War.

by Shannon Dianne

  “Blair,” he whispers in my ear, “since I’m Nicky’s uncle, I don’t want to tell him that he stinks, but…”

  “Really? I thought he was getting better,” I whisper back.

  “No,” he says gravely. “No. He is not.”

  “How about we do one more run through?” Miss Neely, Nicky’s twenty-year-old piano instructor, says. She’s a junior in Harvard’s music program. “Dad, is that okay?” she asks me.

  “Take all the time you need,” I say.

  “Please,” Cameron adds.

  I sit back and get comfortable.

  We were supposed to meet Jake, his kids and Uncle Preston for dinner at Burger Jukebox, a 60’s inspired burger joint across the street from Harvard that plays nothing but Motown, but looks like plans have changed. Nicky’s working.

  “Again,” Roman says as he rallies Nicky for a better rendition of the popular nursery rhyme. Nicky’s reprised his role as Jesus for the Easter play. He’ll be singing the first, third and fourth verses of Mary Had a Little Lamb. Did you know there were four verses? Neither did I.

  “Roman,” Nicky warns him as Miss Neely plays her opening chords. “Mary had a little lamb, little Lamb, LITTLE LAMB!! Mary had a little lamb…”

  Ginger kicks her sock off. Today’s a big day for her; it’s the first day that she’s been outside without a hat on. Roman has chosen to mark the occasion by constantly blowing on her head. He does this every half hour or so, give or take. She’s been giving him her signature ‘Cut it out already’ look. These past eight weeks I’ve learned that there’s not much that amuses her. In that respect she’s a lot like Red; she has no tolerance for bullshit. Even Nicky’s voice lesson is starting to wear her thin. I know this because she keeps kicking off one of her socks. Red and Ginger’s relationship is much better these days, simply because they act a lot alike. And as you know, if there’s anyone in the world who can handle Danielle Rouge, it’s me. So Ginger and I get along marvelously. One person Ginger will laugh with, without fail, is Rena. This is, of course, a bad sign. Rena likes to joke that it would be nice if Cadence were having a girl, that way his baby and mine could be Red and Rena, The Sequel. I can assure you, no one wants this.

  But life is pretty hectic these days. For instance, Nicky will be Jesus next Sunday but he’ll also be coming along on our family vacation that starts on Monday and ends on Friday. “Five days without my vocal coach,” Nicky had said when Red told he was coming on our vacation. “I don’t know,” Cameron had agreed. But Nicky knew he never had a choice. Red’s parents, my parents, Red, Nicky, Roman, Cameron, Ginger and I will be going away for Easter break. Last year Cameron chose the Phillipines, so this year was Roman’s choice.

  “I hear that Hawaii is wonderful right now,” Roman said over dinner a month ago. “Wonderful. Uncle Cadence taught me that.” Hawaii it was. Truthfully, Red and I can’t wait to leave all three of the children with our parents for a day or two. We need the peace and quiet. Trust me. She and I have more people in our house than before.

  My mother and father have moved in.

  My mother refused to allow us to get a nanny, claiming that nannies are the work of the devil. She presented us with homicide cases that involved nannies and kids. “It’s an epidemic,” she said as she summed up her Power Point presentation. (Before Queen Angie became the wife of an ambassador, my mother was Angelica Sorenson, the executive secretary of Attorney Wynston Blair. ‘Had a set of gams on her…’ my father usually says as he recounts the moment they met.)

  So, my parents stay in the spare room in our condo and that’s where they’ll remain until Ginger can ‘tell us what’s going on’ for herself. For some reason, after the fight in the hospital, they have found both Red and I to be inadequate role models for our children. Red, surprisingly, enjoys the arrangement. Our condo’s spacious so there’s plenty of room for us all. The best part about it is that my mother takes the night shifts with Ginger. And my father , who is secretly an amateur chef, cooks dinner each night. As a matter of fact, I’ll send him a text now.

  Me: Dad, we won’t make the burger spot. Can you cook something up for the boys?

  Dad: On it. Your mother wants to know how Sunday Simone is.

  Me: She’s good. Relaxing …

  Dad: Your mother wants you to bring her home immediately.

  Me: Ok.

  Dad: Right now, she says.

  Me: Got it.

  I put my phone back in my pocket and get comfortable in my chair. My parents really are heaven sent. I know, I can’t believe I’m saying that, either. Not only do they babysit and cook, but when Red and I want to be alone they take all of the kids down to Cadence’s condo for the weekend.

  “If they ask to leave, I’ll chain the doors,” Red told me one evening over wine on our balcony. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “False imprisonment? Yes.”

  “I swear, you lawyers have a word for everything.”

  Sometimes Red and I will go to my parents’ place for a weekend away. We’re bona fide condo dwellers, having a home to roam around in is a luxury for us.

  I guess what I’m trying to say is life is good right now, as hectic and crowded as it may seem. My two boys are by the piano, my girl is sitting in my arms, my parents are at home preparing food, my wife is in DC with Winnie on a girls’ weekend and there’s a Celtics game on tonight. Life is good.

  I guess I should call Jake and tell him that we can’t make the burger spot. I dial him, and before he says hello, I hear The Supremes singing in the background.

  “Yo,” he says, his voice low and dead, just like it’s been for about two months now.

  “We’re still at Nicky’s lesson, don’t think we can make dinner,” I tell him.

  “No problem.”

  “How about I get my parents to have dinner at your parents tomorrow? I can bring the kids. My father can bring something.” Jake has Sunday dinner at his parents’ every week. Winnie is always gone before he arrives and still gone by the time he leaves.

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll call Aunt Pammy and warn her that my mother is coming.”

  “Alright.”

  “Jake.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll get your wife back. Okay?” He says nothing. Something’s going on with him. When he and Winnie were divorced five years ago, he was never sad. He was filled with too much anger over Demetrius and perseverance about getting Winnie back. He was scheming and planning, wooing and charming. He was filled with energy and drive. He was going to get his woman back. I never had any doubt that he wouldn’t. But this time is different. He’s despondent. He’s not there. His admin, Sandi, notices it, I can tell. I’m sure she notices that Winnie hasn’t come to his office in two months. She notices that Jake no longer takes a lunch, but eats in his office, instead. Boxed noodles and frozen dinners. In fact, she brought in a caterer for him without him asking. She notices that Winnie isn’t calling the office. She notices that Jake has to leave the office every day at six p.m. regardless of what’s going on.

  “No meetings after five,” I heard him say to her one day. “I have dinner with my kids at six every night. Can’t miss it.”

  Dinner with my kids. She’s noticed that Winnie’s name hasn’t been mentioned. But Sandi is a professional, the wife of a Navy captain. She’s both attractive and skilled, a woman who could double as a secretary on Mad Men. Jake admits that they first time he saw her, his mouth dropped open:

  “Black girl. Pretty a hell,” he told me.

  But he also knew she wasn’t about the bullshit. She’s called him Attorney Blair from the moment she met him and to this very day. She keeps her smiles to herself. She’s in the office a half hour before him and leaves ten minutes after him. She notices that he’s busy and then orders him lunch. She sends flowers to his mother on her birthday and brings the birthday card in for him to sign. And she sees that his wife isn’t calling, and hasn’t called in two months, so she brings in his brother-in-
law, Trent, the doctor. Within ten minutes, Trent gave Jake a diagnosis.

  Jacob’s depressed.

  JACOB

  They’re called Lexapro. They’re the anti-depressants that my brother-in-law, Trent, prescribed for me. Thank God for a surgeon in the family.

  “You’re depressed,” he said as he sat in my office four weeks ago.

  “Oh, okay,” I said with a nod. Didn’t matter. That’s what my kind of depression is. Nothing matters.

  I knew I was likely depressed when I woke up after four weeks in my condo alone and thought ‘how much longer until it’s night again?’ I woke up each day already exhausted. I couldn’t imagine working for ten hours. Not even my newborns gave me this feeling. I sat on the edge of the bed each morning, praying the blue notification light would be blinking on my phone. That’s the color I assigned to Winnie’s calls and texts. But it never was. This usually produced a reaction in my stomach that resembled the feeling you get when it’s lunch and you still haven’t eaten—that nauseated, stomach turning, acidic feeling. I took a shower each morning, yawning the entire time, feeling like it was a chore to raise my arms. I sat on the edge of the bed with a towel wrapped around me, staring, unblinking, the thought of finding a suit, shirt and tie to wear exhausting.

  I drove the truck to work with no music, no news station. The noise would have been enough to make me run the truck into the Boston harbor. I got to work realizing that I was on autopilot. I had no recollection of making the trip; my thoughts were focused on Winnie and Jasmine. I had my secretary, Sandi, cancel all my face-to-face meetings. I didn’t have the energy to look someone in the eyes. I sat at my desk, glancing at my files, wondering: Why does this even matter? In the grand scheme of life, who gives a damn about any of these files, these people, their mistresses, their wayward kids, their tax problems? When we die, or get ready to die, this won’t even matter. And there it was.

  Death.

  Depression was biding its time, just waiting to bring the subject around. Death. Death. Death. I don’t even care, I thought to myself. If I make it another day, fine. If I don’t, that’s fine too. Depression doesn’t care that I have kids. They’ll be fine, it told me. People’s parents die every day. It’s life. Life goes on. And there it was, this overwhelming thought that, in the whole scheme of things, I am nothing.

  I am nothing.

  If I wasn’t born, Mac and Nat would have found another partner. They would have hired Cadence if they were dead set on being a firm of three. If not, they would have each other. My cases, those military clients that I rack up, could easily be split between Nat and Mac. Sure, Mac handles politicians, Nat handles entrepreneurs and investors and I handle Boston’s military set, but my load could be easily be divided between them both. I do exactly the same thing as the two of them. None of us are any better or worse than the other. I’m not exactly irreplaceable. So why am I here?

  Why am I here?

  Death.

  I am nothing.

  Why am I here?

  I had no idea that I was behind my desk with my head in my hands for four hours, dozing in and out, thinking, dozing, pushing back a random need to bawl. I had no idea I was spending my whole day like this until Sandi walked in.

  “Attorney Blair, I went ahead and called Dr. Primm.” I looked up and saw Trent standing there, a set look on his face. “You’ve been seeming a bit ill,” was all Sandi said before she walked out.

  Thank you, Sandi.

  “You’re depressed,” Trent said as I tried to tell him how I felt. He wanted me to talk to someone, but of course, I couldn’t. It would be all over the news. “Somebody, Jake. Anybody. I can prescribe meds but you can’t take them forever. You need to talk it out with someone and take the meds at the same time.”

  And so I did.

  “Father,” I said to Father Harper that night. I no longer needed to sit in the Confession Box , he and I were in his office and I told him everything. I gave names. I gave dates. I told him everything. This wasn’t just about Winnie, though she was eighty percent of it. This was about Jocelyn. This was about Jasmine. This was about how everything I’ve been thinking these past thirteen years has been wrong. Now that I wasn’t clouded by infatuation for Jasmine, why had I forgotten the things she did that bothered me? Like her need to call me every morning before the sun came up and ask who I was in bed with. And the way she called me back after back after back if I didn’t answer my phone because I was asleep. Her need to find her toothbrush sitting in the holder next to mine, and heaven forbid if I washed my bathroom counter and accidentally left the holder in the cabinet. And the time she squirted toothpaste all over my laptop when I left the toothbrush holder in the bathroom cabinet. What was I trying to hide? How about her obsession with beauty pageants? And that time she wanted me to help her sue her hair stylist just for canceling the appointment. Was that a little off? I had to be the only nineteen-year-old guy who knew who Mary Kay was. What was her obsession with perfection? How had I forgotten that half of the reason that I liked Winnie was that she was a relief? She wasn’t obsessive or melodramatic. How had I forgotten that I felt this way about Jasmine? Within two short weeks of our affair, New Jasmine turned back into Old Jasmine again. The back-to-back calls and messages w ere the first sign. Her coming to my condo, after I denied her a date, was the Toothpaste-All-Over-My-Lap-Top Incident again: Why are you trying to ruin this, Jasmine? Don’t you know that my whole life is in here? Why had I regarded her as the essence of perfection for all of these years?

  “Mallow Cups,” Father Harper said to me. I nodded my head in agreement. “Jacob,” he said as he adjusted in his chair, “I first want you to realize this: in life, there can be no wisdom learned without mistakes made.” I nod my head in agreement as he silently looks me over. “So how do you feel, Jacob?”

  “I don’t feel like I could take my own life, but I do feel like if I do die, so be it.”

  “What medication are you on?”

  “I was put on Lexapor today.”

  “And you aren’t seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” He nodded and then started tapping on the keyboard of his computer. “Each day, at one, I want you to call me. If only for fifteen minutes, I want to talk.”

  “Alright.”

  “Each night, before or after you have dinner with your children and father, I want you to come by here. Got it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “So what time will our evening meetings be?”

  “Eight?”

  “Very well.” He began typing into his computer.

  Four weeks later, I’m struggling like I was the day Trent prescribed me the pills.

  “It takes at least eight weeks for antidepressants to kick in,” he tells me. “Trust me, they’ll start working.” But I’m secretly convinced that the only way those pill s will work is if they can erase your past, raise the dead and get your wife to move back in with you. If they can’t do that, then I’m in trouble.

  “Jake, you want the ketchup?” my father says to me now as he, the kids and I sit in a burger joint in Cambridge. I forget the name of it. Actually, I don’t even think I looked up at the sign when we walked in. I only know that it’s near Harvard because all the college kids are in here wearing Harvard hoodies. Some are coming to our table to say hi to my dad, the mayor of this town, some are asking for us to take a picture with him. The burger joint is playing Motown music and the energy in the place has Ralphie and Harlow excited. They’re currently trying to compute their Harvard graduating class.

  “Thanks,” I say as I take the ketchup bottle from my father with my right hand while Jaden clutches the index finger on my left.

  “And Harlow, Ralphie, you may want to think twice about Harvard. Your dad’s a Yale man.” My father’s voice is filled with humor. I try to smile as I squirt my ketchup.

  “Oh yeah!” Ralphie slaps his forehead. “Yale it is.” He and Harlow then start computing the year they’ll gradu
ate from Yale.

  “Jake,” my father whispers. I look up at him as I put the ketchup bottle on the table. “You take your pill today?”

  “Yeah.” I reach over and wipe ketchup from Beckett’s cheek.

  “It was a statement, Daddy,” she tells me. “I was standing up for my rights.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. I give her a smile and a nod. She picks up a fry, dips it in ketchup and smears it on her cheek again.

  “How long before they kick in?” my father whispers again.

  “In a little bit. Shouldn’t be much longer.” I take a bite of a fry. Only my father, Trent, Father Harper and I are supposed know about the pills. I won’t be naïve enough to think that my sister, Trent’s wife, doesn’t know. I’m sure she does. I’m sure she’s told our sisters. I’m sure they’ve told my mother. I know this because my mother had been crying when we met for lunch yesterday. I could tell by her eyes. Yet she said she was fine and didn’t want to talk about herself, she wanted to talk about me and whether I knew that after having three girls, she just about gave up on having a boy. But, after praying as hard as she could, and bartering with God, I showed up. And though she loves all of her kids equally, not only am I the baby of the family but I’m also her only boy. And, yes, she knows that my sisters and I have our own families but we, my father and she will always be our own family. Just the six of us. And so, yeah, I’m the baby. And did I know how proud she was of me? And she knows for a fact that every mother on earth wished they had a son like me. And did I know how much she appreciates me taking her to lunch on her birthdays, and how much she loves the roses I send to the house? She knows I’m on the pills. She knows that I don’t care if I wake up each morning or not. It’s killing her. And my father.

  “I’m trying my best here, son,” my father says.

  “I know, Dad. It’s not you.”