The Futility Experts

by Margaret Broucek

  “He was found innocent.”

  “Did she have an audio recording of him, too?”

  “No, that’s new.”

  He unzipped his case and slid out a legal pad and pen, which he clicked and clicked and looked at like it was some newfangled thing. “And you say this recording was edited to make it sound like you said what you said?”

  “No.” Davis shook his head vehemently. Hadn’t the man taken notes during the phone call? “No, I said what I said on her recording, but it was because she asked me to say it.”

  The man’s pen hovered over the paper.

  “She told me she was trying to get over the fear of being touched.”

  “So, okay, you were doing some kind of therapy for a known fear.”

  “Yes. Well, I hadn’t known about the fear, and in fact she never had the fear. That’s clear now.”

  “I have to think of how to frame this for the judge. Some of them aren’t as bright as you’d think.” He scribbled to test the pen on the paper, and it wouldn’t write. “I have to pay for my own office supplies. Do you know what we’re paid for court-appointed work? Most of what I do is for indigent clients.”

  Davis shook his head.

  “Fifty dollars an hour. You heard right. Fifty fucking dollars. Barely keeps the lights on.” The man dug again through his mottled, pulpy briefcase.

  “Awful,” Davis said.

  The hairy hand emerged with another pen. “Less than your plumber! And it’s been fifty fucking dollars for fifteen fucking years now! When you pay that little, you’re getting ineffective counsel. You’re encouraging it!”

  “But I’ll be getting competent counsel.” Davis glared at him.

  “‘Course! You got me!”

  “Good. So we’ll have two people speak on my behalf at the arraignment.” He double-patted the tabletop as though what he’d suggested was all that would be required.

  “It’s not done.”

  “I’d like you to call Peggy Sommers; my wife can get you her number. And my wife can also be a character witness, of course.”

  “Have you talked to her since you were arrested?”

  “Not yet.” Davis had made three calls to her cell, but she hadn’t answered.

  “I’ll check in with her.”

  “Good,” Davis said. “She knows this is false.”

  “The main question is why? What’s Megan’s motive?”

  Davis stretched his legs beneath the table. “She doesn’t want to be controlled. She wants to get rid of all outside control on her life. I’m the main controller. Ask Peggy, it’s a thing with them.”

  “These Romanian orphans.”

  “The ones with RAD.”

  The man searched his scalp with the fingers of his nonwriting hand. “I think if we can confirm that diagnosis and the past false accusation, we are in a good position. What’s Peggy’s number?”

  The lawyer dialed it on his cell and turned the speaker on. Once Peggy got her bearings and understood who was calling and why, she started in: “Well, the problem with trying to figure out who is right in this scenario is that Megan is just as vulnerable as she is menacing. That’s the problem. She comes on to men and seems to be asking for it. But she doesn’t know what she’s asking for. So you have to be careful not to assume she’s lying.”

  “This is the father, Peggy,” Davis said. “Did you know she was accusing me of this? Have you spoken with her about it?”

  “Yes, yes, I did,” she said. “And she was very upset, and I have to say, I heard the tape, which—I don’t know what your lawyer thinks of it, but it doesn’t sound good to me. And the mother also found—”

  “Peggy,” the attorney said, “if we want to know what the mother thinks, we’ll ask her. Let’s not get into your interpretation of what the mother thinks.”

  “It’s not what she thinks, it’s what she found!”

  “What did she find?”

  “The girl’s underwear under his pillow.”

  Davis let his forehead drop dramatically onto the table.

  “I see,” the lawyer said, finally writing something down. “Did you know about the past false accusation?” he asked Peggy.

  “Yes.”

  “So, it’s a pattern. And was it also a pattern with your daughter who had the same disorder?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s a generally recognized symptom of the disorder. Thank you, Peggy.” And he punched the red button on his phone.

  # # #

  Finally their case was called, and Davis’s lawyer accompanied him to the front, where the judge ordered that he be released on personal recognizance, pending an order of protection for the daughter, given that naked pictures of her had been found on Davis’s phone.

  “No!” Davis brayed, until his lawyer clamped a hand over his mouth.

  When they walked into the hall, Davis went wild. “She put pictures on my phone? It’s unbelievable! And now I can’t go home?”

  “Not for a while.”

  “Where am I to go?” It was then that Davis recognized, most clearly, that he was a friendless man, because he couldn’t think of one person who would take him in, or whom he could even ask to do so.

  He drove around for an hour, then sat parked in a grocery store lot while shaking his head over the photos on his phone. She’d taken his cell from the charger when her friend Tara was visiting. That’s what had happened. He pictured the friend snapping away under the direction of Megan, the porn queen. When he was finally completely exhausted, he thought of the Motor Inn, the concrete-walled U that he passed on the way to work, with a parking space in front of each door. What sort might find that hole a welcome respite? he’d often wondered.

  # # #

  When he placed his credit card on the counter, he worried that it was no longer his card, that he had somehow been removed from ownership. Why hadn’t Jenny come to court? Or answered his calls from jail? He could only imagine it was another man, the one who had given her the silver bullet.

  “How long will you be staying?” asked the clerk, an old soldier with a long, whiffly beard.

  “I have no idea,” Davis replied. “Playing it by ear, I guess.”

  The room was no surprise. Bent blinds. Pressboard dresser. He had no suitcase, but his lawyer had promised to bring him some things from his home in an hour. He sank into the flabby bed in his Joseph Abboud navy suit and followed the fissures in the ceiling plaster. Was he to wait in this room for a month before trial? He would surely not be returning to his classes, not since he was now accused of such a horror. He felt as though he’d just awakened to a vast conspiracy against him by his department chair, his wife, his daughter, Dr. Peggy, and God knows who else. And what had he done? Only good work, only best practices derived from sound, rigorous research.

  Through the window, he saw an old gold seventies Lincoln pull into the parking lot across the street. Two graying men in barn coats got out and headed for door of the Lobster Shanty. It was early for a drink.

  # # #

  Davis took a small sip of the top-shelf bourbon—what did price matter now?—and relaxed on the black pleather barstool with the rounded back. He tried to read the note taped up by the cash register: “Call Phil first if fridge craps out. Don’t call for service!!” He thought about how he might discover whom his wife was seeing. Someone at her school, it had to be, or some kid’s father. He could wait in the school parking lot and follow her, but then he might be seen as someone who liked to watch children. He could go to his home when neither she nor Megan was there and look around for evidence. And pick up more of his things at the same time.

  The barn-coated men were at the other end of the bar. What did these guys do all day? he wondered. He should probably shout out some inane statement about the weather, buy them drinks and such, but he couldn’t. He’d long been drained of all social lubricants. Rusted now. The beefier guy was pointing at the bartender, thrusting a finger at her as he talked. She was standing just in front
of them, with her hands on the bar, seeming to both lean in and hold back at the same time. Davis tried to discern the big, bruisy tattoo on her shoulder, but the lines were too mushy. The talking man jabbed and jabbed, and when he ended his tale bellowing, “And they fucking shoulda seen it comin’!” the bartender turned away, laughing. “Doesn’t surprise me,” she said, and knelt down to crank up the music, which was a country song—nice little guitar picking.

  He should have said no to the adoption. Everything would have been easier to take, to weather, without the weight of Megan. Then again, hell, maybe he should have said no to the BC football game! He’d have made more of himself. He would’ve had a circle of compatriots if he hadn’t bothered to be a husband. He held his empty glass up for the girl to see. Husbands were imaginary creatures, anyway, he decided—men in disguise.

  TIM

  It looked like feeding time at North Shore Piano, with all of the baby grands open-mouthed. Showroom manager Chip deCarlo subsumed a stool behind the little glass counter, his sour expression telegraphing his poor opinion of Tim’s crew, who wandered about, dirty fingers depressing keys, chunking awful chords in long succession while Tim carried in the blankets and removed the music rack from the piano that needed to be moved. DeCarlo finally made a loud series of coughs that tensed everyone and ceased all noodling.

  “Get over here, guys,” Tim called, as he deadened the piano strings with a blanket and closed the lid. Mike and Vinnie helped to drape more blankets over the case, and Tim walked around and around, snugging them to the instrument with plastic wrap from a big roll. “Get your ass over here,” he said to Miles, who had moved on to screwing with an electronic keyboard. Soon the whole case was wrapped tight. Then Tim had Vinnie crawl under it and unbolt the pedals and one of the side legs while Mike and Miles held that side up. “Like a fucking bus,” Miles groaned.

  Tim viewed the scene from different angles. Then, after spreading another blanket on the floor, he said, “Let her down, slowly!” and they lowered the legless side to the floor and tipped the case up so they could remove the other two legs. Finally Tim bound the hulk with straps, like Houdini was inside. Together, they parked one corner onto a dolly and Mike wheeled the beast out the door with the other two steadying. “Very nice,” deCarlo said. “Looks like that one’s gonna make it.”

  Mike drove his Jeep to meet them at the buyer’s house, while Miles and Vinnie rode in the cab of the piano store’s truck with Tim, who played his Garbage CD again and insisted, “Listen to this one,” before every song.

  At one point, Vinnie, who sat in the middle, tried to stretch his arms around behind Tim’s and Miles’s shoulders, but they both leaned forward and wouldn’t sit back again until he pulled his arms back.

  “Hey, guys,” Vinnie said, turning down the music, “we should talk about things. What are you reading on your phone?” He elbowed Miles.

  “A book by my grandma.”

  “Are you kidding me with that?” Tim rocked up in his seat to look over at him.

  “What’s it about?” Vinnie tried to read the screen.

  “I’m only on the first chapter, which is about how women are the rhythm setters.” He looked at Vinnie. “You know how women have cycles and men don’t? Well, Grandma says that women should be seen as the rhythm setters in life, and also, well, in bed—well, sex—and she tells women how.”

  “How does she say?” Vinnie asked.

  Miles read from the screen: “If you like laughing, girls, you’ll love panting, and keeping a regular beat with your breaths lets your lover know just how fast or slow—”

  “No!” Tim pounded on the wheel. “Knock it off! Seriously, the end. No more reading Grandma’s book.” He tried to reach across Vinnie to grab the phone, but Vinnie blocked him.

  Then came a sudden honking to his left—Mike’s white Jeep in the lane for oncoming traffic. Idiot was leaning over and grinning up at them, widely mouthing some song.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with that guy?” Tim saw the approaching UPS truck and frantically fanned the air to move Mike back. “What the fuck’s he doing?” The UPS guy laid on his horn.

  Mike slipped back at the last second and tucked in behind them. Tim could see him laughing. “That man is completely unhinged,” he told the others. “He’s out of his basket.”

  # # #

  Tim lay on his side on the couch like a sultan, having placed the whole six-pack on the floor for easy access. Winter Hill Lager. He was on his third, and it was still crisp and delightful, his gift to himself for clearing a hundred and fifty the night before. Halftime now in the Notre Dame game. He hated the know-it-all commentators regurgitating all the stats from the first half. Still, this was better than being forced to watch the real half-time show, the Notre Dame marching band. In Tim’s opinion, sports were the ruination of bands. He pitied all those earnest marching-band kids—the toneless, friendless, commonly fat teens with polyester thigh rashes, drawing their lips tight as assholes to mewl out crappy arrangements of dated, unloved songs and marching around to form wobbly alien crop designs. They would never know real music, never unfurl a great Sousa march, blow it into glorious existence.

  All the same, he kind of wished his son were in a marching band. It might be a step up in status for him. Miles was a musician’s nightmare. His mother had purchased for him an expensive keyboard he’d fancied, but he refused to take a lesson. “I want to play it my own way,” he’d said. But there are not multiple ideal ways to finger scales, Tim told him. Someone has already figured all of this out. Why reinvent the wheel? It was laziness. And Tim knew that the laziness was because of low self-esteem. This, finally, Miles hadn’t had to learn on his own. He had a virtuoso in the house.

  When his cell phone rang, he saw Sunny’s number, which he was expecting.

  “Hi, Sunny.”

  “I want these dogs out. Now!’

  “Oh, is there a problem?” He stretched to set his beer on the coffee table, but it tipped and puddled the glass. Then he just listened.

  “Miles!” Tim yelled after hanging up.

  Vinnie leaned out of the kitchen. “He’s out with Marie.”

  “Really?” Tim said.

  Vinnie studied the toppled beer. “Do you need something?”

  “I have to take Mum’s dogs to the shelter.”

  Vinnie looked at his watch. “I’m sure they’re closed by now.”

  “Yeah, but the lady needs them gone. I’m gonna have to leave them outside the shelter.” Tim pushed himself upright. “I thought maybe they could sleep in the basement here tonight, but they’ll bark nonstop and Mona won’t sleep, and then hell will relocate to my bed.”

  “You get the dogs. I’ll make them a nice bed in the basement, and I’ll stay with them until Miles comes home. We’re not telling Mona.” He gathered up Tim’s empties.

  “You know what? That’s a huge help, Vinnie.” Tim had to admit, the man was helpful; he kept a small footprint in the house and he entertained Mona. And as long as the couch was already occupied, then they absolutely had no place to put Tim’s mother when she was released from rehab.

  # # #

  In the truck, the dogs climbed him like a sausage lay in wait at the top of his head. Sunny had been quite cold to him, had stood at the door with her arms tucked while he corralled the dogs out onto the lawn. Then she announced that her Klopotek was very well acclimated to her house, thank you very much. “Yes, I think it’s ready,” Tim agreed. “I’ll check my appointment book and schedule a time with you.” The dogs had scattered in the yard and Tim wanted to just let them make their way in the world, but he knew they would run for the truck when he opened the door, and so they did. On the way home, he stopped to purchase a dog crate that would hold all three.

  Miles was on the stoop when Tim pulled up. The parking spot was again taken by the bar owners’ van. “Your mum still out?” Tim asked, as he lifted the empty crate out of the truck bed and set it next to Miles.

  “What’s gonna
happen while I’m eating dinner? They’ll bark their heads off.”

  “You’re gonna eat down there. I’ll bring it. You’ll turn off the lights and keep quiet.”

  “Dave told me to tell you he’s looking for you.”

  “Who’s Dave?”

  “Dave.” Miles nodded toward the bar.

  Tim had his hand on the truck door handle. “How did he say it?”

  “Sounded kinda mean.”

  Tim swung open the door, “Don’t worry about it.”

  # # #

  “Was Mona going to dinner with George?” Tim asked when he returned from the parking expedition.

  Vinnie paused in his sit-ups. “I don’t know,” he said in his wide-eyed dramatic way.

  “You want a turkey sandwich?” he asked Vinnie.

  “Turkey, yes, but no bread.”

  In the kitchen, Tim pulled out the sliced turkey and ate half of it out of the package. He wouldn’t have bread either. He’d lost eight pounds. He made Miles a big bready sandwich and wrapped it in a paper towel. When he opened the basement door, he saw his gangly son on a sleeping bag with three limp dogs atop him, one incessantly licking his neck.

  “Here you go,” Tim said and tossed down the sandwich bomb.

  “If these dogs didn’t pee or defecate, they would be awesome.”

  “Same goes for everyone.”

  Miles managed to prop himself up on his elbows without dislodging the dogs. “We never got a dog.”

  “You are our dog.”

  The boy happily nodded.

  Then Tim closed the door and left the house, headed down the driveway, and took a left, walking backwards away from the bar. When he reached the big block of Section 8 housing, it was time to make the call. God, Blondie’s voice was thrilling! Energy shot right up his spine. Zot! Rusty paraded down the centerline of the deserted street, fingering her silk underwear in his pants pocket, telling her more of what he’d discovered from Phyllis about the Mexican town they were both now dreaming of. He’d learned that it was so small they made public announcements over a loudspeaker, and that people rode their horses into town for certain delicacies sold right out of the casitas. Like there was a tortilla lady if you knew her door. There was a house for dried fruits that burst off your tongue. He stopped at one point, sat cross-legged on a lawn, and announced that she would determine the pace of their lives. She would be the rhythm setter, to which she gave a happy little cry of surprise.