The Little Death (4 page)

I
went back to my office and cleaned out my desk. Some of the other lawyers
drifted in, stood around nervously, said a few well-intended words. By three o’clock
I’d done nearly everything I needed to do to extricate myself from my job. Just
before I left I called down to the jail. Hugh Paris had been bailed out by someone
who signed the bail receipt as John Smith. I gathered up the last of my papers
and left.

I
was awake the second I heard the movement in the shrubs outside the bedroom
window. I glanced at the clock on the bed stand; it was a little after three
a.m. The soft but distinctive shuffle of footsteps echoed outside and then I
heard a quick rap at the front door. I got out of bed, pulled on a pair of
pants and went into the living room. I stood near the door and listened. The
last time I had been awakened at that hour was by a disgruntled, drunken client
who wanted to break my legs. He might have, too, had he not passed out while we
were talking.

There
was another knock, louder and more urgent. I peered through the peephole. Hugh
Paris stood shivering in the dark. He wore a pair of jeans and a gray polo
shirt. I was startled to see him but not surprised. In the two weeks since I’d
seen him at the jail, I’d thought of him often, the way one thinks of
unfinished business. The thought of him nagged at the back of my mind for a lot
of reasons, not the least of which was his beautiful, calm face. One could
ascribe any kind of character, from priest to libertine, to his remote and
handsome face. A breeze blew his hair across his forehead. He touched his
knuckles to the door and rapped harder. I opened it enough for him to see me.

“Don’t
turn on any lights,” he said. “I think I was followed.”

“Come
in.” I opened the door a little wider and he slipped through. I ordered him to
stand still and patted him down for weapons. He wasn’t even carrying a wallet. “All
right,” I said. “Come over to my desk. I have a reading lamp that will give us
enough light without attracting attention.” He followed me and sat down. I
touched the light switch and his face leapt forward from the darkness like a
flame.

He
said, “I could use a drink.”

“First
tell me how you got my address.”

“I
called your office yesterday, and when they told me you quit I convinced the
receptionist that we’d gone to college together and I was passing through town
and wanted to surprise you.” He shivered I went over to the kitchen counter and
brought back a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. As he drank, I noticed
for the first time that he was about my age — not younger, as I’d remembered.
The skin beneath his eyes was pouched with fatigue, as though he had awakened
from a long sleep. He set his empty glass on the desk, and I moved the bottle
toward him. The liquor brought the color back to his face.

“When
someone comes to visit me at this hour, I assume it’s not just to chat,” I
said.

“I
need a place to stay tonight.”

“And
you don’t have any better friends?” He poured himself another drink. I caught
the glint of his watch. It was very thin and elegant, mounted on a black
leather strap. I had seen watches like that before. They went along with trust
funds, prep schools and names ending with Roman numerals.

Hugh
was saying something. I asked, “What?”

“You
asked me if I had any better friends and I said no. I came down from the city.”

“And
you were followed? By whom?”

“It’s
a long story,” he said, and, as if as an afterthought he added, “I only need
the bed for the night.” His inflection was sexual and I thought about it for a
second before responding.

“As
flattering as it is, I can’t believe you came here to proposition me,” I said,
“which is not to say that couldn’t be part of the deal. But why don’t you tell
me what you really want.”

He
smiled, charmingly, ruefully. “All right, Henry. I may not look like it but I
come from money. Old and famous money. A lot of it has been spent to keep me
out of San Francisco.”

“Why?”

“My
grandfather controls the money, and he hates me.”

“Because
you’re gay?” “That probably has something to do with it,” he said, lightly. “There
have been other problems through the years.”

“Drugs?”
I guessed, remembering the circumstances of his arrest.

“You’ve
seen hypes before?” I nodded. He held his right arm out beneath the dim yellow
light. I saw bluish bruises clustered at intervals up and down his vein. They
were faint and there were no recent marks or scabs.

“You
stopped using?”

“Six
months ago. I told my grandfather. He was not impressed.”

“Who
is he?”

“Robert
Paris,” he said, as if each syllable was significant.

I
thought for a second the name meant something to me but recognition faded as
quickly as it came.

“The
name is not familiar.”

“No?
It doesn’t mean anything to most people but I thought you might recognize it.”
I shook my head and he shrugged. “I think he had me followed tonight.”

“Why?
If he hates you, why should he concern himself with your whereabouts?”

“Money.
I have certain rights to the family fortune,” he said, lifting his glass. “My
grandfather would like to extinguish them.”

“You
mean with some legal action?”

“No,”
he replied, softly, “I mean murder.” He drained his glass. I knew at once that
he believed what he was saying, but I did not believe it. From my experience, I
did not believe in premeditated murder any more than an agnostic believes in
God and for the same reason; there never was any proof. Whether a killing
occurs in an instant or years after some remembered slight, no killer is ever
in his right mind when he kills. For me, that ruled out premeditation.

“You’re
exaggerating,” I said.

“No.
He’s killed before.” He smiled, bleakly. “I’m not making this up. You don’t
know my grandfather.”

“Rich
people don’t go around planning to kill each other. They use lawyers, instead.”

Hugh
laughed and said, “Not someone who thinks he’s above the law. Henry, I don’t
mean he’s going to kill me himself or hire someone to shoot me in broad
daylight. I’m sure it would be arranged to look like an accident or a suicide.”

I
shook my head. “That’s unbelievable. I’ve known murderers. I’ve represented
them and one or two I even got off. The perfect passionless murder does not
exist. Killing is a sloppy business.”

“Have
any of your murderers been rich?” I told him no. He continued, “I didn’t think
so. Money buys a lot of insulation and silence. My grandfather could have us
both killed and no one would ever suspect him.” He poured himself another drink
and said, “I see by your face you don’t believe me.”

“I
believe that you think you’re in danger. I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“You
heard me out,” he said. “That’s all I wanted. And a bed. Wasn’t that the deal?”

“I
guess so,” I said, aware, suddenly, of the nearness of his body and the noise
of his breathing and the darkness of the room around us. We rose, wordlessly,
and went into the bedroom.

*
* * * *

I
woke up alone and lay back, watching the shadow of the tree outside the window
sway across the wall. The only noises were the clock ticking and the wind. The
sheets and blankets were kicked back and over the foot of the bed. A wadded up
towel lay crumpled on the floor among Hugh’s scattered clothes. The detritus of
passion. I sat myself up against the wall and studied my nakedness impassively.
I kept myself in shape out of habit and thought about my body only when it was
sick, hurt, or hungry.

Once
as an adolescent and twice as an adult, I had been in love, the last time
having been four years earlier. Except for those times, sex was largely a
matter of one-night stands. It wasn’t the best arrangement, but, I told myself,
it was all that I had time for. Now that my career had come to an abrupt halt,
there was a lot of time, more time than I’d ever had as an adult. Enough time
to go crazy, or fall in love again. I got out of bed and dressed.

Stepping
into the living room I saw him, wearing an old blue

robe
of mine, pacing the patio. From where I stood, he looked like a figure
projected on a screen, luminous, distant and larger than life. He seemed to me
at that moment the sum of every missed opportunity in my life. I let the
feeling pass. He saw me, smiled, drew open the door and came into the room.

“You’re
finally awake.”

“Yes,
I like watching you. Hungry?”

“No,
but how about some coffee?” I told him I would brew a pot. “I guess I should
get dressed.” He disappeared into the bedroom emerging a few minutes later
pulling on his shirt.

I
handed him a mug of coffee and said, “Let’s go back outside.” We stepped out on
the patio to a brilliant day. The smells of the potted plants hung in the air,
musky and carnal. “What are you going to do?”

“Go
back to the city.”

“And
your grandfather?”

“He’ll
find me when he wants to.” He sipped his coffee. “And you?”

“I’ve
decided to set up my own practice and there’s a lot to be done to get ready.”

He
nodded as if I’d said something significant. The air between us was thick with
unspoken words. I reached over and touched his arm briefly. He smiled.

“Did
you always want to be a lawyer?”

“No,
I drifted into it from graduate school. I wanted to change the world and law
offered more opportunities than history.”

“Did
you know you were gay when you started law school?”

“I’ve
always known.”

“It
doesn’t seem to be a problem with you.”

“Is
it with you?”

“No
one ever prepared me for it,” he said, “or the experience of feeling different
even though you don’t appear different to other people.”

I
nodded. The sexual aspect of homosexuality was, in many ways, the least of it.
The tough part was being truthful without painting yourself into a corner: I am
different, but not as different as you think.

Aloud,
I said, “It’s schizophrenic, isn’t it?” At once Hugh’s face changed. The placid
blond handsomeness dissolved and was replaced by anger.

“Don’t
use that word around me. You don’t have any idea of what schizophrenia is like.”

“I
just meant—”

“That
it’s an identity crisis? It’s the end of identity. It’s death.”

Startled
by his outburst, I mumbled an apology. The fierceness went out of his eyes but
not the distance. The intimacy between us was shattered and I could not think
of any words to call him back.

“I’m
all right, just sort of keyed up, I guess. I should be going now.”

“I’m
really sorry, Hugh,” I said, again.

“You
couldn’t’ve known,” he said, more to himself than me. “I’d like to see you
again. I’ll call.”

“Sure.
I’d like that.” We stood facing each other, but it seemed absurd to shake
hands, so we just smiled, like two strangers who had collided by accident.

*
* * * *

A
week after Hugh’s nocturnal visit, I met Aaron Gold for drinks at a bar on
University Avenue called Barney’s to talk about my future, again. Gold had been
in solo practice in San Francisco for a couple of years before joining his
current firm, and I relied on him for advice on setting up on my own. His years
as an associate with a rich, prestigious firm had not eradicated his memories
of the privations of his first practice.

Gold
liked advising me. It allowed him to relive his days on his own when he
expected to build a powerful firm from his own ambition and drive. In the end,
he decided the world was insufficiently impressed and he signed on with a firm
in town. A good firm, the best in the area and successful enough to have branch
offices, but, after all, not a New York firm or even one in San Francisco.