Blackbird Fly (9 page)

Had she been talking to Jeff about her? Everyone was
always hoping they could stop pussyfooting around you. That you
will bounce back, smile, carry on. So they can forget that people
die. Even you, Lillian, so in charge of your life, will give up the
ghost, buy the ranch, sleep the big sleep.
Even me
.

“
We’re, well — we’re
coping.”

Lillian's eyes blazed. “You look tired.”

“
That’s a frequent observation.”
Merle straightened, pulling herself together. “Look, Ms. Wachowski,
this isn’t an assignment I asked for. I was told you wanted me
here, that you could use me, and that’s very flattering. But I’d
rather be on the front lines. I don’t mean to be rude. I am
grateful,” she added.

Lillian's face hardened — further — and she walked
around her desk. “Would you like to go back to Harlem? Or the Bronx
maybe?”

Merle may have flinched. “Ah. Is that an option?”

Lillian squinted. “I’ll be blunt. You need a lot of
energy to do fundraising. And a very positive, balls-to-the-wall
mentality. You’re our cheerleader, our frontline. You can’t have
bad days in development. You can’t
rather be
somewhere
else.”

A shiver made her twitch. Was there a job in the
Bronx? She couldn’t go back to Harlem now, no matter what Lillian
said. Jeff had cast her off without a backward glance. Did she want
to go to the Bronx, start over in another office? Or was this some
kind of test?

Merle sat taller. She wasn’t going to get fired
because of bags under her eyes. “I'm sorry, Lillian. May I call you
Lillian?" The older woman gave a curt nod. "The job sounded good to
me when Jeff described it. It still does. I didn’t mean to give the
impression that I wanted to go back.”

“
Yes, well. It’s a struggle raising
money. It's never easy. It’s like getting blood from a stone. You
have to pound, pound, pound, until finally somebody
cracks.”

She tried to look bright and eager. “I love the sound
of cracking.”

Lillian looked her over with sharp eyes. “So you’re
taking a couple weeks off? Rest and recover from all your
changes?”

“
I — I could. Sure.”

Lillian flipped through her desk calendar. “Most of
the big firms have mass holidays in July and August. Partners come
and go like lemmings. Not to mention this building’s air
conditioning is ancient and the caterers are all busy with
weddings. So, what do you say — September one?”

The afternoon sun blinded her on the sidewalk.
Merle’s arms ached, her head hurt, her stomach had clenched into a
ball. All this new information was too much: rejection by Jeff,
Harry’s daughter and mistress, scary Lillian, the summer off with
no income, and the obvious glee her new boss took in employing her.
She felt like a punching bag. Could she take a few more body blows
please?

She stumbled down the steps of the Legal Aid Society,
straightened her shoulders, and headed west into the sun. The
Hudson River lay ahead, wide and gray all the way to Jersey but
sparkling in the light. Where was that river going? Where did any
river go? She’d never thought about going anywhere. She stayed and
persevered, that was who she was. She took the safe path. Kept the
calendar full. No sudden moves. It had always seemed the sensible
way to live. She wasn’t interested in glamour or excitement, just
doing the right thing.

An Irish bar had its glass-paned red door propped
open next to a blackboard listing today’s specials: corned beef,
cheese omelet, steak and fries. The smell of fried food, ever
comforting, beckoned her in. Doyle’s Public House was dark and
cool, the wood floors dusty. Besides grease, it smelled of brewer’s
yeast, cigarettes, Lysol. The bartender brought silverware and a
cloth napkin and a dry white wine.

Courtney Duncan. It all made sense now, these last
years. The woman had been honest at least. Courtney and Harry
worked together at the brokerage, before Harry joined Steve
Hanford. She was just out of NYU. She had loved him, that was
clear, something Merle hadn’t managed to do for a long time. Maybe
Harry should have left her for Courtney. Merle tried to decide
which was worse, a divorce or a dead husband. Dead was definitely
worse. Or what about this? A dead father-of-your-toddler.

She took a deep breath and a gulp of wine then called
Stasia and left a message with her secretary. Grinding her teeth,
she dialed McGuinness and Lester, Esq., and held while Troy Lester
was rounded up. She ordered another wine before the secretary
informed her he was out of the office.

“
Give me his cell number.” She
wouldn’t. “Then give him my number. Tell him it’s an
emergency.”

All very well about Courtney then. Just the shock of
discovery, being blindsided. She should have guessed something like
this — years ago. But what about Sophie? How was she going to tell
Tristan that his father had another family, that he had a
half-sister? That Harry hadn't been all the father Tristan had
wanted him to be, because he was father to another?

Suddenly tears leaked out of her eyes — oh God why
now — then as the bartender brought the wine, sobs erupted,
blubbering noises. Probably not the first heard in an Irish bar but
the bartender looked appropriately shaken. He returned with a stack
of napkins.

Merle dabbed her cheeks. Very thoughtful. Love that
bartender. “Is that your phone, miss?”

Of course it was. “Merle? Troy Lester.” Traffic
noise, heavy breathing.

“
Mr. Lester. When were you going to
tell me about Courtney Duncan?”

He stammered and spit. His discomfort made her happy.
It was good to have someone repulsive like Troy Lester to be angry
at. She couldn’t be mad at Harry any more. He was gone, and
philanderer that he was, cheat and betray as he did, she deserved
it. She had let him go, from her heart, a long time ago.

Reluctantly, Lester spilled the beans. Harry had left
Courtney and Sophie the apartment, and the slender remains of his
pension fund, also plundered. A second, secret will. Merle threw
the phone down on the table.

Stasia arrived fifteen minutes later and, with the
help of the bartender, forced coffee down her throat. They were out
on the street, walking to the subway, before Merle could tell
her.

“
He never sold the apartment,” Merle
said, stopping for a light.

“
What apartment?”

“
Twelfth Street. He gave it to his
blond thing, and their daughter.”

“
You’re drunk.” Stasia glared at
her. “Are you serious?”

“
The lawyers did it in secret. The
bastards. He has a four-year-old daughter. Her name is Sophie.
She’s
four,
Stace.”

Stasia turned instantly crimson, a specialty of hers.
“Filthy, lowdown son of a bitch —” She stamped her foot on the
pavement.

Merle felt calm now that her sister was mad. “Do you
think it was because I couldn’t —" She felt hollow, the way she
felt after the hysterectomy. Not her old self, never would be
again. Something gone and gone forever. “Did you know? Do Mother
and Daddy know?”

“
Nobody knows. If he was good at one
thing, it was keeping secrets.” Stasia took her arm and led her
toward the subway stairs. “Move, now. We’ll talk about it
later.”

A picture of Harry came into her head, an outing to
somewhere, when Tristan was three or four — Sophie’s age. Mystic
Seaport, that was it. Tristan high up on Harry’s shoulders,
pointing at the big sailing ships, their tall masts, a clump of
daddy’s hair in his little fist. Harry holding his feet, smiling.
They were a family that weekend, a strong yearning in her satisfied
for at least one weekend. They jumped on the motel beds, sang songs
in the car.

Had she loved him then, or just the idea of a family?
Was her heart a stone? He had left her, years ago.

Merle stopped. “I don’t blame him. Or her. He
deserved love — everyone does — and she loved him. I didn’t. I
didn't love him. Not for a long time. I — ” She shrugged. “I just
didn’t.”

They were next to a flower stand overflowing with
color and petals. Buckets of tulips vied for attention. Which one
is the prettiest, the red, the yellow, the pink, the white?
Daffodils, pussy willows. Lilacs on woody stems, their smell
enticing.

Stasia was talking. Merle could see her lips move.
Taxis were honking, an old woman pulled her shopping wheelie down
the curb. Merle sucked the air on the sidewalk. Her chest felt like
it was in a vise.
Why can’t I breathe?

An open palm crossed Merle’s face. The sting felt
hot. She didn’t blame her sister. What is family for if you can’t
count on them to set you straight when you need it most, even in
the middle of Greenwich Village? Her own sister smacked her hard
across the cheek, bringing her back, holding her upright, making
her grab onto the scraps of her rag-tag life.

“
You didn’t love him. It’s fine. It
doesn't matter.”

Merle held onto her shoulder. “Okay. Thanks,” she
croaked.

Stasia pulled her close and whispered in her ear,
“Breathe. And repeat after me: Case of courage. Bucket of
balls.”

Poor Elise. She had no idea.

Merle looked over the orderly crowd on folding chairs
on the lawn at Whitman and slumped lower in her seat. Her mother
gave her a little frown and she straightened again. Must be
respectful. A solemn and joyous occasion as the last Bennett girl
takes the harness.

Elise clutched her diploma to her chest, flushed, her
dark hair pulled back and red lipstick on her baby doll lips. Merle
was distracted, sweating in a sleeveless navy shift. She’d had to
tell Sauvageau about the new wrinkle, that Harry had another child
who would inherit. But only if Courtney found out. And how would
she? She didn’t seem the suspicious type. On the contrary, she
seemed naïve, crushed and pathetic. Another ethical conundrum
raised its ugly head. Ah, but to a lawyer, that was nothing. Just a
thought to be compartmentalized.

The speeches were mercifully short, the May heat
rising from the damp earth to surround the well-wishers in the
steamy scents of spring. Finally they rose and gathered around the
graduate on the lawn. After an interminable, clammy hugging session
they decamped for a cool restaurant.

The Bennett clan was tricked out in understated
prep-wear. Her father had gone with the red bowtie, always a
winner. Bernie wore a navy blue suit with a collarless white blouse
that dated from the sixties, somehow surviving a thousand
washings.

Her father had insisted on Merle sitting next to him.
Jack Bennett had given her shoulder a pinch of affection and sat
silently through the toasts. His hearing wasn’t great so he liked
to just smile at these big gatherings. The salad came and he dug
in.

On her other side Francie wore a low-cut flowered
dress that showed off cleavage and tan. Francie was the knock-out
sister, with auburn highlights and turned up nose, a smattering of
freckles across her cheeks and bright blue eyes. Merle had invited
Betsy, who knew all the sisters and got along especially well with
Elise, but her daughter Lynnie had a soccer game. Just as well,
Merle thought. No point in the friends suffering.

At the kids’ end of the table, Tristan wore his black
blazer and a half-pressed blue oxford cloth shirt with a wonky
collar, both last seen at his father’s funeral. Francie had picked
him up at school — she lived near Blackwood. She worked in
Greenwich but couldn’t afford to live there. Her clients had a
different set of problems than Merle’s, lawsuits between neighbors
over dogs and parking, bankruptcy, prenups. Francie waffled between
loving it and hating it on a weekly basis.

There were sixteen of them around the table, the
sisters, one spouse, Stasia’s three kids plus Tristan, a couple
boyfriends (Francie’s was chiseled and very young), Aunt Gloria,
Bernie’s sister, a cousin or three. Stasia and Annie talked across
the table, heads together. They couldn’t look more different: Stace
in red polka dots and bangles, Annie in something tie-dyed and a
big, furry scarf around her neck. Merle wished she were over there
instead of by her father and Francie. She wanted to hear their
gossip, laugh a little.

Stasia and Rick’s oldest, Willow, had brought her
boyfriend down from college. Willow lived up to her name: tall and
slender with gold waterfall hair. Her boyfriend was scruffy, with
dirty brown hair and a black t-shirt, but hung on Willow’s every
word. Would the children be happy, Merle suddenly worried,
examining their expressions. Tristan frowned at her then elbowed
Oliver and laughed.

Stasia caught her eye and winked. Annie, who was told
the sordid story of Harry’s other life just last night, gave her a
‘buck-up’ smile. After the salad and a polite inquiry into Merle’s
state of mind, Francie, not as yet clued into the latest
revelations, launched into a lament about her job, social life, and
lawyering.

“
I can see the appeal of Legal Aid,
I really can. At least you get to do some good.”

“
There’s that,” Merle said, chewing
lettuce.

“
If I have one more sixty-year-old
chief executive marrying his twenty-something bimbo and wanting to
keep all his cash from her, I’m going to kill myself. Why does he
even bother? I mean, marriage isn’t all that great. I should know.”
Francie had tried it once, briefly. The airline pilot she married
was hardly ever home. Her boyfriend gave her a lascivious smile. He
was home free.

“
I’m taking the summer off,” Merle
said. It had a nice ring to it.

Francie smiled. “Sure. What would you do, Merle,
paint your toenails every day? No, wait, you’re going to a Buddhist
retreat. Yeah, that’s it. Ommmm.” She laughed and her boyfriend,
Willie or Dick or somebody, laughed along.