Fearless

by Rafael Yglesias

  “Debby is frightened,” Harry murmured to Max. “She needs reassurance.”

  “But I owe it to Jeff to tell Nan myself,” Max explained to Harry, sorry that he wasn’t sufficiently well read to find an appropriate literary allusion. “The sooner I do it, the better.” Max turned to Brillstein. The lawyer had his chin lowered, his arms folded across his chest, waiting without any overt sign of impatience and yet radiating a desire for speed. “Let’s go,” Max said to Brillstein.

  “No!” Jonah blurted out. He had retreated to the far end of the living room, by the hallway where his mother had stormed out. When everyone’s eyes went to him, he lowered his head shyly.

  “You want to come with me?” Max offered.

  “No,” Jonah mumbled and looked horrified.

  So his friend’s loss was scary, something Jonah didn’t want to witness. Max was disappointed in his son. He has his mother’s stingy heart, he judged harshly. Yes, there was a lot wrong with these people—things that would have to be corrected.

  “Goodbye,” Max said coolly to the roomful of his family, no longer applauding his survival; instead they either glowered resentfully or looked away in embarrassment. Only the neutral and impatient Brillstein wanted Max. He had immediately moved into the small foyer to unlock the front door and now held it open for Max’s exit.

  “Let’s do our duty,” Max mumbled and followed the lawyer’s lead.

  9

  The lawyer had come in his own car, a blue Volvo station wagon, complete with an empty infant car seat, the trash of frequent trips to McDonald’s, and wrappers that indicated a boy’s interest in baseball cards. Brillstein hadn’t expected to chauffeur Max. He apologized for the condition of the interior with a hasty curse. “Shit,” he said, pushing stuff off the front seat. “I’m sorry. I’ll arrange for a car to take you home.”

  “This is fine,” Max said, pleased to see someone else’s kingdom ravaged by familial occupation. “You have two kids?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Brillstein mumbled and pulled out of his parking spot with a cabdriver’s sudden, angry acceleration and violent steering. “Sure you want to tell Mrs. Gordon yourself?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Brillstein made a face: scrunching his chin and raising his eyebrows; at once impressed and doubtful. He nodded as they sped past Max’s block. “There were a lot of TV people when you got here?”

  “Just one,” Max said. There had been none on their way out. “Got bored with me fast,” Max said. Brillstein drove madly, faster approaching yellow lights, running through the red if he didn’t make it in time, weaving around paused cars or tentative drivers. Max was relaxed; he even enjoyed the pace. The lawyer merged onto the West Side Highway at top speed. Brillstein was either unconcerned by whether there was conflicting traffic or gifted with extraordinary peripheral vision. Max asked, “You drive a cab to put yourself through college?”

  Brillstein whistled. “Good guess. Yes. For two years. Don’t have any kidneys left. I think Mrs. Gordon is going to take it hard.” He added the non sequitur without any indication that it wasn’t a logical continuation.

  “She must suspect.”

  “I don’t think so. That’s why her father called my father to get me to find out. I’m not an aviation lawyer.”

  “There are aviation lawyers?” Max asked, surprised.

  “Oh sure,” Brillstein frowned, appalled at the prospect of there being such a lack. He rocketed over the West Side Highway’s bumps with pleasure, a happy cowboy riding his bronco. “In the New York area there are two law firms that specialize in crashes. Most of my practice is automobile accidents,” he explained as they took a pothole so hard that Max’s head grazed the car roof. “Or medical malpractice—wrongful death—but as I explained to Mrs. Gordon, I’m not, uh, I just don’t deal with this kind of thing. I would be happy to…” he added in a singsong, and even smiled at Max, “but as I say, there are two firms that pretty much have it covered in New York. Nevertheless, they wanted me to step in until we’ve at least confirmed Mr. Gordon’s death.”

  “Well, you’ve done your job.”

  “You actually saw him die?” Brillstein simply couldn’t resist. He fired the question across at Max.

  “No.” Max sat pat, enjoying this role as witness.

  “Did you see his body after the crash?”

  “Yes,” Max answered. And offered nothing more.

  Brillstein sighed, beset by the world and yet willing, after all, to lend a helping hand. “Let me give you one bit of advice for when you speak with your lawyer. I’m sure he’ll ask, but just in case he doesn’t, you should emphasize that you saw your partner’s dead body with your own eyes. And, if by any chance you remember later that actually you did see him being killed, I would suggest you, uh, not, well not to be crude about it, but make that very clear. Also, if Mr. Gordon did not die instantly, if there was any conversation, any indication that he was in pain, or suffered, details like that, you’d be surprised how significant they might be for both Mrs. Gordon and yourself.” Brillstein skimmed the Volvo across two lanes of bumps, heading for what was supposed to be Westway. Instead, because of environmental disputes, the city’s lack of money and coherent vision, there was a simple open roadway, curiously more functional and beautiful than any of the grand designs that had been proposed. Although he cut in front of a car, Brillstein removed a hand from the wheel to warn Max, “Don’t say anything now. Just think about what happened. Sometimes, in terrible accidents, people don’t immediately remember everything that happened.”

  Brillstein’s maneuver off the highway onto the extension had put the Volvo on an apparent collision course with the concrete divider that separated the road from the river. Max in particular, given his position in the death seat, felt he was being rushed right at the wall. Even when the lawyer returned his free hand to the wheel, he still did not drive straight. His car continued toward the wall. Max waited for the impact with mild curiosity. His body was relaxed. Brillstein had a plan, however, jerking the car away at the last moment and steering onto a crosshatched section of pavement, clearly marked not to be used, so that he could pass a line of cars stuck behind a white van that was attempting an illegal left turn. New York was a riot of lawlessness, Max thought, and laughed.

  “Something funny?” Brillstein said with a pounce in his tone, a hunter’s alacrity.

  “You want me to make things up about the crash so that I can get more money.”

  Brillstein wasn’t offended. He didn’t even seem to react. He was behind a taxi that he must have felt wasn’t going fast enough. He glanced to his left, hopped to that lane only barely ahead of another car (its driver honked a complaint), sped past the cab, and hopped back in front of it. Max noticed the driver as they superseded him. The cabbie was a dark hairy man with bloodshot eyes; he stared at them with loathing. “To be honest with you, Mr. Klein, I wasn’t thinking about you at all. I was thinking about Mrs. Gordon, who, although I don’t know her well, I know doesn’t come from a rich family, and is now a widow with two young children in an expensive city, full of single women her age and with very few men who want to marry them.”

  “You’re telling me that if I testify—”

  Brillstein shook his head vigorously. He was well suited to be a parent: his expressions were as exaggerated as a puppet’s. He denied Max’s comment with the rapidity and strength a dog uses to shake himself dry. “I doubt that it’ll ever get to court. It’s very rare for airline cases to go to court. This’ll be settled.” The lawyer nodded up and down, again in a dumb-show manner, going farther up and farther down than people normally do. He continued to make this marionette’s movement as he elaborated: “But yes,” nodding down and then nodding up, “if you say in a deposition that Mr. Gordon suffered,” nodding down, “that he knew he was dying,” nodding up fast and then down slow, “that he was anxious as to the fate of his wife and children, of course that could influence the settlement.” The puppet was done. He c
ocked his head and waited cheerfully for an answer.

  Max pressed the button for the electric window. It squealed in agony at first, but then hummed down quietly the rest of the way.

  “I’ve got the air-conditioning on,” Brillstein complained.

  The summer-baked smells of urine and food covered Max’s face as if he had put on a mask, along with a vague pungent odor of the ocean, and also a hint of fire, of something always burning in the city, acrid and angry. He didn’t mind the rotting sea or spoiled food or human wastes—he minded the fire. Its smell had been in the DC-10; this new burning mixed with some left over in his nostrils. He wanted to scream. So he did.

  Brillstein was shocked. He twisted the wheel and shouted, “Hey!” The Volvo bounced across the road, onto a graveled area marked off by cones, presumably for work being done along the riverside. Their wheels crunched on the pebbles and the car went into a skid. As they twisted and slid sideways, Max enjoyed his view. The summer night had finished its gradual progress to darkness. The river came closer, veiled by a chain-link fence. The city’s lights glowed on the water, painting long tails on the black river. Max had grown up next to a magnificent body of water that he had never touched and could never know. He waited willingly for Brillstein’s car to crash through the barrier and submerge him into the Hudson’s dark and restless flow.

  They were out of control only briefly. The tires squealed as Brillstein remastered his car. The Volvo slid easily into the fence, like a baseball player pursing a foul ball with gentle recklessness. When they came to a stop, Brillstein shouted: “What’s wrong!”

  “I don’t want to tell any lies,” Max said.

  Brillstein released air. “Okay. Next time just say no. I’m a nudge, but I’m not deaf.”

  Max and Brillstein stared at each other for a moment and then Max laughed. Brillstein grinned back, a toothless and tight look. His eyes were still nervous, but he tried to appear friendly. “What’s your problem?” Max asked. “Why are you in a total rage?”

  “A what?”

  “You’re in a total rage. You drive like you want everybody on this road dead.”

  “Are you okay?” the lawyer countered. “I mean, you were in a horrible crash. No settlement hype. For real—you’ve been through hell. Are you all right? I’ve got Valium in the glove compartment.” Brillstein leaned over and released the door. Maps slid out, a flashlight rolled onto the floor. Left in the compartment was a hypodermic filled with liquid and several bottles of pills.

  Max laughed again. “It’s a pharmacy!” he announced and laughed harder.

  “Are you kidding? My wife has us fully stocked. Carsick? Dramamine. Nervous? Valium. Allergic to beestings? Here’s a shot of epinephrine. Got a kidney stone? Here’s Percodan for you.”

  “The way you drive I’m surprised she’s still functioning.”

  “I like to go fast.”

  “Why?” Max demanded, surveying Brillstein as he replaced the fallen flashlight and maps in the glove compartment. The lawyer was a medium man, average height, his hair dark but not black, his eyes small but not beady, his hair thinning but not gone, his skin pale but not white. He looked dull and typical. Certainly no thrill seeker.

  “Why?” Brillstein repeated the question, surprised. He stared past Max at the river until he had an answer. “Because waiting is for suckers.” He laughed at himself.

  “That’s not the reason,” Max dismissed him. “Let’s go.” He waved at the highway extension. He could still smell the city burning faintly; somewhere, it was being destroyed.

  “What’s the reason? What do you mean?” Brillstein guided the car back into the flow, now driving calmly. “Oh, I’m insecure, that’s what you’re saying. Of course I’m insecure. Who isn’t? I’d like to meet somebody who isn’t.”

  “Sure you’re insecure,” Max agreed. “But that’s not why.” The fire seemed to die out—a warm breeze reached him from the water and it wasn’t polluted or stale. Its touch was gentle. “You’re angry. You want to impose yourself on everyone. You want them out of your fucking way. Why? Where are you going? What train are you late for?”

  Brillstein turned off the extension at Twenty-third Street. That was an error, since Jeff’s apartment was on Eighth and Broadway and they could have continued down to Fourteenth before exiting the highway. Surely, with an ex-cabdriver’s knowledge, the lawyer knew that. Had Max messed him up with self-examination? Max wondered if that was why Brillstein had to be on edge: perhaps unless the lawyer was nervously alert, his skills deteriorated. “I dunno, I dunno, I dunno,” Brillstein said rapidly three times, with the haste and emotional conviction of an adorable children’s character. “This is sounding like a sixties conversation. Let’s drop it.”

  “What’s wrong with a sixties conversation?” Max asked.

  “I hated the sixties.”

  They lurched on the streets. The city had left a repaving half-accomplished, which meant that they had to ride on a rough striated undersurface, vibrating their feet and teeth. They also had to swerve around manhole covers placed at the higher level of the now demolished paving. Driving over one would involve a hammering drop into the surrounding moat of underroad. Such a fall would probably destroy even Brillstein’s Volvo. “If you hated the sixties that means you supported the Vietnam War and never got laid,” Max said. The words were hummed out of him by the rumbling tires.

  Brillstein smirked, not looking Max’s way, and swung them onto Seventh Avenue heading downtown. “That’s right,” he said in a singsong. “And I didn’t help destroy our educational system with open admissions and I didn’t give kids the idea that taking drugs is okay and I didn’t get AIDS and I—”

  “—didn’t die trying to kill gooks either. College deferment and then what? High lottery number?”

  “Fuck you,” Brillstein said in a sweet tone. He was back in the flow again, shoving his fenders in the way of other cars, daring them to choose: have an accident or let me go first.

  “National Guard probably. You didn’t give up your career to stop people from dying and you didn’t risk your life fighting.”

  “No one should have had to fight. We could have won the war in weeks—”

  “Yeah!” Max’s heart was thumping. Why do you care? his head complained to him—it’s the dead past. “We lost the war,” he said sarcastically, “and now communism is overrunning the world!”

  “Okay. Take it easy.” Brillstein chose Twelfth to go cross-town, a wise decision since Eighth or Tenth would be slower. “It’s been a tough day. All I wanted to say to you, all I wanted to emphasize is that Mrs. Gordon and her children’s future is at stake. You get the partnership insurance. You’re sitting pretty. I think you owe her anything that would improve her settlement discussions with the airline.”

  Max opened the glove compartment and again the flashlight rolled out. He tossed bottle after bottle of pills onto the seat.

  “What the fuck are you doing!” Brillstein yelled.

  “I’m admiring how well you discourage me use of drugs.” Max rattled the bottle of Valium in the lawyer’s ear. “Your children will be impressed!”

  “Those are my wife’s! They’re her pills.”

  “Oh, I see. So it’s okay to marry drug addicts!”

  “This is ridiculous! This is a ridiculous fucking conversation.”

  “And the Percodan?” Max demanded, shaking the appropriate bottle. “Your wife is the one who’s passing kidney stones?”

  “Jesus!” Brillstein steered the car curbside and stopped. He grabbed the bottle. “Don’t talk about kidney stones! You’ll jinx me.” He was sweating. “I feel like I’ve got one coming…all night and day since Nan Gordon called. I’m telling myself it’s psychosomatic.” Brillstein pointed out the window. “We’re here.”

  Max was disheartened by the news. The lobby to Jeff’s building imposed itself on his vision and he realized how frightened he was to face Nan.

  I’m alive and he’s dead. He felt cold in the
hot smelly air.

  Then, as clearly as though he were leaning forward from the backseat, Jeff talked in his ear. “You’ve fucked us with Nutty Nick for good. A professional would have made that meeting.”

  “She’s going to get money from American Express,” Max told his ghost.

  “Well,” it was Brillstein who answered. He carefully replaced the bottles, studying each label. “This is expired,” he commented about one and put it aside. “Does Dramamine spoil?” He flashed a smile and then lowered his head to read another label. He mumbled, “The American Express insurance was something I wanted to bring up later with you.”

  “You know about it?”

  “Even though I’m not an aviation lawyer, the family asked me to look into things and I had all night and day…”He seemed to apologize with a shrug. Max didn’t know for what. “I’d better put the car in the garage and come up with you.” Brillstein steered them past the entrance to Jeff’s high rise. Through friends of his parents, Jeff had gotten a deal on a three-bedroom rental in one of Greenwich Village’s few tall modern residences. The cheap rent was Jeff’s excuse for living in a structure that ugly and out of character with its surroundings. The orange brick tower rose forty-four stories above the area’s Federal houses and nine-story loft buildings. The tall monster’s synthetic façade was pockmarked with cantilevered slabs that were supposed to be terraces. Each slab shadowed and boxed in the terrace below, lending them the inviting gloom of a cave. The building’s parking garage was in the subbasement. Brillstein turned into it. “You made the original plane reservations with your company’s American Express card?”

  “Right.”

  “And then Mr. Gordon changed the reservations?”

  “When our meeting in LA was changed.”