by Sonia Taitz
“Where?”
“Inside me.” She sensed he’d wanted her to say that. “I told you, he’s jealous,” she pleaded.
“I’m jealous of him, inside you,” said Tim, moving to the other breast.
“Stop it!” said Abigail, blushing. His mouth was crazily good.
Tim’s eyes took in the thin layer of perspiration that moistened her face. He blew on it until the little hairs that surrounded it flew.
“Do you really want me to stop now?”
“Yes,” said Abigail, her voice soft and uncertain.
“OK fine.” He let her go abruptly. She felt dropped from a great height.
Abigail fixed her sweater, touched at her pearls, smoothed her hair. She knew he was annoyed. When he didn’t get what he wanted, Tim could be as peevish as a child.
“I do want to get closer to you,” she said, later that night, more open on the telephone. “But come on, it’s so strange. I’m pregnant.”
“It’s OK,” Tim responded. “We’re traveling into unknown territory. I have time. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet, anyway,” he added, teasingly.
Late that night, she got a call from the office. It was a young partner, Dave Biddle-Kammerman, his voice manic with significance.
“Get dressed and go to Newark,” he said. “You’re being sent to depose some witnesses in Grenada.”
She reared up a little in her bed. “I’m heading for Spain?”
“Not Gre-nah-da. Gre-nay-da. West Indies. You know the place where they had the invasion in the eighties? No? Well, anyway, your plane leaves in about two hours and forty minutes.”
“What happened?”
“Prop plane fell on some old lady’s house—not a native, of course, a greedy, litigious Brit. She’s suing for the loss of her house, well, the back part of it, her ‘conservatory’ she calls it, plus a couple of dogs—big dogs, show dogs, can’t remember the breed. And last but not least, she lost a leg. Not all of it, just from the mid-thigh or something.”
“Uh-huh. Whose plane was it?”
“It belonged to a son—I think Preston, or Parson, some P name with two syllables—of our own lucrative Mr. Cranebill, but it was a friend who was flying it. A new girlfriend. Kiki. The Six-Foot Hun, they call her. She’s been on the cover of Face magazine. How could Cranebill the Younger say no to her need for adventure?”
“Is she dead?”
“Yep. Kiki’s had the ultimate adventure.”
Mr. Cranebill was a fast-food entrepreneur. He was a wonderful client, doing not only all his trust and estate work with the firm (and with Abigail) but numerous pre-nups and post-nups for himself and his various grown children. Though never one to wince at the firm’s staggering fees, he was a stickler who would refuse to pay a penny that he viewed to be unfairly extracted from his fortune. Being sued by the Grenadian dowager after what was, most likely, an act of god—single-engine planes being, of course, notorious—was bound to engage Cranebill’s sense of challenged honor.
“We have to litigate this with vigor,” said Abigail excitedly. How wonderful to have a big case come up, just as she was moving up to partnership. She could also prove that the pregnancy was not slowing her down.
“With vigor is right,” said Dave. “The plaintiff is some kind of madwoman.”
“Are you coming, too?”
“No, can’t. My wife’s having twins this week.” After a telling silence, he said, “Look, I’ve paid my dues. Remember where Fudim sent me last year?”
It was somewhere in West Africa, and Dave had nearly been in a crash himself. And now he was the firm’s newest partner.
“You’ll be fine alone, Abigail. You’ve got the hunger.”
“I do?” She wasn’t sure all the time anymore. Sometimes, lately, she had noticed lapses. She had even begun to take senile little naps in her office, with the door closed.
“Sure you do. You’re a howling coyote.”
“Guess it is my chance to impress the old Fud,” she agreed.
“You want to make partner, don’t you?”
“I’ve got no time for rhetorical questions, Dave. I’ve got to pack for my trip to Granada.”
“Grenada. By the way, you’re flying WIS out.”
“What’s that?”
“West Indian Skies.”
“Never heard of them.”
“That’s good. That means they never crashed, ’cause then you’d have heard of them. It’s a local airline. Very reliable, safety-wise, if a bit on the late side. Don’t worry; you’ll get there in one piece, two pieces counting your kid.”
“I appreciate your wit. How long do you figure I’m staying down there?”
“Figure a week. Things move slowly down in the tropics. When are you due?”
“Mid-December. I really shouldn’t be flying much later than my eighth month.”
“Well,” said Dave, “as far as the case, I can’t tell you how it’s going to go. It might be quick and easy; I’m not sure. But if you’re not up to it—”
“No, I—”
“I can call Fudim and—”
“No, don’t. Dave, I’m really, truly up to it.”
“You sure?”
“Hey. I said I’m on my way.”
Abigail hung up, momentarily wondering whether it was a great idea for a woman in her seventh month to fly to the deep Caribbean. Googling it, she could see that Grenada lay almost as far south as Venezuela. This would be a trip of at least five hours’ duration, maybe six. Without tranquilizers this time; they weren’t safe for the baby. With this airline, the trip could take half a day, door-to-door, with her heart in her mouth.
Abigail had not been feeling at her best during the night. Cramps strong enough to wake her had gone on for about an hour, then subsided. She had been scared to go into labor, then been struck by the realization that in a short time she would do so whether she was scared or not. Maybe the trip would be just the thing to take her mind off these worries. And, as Dave had said: the more pressing and impossible her circumstances, the more she showed her partnership potential by doing the impossible. Or at least the horribly inconvenient and possibly life-threatening.
8
The turbulence started somewhere over the middle of the Caribbean Sea. Abigail was so scared she wanted to die simply to end the torture. The way the air currents took you, came upon you like a warlock and shook you, was a nightmare. It was a view of the dark face of life, horny crocodilian evil, ravenous and waiting to spring.
It was odd that Abigail’s examination, routine and constant over the past years, of air disasters had never dulled her fear. In every deposition she took, in each act of discovery, she still sensed the proximity of death’s trapdoor. There they were, people like herself, wearing penny loafers, picking at the chicken cutlet, eyeing the Scottish butter cookies, watching the movie. There they were, travelers, banally en route, and death was a bully, not letting them arrive. So, ya think you’re goin’ somewhere, do ya?
Of course, law was there to restore logic and order to, and provide compensation for, these nightmares. It graphed the horror, tucking it into folders much as the grave tucked in the bodies. But if it should happen to her, if the winds cracked her out of the sky—that was different, and no law would restore, specifically, her. Was there no one to appeal to about this? Well, God, of course.
Abigail prayed, as she had sometimes heard her father pray, “Our father, who art in heaven . . . thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” What did heaven have to do with her life? She had work to do, right now! But she was going to deliver a baby in two months, like it or not. God’s will was scary.
Abigail tried her mother’s prayer, “Sh’ma Yisroel, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.” The initial “sh” sound of the Hebrew was comforting, a sound her mother used to make when soothing her at bedtime. Shhh—it’s fine, just listen to the night, silent and velvety. Shhh. . . . And those words: “Listen, people: The Lord God? He is One.” What did that mean? That he, unl
ike all others, had no conflicts? That (unlike the overscheduled human) he could be and was everywhere, in the office, in the nursery, and even in the bone yard? One thing was sure: he had found a space to be between herself and a stranger, lost in the night. He’d sparked in the midst of that dark tryst with Richard. And he’d made them one, together, blended in this living child she carried.
Abigail turned the word “one” around and around in her mind as the plane pitched and vibrated. Breathing in and out, she thought of God spiraling around her, a bunting-cloth deity spun of cloud cotton. “One, one, one . . . .” As her breathing slowed, she felt her mother and her child embrace her and embrace each other. They circled around her and within. The rolling plane became a cradle adrift in a gentle, rocking universe. She slept. How odd, she thought, as she slipped into unconsciousness, how soft and strange the comfort, incapable of the burden of proof. Not needing logic.
Abigail arrived safely, processing once again the notion that the sure feeling of imminent disaster—at least in her case—meant nothing. She could return to the banal thoughts of the day. She quickly leapt up, grabbed a taxi, and sped to the hotel.
Her room was a sultry, exquisite surprise. At its center was a large four-poster made of glazed rattan, surrounded by potted areca palm trees. Above, a large mahogany fan rotated slowly, making the palm leaves vibrate. The floor was cool, polished terra-cotta. Stepping outside on the whitewashed balcony, Abigail inhaled the scent of bougainvillea, jasmine, and gardenia. A small green lizard skittered by, stopped, stared at Abigail, disappeared. She went back into her room to shower.
As she walked to the bathroom, she heard the rustling sound of an envelope being slid under her door. Opening it, she found a note from the local investigator retained by her firm.
Miss Abigail Thomas, Esq.:
Here’s what I know: A single engine Cessna turboprop crash-landed on the property of Evelyn MacAdam. She is the widow of spice millionaire Jock MacAdam, they settled out here near Pointe Saline in the early 60s. Mrs. M. lost her right leg below the knee, and her dogs, a male and a female about to deliver, had multiple internal injuries and had to be put down. (This has caused the lady to have something of a breakdown, although word around here is that that’s not unusual for her.) The garden full of rose and orchid specimens is ruined, not to mention the conservatory where she was trying to grow a hybrid of basil and rosemary (can you believe those were her dog’s names, too? Basil the boy, and the bitch Rosemary).
First impression is, I see nothing wrong with the plane other than the impact damage. You might find that surprising, given that I found it in pieces over a kilometer, give or take. I’m guessing our pilot knew nothing about hydraulics, tried to land it too quickly, let the wheels drop out. Then she couldn’t retract the wheels and couldn’t land in the proper time, and with no space for it as well, right on top of Mrs. MacAdam’s place. Yes, it was a girl, and the records I looked at show she had very little practice in flying even the single engine Cessna. Lucky the tank was nearly empty or there would have been no house left at all. Certainly no Mrs. M. to sue your client. But she survives, and she is suing. She has no living relatives.
Anyhow, I’ll be over at the bar in St. George’s all afternoon if you want to see me. I could take you to Mrs. M’s, whatever you like. Let me know.
Jackson (call me Jay) Moss, P.I.
Though it took a surprising hour and a half to get to the place, through winding roads crisscrossed by sleepy goats, Abigail’s driver needed no help finding “the bar in St. George’s.” Arriving there, Abigail was surprised to find that all the people sitting at the bar were Grenadians drinking bottles of local beer. The bar she had imagined was high-ceilinged, with air-conditioning and rich mahogany decor. This one was a tin-roofed shack, open on one side, with a few rickety tables and a counter at which the West Indians drank and smoked.
As Abigail entered, pregnant and sweaty in a pink shift and white leather sandals, they stared. She hoisted herself up onto an available bar stool and found some kind of balance.
“You drinkin’?” said the barman.
“Yes, please. What do you have without alcohol?”
“Hmm. What I have like that.” He seemed to be thinking.
“Give her a ting, man,” said a patron in a neon orange shirt. “She gonna like it for sure.”
Abigail didn’t know what that was, to give her a thing.
“I’m not positive I would,” she said.
“Don’t worry, it good,” said the barman.
A moment later, a fizzy grapefruit-flavored drink was placed before Abigail. This, she saw on the label, was Ting. It was good, and she did like it. The man with the orange shirt raised his beer bottle and smiled.
“Excuse me,” she found herself saying to him. “Do you happen to know someone called Jay?”
“Jay? Jay who?”
“Jay—it’s really Jackson—Moss.”
“Hmm,” said the man. “He from ’round here?”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure, really. He’s working here. He’s an investigator.”
“Oh yeah? What he investigatin’?”
“Well, it’s really privileged, uh . . . information,” she began, then, noticing the young man begin to turn away, she added, “I mean, I can’t tell you all the details, but I’m sure you heard about that plane crash over by the MacAdam estate?”
“Where you said that plane crash happen?”
“On top of Mrs. MacAdam and her dogs, basically.”
“I mean whereabouts? Here, in Grenada?”
“Yes, here, but I’m not sure of the exact location.”
“She white lady?”
“Yes, she’s Caucasian, that’s right.”
“OK, then, she must have been from St. Edward side. I don’t go there, but my sister work nearby, she might know something about it.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, she work over by the English people, the rich ones like you there by St. Edward’s side.”
Abigail chose not to explain that she herself wasn’t a “rich” Englishwoman, but rather a hardworking first-generation American lawyer who had put herself through school. She worried that they wouldn’t really see the distinction.
“What does she do?”
“My sister? What you think she do over there? She clean the house. Mind the children, all a that.”
Just then, a tall man, wearing a pressed white shirt and brown trousers with a neat crease, walked into the bar. He walked straight up to Abigail and grabbed her in a bear hug that nearly threw her off her stool.
“Good to see you! You found the place.”
“Mr. Moss?” said Abigail, wiping some sweat off her forehead.
“Call me Jay. Sorry to be late, friend of mine popped by a few minutes ago, and I was out on the street showing him my beautiful Harley motorbike. It’s for sale,” he said more loudly, “anyone here wants it?”
“Probably an old piece of junk if you sellin’ it, eh Jay?” said the man in the orange shirt.
“Well, it’s done good for me for the past ten years.” Jay looked at Abigail. “My god, girl, you are presently making a baby. No one told me that.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked defensively, to the sound of hearty laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” said Jay.
“You put her that way, man?” said a man in a knitted hat in red, green, and black power colors. “You workin’ overtime, eh?”
“We just met, you crazy?” said Jay. “Shut up now, Alfred!” Turning to Abigail, he said, more quietly, “Now, in your condition, I do wonder if you’ll be OK on the back of the cycle, huh?”
“On the way to Mrs. MacAdam’s, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s your means of transport?”
“Yeah, I’m worried about you now.”
“Don’t you have a car?”
“Take too long that way,” said Jay. “With the Harley we can just zip by.”
“Maybe she have the baby out there on the road,” said a dour, grizzled man, causing a new wave of laughter to erupt.
“I will not have the baby on the way,” said Abigail, feeling irritable. She was hot and tired, and the aforesaid baby was kicking her mercilessly. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Jay?” she charged the man in the orange shirt.
“This man? He Jay?”
“Actually, Ms. Thomas, they call me by a different name here.”
“What’s that?”
“They call me Big Whitey.”
“What? You’re African American.”
“Huh?”
Abigail suddenly remembered he wasn’t American at all.
“You’re black.”
Guffaws now. Jay waited until they subsided. Abigail flushed.
“Well, technically, I guess, yes, that’s my color, you could say. Although my grandma was white, British, too, like our Mrs. MacAdam, actually. But that’s not it, really. It’s just that I work so much with the white people, investigating about these islands and being so helpful and all.”
The man in the neon orange shirt snorted. Jay took it casually.
“Hey,” he said coolly. “Don’t be laughin’ about it! Is my job, you know!” Jay’s voice became lilting and “islandy” as he spoke.
“I see you’ve discovered the local drink,” he said, now addressing Abigail. “Have you had enough Ting?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Let’s leave then. Have a look at my bike, see if it suits you.”
She let herself slide off the bar stool. One of her feet was not only swollen but asleep. She shook it back to life.
“Goodbye, pretty,” said the barman.
“Not sure I like your choice of watering hole,” Abigail muttered on her way out.
“Sorry about all that,” said Jay. As they stepped outside, he added, “I pick up more talk at places like that than I do at swanky hotels. You get my meaning?”
“I guess so,” she agreed. “It is very authentic. And someone mentioned a sister who worked near the accident.”
“Yeah? Good info. Now let’s see if you can climb aboard.”