Alligators in the Trees

by Cynthia Hamilton

  “Oh, really? And precisely what would you do if you were in my position?”

  “This is not the place for histrionics, Mr. Glessner,” Lou said condescendingly.

  Philip snorted at his remark, but he never took his eyes off his wife. “You know, Marianne, if those were the best years of your life, maybe you should be paying me. You seem to be overlooking the fact I made those ‘best years’ possible. And frankly, if that was the best you had to give, I think I deserve a refund,” Philip said, exposing a side of himself his attorney didn’t know he possessed. Martin had little time to marvel over this show of backbone, however; the opposition had commenced with a righteous indignation fest on the other side of the conference table.

  “I do not have to sit here and take this kind of abuse,” Marianne said, as she rose angrily from her chair. Lou made a big show of collecting his paperwork pile of weaponry, while Martin tried to get them to retake their seats.

  “Look, this kind of squabbling will get us nowhere. You might as well sit down and get this over with, Marianne. Don’t forget—the sooner we get the details ironed out, the sooner you can get on with your life. And the less you have to pay Mr. Michelson out of your settlement.”

  Philip wasn’t sure he cared for the sound of that last sentence. Marianne shot one final look of scorn at her husband and sat back down. Lou, acting as though it was against his better judgment, slowly sat down and laid out his ammo. “Good. Now, let’s take one issue at a time here. We were discussing the value of the Trenton apartment complex…”

  The settlement conference droned on until half past six. All parties looked worse for wear, even unflappable Marianne, whose stress showed itself in the fine creases on her forehead. Philip hoped she was having one of her reported “migraines,” though he doubted now that she had ever experienced anything harsher than menstrual cramps.

  Lou escorted her out while Martin seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to collect his things. Philip sat there, dazed by the uselessness that came out of so much expended energy. He had worked fourteen-hour days on a regular basis and never felt this wiped out before.

  “Well, Michelson didn’t totally clean us out. And at least we got them to agree to staggered installments on the settlement. That should make things a lot easier on you,” Martin said over his shoulder. All Philip could manage was a small huff.

  Martin looked at him and decided a drink was in order. “What can I get you?” he asked, as he opened a cupboard and took stock of the options. “Scotch is your drink, isn’t it? We’ve got a good single-malt here, or whiskey, gin, vodka—whatever you prefer.” Philip ran a hand down his face from forehead to chin and huffed again, this time more dejectedly.

  “I could use a drink, but frankly, I’d just as soon get out of here. How ’bout we go somewhere else?” he asked, as he hoisted himself out of the chair.

  “Sorry, it’s late. I’ve got to get home. Laura’s planned some dinner party tonight, and she’ll skin me alive if I’m not there by seven.” Philip rechecked his watched.

  “Then you better get a move on,” he said.

  “Come on, I’ll walk you out,” Martin said as he held open the door for his dispirited client. “Don’t worry, this will all be over in a month or two.”

  “Yeah, then I’ll just have another three or four years of lawsuits to contend with,” Philip replied sarcastically, as they headed down the hall to the elevator.

  Philip sat in the low-slung Barcelona chair and stared out at the city at night. The chair was especially appropriate to his mood, low-slung as it was, putting him within easy reach of his glass and the bottle of Scotch he had picked up on his way back to his loaner apartment. Because of the way the chair forced him to sit, any impetus remaining in him to do anything else was easily overcome by the sheer force of gravity. It would have taken more energy than he could muster to get out of the thing, so he decided he’d just have to sit there all night.

  As he sat there reliving the last horrendous hours of his day, it struck him as almost surreal that he had ever married someone who was as cold-hearted and money-grubbing as Marianne. She certainly hadn’t seemed that way in the beginning. He remembered her as being very sweet and amenable, fresh and pretty, and happy to be by his side.

  Perhaps he had been blind to her faults. He knew he wasn’t the best judge of character, in large part due to his aloofness. It was true he didn’t pay much attention to others, absorbed in his own world as he was. This fault aside, he still found it hard to believe that Marianne had always been so shallow and hard. It baffled him to think the woman whose life had been transformed by her connection to him would harbor such resentment toward him.

  No matter what case she made against him, how could she possibly deny that being married to him had been anything but a positive experience? Even if she didn’t love him, she couldn’t say he hadn’t been good to her. So why all the animosity? What did she use as her justification? Maybe she had it in her mind that the collapse of The Phoenix had been an unpardonable act against her, turning her well-ordered world upside-down. Who knew? He sure didn’t.

  As he took another swig of Scotch, the truth finally dawned on him: this whole debacle had marred Marianne’s reputation. It wouldn’t do to have that kind of gossip floating around—all those other society matrons whispering behind their manicured hands as she entered the room. Philip saw now that in order to keep her place in the social hierarchy, she had no choice but to rid herself of him.

  In time, the fact that she had divorced him immediately after the scandal—while wringing every cent she could out of him—would restore her position. It was only natural, Philip supposed, that Marianne should be looking out for herself. It was just his hard luck he didn’t marry the type of girl who believed in sticking by her man when times got tough. Maybe that type of loyalty didn’t really exist anymore.

  No matter how ugly things got between them, he had gained something from her that would comfort him the rest of his life, namely Caitlin. They could take his last dime, his reputation and his career, and he’d still feel like the luckiest guy in the world having her as his daughter. When he looked into her face, he saw the best part of both he and his wife, melded together in a hopeful new package. If they hadn’t lived up to their own expectations, perhaps this newer, better version of themselves could.

  More important was the love that was reciprocated between father and daughter. There were times when he’d look down at her as he was driving her somewhere, and she would be wrapped up in her own games—singing to herself or playing with her dolls, or reading out loud. No matter what she was involved in, if Philip said, “I love you, sweetheart,” she would reply without skipping a beat, “I love you, too, Daddy,” because it was one of the things in life she was certain of. Even with all the chaos in their lives, Caitlin believed her mommy and daddy loved her, no matter what.

  This happy reflection was cut short by the memory of the menacing look he had received from Marianne at Martin’s office. The implication suddenly hit him and it was enough to propel him bolt upright in his chair. Marianne had given him a chilling look when he reminded her that Caitlin would be spending half her time with him. How low could a person stoop? Using her child as a way to extort more money out of him. But her look said it all: she was planning something treacherous, he could feel it.

  Philip jumped out of the chair—not an easy move considering the chair and his size—and grabbed his sports jacket. He couldn’t sit there another minute or he’d lose his mind. Without even thinking his plan through, he fairly sprinted the two blocks to the garage where he kept his car. He drove up FDR Drive, crossed the George Washington Bridge and took I95 all the way to Boston. He could not rest until he had Caitlin by his side again.

  Eight

  “Who is it?” Priscilla called out. Her recent experience with Brawny made her more cautious about opening her door.

  “Cameron Diaz and Angelina Jolie,” a voice replied, followed by muffled giggles. Pris
cilla rolled her eyes and undid the three bolts to admit her uninvited guests.

  “Hey, Sammy,” Darlene said as she crossed the threshold, followed closely by Rochelle. Priscilla noted with dread that both girls were decked to the teeth, which did not bode well for her evening. As soon as she was inside, Darlene shed her white rabbit fur jacket, revealing a strappy, python printed camisole atop her skintight white denim skirt. Rochelle was similarly attired in a faux fur cropped jacket in baby blue, under which she wore a low-cut black top—heavy on the spandex—over a dark blue leatherette skirt, shorter than should be allowed by law, and threatening to burst at the seams.

  “By the looks of you two, I’d say you’re about to hop the next Dirty Dog bound for Vegas,” Priscilla said, as she evaluated their costumes.

  “I wish,” said Rochelle, the insult sailing right past her. Darlene, the sharper of the two, threw an arch look Priscilla’s way, but chose in the end not to be offended. Rochelle produced an improbably large bottle of rum from her bag, waving it about as if she had just made their evening.

  “I hope you’ve got some cokes, preferably diet,” Darlene said as unburdened herself of her gear. Priscilla looked at her with mild exasperation. She hadn’t heard a peep out of these two in at least six weeks, which was fine with her, after how their last encounter had turned out. Figures they’d arrange an ambush of this nature.

  “Sorry, fresh out of both varieties,” she said, arms akimbo, wondering what exactly they had up their collective sleeve this time.

  “What’ve you got, then?”

  “I think there’s some grapefruit juice in the fridge,” Priscilla said, intentionally neglecting her hostess duties as she tossed Darlene’s things out of the comfortable chair and flopped down in it.

  “Damn, I knew we should’ve picked some mixers. You never have anything, Sammy,” Darlene complained, as she took down three glasses and searched for ice. “Okay, so what do we dilute this with? If I start drinking straight rum, I won’t know my ass from my elbow an hour from now. I can’t believe you can’t even be bothered to fill your ice trays,” she said, extracting six measly cubes from the aluminum tray.

  “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve had Mai Tai’s and canapés waiting for you,” Priscilla said, staring up at her ceiling, wondering why she had opened the door. Rochelle laid her bag and fur on the futon next to Darlene’s and minced her way to the kitchen area. It took a good bit of doing, but she managed to bend over far enough to reach the small cans of grapefruit juice from the back of the refrigerator.

  “Are we really going to have to drink rum and grapefruit juice?” Darlene asked, her mouth puckering at the thought.

  “It doesn’t sound that bad,” Rochelle said, as she popped a can and poured it into a glass, topping it with a generous dose of dark rum. She pushed the two ice cubes down with her fingers in a crude attempt at mixing. “Hmm…it’s actually kinda refreshing,” she said, as she tasted the odd concoction. Darlene looked at her skeptically out of the corner of her eye.

  “No wonder you think it tastes good—you’ve got about three inches of rum floating on the top. Wait till that’s all gone and you hit the grapefruit,” she said. To make her point, Darlene took a spoon and gave Rochelle’s drink a proper stir. “Now see if you still find it refreshing,” she challenged.

  Rochelle bravely took a large sip, wincing visibly as the two flavors collided in her mouth. “It’s okay,” she croaked out optimistically. “Actually,” she amended as she smacked her lips thoughtfully, “the taste kinda grows on you. Hey Sammy, try this—tell me what you think.”

  “No thanks. It sounds revolting.”

  “Oh, c’mon. You gotta try it. It ain’t so bad, I swear.”

  Priscilla took a cautious sip and thrust the glass back at Rochelle. “Ugh, that’s disgusting,” she said, glancing around futilely for something to take the taste out of her mouth. She went to the sink and filled a glass with water and drank a couple quick gulps. Unfortunately, her tap water was almost as bad as Rochelle’s drink.

  “Pour a little rum in here, would you,” she said to Darlene, who instead gave her a glass with two cubes of ice. “Just to there,” Priscilla directed her. She swirled the cubes a moment before taking a drink. The warmish rum burned all the way down, but at least it managed to cut through the awful aftertaste on her tongue. She and Darlene, who had already made the sensible decision to drink hers straight, rejoined Rochelle.

  “So, besides drinking rum like a couple of pirates, what are you two girls up to tonight? You have hot dates or something?” Priscilla asked, after she had made herself comfortable. It had been years since she’d had rum, and she soon remembered why. She’d only had a couple of sips, but she could feel the effects of the alcohol almost immediately. She couldn’t say with certainty where her legs stopped and the chair began.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact we do,” Rochelle said. She had sucked down half of her exotic cocktail and was appropriately giddy.

  “Oh really? With who?” Priscilla asked distractedly.

  “With you!” Rochelle sang out merrily. “We’re going to this great new place we found called NYCE, over on Fifty-Eighth, between Park and Lexington.”

  “Nice?” Priscilla asked dubiously.

  “N,Y,C,E. It stands for New York Cotton Exchange, or something. It’s a really fancy place, the kind that serves their drinks in those great big martini glasses—”

  “Rochelle likes it because they have free yuppie hors d’oeuvres, plus she thinks one of the bartenders has a crush on her,” Darlene said with a snort.

  “Well, you gotta admit he did spend a lot of time talking to us.”

  “That couldn’t have anything to do with the fact you kept calling him over every two minutes to answer some stupid question.”

  Rochelle, who rarely got her feathers ruffled, took this criticism in stride. “I have an inquiring mind. Men appreciate a woman with an active mind, believe it or not,” she responded, sitting up straighter, as if good posture naturally corresponded with curiosity. “Anyway, a lot of very good-looking men go there—professional types, high class stuff. You’ll love it,” she assured Priscilla, who groaned and took another sip of her rum.

  “If that’s an invitation to join you guys, I think I’ll pass. I had a lousy day and I don’t feel like doing anything tonight.”

  “No wonder you had a lousy day. You still work at Frank’s—how could you not?” Darlene growled. “When you gonna quit that dump and come work with me? I could get you on days right away. I think that cow Erica’s gonna leave soon. She keeps talkin’ about this ‘in’ she says she’s got over at The Astoria, working banquets or some bull. Anyhow, I think her days are numbered. She keeps mouthing off to the cooks—burning her bridges, if you ask me. Why don’t you stop by on Monday after your shift and talk to Pascal? He’s kind of a lech, but he ain’t too bad to work for.”

  It was hardly a ringing endorsement, and Priscilla didn’t exactly relish the idea of working alongside Darlene again. Working at Frank’s was a drag, for obvious reasons, but at least she didn’t end up spending half her tips on after-work cocktails. Besides, the years were slogging by, and Priscilla found it disheartening that the passing of time had done little to alter their lives. Prowling around bars and pubs with these two when they were all in their mid-twenties was one thing; doing it at their current ages bordered on pathetic.

  “No. Pascal’s a perv. You should apply at Pinkerton Station. That place is so huge, they’re always hiring. I’ve trained three new girls this month already. The tips ain’t the greatest ’cause the average check is so low, but you make it up in volume. Still, the money’s got to be better than what you make at Frank’s,” Rochelle said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Priscilla said noncommittally, as she thought about her sudden drop in income. Just as she had predicted, Phil had failed to make his usual appearance. His illustrated invitation to accompany him to various “harmless” venues had been the kiss of death as far
as her financial picture was concerned. The slumming rock star hadn’t shown up, either. She supposed whatever weird mood had deposited him at Frank’s had passed. The tidy stash of hers, courtesy of love-struck Phil, was going to have to last her a long time.

  “Look, you have to come out with us. There’s no way we’re going to let you sit around moping all by yourself on a Friday night,” Darlene said decisively.

  “I don’t mind being alone. In fact, I enjoy it,” Priscilla said, picking up a pillow and hugging it to her chest, trying to give the impression she was happily entrenched for the evening.

  “It’s not natural to spend so much time by yourself. It’s not healthy, if you ask me,” Darlene said.

  “Oh, and you think sitting around bars polluting your lungs and liver is?” Priscilla challenged her.

  “Hanging around other people, laughing and having a good time is a hell of a lot healthier than holing up in this crummy apartment, acting all depressed,” she countered.

  “I’m not depressed,” Priscilla said flatly. Darlene gave her one of those looks that said there was no fooling her. “Just because I prefer to spend a little time by myself rather than getting all tarted up and hanging out in some noisy bar with a bunch of weekend warriors, doesn’t mean I’m depressed.”

  “Yeah, but when was the last time you were with a guy?” Rochelle asked. Priscilla grunted but refused to answer her. “See what I mean? Being without a guy for too long can mess up your hormones, and that can change the chemistry of your brain, which makes you get depressed,” Rochelle informed her. Pleased at having delivered this intelligence, Rochelle squirmed off the sofa and went to replenish her drink.

  “C’mon, Sam. Put on some sexy duds and we’ll go uptown. One night away from solitary confinement won’t kill you,” Darlene insisted.

  Priscilla balked. “I’m sure they don’t give those oversize drinks away, and I don’t have enough for the rent as it is,” she said, hoping that would settle it once and for all. She certainly wasn’t going to tap into her savings for a night on the town with the bimbo twins.