Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  The two broke eye contact as Judge Moore’s pen tapped sporadically. Permitting Myles a moment to collect himself, Moore then signaled the bailiff to allow the others reentry.

  Leila again sat beside Myles, but he did not look at her.

  Moore spoke up. “Unless anyone has anything further they would like to add, I have Mrs. Greene’s written recommendation and sufficient supplemental information on which to base my decision.”

  No one came forward.

  “Good, then. I will hand down my ruling by the end of the day. You may check back with the clerk between four and five o’clock.”

  ~

  Myles, Leila, and Feinberg met for lunch a few buildings down from the courthouse. No one spoke about the hearing. No one speculated on the outcome. Myles observed Leila as she picked at her food. He found his own sandwich to his disliking but did not make an issue of it.

  Feinberg wiped his mouth. “I can stick around if you’d like, but Myles, you already know how to decipher all the legal gobbledygook.”

  “We’ll manage.” Myles smirked. “And make sure you turned off your time clock when we left the courthouse.”

  Feinberg ignored his cantankerousness, as usual. “We’ll talk later.”

  Setting her fork aside, Leila slipped her hands beneath the table. She stared at Myles who stared back. With a raised brow, he invited her to divulge her thoughts.

  She said, “I felt like it went pretty good on my end. How did it go with you?”

  He glanced at his roast beef. “It’s hard to say.”

  “Come on, what did he ask about? I mean aside from the usual uncomfortable questions.”

  “Actually, most all of the questions were uncomfortable.”

  “Did he ask why you don’t have a girlfriend?”

  Myles shot back, “Did he ask why you don’t have a boyfriend?”

  Leila smirked. “Your answer is in your evasion of the question.”

  “So it is.”

  “So, why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “My observably flawed personality should make that obvious. At any rate, that is not a subject open for discussion.”

  She frowned.

  Wiping his hands with the napkin, he suggested, “There’s a musical instrument store next door. Let’s go kill some time.”

  After a lengthy perusal of what the local music store had to offer, they headed back to the courthouse at near four o’clock. Ten minutes later, they sat in Myles’ Volvo with a large envelope. His heart beat faster than he expected, almost as fast as those other times—too many times—when he had received unfavorable rulings. He steadied his breathing.

  “You open it,” Leila said.

  Lifting the flap, Myles pulled its contents. He read under his breath. “In the case of Leila Sanders …,” he mumbled through a string of legalese and finally looked at her, his suppressed smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Say hello to your legal guardian.”

  Leila’s eyes filled with tears. “Please tell me I don’t have to move in with you!”

  “No. You do not. It’s basically exactly what Mrs. Greene recommended, with my stipulations included.” He now translated from the document, “… the state finds you competent and capable of dwelling independently. You and I must reside separately. I am awarded legal guardianship, including, but not limited to financial responsibility.”

  He continued reading in a monotone, “Said minor—you—must abide by the petitioner’s stipulations cited herein. A representative of Child Protective Services will pay monthly visits to ensure compliance with all stipulations … You must receive biweekly counseling sessions with a therapist assigned by the court—petitioner must accompany said minor … every other session for family counseling—What?”

  “Ha! You have to get therapy too!” Leila laughed. “Oh, this is so perfect.”

  He reread the last sentence and shook his head.

  She continued laughing. “So does this mean I get to call you Clarence, now?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Her laugh turned to a frown.

  He snorted. “Maybe after graduation.”

  The corners of her mouth inverted. “Thank you so much. I’m truly grateful.”

  “Don’t get all emotional on me.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  They sat quietly for a moment and he added, “I think it would be good if we kept our arrangement confidential.”

  “Okay. But I’m going to tell Kyle. He’s trustworthy.”

  “That’s fine.” He looked at her and hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I’ve also been thinking—there’s really no need for you to keep your job. I’d like to cover your expenses so that you can concentrate on school.”

  “No way!”

  “If you want to keep your job, that’s fine, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your school work. Just the same, I’d like to see you put the money in a savings account. There’s no reason why you should have to feel pressured about money.”

  “Mr. Myles, I would feel really weird taking money from you. How about we leave things as they are, and if I run into any unusual expenses or I can’t buy groceries, then the social worker can let you know.” She smirked. “Or we could bring it up as an issue in family counseling.”

  “Don’t be unreasonable, Leila.”

  She stared him down. “Don’t step on me, Mr. Myles.”

  “Just how hard are you going to fight me on this?”

  “All the way! You know as well as I do this arrangement is more formality than anything. I’m self-sufficient. Don’t try to take that away from me.”

  “I don’t want to take anything away from you, Leila. I want to add to what you have. Can’t you see that?”

  “You have already provided me with more than I could ever ask for—my independence. You are the first real man I have ever been able to count on. If I need you, I really feel like I could come to you with anything. But in reality, my needs are pretty few. Please don’t tell me this is news to you.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  She looked at him, her eyes glassy. “Clarence, you’re the kindest man I know.”

  Her tenderness played at his own emotion—rather than give in to it, he stated, “I told you not to call me Clarence.”

  “I know.”

  Myles exhaled. “Let’s get you home.”

  When he pulled up in front of her place, she asked, “So, what are we going to do to celebrate?”

  “What—you want a party or something? I’m sure there would be lots of people who would love to attend that. Why don’t we start by inviting the school board?”

  “Very funny. No, I was thinking you could invite me over to your house for dinner.”

  As much as the notion appealed to him, he said, “Now you’re being funny.”

  “I’m serious. We could invite Kyle, and I could fix the three of us dinner.”

  “While all that sounds very cozy, that’s simply not a path we’re going to head down.”

  “So, our new arrangement is pretty much all one-sided?”

  He didn’t care for the sound of one-sided, but he held his ground. “If you were hoping for more than that, you should have negotiated it into the contract.”

  “Am I ever going to get to know you, Clarence Myles?”

  “If I allowed that, I would only be setting you up for disappointment. So let’s just leave things as they are. Alright?”

  “So, no celebration?”

  “How about I give you fifty bucks, and you can take Kyle out to dinner.”

  Leila rolled her eyes. “I told you, I don’t want your money.”

  “I know, I just thought that might be some sort of consolation prize.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not.”

  “You see? Already I’m disappointing you.”

  Leila sighed through a frown. “Okay. Well, I guess then I’ll just see you on Monday morning as usual.”

  “That sounds a
bout right.”

  “Okay then. Thanks for the lift.” She opened the car door. As she pulled herself out, she offered a lame smile.

  Myles reciprocated and watched her walk away. A perplexing sadness came over him. Leila turned before heading up the staircase. Her wistful smile as she waved tightened his throat. He had not known what to expect, but sadness was not what he had imagined. Driving away, exhausted and emotionally skinned, he wanted only to be at home.

  ~

  Clarence Myles drove through his tree-lined neighborhood and pulled into the driveway of his Arts and Craft style bungalow. Stepping onto the veranda, he selected the house key from his ring. As he entered through the heavy oak door, an old, gray tabby cat greeted him with a trill, informing him he was late. She extended her declawed paws halfway up his trousers. Setting his paperwork on the entrance table, he lifted the half-blind, rescue-shelter cat onto his shoulder.

  “Okay George, time to eat.” He stroked her back while she kneaded his shoulder and purred loudly in his ear. In the kitchen, he set her on the floor. At the sound of the can opener, she wound herself around and between his legs until he placed the food before her.

  Today he would forgo his cup of hot tea. Given the hour and the day he’d had, he poured a glass of Pinot noir and placed Sergei Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto no. 3 on the turntable and boosted the volume. Sinking into his leather armchair, he waited for George.

  Low ceilings and red oak woodwork provided a warm backdrop to his austere Mission style furniture. His leather chair contrasted with luxurious comfort. Window blinds allowed maximum privacy. Well-placed floor lamps lent ambient light.

  George hopped into his lap. After satisfying her minimal feline need for attention, he headed to the kitchen. Strips of bacon fat seared in a casserole on the range as he cut, rinsed, and dried chicken quarters. After lightly browning the meat, he poured a healthy douse of cognac atop it. As bubbling amber liquid spread around the meat, he tipped the skillet, and the flame engulfed its contents. The aroma filled his senses. Heavy and sweet.

  Although pragmatic and mathematical, Myles fancied himself somewhat artistic—an appreciator of art, collector of music, player of the saxophone—but cooking was his passion, and tonight he would regale his senses in Coq au Vin.

  While dinner simmered, he set the table. Plate. Fork. Knife. Spoon. Cloth napkin and water glass. Clarence Myles maintained the habit of civilized dining as a major holdout in the abandonment of decorum to which he could easily succumb, already evident in his rebellion against daily shaving. To give up the civility of fine dining was to edge one’s way toward complete barbarism, though he justified his lax grooming as recalcitrance against stuffy white-shirted bureaucrats. Besides, it was not that he didn’t shave regularly.

  Every Saturday and Wednesday evening, he pulled the straight razor from his medicine cabinet, lathered up for his twice-weekly close shave, and donned a fresh-pressed shirt. Both evenings he crossed over from Long Island to Greenwich Village. At his favorite jazz nook, he awaited the sultry voice that soothed him like nothing else. Yet it was not just her voice but her company—her attention that he craved.

  Twyla always joined him between sets and afterward. She indulged him with smiles, nearly as rare as his own. Voluptuous and black, her beauty was both in her countenance and facial features. Her dark eyes had lost some spark over the years, but they each understood heartache and shutting pain out, even if it meant pushing people away; though she never pushed him away. They didn’t talk about anything in particular—in fact she did most of the talking. Myles wondered if the divergent nature of their worlds provided each with the anonymity they craved. Originally, he considered it a relationship of little consequence, but over the years, he had grown more than fond of her. Twyla didn’t divulge much about her marriage, but she withered when her husband would pick her up from the club, and it made Myles’ heart ache. Yet that was better than feeling nothing at all.

  Myles always left the lounge alone. He usually landed in his driveway just after one am, making his Thursday mornings in class a little more difficult.

  That was Clarence Myles’ Wednesday night routine.

  Saturday morning started out with sleeping in and then grading Friday’s math quizzes, followed by an afternoon nap, a light dinner, ‘the shave’ and subsequent drive to the city.

  On Sundays, he undertook another gastronomical challenge—Beef Wellington would not defeat him—and then spent the remainder of his day playing saxophone.

  Aside from the legal papers now lying on his hallway table, he did not imagine that anything in his life would change.

  Chapter 26

  Waiting rooms never had any decent magazines, unless one found the lives of celebrities fascinating. Leila did not. She had met more than a few over the years but didn’t realize their elevated status until she was older; they all seemed pretty ordinary to her.

  She browsed the reading heap for something even remotely recent. A March edition of Good Housekeeping promised to help her with spring-cleaning, but in the dead of February, that was her least concern. She scanned the room, her sights landing upon a wall of pamphlets. Mental Illness and You. Now, that looked interesting. Alone in the room, Leila didn’t hesitate to get an up-close view.

  Standing before the rack of the half-dozen titles, she paused at Manic-Depressive Disorder. As she read an almost exact description of her father, the door to an adjoining room opened. Leila folded the leaflet and tucked it in her pocket. The woman extended her hand.

  “I’m Dr. Jennings. You must be Leila.” She offered a smile that deepened the creases around her eyes and mouth. “You may call me Valerie if you’d like.”

  Leila took her hand. At least it wasn’t limp—though she didn’t know why she expected that. Perhaps it was the woman’s soft voice and her soft grayish-blue eyes. Even her sandy hair, which curled loosely over her ears, appeared soft. Leila had expected at least a suit—a sweater did not fit the profile.

  Leila didn’t intentionally withhold a smile, she simply had nothing to offer. In fact, she didn’t want to be there at all.

  As they entered the small office, Dr. Jennings said, “Please, sit wherever you’ll be comfortable.”

  Leila centered herself on the sofa and folded her arms. Jennings sat in an overstuffed chair, opposite her. When Leila glared at the notepad and pencil on her lap, Jennings set them aside. She tilted her head. “Have you ever been in therapy before?”

  “No.”

  Jennings said nothing. It would be a very long and boring session if she was waiting for Leila to start things off. Finally the doctor spoke.

  “How do you feel about Mr. Myles sitting in on your next session?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Kathy Greene’s report states the two of you have a unique relationship.”

  Leila frowned. “So how much do you already know about me?”

  “Would you like to have a look at your file?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to know what I’ve gathered?”

  “If you’re planning on telling me, just say it.”

  “I think you are a determined young woman who has developed some very efficient coping mechanisms.”

  “What do you mean by efficient?”

  “Functional and effective, especially in situations that call for an immediate reaction, such as the death of your father and some of the other recent issues. I think you’ve done remarkably well.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Perhaps you would like to further develop your skills—round them out and expand them a little—possibly anticipate and diminish some of the long-term fallout that is often the result of trauma.”

  “I haven’t been traumatized.”

  Jennings nodded. More silence. “Tell me, do you have any hobbies?”

  Leila rolled her eyes. “I run.”

  “You enjoy running.” It was more of an acknowledgment than a question.

  “Yes,” L
eila retorted. “Otherwise I wouldn’t do it.”

  “I started running when I was your age. I still do.”

  “Why?”

  “I like the solitude—being alone with my thoughts. I also like the physical exertion. As I’m sure you already know, it’s very helpful in dealing with stress.”

  Find common ground. That must be the first thing they teach at shrink school. Leila did not want anything in common with her therapist. She simply wanted their time to run out. Just throw her something—anything.

  “I draw,” Leila offered.

  “What medium do you prefer?”

  “Watercolor and pencil.”

  “How would you describe your artwork?”

  “Meticulous and controlled.”

  “Oh. Why that particular style?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, think about it. Who controls your brush?”

  Leila would have rolled her eyes, but the notion all at once occurred to her. “Me.”

  “And what else in your life do you ultimately control?”

  “Very little. I guess my paint and brush are the only things I have exclusive control of. So that’s what I do. I control them to the extreme.”

  “Have you ever shown your work to anyone?”

  “Just my art teacher. I don’t paint for other people, I do it for me.”

  “Is there anyone you might enjoy sharing your work with?”

  “Yes.” Leila had no intention of getting into all that.

  Jennings smiled, “But you’d rather not tell me who he is.”

  “Why do you assume it’s a he?”

  “I don’t know, just an intuitive impression. Therapists tend to be that way.”

  Leila’s gaze dropped to her hands as she dug at some viridian hue that stained her thumb cuticle. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  Her therapist said nothing, and Leila withheld on principle.

  Jennings spoke up, “Mr. Myles—”

  “It’s not Mr. Myles!”

  Jennings smiled and she began again, “What I was going to say, is that Mr. Myles is scheduled to join us for our next session. Are there any issues you’d like to cover?”

  “We pretty much cover all our issues outside of therapy.”