The Living Room

by Robert Whitlow

  “But it left out that they hadn’t been within five hundred miles of each other for over two years. She’s been staying in a condominium in south Florida, and Dominick was holed up with twenty-four-hour nursing care at the house he owns out in the country on the east side of town. There are at least two alleged illegitimate children who have their hands out wanting to be bought off. Bill McKay is the executor who’s going to have to sort it out.”

  “The lawyer?”

  “Yes. You may not remember, but Mr. Phillips asked him to serve as executor even though this firm prepared the will. I’m sure Mr. Phillips anticipated there might be a problem down the road and didn’t want us to be disqualified by a conflict of interest. There’s a lot more money to be made fighting for the will than serving as executor, and McKay will do whatever Mr. Phillips tells him. But this case is going to end up in front of a judge and jury.”

  Bill McKay, an older man, was a sole practitioner. He had a business clientele and never went to court. He referred all litigation to Jones, Barrington, and Phillips.

  “What a mess.”

  “Which is why I need some help. I’ve worked with Mr. Phillips on two other estates that had problems, but nothing like this.”

  Chris Lance was young, but he didn’t seem to lack confidence. He handed her the DVD.

  “First thing for you to do is review the DVD and write a memo for the file about your independent recollections. That way your thoughts and impressions become work product for purposes of your deposition.”

  “I’ll be deposed?”

  “Yes, and I don’t know how many times. We should be able to consolidate all the claims, but something new can always pop up outside our control. We’re at the beginning stages.”

  “The priority for my work will be subject to Mr. Phillips’s approval.”

  “I understand where I fit in the firm hierarchy,” Chris replied with a grin. “But this is a big case, and if I’m right, it will only get bigger.”

  “Is there a paper file?”

  “In a cabinet outside my office. It’s on the second floor at the back next to the small conference room with the fireplace in it.”

  “That used to be Bud Carrier’s office.”

  “So I’ve been told. Did you ever work with him?”

  “For a year or so before he took an in-house job with a bank in Cary.”

  Chris pointed to the DVD that Amy had placed on her desk.

  “Any idea when you will get a chance to watch the DVD and prepare a memo of your recollections?”

  “I have a backlog of dictation from Mr. Phillips that will keep me busy for two or three days. And he will be passing along new work now that he has someone to type it. I’ll check with Mr. Phillips. If he agrees, would the middle of next week be soon enough?”

  “Yeah.” Chris paused. “I was going to dictate something for you myself on a different matter with a lower priority. I’m fast on a keyboard, but Mr. Phillips wants me to get used to dictating more.”

  “Send it along.”

  Chris left, and Amy resumed her place in front of the computer screen. She’d worked with four different lawyers during her tenure with the firm and could adapt to different personalities and work styles. Fortunately, she’d never worked with one who yelled and threw files, and Chris Lance didn’t seem to come from that mold.

  By 3:00 p.m., she’d placed several pieces of correspondence, a draft of a commercial lease, a revision of a buy-sell agreement for a local group of doctors, and some answers to interrogatories in a breach-of-contract lawsuit on Mr. Phillips’s desk. The file for each matter was positioned beneath that item. She was revising interrogatory answers when Mr. Phillips returned to the office from a meeting.

  “Did you do the letter to Frank Norris?” he asked, sticking his head through the open door between their offices.

  “Yes, sir. It’s here.”

  Mr. Phillips picked it up from the corner of Amy’s desk and read it.

  “Did you change anything?”

  “No, sir. If I do that I’ll mark it as a draft and show you what I’ve done.”

  “Of course you will,” he said as he turned to the second page of the letter. “Emily wasn’t as careful about that as you are. This is ready to go.”

  “Do you want it sent in the mail and as an e-mail attachment?”

  “Yes, both.” Mr. Phillips signed the letter and handed it to Amy. “Did you meet Chris?”

  “Yes, and he told me the Dominick estate is going to be litigated.”

  “I knew that from day one,” Mr. Phillips grunted. “Whenever there is that much money lying around, people are going to try to grab some. There’s enough at stake to justify two lawyers working on it. Natasha may be flaky, but she pays the bills. The whole scenario is a recipe for a will contest.”

  Having multiple wives, mistresses, and illegitimate children didn’t help, Amy thought.

  “Chris wants me to watch the DVD of the signing and prepare a memo of my recollections. I told him I would have it done by the middle of next week.”

  “That’s fine.”

  By 4:30 p.m., fatigue started to hit. Amy had arrived in the morning with a full tank of adrenaline but wasn’t used to the grind of an eight-hour workday. The last thirty minutes dragged by, and she found herself making mistakes that wouldn’t have happened earlier. Mr. Phillips was still at his desk when the clock finally reached 5:00 p.m.

  “Good night,” Amy said, standing in the hallway door of the senior partner’s office.

  Mr. Phillips glanced up at her and checked his watch.

  “I won’t ask you to work over on your first day,” he said.

  Amy bit her lower lip.

  “Thanks.”

  The following Monday was the first day back at school for Megan and Ian. When Amy turned onto their street after work the house wasn’t on fire, and there weren’t any ambulances in the driveway. She walked into the kitchen and kicked off the shoes that had imprisoned her feet all day, then went to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Megan! Ian!” she called out. “I’m home!”

  Ian came running out of his room and rocketed down the stairs.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said and launched into a rapid-fire account of a new video game that a lot of his friends had received for Christmas and was now spreading faster than the flu through the school.

  “Where’s Megan?” Amy asked when Ian paused for breath.

  “I think she’s in her room,” Ian said, “and I want to use my Christmas money to buy it.”

  “We’ll have to check it out first,” Amy said.

  She headed up the stairs and knocked on Megan’s closed door.

  “Who is it?” her daughter responded.

  Amy tried the doorknob, which was locked. A quick image of Megan bent over with her hands on her stomach flashed through her mind.

  “Your mother. Please open the door. Are you sick?”

  There was no immediate answer. Amy knocked again and waited. Finally, the knob turned, and the door swung open. The blinds were closed, the room dark. Megan was wearing an old pair of pajamas. Her long hair was in a floppy ponytail.

  “What’s going on?” Amy asked. “Did you throw up?”

  “This has been the worst day of my life.”

  “Why?”

  “Nate Drexel embarrassed me in front of the whole school. Is there any way you and Dad could send me to Broad Street Christian? I know there aren’t many kids in the high school, but at least I wouldn’t feel like everyone is looking at me when I go down the hall.”

  “What did he do?”

  Amy could see that her daughter’s eyes were red from crying.

  “I sent him a text message asking him a question. He pretended to respond to me but copied a couple of his buddies as a joke instead. What he wrote about me was horrible. By the end of the day it was all over the school. There were juniors and seniors who didn’t know I was alive before Christmas looking at me and laughing.”

 
; “What did the text say?”

  “Don’t make me tell.” Megan hung her head. “How much is the tuition at Broad Street Christian? Could you afford it now that you’re working?”

  “We’ll talk to your dad after supper. I’m sorry this happened.”

  “Just get me out of the high school. I’m never going back.”

  Amy stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Megan, whose arms hung limply at her sides.

  “Do you want to come to the kitchen while I fix supper?” Amy asked.

  “No, I’m going to stay in here. I’m not hungry.”

  Amy went downstairs with a heavy heart. She’d prepared a meat loaf the previous evening and put it in the refrigerator. While she waited for the oven to warm up, she racked her brain for a way she could help Megan. The cruelty of teenagers seemed to have no boundaries. While the meat loaf cooked, she peeled and cut up carrots. She was also perplexed why she would remember a picture from the living room while standing at the door to Megan’s bedroom. It would have helped to know something in advance of the problem Megan would face so Amy could have warned her.

  Jeff came into the kitchen when the main dish was about twenty minutes away from coming out of the oven.

  “How was work?” he asked after giving Amy a longer than usual hug and kissing her firmly on the lips. “I thought about you. And prayed, too.”

  “You should have prayed for Megan.”

  Amy told Jeff about the text-message disaster. His face grew dark.

  “I’m going to call the boy’s father,” he said.

  “Don’t you think we should ask Megan first? We really don’t even know what happened.”

  “You believe her, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I mean, I have no reason not to.”

  Jeff paced back and forth across the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and talk to her?” Amy suggested. “Maybe you can get more out of her before we decide what to do.”

  After Jeff left the kitchen, Amy walked to the bottom of the stairs and listened until she heard Megan’s door open and close. She put four yeast rolls on the cooking rack beside the meat loaf and set the timer. The phone rang.

  “Mrs. Clarke, this is Greg Ryan, one of Megan’s teachers. I met you and your husband at the dance recital.”

  “Of course, I remember.”

  “Is this a bad time to call?”

  “Actually, we’re in the middle of a crisis.”

  “Did Megan tell you about an incident at school involving a text message?”

  “Yes, but we don’t know the details,” Amy replied. “She’s devastated and wants to transfer to a private school.”

  “She has a right to be upset. I reported the matter to the administration, and action is being taken against the boy who did this. When I left the school a few minutes ago, he and his parents were meeting with the principal, one of the counselors, and the junior varsity football coach.”

  “Thanks,” Amy replied gratefully. “My husband and I weren’t sure what to do.”

  “It know it will be rough on Megan, but in a day or two students will be talking about the punishment given to the boy, not what he did to her. Everyone who knows Megan realizes it was a cruel lie.”

  Amy paused, struggling with whether she really wanted to know more.

  “What do you think will happen to the Drexel boy?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, but there will probably be at least a short-term suspension. Some of the worst punishment for student athletes comes from the coaches. The counselor involved in the disciplinary process should be in touch with you soon, but I didn’t want you to have to wait in the dark.”

  “Okay.”

  “And encourage Megan to come back to school tomorrow with her head held high. I’d like to call a couple of her friends and suggest they rally around her as soon as she walks through the door.”

  “That would be wonderful. She’s close to Bethany—”

  “And Sadie and Alecia. Ninth-grade girls travel in such tight packs that sometimes there isn’t any air space between them.”

  “You’re right.” Amy allowed herself to relax a little bit. “My husband and I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “It’s one of the reasons I became a teacher. Tell Megan I expect to see her on the front row during third-period World History.”

  twelve

  Amy went upstairs. Megan and Jeff were sitting beside each other on the bed.

  “Mr. Ryan is awesome,” Megan said after Amy told them about the phone call.

  “I still think I should call Nate’s father,” Jeff said.

  “Please don’t, Dad. It will only make it worse.”

  “How?” Jeff asked.

  “Maybe it would have been necessary if the school hadn’t stepped in,” Amy offered. “But I think it’s okay if we wait to see how the disciplinary process plays out before deciding if there’s anything we should do on our own.”

  “Mom’s right,” Megan said.

  “Don’t gang up on me.” Jeff held up his hands. “I’m not going to fight both of you.”

  “This isn’t an argument,” Amy replied. “All I’m suggesting is to wait. Mr. Ryan is right that the focus on Megan will quickly go away. Nate’s punishment will replace it along with all the other drama that’s poised to jump out of the dark and stir up trouble on a high school campus.”

  Jeff turned to Megan. “Five minutes ago you wanted me to find out what it would take for you to transfer to Broad Street Christian. Is that still what you want me to do?”

  “No.” Megan shook her head. “I don’t want to leave my friends.”

  Jeff shrugged his shoulders.

  “And you’ll be able to go to school tomorrow?” Amy asked.

  “Yeah, Bethany and Alecia texted me right before Dad came up. They’re going to be my posse.”

  “Okay,” Amy said. “Are you hungry? The meat loaf is sitting in the oven, and the rolls are going to get hard if we don’t eat soon.”

  “Starving,” Megan said. “I’ll be right down.”

  Supper passed uneventfully. After the emotional roller-coaster ride of the past hour and a half, Amy was content to eat in silence. Following the meal, the children left the kitchen. Jeff stayed behind to help Amy clean up.

  “Can we go to bed at eight o’clock?” Amy asked as she put a plate in the dishwasher. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Whatever you need to do. When Megan was born I didn’t realize we might have an evening like this.”

  “And she’s only fourteen.”

  Once the kitchen was tidy, Amy fixed a cup of hot tea and took it into the family room. Jeff turned on the computer. Amy propped her feet up on the coffee table, took a sip of tea, and closed her eyes. The only sound in the room was the quiet tapping of Jeff’s fingers on the keyboard.

  “I wish I’d drafted Calvin Johnson of the Lions,” he muttered after several minutes passed. “My wide receivers are so inconsistent going into the play-offs.”

  Amy chuckled.

  “What’s funny?” Jeff asked, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m in big trouble with my team this week.”

  “I’m just glad you’re upset about fantasy football instead of talking to Nate Drexel’s father on the phone. Every so often I have to turn down the heat on the characters in my books and give them a chance to act normally. We need the same thing in our lives right now.”

  Amy went upstairs and took a bubble bath. Afterward, when she went into Megan’s room to tell her good night, Megan was sitting cross-legged on the bed with her Earth Science book open in front of her.

  “Big test tomorrow about weather,” she said. “Did you know most hurricanes form off the coast of Africa?”

  “No. Don’t stay up too late.”

  “I won’t.”

  The bubble bath had made Amy feel like a normal person and revived her spirits. Jeff was downstairs watching a TV show. After she kissed Ian good night, Amy went upstairs to the writing
room and turned on her laptop. She’d written much of A Great and Precious Promise between 9:00 p.m. and 11:30 p.m.

  Amy read the Bible verse from Ephesians and stared at the title page. Megan’s crisis proved there was no shortage of evil that needed to be exposed to the light. But a novel had to be based on a broad theme that could be fleshed out in connected scenes. And where was the romance in darkness?

  Then an idea popped into her head.

  The worst aspects of fallen humanity often appeared in the vulnerability of people in love. To portray that in the lives of her main characters would be a perilous journey, much more daunting than the circumstantial obstacles overcome in her first two novels. But it might be the path to greater literary success. Amy began typing:

  Alone, Roxanne listened to the dull roar of the cheap white-noise machine she’d bought with a roll of quarters she’d been saving for the next trip to the Laundromat. Flickering lights from the liquor store across the street pulsed through a crack in the ragged curtains. Each flash reinforced the harassing voices that hovered like hyenas at the edge of her mind. She stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. It would take more than imaginary waves crashing onto an electronic beach to give her a full night’s rest.

  The liquor store lights illuminated a bottle of prescription sleeping pills on the nightstand. A single pill would knock her out, but there was no guarantee she would wake up in time to make it to work by six thirty in the morning. One more failure to clock in and she’d be fired. And if Roxanne didn’t have a job, the two children asleep in the adjoining room might be taken from her. Unless they ran again.

  She rolled onto her side and let her right arm flop across the bed. The emptiness triggered a tear mixed by sadness and frustration to run down her cheek onto the pillow. Another followed, cruel drops in an hourglass of sorrow. She heard the baby whimper and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. She crawled out of bed. It probably wasn’t anything serious, but it didn’t take much for her to bring him into bed. His sighs and coos when they cuddled were one of the few comforting sounds in her world.

  Amy stopped typing and stared at the words that had poured out of her. She’d never considered writing a third person novel. She’d written her other two from the first person perspective, telling her tale from a vantage point inside the main character’s head. From that perspective it was easy to communicate feelings and emotions. Third person writing was more challenging. The story would unfold through the lens of a camera recording the words and actions of the characters. Feelings would be revealed by conduct and word choice and emotions gleaned gradually, not imposed by blunt force. But even in the third person perspective the intense mental torment of Roxanne, the abandoned woman in the night, was like a sledgehammer breaking down a door.