The Tenth Song (8 page)

“Care to explain?”

“This is what he says: ‘when [you] argue a motion [you] . . . cram irrelevant
crap into your head… spill it all out… forget about it, and move on to the next set of irrelevant crap… .’ ”

“It doesn’t make the profession sound very appealing. There has to be more!”

“There is!” He picked up the book again. “’What do I do when I take a deposition?’ ”

“Wait, don’t tell me! Cram irrelevant crap into my head; spill it out… forget about it, and move on.”

“Exactly. According to Herrmann, ‘If you don’t enjoy cramming, spewing, and moving on, you picked the wrong profession.’ ”

“Oh, hmm, well, maybe,” she’d said, laughing, filling her sake glass for the second time. “So, I guess you’re just breezing through it then?”

He shrugged. “It’s manageable. If you know what you’re doing.”

“I guess I don’t then.” She sniffed, searching vainly for a tissue.

“I can never resist a damsel in distress,” he said, pulling a clean package of tissues from his pocket, which, for a man, was impressive as hell, she thought. “And along with the tissue, I’m now going to throw in, absolutely free of extra charge, my secret formula for One L success.”

“Better than a set of steak knives!” She smiled skeptically. “What do you have behind that curtain, Mr. Wizard?”

“Three things: One, keep up with the reading; two, don’t get bogged down with details; and three, use commercial outlines,” he said.

“That’s it?”

He held out his hands palms upward. “Easy as that. Now, what have you got lined up for your summer internship?”

She pressed her lips together. It was a sore point. She had already been on several failed interviews, something she preferred to keep to herself. “Oh, it’s too early to worry about that.”

“Early? Absolutely not! It’s late.”

“Where are you interviewing?”

“I’m not. I’ve already got a job.”

Of course. Figures, she thought. “Where is it?”

“Bradley, Bradley and Ehrenreich in New York.”

“Wow, they don’t come any bigger than that!” She wanted to ask him how he’d done it. But looking him over, she suddenly thought: Why bother? He exuded privilege, and upper-class noblesse oblige. It was no accident that recruiters on campus had zeroed in on him, and that his first job offer had started at the top.

“The truth is, I’ve been on a few interviews with the big law firms, but haven’t gotten a single callback. They just don’t seem to take me seriously. It’s not my fault.”

“Have you ever heard of Charlotte’s Rule?”

“Huh?”

“Remember, in
Charlotte’s Web,
when spider saves pig from becoming bacon by spinning a slogan over her doomed head which reads: ‘One terrific pig’? Everyone believes it! People will believe about you anything you tell them to believe as long as you look the part. What did you wear to these interviews?”

“I don’t remember… Wait. A black pantsuit. With a V?neck sweater. Why?”

“Wrong, wrong, and wrong some more! You need a dark suit in blue or grey—black is too funereal—with a skirt cut to the knee and a shirt buttoned up to the neck. What kind of shoes did you wear?”

“I wore my boots.”

“No way! Shoes with heels no higher than two inches, and God forbid anything open-toed or slingback! Men never show their toes or their necklines in any formal setting; neither should women. In fact, the higher up on the neckline you wear a scarf or collar, the more in command you look. That’s why airline staff always wear collars and scarves up to their chins.”

“How did you become such an expert?”

“In the summer after I graduated high school, I got this minimum-wage job as an usher at a convention center that held a Dress for Success Seminar. It was a revelation. The lecturer was a little middle-aged woman wearing a blue suit and a beautiful silk scarf. She made volunteers from the audience come up one by one, then had the rest of the group guess who they were and what they did. You wouldn’t believe how drastically people lowered their expectations based on the slightest imperfection. A run in a stocking made them demote a
CEO to a checkout girl in Walmart. A bad haircut convinced them a systems analyst worked frying burgers. They were merciless!”

“How nineteenth-century!”

“That’s just the way the world works.” He shrugged. “Employers just figure if you know how to dress and present yourself, you are probably competent in other fields as well. Get used to it. So you can retire early and wear anything you want.”

“You can’t be serious!”

He looked very serious. “You think because your grades were off the charts in high school and you aced college and the LSATs that your work is over? The express elevator up the corporate ladder to the six-figure paycheck isn’t holding open its doors waiting for you. In case you haven’t read about it, the job market out there sucks.”

“That’s what they always say…”

“Yes, but this time, it’s true. That’s why the likability factor is more important than ever.”

“The what?”

“Let’s face it. People hire people they like. Were you friendly? Did you ask them about themselves? People love to talk about themselves.”

“Certain people,” she murmured pointedly. “Anyhow, I’m not sure I want to work in a big firm. I’m really more interested in child advocacy, nonprofits…”

He looked flabbergasted. “It suicide. It means only nonprofits will consider you next summer, and then when you graduate, your résumé will have nothing to offer a top law firm. Your father must have some connections. Go down the list. Take anything. Pay them! But it’s going to be hard, even with help, because you are a woman…”

She glared at him.

“Look, I didn’t make these things up. Whom did they hire in the end, the jobs you wanted?

She shrugged. “Men.”

“I rest my case, counselor. And, Kayla, one more thing… You are a stunningly beautiful girl. I love the way you look. But do yourself a favor. Get your hair cut and straightened. And get rid of those freckles.”

“Well, it’s getting late,” she said, running her fingers through her curls, then looking at her watch meaningfully.

“Is it?” He looked around at the bustling restaurant, where the night was just beginning.

“I’ve got lots of work to do this weekend, especially since I’ve just learned I’m doing everything wrong.”

Comprehension dawned on him. “Oh, you weren’t offended, were you? I was just trying to help…”

“No… why should I be offended? Just because you’ve told me off, insulted my appearance, and made me feel like an idiot?” She got up abruptly.

He paid the bill, hurrying after her.

They drove back in silence.

“Look, I’m sorry I came on a little strong…”

A little strong?

“I’m not usually like this,” he said softly.

She had one hand on the door handle, about to escape. She turned around, curious. “What are you usually like?”

“It’s just… when you opened your door, I was just bowled over. You looked like that iconic poster of Farrah Fawcett hanging in the bedroom of every horny teenage boy in America—all hair and white teeth. Except you weren’t blond and didn’t exude easy virtue. And then you seemed so upset about school, and your interviews. I just wanted to help.”

“And you,” she told him, “reminded me of that bad performance of Ryan O’Neal in
Love Story,
trying to be witty and clever, and just sounding pushy and offensive. Let’s say there are more than adequate grounds for reasonable doubt,” she said in that husky low tone she found herself using when attempting to sound lawyerly.

“I am a little pushy… but only on matters I know about, and to people I care about.” He reached out to take her hand. “Truce?”

His hand was warm. And he was so good-looking. And some of his advice, she’d already begun to admit to herself, hurtful as it was, might even prove useful.

She didn’t answer, reaching out to give him her other hand.

He pulled her gently toward him, taking her in his arms and kissing her tenderly.

“I’ll call you,” he whispered.

She bought the commercial outlines, and kept up with her reading, not allowing herself to get stuck on the details. She bought clothes and shoes she would never before have been caught dead in except in the synagogue on Yom Kippur. She got rid of her curls and freckles, remaking herself.

To her utter amazement, she found that not only did her professors take her more seriously, but she was beginning to take herself more seriously, even if that self was a person she hardly knew when she looked in the mirror. Her father helped her arrange a number of interviews. She arrived dressed for the part, was as friendly as a Southern preacher’s daughter and inquisitive as Dr. Phil. She had her pick of job offers, one of them in a Boston district court.

Seth was thrilled, except for the fact that they’d be apart all summer.

“I’ll fly up to visit you on the weekends,” he promised.

“And I’ll come to Manhattan.”

They were together every weekend, and spent many nights working together, sharing notes. The decision to sleep together came naturally as did their decision to get engaged. In fact, it happened so casually, she almost missed it.

“I’m going to have to decide about job offers,” he’d said in June. “Where do you want to live?”

She twisted her engagement ring around her finger, the lovely band and stone suddenly heavy and constricting. He was never wrong about anything. But now he had given her advice she just couldn’t take. She was on her own.

7

The phone began ringing that evening. Her best friend, Debra, was the first, of course.

“How are you holding up, Abby?”

“I’m not,” she said, relieved she could finally tell someone the truth.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s all a big lie, Deb. But the worst kind, with some tiny bits of truth thrown in. Of course you know Adam would never…”

“Oh, please. You don’t have to explain. I know Adam. So what’s the story?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. All I know is that Adam innocently transferred money to an investment fund in England that turned out to be a front for Al-Qaeda and other terrorist groups. It’s horrible, Deb. The phone doesn’t stop ringing. I’m scared.”

There was a long pause and a sigh. “Take a virtual hug,” Deb said. “And you can call me anytime, day or night.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you. Hug Adam for me.”

“Hello? Abigail. Stephen just showed me the article on the Internet. How awful! How are you both holding up?”

“Henrietta, it’s so good of you to call. What can I say?”

“Is it true that he transferred money to terrorists who killed American soldiers?”

“Of course not! I mean, not knowingly. I… it’s complicated.”

“Because the Internet and that picture… It was unbelievably damaging. It’s the kind of thing that just buries a person’s reputation.”

“But none of it is true!”

“Well, Stephen says the article was very well written, and they gave so many details… You’ve got to do something about this!” she said, phrasing it as though she were imparting valuable advice.

Abigail’s eyes smarted. “Henrietta, there’s someone else on the line, I’ve got to go.” She hung up, feeling stunned and raw. Her hands shaking, she poured herself a cup of coffee. She opened the refrigerator for the milk, but there wasn’t any. A walk will do me good, she told herself, throwing on her coat.

The weather had changed. The brief, glorious warmth of the morning was gone. The air was soggy, smelling of coming snows.

“Abigail?”

It was Sandra.

“Well, long time no see,” Abigail said, trying to be jovial.

“I hope it isn’t true,” the woman said.

Abigail caught her breath. “You don’t have to hope. I’m
telling
you it isn’t true!”

“I hope it isn’t true,” she repeated, unforgivably.

Abigail turned away, her cheeks as red as if someone had slapped them. She paid for the milk as quickly as she could. She heard the door of the grocery slam behind her, as if someone else had wrenched it shut.

Kayla telephoned. “How’s Dad?”

“All things considered, he’s… all right.”

She heard her daughter exhale. “Really?”

“I’m sure he’d like to see you. Kayla, he hasn’t done anything wrong, not knowingly…” The more she repeated this now-familiar line, the less sure Abigail was.

“Really, Mom, I’d prefer not to talk about this over the phone,” Kayla answered sharply.

“Of course,” Abigail replied, hurt.

“I’ll be over, Mom.”

They said their good-byes, the unspoken words crowding out and canceling what was said. Abigail called Joshua, who said he was getting on a plane the next day. She called Shoshana, who told her not to worry because it was going to be just fine. She was planning on driving in.

“With Matthew?”

“Yes, of course. Matthew is very concerned.”

The next day, the phone rang and rang and rang.

“Please, Abby, you pick up. I just can’t,” Adam begged.

Half the calls were from reporters. She gave them their lawyer’s number. Then there were the clients, people she didn’t really know that well. “Tell Adam that we have every confidence in his innocence. It is always the good people that they come after. Send him our love.”

“I will, and thank you so much.” She felt her throat ache. It was not the insults of friends, but the kindnesses of strangers—so unexpected and unearned—that made her want to cry.

What she had expected from her friends—words of concern and unconditional support—was going to be the exception, not the rule, she realized with shock. The rule was a nervous silence. The rule was the people whom you expected to call didn’t get in touch at all. This rule would also be followed through, she realized, in person. There would be the conversations that stopped when she passed by; the oh-so-ingratiating smiles that disappeared like a Popsicle on a summer sidewalk the moment her back was turned.

At midmorning, Marsha, Seth’s mother, called.

The conversation was filled with questions, polite concerns, and good wishes as substantial as air kisses. Then, with the niceties out of the way, she got down to business: “With
all you are going through,
” she said curtly, “it is clear that the engagement party should be postponed until further notice. You’ve got enough on your plate already. I’m sure the kids won’t mind.”