The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (11 page)

She chuckled.

“He’s been inspired to give you something and asked me to deliver it.”

“Now I’m really curious.”

“I could give it to you over dinner Saturday night, if you’re free.” Blood rushed into her head. “I’ll have to consult with my roommate about all this,” she said, winking at Germaine.

“You have to arrange childcare.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, if not this Saturday, then perhaps another night before I go to New York.”

“That sounds great.”

Germaine waited expectantly as her mother hung up.

“That was Mr. Soutane, one of the lawyers at the firm.”

“From the Fredericks case?”

“Good memory!”

“He asked you to go out with him?”

“He did.”

“Mama, you have a date!”

“I guess I do,” she said, not quite believing it.

L
ATE THAT NIGHT,
the sound of a female screaming and a man raving in slurred Spanish woke Mercedes. They were out in the middle of the street under a lamppost.

She peeked through the blinds. A burly figure in jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt was hauling a small woman toward an old Oldsmobile a few feet away—one hand clutching her long hair and the other gripping her armpit. The woman resisted with all her might: pulled at the arm that held her hair, dragged her feet, and kicked at his thick legs, all the while yelling desperately for help.

Mercedes sprinted to the kitchen, dialed 9-1-1, and gave the dispatcher a swift description. She was back at the window just in time to see him bash the woman’s head against the car door and knock her unconscious. He opened the door and dumped her body on the seat like a bag of dirt, started the engine, and sped away. It was all over in a minute or two.

Shaken, Mercedes went back to check on Germaine, who was still asleep, breathing deeply. She climbed into bed beside her, pulled up the covers, and snuggled against her, inhaling her sweet smell. Germaine stirred and threw an arm over Mercedes’s neck.

A host of memories flooded her mind—Eddy, roaring drunk, screaming in her face and slapping her.

It’s over. Let it go. He’s gone. You’re safe,
she told herself and thought of the woman outside. She hoped she was still alive, and that the police would catch them.

The world gradually slipped away. She saw giant trees swaying in a primordial forest. Sunlight filtered through the branches. Light fell in slanted shafts to a thick duff layer on the forest floor. The infinite layers of the past lay just below the surface of the present.

Words drifted through her fading consciousness:
The earth is a living being. All atoms are conscious and interdependent. No energy is ever lost. Everything is in plain sight for those with the eyes to see.

C
aroline’s normally Spartan office was cluttered with materials for the case going to arbitration. The white plastic model of a human spine sat perched on a corner of her desk. Mercedes examined it while her friend finished a phone conversation.

“Nice spine,” she said, when Caroline was free.

“Why, thank you. I’ve grown rather attached to her,” Caroline said, squaring her shoulders. She looked up at Mercedes. “Found any more smoking guns for us?”

“I still have a couple more boxes to go through. But I have to tell you something.” She got up and closed the door.

Caroline raised her eyebrows. The pale pink of Caroline’s sweater complemented her fair English complexion. She was a pretty woman with a dignified manner and an incisive mind.

“Are the girls still on for this Saturday?” Mercedes asked.

“I think Anne will expire if Germaine doesn’t spend the night. She’s so excited.”

“So is Germaine! I just wanted to make sure because—I have a date that night.”

“You
have
been acting a little mysterious lately.”

Mercedes laughed.

“So who’s the lucky guy?”

“Jack Soutane.”

Caroline’s eyes widened at the sound of his name, and she said conspiratorially, “Don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word to a soul.”

“Thanks. I’ll drop Germaine off around four if that’s okay.”

“Sure. We’ll stock up the kitchen and get ready for that voracious daughter of yours. So how long has this been going on?”

“There is no ‘this.’ We’ve been out to lunch one time and that’s it, unless you count the basket he brought me from Africa.”

“He brought you a present? That trip was quite a while ago.” Caroline assessed the timetable. “Where’s he taking you?”

“I don’t know. I hope nowhere too fancy. I don’t have the wardrobe for that.”

“Only you would say such a thing.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Do you have any idea how any other woman in this office would feel about a date with Jack? Good grief!”

“I guess I have mixed emotions, considering my track record.” Mercedes shifted in her seat and looked at her watch. “Listen, I’m supposed to see Stuart in half an hour, so can we talk about the arbitration?” Caroline gave her an amused look.

A
FTER LEAVING GERMAINE AT CAROLINE’S
on Saturday, Mercedes returned home to get ready for her date. She pulled out a short black skirt and the slinky top that Eleanor had sent her the previous Christmas. She abandoned the illusion of not being nervous.

This time he was waiting for her near the turnstile inside the
subway station. The instant she passed through the gate, he was beside her with an arm around her shoulders.

He led her to a small restaurant near Davies Symphony Hall. They talked and laughed over glasses of wine and bowls of mushroom bisque.
What was it about Jack,
she wondered,
that seemed to put people at ease so quickly?
His looks were only part of his magnetism. Chameleon-like, he could adapt immediately to his audience. It was his genius. She watched him do it with everyone equally—with waiters, taxi drivers, clients, and peers.

He was gracious to all, always ready to laugh, perpetually appreciative. It was as though life had always been good to him and he was eager to return the favor from the abundant resources at his command.

They watched couples heading for the theater, the ballet, the symphony, and to nightclubs in the area. Like butterflies, bejeweled women in shimmering dresses of every color flitted by the windows accompanied by men in evening attire. Festively clad gay couples scurried past, many arm in arm or holding hands, talking animatedly. The whole world seemed to be in love.

As the dinner plates were cleared away, Jack reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slim, gift-wrapped package. He put it on the table in the circle of light cast by the small copper lantern between them.

“What’s this?”

“From Gabe.”

She picked it up and examined the wrapping, and the attempt to tie ribbon artfully around it.

“Aw, he even wrapped it himself,” she said. She untied the ribbon and opened the paper where it was taped. It was
The Yoga Sutra of Patanjali,
the volume she had so reverently pulled off Gabe’s library shelf. Her face lit up. Jack watched her.

“It appears the book has found its rightful owner,” he observed.

“This is a great treasure to me and extremely generous of Gabe,” she said quite seriously.

“Somehow I don’t think he had the same appreciation for whatever is in that book as you do.”

His eyes were shining. She watched his mouth and thought about kissing him.

Over chocolate mousse and cappuccino, their conversation turned to Germaine, to childhood, and to what life had been like for each of them when they were nine years old.

Jack’s smile faded. His mother had been a nurse, but was institutionalized with multiple sclerosis when he was very young. He remembered her wheelchair but had no memories of her walking. She had died when he was nine.

Mercedes’s childhood had not been marked by tragedy, although her small family was not particularly close. They had lived in different cities on the east coast, Texas and Colorado, according to the dictates of her father’s engineering career. Her parents had been her world at nine.

She asked him, “Do you still see your father?”

“No. He died while I was in college. I had two older brothers, Patrick and Jeremy, but they’re gone now, too—one to illness, the other to an accident in the military. Then there’s Janine Reneau. I’ve known her since I was a little boy. She used to be a patient of my father’s, when we lived in Atherton. When things went south for us, she was very kind to me. I used to take the train to San Francisco and Janine would meet me at the station. We’d go exploring and she’d take me to lunch, buy me clothes, take me to the museums, Golden Gate Park or wherever. Sometimes I stayed over in her apartment, where she still lives. She never had kids, so I take care of her.”

After a moment, he asked, “What are you thinking?”

“That often life provides what we need, but not necessarily in
the form we desire. No one would ever guess that you’ve had such hardships.”

They left the restaurant and walked around the corner to his car. As he unlocked it, he put an arm around her waist, drew her close, and tenderly kissed her cheek, then her nose, then her mouth.

“So where are we going?” she asked.

“On a long, wild ride!” He was suddenly full of mirth. “Get in if you dare.”

They drove up to Nob Hill, where posh apartment buildings lined the streets. He slowed down on approach to a stately gray marble edifice, where a uniformed doorman in a top hat stood outside under a long canvas awning. He nodded at Jack and Mercedes.

“That’s Charlie. That’s where I live.” Jack nodded back. “I have a small place but the view is great. I’ll show it to you sometime.”

In a few more blocks he turned into a parking garage and found a spot near a door. He led her into the sleek stainless-steel-and-glass elevator lobby. “Ever been here?” he asked with a hint of mischief.

She shook her head no.

“That’s what I thought.”

Two couples dashed in from the street just in time to join them in the elevator. Jack hit the button for the top floor. The revelers were in high spirits, dressed in wild clothes. They were singing and dancing in the elevator before the door opened.

“A sneak preview,” Jack said, flashing his brilliant smile.

A wall of dance music hit them as they entered the sparkling, high-ceilinged room. The translucent white dance floor was lit from beneath. Its colors and patterns changed with the music. Immense beveled-mirror disco balls hung from the ceiling, spinning and splashing the walls with geometric patterns of light. The music, pumping from a stadium quality sound system, was so loud they could barely hear each other shouting.

Jack led her past the long curving bar where several bartenders worked quickly to keep up with the orders. High round cocktail tables stood at the far end of the room. Jack chose one next to the window, from which the panoramic view of the city lights rolled away like a carpet of stars.

They shed their coats and hurried to the dance floor just as Tina Turner’s raspy voice began belting out “What’s Love Got to Do with It.” Jack was suddenly caught on fire by the music, which poured into them from every angle. His rhythmical body moved like a professional dancer’s, spinning Mercedes now and then as if she were part of him, igniting in her something almost insatiable. Never would she have imagined the metamorphosis of the elegant Jack Soutane into the funky dancing machine that was now her partner.

The more they danced, the more suffused with energy they became, and the more effortlessly they moved together. From within, Mercedes felt something that had been locked away deep in her bones—vestiges of grief, memories of Eddy and the ugly past—break free and begin to leave, billowing out of her, blasted by the music, obliterated by the undaunted energy of sound and joy and hope. Her long curly hair flew in a circle around her and her gold hoop earrings flashed in the flickering colored lights. She cut loose and let the music take her. Jack danced with abandon beside her, around her, behind her, and always with her.