A Minor Fall

by Price Ainsworth

  As Beth left the Rendezvous, Sullivan caught the waiter’s eye, and asked if he could have a fresh set of plates and a new cold mug. He told the waiter that he was expecting others to join him in a while and asked if the waiter could find Sullivan a sports page to read while he waited. The waiter was sure that he could. It was not Damian’s, but the Rendezvous served nicely as a satellite office.

  18

  “WHAT KIND OF LAW DO YOU PRACTICE?” Chelsea asked the darkhaired woman in the beige suit.

  “That would be hard to say.” She replied. “I don’t really have a job right now. The last case that I worked on was an environmental case, but all I did was catalogue information on the various plaintiffs. I’ve done mostly contract work on multiparty cases.”

  “Interesting.” Chelsea said, trying to sound interested. She did find the striking woman across from her interesting, but any discussion of the law bored Chelsea. “What brings you to Memphis?”

  “It’s a long story.” The woman said.

  “I’m skipping class. I’ve got all day.”

  “First let me order some of those eggs, and how is the Bloody Mary?”

  “The second one was better than the first.” Chelsea said.

  The handsome woman laughed and ordered the eggs Benedict and a Bloody Mary when the waiter came over. “I don’t know where to start. I guess I could summarize my trip by saying that I had to find my estranged husband in Milan to have him execute our divorce papers.”

  “Too bad he couldn’t have been from Milan, Italy.”

  “This is not so bad.” The woman said looking around the lobby of the Peabody. By the way, my name is Beth Sheehan.” She said, extending her hand across the table toward Chelsea.

  “I’m Chelsea Cagill. Nice to meet you. You’re right. This is nice.” Chelsea said. “Have you been to Memphis before?”

  “Not really. We came through here, I guess, on the way to Milan for Christmas, Thanksgiving—that sort of thing.” Beth said, tears welling in her eyes. “I actually brought this suit to wear in case he said that he didn’t want to get a divorce, and I thought I might try and line up some job interviews. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “It’s a good-looking suit.” Chelsea said. “Maybe you should try to set something up. By all accounts, there are some good law firms here in Memphis. We could go through a legal directory. I’d tell you what I know about the firms. I’ve probably known somebody that clerked at each one, or I’ll know enough to tell you what kind of law they practice.”

  “No, it’s not necessary. There is no reason for me to be near my husband, I mean my ex-husband, now. He made it clear that he wants a clean break. I guess I’ll go back to Houston this afternoon.”

  “Houston, huh?” Chelsea asked. She thought about asking Beth if she knew a lawyer there by the name of “Jessie,” but Chelsea was embarrassed that she didn’t know his first name, and besides, what are the odds that Beth would have ever heard of him? She had never much cared for the “do you know” game because once you figured out that your new acquaintance did know somebody you used to know, what were you supposed to do with that information? She was more interested in trying to figure out what was going on with the handsome woman in the expensive suit than she was in finding out if they had friends in common.

  Beth nodded. Thinking of her return to Houston, she felt the tears coming again, just as the waiter brought her food and drink. She took a long gulp from the drink and sat back in the chair staring at the ornate ceiling. “I’m sorry.” She said. “I really just meant to join you at your table. You were nice to let me sit down. I didn’t mean to unload my personal life on you.”

  “It’s okay.” Chelsea said. “I’d much rather talk to you than read for some class that I’m not going to anyway.”

  Beth tried to eat her eggs, but she achieved little more than just rearranging the eggs, ham, and English muffins on her plate.

  “I’ve not really had the best of luck myself with men lately.” Chelsea said trying to sound sympathetic.

  Beth raised her eyebrows but did not say anything until she took another long drink from the Bloody Mary. “You mean you didn’t just come here for a nice breakfast and a quiet place to study?”

  “No.” Chelsea grinned. “It’s just how things ended up. I actually threw myself at some guy last evening who completely spurned my affections.” Chelsea said, again slipping into her best southern drawl. “What is it with men? Why can’t they accept a good thing when it’s standing right in front of them? They’re all such little boys.”

  They both shrugged their shoulders, and Beth smiled and wiped away a tear. “I know what you mean. I think that I’m through with them altogether. I’ve just got to get back to Houston and find myself a job, hopefully in an office with as few men as possible.”

  “Yeah,” Chelsea said, “but you look like you could use a day or two off before you go back. Why don’t we go do something fun today? Take your mind off your troubles. Help me forget my guilt over skipping class. What time is your flight?”

  “I can change my flight, but I don’t think that I’m up for a pub crawl down Beale Street.”

  “No. You need something really touristy. You say that you’ve never spent any time in Memphis? I’ll bet you’ve never been to Graceland. You won’t believe it. It’s like what they say about Las Vegas: it’s everything right and wrong about America at the same time. It’s a study in what would happen to a person of humble beginnings that has the misfortune of being incredibly good-looking and talented. He gets rich and people start calling him the ‘King,’ and then he gets fat, buys a bunch of Cadillacs, starts wearing rhinestone leisure suits, and puts green shag carpet on his ceilings. But it always makes me smile. Let’s go. You’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “Graceland? Really?” Beth asked.

  “Yeah. Let’s take the jeep over to Graceland. Of course, you can’t go dressed like that. If you’re going to wear a suit, it has to have bell-bottomed pants and be made out of polyester and not some expensive wool crepe. Maybe in a leopard print.”

  Beth laughed. The idea of spending the morning with the energetic, freckled face girl was appealing. “But this is all I brought.” She said. “I’ve got a pair of jeans, but I got barbecue all over my T-shirt.”

  “Actually that would be perfect. But we can get you another T-shirt.” Chelsea pointed to the mallard on her left chest. “Allow me to introduce you to my tailor.”

  “I don’t have any place to change.” Beth said. “I’ve already checked out and turned in my key.”

  “I haven’t.” Chelsea said. “You take my key and I’ll meet you in room 426. I’ll put our breakfast on the room, get you a T-shirt, and bring it up. I’m thinking the cocoa-colored one would go with your eyes. You go up and get your jeans on, and I’ll be right there.” She asked the waiter for a check for the two of them, signed the bill, and went to the gift shop while Beth waited for the elevator.

  Beth found the room and went inside. She recognized the yellow chintz fabric that had been on the bed in her room, but this room was larger than hers. The bed was unmade, but the room guest had only used one side. She wandered around the room for a moment, but there were not any clues about who Chelsea was or who might have been her guest there the previous evening. Then she saw a sheet of Peabody stationery on the writing desk with a pen lying on top of the page. She walked over to the desk and started reading the page, being careful not to move the paper. She did not want her new friend Chelsea to think that she was a snoop. Beth noticed that several pages of crumpled stationery were in the waste basket. Someone, in what looked to be a man’s handwriting, had started scrawling a poem that didn’t appear to have been finished. Beth could not help but read it.

  Prufrock’s Reprise

  I’m an anhedonic hedonist.

  I’m sometimes laid, but rarely kissed,

  Slow to anger but always pissed

  About this pebble in my shoe.

  In P
rufrock’s rolled pants (or tastefully cuffed)

  And navy blazer, loafers buffed,

  Answer docket calls, “Ready enough”

  So often that it might be true.

  Hung by a red and blue striped tie,

  Little wonder it is that I

  Would be so reluctant to try

  To press a meaningful question.

  And yet I’m in the question business,

  Asking witnesses to assess

  The convergent risks, hazard a guess

  Or meet righteous indignation.

  Over trashcan punch back in school

  “What’s your major?” the ice-pick tool

  Trying to be worldly and cool

  While focused on lips not answers.

  Now over cocktails “What do you do?”

  Responses rehearsed, sound almost new,

  Categorized by pulpit and pew.

  Proper steps, conversing dancers.

  Morning chapel before classes start

  For my bright, young boy, and my heart

  Sinks as the kids’ voices impart

  The Lord’s Prayer in a plaintive strain.

  Their clean, quick little hands dance along

  In sign language with their sweet song;

  Is God deaf from the din of wrongs

  Cried out by those with fear and pain?

  I worry that I am his model.

  If I question, he will as well.

  Without faith, is he doomed to hell

  On earth as it is in heaven?

  For my boy I want just perfection,

  Secured by my law profession,

  But scarred by my unasked question.

  Another skill learned at seven.

  I do not dream of mermaids singing.

  Their own brown seaweed curls preening,

  Sitting on rocks, water teeming

  With danger for the unaware.

  My dreams instead are of a tweed field.

  Dog searching for quail it will yield.

  I’m amazed not at the game creeled

  But at how he knows why he’s there.

  The quail burst forth on drum-beating wings

  My thoughts return to other things,

  Of cabbages and dethroned kings.

  Unasked question, unsaid prayer.

  There was something familiar to Beth about the handwriting and the depressing tone of the unfinished poem. Maybe it was supposed to be a song. Maybe Chelsea had picked up a frustrated Country and Western singer on his way to Nashville who was just pretending to be a lawyer. If it was a song, it needed a chorus. She started to pick up the page and study it more closely, but thought better of it, and began changing her clothes.

  She put her duffle bag on the bed, unzipped it, and pulled out her jeans and flats. She took off her dress heels and put them in the bottom of the bag. She stripped off the suit pants and jacket and folded them neatly into the bag. She was glad that she had come up to the room to change because she had not worn any underwear. She had not worn panties because she did not like how panties left a line on the suit pants. She had not worn a bra because she did like how prospective male employers tried not to look at her chest in interviews but were unable to keep from doing so. She did not have any interviews set up, although if she had scheduled any, she imagined that they would have been mainly with male lawyers. That was changing. Her law school class had been about fifty percent female, and now there are many schools with more women than men. Still, it was more likely than not that a law job interview would be with a male lawyer.

  She pulled on the Levi’s 501 blue jeans that she had taken out of the bag and buttoned all but the top button. She intended to tuck the T-shirt in when it got there. She left on the silk, ecru shell, not only because she had not worn a bra, but since it would cover the fact that she had not completely buttoned the jeans. She sat down on the corner of the bed and fidgeted nervously with the little cross on the gold chain around her neck until there was a knock at the door.

  Beth went to the door and let Chelsea in. She was carrying a paper sack from which she pulled a chocolate-colored T-shirt. She said, “I forgot to ask you your size. I hope this fits. If not, we can exchange it downstairs.”

  Beth took the T-shirt, examined the label, and noticed that the logo on the front was identical to the one on Chelsea’s shirt. “I bet it will work. I love it. Thanks. We’ll be twins at Graceland.” Beth said. “Hey. Are you the poet or was that the work of your would-be lover?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Chelsea said raising her eyebrows.

  “The poem or song or whatever it is on the writing desk. Is that yours?” Beth asked.

  Chelsea walked over to the desk and picked up the sheet of paper. “This is the first time I’ve seen this. I guess I was in a fog when I left the room this morning.” Chelsea studied the page and read the poem while Beth looked over her shoulder.

  “So you picked up a poet last night?” Beth asked while Chelsea continued to read.

  “Well, that’s debatable. He doesn’t seem to be much of a poet. He said he was a lawyer.” Chelsea said.

  Beth put her hand on Chelsea’s shoulder. It felt good to touch someone and she let her hand linger there a moment. She gave some thought to hugging Chelsea’s shoulders but did not. “A lawyer poet. They’re the worst kind,” Beth said.

  She left Chelsea standing at the writing desk and went into the bathroom to put on the new shirt. Chelsea read the poem again, folded it like a business letter, and dropped it into Beth’s unzipped duffle bag on the bed.

  Beth stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom and grimaced when she saw her eyes in the reflection. She grabbed a tissue from the silver box and dabbed at the corners of each eye. She threw away the tissue and pulled the shell off over her head. As she dropped it to the floor, she realized that Chelsea was standing next to her. Chelsea put her left arm around Beth’s waist and they stood looking at each other’s eyes in the mirror for an awkward moment in which neither of them said a word.

  Then Chelsea leaned to Beth and kissed her right breast on the untanned triangle above the nipple. Beth was startled by the forwardness of Chelsea’s actions and by the soft warmness of Chelsea’s lips pressing against Beth’s chest. It seemed like it had been a long time since she had felt the warmth of a human kiss, and Beth found her hands going to the back of Chelsea’s head of coal black hair. Surprised by the cool, silkiness of Chelsea’s hair, Beth closed her eyes and held Chelsea’s head as Chelsea moved her mouth down the breast to the nipple. Chelsea’s soft tongue darted back and forth over the nipple, and she caressed Beth’s other breast with her right hand.

  Beth opened her eyes when the kissing stopped. Chelsea was looking into her eyes and smiling.

  “Men.” Chelsea said. She kissed Beth on the lips, and, after a moment, Chelsea’s right hand drifted down to Beth’s button-front jeans. “Looks like you missed a button.” Chelsea said and began unbuttoning the remaining buttons on the 501s.

  “Wait.” said Beth pulling away from Chelsea’s kiss and from the hand at her jeans. “There is something I have to tell you.”

  “Let me guess,” said Chelsea, “you have herpes.”

  “How in the world would you know that?” Beth asked.

  “Doesn’t every lawyer?” asked Chelsea, and she began kissing Beth again.

  The two women were not on a tight schedule, but they were a little bit later getting to Graceland than they had anticipated that morning at breakfast.

  19

  ONE WEEKDAY MORNING IN early August, I arrived at the Peters & Sullivan office at the usual time, said hello to the receptionist, got myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and wandered to my desk. My secretary Eileen was already sitting at her desk, typing. She didn’t look away from her computer screen to tell me that there was a notice of hearing in the Kentucky case that she had put on my chair. The notice was simple enough. The hearing on the countervailing motions to strike the ex
pert witnesses of both parties would be heard by the Special Master Commissioner on Tuesday, September 15, 2005, at nine o’clock, in the offices of Boyd Oil Company, Inc.’s attorneys in Lexington, Kentucky.

  I stood there reading and re-reading the notice while sipping my coffee. I wondered how accurate sonograms were at predicting the delivery date of a child.

  Sullivan would want to leave for Kentucky on the Saturday (if not the Friday) before the hearing on Tuesday. We would probably come back that Tuesday, but even so, there was going to be a three- or fourday gap immediately preceding the birth of our child when I was unlikely to be home or even in our state. I put the coffee cup on my desk, asked Eileen if she had put the hearing on the calendar (of course, she had), and I took the notice around the hall to Sullivan’s office. He wasn’t in, so I asked his secretary to let him and Riza both know about the hearing, and for them to let me know about who would be attending on our behalf. I went back to my desk and drank my coffee.

  The hearing was less than thirty days away. There was probably no chance that we were going to win. After the commissioner ruled and the court “adopted” his recommendation, it would only be a matter of time until the case was dismissed on summary judgment, and I would be blamed for losing one of the most expensive cases in the history of the firm.

  There are several points in a civil case when it can be tossed out of court. Immediately after filing there is a procedure in federal court and many state courts to have the case dismissed for failing to state a claim upon which relief could be granted. After some discovery has been completed, the party that has been sued (the defendant) will often file a motion for summary judgment, asserting that there are no genuine issues of material fact upon which reasonable minds could differ. Frequently, this motion will follow other motions designed to limit the evidence available to the complaining party (the plaintiff) to prove his case. For example, if Boyd was successful in getting the plaintiffs’ expert Mr. Walton struck, the plaintiffs would then not be able to prove a requisite element of their case—that the pollution on their properties presented a health risk. If Walton’s testimony was excluded, a summary judgment motion intended to dispose of the entire case would follow.