Other people

Eleven Francine

Question: Describe what it feels like moving back to your parents' house even temporarily.

Answer: Perfectly not at home.

Sure, the physical surroundings are supposed to be comfortable because they're familiar. My room's as it was when I left, a monument to my not growing up, preserved by my mother the caretaker. Of course I love them both, but when you leave, you've left. For instance, I watch my father loosening his necktie after he comes home from the office — something he would never do in front of anyone but the immediate family — and I think put your tie back up in place, I'm an interloper, don't act familiar with me. What was he keeping that picture of me in the buff for, inspiration? And showing it to me when I could still feel Koslak pumping me, what the hell was that supposed to be, considerate? I don't feel at home here with you any more. My place is in my apartment. Under Koslak. The key in my handbag's no damn use till that lawyer gets Koslak arrested. How will I feel with the wife and kids still living above me? Jesus, I am being forced to move like the Jews in Germany, my poli-sci voice tells me. Studying political science is like studying an incurable disease, why did I do it, it tells me nothing about my predicament.

Question: In the daily bullshit at the U.N., who thinks of Matthausen, Bataan, Singapore, or Guernica?

Answer: Nobody.

"What did you say?" my father asks.

"Just talking out loud."

His puzzlement shows. "How did you get on with Mr. Thomassy today?"

Thank heaven, a question I can field.

"He's tall," I said.

Ah, that look. My daughter is off on her irrelevances, the nonconsecutive thinking of an ex-student who bypassed Latin and logic. He loves me anyway.

"Does Thomassy think he can do anything for you?"

He can be prejudiced in my favor.

"I don't know. I see him again tomorrow."

He lights up. "Good," he says, having elicited a rational answer from his twenty-seven-year-old unmarried, slightly tarnished daughter.

Mama comes to the rescue. "Are you with us for dinner tonight?"

It depends whom you're eating. "Yes, I'll be around for dinner.

My mother, always on the side of sanity, says, "Why don't you give that nice young man Bill a ring. Perhaps he'd like to drive up and join us or take you to a movie afterwards."

"I don't think so."

"You're still upset."

"Mother, I'm not getting over a tummy ache or the flu. I was raped."

"I know," my mother muttered, both of them staring at me.

"You'd know if you'd been raped once. You're both more concerned that I'm raising my voice than what happened to me."

"That's not true," Mother said.

My father leaned forward as if he wanted to take my hands. "I'll give Thomassy a ring in the morning," he said, "and see if he can't speed things up."

"You keep out of it, Dad. I mean you set it up. That's enough."

There was a lot of silence during dinner.

I retired to my room and lay down on the bedspread and talked to my teddy bear as I had all the years I had lived at home. What a great audience he was, every question I asked reduced him to perfect speechlessness.

If I'd been married at the time of the rape, would I have felt different about it? Consoling my husband because his exclusive vessel had been used? Would a husband have quelled my rage by taking a club to Koslak? A good husband would have had my rape covered by insurance under some property damage clause.

I put my hands around the throat of my beloved teddy bear. He didn't change expression. He was just ready to hear more, like Dr. Koch, the listening machine. I need to see him, my rocker is rocking.

As I drove to my appointment with Thomassy the next day, the foliage streamed past, spring is coming, spring is coming. Thomassy is waiting for me, the ultimate temptation, a client with a brain. If the case is difficult, so much the better: a long involvement, leading to mutual triumph. Oh Miss Widmer, we've won our case, I'll miss you, come back soon on any pretext. Don't get raped again, do something else, commit a minor crime against property, I Thomassy will defend you to the Supreme Court if need be.

I expected to find Thomassy leaning against the door jamb of his inner office, as if that were his receiving station to welcome me.

What do you mean he isn't in?

There were two people waiting, a woman and a scruffy teen-age boy. I told his secretary I had an appointment for the same time as yesterday.

"He didn't tell me. He didn't put it in his book."

"I'll wait."

"He's still in court."

"I'll wait."

"Those people have an appointment." The secretary beckoned me closer. She put her mouth next to my ear. Secret coming up. "It's a manslaughter case. First visit after bail was set. Likely to take time."

"That kid?"

The secretary shrugged her shoulders, then looked past me at the outside door.

Enter Thomassy, harassed. Quick glance at mother and boy, then at me, "Good God, I forgot about you."

At fourteen, a high school sophomore stood me up. The agony of waiting was still remembered.

"Come in a minute," Thomassy said, and motioned me into his office, then said to the mother, "I'll be with you in two minutes, Mrs. Tankoos."

"Oh thank you, Mr. Thomassy." Mrs. Tankoos's head bobbed gratefully.

Doctors and lawyers, medicine men.

When he closed the door, he said, "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry I wasn't more memorable."

"It's not that, it's. " Truthfully, he looked at a loss for the reason. Lawyer's block. If he forgets the client, it means he doesn't want the case.

"I'll call your father."

"To say what?"

"I'll get someone else to take your case. I'm really jammed."

"You didn't seem jammed yesterday evening."

"I was distracted."

"By me?"

He went to the phone. "I'll get him at his office."

"I can call him. You take care of your manslaughter case."

I shouldn't have given away his secretary's indiscretion. But what did I have to lose? So I said, "If I kill Koslak, that'll make it manslaughter. Maybe you'll take my case, too, Mr. Thomassy?"

I put out my hand. There was a reluctance in his grasp.

"I feel like a fool," Thomassy said.

"Your witness," I said, and left.

Dear God, please grant me a thicker skin for Christmas. Except give it to me now, and you wont owe me anything for Christmas.

I decided to drive back to my own apartment. This is the age of self-defense. I double-locked the door and phoned my father.

"He's in conference, Francine dear," said Bette Davis (whose name I could never remember, with cause).

"Fuck his conference and put him on."

That'll give her something to sprinkle on her bran flakes.

"What is it, Francine?"

"Just give me the name of another lawyer I can see."

"I thought you saw Thomassy."

"He's busy."

"I don't understand."

"Who's second best?"

Long pause.

"I'd stick with Thomassy, however busy he may be."

"Thanks. Go back to your conference. And please apologize to Bette Davis for me. I know she's doing the right thing protecting you from me.

Billowing clouds drifting in from the west brought darkness early. The minute I saw Thomassy headed for the Mercedes surrounded by empty spaces in the deserted parking lot, I ducked down in the back seat. I heard him unlock the trunk, heard the clunk of his briefcase being thrown in, and I could feel him slam the lid closed. I held my breath as he slid into the driver's seat in front of me.

Lowering my voice and stretching out each syllable, I said, "Don't turn the key. It'll blow up."

His head didn't move.

"Now raise both hands," I said, losing control of my falsetto.

Thomassy's head whirled around. "What the fuck!" Then he saw me crouched foolishly behind his seat.

"It's you," he said.

"It's me. Sorry if I scared you."

"What a damn fool thing to do! Get up out of there! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I hadn't expected him to be this angry. It was only a practical joke.

"Don't ever do that to a man who's had his car wired!"

"What does that mean?"

"Don't do it to anybody. You could kill someone with a weak heart."

I could see the tremor in his hands. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Even after the police disconnected the bomb and removed it — it was from this car the first year I had it — it took all the resolution I could muster to turn the ignition that first time. It seemed an age before the engine caught and nothing happened. All that went through my head when I heard you back there."

"I'm sorry. I mean it. Who tried to blow you up?"

"You look ridiculous back there. At least sit up on the seat."

I did as instructed.

"I was defending a trucker who'd been into the loan sharks. He had good connections. When they sent an enforcer around, he'd been warned. The trucker had two of his teen-age sons, big fellows, with him, and they beat the daylights out of the enforcer. The loan shark couldn't go to the cops and charge them with assault, so they framed the man for a truck hijacking job he didn't do. When he hired me, I decided the easiest way to prove he didn't do it, was to prove who did. My mistake. Fortunately, my client's connections tipped him that my car was being wired right while we were in the courtroom." Thomassy looked at me. "Jesus, don't ever do that to anybody."

"Did you drop the case…?"

"Of course not! I won it!"

"… like you dropped mine?"

"How did you know this was my car?"

"Deduction. Your office light was on. This was the only one left in the parking lot. It looks like it ought to be your car. It's neat."

"Thanks. Where's yours?"

"Around the corner."

"I'm sorry about the mess-up this afternoon."

"I got even. Can I come around to the front seat? I've been thinking about what I could do."

"Do?"

"About the case."

"I'm afraid I've got a date."

"We could talk while you're driving there, and I'll take a cab back. It won't take any extra time. Please?"

I got out and slipped into the front seat. He glanced over at me, then started the car.

"Your… date… someone important to you?"

"This evening, yes."

"Otherwise? I hope you don't mind my asking."

"She's married."

"I see. Did her husband let her out tonight?"

"Her husband's on a business trip. We've got three more days."

I wondered what a woman of his was like.

"My father thinks you have no second best."

"There are a lot of good lawyers around."

"You're just saying that."

He laughed, and looked over at me with an expression I remembered from our first meeting.

"Well," he said, "there're a few good lawyers around."

"Name two."

"Your father and me."

"He doesn't know anything about this whole area. Besides, I get a feeling there's something in your arsenal he's never had."

"Oh?"

"Guts. The great missing ingredient. I'm not knocking my father. He's got pluck. It's not the same. I'm thinking of the place where I work. Forty-six languages and not an ounce of guts. What's the matter?"

"I've been looking for a taxi stand. We're nearly there. I guess we can call one from her house."

"I'd like to meet your friend."

"Looks like you're going to."

The woman lived in Elmsford in a white frame house just a block off Route 9A. As we pulled up, I said, "She must like highway sounds."

Thomassy looked at me. That was the third time by my count. "She sure is going to be surprised to see you."

I said lightly, "Surprises keep our interest in life."

"Okay, philosopher," he said, "let's go."

When he rang, she didn't ask who it was, just yelled, "Come on in," and we both did that. She was coming toward the door with a drink in each hand.

"Perfect tim-…"

"This is Miss Widmer, Jane. A client. We were discussing her case. I'm afraid I messed up her appointment today."

"Now she's messing yours up."

"I just need to call a cab to get back to my car."

The flush in her face ebbed. "I'll call for you, honey. Where you headed?"

"Back to my office," said Thomassy.

Jane handed me one of the drinks, saying, "You might as well have this while you're waiting." She gave the other drink to Thomassy.

I could hear her at the phone in the other room. When she put her head in the doorway, she didn't seem happy about the news. "It'll be at least twenty minutes," she said. "Relax while I make myself one of those."

Thomassy tapped his foot restlessly.

"I'm afraid I've botched things up," I said.

"Forget it."

When she returned, it was as if nothing had happened.

"Skoal," she said.

"Skoal," said Thomassy.

I raised my glass.

Quietly she said to him, "We have a reservation?"

"We'll leave as soon as the cab comes," he said.

"What kind of client are you, dear?" Jane asked. "You look kind of sweet to be a criminal."

I would have guessed Jane to be thirty-eight, maybe forty. She was pretty, a little too much lipstick, winter suntan from, a lamp? A lot of time spent on hair. "And too young," she added.

"Most criminals," said Thomassy, "are younger than she is."

"Is that so?"

"That kid who was in with his mother this afternoon," he turned to me, "is fifteen."

"What'd he do?" said Jane. She was looking at my body instead of my face.

"Oh, the last snow of winter, last chance for sledding. Another kid went down dead man's hill out of turn. They had an argument. Buster knocked the other kid down. The other kid called him a shit. Buster picked up the kid's sled and rammed the point of the runners into the kid's gut. The other kids ran away. By the time somebody came, the kid had bled too much. Manslaughter."

"You associate with nice people," I said.

"This evening, yes."

"What will he get?"

"Juvenile delinquency. A year in reform school, out in three months."

"Easy."

"Usual."

"Why'd you take him on?"

"Another lawyer turned him down. He was in Woodside Cottage three days before the mother got to me and I worked out bail."

Jane spoke up. "Maybe he shoulda stayed in jail."

"It's just a holding tank. Some wino tried to force the kid to get down on his knees."

"Ah," I said. "Rape."

"This is a pretty tough kid and—"

He stopped when he realized what I was getting at. Jane looked from him to me to him. I nodded.

"Francine is a rape victim."

"Tell me about it."

"I'd rather not," I said.

"I mean," said Jane, "I always thought if you crossed your legs and scratched and yelled…"

"He had a pair of scissors."

"Oh? Did he use it?"

"He threatened to."

"Oh lots of them do."

"I didn't have lots of experience."

"Ladies," said Thomassy. "Why don't we have another drink while we're waiting. Just a light one for me. I have to drive."

"Look," said Jane, "I don't understand why she's here. What the hell is going on?"

I thought I'd better explain. "I'm not after his body. I'm seducing his legal talents. I want him to take my case."

"Well, honey," she said, "why don't you just agree to take her case so she can take the cab in peace."

Just then the phone rang. Jane excused herself and went to take it in the bedroom.

"It's probably her husband," said Thomassy. "He checks in with her every evening about this time."

"My father said you're very good in the courtroom. He didn't tell me about your technique of setting your opponents against each other."

Thomassy laughed.

Jane came back in. "That's done. What time is our reservation for?"

"We won't lose it."

"You wouldn't care to have your client join us so dinner'll be deductible?"

"Okay," I said, getting up, "I can wait for the cab outside. I can take care of myself."

"Good for you, dear. I prefer to be taken care of. Three-finger Italian isn't as good as old George here."

I caught the sting of embarrassment on his face.

I said goodbye from the door and went out. I could hear raised voices, hers then his, from inside. I walked down the path to the sidewalk, noticing the crocuses pushing through the thawed ground. I looked left and then right, trying to decide which way the cab would come from, when I heard his footsteps. I turned. Jane was at the door. "You'll be sorry," she said and slammed the door.

Thomassy opened the door of his Mercedes. "Get in." It sounded like an order.

He got in on the driver's side.

"What about the cab?" I said.

"It'll serve him right for taking so damn long."

We drove for a while before he said, "No use wasting that reservation. Dinner?"

"Mixed singles. How many sets?"

"You're a tennis player?"

"No. I play the same game you do."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Words."