“Yes. Do you have the money?”
Fifteen
2005
There it was, right in front of her. How could she have been so wrong? It had not taken the Seattle paralegal service even a week to retrieve the file and express it to her office. Cassandra Fielding had been the one to file for divorce, just as Bernie had imagined, but it wasn’t because she had a lover. Don was the cheater. She put it all in a sworn declaration, thinking that would make the court want to award her a generous lifetime of spousal support. Her tactic didn’t seem to work, but Mr. Zen-and-Light, wise and peaceful in all things, multitalented and intelligent Don Fielding who swore he never lied, was, as it turned out, a phony, a liar, and a cheat. Just like everyone else.
Bernie closed the file and stashed it in her personal files drawer, where she kept every billing statement and piece of correspondence from Nazareth House, and the copies of Noni’s bank statements and Social Security check stubs. No one, not even Mrs. Gordon, cared to look at those records, but she made sure she kept track of everything, just in case. She knew Don would call soon; if not today, tomorrow. Their times together had been nice. There was certainly a mutual attraction between them, but now, Bernie knew, she would not allow anything more to develop. No romance loomed in her life, contrary to what she had led Noni to believe. She reached into her purse, pulled out the letter from Julie Randall, and shoved that in with Don’s divorce file. The best course of action was to stay busy, pushing the files, pushing Crystal, working at the intensity she did when she first started practicing law.
“Bernie,” Crystal’s voice came through the speaker phone. “I have Glenn Carpenter on the line. He’s calling about the Richardson file. Do you want to take it?”
“Yes, and can you bring me the file? I sent him a demand letter last week so he might have an offer.”
“Sure, I’ll put him through.”
The file was on her desk in less than a minute, and in another ten she had settled the Richardson matter for ten thousand dollars more than her clients had hoped for. She was on a roll, pushing the cases to a fast close, demanding resolution and big money for her clients. This was what it was all about; she had to remember that. She was there to put some cash in the pockets of folks who’d been damaged and more than a few dollars in her pockets, too, in the process. This was what she was good at, and it was very satisfying work, despite what people said about lawyers being greedy sharks. She didn’t need a relationship with a man, or even a mother, to be happy. One settlement and she was smiling clear and bright. That meant she was happy, didn’t it?
Feeling light and joyful, Bernie placed a call to Joan Bennet and advised her that she wanted to postpone indefinitely any plans to meet or correspond further with Julie Randall. Bernie explained that she was dealing with her grandmother’s health problems and that she couldn’t handle dividing her emotions during this crucial time in her grandmother’s life. Bernie simply said she was sorry, but her grandmother deserved her full attention for the time being. Ms. Bennett was exceedingly sympathetic, gracious, and compliant with Bernie’s request. She would talk to Julie Randall and let her know about the current situation.
“I’ll diary this file for sixty days and give you a call to see how things are going,” Ms. Bennett told her.
“Sixty days,” Bernie said, wishing she could tell the woman it might as well be sixty years, the meeting would never happen. “Sixty days is fine.”
Knowing she would not have to deal with her personal situation for the next couple of months was liberating. Thoughts of actually meeting Julie Randall faded to a hazy mist, like a vivid dream you try to recall in the light of day, only to capture flickering images. It didn’t matter if Julie Randall had a million freckles down her arms and legs and cheeks that flamed red, or if her ears stuck out like sailboats. Those childish thoughts were packed away, just like the tragic stories under the bed, where they would age and eventually crumble.
“Bernie,” Crystal’s voice was again coming through the intercom.
“Yes, Crystal?”
“I have Don Fielding on the line, shall I put him through?”
Bernie started to put him off, hoping to avoid contact for a while longer, but she was on a mission to put her life back in order and the sooner it was done, the better. “Sure, and when I’m done, let’s jam through that stack of mail and get out of here early today, go home and bake pumpkin pies or something.”
“Sounds good.”
Bernie picked up the phone, her fingers automatically lifting her hair from behind her ears, combing it in place as if he could see her through the receiver. “Hi Don,” she said, her voice intentionally rushed, as if he was interrupting. “What’s up?”
“Hi. I wanted to see if you were free for lunch today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not. I have a deposition in Merced at two o’clock. I’m leaving in a minute,” she lied.
“Okay, well, how about dinner?”
“No, that’s not good either. I’m picking up Noni tonight and bringing her home for a couple of days. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, remember?”
“Oh, don’t I know it. Even now, members of the Fielding clan are racing up and down the state to get here.”
She could hear his smile and bit her lip at the very idea of sitting around a table surrounded by cousins, parents, brothers, aunts, and uncles, passing plates filled with sweet potatoes and thick slices of turkey. “Listen, I’m pretty busy,” she said, urging a quick end to the conversation, “so how about we talk next week?”
“Well, first, real quick, I wanted to invite you and your grandmother to join us for dinner. It’s a bit late, I know, but on the chance you don’t have plans. . .”
“Oh, thank you for thinking of us, but I’ve already got a turkey thawing in the fridge.” Bernie wondered if this was his first holiday away from his wife, and pondered where the girlfriend that had apparently broken up his marriage was now. “Okay, it’s just a turkey breast, but I’m planning on cooking the whole meal. A neighbor, one of Noni’s old friends, is joining us, too. But thanks.”
“I know this seems forward, but would you mind if I dropped by for dessert, in the evening? I’d really like to meet the infamous Noni.”
Bernie closed her eyes, desperately clinging to what she knew to be the truth of him, not the character he portrayed. If she had not checked up on him, she would never have found out that he was just another player on the good old boys’ team. But, she rationalized, at this point they really were nothing more than friends. Just friends. She could still have Don for a friend. And she didn’t have so many friends in her life. There wasn’t a judgment in that file that she could see. For all she knew, he was still married. Her judgment wasn’t what he needed; he needed one from a Washington court, signed and officially entered. And she needed a distraction for Noni, something more than turkey.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I was just reading a note that Crystal brought in. I have an important call on the other line.” Talk about good liars, she thought. “Sure, come by for dessert and meet Noni. We’ll eat early, so any time after your dinner is fine.” The words just spilled out of her. Her mind was saying no, stay away, this is really a red flag situation, avoid him, but her mouth opened, and out came the words, “Come by and have some pie.”
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Bernie hung up the phone and checked the time. If she and Crystal worked through lunch, she could be out of there by two, three at the latest. That would give her a couple of hours to get to the store and stock up on groceries, including whatever she needed to make a pumpkin pie, and still leave enough time to do a quick cleaning job on her house. If the place wasn’t spotless, Noni would click her tongue and start dusting from her motorized chair, knocking into furniture and walls, muttering to herself about the need to move back in to be the housekeeper since her granddaughter couldn’t seem to manage a little dusting now and then. Cooking, howev
er, was one of the things Noni liked to do when she was home, something she couldn’t do at Nazareth House.
Bernie would stack the ingredients on the kitchen table, where her grandmother could happily chop and dice and mix together herbs and spices, creating dishes from Bernie’s childhood, filling the house with smells of home. Bernie would serve as the chef’s assistant, the extension of arms and legs for those places where a chair on wheels won’t take you. Baking a pie would be good for Noni. She’d blame imagined flaws in the meal on her old fingers, weak and trembling with Parkinson’s, or her ancient hips that wouldn’t hold her up for more than a few minutes at a time. Bernie would only praise her more, begging her to move back home and cook for her every day. This was what they did when Noni came home. This was the life Bernie knew. This was her comfort. Why would she ever feel like she wanted something more?
****
Thanksgiving. The air was crisp and cool after two days of rain. The sight of the Sierra, topped with snow like a dollop of icing, surprised Bernie. It was easy to forget the mountain peaks were right next door, their majestic view clouded by a thick layer of dirty air that nestled in the valley, waiting to be washed away by a good downpour or blown away by a strong wind. She opened the thick folds of draperies wide. “Noni, come check out this view; it’s gorgeous.”
Noni buzzed across the hardwood floor, still wiping her hands on the red striped dish towel draped across her lap. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, but the halo of sad defeat of recent days seemed to have lifted as she dipped her fingers into a bowl of zucchini, eggs, parmesan cheese, and breadcrumbs, mixing together Bernie’s favorite casserole. Neither one of them cared so much about a turkey; there would be turkey, but zucchini casserole was their holiday food.
“In my younger days, we had that to look at every day,” Noni said. Her head shook side to side as if she were saying no to a greedy child, at the idea that a peek at the nearby mountain range had become a rare occurrence. Finally, she looked over to her grandchild, momentarily forsaking the picturesque landscape. “What are you working on these days? Anything good?” She loved to hear about Bernie’s work, the stories of clients, how they’d been hurt, the details of their injuries and accidents, how her granddaughter fought for them and made their lives better.
“Well,” Bernie said, pausing to take a sip of coffee before setting the cup down carefully on one of Noni’s old stone and cork coasters, “I have a really sad case, a little boy whose parents were killed in a car crash.”
“Oh,” Noni said, “You told me about that one. It must be hard for you.”
“Actually, I think it’s good for me. I can look at this kid’s life and see what it can be, despite the circumstances.” She proceeded to tell her grandmother more about the case, about the pictures of Carlos and his mom and dad, and how he was now living in Mexico with his grandmother. She shared Crystal’s point of view that he would be better off living here with foster parents, getting a better education or some such nonsense, then proudly defended her personal knowledge that the love of a grandmother was far better than anything the U.S. had to offer. Besides, she added, she was going to get Carlos and his grandmother enough money to be able to afford an excellent education and a beautiful home, too, but that would probably be in Mexico, not here. She couldn’t imagine the old woman would want to uproot her life completely at her age.
“Oh, Bernie,” Noni said, “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Bernie said. “That means a lot to me. I always want to make you proud, Noni.”
“So, now tell me about this man you met, the little singer.” The old lady’s eyes seemed to open wider to completely take in the next bit of news.
“Well, actually, you’re going to get to meet him later this evening.”
“What? He’s coming to dinner? You should have told me sooner; I would have made my rolls instead of those packaged things you bought.”
“Relax,” she said, laughing at the idea of stressing out over a couple of dinner rolls. “He’s just coming over for pie. We baked a pie last night, and it’s beautiful if I don’t say so myself.”
“We only made a pumpkin. Maybe we should have done a cherry or lemon, too.”
“Noni, one pie is plenty. And get all those crazy ideas out of your head; he’s just a friend, nothing more, not now and not ever. You were right,” she lied, “musicians are flaky. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Noni smiled knowingly, nodding in agreement, but still giving her a curious look, as if she doubted everything Bernie said.
“Trust me, Noni, we’re just friends.”
“I didn’t say anything.” She clicked her tongue, just as she used to do when her granddaughter would spend an entire day in her pajamas, stretched out on the couch, her nose stuck in some book, not even dressing to come to the dinner table. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“No, but you have that look. I know you just as well as you know me. We don’t have secrets. Not us.”
The old woman turned again to gaze toward the mountains.
Throughout the day, warm smells filled the small house as Bernie roasted the turkey breast and baked Noni’s casserole. While her grandmother read the morning paper, Bernie set the table with Noni’s wedding china, a glossy white with a silver rim and tiny lavender bouquets along the bottom and top edges. The tablecloth was a deep purple and the napkins were pale lavender, the same shade as the flowers on the dishes. She even brought out the heavy flatware kept in a wooden case in the credenza. Bernie lit tall candles she had placed in Noni’s crystal candlesticks, a souvenir of a long-ago trip to Italy, then poured an Alexander Valley cabernet into Waterford glasses. Noni only drank red wine, and now only on special occasions, so Bernie only poured a small amount. To further please Noni, she even dressed for the occasion in shades of fall, wearing a rust-colored sweater over chocolate-brown wool flannel pants. No jeans for her today. Noni, too, had donned her favorite pearl necklace and a handsome suit jacket she had left in the spare room. Bernie helped do up her hair, combing it back like she wore it when she was younger, in a mock French twist. Just when the light began to fade and the temperature outside to fall, the two women sat down to dinner.
“Bernadette, this is lovely, just lovely.”
“Thank you. I don’t do this often, so it was kind of fun.” She didn’t mention that the only time she ever sat at this table was to work, preferring the larger space to the small desk in the spare room. Instead of lovely china and goblets of wine, there was usually a stack of file folders and a PowerBook.
“I’m sure your friend will think it’s lovely, too.”
Bernie raised her left eyebrow at the reference to her friend. “I didn’t do this for my friend, who has a name by the way—it’s Don, remember?”
“Sorry. I’m sure Don will be impressed.” She tucked her chin in mocked submission and smiled coyly.
“Too bad it will all be cleared away by the time he gets here. All he’ll see is a stack of dirty fancy dishes.”
“We could wait and eat later. It will keep.”
“Are you crazy? Now, do you want to say grace?”
Noni offered a blessing as Bernie stared into her empty plate, but on cue, made the sign of the cross and joined in the “Amen.” Those old rituals and prayers, tucked in the back corners of her mind, appeared when needed, unpracticed, but never forgotten.
Bernie reached across the table and dished a large spoonful of cheesy zucchini casserole onto Noni’s plate; the ceramic dish would be too heavy for her grandmother’s trembling fingers to manage. She placed slices of turkey on each of their plates, knowing instantly the piece her grandmother would choose, then passed her a basket of hot rolls. After a lifetime of living under one roof together, she was sure she knew the old woman’s every like, dislike, limitation, and strength. When she was satisfied that Noni’s plate was complete, she paused for a sip of wine, allowing its warmth to flow through her, calming her before enjoying the first bite.
As she
surveyed the table, the dancing light of the flickering candles, the rich colors of holiday food, a familiar sadness rolled over her. It was a quiet sadness that made her appear deep in thought, pensive and intelligent. Bernie couldn’t help but wonder what Julie Randall’s Thanksgiving table looked like. Was there a crowd of family gathered around? Did they say grace, make the sign of the cross or simply bow their heads? Did they forego prayers and go around the table, each person offering a word of thanksgiving for something good in their life? Did Julie Randall perhaps say she was thankful to have received word from a daughter lost long ago?
But such questions are silly fantasy, she reminded herself. Nothing is to come from imagining a life denied her. There had been many family meals eaten at the table before her; many that were shared with her mother and father, the ones she knew, many with friends of hers, friends of Noni. At family dinners, Dad would sit at one end, Mom at the other. Those chairs were still empty, she and Noni preferring their same seats after twenty-five years.
Don had invited her to his family gathering because the idea of only two at the table seemed a desperate thing, lonely and tragic. She smiled weakly at her need to invent another guest, Noni’s friend, a third, so to speak, as if one more diner would somehow make this seem more complete. She didn’t need to make excuses, a table for two, beautifully set, laden with delicious food, was complete enough for her.
All these musings swept through her mind as she savored the roast turkey breast and creamy zucchini. A lifetime of choices and circumstance evaluated in the time it took to take a drink of wine, cover her lap with a linen napkin, and pick up a knife to butter a hot roll.
The Circle Game Page 21