Fragile Beasts (15 page)

He’s younger than I am, but I’ve always considered him older and wiser. He used to be dark-haired and dashing with a sharp wit and a love of yellow roses, which he would bring me by the dozens when I’d return home on my breaks from college.

Now he’s an equally dashing man in his seventies with a silver pompadour, a pencil-thin mustache, and sparkling blue eyes behind a pair of octagonal wire-rimmed glasses. His wardrobe is legendary in these parts: seersucker suits in summer, natty tweed blazers in autumn, a midnight blue cashmere overcoat and Russian sable hat in winter, all of it worn with one of his dozens of colorful bow ties.

My brother met him purely by chance in a bar. Bert was home visiting his family. They had an immediate rapport, and Stan claimed he knew instantly that Bert had exactly the kind of legal mind he needed to help him expand his business.

Bert had wanted to stay in his hometown and set up a private practice, but he feared a Jewish lawyer wouldn’t be able to build a clientele. He knew of people who refused to shop at his father’s store—despite his reasonable prices and the largest housewares department in the county—because of their faith.

Stan didn’t care that he was Jewish. He saw Bert’s potential for helping him to make money or save money. This was always his uppermost concern. J&P Coal was the first mining company in the state to employ a black pit boss, a Chinese accountant, and a second-generation East Indian doctor during a time where any of them would have had difficulty finding a restaurant in town that would have served them. My brother was the least racist man I’ve ever known. When evaluating men, he saw only one color: green.

“I appreciate that you’re making time for me on such short notice,” I tell Bert.

“Anything for you,” he replies with a wink, “and besides, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

We’re shown into Chip Edgars’s office, a surprisingly spacious, tasteful room with a subtle color scheme, an attractive mahogany desk dominating one end, and the kind of brick-red leather furnishings found in the libraries of English manors.

The walls are covered not with obligatory framed diplomas but with photos of Chip posing with what I assume to be his satisfied customers: a woman in a wheelchair, a man with one arm, a woman sprouting tubes lying in a hospital bed, a man on crutches posing next to a wrecked car, another man with an eye patch, to name a few. All of them are holding checks and smiling deliriously, their expressions a testimony to the efficacy of pain medication.

Chip Edgars grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously. The man is a definite step down from his office. He’s wearing a cheap gray suit, a gaudy neon pink tie, and an obvious toupee. He should let his interior designer dress him.

“I’m Chip Edgars,” he shouts at me.

I’m used to it. I’m old; therefore, I must not be able to hear.

“Yes, I recognize you,” I reply, pleasantly. “We passed one of your billboards on the drive here. Your mother must be proud.”

He continues smiling and shaking my hand until I introduce him to Bert. They know each other. It’s a small town.

Next he guides us to a far corner of the room to a few chairs and a sofa situated around a coffee table. Cups and a pot of coffee are sitting on it. I’m surprised, again, to see the cups are china, not Styrofoam, plastic, or chunky mugs with his law firm’s logo written across them.

As we walk, he tells me about the few times he’s had the privilege of meeting Cameron and what a “great guy” he is. I let him prattle on and don’t bother correcting him.

Sitting on the sofa are two skinny, hostile, middle-aged, chain-smoking bleached blondes who exhibit all the female charm and enthusiasm of a pair of retired anorexic strippers. They’re both sitting upright with their legs crossed, holding a cigarette in one hand and a huge Starbucks cup in the other.

One is wearing skintight jeans tucked into white cowboy boots, and a tiny low-cut, cropped red sweater that looks like it was purchased at Petco. The other is wearing a bejeweled lavender sweat suit and flip-flops.

There are two very specific physical species of women common to this
part of Pennsylvania. I like to think of them as the cow, and the hardscrabble chicken. The second category can be identified by their darting movements, their screechy voices, their beady predatory eyes, and their scrawny corded necks.

These two women are indisputable examples of the latter group. They are undoubtedly sisters. Along with their stunning fashion sense and apparent need for a constant infusion of caffeine and nicotine, they also share the same mannerisms and lack of a chin.

“Candace Jack, this is Rhonda Welty”—Chip makes the introductions, gesturing at the woman in the cocker spaniel’s sweater—“and her sister, Jennifer.”

They’re stumped for a moment as they try and decide which they can more easily part with, the coffee or cigarette. The sister who is able to make a decision first puts down her cup and gives me her hand.

“You can call me Jen,” she says like she doesn’t mean it.

Bert and I take our seats. The two women eye us up and down: me in my cream-colored bouclé suit, brown suede pumps, and ropes of pearls, and Bert in his impeccably tailored trousers, herringbone jacket, and goldenrod-yellow bow tie. As I watch them watching me, it strikes me that I probably have more in common with actual chickens.

“Would you like some coffee?” Chip asks.

I decline but Bert has a cup.

“So,” Chip announces as he takes his own seat and claps his hands on his knees, “should we make small talk or get right down to business?”

“I think business would be best,” Bert answers him.

“Okay, then. I think we all know why we’re here.”

“I have no idea,” I tell him.

He smiles at me with a patronizing air.

I’m old; therefore, I’m slow.

“We’re here to determine what’s best for Rhonda’s sons, Klint and Kyle Hayes,” he explains. “We’re all familiar with the circumstances surrounding the tragic death of their father.”

“Tragic,” Rhonda snorts. “It’s amazing he didn’t kill himself years ago.”

Bert leans over to me and whispers into my ear, “After seeing this ex-wife of his, I’m inclined to think the same thing.”

“The boys have lived here all their lives,” Chip goes on. “They have strong
ties to the community and they don’t want to leave, which is understandable. Miss Jack has made a very kind offer to provide them with a home so they can continue to live here.”

“Yeah, I still don’t get this,” Rhonda breaks in. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know my boys.”

“I’ve met them.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“When did you meet them?”

“They came to my house for dinner.”

“What’d they say about me?”

“Very little. Only that you left them several years ago.”

Her eyes spark angrily, and she bristles with indignation.

“Did they tell you why I left?” she practically shouts at me. “How their father was a drunk and a loser and how he abused me?”

“No, they didn’t tell me any of that. You must have been the only one who had a problem with your husband. From all accounts the boys were very devoted to their father and he to them. They both seemed healthy and relatively stable and not the least bit terrorized.”

She stabs her cigarette in the air at me.

“Don’t you believe anything Klint says about me.”

“He was the one who defended you.”

She falls silent and looks completely baffled.

“Are you sure? Klint? The big one who glares at you like he wants to rip your head off?”

“The one who regarded a sprinkling of fresh basil as an attempt to poison him? Yes. He’s the one.”

“Ladies, ladies. Let’s not get off the track here,” Chip interrupts us. “Miss Jack has made a generous offer, and after giving it much thought, Miss Welty has decided to consider it for the good of her boys even though it will be extremely painful for her.”

“Painful in what way?” I wonder.

“She was looking forward to having her sons live with her again.”

“I don’t understand,” Bert joins in. “If she wanted her sons to live with her, why didn’t she take them with her three years ago?”

“Because they were on Carl’s side,” the sister blurts out.

Rhonda nods vehemently.

“On his side?” I exclaim. “Are we talking about a family or a game of dodgeball?”

“Go to hell,” Rhonda spits at me.

“Ladies!” Chip says more forcefully.

Call-Me-Jen puts an arm around her sister and says, “Come on, Ronnie. Chill.”

Then she looks at me.

“This is very hard for her,” she explains.

“Yes, I can see.”

We all settle back into our chairs in silence. Bert sips at the coffee cup balanced on his knee, and Rhonda slurps at hers through a straw.

Suddenly she tells me, “You can have them but I want punitive damages.”

“Punitive damages?” Bert chokes on his coffee.

“Miss Welty needs to be compensated for her emotional suffering,” Chip further explains.

Bert finishes coughing, and we look at each other. I know we’re both thinking the same thing. The idea is so appalling, I can barely form the question I need to ask.

“Are you trying to sell me your children?”

“For a certain sum of money, Miss Welty would be willing to let her sons live with you,” Chip answers for her.

“In other words, she’s selling her children,” Bert counters.

“She’s not selling her children. She’ll still be their mother. We’re only talking about several years.”

“With Miss Jack covering all their expenses?”

“Right.”

“And on top of that Miss Welty feels she should also be paid?”

“Right.”

“Excuse us for a moment. I’d like to have a private word with my client.”

I get up and join Bert near the windows.

“Candace, don’t make any snap decisions here. You need to think long and hard about this. These are the kinds of people who never go away.”

I glance back at the two women perched on the edge of the sofa—smoking, slurping, and scheming—and wonder what kind of creature raised them.

I don’t think I can make Bert understand what I’m feeling since I’m not exactly sure I understand it myself.

I came into this meeting still full of doubt about what I was going to do, but now I understand what Shelby was trying to tell me. I’ve only spent one brief, awkward, somewhat disastrous evening with these boys. I barely know them, but I feel an irrational, uncontrollable urge to snatch them away from this woman, no different from the reckless instinct that makes a person dive into a storm-tossed sea to save a stranger’s child.

“And what would be a fair price for your grief?” I ask from where I’m standing.

Chip and the sisters exchange knowing glances. They’ve obviously discussed a figure.

“Fifteen thousand dollars,” Chip says.

“You must be joking,” Bert sputters.

I stare directly at Rhonda.

“If I make it an even twenty, will you throw in your sister?”

She meets my gaze and gives me a smirk.

“You’re so funny. You think you’re so much better than me ’cause you got money. Well, I got something you want, and you’re gonna have to pay me for it. And you can get off this moral superiority trip of yours. If I’m selling my kids, then you’re just as sick as me ’cause that means you’re buying them.”

“I assure you I’m not buying your sons,” I respond to her baiting. “I’m paying you to stay away from them.”

I feel Bert’s hand on my arm.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Two teenage boys? With that for a mother?”

I turn away from him and confront her a final time.

She and her sister are whispering excitedly, probably making plans for their windfall.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t just come to me and ask for the money. Why involve a lawyer?”

She looks up at me and smiles. It’s not an attractive expression for her. Bitterness suits her better.

“I want it to be all legal so you can’t change
your
mind and kick them out. I gotta protect my boys.”

They go back to whispering.

I catch sight of one of Chip’s photos where he’s standing with a woman and a grossly handicapped child slumped in a wheelchair, drooling, with braces on his legs and no life in his eyes. The mother holds a check, and she and Chip grin for the camera.

I don’t know which will prove to be more damaging for these boys: the fact that their father has died or that their mother continues to live.

I
knew everything about Manuel Obrador long before I ever met him. To me and the people of my town, he was much more than a brilliant artist, a celebrity, a man of stature and courage, a stunning figure in his glittering suit of lights parading around the ring in the wake of the flowers, shawls, and flasks of wine the adoring crowd threw to him. He was our son and brother. He represented us to the world. Few of us would ever see Madrid, let alone the world, but it didn’t matter. We knew if we ever ventured away from home and said the name, Villarica, we would be regarded with esteem and awe. His glory would make us shine like we’d been touched by an angel. As they say in America, he put us on the map.

I know Americans love their hometown heroes, too. An example is our sheriff, who was a football star at Centresburg High School and almost played professionally. People living here can recall the exact details of a game he played twenty-five years ago but can’t name the president of the country where their sons and daughters are fighting a war.

Klint Hayes is another example. I didn’t mention it to Candace but I knew who he was before he came to dinner, not because he was a friend of Shelby’s or because I had heard of his father’s death but because he’s often in the local sports pages.

(Candace never reads the sports pages. She regards sports as a “pastime for the mentally deficient” along with going to church and watching TV, although she watches a little herself. She says one of the plights of the elderly is that sometimes they have nothing else to do since they can’t be as physically active as they used to be, and extensive reading is hard on their eyes, and by the time they reach her age, there are very few people they can stand to talk to.
She admits to liking
Law & Order
and once I caught her watching
The Simpsons
. She claimed she was just flicking through channels but I know better.)