The Love Wars (27 page)

Rachel said something about it being a workday morning and Lillian had winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she said. “If you can’t drink up on your fortieth anniversary, when can you?”

Liz and I had looked at each other, panicked, and she had fled, returning somehow fifteen minutes later with four bottles of orange-labeled champagne.

Rachel, still in my doorway, has started to mime clinking imaginary glasses, smiling invitingly.

I groan. “Don’t make me go back in there.”

Rachel drums her fingers dramatically on her chin. “Do you have to be sober for anything today?”

I look at my calendar, even as I know the answer. “Nope.” This is the silver lining to Lillian’s anniversary: a full Friday, no court appearances, no conferences, no Lillian.

Rachel’s eyebrows arch wickedly. “Me neither. Even Liz is still in there. And we’ve decided, after that fire drill this morning, we need our own fucking anniversary party.”

It is an appealing thought, seizing the moment, this springtime hall pass of a day, to just let loose.

Rachel senses that I’m weakening. “We’ll just finish up the bottles that are in there and then I’m cutting out early. Like”—she leans her head in the doorway, ready to shock me—“four o’clock. Because I can.”

“I’m in.” I follow her to Lillian’s office.

__________

I
had four more. Four of those fancy, fancy drinks and I’m back in my office, my spinning, spinning, spinning office. It was fun, it was so much fun, and I didn’t know that Rachel can do
good impressions, like really good impressions, of that woman from that show with the nasal voice and, oh, also of that cartoon character with the skateboard. I love Rachel. She’s so helpful and funny, she got the bathroom door closed for me because I couldn’t figure it out, the lock thingy was all stuck, and now we’re getting quiet time. Shhh. Everybody quiet for nap time. I’m gonna close my office door here, tiptoe over and close it and close my eyes and let things spin and the floor, this carpet, this gray is soft and nice.

__________

I
hear a loud buzz. And again. And again. And it’s a noise I recognize. It means something. So I get up from the floor and go to my desk and it’s my phone, my secret Fern batphone, and she’s texted me, so I squint and peer closer and it says:

You know how long court will take today?

And I know I’m a little buzzed from before, but Fern must be more, because we don’t have court today. My fingers, which are not hitting the keys easily—small keys! so very small! why have I ever texted on this thing?—manage to write back, though, because it’s important for Fern to know this:
Cpurrt is 2norow!
I blank on the day and look at my calendar for tomorrow, where it says, there it is, “Wv.W compliance conference 2:30, March 27th.”

Fern is right there and she buzzes the batphone again:

Ha! Ha!

Hs! Ga!
I write back, and it’s funny. It’s so funny, her joke, but then I realize I don’t know why it’s funny. Why is it funny? I should know why. I’m getting a little sad because I don’t understand the joke and I should, we’re tight, me and Fern, and I should be in on the joke, so I squint at my calendar. Tomorrow is Saturday. I put the Walker conference down for Saturday and I’m not sure how this happened. I remember Mike the Clerk calling and changing the date because, what was it? Strand was having a
procedure and I was worried about him, what if it’s serious and something happened to Strand?—and I put it in my calendar and said, no problem, Mike, I have no conflicts, because of course it wasn’t a problem, I wouldn’t have any conflicts if I thought it was Saturday and fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And now, focus, where’s my watch or something—it’s one o’clock, which means I need to be downtown soon, really soon. I have to figure out how much time I have, and my stuff is in my apartment and I’m still a little buzzed. But I can sober up in an hour, I’m sure. I know I can. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

Somehow, I’m walking down the hall toward the elevator. One step in front of the other. One step per foot. I am looking at my feet, focusing on my feet.

“Molly?” Henry’s voice floats from somewhere by the printer. “Why are you tiptoeing?”

“Court. I have court,” I whisper. “For Fern.”

His face swims above me. Stern expression, stern face saying something about canceling.

I make the stern face back at him and he says, “You’re not going to court like this.”

How does he know something’s wrong just by looking at me? I look down and don’t see how he knows. “I can’t. Wrong date, scheduling snafu, screwup, yadda yadda. So I should just get some black coffee and do. This. Thing.” I hit his chest as I say this and it makes a really funny noise, hollow, like he’s a drum. “Did you know you could make that noise?”

He ignores me. “You need more than black coffee. Black coffee is kind of a myth.”

I make a gesture to show my competence—arms forward-marching—and start off toward the elevator.

“Slow down,” he says, and catches my arm. “You might want to check your outfit.”

My shirt is untucked from my pants and unbuttoned and holy crap, my belly button is visible. I try to cover it, but my shirt and
my pants seem all twisted and stuck, and it’s really, really, really hard. I don’t get it, this thing with my shirt, but it’s so weird, but funny too, so I laugh, and punch Henry on the arm.

Henry’s head is in his hands and then he’s pushing me back down the hall to my office. “Figure out what’s going on with your shirt,” he says. “I’ll be back with coffee.”

“See? It’ll work,” I say to him, but he is gone.

I manage to stuff my shirt ends into my pants and all of a sudden Henry’s there with some coffee.

“Superfast,” I say, reaching forward to take it. I snap my fingers for emphasis, but they don’t make a good enough noise, so I say it too. “ZZZZip.”

He takes a step back from me. “You’re going to need some mints.”

“I gottem, I gottem.”

He sighs. “Come with me.”

We’re downstairs and in a cab and pulling up to my apartment building, stopping to get more coffee downstairs—I insist on paying as the host here, although, somehow, by the time we’re at the door to my apartment, he’s got the keys and is the one who opens the door. “Welcome, Henry!” I say. “To my home!”

“Do you know,” he says, in a voice that’s slow and loud, “where the file is?”

“Right here,” I say, walking over to the file. “Super organized. Oh, right—you’ve been here.” I had forgotten that. How he was wearing shorts and his legs looked really good. He really had nice legs.

He looks surprised and then down at his legs. “Um, thanks.”

That’s funny. “I said that out loud? I thought I was thinking it and I said it.”

“Great.” Henry rolls his eyes at the couch. “The inability to censor yourself bodes well for a court appearance.” He hands me another coffee, from where, I don’t know. “Drink.”

I obey, taking four gulps in a row.

“Go clean up a little.” He points to the bathroom.

“Bos-see.” I get up.

When I come out, he takes a step back. “Molly,” he says, his voice low as he turns his back to me. “Put on a goddamn shirt.”

I look down. I’m wearing my pants, but on top, I just have on a purple bikini top and I tell him that it’s sort of like that dream when you have no clothes on in front of a bunch of clothed people, but it’s real, and that’s so funny, because if this is my worst nightmare, it’s happening and look how well I am handling it. I laugh, but he doesn’t laugh and he still doesn’t turn around. So I tell him, my voice as friendly as I can make it, that he can turn around, it’s a goddamn bikini top for godsake, it’s not even a bra because all my bras are in the hamper, so what is the problem? Wouldn’t he go swimming with me, for crying out loud? If we went swimming, I’d be wearing even less, plus, I mean he’s Henry, for chrissakes, I say, I know he’s not looking at me that way. You have that Julie girl, plus, P.S., it’s not like we don’t know each other, we’re the real deal, I know we are, even if you have been sort of hot and cold and distant for months.

“Are you dressed yet?” is his only response.

When he turns around, he mumbles something—all I hear are the words “weird” and “bikini top”—and tells me it’s time for me to go.

“I think…” I nod. “Yeah, I’m a little less spinny.”

“You seem to be a friendly drunk. I guess it could be worse.” His gaze rakes over me in a skeptical once-over. “Your best tactic today? Mouth shut, clothes on. You understand?”

I salute. “Clear eyes, full heart, clothes on, sir.”

He doesn’t find this as funny as I do, I think, because he covers his eyes with his hands and shakes his head. When he looks up, he says, tiredly, “Maybe we should try another coffee, not that it’s doing much.”

When we’re standing on line at the coffee shop, Henry reaches an arm out and tells me to stop wobbling. “What does that mean, the real deal?”

“That means, usually it means, when something’s not fake.” I smile, helpfully, not sure what he’s getting at.

“Back there with the whole bikini thing. You said we were the real deal.”

“I meant we’re really friends. You’re, like, my buddy, even if you are my boss.”

“Like your buddy,” he repeats.

“Even if you are technically my boss,” I say, wrapping my arm around him to pat his back. His body tenses in response, but only a little.

__________

I
have two more coffees before the court appearance—making my total for the day several coffees! (which the coffee cart guy doesn’t seem to think is funny)—and I manage to make it in and out of the court’s ladies’ room without assistance, so I know I can do this, because earlier I couldn’t and it means I’m definitely functioning like my normal self.

Another sign that I’m functioning, and this is really, really smart of me, is that I time myself to get there right on time, so I waltz in and wave at Fern, who smiles back, and she looks normal, smiling and waving back, so I know that I look normal and so I go right over to Mike, who’s standing there with Risa, who’s looking at some papers with Graham. I feel a rush of warmth at her outfit—hair in two plaits down her back, wearing baggy brown knee-length pants, knee-high laced-up boots and a matching jacket, cropped at the waist. Bygones should be bygones. Maybe I should say something nice, right our wrongs, press restart. “Hi, Risa. Hi, Graham. Risa. Fan-tas-tic knickers.”

She doesn’t acknowledge me. Maybe she didn’t hear.

I try a little louder. “Risa? Hello? FAN-TAS-TIC KNICKERS.”

After a pause, she nods, looking down at her papers. “Ms. Grant.”

Then Mike is ushering us into Justice Strand’s office. There he is, good old Strand behind his desk. I got this, I know I do. I’m kicking ass, I know. No one has asked me if I’m drunk, or even mentioned alcohol!

“Good morning, Your Honor.” I smile as big as I feel. “Great to see you today.”

“Well, hello there, Ms. Grant.” He beams back at me.

Risa interjects. “Justice Strand. We need to discuss our new motions.”

Strand flinches and looks warily at me. I give him another smile, again as big as I can. Control. Everything is coming in speed bursts and delays, but I am controlling what I say.

“You mean the disqualification motions?” I pat Risa on the arm and feel her stiffen through her soft, soft jacket. “So many motions, you know what I mean?” I nod at Strand.

I touch my forehead and try to remember what exactly her papers said. It’s hard to recall, but I vaguely remember that there are talking points in my folder. I open it and somehow, the papers spill out on the floor. Kneeling down to pick up the pages, I notice a paper clip under the desk.

“Counselor. Are you all right down there?”

I lift my head. It’s Mike. I smile at him. “Yes, Mike. I just found something on the floor.” I stare at the paper clip. It is so very pink and bright.

“What did you find, counselor?”

Control. Mouth shut. I tear my eyes away and force myself to stand up.

Risa starts talking fast. She is saying something about Newkirk and grave ethical issues and me and I guess I’m not as okay as I thought because I can’t follow any of it, but I should say something or else everyone will know I’m not following. “Right,” I say. All heads—except for Risa’s—swivel toward me. I look
around. Everyone is silent. “Sorry. You have the floor, Risa.” I turn to her and give a little bow.

She stares straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge me.

“Listen, I know you’re just doing what you feel you have to do, even if it’s kind of ridiculous.” I pat her arm again. So very soft! What is it? Velvet? Brushed cotton? Velour? Do they make whole suits out of velour?

Justice Strand nods at me. “I appreciate your civility, Ms. Grant. It’s very refreshing.”

I nod back. It feels good to be civil.

Justice Strand clears his throat. “Mr. Williams. Any thoughts on all of this?”

“I’ve submitted papers today. As they suggest, I am against the removal at this point of Dr. Newkirk, Ms. Freed and, um, Ms. Grant too.”

I flash Roland a thumbs-up.

Strand shakes his head at Risa and he’s disagreeing with her. I can tell that much because he’s saying no and she looks pissed. Then he asks us for something. I look around and catch Mike’s eye and he mouths something at me. Christmas something? What is it? And I shake my head and shrug and finally he says, “Witness lists,” and now everyone is looking at him.

“Yes!” I say. “Witness lists!” but then I can’t remember where mine are. I shuffle through papers until I see a file marked “Witnesses.” I count out three pieces of paper, and eventually it’s becoming clear that everyone is watching me again.

Risa purses her lips and makes a lot of noise and I know she’s objecting to something and I see that and all I can think is it must take a lot of effort to just fight, fight, fight all the time. She must be tired after court, what with the fighting and the commute from upstate. This thought makes me very sleepy, so I stretch, just a little, just my arms behind my back, and now everyone’s looking at me again and Risa’s stopped talking.