No Parking

by Valentine Wheeler

  “I’m happy to feed my friends,” said Rana. “Besides, you do the same for me.” She pulled the chair out and settled in it, “What can I do for you? Or is this just a social call? Because I’m happy for the company if so.”

  Marianne laughed. “I wish,” she said. “No, I need fashion advice.”

  “Fashion advice?” Rana chucked. “That’s a new one.”

  “Well, I have court in the morning.”

  “Oh.” Rana sobered. “I remember.”

  “And I never go anywhere formal,” Marianne sighed. “I’m not sure what I’m even supposed to wear to court.” She shook her head. “I just need another set of eyes, really.” She paused, butterflies in her stomach. “Would you mind coming up and helping me sort through my options?”

  Rana glanced over at the computer screen and then back at Marianne. A smile broke over her face, dimpling her cheeks and creasing the lines around her eyes. “That would be much better than bookkeeping.” She clicked to save the file and then stood, sliding her feet into boots and throwing a jacket over her shoulders. “I’ll be over in a few minutes—I need to finish a few things up here first, all right?”

  Marianne nodded, levering herself out of her own seat. “I’ll leave the side door to the apartment unlocked. You remember how to get in?”

  Rana gave her a long look, and Marianne’s cheeks heated. Of course she did. She’d been there three times, and if that first night was half as memorable to Rana as it was to Marianne, she remembered every inch of that stairwell and the room beyond it. “I do,” said Rana finally. There was a note of something in her voice, something secret and odd. Marianne nodded and headed back out into the cold and around to the side door of her apartment, the one that didn’t require her to go through the bakery. She’d had the new entrance installed when she’d moved back in after the divorce, and it had been one of the best decisions she’d made: not having to traipse through the bakery every time she needed to leave her house was a huge improvement to both her convenience and her building’s fire code adherence.

  She wiped her feet carefully, hanging her coat on the peg in the tiny mudroom at the base of the stairs and then shed her boots and climbed the steps up to her front door. The stairwell was chilly without her coat, and she enjoyed the sudden warmth as she slipped back into her cozy living room. She looked around the space with a critical eye, suddenly aware of the blanket crumpled in the corner of the couch, the empty plate by the sink, the sweater tossed casually over the armchair. Glancing back at the front door, she straightened up as quickly as she could. When her kids were little and she and Kevin had shared their big house out on West Springfield Drive, she’d kept it carefully neat and presentable. Even the few chaotic years she’d lived in the apartment with Janie and Jacob after the divorce, once Anna had gone out to school in Pittsburgh, she’d maintained an iron grip on her cleaning. But now that she lived alone, she had started letting things slide a bit. She didn’t want to let Rana see that though. Her mother’s voice chided her from somewhere in the back of her mind, reminding her that one couldn’t invite guests into a messy home.

  Footsteps creaked on the stairs, tentative as they reached the top, and then a soft knock rang through the living room. Marianne shoved the stack of magazines she held into a basket and kicked it under the coffee table and then called, “It’s open!”

  The door creaked slowly open, and Rana stepped inside. She’d hung her coat downstairs, left her boots, and closed the door behind her in socked feet. There was something strangely intimate about that—something domestic. Marianne liked it.

  “Hi,” she said, feeling a little silly.

  “Hi,” said Rana. “It’s always strange to me that you live up here. Nice!” She hurried to clarify. “I can imagine the commute is quick. But sometimes if I’m working late, I hear footsteps upstairs and it’s comforting to know it’s you.”

  “I sometimes smell meat cooking and want to come down and visit,” Marianne admitted. “Is that the same thing?”

  Rana laughed. “I think it might be. You’re always welcome.” Her smile faded. “As long as I’m there, anyway.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” said Marianne. “Starting tomorrow, the real fight begins.”

  “Let’s make sure you look good for it,” said Rana. “Nour is usually my fashion consultant, but I think I can pass a little of her wisdom to you.”

  “Well then,” said Marianne, pushing open her bedroom door and peeking inside to make sure her bed was made and there were no clothes on the floor—what was it about Rana that made her revert to about seventeen years old?—”I could use Nour’s know-how for sure, whatever part of it you can share. And you always look nice,” she added. “Your clothes, I mean. And the rest too.” She closed her mouth before she could keep going.

  Rana smiled. “Thank you. Well, I’ll do my best.” She followed Marianne in. “Your apartment is so lovely,” she said. “It feels like a home.”

  Marianne shrugged. “We moved out for twenty years, but other than that, my family has lived here for a century. It’s home, even when I don’t live here. I’ve been meaning to update it, but I haven’t had the time.” She pulled open her closet, avoiding looking at the bed. “Thank you for helping,” she said. “This isn’t the kind of thing I’m good at.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Rana hovering, a little tense, by the door. She swallowed. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” said Marianne. “Can I get you a drink or anything?”

  “Oh, no thank you.” Rana perched herself carefully on the very end of the bed. “I knew you’d lived here before, but I hadn’t realized how much history was up here. Not just you, but your whole family.”

  “It’s good and bad,” Marianne replied, pulling out a suit and a long gray dress. “I used to think I wanted to leave it behind forever.”

  “Why?”

  Marianne hooked the hangers over the top of the closet door and leaned against the head of the bed. “I don’t know. I needed a change.” She smiled. “And I got one, for a little while.”

  “With Kevin.”

  Marianne nodded. “We got married when we were nineteen. I’m glad we did—I love my children—but we were so young.”

  “Too young?”

  “I’d been here in Swanley all my life. Everyone assumed I’d take over the shop. Dad’s sisters had both moved across the country, and none of my cousins were interested. I think I felt trapped. I didn’t want to be just out of high school and locked into a path for the rest of my life. Kevin seemed like a way out.”

  “You didn’t want the bakery then?”

  “It’s complicated.” Marianne gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry. I asked you up here to do me a favor, and here I am dumping my sad story all over you instead.”

  Rana reached across the expanse of quilt and rested a warm hand on Marianne’s own. “That’s all right,” she said. “We’re friends. Friends talk about their problems and their history.”

  Marianne glanced down at their hands, the dry warmth of Rana’s featherlight on her own, Rana’s skin brown against her olive-beige. Rana’s fingers were longer than her own, her knuckles more delicate, but her fingertips were just as calloused from years with hot breads and meats as Marianne’s. And they shared the lines and tiny scars of decades of hard work and good life.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Friends do.” She smiled up at Rana, tucking the tiny dream she’d had of being together in a different way deep down in her heart. “It’s been so long since I made a new friend—one who didn’t already know all my secrets—maybe I’d forgotten what it was like.” Rana’s friendship had come to mean so much to her. She didn’t want to mess this up with her feelings. Besides, what if she woke up one day and the surprising attraction she felt toward the woman—something rare in her experience—was gone? Better not to risk it at all. Nobody got hurt if they were friends. Not Rana, and not even Marianne herself.

  “You must have a few secrets,” said Rana, patting her hand twice
and then pulling away to stand and cast a critical eye on the two dangling outfits. “For instance, who in the world let you buy this dress?”

  Marianne winced. “I thought it looked good back in 1997.”

  “Marianne, nothing that we thought looked good in 1997 looks good today.” She tossed the hanger over the bed and put her hands on her hips, all business. “This blazer, though; this could work.”

  *

  The day of the trial dawned clear and bright, the sun cutting through Marianne’s window in a wide swath across her quilt and landing on the blouse and jacket combination Rana had hung on her closet doorknob.

  The combination looked even better in the light than it had in the dimmer lamplight of the night before—a pale pink blouse, somewhere between rose and blush, with a jacket Anna had forgotten she’d stored in the closet years ago, a shade lighter than navy blue. The pants were gray and close-fitting, though not tight, and Marianne couldn’t remember buying them, but they’d been in her closet forever.

  It had been strangely intimate, showing Rana various combinations of clothing to try to pick the one that said I’m a serious woman trying to save my business without any tinge of too bright and too bold. She thought they’d struck a good balance, though, and it was funny, but knowing what she was going to wear took a bite out of the anxiety she’d been feeling about the first day of the case. Still, she was glad Rana would be in the courtroom today. They’d both closed their respective restaurants for the next two days—she didn’t know how long the case would take, but she knew it wouldn’t be over too quickly, not with Luke Leventi’s tendency toward showboating. Besides, Rana had been winding down her hours, trying not to stock up on too many groceries now that she was a few weeks from the end of her lease.

  Marianne tried not to see that as a vote of no confidence in her ability to win the case. It was pragmatic. And if she won, what then? If she got the whole building back, would Rana want to be her tenant? She didn’t know the answer to that.

  The silk of the blouse was cool and slick against her skin, armor going over her soft belly and breasts. With the jacket over it, the warm wool of the pants against her legs, and the nice boots she very rarely wore—Rana had asked about heels, and Marianne had admitted she’d been afraid to wear them since she’d sprained her ankle badly at Anna’s high school graduation a decade ago—she felt like a different woman than the flour-smudged, comfortably cotton-clad person she normally was. This wasn’t better, really, but—it was just exactly what she needed for the task at hand.

  Kevin picked her up outside the bakery, his Jeep pulling up as she opened the door, and he actually whistled when she opened the door to climb in. “Wow,” he said, looking her over. “You look good.”

  “Are you allowed to check out your ex-wife?” asked Marianne as he put the car back into drive.

  He laughed. “I checked the divorce decree,” he said. “Doesn’t say I can’t.”

  “Hmm,” said Marianne, smiling. “That’s an oversight, for sure.”

  He glanced at her as he slowed to a stop at the light at Oak and Main. “If it bothers you, though, I can stop making comments. Janie gave me a pretty thorough dressing-down about talking to women about how they look last time she called.”

  “It’s all right,” said Marianne, patting his elbow. “I’m glad she did, but I think we’re in a place where we can talk this way.”

  Kevin smiled. “I think so too. I’m glad.” He glanced at the sign on the left-hand side of the road. “Leaving Swanley,” he said. “I hate doing that.”

  “I hate coming into Wilshire more,” said Marianne. “Nothing good ever comes of this town.”

  He nodded his agreement as he pulled into the courthouse parking lot. “And you have to pay for the parking here too.” He pulled out his wallet as he stepped down from the Jeep, sticking his card in the machine and pressing the button. “And the machine is broken. Great.”

  Marianne glanced around and spotted a sign fluttering on the old attendant’s booth. “Pay inside, it says,” she reported, shaking her head. “Wilshire.”

  “Wilshire,” he agreed. “You ready?” He knocked on the booth and handed the attendant a card.

  Marianne spotted a familiar group heading up the courthouse steps, Zeke supporting his great-grandfather as they climbed, Rana on his other side, splendid in a gray silk tunic with darker pants. “I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s get the bastard.”

  By the time they’d gotten to the steps and up to the door, Lila, Joe, Zeke, and Rana were just entering the courthouse. Zeke looked Marianne over, eyebrows raised. “Looking good, boss,” he commented, and Joe elbowed him. “Eyes to yourself, boy. She’s more woman than you could handle.”

  Marianne wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended. Rana was smiling, just a little, when Marianne risked a glance her way. She seemed to be fighting it. Kevin had no such debate, as he was chortling into a fist. Zeke, on the other hand, was flushing deep brown.

  “I wasn’t—” He stopped. “I didn’t—”

  She reached out and patted his cheek. “I’m almost old enough to be your grandmother, kiddo,” she said kindly. “Don’t worry, I didn’t think you were being creepy.”

  He glared at Joe. “See?”

  Joe grinned, showing the gaps in his teeth.

  “It’s that time, folks,” said Lila.

  “Lead the way, Counselor,” replied Marianne and followed her into the courthouse.

  Lila knew her way around, and Marianne was grateful. Lila led them right to the security station, which sat around a corner and behind a cluster of potted plants Marianne suspected were both older than she was and also fake. The ceiling was uncomfortably high, the Brutalist architecture leading to strange angles and proportions and a preponderance of cement and gunmetal-gray carpeting. It wasn’t a building made to induce a feeling of comfort in visitors. But then, unless they were getting married or naturalized, there were not many comfortable reasons to be in a courthouse. She was suddenly grateful for the unintended architectural education she’d gotten over the years from Anna.

  Security walked her through the metal detector, Joe grumbling at having to put his cane on the conveyor for the X-ray machine and walk through without it. Zeke helped him, holding his arm carefully and walking at his great-grandfather’s speed. Marianne, setting her own watch and purse on the conveyor, glanced at him and smiled. A good kid. Rana handed Joe his cane as it cleared the X-ray machine.

  The receptionist directed them down the hallway to an imposing set of double doors, oak and stained dark, and the group paused in front of them.

  “This is it,” said Lila. “I’m willing to bet Luke Leventi is already inside. Marianne and I will be at the counsel’s table while the rest of you will be in the gallery. Marianne, only speak if the judge speaks to you, all right? And call them Your Honor at all times.”

  “Got it,” said Marianne, nodding. “Okay.”

  “Let’s do this,” said Zeke. “Let’s squash the motherfucker.”

  “Ezekiel!” chided Joe.

  “Sorry, Grandpa. Let’s squash the, uh, dipshit?”

  Joe gave him a warning glance but didn’t comment.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The judge—Judge Marsha Petit—wasn’t someone Lila had worked with before, which made Lila and Kevin both a little nervous. As they settled at the defendant’s table, the rest of their crowd behind the divider, Marianne tried not to look over at Luke Leventi on the other side of the courtroom.

  “Mr. Leventi,” said the judge, “I understand we’re here to discuss a will you’re challenging.”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.” Luke flipped open a folder. Marianne, leaning forward, recognized a photocopy of the will, her father’s handwriting familiar even from a dozen feet away.

  “And this will was filed—” the judge paused, glancing down at her file. “This will was filed last week. A day after your challenge was recorded.” She looked up. “You’re an overachiever, M
r. Leventi.”

  He smiled, white teeth glinting as he turned on his charm. “I try to be, Your Honor.”

  “Well.” She leaned back. “What evidence do you have to contradict the will as filed?”

  “Where’s his lawyer?” Marianne asked Lila quietly, leaning close as Luke began to speak.

  “He’s representing himself,” she murmured back. “It wouldn’t be my choice. Not usually a great idea.”

  “He thinks he’s the best lawyer in the county, I’ll bet,” said Marianne. “I guess he didn’t think he could find someone better.”

  “I’m better,” said Lila. “Don’t worry.” She patted Marianne’s hand. “Objection,” she said, loudly, interrupting Luke. “There’s no statute of limitations on filing a will. Not if it’s newly discovered.”

  “Ms. Shapiro has a point,” said Judge Petit. “Mr. Leventi, the fact that fifty years have passed doesn’t mean anything about the will’s validity.”

  “I’m aware of the law,” said Luke, a little snippy. “But the witnesses are no longer living and therefore cannot confirm their witnessing of the signing. We have no idea if those signatures are valid.”

  “I have copies of Mr. Liu’s wife’s death certificate,” said Lila. “He signed it in 1985. And here—” she pulled out a second sheet, “—I have a copy of his honorable discharge, from 1970, with another nearly identical signature.”

  “Bring those to the bench, please,” said the judge. Lila did, and Luke hurried up beside her. The judge considered the pages, holding them up to the light next to the page of her copy of the will. Marianne wished she could see the pages more closely—it seemed to be taking her an awfully long time to check them over.

  Finally, Judge Petit handed both pages back to Lila. “They seem to match,” she said. “And Mr. Asmir?”

  Lila shook her head. “We weren’t able to find any records of his, Your Honor.”

  “Two witnesses are needed for a legal will,” said Luke. “If one’s identity can’t be verified—”

  “You can’t disprove his identity, can you, Mr. Leventi?”