“Of course.”
“It’s about that trial.”
I’d been wondering whether she was going to bring it up. I braced myself. “Go ahead.”
“Do you still think he’s innocent? I mean, now that it’s over?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. If I went into any detail, I might scare her off. She’d think I was unreliable, too flaky to work with. But if I didn’t say anything, she might think I was holding out on her, something you never do with a client.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I still think he’s innocent. And if I’d been smarter, or more persuasive, maybe the jury would have agreed.”
“But everyone else was so certain.”
“I know.”
“I thought they had quite a bit of evidence.”
“I suppose so. But nothing’s happened since to change my mind. In fact—” I stopped. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
She cocked her head.
I shrugged. “His lawyer is dead, and I don’t see anyone jumping into the ring to take his appeal. Although the court will have to appoint someone eventually.”
She tapped her pen on a pad of paper, shutting me out. “Of course.”
“To be honest, I’ve been trying to put it all behind me.” I looked out the window. Most of the fog had burned off, leaving wispy clouds scuttling across a blue sky. She followed my gaze. I looked back at her.
“But you still think about it.”
“A little,” I admitted. “Especially when I’m driving down Lake Shore Drive. You know, the cribs are only a few miles from here. And Olive Park is even closer.” I waved a hand. “You could probably see them from your window.”
“I doubt it,” she said crisply. “I have a southern exposure.”
The room felt suddenly chillier.
“Oh. Um, by the way, is there someone—some resource person I could call while I’m working on the proposal?”
“Resource person?”
“I’m sure to have some questions that I don’t need to bother you with. Background on Great Lakes Oil. And shale development.”
“Let me give you our librarian’s name. I’ll tell her to expect a call.”
Back at her desk, she pulled out a flat board that looked like a drawer and ran her hand down a page that was taped to it. She scribbled a number on her pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to me.
“So then, why don’t we set up a meeting for next week?” She picked up her PDA and pushed a few buttons. “How is Monday, the fourteenth? I’d like to get moving.”
“Sounds fine.” I stood up.
“Ellie, it’s been a pleasure. I look forward to working with you.”
“Same here. I’ll be in touch.”
I felt her eyes on my back as I left.
***
A young stud in the parking lot brought my car around, his head bobbing to the beat from my radio—some rap tune encouraging him to kill The Man. After shelling out twenty bucks for a measly two hours’ parking, I could relate. I peeled out of the garage, my tires squealing impressively.
Traffic slowed on the expressway. Sandwiched between a truck and a van, I took out my cell and called Dad. A woman answered.
“Hello?” The voice was throaty but sweet.
“I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.”
“This is Sylvia Weiner.”
“Oh, hello, Sylvia. This is Ellie Foreman. How are you?”
“I’m fine, dear. Just fine. And what can I do for you?”
“Uh—is my father there?”
“Your father? Who are you trying to reach, dear?”
I hesitated. “Jake. Jake Foreman.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know anyone named Jake. You must have the wrong number.”
I heard a slight commotion, followed by the swish of the phone being transferred.
“Ellie?”
“Dad? Is that you? Is everything okay?”
“Sure, sure,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”
“So that’s Sylvia?”
“That’s Sylvia,” he replied. “A hell of a girl.” I heard giggles in the background. His voice dropped to a whisper. “She doesn’t remember so good.”
“Is it—”
“I think so.” He answered. “Just starting.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey. Nothing’s forever. That’s why you gotta enjoy every day.”
“In that case, I’ll let you go.”
“No. I’m glad you called. Nu?”
“I just wanted to remind you about the Eskin Bar Mitzvah this weekend.”
“What time?”
“Service at nine. Kiddush and lunch afterwards.”
“Long day.”
“Your friends.”
The Eskins and my parents played bridge together for years. Their son, Danny, was the same age as I, and our parents had hoped we’d find each other. For a while, I thought it might happen. In Sunday school, he used to borrow zedakah money from me. A high honor when you’re five. But after he borrowed a twenty on our one date in high school, I decided he could bestow the honor elsewhere. He became an accountant and got married, but we kept in touch in that almost-family kind of way. I went to their wedding; they came to mine. They weren’t invited to Rachel’s Bat Mitzvah, but we’d kept it small.
“The Torah service starts at ten,” I said. “I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty.”
“Sounds good.”
“Say hi to Sylvia for me.”
“Who?”
Such a joker.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I was going over my notes from my meeting with Dale Reedy the next day, thinking how much I admired her for blazing a trail in the corporate world at the expense of a family life, when David called.
“Hi. How’s the jet lag?” I tried for a cheerful tone, but it sounded artificial.
“I’m okay. I got back Sunday.” Today was Tuesday.
We chatted about unimportant things, both of us tiptoeing around the edges, as if confronting what was really on our minds would bruise us, scrape our skin raw. He sounded pleased when I told him about the Great Lakes proposal. He said Abdul was still working on his deal. When we ran out of prattle, I took a breath.
“I called you in London. The night after we spoke. There was no answer in your room.” He didn’t say anything. “Were you with someone?”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“I—I was upset.”
He was silent a moment. Then, “Ellie. I wasn’t with anyone. I knew it was you. I didn’t feel like talking.”
“But we’ve got to.”
“Why? We’re not going to resolve anything over the phone.”
“Then how do we? Resolve things?”
“I don’t know.” His words reverberated over seven hundred miles of fiber optics. “Have you done any thinking?”
“Yes. But I don’t know if you’ll like it.” I glanced down at my notes on shale oil. The words looked garbled and meaningless. “You told me—just after the trial—how I’m always trying to right what I see as injustices. Maybe I do. But I try to be careful. I don’t look for danger. Occasionally, though, events do spiral out of control, like they did last summer.”
“What about now?”
“I don’t know that I can change the way I approach life. Or that I want to.” I paused. “You know, sometimes I get the feeling you want to put me in a glass jar where I’ll be safe. I know it’s motivated by love, but that’s not what I need. What I need is your support. It doesn’t help when you tell me how I’m going out on a limb or making a fool of myself. I do enough of that for myself.”
“So now I haven’t given you enough support?”
“David, you’re the best thing in my life. It’s just I can’t crawl into a cocoon with you and hide from the world.”
“Is that your impression of me?”
“Well…” I paused again. “You are pretty quick to tell me when I’m venturing to
o far afield.”
He didn’t answer.
“I—I know it’s because you care. And I know you don’t want to cramp my style. It’s just—” I stopped. “Sometimes I think I’m a bad influence on you. That I’m forcing you into situations and circumstances you’d never find yourself in were it not for me.”
“You don’t trust me very much, do you?”
I winced. He was veering far too close to the truth.
“What do you mean? Of course I—”
“No, you don’t. Listen to me. Whether I steal a flower at a hotel and put it in your hair isn’t your responsibility. I’m an adult. I make those decisions myself. By the same token, if I choose to share your life, unpredictable as it may be, it’s because I want to. But I can’t just let you put yourself—and Rachel—in jeopardy, if it can be helped. And you can’t expect me to.”
“You’re sorry I ever testified, aren’t you?”
“That’s not the issue.”
A streak of anger shot up my spine. “It was easier to react. You should know that given the same circumstances, I’d probably do it again.”
“I understand,” he said tiredly. “That’s where this conversation began. Look…” He paused. “I hope you understand what I’m about to say. I think we should take a breather.”
My body went still. This is how it starts, I thought. With stillness. No movement. Just words. “A breather?”
“I think we both need to decide—before we get any deeper—whether this is something we want to work out.” His voice was shadowed with pain. “That can’t happen when we’re seeing each other. We get—distracted.”
I had an image of us in bed, his body against mine. I pushed it away. “How long of a breather?”
“I don’t know.”
More silence.
“What do I tell Rachel?” My voice was small.
“That I love her. You, too.”
The stillness dissolved. My throat got thick. “Then why?”
His voice filled up. “You know why. Don’t make me say it again.”
It was useless to try to change his mind, and he cut the connection before I could. I stared at the phone, thinking about the flower I’d torn out of my hair at the Four Seasons. If I’d been trying to sabotage the relationship, I’d been more successful than I imagined.
***
I stayed up late burying myself in research so I wouldn’t have to think about David. I found out more than I’d ever wanted to know about shale oil from Googling, but there wasn’t much on Great Lakes Oil’s web site. I’d have to call the librarian tomorrow. I rummaged around for the sheet of paper Dale had ripped off her pad.
The light must have hit at an odd angle, because as I held up the sheet, I noticed a residual imprint of numbers near the top of the page. She must have jotted them down on a sheet of paper she’d torn off before. She writes with a heavy hand, I thought, because the numbers weren’t hard to discern. The first three were three-one-two, the area code for downtown Chicago. Then seven digits. And four more. A phone number and an extension. I squinted at them. Something about the extension was familiar: four, five, two, zero.
I stared at them for a while, then typed them into my notes. Maybe they were one of those numbers I call all the time and just don’t realize—like tech support at my ISP. Or somebody’s fax number, which somehow had burrowed into my memory. I couldn’t quite grasp it. I balled up the paper and pitched it into the trash.
I rolled my shoulders, then shut down for the night. I checked on Rachel. She’d kicked the covers off and was curled on the edge of her bed, a stuffed tiger in her arms. I covered her with the sheet. But it was a cold night, and her window was cracked. I added a quilt.
I padded into my bathroom and peered into the mirror. Where would I be in twenty years? Was I destined to spend the rest of my life alone? Rachel would be living her own life. Would I become one of those bitter old women who wait all week for a call from their children and then complain about everything when the call came?
Enough. The best thing I could do now was end this day. I climbed into bed. It wasn’t the Four Seasons, but it was soft and warm. I pulled the covers over my head, felt myself getting drowsy, falling free.
I roused with a start and threw off the covers. Racing into my office, I snatched the crumpled paper out of the trash and smoothed it out. Then I picked up the phone and dialed the numbers. It answered on the second ring.
“Good evening. Four Seasons Hotel. How may I help you?”
“I—I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.”
I hung up and stared at the phone. The number on Dale’s sheet of paper had been the Four Seasons hotel. And four-five-two-zero was Suite 4520.
Abdul’s suite.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“How come David’s not here?” Rachel asked the morning of the Bar Mitzvah. Sipping a glass of orange juice, she alternately kicked her heels against the legs of the chair and pointed her toes. People magazine was open to a picture of Tom Cruise and some Hollywood babe. “Is he still in Europe?”
I looked up from the newspaper. “No, honey.”
“Is he sick?”
“No.” I folded the paper and propped it on the table.
“You’re fighting again, aren’t you?”
A tic of irritation passed through me. “We’re not fighting.” Rachel’s frame of reference as far as relationships were concerned was rigid: people either fought, or everything was okay. There was no gray, no middle ground. But, then, with Barry and me as role models, what did I expect? “We both have some thinking to do.”
“About what?”
I flicked the newspaper so I could read below the fold. “If it were any of your business, I’d tell you.”
She wrinkled her nose.
I stood up and straightened the cropped silk jacket Susan and I had found in the Lord & Taylor outlet. Smoothing out my black silk pants, I said, “Let’s get moving. We have to pick up Opa.”
As I drove down to Skokie, I wondered why Dale Reedy had Abdul’s number. He had said he was working on a deal with Great Lakes Oil, but Training and Development is a long way from Acquisitions. Maybe he wanted to find out how to train his people to manufacture the additive he’d been talking about.
***
After the service, during which Sean Eskin, Danny’s son, recited a dogged aftarah and an even more dogged drush, the audience decamped to a hotel for lunch. Dad, Rachel, and I piled into the car, speculating on how lavish it would be.
“Danny’s an accountant. He knows the value of a dollar,” I said. “I’ll bet he chintzed on the food.”
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “The kid’s an only child.”
“You think it’s gonna be Goodbye Columbus?”
He shrugged.
“Care to put down a slight wager?” I grinned.
He grinned back. “You really want to gamble…with me?”
“Five bucks says it’s a tightfisted affair.”
“You’re on.”
***
Our first clue came outside the ballroom, where two hundred table assignments were alphabetically laid out on a table. Instead of a number, guests were assigned to a “team.” Dad and I got the Bears, Rachel the Blackhawks. On each side of the table were life-sized blowups of Sean posing in different sports uniforms. In one he was wearing a Sox uniform with a bat slung across his shoulders. In the other, he was shooting a hoop in a Bulls uniform.
Dad clapped an arm around my shoulders and held out his palm with the other. “Like taking candy from a baby.”
Groaning, I pushed through the door to the ballroom, which had been transformed into a sports arena. Stadium lights blinded us with their glare; a set of real bleachers hugged the walls. A regulation hoop was set up at one end of the room; a ball-pitching machine occupied the other. Over a dozen kids were lined up waiting to take a swing.
Silver and blue balloons covered almost every surface, including the ceiling, and a quilted The
rmos bottle with Sean’s name engraved on it sat on each plate. More blowups of Sean in a Bears, Cubs, Blackhawks, and Fire uniform were strategically placed around the room.
But the highlight of the décor—if you could call it that—was Cubs pitcher Rusty Steiger. Live. Dressed in his uniform, he was signing autographs over at the ball machine. Dad tapped me on the shoulder. I dug out a five from my wallet and handed it over. He palmed it cheerfully.
Once we were seated, the room went dark, and that twinkly, twangy music they use to introduce the Bulls spilled out. The DJ, in a creditable imitation of announcer Ray Clay, shouted, “And now, your host…the incomparable, the one, the only…Sean Eskin!”
A spotlight was thrown up. A moment later, Sean, one hand in his mother’s and the other in his dad’s, skipped into the room. At the DJ’s exhortation, the crowd applauded wildly. All three Eskins looked slightly embarrassed but gamely raised their arms in a salute.
The lights snapped on again, and chatter filled the room. Before digging into my fruit cocktail, I waved my spoon. “Play ball!”
By the end of the main course, which consisted of baked chicken dressed up in some kind of sauce with wild rice and something that resembled green beans, I felt like asking Dad for my five bucks back. But before I could, Sean’s parents rose to thank the rabbi, the chazzan, the tutor who’d worked with Sean on his Hebrew, and everyone else in the universe. Then Sean’s grandmother, my parents’ old friend, made her way onto the parquet dance floor. She was wearing a Chanel suit. Blue and silver. Not a hair out of place.
“Sean,” she said in a quavering voice, “I only wish your zaideh Leon was here to see you today.” Sean’s grandfather had passed away six years earlier, around the same time as my mother.
“If he did, he’d have another heart attack,” Dad whispered.
The grandmother went on to kvell about the wonderful job her grandson had done, then proceeded to name all her siblings and those of her late husband. I looked at my watch.
During dessert, the DJ led the kids, Rachel among them, around the room in a conga line. After snaking past all twenty tables, it ended up on the dance floor where a limbo pole suddenly appeared. When it was her turn, Rachel slid gracefully under the pole. The DJ threw one of those neon necklaces around her neck. Blushing, she straightened up and tried to pretend she wasn’t having a good time.
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