Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift (37 page)

I can barely believe I wrote those last five words, but there they are, right above these words. Nobody else did that.

Astoundingly—adverbs are not my favorite things, but “astoundingly” is a good one—Dr. Rex Helton says I’m on the right track.

“Blood pressure is down. You’re at two hundred and eighty-four pounds, so you’re losing it steadily but not too quickly. And, of course, the car wreck probably has something to do with that. As for the diabetes, it’s too early to do the full blood work again, but let’s see what a test strip says.”

He puts on rubber gloves and brings out a glucose reader. I set my hand palm up on the counter, and he says, “Little prick,” which I assume is in reference to the needle and not my character.

I just made a joke. I’m pretty funny sometimes.

“It’s a hundred and twenty-three. Not bad, Edward. Not bad at all. Keep up the fine work.”

The delightfulness of Dr. Rex Helton’s office is offset by the intimidation of Jay L. Lamb’s. For the first time since just after my father died, I’m made to sit in this uncomfortable modern furniture that Jay L. Lamb insists on buying. I’m sitting in front of the desk of his impossibly beautiful secretary, who has now just said, for the fourth time, “He’ll be with you shortly.”

Jay L. Lamb also has a magazine problem. In Dr. Buckley’s office, now Dr. Bryan Thomsen’s office, there are women’s magazines, sports magazines, car magazines, outdoor magazines—in other words, pretty much every kind of magazine you can imagine, except pornography. It speaks to Dr. Buckley and Dr. Bryan Thomsen’s willingness to make a range of clients feel welcome and at ease.

Jay L. Lamb has only investor magazines. I’m his client, and yet I feel neither welcome nor at ease. Excuse me for saying so, but that’s pretty shitty of Jay L. Lamb.

“He’ll be with you shortly,” the impossibly beautiful secretary says.

I look at my watch. It’s 1:17 p.m., seventeen minutes past our appointed meeting time. We passed “shortly” a long time ago.

At 1:21 p.m., I’m finally shown into Jay L. Lamb’s office. He directs me to sit in a chair in front of his desk, one only slightly more comfortable than the seat I just extricated (I love the word “extricated”) myself from.

“Edward, how have you been?”

“Well, Mr. Lamb, I’ve been in a car wreck and forcibly removed from Colorado. Things have been better.”

Jay L. Lamb smiles uncomfortably, which is the only sort of smile he’s ever given me.

“Yes, well, your mother has filled me in on things, which is why we’re here today. I have found you a job, if you want it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a courier position.”

“You mean, a delivery boy?”

“No, not quite. This is actually a very trustworthy position. This law office—there are three partners, plus six associates—generates a lot of paperwork, and that paperwork needs to find its way to various places, be it the courthouse or a regulatory agency or a client or another law office. We need someone who is highly organized, who knows the city and the region, and who is reliable. It’s actually the perfect position for you, because you’re all of those things. In fact, I’m a little stumped that I didn’t think of it before.”

“Would I report to you?”

The position sounds pretty good, but his answer to this question could be a deal breaker for me.

“Ordinarily, you would, yes. Me and the other two partners. But this is a different kind of situation, for two reasons. First, I’m your lawyer and a family friend, so it wouldn’t be right for me to be your supervisor. Second, I’m retiring early next year.”

“You are?”

“I’m sixty-three years old, Edward. It’s time. I’ve been working nonstop since Clea died two years ago. It’s time to relax and enjoy the time I have left. So, anyway, I’ve talked it over with Mr. Slaughter and Mr. Lambert, and one of those men will be designated as your supervisor. You and I will be coworkers, for a few
weeks anyway. If we have to discuss your employment as partners, I will recuse myself from that discussion. Does that sound fair?”

It sounds more than fair. I think now that perhaps I have not given Jay L. Lamb enough credit.

“Yes, it does,” I say. “I have two more questions.”

“I figured you would.”

“Who will be our lawyer now?”

Jay L. Lamb laughs, and he stands up and sits on the edge of his glass desk.

“I’m becoming something called ‘partner emeritus.’ That means I’ll still have a role here. I’ll keep an office. And I’m taking two clients with me into retirement—your mother and you. So in that regard, nothing changes. Now, you had a second question?”

“Yes. What does the position pay?”

“It pays thirteen dollars an hour to start. I know that’s less than you were making at the
Herald-Gleaner
, but on the plus side, your health benefits will be entirely paid for, you’ll get three weeks of paid vacation to start, which I believe is better than you were getting at the newspaper, and we also do a 401(k) match. It’s a good package, and I think we both know that in your financial condition, this paycheck isn’t going to make much of a difference.”

I think Jay L. Lamb just said, in a nice way, that I’m fucking loaded.

“I accept the position,” I say. “When do I start?”

“Let’s say January second, the Monday after the new year. It’s going to be a ghost town around here between now and then. Be here at eight a.m. and we’ll get you started. Welcome aboard, Edward.”

We shake on it. This astounds me.

I’m home by 2:42 p.m. While I’m grilling chicken for lunch, I watch the next
Dragnet
episode on my bitchin’ iPhone, since I may be late at my mother’s tonight. I wouldn’t want to miss
Dragnet
so early in my return to it.

“Administrative Vice: DR-29” is the seventeenth episode of the third season of the
Dragnet
color episodes, which ran from 1967 to 1970. This episode originally aired on February 6, 1969, and it’s one of my favorites.

One of the things I appreciate about
Dragnet
is its authenticity. Unlike television shows today that are monuments to falsehood,
Dragnet
shows you how police work actually takes place. In addition, Sergeant Joe Friday (played by Jack Webb) often provides a history lesson on Los Angeles in the intro. I will not hold my breath waiting for
Jersey Shore
to do something similar.

My mother’s condo is in a place called the Stapleton Building downtown. When it was built in 1904, it was the tallest and most glorious building in Billings, Montana. It held the city’s finest department store, Hart-Albin; offices; and even a men’s overnight club. For much of my life, however, it was empty and dilapidated (I love the word “dilapidated”), until some local developers turned it into something new, with the condo units and restaurants and shops. My mother moved here after my father died, and now she splits her time between here and Texas—with an increasingly larger share of the time being spent away from here.

My mother rings me in from the lobby, and I ride the elevator to the third floor, where her condo is. She has a view of the downtown streets. It’s a very nice place, although I still prefer my bungalow on Clark Avenue.

My mother opens the door and sweeps me into her condo.

Jay L. Lamb is standing in the living room.

“Hello, Edward,” he says.

“Hello, Mr. Lamb.”

My mother, having closed the door, has walked up behind me and wrapped an arm around me.

“Jay was just telling me about your new job. I’m so glad this worked out.”

I wrench myself out of my mother’s arm.

“My ribs still hurt,” I say, and she quickly apologizes.

“Why don’t you two chat?” she says. “I’ll finish with the dip.”

Jay sits down and invites me to take a spot on the couch opposite him. Instead, I follow my mother into the kitchen.

“Do you need something to drink?” she asks.

“No, Mother. Why is Jay L. Lamb here?”

“I invited him.”

“Why?”

“He’s our friend, and he just did something very nice for you.”

“And I appreciate that. I thought you and I were going to talk.”

“We are.”

“With Jay L. Lamb here? I have some things I need to say to you.”

“Go right ahead.”

My mother is being obtuse. I leave her and go back into the living room. Jay L. Lamb is stirring his drink. I go to the window and look down on Broadway, with my back to Jay L. Lamb and my mother so they don’t see how flummoxed I am.

“What’s new, Edward?” Jay asks me.

“Since you saw me four hours ago? Not much.”

My mother comes into the room carrying a tray of crackers. I can see her reflection in the glass.

“Edward, are you ready to talk? We have some time before the roast comes out of the oven.”

“No.”

“Could you come sit down, dear? We’d like to chat.”

I turn from the window and walk to the couch across from Jay L. Lamb and my mother, who are sitting together. I sit on the far end, as far from them as I can. I’m not hungry. I thought I was, but I’m not.

“Edward,” Jay L. Lamb says, “you remember how I told you I’m retiring.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother has asked me to come with her to Texas, and that’s what I’m going to do—if it’s all right with you.”

I look at my mother. She’s nodding, smiling at me.

“Why?”

“Because we care about each other.”

He reaches into my mother’s lap and takes her hand in his.

Holy shit!

“You mean, like, you’re her boyfriend?” I ask.

“Something like that.”

“Something exactly like that,” my mother says.

I look at them sitting there, holding hands. They look so happy, and that makes me angry. Two days ago, I was holding hands with someone, too. Now look what has happened.

“How come you didn’t tell me?”

“Until recently, there wasn’t a lot to tell,” Jay says. “I know you’re surprised, Edward. We were, too.”

I want him to shut up and never say another word to me. I don’t look at him. I look only at my mother.

“We’re selling the condo,” my mother says. “We’re going to live full time in Texas.”

I cannot even believe what I’m hearing.