Look Closely

by Laura Caldwell

  “I heard about your arb,” Paige said in an overly sympathetic voice. She advanced into the room, eyeing my clutter with disdain. “You win some, you lose some, I guess.”

  “I consider this a win.”

  Paige’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Of course,” she said soothingly.

  “What can I do for you, Paige?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to check up on you.” She said this as if she were babysitting a four-year-old in a sandbox.

  “Everything’s just fine, thanks.”

  “Getting ready for the partnership election?” She had finally stopped prowling and now stood in front of my desk.

  I didn’t ask her to sit. “Sure.”

  “Did you write the essay yet?”

  “What essay?” I said this to see if I could draw a reaction. Paige, two years my senior, was also up for partner this year, and she’d probably wondered, as I had, if she was the only one who had to craft such a silly document.

  “You weren’t asked to write an essay about what it would mean to be partner?” Paige’s face tightened, her eyes narrowed.

  I took a moment to think and draw out Paige’s confusion. “Oh, that thing,” I said at last.

  Paige recovered her composure. “Well, have you done it yet?”

  “Weeks ago,” I lied.

  “Really?”

  “You should get yours to Werner soon. I heard they’re taking timeliness into account.”

  Paige’s mouth formed a small O before it was taken over by a distrustful frown. Paige was always concerned that I was getting inside information from my father. “I better get going on that then,” Paige said.

  “Yes. You better.” I was too tired to spar anymore, so I glanced down at the documents on my desk. Luckily, she took the hint and left.

  I forced myself to ignore my sagging eyelids and continued to plod through the work on my desk. At twelve forty-five, I pulled out the McKnight file again, and began to get ready for the lunch meeting.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Sutter,” I heard Amy say. My stomach lurched.

  “Call me Will,” my father said, as he always did.

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  My father stepped into my office, and for a second, the sight of his silver hair, his kind eyes and his warm smile made me forget the last few days and everything I’d learned.

  “Welcome back,” he said. The smooth tones of his voice filled the office, carrying to all parts of the room. The perfect voice for a trial lawyer. He wore an olive suit with a creamy shirt and lightly patterned tie. His cuff links matched his tie clip, his brown loafers buffed to a high shine. He always dressed to perfection, even on weekends.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, nervous.

  He walked to my desk and held out his right hand. I grasped it with my left, and we squeezed. It was the greeting we had developed when I started working at the firm. We decided it wouldn’t be professional for us to hug in the office, and so the handclasp was our secret sign of affection. I held on a little longer than usual, not wanting to break the bond.

  “Anything wrong?” He looked down at our still-gripped hands.

  I let mine drop. “No. Of course not.”

  “Congrats on the arbitration award.” He sat on one of the chairs in front of my desk.

  Finally, someone who understood. “Thanks.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  This was our usual custom—rehashing a dep, a trial, a mediation. Picking over the testimony, deciding what could have been done differently, what other choices there were to make. My father agreed that Gary’s testimony had hurt, but nothing I could have done would have changed it. He liked my trial strategy, and gave me the names of some recent law-review articles that discussed intellectual property in the Internet world.

  This bantering of ours, this legal give-and-take, comforted me. I let myself get lost in it. I pretended that this was any other day.

  Too soon, our talk slowed.

  “Well,” my father said, “I better get going. I’ve got a settlement conference in half an hour.” He moved forward in his seat.

  “Dad,” I said, a little too loudly apparently, because he turned his head to the side ever so slightly, as if he’d heard a sound outside. It was a mild gesture to anyone unfamiliar with him, but I knew it as a look of wariness.

  He sat back in the chair and nodded, an invitation to continue.

  “I need to know something.” My eyes were down toward my desk, not meeting his. I forced myself to look up and saw him staring at my hands. I was uncurling a paper clip and twisting it around my finger. I dropped the clip and folded my hands together.

  “Dad…” Again I faltered, unsure what to ask him first. “Why didn’t you ever—” How hard it was to form a single coherent question from all those battling in my head.

  My father gave me another nod.

  “I need for you to tell me—”

  “Time for the meeting,” Amy said, sticking her head in the door. “Everyone is already in the conference room.”

  I exhaled. “I’ll be right there.”

  Amy left, and my father leaned forward in his seat. “What is it?”

  I shook my head. This wasn’t the time or the place. I couldn’t start and finish this conversation in five minutes.

  “Nothing.” I rose from my chair. “I need to get to that meeting.”

  My father stood, too. “You’re sure?” His forehead creased with worry, a look that meant he was concerned about me, that he probably wouldn’t sleep tonight.

  Whenever I’d had a rough spot in my life, or at least what I perceived as rough at the time—like when Rob Bradshaw asked someone else to the prom or when I failed to make law review by only a few points—my father got that look, and he wouldn’t sleep for days until I was over it. I would hear him walking around the house at night and the soft murmur of the TV. In the morning, I would find him in his study, the stacks of work telling me he had been at it all night. He wasn’t the type of parent to try and solve my problems. He offered advice if asked, and held my hand if I wanted, but he fretted and paced and stayed awake until I was back to normal. I hated to see him like that, hated that I caused his reaction, and yet his reaction was a silent gesture of love. I knew he would worry about me now. He would lay awake at night until I asked the questions or told him I was fine, but this time, the thought of his worry didn’t bother me as much. In fact, maybe it was a good thing, because it would force me to ask him the tough questions in order to erase it. Things would have to come to a head. It was time.

  I told him I would find him later, and he left my office with those worry lines still crossing his face.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” Magoo Barragan said as I walked into the conference room. Magoo, an olive-skinned man with wavy, dark brown hair, was standing by the buffet table with the four other attorneys that made up the cyber-law department. They were all choosing from the sandwiches and salads Amy had ordered. Unlike my office, this room had a view of the river. Outside the glass, the sun gleaming off buildings made me wish I was back on the stretch of sand behind Long Beach Inn rather than breathing the artificial air of a sealed room.

  “Magoo,” I said in a jokey, plaintive voice. “You know I love you, so why would I want to kill you?”

  He carried a sandwich to the table. “Then what are you doing giving me the Your New Home dep in Delaware and dragging me into this McKnight monstrosity?”

  I’d left him a voice mail earlier, officially asking him to help on McKnight.

  “I need you desperately,” I said. I put the files down on the table and walked over to the buffet.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I heard Magoo say behind me. “All the women in this firm need me.”

  As I helped myself to a turkey sandwich and a scoop of pasta salad, I greeted the other attorneys. Ellis Radwell, a tall, African American man two years out of law school, was loading his plate full of food and said, “Hey, Hailey,” through a mouthful of potato chips. Ellis was an excellen
t lawyer and an even better writer. I knew the McKnight trial would require extensive motions and briefs, so normally I would seek his help, but Ellis’s wife had recently given birth to their first child, and I felt bad asking too much during this time. McKnight was going to require some very late nights.

  I talked with the three other associates, trying to decide who would be the best to help on the case. Michelle Headly, or Mickey as we called her, was the youngest of the bunch, coming up on her one-year anniversary at the firm. A beautiful, fair-skinned woman who didn’t seem aware of her good looks, she was eager to take on any work, but I needed someone with a little more experience. That left Natalie Decker, a true New Yorker with a very serious demeanor, or Jim Siderski, a jovial, football-loving guy. I preferred Jim, since we would all be spending a lot of time together, and Jim tended to make things fun, but Natalie had extensive intellectual-property experience that would be invaluable. As I picked up a fork—real silver here at Gardner, State & Lord no plastic stuff—I asked Natalie to help out.

  “Whatever,” Natalie said, sweeping her blunt-cut hair out of her face. That was Natalie’s reaction to everything: whatever. It seemed that after living in this city all her life, nothing could impress, nothing could shock.

  That decision made, I took my seat, and after we chatted, I briefed them on the McKnight case, the work that Magoo, Natalie and I would need to do in the next month and the overflow of cases the others would have to pick up. With the exception of Natalie, they all jumped in with suggestions and insights, and I came out of the meeting feeling as if we had a plan. It would be crazy, but we would get it done.

  Back in my office, I called Beth Halverson at McKnight headquarters to update her, then closed my door.

  “Amy,” I said over the intercom, “can you take my calls for a while? I want to get some work done.”

  I turned off my ringer. I didn’t like lying to Amy, but I wasn’t about to tell her that I was trying to track down the brother I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years.

  I had already called Santa Fe information when I was at the Long Beach Inn. Now I logged on to the Internet. I typed the name Singer into the online Santa Fe phone book and found that the Singers took up almost a whole page. There were listings for David Singer, Don Singer and Dierdre Singer, but no Dan.

  Next, I ran a people search on the Internet and came up with a list of twenty-one Daniel Singers around the country. Of course, there were probably many more that didn’t appear on that list for one reason or another, but it was a place to start. I printed it out and began to call each one. I reached a number of unhelpful people who hung up shortly after telling me that I must have the wrong person. A few times I got voice mail, and listened to the voices of the men who identified themselves as Daniel Singer. Most I could rule out because of certain accents or a gruffness that told me they were much too old to be my Dan. On the few that might be possibilities, I left a message with my name and office phone number. My brother would recognize the name, and I couldn’t believe he would ignore me after all these years.

  Once I had gone through the list, I felt no closer to finding him. I doubted somehow that he was one of the men I’d just called. I sat still at my desk, thinking over the possibilities. He had been in New Mexico the last time he wrote Della, and for some reason, I felt he might still be there, far away from the Midwest. I pulled up the Santa Fe phone book on the Internet again and began to go through the Singer listings once more, this time calling each one, no matter what the first name, to ask if they were related to Dan Singer. Many weren’t home and the ones who were didn’t know a Dan Singer with sandy-blond hair who’d be in his late thirties.

  I had called more than half of the Singers in Santa Fe and was about to give up, but I made myself finish calling the rest of the list. Follow every avenue, every lead. Look under every rock. My father had told me this when I first started practicing, when every case seemed too difficult to handle. Keep fighting, he would tell me. You have to simply keep slugging.

  So I did. There were two listings for S. Singer. I called the first one and reached an older woman who was anxious to be helpful and clearly lonely.

  “I don’t know any Daniels in my family,” she said, her voice wavering, “but I knew a David. He was my brother-in-law.”

  “Okay, well, thanks for your time,” I said, but the woman wouldn’t let me go.

  “I fancied David more than my Louis if the truth be told,” she said. “Never told anyone that before.”

  I doubted that. I listened to another minute of the woman reminiscing before I excused myself.

  A few more calls, I decided, looking at the silver clock on my bookshelf. It was five o’clock already. I needed to do a few more hours of work before I met Maddy for dinner. I dialed the number for the other S. Singer.

  After four rings, a woman answered, out of breath.

  “Hi,” I said quickly, going into the same spiel I’d been giving everyone. “My name is Hailey, and I’m looking for someone named Dan Singer. Late thirties, sandy-blond hair, grew up in Michigan—”

  The woman laughed, a harsh sound. “Did he meet you at a bar?” Her voice had a tired, resigned quality to it.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is that where he met you? A bar or something?” the woman said.

  “Oh, no.” My thoughts bounced from confusion to elation that I might have found someone who knew Dan. “I didn’t meet him. I mean, I have, but it was a long time ago. But—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the woman said, cutting me off. “It’s not important. What is important is our daughter, who he was supposed to pick up on Saturday, over two weeks ago. Did you know he had a daughter named Annie?” The woman’s voice bordered on angry.

  “No. I didn’t. I—” I stopped short. Saturday, over two weeks ago. The night Caroline disappeared.

  “Well, he does,” the woman continued, “and she’s still waiting for the bastard to call. So if he didn’t call his daughter, do you think he’s going to call you?”

  “Look, I’m an old friend from the Midwest,” I said. I spoke fast, not wanting her to hang up. “I haven’t seen Dan in a very long time. If you could just give me his phone number, I’ll make sure to have him call Annie when I find him.”

  “He’s hopeless. Don’t waste your time, girlfriend.”

  “It’s not like that.” I could hear the pleading tone in my voice. I was desperate now for some real information. “If you could just let me know his address even.”

  “He’s in Albuquerque now. And if you find him, you can tell him he’s an asshole.” And she hung up.

  I replaced the phone on the receiver, my head buzzing. Dan hadn’t shown up two Saturdays before, the same day Caroline disappeared. And I was an aunt. I had a niece in Santa Fe named Annie.

  15

  I pushed through the crowd at Veronica’s, one of my favorite restaurants in the neighborhood, a dark, cozy place decorated with wood and warm colors of wine and mustard.

  “A Stoli and tonic with lemon,” I said to the bartender, throwing my jacket over a tall stool.

  I was early, but I wanted to get a drink, to sit silently at the front bar for a moment. I knew when Maddy got here, there would be no quiet. These regrouping sessions, as Maddy and I called them, were the closest thing to therapy I had in my life. Maddy would spend hours with me deciding whether I should cut my hair one inch or two, whether I should shop for a condo or continue to rent, whether I was really depressed or just had PMS. I would do the same for her. She was the nearest thing to a sister I had found.

  The minute I sat down, though, with my back to the door, I felt uneasy, as if I could be watched without knowing it. I tried to convince myself that the feeling I had lately of being observed was just paranoia from my overloaded mind. But I couldn’t shake it, so I moved from my stool to another at the end of the bar where I could see Maddy when she came in. Or anyone else.

  The bartender slid a thick, frosted highball glass in front of me. I
took a long sip, letting the cool bitter of the vodka and the sweet tang of the citrus slide down my throat. After my drunken night in Woodland Dunes, I swore I would never drink another drop of alcohol again, but like other such promises, it had fallen away.

  I stared down at the dark wood bar, thinking about the woman on the phone who’d clearly been my brother’s wife or girlfriend. She’d said that Dan hadn’t picked up his daughter last Saturday, the same day Caroline disappeared from Charleston. She hadn’t heard from him since.

  When I called Albuquerque Information, I had received a listing for Dan Singer in that city. I copied the number down, as well as the address, and I called the number at least ten times, but there was no answer. Not even a machine.

  I was scared suddenly, more scared than I had ever been. It was as if I’d just realized that for my whole life I had stood on sand that was packed hard. Not a solid-rock foundation, but one that allowed me to walk and go about some semblance of a normal life. But after rummaging into the past, the sand had blown about and disappeared, until I felt there was precious little to stand on anymore. If I didn’t have my father, my love for him, my belief in his goodness and judgment, most of that remaining foundation would be gone. It left only Maddy and whatever I had inside me.

  I heard a call and saw that Maddy had entered the bar. I swiveled on the stool and fell into her hug. I held on longer than usual.

  “You all right?” I heard Maddy ask, her words muffled by my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I said, releasing her.

  “You’re sure?” Maddy’s hazel eyes squinted as if trying to read my face. Her dark curly hair was pulled back, a few tendrils escaped at the sides of her face. She wore a lilac suit, cut snug to show off her curves.

  “Let’s get a table. I’ll tell you the whole saga.”