soft-spoken counselor who
had examined Tristan on Monday. He would have listened, even if
he’d looked askance at her. But she couldn’t bring herself to
mention it. Like a scary relation never visited, the
what-what
was best left in the dark, unexamined and
un-poked.

She stood up and stretched her arms at the pink
tulips. She wouldn’t go back to the office today. No, she had a
life of uncertainty to get on with, a meeting with her new people.
Her old people could start learning how to cope by themselves.

The apartment building in Greenwich Village was
nothing to get excited about — dark red brick, five floors with the
fire escape hanging on the front. Harry had paid a pretty price for
his
pied-a-terre
despite its ugliness, although Merle still
couldn’t remember how much. Or how much it'd sold for. His New York
real estate adventures had been out of her league. When they moved
to Connecticut he bought this second-floor unit lacking anything
special besides its location a block or two from the Gotham Bar and
Grill, one of his favorite restaurants.

She’d had lunch at the Gotham, a wild indulgence
considering the state of her finances, sitting at their elegant
bar. Lovely over-priced food and bright, almost sunny interiors
bursting with huge flower arrangements. The bartender had been kind
and a little flirty. She felt raw in the face of handsome,
too-friendly men, something she’d had no trouble with in the past.
She had smiled at him, drunk a glass of wine, then a strong cup of
coffee. Still she had fifteen minutes before she was to meet her
new boss.

So she'd wandered over to the old Twelfth Street
building. She had just enough time to get the name of the current
owner of Harry’s old apartment. With luck she’d also satisfy her
curiosity that Harry had indeed sold it five years before, and if
the stars aligned, for how much. Last night in Harry’s home office
she’d come up with zero about the apartment. Wouldn’t he have had
to claim capital gains the year he sold it? Maybe he lied on his
tax return. He’d lied about the trust fund and spent the life
insurance on his crazy schemes. At this point everything was on the
table.

Pushing into the cramped lobby she eyed the
mailboxes. On Harry’s old box was simply the number — 202. Merle
pressed the doorbell and was surprised when the buzzer to the door
opened without a word. Maybe this would be easy.

The door to the apartment was freshly painted in
spring green. A young woman opened the door the width of the chain
and peered out. Hanging on her leg was a small girl, dark-haired
and barefoot.

“
I’m looking for the owner of the
apartment,” Merle said, smiling. “Would that be you?”

The woman, with long black hair and heavy eye makeup,
brushed crumbs off her fingers onto her tight jeans. She looked to
be in her early twenties, chewing gum as she looked over Merle. She
undid the chain and opened the door. “I’m the nanny. She’s not
here.”

“
Oh, well, she bought this apartment
from — someone I know. I have some papers for her.” Merle patted
her purse where nothing more official than her Metro card was
stashed. The room beyond them looked cozy and warm, strewn with
toys. The television trilled with the sounds of Sesame
Street.

“
She’ll be back in a hour. If we’re
lucky. Can I take them for her?”

“
Uh, it’s one of those legal
things.” Merle looked down at the little girl, dressed in pink
sweatpants and a t-shirt with spangles, and wondered why she’d
lied. She hadn’t planned on lying. She looked over the girl’s head,
focusing on the living room. There was Harry’s brown chair that
she’d made him replace in his office at home. And the red velvet
footstool, with gold fringe, from the family room. The little blue
rug from Tristan’s room. And the painting, that small one of
sailboats she’d never liked.

Merle swallowed, her throat tight. Maybe Harry sold
the woman some things with the place. But it was only last year
when she'd gotten rid of the footstool, and Tristan's rug.

“
What’s your name, sweetie?” she
asked the girl.

The child hid behind the nanny’s leg. The woman
patted her head. “This is Sophie. She’s having a bad day.”

Merle felt her heart clattering. She took a deep
breath then squatted down to the child’s level. “Hi, Sophie. My
name is Merle. Can you shake hands?”

Sophie peeked out from behind the nanny’s leg, then
slapped Merle’s hand. “How old are you, Sophie?” She held up four
fingers. “Do you go to preschool?”

The nanny said in bored voice, “Normally.”

“
Sophie is a pretty name,” Merle
said. “Do you have more names?”

The girl stepped forward, holding onto her nanny’s
jeans. “Sophie Lou — ” She took a breath. “Sophie Louisa
Duncan.”

“
Nice to meet you.” Merle stood up.
"I’ll stop back later. Thanks.” She headed for the stairs. A woman
was making her way up, struggling with grocery sacks. A blonde, in
a dark suit with a black briefcase. Merle blinked. She held the
handrail and felt the cogs click into place.

“
Courtney? Courtney
Duncan?”

The woman looked up the stairs. Her mouth dropped
open as the grocery bags slipped from her hands, spilling oranges,
milk, bagels.

The weather had turned mild and humid. Merle rushed
blindly down the sidewalk, late now to her meeting with Lillian
Wachowski. Her mind raced and her blood pressure was probably
through the roof.

With a pointed glance at her watch Lillian ushered
her into the office. Spare as law offices go, it was sumptuous
compared to the windowless cave in Harlem. An exposed brick wall
gave it a downtown look, and the fern. Lillian was a small woman
with fine features, wearing a turquoise silk suit with a white
shell, her gray- blond hair cut severe and short. Her intense blue
eyes and dagger-like wit scared the crap out of everyone. Merle
found herself trembling.

She sat without being asked, crossed her legs, and
leaned back. Techniques to calm herself and show outward assurance,
long-ingrained lawyer tricks. Never let ‘em see you sweat. Lillian
spoke about the weather and Merle admired her view of the
river.

Something — black curls, pink sweatpants? — was
preventing her from concentrating on Lillian. The conversation with
the lawyer in France, Monsieur Rancard, last night, rattled in her
brain too. She couldn’t focus. Her life was no longer predictable.
Everything had been tossed into the air.

Rancard was making some progress with the squatter.
It was cheaper to have him wrangle with the mayor and the old woman
even at 200 Euros per hour. A nun was helping the squatter now,
making matters worse. Maybe Merle and Tristan could go see the
house, just once, if it didn’t cost too much. The property lawyer
said it would help the situation if she was there, help press her
case for ownership. But now, there was a new job to contend
with.

Courtney Duncan. Sophie. Their existence slammed
against the defenses of her mind. Harry’s lover, Harry’s daughter.
Courtney’s tears, her sobbing explanation, her pleas for
understanding. Her pitiful voice echoed in Merle’s ears, making it
hard to hear Lillian and her small talk.

Merle pushed the voices aside. No matter what sort of
messes Harry left behind, she had to support herself and her son.
Lillian represented the stable, secure future, for which Merle had
just enough concentration to play the game. Stability, security:
that was all she could ask for now. Now that she’d screwed up her
own life.

The older woman crossed her legs. “How is it going
with you and your son — since your husband’s death?”