Second Spring

by Andrew M. Greeley

  The three lawyers glared at me. No laughter wanted here while we were doing serious business.

  “This woman can’t be for real!” Vince exclaimed. “There’s a prima facie case for action here.”

  “I’d love to get her on the stand or even in a deposition.” Charlotte smiled grimly, no longer a happily affianced bride-to-be, but a tough litigator closing in on a miscreant, a slick, sleek, polished shark.

  “We have to find out what kind of resources they have to litigate.” Ed Murray smiled happily. “If their resources are weak and if they don’t have any insurance or their insurance company won’t pay, we can beat an abject apology out of them.”

  “Would that be enough, Chuck?” Vince asked.

  “Ask my wife. I favor the electric chair.”

  All four of them glared at me. They wanted no part of Chucky the clown on this feast of Stephen. I looked out the window to see if Good King Wenceslaus was wandering by in the snow. He wasn’t there yet.

  “I’m inclined to think,” my wife said, “that an admission of defamation from the magazine would suffice to save my husband’s reputation and protect the contract we have with the Photography Gallery for an exhibition in the spring. I wouldn’t mind keeping Diana Robbins swinging in the wind for a while.”

  “Go for the jugular.”

  “There’s a contract at stake?” Charlotte’s brown eyes glittered.

  “It’s been signed,” Rosemarie said. “They could probably get out of it.”

  “All the more grounds for seeking relief,” Ed Murray chortled. “I can’t believe that this paper has a lawyer read their stuff.”

  “Rosemarie,” Vince asked, “we can collect affidavits and film clips and news stories refuting all her charges?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Most of what we need is in Chucky’s cute little archives, as his mother would say.”

  “I propose that we move on two fronts. Charlotte, you scope out this rag and find out whether they lack resources to fight litigation. If they don’t have any lawyers, they might be difficult to scare because they could have mistaken ideas about freedom of the press. Rosemarie, you and I, with my wife’s help—we won’t be able to keep her out of it when she finds out—prepare a dossier. Ed, maybe you could write a notice of intent to sue to worry them a little, if they’re smart enough to worry.”

  It was time for me to fire my grenade launcher, something I never did during my undistinguished career in the Army of the United States.

  “You have all doubtless perceived the curious matter of the scene she created at the show.”

  “Chucky,” my wife said, kindly reciting Dr. Watson’s line, “there wasn’t any scene.”

  “That was what was curious,” I said right on cue. “Do you think this crazy woman who wrote us this letter a couple of months ago”—I passed the letter to Vince—“would not have created a scene? Can you imagine that this veteran of direct political action would have passed up the opportunity to tear the picture of my naked wife from the wall and perhaps be arrested and thus become a martyr?”

  “Aunt Rosie wasn’t naked in that picture.” Charlotte extended a protective arm to my wife.

  “You noticed that? Odd that Ms. Robbins didn’t notice it, isn’t it?”

  Silence around the room of the sort that good old Holmes loved.

  “You also might have noticed that she writes that John Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Richard Nixon, Maureen O’Hara, and my naked wife are in the same room. You will have remembered, of course, that they are all in different rooms except my fully clad wife and Ms. O’Hara, also fully clad. Interesting, is it not?”

  “You’re saying, Chucky, that she wasn’t there?” Rosemarie asked.

  “I am suggesting that she cadged her facts from the review in the New York Times, which all of you have doubtless memorized. Consider her quote about my being a punk from the West Side who sees the world through a box camera. That’s not actionable because I said it and it may even be true. However, the words are hardly changed from the quote in Christina Freeman’s article, which also mentions John Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Richard Nixon, Maureen O’Hara. Ms. Freeman chose a subject from each room. Ms. Robbins, not having been there, thought they were all in one room.”

  “She’s psycho,” Charlotte murmured.

  “Or just a hard-nosed ideologue who thinks that since she is virtuous she can do no wrong. Oh, yes, if you read her vicious description of my shot of my wife, you will note it is a reverse adaptation of Ms. Freeman’s description.”

  “Astonishing,” Vince exclaimed.

  “Elementary, my dear Antonelli.”

  “When did you think this up, Chucky?”

  “Last night when I was falling asleep,” I said with a perfectly straight face.

  “We can’t absolutely prove she wasn’t there,” Ed Murray said. “But if we insist they print this in our letter, it will destroy her credibility.”

  “Not with her friends,” I answered, “but with the New York art community. I suspect she has a rich father or mother or both lurking behind her. They probably have disowned her, but if she is sued, they might come riding to the rescue with tons of money for our respective charities.”

  “Uncle Chuck,” my namesake said, her eyes open with astonishment, “you are a dangerous person.”

  “Sweetest old uncle you ever had.”

  My wife was watching me intently, as if she was recognizing me for the first time. She had known enough of my previous capers—and had cooperated in some of them—not to be surprised.

  “Do you have any more bombs, Sergeant O’Malley?”

  “Not for the moment … Well, one more thing. If this matter develops in the proper way, I think our good friend Christina Freeman of the New York Times newspaper might feel the need to engage in the controversy, since she is the one who has been plagiarized. That would help the show at the Photography Gallery and also the sale of the catalogue. You first-rate legal minds might factor that into your equations, you should excuse my odd metaphor.”

  Actually what I was hoping was that Ms. Freeman would print the controversial picture of my Rosemarie.

  I shuffled out of the room, the incompetent little artist returning to his cave.

  Rosemarie joined me later.

  “That was quite a show, Charles Cronin O’Malley.”

  “I thought so too.” I looked up from my piles of conclave pictures and kissed her.

  “You shot down all those legal aces,” she said with a disapproving frown.

  “Not really,” I said. “One of them would have caught the secret in due course, Charlotte probably. It was fun playing Holmes again. You of all people shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “You surprise me all the time, Chucky.”

  I touched her breast, firm and inviting under the red Christmas sweater that April Rosemary had given her.

  “I have to go upstairs and clean up. I don’t want to leave everything for Missus when she comes on Monday.”

  “And get ready for New Year’s Eve. Do I hear that the jazz group is reviving itself? That should delight the neighbors.”

  “We’ll have our next meeting on the day after New Year’s. You’re welcome to attend.”

  “I might just do that.”

  “Must you paw me, Chucky Ducky?”

  “It’s pretty hard not to … Any reaction to the Rosemarie album?”

  “Maria Elena was the first one to see it. She cried, naturally.”

  “Those Latins are an emotional lot.”

  “Then she showed it to April Rosemary, who came running to me in tears to ask questions. I think it scared her.

  “Finally, Peg picked it up, looked through it, then sat there in the easy chair with her eyes wide-open. I asked her what she thought. She said she didn’t know yet, but she understood a lot more about me than she ever had before.”

  “A success then?”

  “Maybe … Chucky, isn’t one boob enough?”

  “I don�
�t think so.”

  I felt two nipples rise erect underneath the sweater and bra. I touched them gently.

  “I have to do my work.” She slipped away from me and ran upstairs.

  Fine. I was in no hurry.

  I had performed very well for the day after Christmas, reestablished some traces of the old Chucky image, exorcised however temporarily some of my demons, and dallied with my wife.

  Then I realized what a narcissistic jerk I was to care about that old image. Still, they all had enjoyed it. Or I thought they had.

  Then, as I was about to return to the conclave shots, my youngest arrived and dragged me upstairs to the playroom to enjoy her Christmas toys.

  It seemed like an excellent idea.

  The next day I felt guilty about my performance at the legal conference. It was vintage Chucky O’Malley, but who needed that anymore? I was just showing off like I had done all my life, a fast mind and a faster mouth. I wanted to show the family lawyers that I was really smarter than any of them. As I had said to Rosemarie, Charlotte would have figured it out in a day or two anyway.

  I then went into another tailspin. The “review” was so much nonsense. Yet what was the point of all the work I had done for thirty years if a bunch of punks could savage my reputation without any fear of punishment? There would always be some people who would believe them. If I had enough sense to stay out of the limelight, this attack on me and my wife would never have happened. Who needed it?

  Besides, the woman might be right about my work.

  I wanted it all to go away. I also wanted to get even with them. How could I achieve both goals?

  I didn’t know.

  I just wanted to get into the warmth of the Arizona sunshine.

  So I was a sad sack for the rest of the week.

  I abandoned romance with my wife. She had switched from the Christmas train to the New Year’s train and was out there roaring down the tracks at full speed. Doubtless she was worried about my gloom and about the attack on my work. She also was trying to cope with the rediscovery of her mother—the most important emotional crisis in her life so far. When April Rosemary disappeared into the miasma of the hippy underground and Kevin was reported killed in action, she had been severely traumatized, as any parent would. But her mother’s story went to the core of her identity and dredged up the buried memories which she had avoided for so long.

  So she needed my love no matter how sad I felt for myself. I was too tired, too disheartened to have any love to offer.

  So we struggled to the New Year’s Eve bash.

  “This jazz is great stuff,” young Joey Moran said to me, as the group, including my mom on the piano and my wife and Maria Elena on the vocals, attempted to blow the roof off our house to celebrate the advent of the Year of Our Lord 1979. I was able to contain my enthusiasm for the coming of the new year. Things, it seemed to me, always got worse.

  “You listen to it much?” I asked, nursing my virtuous milknog—the younger O’Malleys refusing to spike their eggnog with rum.

  “You won’t tell my date?” he said with a broad grin.

  “Anything I might tell her she already knows.”

  He laughed happily, “Yeah, she knows everything … Anyway, I’ve never paid any attention to jazz. Tonight is really the first time. It’s sensational!”

  Anything that happened on a date with Moire Meg would be sensational.

  “You were really brilliant the other day, Uncle Chuck.” My namesake niece smiled at me, her eyes glowing with admiration.

  “I’m afraid that I was just showing off, Charley,” I admitted. “You guys would have noticed it in a few days anyway.”

  “Maybe. But it’s the kind of thing lawyers don’t normally see for a long time. It strengthens our hand with them.”

  “I thought it was pretty strong.”

  “Now more so. Don’t worry, Uncle Chucky. We’ll get them.”

  “Let me know when the shooting starts, Charley, and I’ll get my friend Doc Holliday and we’uns will meet you down at the corral.”

  She giggled.

  “You like my guy?”

  “Not bad for River Forest Irish.”

  “He’s been around for a long time and I didn’t even notice him. He’s such a sweetie, Uncle Chuck.”

  “Which means he does what he’s told, like all good Irishmen.”

  She laughed and bounded away. How had she ever come to believe that she’d never find the right guy?

  Next her mother, the tall, elegant Margaret Mary, nee Peg, now the director of the West Suburban Symphony and a first violin at the Chicago Symphony.

  She hugged me.

  “Isn’t that young woman wonderful?”

  “Charley? Was there ever any doubt?”

  “She scared a lot of boys off.”

  “So much the worse for them.”

  “Rosie let me read Dad’s memoir.”

  “I should have given it to you long ago.”

  “No need … It’s fascinating reading.”

  “I thought it might help her.”

  “I’m sure it did … Chucky, isn’t it amazing that she’s survived?”

  “The genes of her great-grandmother and God’s grace.”

  “And your love.”

  “Peg of my heart, are you becoming sentimental?”

  She hugged me again.

  “You’re wonderful. Charlotte told me about what you said at the conference. Vintage Chucky!”

  “That isn’t necessarily good.”

  “Yes it is.”

  I’m not wonderful, Peg, not at all. But if I tell you that, you won’t believe me.

  Then, of all people, Esther.

  “This is a wonderful party, Mr. O’Malley.”

  “The Celts, a savage people, created their tribe somewhere in Poland or the Ukraine and then swarmed across Europe first on foot then by horse. They always made a lot of noise. People let them run things because then they were a little less noisy. Then other people almost wiped them out, but the Celts were too stubborn to accept the judgments of their betters. We howl at the first full moon too.”

  She shook her head in mock dismay. “You are the craziest of all the Crazy O’Malleys, Mr. O’Malley.”

  She kissed my cheek and slipped away. A farewell?

  “Holding court, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “Just standing here minding my own business.”

  “You think we did all right with herself?”

  “You mean Eileen?”

  “Esther!”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right … I think she likes us. But then I, at any rate, am a likable fellow.”

  “She has no intention of marrying Seano.”

  “Not now anyway. It would be against her religious faith.”

  “Do you think we’ve seen the last of her?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “It’s strange, I suppose, but I hope we see her again … Now, Chucky Ducky, our fans are demanding us. It is time for singing.”

  I started, “It’s a Grand Night for Singing!”

  And so it went.

  Two days later we were back in her office with the legal team.

  “Well, why don’t we begin with Charlotte’s report,” Vince began, his broad shoulders tense, his face stern. Someone had insulted his daughter. Honor was now at stake.

  “Well,” said that lovely young lawyer, “the Gramercy Blast is the creation of a Harvard dropout named Creighton Carstairs. He is living off a trust fund doled out each year on a fixed rate by trustees. They disapprove strongly of his activities and would be delighted to see the Blast go under. Not enough money in his allowance to defray expenses of extended litigation.”

  “Are they liable for judgments against him?” Rosemarie asked.

  The good Charley smiled. “You think like a lawyer, Aunt Rosie. Surprisingly enough the trust fund is liable. The trustees could force him to settle a suit under pain of their suspending all payments. Such a sanction would notably interfe
re with Crate’s pot and coke habits.”

  “Ah,” I said, suddenly enjoying myself again. Be careful, they don’t need another chapter in the Chucky legend.

  “I called Mr. Carstairs to discuss matters with him.” Her fingers moved to the play button on an old-fashioned tape recorder. “Aunt Rosie, I apologize for the language.”

  “I’m the one with the tender ear,” I pleaded. Nonetheless, I censor the conversation after the first couple of exchanges.

  I was favored with a pair of womanly dirty looks.

  “Mr. Carstairs, good morning, I am Charlotte Antonelli. I am a lawyer …”

  “No shit?”

  “I represent Dr. Charles Cronin O’Malley.”

  “Fuck that prick.”

  Charley was blushing even now.

  “I would ask you, sir, to watch your language.”

  I censor his reply.

  “We have reason to believe that in the last issue of the Blast you defamed Dr. O’Malley on twelve separate occasions. We have under active consideration a petition before the United States Court for the Northern District of Illinois to seek relief from this defamation.”

  “You don’t scare me. I know our rights under the First Amendment. You can’t sue me.”

  “Yes, sir, we can. We have prepared a dossier which documents the falsehood, and indeed falsehood with reckless disregard, of your allegations. I should like to contact your legal counsel in order to discuss our complaint.”

  “We don’t need no legal counsel.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid you do. The First Amendment does not protect you against defamation actions.”

  I censor his reply again.

  “Moreover we have substantial evidence to indicate that Ms. Robbins never viewed Mr. O’Malley’s exhibition in Chicago, that she reviewed his photographs without seeing them.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line.

  “Bitch!” Crate exploded.

  “I assume you mean Ms. Robbins, sir. You might ask her for the receipt for her plane ticket to Chicago.”

  “So what! You don’t have to go inside a shithouse to know that it smells. She didn’t have to go to your stinking city to know that O’Malley’s work smells.”

  There was a click at the other end of the line.