by Lynn Shurr
Oh well, she wouldn’t be huge much longer now. On her last trip to the main land, her obstetrician had told her in no uncertain terms she had to come in for checkups once a week now that she was starting her last month of pregnancy. He wanted her in the city near a good hospital, no more flying back to New Orleans once a month. She should have stopped doing that weeks ago.
What did he know? Margaret felt great. Down here, she could gorge on fresh seafood and tropical fruit, all dirt cheap. She had been very careful back home in her first three months—no booze, no cigarettes, no caffeine. Here, as soon as she started to show obviously, Jorge had conspired with the bartender to weaken her drinks and started addressing her as señora.
Margaret trundled down to the water’s edge finding the going at little easier when she was out of the softer sand. She ran her hands down her distended belly. The baby rolled and kicked again, a real athlete. He kept her up nights. She had hoped for a boy, the better to trap Joe Dean Billodeaux with, and her ultrasound confirmed the sex of the child. When the little devil kept her up, she passed the time calculating how much money she could get out of the quarterback for child support, and how long to suppress the story of his love child. She needed enough to set up her own business. She’d retained a sharp lawyer to handle Big Deal Joe Dean. The quarterback would never marry her, but with his son in her power, Joe would be part of her life forever.
When the scandal broke, the free publicity would make the name of Margaret Stutes famous long enough to give her business a free boost. Timing was everything and so she’d had to be first on Joe Dean’s list. She’d monitored her fertile periods for months and laughed out loud when she saw it would fall on Super Bowl week. Reluctant and drunk, Joe Dean had been such easy prey. She used his bruised ego to get him to screw her twice when she complained about his performance, both times without condoms. Who knew? Maybe that six-hour interval had made all the difference.
Margaret waded out only to the waist-deep water so the waves would not threaten to knock her over. Must be oh so careful with Joe Dean’s child. Her bathing suit had a bikini bottom and a long flowing top covered in a wild tropical print that floated up around her. She splashed herself to cool her face. She emptied her bladder into the surf. Fish do it, why not Margaret Stutes? She stretched and started back to the beach.
Something bumped against the back of her legs, then slid along her thighs like sandpaper over a board. It knocked her belly down, her feet flailing, her arms out in front of her. Margaret went under, came up and spit the bitter sea water from her mouth. She struggled to move forward, but something held her back. The water around her took on a strange red tinge.
“Jorge!” she screamed.
She could see the little man she loved to order around. He always wore white cotton clothes and sandals like some Mexican stereotype but without the sombrero. The horror on his face clearly visible, Jorge grabbed a paddle from one of the kayaks the younger guests loved to take into the water. He splashed toward Margaret and began beating at the surf like a madman. Finally, he drove off the shark and towed her to the beach.
She spurted blood from a ghastly wound in her leg. He tied a towel tightly around her thigh and shouted for help. Javier, the bartender, came running. They carried Margaret to the little infirmary where semi-retired Dr. Lopez treated jellyfish stings and heat stroke in return for room and board.
The lady was going into shock, but she screamed very clearly, “Save my baby! Save my baby! I need this baby!”
Those were the last words the Americana uttered before losing consciousness. Jorge, Javier, and Dr. Lopez, all good Catholics, understood her meaning. In fact, they felt deeply touched that an unwed mother would care so much for the child who had caused her to hide her shame on the island for months.
While Dr. Lopez prepared for an emergency Caesarian section, the manager called Cozumel for a medivac. They requested a priest as well. Dr. Lopez, competent enough on a day-to-day basis, had not done surgery of this nature for many years.
Pleased when old skills came back to him, Dr. Lopez lifted the lady’s bladder without nicking it and sliced into the uterus without touching the fetus. As soon as he removed the child, tied off its cord and dealt with the placenta, he put all of the senora’s organs back in place and sewed her up with tight little stitches. Very good under the circumstances, he thought. Yes, perhaps, he should have attended to the monstrous wound first, but the woman had made her wishes very clear, “Save my baby!” His English was quite good enough to understand that.
He wrapped the baby, still uncleaned, in a white towel and placed him in his mother’s arms. Small, but not dangerously so, the infant boy breathed well. Gracias a Dios.
The priest, murmuring last rites accompanied by the thump of helicopter rotors, finished one sacrament and began another. “Señora, a name for your child?” he asked trying to rouse the mother.
Margaret’s eyes opened but began to glaze. All her plans, all her schemes faded away into a realm where they did not matter. Or perhaps, it was the other way around. She was fading and going to another place while her wishes remained behind. She’d had Joe Dean Billodeaux’s child, but she would never profit from it. She tried to tell the priest. She should confess her sins, or had they passed that part already? A name, the priest wanted a name, not her name. She wanted say Joe Dean but only the second word made it past her pale lips, “Dean.” She attempted again, pushing the word out, “Joe.”
“Excelente. Dean Joseph, I christen you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. A good saint’s name for a fatherless child, Joseph. Rest, rest, your sins are forgiven, Margarita Stutes.”
Padre Angelo closed her eyes. So sad. All he knew of this woman was her name and the fact she was unmarried, her baby illegitimate. Jorge had given him these few details as they raced for the medivac. An American woman, who in her pride, had boasted to her servant that the father was a rich athlete who would pay for his child.
FIFTEEN
The two weeks were up and Joe had not heard from Nell. He debated an approach. He would break down and phone her. Should the call be casual and friendly? Like: did you see the season opener? Great game, right? They could talk about football for a while, a topic where he felt sure of himself. Then, he would ask Nell how she was doing, no, feeling. The more he thought about it, the more muddled he became. He needed to take action and work the rest of the play from there. Picking up the phone, he punched in her number, all the while holding the old business card she had given him like a lucky charm.
“Hello,” a voice lower and huskier than Joe expected answered. Maybe she had been crying—crying over him—or an unexpected pregnancy.
“Nell? Are you all right? Please, please don’t hang up.”
“This is Emily. Who is calling, please?”
“Joe, not her boss. Joe Dean Billodeaux.”
Nell’s sister, Emily, covered the phone and shouted to her sister. “She can’t come to the phone right now, Joe. Can I help you?” The voice went softer, sexier.
“Uh, no. I really need to talk to Nell. I’ll hold.”
“Joe, it’s like this. She really doesn’t want to talk to you, but if you’re lonely, I’m available. We were going to a movie, but I can get out of it,” Emily whispered.
“Ah, tell Nell it’s urgent.”
Again, the hand covered the phone and the voice shouted the message. “Exactly how urgent, Joe?” Emily relayed.
“Look, tell her I may have given her a social problem.” The words just popped into his mind.
“Ooooh! Herpes, syphilis, AIDS?” Emily whispered again.
“No!”
“Vaginal warts, gonorrhea, chlamydia?”
“You sure know your social diseases, Emily. Get Nell to the phone, please.”
This time Em did not bother to cover the receiver. “Nell, Joe says he might have given you a social disease.” He could hear the patter of Nell’s feet doing a quick step down the hall.
“Joe, h
ow could you! Did you fake that health certificate?”
Nell was very unhappy with him, sure, but in a minute or two everything would be fine. “How are you feelin’, Tink? I just wanted to check up on you.”
“Up until a minute ago, I was fine. What’s going on, Joe?”
“No nausea or vomiting, swollen breasts, missed periods?”
“Joe, I’m not pregnant, but thanks for being concerned. Is that the only reason you called?”
“Hell, no. Nell, you and me, we could work this out. I’ve got St. Jude, the BVM, and God working on it.”
“I’m overwhelmed, truly. But, Joe, I’ve had my miracle. I survived cancer. Don’t you think it’s asking a lot to want more?”
His phone signaled an incoming call. Why now? Still, few people had his private number. He never gave it to the women he dated except for Nell. He needed to check this out because he didn’t recognize the number. “Hold for just a second. I’ll be right back. We aren’t done talking.”
“Joe, this is Nicole Everard, the attorney. We need to discuss a very important matter. You do remember me?” The voice came across as precise, chilly and no nonsense as he recalled—the sour grape lady.
“Yes, I remember you, Nicole.” Great, one of the list ladies was going to cause trouble. Never screw with a lawyer. The possibilities ran through his mind: venereal disease, pregnancy, rape charges. Coach Buck had tried to warn him. Now, when he was getting his act together—this, whatever it was.
“I want to see you at my office tomorrow.”
“I don’t do office visits, Nicole.”
She laughed in a way that made the hair stand up on his arms. “Oh, Joe, ever the big ego. No, this is a legal matter. Would ten o’clock tomorrow be good?”
“I have practice in the morning. I could make some time after lunch. Do I need to bring my own lawyer?”
“That’s up to you, Joe, but I’d like to keep the initial contact friendly. Hear what I have to say first. This could be a very simple matter.”
“Okay, fine. I think I have your office address in my book.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have given you the one for my home, now would I?” she said in a superior voice.
“Yeah, I guess not. When you cheat on your husband, that’s a poor idea.”
“That’s right, Joe, make it harder on yourself. I’ll see you at one. Don’t be late.” Nicole Everard disconnected.
Frantically, Joe switched back to Nell’s line. She’d hung up. He called again. No one answered. The voice mail intervened. Presumably, Nell and Emily had gone to the movies. She’d left her cell phone behind. Maybe, he should let her be until after his appointment with Nicole Everard. Nell did not need to take on his problems, too.
SIXTEEN
Joe Dean would have been the first to admit he put in a lousy practice. Coach Buck did not let it pass. “You hung over, son?”
“No, sir. I have some things on my mind is all.”
“Way you played Sunday, I thought your troubles were behind you. Great game. You had the boys all fired up, maybe more than necessary considering the opponent. Save some for later.”
“I’ll try. I might be late coming back this afternoon. I need to see a lawyer.”
“Shit, boy, what you done now? You want to go to my office for a talk? You want a team representative to go with you?” Coach Buck shook his head like a bobble-head toy.
“Not yet. Let me see what she wants.”
“Hell, I might have known it was woman trouble. Not one of your list ladies, I hope.”
“Maybe. Don’t know. I’m really sorry this time, Coach.”
With his prize quarterback head down and shrinking before his eyes, what else could Marty Buck do but give him the old slap on the back. “Come see me when you return.”
The sign on the narrow old building wedged between two banking behemoths on the edge of the financial district read Hait, Everard & Everard, Attorneys at Law in classic gold lettering. Joe Dean walked up worn marble steps to the red door and entered.
No one attended the mahogany reception desk. Maroon leather chairs and up-to-date, glossy magazines awaited to help clients pass the time. Joe declined to sit and twiddle his thumbs. He wanted this over and done. He looked down a hall to where a middle-aged woman in a smart gray suit made coffee in a fancy stainless steel machine.
Next to her, a young woman with short blonde hair and a shapely bottom cooed over some employee’s baby wiggling in a car seat. Maybe the kid was hers, or maybe Nicole’s. Joe counted backwards. No, too soon to be his by the attorney. Maybe she’d been pregnant during their encounter, but Nicole Everard did not seem the type to bring a baby to work. He remembered her kids had a nanny. He cleared his throat and the two women looked up from kid and coffee.
“Joe Dean Billodeaux. I have an appointment with Mrs. Everard at one.”
“Of course, Mr. Billodeaux. Please have a seat. Can I offer you coffee, tea, water?” the older woman responded.
“No, thanks. Just tell her I’m here.” Joe remained standing while the receptionist opened one of the four hall doors and murmured the announcement.
“Ms Everard is taking a call right now. She will be with you in a few minutes.”
The witch was probably checking her makeup and putting him in his place at the same time. He would give Nicole two minutes, then he would charge into her sanctum.
The blonde abandoned the baby for a moment and slid toward Joe Dean. “I’m Stacey Smits, the paralegal.” In a low voice, she added with a furtive glance toward Iris, “I signed your book, but I guess you never got to the S’s.”
“No, I only got to one S. Sorry. You sure are pretty, but I’m in sort of a serious relationship now. My loss, sugar.” He gave her a smile to remember. Even the older woman widened her eyes. The intercom on the desk buzzed.
“Ms. Everard will see you now, Mr. Billodeaux. Third door on the left. Good luck,” the receptionist said with feeling.
Would he need luck? Joe passed two offices bearing the names Jeremy Hait and Harry Everard before coming to Nicole’s lair. He noticed Harry’s door stood slightly ajar. With his back to Joe, this man really was talking on the phone. The overhead light reflected off the bald spot in his gray hair. The attorney tapped a manicured but pudgy hand on his polished ebony desk. He shot up his cuff and checked the time on a massive gold Rolex watch. So this was Nicole’s husband. Joe stopped and stared into the room.
On a shelf holding weighty law books perfectly matched in size, two framed family pictures stood, one of two grown young women and another of Everard, Nicole, and two boys about six and eight—first family, second family and trophy wife, Joe figured. Sensing Joe lurking in the hall, Harry Everard spun in an office chair resembling a throne on wheels and asked, “Are you lost?”
“I have an appointment with Nicole.”
“Next door.” Harry’s tone implied Joe could not read. “Would you mind shutting my door?” He turned his back once more.
Tired of lawyer games, Joe let Harry Everard’s door remain open and walked into Nicole’s presence without knocking. He didn’t do doorman for her either. Joe played football. He understood intimidation and mind games. Attorneys had nothing compared to men who possessed nicknames like “The Refrigerator.” Joe took a seat without its being offered.
“Nice to see you again, Joe.” Nicole arched her finely penciled eyebrows as if she did not mean the greeting.
“Same here,” Joe answered, making sure she knew the scorn was mutual.
“Fabulous game on Sunday. Harry and I were given tickets in a luxury box by Councilman Derise. He had intended to go with his son, Christopher.”
“But the boy died. I know. I went to the funeral.”
“So I heard—with little Nurse Nell. The councilman was very touched. Isn’t it funny how a couple with only one beloved child loses their boy while other people carelessly bring children into the world without a thought of the consequences?”
“Look, I need to get
back. Could we cut to the chase?” he said, remembering their brief encounter.
“Ah, yes, the chase. Do you recall a woman named Margaret Stutes?”
“Sure. She used to do PR for the Sinners. I ran into her several times.”
“Oh, I think you did more than run into her, Joe. Margaret, it seems, gave birth to your baby two weeks ago.”
He did not flinch. This was the old paternity suit scheme, then, and not for the first time. The blood tests never panned out because, as Joe had told Coach Buck, he was always careful. The kid probably belonged to the reserve lineman Margaret diddled along the way. That poor guy was in for a shock. Joe confessed, “I had sex with Margaret right after the Super Bowl. It’s too soon for the baby to be mine.”
“Then you admit to intercourse with my client.”
“Sure—with you, too, if you want.”
“You see, Margaret met with an unfortunate accident near Cozumel while she awaited the birth. The child came early. Poor, dear Margaret died shortly thereafter. I was named the child’s guardian in a legal agreement we signed in June. Margaret was an only child. Her mother died of cancer three years ago. Her father walked out when she was two, whereabouts unknown. No contact with his family. Only two aunts in their sixties on the mother’s side. The pitiful orphaned child has no one but me to defend him.”
“So you were already figuring out your cut back in April when we got together, Nicole?”
“Oh, it will be considerably higher now. Margaret wanted a very good life for her child and you can afford it. Before, this was only a routine paternity suit with my fee based on a percentage of how much we could squeeze out of you. Now as legal guardian, I can exact reasonable fees until the child reaches twenty-one. Sad, isn’t it, that Margaret had to list her attorney as the person to contact in an emergency.”
“Very sad it was you. I’ll have my attorney get in touch to arrange the usual blood test.” He kept his game face on, not letting his shock show, not blubbering about always being careful. He remembered so little about his night with Margaret. Joe rose to depart.