An hour or so later, I was in my room at the Windsor Court. It was sumptuous, full of dark woods, thick rose velvets and plush brocades, and tasteful indirect lighting. I took off my shoes and lay down on top of the bedspread. I picked up the receiver of the phone next to the bed and called the front desk for an early wake-up call. I held the receiver on my chest for a moment and stared at the ceiling. Then, I called Michelle.
She was asleep when I called, and the telephone woke her up. “Hello?” she said, hesitating before she spoke.
“I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Yeah. What time is it? Where are you? I tried to call your cell phone all afternoon.”
I tried to explain that I had been commandeered to New Orleans, but I just sounded drunk. The more I spoke, the more awake and the more angry Michelle became. After telling me that she was tired of me calling in drunk and not even knowing what state I was in, she asked me when I would be home.
“Tomorrow, I’m sure,” I said. To some extent, I was worried that Sullivan might not want to go home the next day if he was out too late tonight, but it was the only answer that would work at the time.
“We’ll talk then,” Michelle said, and hung up. I put the telephone receiver on its cradle, and fell asleep in my clothes.
I awoke suddenly, and sat straight up when I heard someone pounding on the door to my room. At first, I thought that maybe I had slept through my wake-up call and Sullivan might be trying to get me up to go to Houston. He loved to chastise hungover associates and would always say to them, “You can’t stay up with the owls if you can’t get up with the eagles.”
“Just a minute,” I yelled, and looked at the clock on the other side of the bed. It was three o’clock in the morning.
I walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Beth was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hall. I opened the door.
“No fair sneaking off like that,” she said, and walked past me into my room. She looked at the crumpled bedspread, and then at me, as she walked over and sat down in a plush chair. “Sleeping in your clothes these days?” she asked.
I looked down at myself. My shirttail was half out. At some point, I had apparently taken off my socks. Beth, on the other hand, while obviously inebriated, managed to look pretty much still put together.
“Have you had anything to eat?” I asked.
“I would imagine several cans of mixed nuts,” she said.
“How about a cheeseburger?” I asked and flipped through the inroom dining menu on the desk.
“Chivalry lives,” she said. I ordered us each a cheeseburger with fries, hoping that the grease might soak up some of the alcohol. Sullivan always called it “Vitamin G.”
“I guess this means no Commander’s Palace this trip,” she said. I told her about the time I had been to Commander’s Palace with Sullivan. Of course, Riza was there, and some other lawyers were too. As the waiter took our orders, he told us about the amount of time needed to prepare the soufflés for dessert, and we each had ordered one. By the time we had finished our meals, and the countless bottles of Far Niente chardonnay, nobody wanted dessert. Sullivan paid for the soufflés, but nobody ate them.
“At least you got to eat!” said Beth. I also told her about the time I was in Manhattan with Tim and Riza and we had gone to some place with great veal chops after drinking all afternoon. Always, before ordering a steak, Tim would say, “You can tell a lot about a person by observing which side of a T-bone he eats first. Does he eat the tenderloin side first because there is a chance that something might happen to him before he gets to the tenderloin side if starts with the strip side, or does he eat the strip side first and save the tenderloin for dessert?” Then Tim would avoid the dilemma altogether and order the veal chop at a price considerably more than the T-bone.
When the waiter brought the chops, Tim began complaining that his was not prepared properly. I realized Sullivan was going to send the chops back, and I devoured mine before he could get the waiter’s attention and explain to him the problem with the preparation. Tim and Riza started laughing. “Did they eat the veal chops?” Beth asked.
“No. Sullivan sent them back, paid the bill, and they went somewhere else. I went back to the hotel then, also.”
“Do you always sneak out?” Beth asked.
We continued to talk, and before long, room service knocked on the door with our cheeseburgers. The waiter rolled a folding table into the room and placed it in front of the chair where Beth was seated. He latched the top into a round table surface position, smoothed the white tablecloth, and uncovered the plates of food. He asked me if he could get us anything else, as he handed me the bill. I signed it, and he left quickly. I pulled a chair over to the table from the desk.
“Sometimes it’s impossible to get away,” I said. “Actually, I probably owe you an apology for tonight. I knew, once I left, that it would be difficult for you to leave. You know, the bars in this town never close.”
“I didn’t know I could leave.”
“Yeah. Essentially, we’re serving as chaperones, I guess. It looks less questionable if someone who knows Tim walks up, and he’s with Riza and somebody else.”
“I genuinely thought they enjoyed my company,” she said.
“I’m sure they did.”
“I’ll bet you’ve seen some wild things,” she said. When I didn’t respond, she continued between bites of her cheeseburger. “We left the Old Absinthe House after a few hours and walked to several other places. Then we got in the limo and cruised around the Quarter and the Garden District. I sat across from Riza and Sullivan, who sat on the back seat. As they were drinking wine and talking, I just laid my head back and closed my eyes. I don’t think I ever fell asleep, but when I opened my eyes, they were kissing.”
Again, I didn’t respond. I could picture in my mind the dark limousine as the lights of New Orleans glistened in the windows.
“I barely opened my eyes so that they couldn’t tell if I was asleep. After a while, they stopped kissing, and Riza got down on the floorboard in front of Sullivan. I couldn’t believe it. She unzipped his pants, and started going down on him right in front of me.”
“Do you think I was supposed to participate?” she asked.
Again, I shrugged. “I doubt it. They probably just thought you were asleep,” I said, trying to downplay the story.
“At first, I was shocked. But I admit that the more I watched, the more excited I got. I’d never seen people having sex right in front of me. It’s much different than watching a movie. Part of me wanted to knock on the limo driver’s window and tell him to let me out. Part of me wanted to move over so that I could have a better view.”
“What did you do?”
“I just sat there, acting like I was asleep. In a few minutes, Sullivan was finished. He zipped up, and Riza sat back next to him with her head on his shoulder. I ‘woke up’ when the doorman at the hotel opened the car door. Everyone said goodnight, and I came to your room. I had to tell someone what had just happened.”
She was obviously still high. For a moment, I wondered if she had come to my room because she was turned on, but she made no movement to get up from the table, and I didn’t either. I felt a sexual tension developing. Maybe it was just because she was so beautiful and had so easily discussed the sex scene she just witnessed. I thought about getting up and walking over to her and kissing her. I resisted the urge but it occurred to me that I would not be able to resist if she made the first move. I also wondered if she could tell what I was thinking. If she could, she didn’t let me know.
“Have you told anybody else what you saw?”
Beth’s usually large brown eyes now squinted at me. “You think I was being tested, don’t you?”
I shrugged.
“You’ve seen this before, haven’t you? I’ll bet you’ve been in the same predicament.”
“On Sullivan’s plane. Longest flight of my life,” I said.
“Did you ever
tell anyone?”
“Only you, just now.”
“Not even your wife?”
“Especially not my wife. I’m married to Sullivan’s daughter, Michelle.”
“You’re married to Sullivan’s daughter?” she asked.
“We met in law school.”
“And I thought I was being tested.”
“You haven’t told anybody. I guess you passed.”
“I told you.” She said.
“I don’t think I count.”
Beth smiled. “Maybe not yet.” She stood up and walked over to me. She stood next to me for a minute without either of us saying anything. She pulled her hair back behind one ear. This time, I thought that she might kiss me. Part of me wanted her to.
“Thanks for the cheeseburger. I’m going to bed. I can’t wait to see if this job gets any weirder tomorrow,” she said as she turned and left the room.
I GOT BACK TO MY DESK ABOUT noon the next day. I barely said hello to Eileen and went into my office and closed the door. By one o’clock, I had made my way through the “in” box of both the email and snail mail and called Michelle at her office, but she didn’t answer. At five o’clock, a tired-looking Beth knocked and came into my office.
“Have you got a minute?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“I just needed a word with my fellow co-conspirator.”
“Are we engaged in a conspiracy now?”
“Well, maybe not a conspiracy. My fellow confidant.”
“So, you still haven’t told anyone about Sullivan? Not even your husband?”
“No, but he wasn’t in when I called.”
“Neither was my wife. I’m sure she’s working up a list of questions to ask me when I get home.”
“At least your spouse cares enough to still ask questions. Mine will just wonder what we’re going to do about dinner.”
“Your situation sounds better than mine.”
“Believe me, it’s not,” she said. I didn’t respond. “I almost forgot what I came in to tell you. I just got a call from Riza. She said that Mr. Sullivan has requested our presence at the brickyard at 5:30. I told her I would tell you. By the way, what is the ‘brickyard’?”
I explained why we called it the “brickyard.” “It’s one of Sullivan’s favorite spots. I’d say it’s about one notch below Damian’s on the list of places you’re most likely to find him when he’s in Houston.”
“Where do home and the office come in?”
“Damian’s is the office. Brennan’s is home. A great number of cases have been settled at Damian’s. Did Riza say what the topic of discussion was to be?”
“No, she didn’t. I assume it has something to do with radioactive pollution in the oilfields of Kentucky, or I wouldn’t have been invited.” As she left, she added, “I’ll meet you there.”
After she left, I called home and left a message on the answering machine that told Michelle I was meeting her dad at Brennan’s after work, and that I would see her at home after that. At Brennan’s, I learned from Mr. Whiskers that Sullivan had just left. I went back through the bar to the courtyard and found several of the firm’s attorneys seated around a table with Riza and Beth and lawyers from other firms. Eli waved me over and asked about how I had been able to secure an assignment with the most beautiful contract lawyer ever hired by the firm. I told him I was full of secrets and ordered a scotch.
“Well, mystery man, suppose you tell us something about this case in Kentucky,” Eli quipped.
“I don’t know enough about it yet to talk about it,” I said.
“Well, you’re about to find out more,” Riza interjected. “The bad guys filed a motion to strike our expert. Mr. Sullivan wants you to prepare the response. He wants you and Beth to go back out there this weekend.”
I nodded my understanding, and thought to myself that I had better tell Michelle about Beth tonight rather than having her find out about Beth from one of the other wives, or from Tim after we had already gone back to Kentucky. I remembered the message I had left at home and became concerned that Michelle might get home, listen to the message, and come to Brennan’s. I finished my drink and left, hoping, and at the same time dreading, that I would catch Michelle at home.
I could tell that Michelle was not home when I pulled past the wrought iron gate into the driveway a few minutes later and her car was not in the garage. I worried that she might have already come home and gone to Brennan’s, although that seemed unlikely. She would get home soon enough. I let myself in the back door and went upstairs to take off my coat and tie.
I was proud of our house. It was typical of new construction in West University, an “inside the loop” community with good schools and a rapidly progressing gentrification whereby two-story brick or stucco homes that stretched from lot line to lot line steadily replaced fifty-year-old bungalows with porches and yards. Like many big cities, a series of concentric, circular freeways circumscribe Houston. Loop 610 protects the inner sanctum of downtown, the medical center, and a few prestigious neighborhoods like West University and River Oaks, as well as distinct sectors of urban blight. Our house was a painted brick, with all four bedrooms upstairs. The bedroom next to the master was just large enough to function as a nursery and not much else.
While I was too embarrassed to tell my college professor dad what we had paid for the home, I told myself it was a good investment considering the way prices seemed to be escalating all around us. If I could continue making the payments, I expected to sell it someday and move up to River Oaks.
I leased a new car when I took the job at Peters & Sullivan. The house was the only thing of any value that I had ever purchased. Michelle had grown up in River Oaks, and she too had been excited about the house when we bought it; and then, almost immediately, she became concerned that the payments were too high. “People make a home, not granite countertops and antiques,” she would say. And I would remind her that the little room next to our bedroom would make a great nursery.
Michelle handled all of the paperwork regarding the purchase. She had some experience in real estate law. I read the documents, but I had no idea which disclosures were forms and which highlighted potential problems. My favorite document was the “geotechnical investigation” designed “to determine the engineering characteristics of the subsurface soils, and to develop recommendations for the proposed 2-Story Residence at 2924 Friar Tuck, in West University Place, Texas.” I doubted that my parents’ ranch-style home in Abilene was ever the subject of a geotechnical investigation. But their foundation seemed to be fine thirty years later, and they had long since paid it off. I was particularly impressed with the “Site Geology” section of the report, as it seemed to pinpoint, from an archeological standpoint, our position in the evolution of the region:
The site lies within the Gulf Coast structured province; a huge sedimentary basin containing thousands of feet of sediments. These sediments consist generally of geologically unconsolidated sands, silts and clays, which dip toward the Gulf of Mexico. The sedimentary strata generally thicken down drip, and are occasionally interrupted by growth faults, which also dip toward the Gulf.
As I came back downstairs, I could hear Michelle checking the messages on the phone in the kitchen. The look on her face suggested that somewhere within our structured province a sedimentary shift was taking place . . . no doubt the result of a growth fault in my character.
“So, how is the new contract attorney working out?” Michelle asked.
“Fine, I guess. She hasn’t had to do much yet.”
“Just fly to Kentucky and back with you, Dad, and his paralegal?”
“Right,” I said, then decided to leave out the discussion about New Orleans, if I could avoid it. I don’t know why. Keeping secrets had not worked well for me so far.
“What do you know about this woman?”
“She’s married. She went to U.T. Law School before we did. She’s supposed to be good at maintaining computer databases.�
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“Is she pretty?”
“I guess. If you like tall brunettes. I’m partial to redheads myself.”
Michelle almost smiled. “Listen. I’m your wife. I get to know what state you’re in, and where you are going, who is going with you, and when you are coming home.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was with your dad.”
“Yeah, I know. I went by the house on my way home to take Mom the list of volunteers for the lunch at church on Sunday. Dad was there. Listen. I’ve known Tim Sullivan my whole life. The world does not need another Tim Sullivan. I didn’t marry Tim Sullivan, or even the next Tim Sullivan. I married you; at least, I thought it was you.”
“Is that lunch this Sunday?”
“Don’t tell me.” Any hint of a smile was gone now.
“I have to go back to Kentucky on Sunday.”
“Is she going?”
I tried to explain that I didn’t plan the trip, or who was going on it, but Michelle just got more upset the more I tried to explain my lack of control over the situation. As a young lawyer, she understood the need to respond, without question, to a senior partner’s seemingly impossible request; and as Sullivan’s daughter, she also knew that family and family commitments were too often sacrificed in the interest of career advancement. The conversation ended with Michelle stomping upstairs and me standing alone in the kitchen. The conversations that followed that weekend were little more than perfunctory, and there was certainly no tearful farewell when I left for the airport on Sunday morning.
A Minor Fall Page 5