I Regret Everything (26 page)

Ed was seated at his desk reviewing a document, half-glasses on his nose. It would be difficult to calculate the scope of his wrath if he knew I had spent the past several days with his daughter in Italy. Spaulding had told him she was staying with her mother and there was no indication he was any the wiser. I sat on the sofa. He made a note on the document, removed his glasses, and rose. With a folder and the document in his hand he walked around the desk and settled into a chair opposite me. On the low glass table between us was a book of photographs,
Schooners: A Celebration of Sailing
. He laid the folder on it.

“This is your partnership pay package.”

It had happened. Years of intense and concentrated work dealing with the high-stakes minutiae of demanding clients' lives had resulted in admission to the inner circle of a major New York law firm and all of the enviable perks that accompanied it.

“Thank you.” My throat felt papery. I was overwhelmed. “I'm grateful.”

“You'll find the key to your new office with a view of the river in there as well. But before you open the folder I want to show you something else.” He handed me the document.

Civic Court of Suffolk County, New York State

Claude Vendler v. Thatcher, Sturgess & Simonson and Jeremy Best

My stomach rotated. The scheme had blown up before I could walk it back and the blast would shatter everything. It had been a horrible mistake, one that I already recognized and had tried to undo and now it would cost my job, my partnership, and whatever shrinking future remained. Ed was toying with me. Why had he bothered with the partnership ruse? He was a sadist. I noticed there were crumbs on my shirt and brushed them off. If I told him the cancer had rendered me momentarily
non compos mentis
but I had tried to correct my blunder would he be willing to overlook it?

“You'll observe the plaintiff hasn't just named you as a defendant but the firm as well.” To plead cancer was beneath me. There was nothing for me to do at this point other than accept the consequences. For some things there are no excuses. As I prepared to samurai on my sword, Ed continued, “But we're not going to ask you to resign.” What? The physical laws of the universe were being contravened. Had I misread the Raptor yet again? “This morning I called Dirk Trevelyan. I don't have to tell you what our relationship with him means to the firm. He said if you were to depart he would take his business elsewhere.”

Dirk Trevelyan would be my savior? The tones of love and legacy and Diogenes in a giant pot vibrated far longer than I suspected.

“So, where does that leave us?”

“The sums involved here aren't great. I'll assign the Vendler estate to Pratt. He can sell it at the market rate and if the firm has to kick in a few shekels to sweeten the pot we will. I'm certain we'll be able to get Claude Vendler to drop the suit. I'll want you to look me in the eye and give me your word this was a one-time, not-to-be-repeated indiscretion. You understand how a law firm works, Jeremy. Trust. It's all we have to sell. If our clients can't trust us we'll be out of business pretty damn quick.”

I could only nod. There was nothing to add.

“But there's another matter.” Ed opened a desk drawer and produced a glassine envelope that held a Mark Cross pen with the monogrammed initials
J.B.
“I found this in my Tesla. It's yours, isn't it?” I said that it was. “Were you by any chance in my car?”

In the pregnant silence my cell phone began to trill. Once, twice, three times.

“Do you want to get that?”

“I'll call them back.” Without looking at who had called, I silenced the ringer.

There are crossroads in life where the choice one makes will signify a tectonic shift in one's existence. If I wanted that partnership so badly, I could lie. Say I had given the pen to Spaulding as a gift. Deny everything.

“Yes, I was in your car.” I could barely breathe.

Ed's face slackened. This was not what he wanted to hear.

“Keeping in mind that your entire future is at stake, would you like to describe the circumstances?” The perspiration that had been confined to my palms now glissaded down my sides and back. Slumped into the couch I studied the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. Why was I stalling? Fear? Habit? I searched for the right way to tell Ed what was going on, to find some fragment of honor in my misbehavior. “As your colleague and boss, Jeremy, as your friend, I am asking you a direct question. The pen? The car? Again, please describe the circumstances.”

Raptor Ed wears might too tightly / I lick his trophies, ignite politely
.

“Spaulding and I were in Rome.” He regarded me clinically for a moment, trying to ascertain whether or not this was a delusion. On the surface it must have sounded preposterous. My expression remained impassive.

“Rome, Italy?” The truth of what I was saying spread through Ed's mind like a tincture in a well. The stupefaction that overcame him gave me no pleasure. His mouth moved but for a few seconds words did not come. He stared at me, trying to make sense of it. “Spaulding went to Italy with you?”

“We got back last night.”

“In what capacity did she go?”

“This might not make sense to you.”

“In what capacity?”

“We're comrades. We love each other.”

“You love each other?” The mocking tone he employed in no way vitiated the force of his rage. His breathing appeared labored. “She was in a mental hospital.”

“If I thought she was unstable, I never would have . . .”

“Did you tell her you were going to die? That's a good line. She's a nineteen-year-old girl, Best. Nineteen. With serious emotional problems. She tried to kill herself.”

Ed's fury was understandable and any attempt to mitigate it would be futile but I did not let that stop me.

“Spaulding's healthier than you think she is. She's admirable and tough and she's a lot better now than she was last year.”

“Which you know because you're a doctor? She was ripe to be taken advantage of and, congratulations, that's what you did.”

“She's an adult.”

“So are you and you should have known better. You were going to be a partner, set for life, and you threw it away.”

“I'm resigning.”

“You're damn right. And Dirk Trevelyan can go fuck himself.” With that pronouncement, Ed was exhausted, the emotion dissipated, replaced by a weariness that came from the realization that there were situations beyond his understanding. He was silent for a few moments. Then: “I would appreciate it if you kept this whole thing quiet. Will you at least agree to that?”

“Yes. And, Ed, I apologize for the pain this is causing you. But I don't regret it.”

Five years had drawn to a mortifying close. No Champagne corks popping, no valedictory cake consumed with happy colleagues, no heartfelt speeches. There would be the usual workplace gossip as my former colleagues attempted to ascertain the exact nature of what had occurred. Circumspect in all things, the Raptor would leave them guessing and soon enough what had happened to me would cease to be of interest. As I strode through the office several of the assistants looked up from their desks. I stared straight ahead. It didn't take long to pack up my office.

While I was waiting at the elevator, I checked my phone messages. My oncologist had left word. I returned the call.

It started as a drizzle but the skies purpled and Manhattan was suffused with a lurid apocalyptic light. The windows of the buildings glowed and the structures themselves seemed to thrum in anticipation. Rain splattered the street, swelled the gutters. Umbrellas were hoisted. Taxicabs plowed through the squall, all of them full. Pedestrians huddled under awnings and in doorways as the downpour intensified. Along the sidewalk I strolled, clutching a plastic-wrapped box filled with my personal effects, the only figure moving through the cloudburst. Rain ran off my head, streaked my face, and soaked the suit I would never wear again. I splashed through puddles, shoes ruined. How many more times would rain begin and end? How many times would it soak me to my skin? I lifted my face and opened my mouth to taste the world.

I
t was around three in the afternoon when Marshall's text arrived.

Where have you been? Opening night is tonight and we're performing the show for a week. You better be there.

Immediately, I texted back that I wouldn't miss it. I had just returned from Chinatown where I had visited the healer I had told Jeremy about, the one my mother claimed had cured her. I described Jeremy's condition to him as best I could and he gave me a bag of leaves and twigs to boil.

—Drink glass every night for one month, he said. Cure disease.

On the subway ride uptown I spent the entire time reading about cancer researchers in Geneva who were getting awesome results with gene manipulation. The rain had stopped and on the sidewalk pedestrians danced around puddles. I was going to tell Jeremy I'd fly to Switzerland with him if he wanted since I knew my way around and could be his guide. But his office was empty, the desk clean, and it was clear he had left for good when I noticed the poetry shelf was gone. Reetika was at an audition and no one else I asked seemed to know what had happened.

My call went direct to message. When I texted no answer came back. I took refuge in the office of an attorney who was on vacation. With her door closed, I settled in, went on the Internet, and continued investigating alternative therapies. If what Jeremy was doing didn't work, I wanted him to be aware of the options. It all felt like something from the kind of science fiction movie that made me anxious so to calm myself, I tried to transform the remedies into a poem.

 

“Better”

 

Nutritional supplements

Electromagnetic shark

Cartilage, insulin

Therapy, gene

Therapy, and photodynamic

Therapy, pig

Enzymes and coffee

Enemas

You die in

The End

 

It wasn't good enough to be set in stone but arranging the words in a discernible pattern made them slightly less scary. As for the last two lines, well, to everything there is a season and that's not science fiction. I printed out fifty pages of my research, put the poem on top, and slid the contents into an envelope. At five Edward P's secretary called to say he'd like to see me.

My father looked up when I entered his office. I asked if he had fired Jeremy and without answering he told me to close the door and have a seat. I dropped onto the couch and waited. Edward P didn't say anything so I repeated the question.

—He was engaged in illegal activities, Spaulding.

—I don't believe you.

—Well, you can ask him yourself although I wish you wouldn't.

He sounded like he wasn't mad but it was easy to see he was making a major effort to control himself. Then something totally bizarre happened: The door opened and my mother walked in.

—Hi, Spall. Boy, it's humid out there.

My father got out from behind his desk and embraced my mother. As far as I knew, the two of them hadn't been in the same room since they got divorced but now they were united in alarm about my dysfunction. Everything has an upside, I guess. My mother sat near me on the couch and my father dropped into a chair across from us. They both stared at me.

—What are you doing here, Harlee?

—Your father asked me to come.

—Spall, my father began.

—Is this an intervention?

—Not at all, my mother said.

—We think the stress you're under is causing you to make some bad decisions.

—Duly noted, I said.

—Jeremy told me the two of you went to Rome.

This was unexpected but since they already knew I didn't deny it. Harlee and Edward P exchanged a glance.

—We're not sure you're ready to go to college, my mother said. Emotionally, Spall. We all know what a terrific student you are.

—We want you to take a drug test.

My head pivoted between the two parental poles.

—Please, tell me this is a joke. When some crazy hobo was chasing me through Stonehaven, you didn't believe me. He broke into our house and you didn't protect me. Jeremy saved my life, Dad, literally. Did you know that?

—What do you mean?

There was no point keeping it quiet now and I told them the whole story, the journey to Brooklyn in the Tesla, Jeremy bringing me back to Connecticut, and how he saved my life when schizo Karl Bannerman attacked.

—I'm sorry I took your car, but Jeremy's a hero, okay? A real one, the kind they wrote sagas about in the Middle Ages. He didn't want to come back to Stonehaven with me. I made him. And if he hadn't I'd be dead.

That one sat for a few seconds, ticking away, waiting for someone to touch it. Neither of them did.

—Spaulding, when your father told me you had flitted off to Europe . . .

—I didn't
flit
off.

—We don't want to rehash old stuff, my father said, but frankly, for all we know you could be smoking crack.

—Smoking crack? Seriously? The person I'm closest to in the world might be dying.

—That's probably bullshit.

—It's not. And I don't want to talk to you about it because you'll probably tell me it's something I've imagined in my sick brain.
Spall
, you're going to say, Urinate in that jar then go on a cruise with Meema and Poppy and then maybe you should go back to the clinic for a tune-up.
 
Well . . . no. No, no, and no. Thanks for all you've done. I really appreciate it, I do, I'm not being sarcastic, but why don't the two of you use this opportunity to get reacquainted because now I'm leaving.

And then it got weird.