Such a Pretty Face (37 page)

Dirk, their other attorney, who did not appear so grossly exhausted anymore, said, “Do not use the word
shakedown,
Crystal. That’s not necessary and it’s inflammatory.”

She rolled her eyes, straightened the perfect lapel on her ultraspendy suit. “The hospital is well known and well respected, and this
is
a shakedown. A con job. A frivolous lawsuit filed in the hopes of hitting the lottery. We’ll see you in court.”

Crystal stood up and started gathering her folders and papers.

“If I could beg for one more minute of your time,” Dirk said, leaning back in his chair. He smiled. He was confident. He had adored the Dornshire letter!

“No. I am done with giving you my time,” Crystal said.

“All right, but I thought you might want to review one last document.”

“Unnecessary.”

“I think it’s necessary,” Sonja said, as she tried to rein in her smile. It was difficult. She held out a sheet of paper. I was familiar with that sheet of paper, and it was delightful to gaze upon it once again.

Crystal scoffed. She held out her manicured hand. It was clear that she wanted Sonja to bring her the paper. Sonja refused to do so. She gave it a little push across the table.

For a second Crystal paused, her face twisting into a disgusted mask. She couldn’t bear the thought of this ridiculous meeting with these ridiculous people going on for one more ridiculous second. She stared straight up at the ceiling, so put out, then deigned to walk two steps and grab the document.

And that’s where everything got funny.

Funny in a horrible, tragic way, because this was a horrible, tragic situation.

But still. Ha! Ha ha!

Crystal eyed the paper.

We all heard her intake of breath.

She muttered, “Shit!”

Her hand shook. She went pale, about as pale as Mr. and Mrs. Atherton.

Her body trembled.

She swallowed and coughed, swallowed and coughed again, as if something was stuck in her throat. Perhaps it was a rifle or a fence post.

She tried to sit in a chair, missed, and fell to the floor.

She scrambled back up, quick as she could.

“Shit!” she yelled. “Shit!”

Ha! What a lovely day.

Two weeks later, Crystal was forced to settle the case the Atherton family had brought against Harborshore Hospital for ten million dollars. Crystal tried to get a gag order, but it was denied.

The evidence was overwhelming. The hospital had screwed up. Tragically, irrevocably, horribly screwed up, as detailed in the Dornshire letter. Dr. Dornshire had come in at the end of the operation to oversee how two of his medical residents were doing. It was he who had discovered poor Danny disintegrating, medically speaking, on the table because the breathing tube had been poorly placed. It was he who had saved Danny’s life. It was he who knew of the anesthesiologist’s drug problem and had reported it to the hospital the previous month. He was shocked to find the man still there.

Dr. Dornshire detailed, in blunt, harsh language, what happened in that hospital room to the president of the hospital and had sent copies to five other doctors/administrators.

His wording? “Inexcusable neglect…The impact on this child’s life was not only tragic but preventable…. Basic safety steps were not followed…. Procedures were ignored…. Anesthesiologist is an addict…. Reading a motor cross magazine…No one paying attention to the patient…Liability is enormous…. Pay up to avoid a costly, public PR nightmare.”

Within two weeks he left town for Africa to help open up a clinic for suffering/starving children and had assumed that the matter was taken care of.

The case, with all the gory, depressing, captivating details, hit the newspaper. There was a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Atherton and Danny, before and after his heart operation. There was the Dornshire letter, printed out, probably courtesy of Sonja. There was a photo of the anesthesiologist, who had been caught stealing some ultrapowerful drug from the hospital, and five of the doctors/administrators who had officially received the Dornshire letter but then smothered it.

Many people at the hospital lost their jobs. Poor them.

As for the Athertons, they got their money. Sonja and Dirk’s attorney fees were paid by the hospital, and I heard they immediately paid off their homes and rented office space complete with a table that didn’t wobble and chairs that swiveled.

How did the Dornshire letter get in the files in our office in the first place without first being destroyed by Crystal?

I have no idea.

Praise the Lord, Grandma would have said. He knows how to step in when the devil has stepped out and he can perform miracles any day of the month.

It appeared that the Athertons had had their day.

After all that hardship, however, the Athertons’ grief was not over.

Danny Atherton, baseball player, fisherman, Frisbee thrower, lover of dragon books and music, outstanding big brother, and loving son, passed away a week after the papers were signed.

I was so upset I had to leave work.

I worked in my garden, cried, and held the shovel with shaking hands.

A bowl full of my own beans, peas, tomatoes, squash, and lettuce did nothing to lift my mood.

When I came back to work Cherie asked me about the case.

Crystal was fired.

“Damn, but I love to smear the competition into the ground until they’re eating dirt, but we as a firm will do this with class and dignity, and we sure as hell are not ever going to let anyone attempt to annihilate, through deception and lies and unethical work, an innocent family.” Cherie shook her head. “Crystal’ll be disbarred, and we’ll be sued by the Athertons for malpractice, rightfully so, because it’s clear Crystal knew about the Dornshire letter but did not disclose it. Oh, well. Our insurance will cover it, and I will tell them to pay up without delay.”

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Sure.”

“Why did you hire Crystal? She’s not our usual attorney here.”

Cherie nodded. “I made a mistake. Her parents run the Chinese food kiosk in Pioneer Square. I’ve known the whole family for years. I told Crystal when she was a young girl that if she did well in school, and went to law school, that I would hire her. I wanted her to see outside of her own life. I kept my promise. I regret that I made it.”

“Ah, I see.” That explained Crystal hugging the owners of the kiosk.

I turned to go.

“Stevie.”

I turned around.

“About the Dornshire letter.” Cherie leaned back in her chair and swung an ankle, clad in a shiny purple and red heel.

I froze.

“It’s interesting how that letter ended up in the Athertons’ hands, via the mail. So very unusual. Almost unheard of.” She tapped her polished nails on her desk. There was a purple strip across the tops.

I couldn’t speak because my throat was constricting.

“Someone must have mailed it to them. Someone at the hospital, maybe. A sympathetic administrator, perhaps?” She stared up at the ceiling, raising her eyebrows, as if contemplating this mystery. “A secretary there? A doctor? Doesn’t seem likely. Hmmm.”

More constriction.

She turned those bright eyes on me. “The law is the law, Stevie.”

I nodded. My throat strangled me.

“We have to follow it as everyone else does, even if I find it agonizing to do so upon occasion.” She rolled her shoulders. She was wearing a red leather jacket.

No air. None. I was going to suffocate myself.

“But sometimes, Stevie, one must bend, perhaps
massage,
the law in order to do the right thing, the ethical thing.”

I coughed, tried to breathe, put a hand to my throat.

Her gaze caught mine for very long, poignant seconds while I fought to inhale air. Any air.

She smoothed her skirt, cleared her throat. “Now, don’t forget to put on your calendar that we’re all going to the beer gardens next week. We have a separate tent. I’ve arranged for a rib and potato dinner.”

My knees almost gave out as relief swooshed through me as wind would swoosh through a tunnel. I turned to go, my body stiff. How long could I stand without breathing?

“Stevie.”

Oh, no. Here it was. She knew. I knew she knew. She knew I knew she knew. She was one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. I weakly faced her.

“Nice job,” she said quietly. “Very nice.”

I closed my eyes, breathed.

“But let’s keep this between us girls,” she whispered. “It’s a girl secret.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

She grinned. “No problem. I love girl secrets!”

“Come to one practice,” Zena told me one day in Pioneer Courthouse Square. A man walked by muttering. It reminded me of Helen and it hurt my heart.

“No. I can’t roller-skate.” I handed her tiny tomatoes I grew in my garden.

“Didn’t you skate as a kid?” She handed me graham crackers.

“Of course I skated as a kid.”

“This is the same thing, only now you get to push and shove, roll on the floor, trip, attack, push, elbow, swear, dive, and fight for victory.” She did the peace sign with both hands, her vogue haircut spinning around her grooving head.

“I’m not violent.”

“You’ll learn how to be.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“You’ll enjoy hurting people, trust me.” She grooved her head up and down.

“I’m not fast.”

She thought about that one. “You could be, if you wanted to be, Stevie.”

Could I?

“Give it a shot.” She pretended she was shooting a gun.

“Stevie, roller derby is about women becoming more of who they are. Braver, stronger. It’s a sisterhood of kick-ass women who can get on the rink, put everything crappy behind them, and concentrate on knocking someone else’s teeth out.” She said this in all seriousness.

I pictured teeth flying. “Okay, Zena. I’ll do it.”

And I did. I started practicing with the Break Your Neck Booties roller derby team one Saturday on the weekend, one weekday night, with one game.

Me. Stevie Barrett.

Wimp.

After forty years, Aunt Janet finally found her roar the day of the party.

Not her voice, her roar.

In the truest sense of roaring.

One could make the argument that this was not the best
time
to find one’s roar, but surely, better late than never, and I did enjoy the fireworks.

Herbert was mighty shocked about that roar, mighty shocked.

I enjoyed it, personally.

Now, that sounds vindictive and vengeful on my part. And petty and small.

But sometimes one has to delve into one’s vindictiveness and vengefulness and petty smallness, if only to be honest with yourself that no, your name is not Pollyanna and you are not perfect, especially when it comes to insufferable cockroaches named Herbert.

I could not work the weekend of the anniversary and hard rock parties and informed Mr. Pingle that I would need time off.

That man is a geek to his core, so I related to him big-time, and he is so kind. “You’re not ill, are you, Stevie?” He wrung his hands. “You’re not hurt? You’ll come back, won’t you?” He pulled me aside. “You’re my only employee I can talk to, do you feel the same?”

I assured him I did.

“It seems, it terms of chicken, that we can relate. Do you feel that, too?”

I assured him I did.

“I know there’s a promotion for you coming soon in our family here.”

I thanked him but explained that I had to attend family parties.

His unhappy face cleared instantly and he clapped his hands. “I
sooo
understand, I do. Have a lovely time, then, Stevie, and we’ll see you next Friday. Friday! I feel so much better now.” He wiped his brow. “Can’t lose my best chicken friend!”

We clucked at each other and waved our chicken wings. I put on my chicken head and did the chicken dance on the corner. An old man told me grumpily to “get a real job—join the Marines,” a group of teenagers threw a beer can at me, and a kid came over and gave me a quarter so I could buy myself some candy.

When I came in that evening from my chicken gig, he was triumphant, almost tearful in his joy. “I have talked to corporate, Stevie, and I have secured you a raise!” He put both hands in the air. “We have victory! I know you’re a new employee, but your dedication to Aunt Bettadine’s Chicken is extraordinary. You’re going to make $12 an hour now.”

“Cluck cluck!” I told him, winging my elbows up and down. I knew that would make him happy. What a geek. I so relate to him.

He clicked his heels as he clucked.

Eileen and Jake were bound to meet, but I was putting it off as long as possible.

I came home from my chicken job, stuck one of those nerdy miner’s flashlights on my head, weeded my garden, and adjusted some of my pathway stones until late. About two in the morning I went to sleep, the incessant ringing of my doorbell waking me up a few hours later.

Eileen brought me flowers in a pot because “you’re an organic garden hippie woman now, Stevie. Dirt under your fingernails, leaves in your hair, but whatever. Here.”

She had many complaints that morning, her “prominent” job, the screwball stockbrokers, the screwy women at work, the screwy stepmother, and finally she was leaving and Jake, dear Jake, was coming up my path. He had asked the night before if he could bring me brunch. It was such a nice offer, on top of so many other nice things he’d done, that I burst into tears because I am a wreck. He kissed the tears and handed me a carrot from my garden.

I had not told Eileen about Jake for the obvious reasons you can think of yourself.

“Well, chicken, have a good time at your chicken job tonight,” she said, winging her elbows up and down as she walked down my path to my white picket fence.

I followed her down the path as Jake smiled at Eileen, held out his hand, and introduced himself as a friend of mine.

All I could think of was, “Damn.”

Eileen, still clutching his hand, turned to me. “I didn’t know you had a friend named Jake,” she said accusingly.

“Yes, I do.” I made further introductions, and I could see Eileen’s face going red. “Now I understand why you’re so busy, Stevie, that you can hardly see me anymore at all. Why you’ve dropped me. It’s a man, isn’t it? So typical.” She glared at Jake.