The Circle Game

by Tanya Nichols

  “No, no, I can’t do that.” Her back stiffened and she sat taller in her chair.

  “Why not?”

  “I have too much to do, for one thing. For another, I hardly know you well enough to spend a whole weekend in a cabin with you. And I have stuff going on. Family stuff.”

  “Sounds like a good reason to go fishing.”

  “What? Family problems or work?”

  “Both. Look, there’s plenty of room. It’s an old A-frame with a loft for the master bedroom and another small room downstairs. I’ll even let you have the loft for privacy.”

  Bernie knew it wasn’t the hot tea that sent the splash of red up her neck and back to her ears. “That’s too, I don’t know, weird,” she said, again relaxing her elbows on the table. “I hardly know you.”

  “I’m not asking you to sleep with me. I’m asking if you want to go out on the lake and catch some fish, maybe take a hike, sit and read a book or your files while I do some work on the roof.”

  “You are direct,” she said, flinching at the notion of sleeping with the man across the table. It was out of the question, no matter how intriguing it seemed, no matter how much she liked the way he moved and spoke and smiled and laughed. Theirs was a professional relationship.

  It had been a long time since Bernie had shared her bed with anyone, and the more time that passed, the more she convinced herself she simply was not all that loveable, at least not romantically. She was attractive enough; that wasn’t it, but she had convinced herself that that kind of life was not meant for her. She planned to live the last half of her life uncomplicated, without feeling her body entwined with another, without a better half. She told herself time and again that she could be happy without quiet whispers in the night, warm breath on the back of her neck, or gentle fingers stroking her skin. Still . . . she wished she knew real love, at least once.

  “And you’re not?” he said, interrupting her private thoughts. He leaned back in his chair and watched her. The intensity of his gaze made the hair on her forearm stand on end.

  “What?” For a brief moment, Bernie feared he had read her thoughts, and knew her secret dreams, and even worse, her heart-aching loneliness.

  “Direct. Bold. Don’t you think you’re a bit bold? It’s not a bad thing, you know.”

  “Yes, I prefer direct and honest, but I never said I thought you were asking me to sleep with you. It’s that spending the night in someone’s house that you hardly know is awkward.”

  “You wouldn’t think that if I was another woman.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “You would not.”

  She liked the way he challenged her without being a bully. He wasn’t at all like Randy, her sullen ex-boyfriend who had taken up five too many years of her life. By the time he moved away, she was emotionally drained and too uninterested in the whole idea of love to pursue a new relationship, so she never did. “Well, regardless. I really do have some family stuff to deal with.”

  “Okay, but you’d feel better about everything if you’d breathe some mountain air.”

  “Next time,” she said.

  “I’ll hold you to it, but it will be a while; winter’s coming. I’ll be closing the cabin this weekend.”

  “Right now, I’m so stressed out I think I’d scare the fish to death. I wouldn’t need a pole.”

  “You’re probably right. You kind of scare the hell out of me sometimes.”

  “Ha, I doubt that,” she said, forcing a closed mouth chuckle, not a real laugh, not the kind that pops out freely and bounces around in your head and heart long after it’s faded. That kind of laughter was rare. For a moment, the two sat quietly, sipping tea.

  Just as the small silence began to feel awkward, the quiet server, her hot pink dress gently clinging to her thin frame, placed a large platter down on the table between them. Sliced mango and pink shrimp were piled on a bed of bright greens. Chopped peanuts covered the steaming pad thai, and the shrimp with vegetables plate was full of plump prawns. It all smelled delicious. The awkward fishing invitation was quickly forgotten as they filled their plates.

  For the next hour, the talk centered around food, the preference for peanut sauce to chili sauce, the perfection of the flavors and texture of the pad thai, and eventually it turned to the best restaurants either of them had ever been to.

  Don talked for ten minutes about a chicken fried steak he’d had at a place called Threadgill’s in Austin. He described the crispy coating over the tender steak, the creamy mashed potatoes and gravy. Bernie argued there was no way it could be as good as the Chinese food she’d had in Wexford, Ireland. She’d spent six weeks traveling around Europe with a friend while she was in college and they vowed to try Chinese food in every country. Emerald Gardens, tucked away in the corner of a small Wexford lane was, hands down, the best food on the planet. Their banter about meals eaten in exotic and remote places would be interrupted to rave about the platters of beautiful food in front of them, offering praises to the server as she filled water glasses, promising her this was the best food they’d ever had anywhere.

  “Funny,” Bernie said, feeling full and contented at the end of a good meal with good conversation, suddenly more comfortable talking to the dark-haired man across from her than she’d been in a long time. “I can imagine you with a fishing pole, or on a witness stand, or in front of a classroom, but I don’t really see you playing music in a rock and roll band.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know; you seem too calm or, I don’t know, quiet, for that kind of thing.” She leaned closer. “I will definitely not say Zen.”

  “Ha,” he said, amused. “You can say Zen; just don’t say I’m a bad driver.”

  “Ouch,” she said.

  “Seriously, I can get pretty loud, but not all of our songs are loud. Tell you what, when I get back from my trip up north, I’ll bring you a CD.”

  “You have a CD?”

  “Oh, just a demo, nothing you’d get at Rasputin’s.”

  “Still, that’s impressive. I’d love to hear it.”

  “I’ll bring it by and maybe we can go to lunch.” He watched her closely as he spoke, his gaze focused on her alone. “I like you.”

  Bernie felt a slight involuntary flutter deep within her chest at his hint of a lunch date. He could just as easily have dropped the CD off in the morning, but he wanted to have lunch with her. She pressed her lips together, and nodded her head. “Yeah, sure, just give me a call when you get back, we’ll set something up.”

  When the server laid the check in front of Don, Bernie tried to grab it away from him, her customary strong will kicking in. “This is official business; I’ll get it.”

  Don held the check up and away from her. “No, I invited you, remember? It’s my treat.”

  “This isn’t a date.” With an outstretched hand, she refused to give up, refused to give in.

  “You’re difficult,” he reasoned, then leaned back and peered at her through narrowed eyes, as if he were examining a Picasso, trying to make sense of the crazy patterns of color and shapes before him. “Let’s split it,” he finally said, and handed her the bill.

  “Deal.” When Bernie reached into her purse for her wallet, she saw the envelope Don had found earlier in the car. She looked at the return address and quickly used a clean chopstick as a letter opener. “This doesn’t look good.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It must have slipped out of the box when I loaded it in the car. It’s to Rogelio and Lucero Luna from the INS.”

  “Immigration?”

  “Yep. And it’s in Spanish, of course. My Spanish is pretty limited, good enough for a small conversation, not for legal paperwork.” She held the white page in both hands as if she were afraid it would fly up and hit her in the face if she didn’t hold it back.

  “Let me see it; I know a little Spanish.”

  She passed him the letter and watched his face, grimacing and twisting, biting his lip as if he w
as in pain. “Is it the translation or what it says that’s making you look like that?”

  “I can’t be certain; you’ll need to have someone interpret for you, but it looks like they were denied residency status, or something like that.

  She snatched the letter back from him and studied the letterhead and signature, the only things she understood completely. “Well at least it proves their plan was to remain here, to raise their child here where he is a citizen.”

  “Look, maybe I’m wrong. One wrong word can change everything.”

  “I’m not even sure what effect this could have, but I really want this one to be as seamless as possible. I don’t want any surprises with this case. Carlos is special.”

  Don pressed the palms of his hands flat on the table and slowly exhaled, dropping his head slightly to his left shoulder, again closely examining the woman who sat across from him. “There are always surprises, Bernie. You know that better than anyone, and it’s still going to go well, no matter what this says. Two people are dead because of a negligent driver and a child is left without parents. Nothing changes that.”

  “That’s true.” Bernie pulled two bills from her wallet, a ten and a twenty, and tossed them onto the table. “Still, experience tells me to be aware of Reilly. I don’t want him to have any extra ammunition to weaken my case. I objected to every interrogatory that asked for the Lunas’ legal status, since citizenship isn’t required for access to the court system, so he’s probably looking for this very thing.”

  Don placed a twenty and a five on the table and handed her a five. “Change,” he said. “Can you believe how cheap the bill was?”

  Bernie stuck the five-dollar bill in her wallet and headed for the door.

  “You’re right,” she said as she backed out of the tight parking space.

  “About what?”

  “Life is all about surprises,” she added pensively.

  “You’re a tough one to figure out, Ms. Sheridan.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Many times, in fact,” she added. The faces of past therapists and counselors flooded her memories, haunting images of the days when Noni worried about her bouts of sullen moodiness, rebellion, and anger, always followed by tears and regret. She glanced over at him, expecting his gaze to be fixed on her, but it wasn’t. He was looking out the window, up to the sky.

  “Well, that just makes you interesting.” He kept looking to the sky, as if searching for a lost star or lonely planet.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “The stars. It’s so clear tonight. A couple of weeks ago, I was driving out on the north end of town and got lost. I had no idea where I was, so I pulled over to the side of the road, found the north star, and navigated my way back home.”

  “The true GPS system,” Bernie said. “That’s brilliant.”

  “Exactly. And you’re pretty brilliant yourself. You impress me.”

  Bernie ignored his compliment. “So, when do you meet with Reilly?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow, actually. He has a quad case, sounds interesting.” He turned back toward her and away from his search of the heavens.

  “He’s a bulldog and an ass, but he wins most of his cases, so he’s a good client for you to land.”

  “I’ve worked with his type before.”

  “With Stuart Reilly, it’s all about winning; nothing gets in his way. Nothing.” Even in the darkness of the small car, Bernie could feel him watching her, questioning her.

  “You care about winning too,” he added.

  “Of course I do, but my clients deserve to win. I don’t represent big insurance companies and big corporations. I represent people like Carlos Luna and his grandmother. Real people with real damages.”

  Don tapped his index finger on the dashboard as if punctuating some private thought, something he didn’t care to share quite yet. Talk of travel and hints at sharing a cabin were left at the restaurant. As they drove, they spoke of Carlos. Don was curious what she knew about him now, how he was doing with all the changes in his life, if he was happy where he was.

  “I don’t really know for sure, but I think he’ll be happy to come back here for at least a visit. He has a friend, Moochie, and I think he’ll like seeing his buddy again.” For the rest of the short drive, she told him about Angelica and Moochie, their little house in Madera, her fear that people might want to take advantage of the little boy for his money, and finally how much she wanted to protect him from any more tragedy, even though she knew that was impossible. Life was full of tragedies.

  Bernie was still talking about Carlos when she pulled her car slowly into the driveway and turned off the engine. With the turn of a key, the car was silent and dark. No engine turning, no dashboard lights, no sound. It may have only been one second, but for that one second, they sat side by side in her car in her driveway, just breathing, as if they would be there forever, their hands nearly touching. A second more and the silence would grow uncomfortable, but for a short time, it was one of the nicest moments Bernie had experienced in a long time.

  Don spoke first. “Well, I’d better get going.” They opened their doors and stepped out of the small car and into the darkness. Bernie moved around the front end toward her front door and Don moved toward the back of the car, headed for the curb.

  Bernie stopped at the front steps and turned toward him. “Thanks for coming by and getting those papers. Let me know what you come up with.”

  “Absolutely. And you let me know how things go with that INS thing. It might be a form letter.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see. Good night. Oh, and good luck with Reilly tomorrow.”

  “Thanks; I’ll call you about lunch next week.”

  “Right, next week.” As Bernie closed the door behind her, she realized that she hadn’t thought about meeting her birth mother or worried about Noni for hours. She had always been able to bury herself in work and block out problems, but she had never been good at just spending time with someone for any length of time without some straying to the darker corners of her mind, peeking under rugs for some mite of trouble to lure her attention away from the moment at hand. She had to admit, the dinner was business related, but not completely. She liked Don Fielding better than she’d liked anybody for a long time. No matter what, he really was Zen, and that was a good thing.

  * * *

  The next two weeks were filled with a haze of phone calls, dictation, and endless research. Stay busy, Bernie told herself. Don called to say he had a report ready, one she would like. He was going to be away for another week unexpectedly, and she tried not to think about him or their lunch date. Noni called to see if she had heard any more from her Social Services lady. Bernie honestly answered no, then lied and reassured her grandmother that there would be no more contact; she had put an end to it. The whole affair would only cause Noni to worry more than she did now. Bernie regretted ever sharing the details of Joan Bennett’s phone call about a lost mother searching for her. Whenever she weakened and dared to explore the idea of the image of a woman with her eyes and mouth, a twenty-years-older version of herself, she would charge into the file room, pull another case from the shelf, and delve into it like a hungry viper.

  Starting with the As, Bernie methodically worked her way through the alphabet, dead set on bringing every file current, calling opposing counsel and insurance agents, negotiating settlements, writing firm and compelling demand letters. She had even talked to the Lunas’ former employer, confirming what she believed all along. The hard-working couple could have worked for him for as long as they wanted. He liked them. She called Angelica to ask about the INS letter. Angelica knew about an immigration attorney her friends had been to and was sure they had the papers the lawyer needed, and, of course, she had been the one to introduce them to that lawyer, too. She knew many people who had used him before.

  It didn’t take much effort for Bernie to arrange for a formal letter from the immigration attorney confirming he had agreed to represent the
m and that he was confident he would be able to get the Lunas permanent residency. In exchange, Bernie promised to pay him his unpaid fee, though she doubted he had done any work for no money, certain he had received in advance a generous retainer. But she was in no position to argue with him. He would be deposed, no doubt, and whatever he said under oath was what she and everyone else would believe.

  Crystal was too busy trying to keep up with the flurry of work Bernie generated to even stop and complain more about her boss’s constant buzz of productivity. She too was coming in early, staying late. Despite Bernie’s relentless effort to bury herself in other people’s problems, she would still catch herself off guard and worry about her own situation. When the flush of heat flashed through her, Bernie wondered if her mother’s neck and chest also burned when stressed or overheated. Had her letter yet reached her mother? And in stray moments between work and worry, she caught herself wondering what Don Fielding was doing at that very moment. Was he working in an office somewhere or still closing his cabin? Was he fishing on some river bank or out on a boat? And, she wondered, did he ever think of her in the middle of the day?

  Outside, November swirled about the old Gordon Home in a flurry of orange and yellow leaves that skittered down empty streets as the sky grew dark with a promise of rain. When Bernie was a child, she would help her father rake massive piles of leaves out to the road where he would set them on fire. They would stand back and watch the flames dance in the air while the dead leaves crackled and hissed. Bernie loved the smell of smoke and the heat of the fire in the cool evenings as she pedaled her blue Schwinn up and down the block. She wished it was still legal to burn leaves in the street, to breathe in those lost days one more time. Bernie sat at her desk, eyes closed, imagining her dad’s voice telling her to step back a little bit more, feeling his hand firm on her shoulder, gripping her tightly, when Crystal opened the door and ended the fading memory of her father.

  “I don’t think I was supposed to open this.” She held the official-looking letter out for Bernie.