by Sonia Taitz
Jay stepped on his wide old Harley and pushed himself forward as far as he could. With some difficulty, Abigail swung a leg over the seat and sat behind him.
“Put your arms around my waist.”
“All right. Do I get a helmet, too?” Jay wore a silver one.
“Sorry. Reach back and open the storage box.”
Swiveling as best she could, Abigail found a smaller helmet, bright taxi yellow. She put it on, strapped it under her chin, and closed her eyes. She felt Jay kick down hard; she felt the engine roar, and then there was speed. Abigail bounced, the baby kicked, but despite the unusualness of the situation, she felt she was in safe hands as Jay drove her through the winding roads of southwestern Grenada.
9
Evelyn MacAdam’s home was large, breezy, and ramshackle. The ceiling fans, festooned with dust, were motionless; the abundant potted palms, brown; and the wicker furniture, cracked. The lady of the house seemed cracked as well. When Mr. Jackson Moss arrived with Ms. Abigail Thomas, Esquire (as they announced themselves, to Abigail’s delight), the dowager boomed out:
“Cora-Lee! Twinings! Prince of Wales!”
The maid, a girl who appeared to be in her late teens, stared at the unlikely pair of guests. Her eyes traveled from white little Abigail, about to pop a baby, to tall brown Jay and back. Mrs. Evelyn MacAdam yelled out more loudly, “You’re good for nothing, Cora!!”
“Yeh, I know,” said the maid, nonplussed. She was concentrating on the measure of Abigail’s stomach.
“You all want some water or somethin’?” she said finally.
“Yes, thanks, I’m parched,” said Abigail.
“You parched, what you mean?”
“She’s thirsty,” said Jay. “And I am, too. Hungry, too.”
“Didn’t ask you, though,” said Cora-Lee.
“Well, I asked you, then.”
“Yeh, you did,” said Cora-Lee, walking away.
Abigail looked around for a place to rest her legs. She decided on a worn settee, which seemed less likely to collapse than the two broken chaises that flanked it. It was made of dark, carved wood. A thin, hard layer of horsehair padded the seat, which was covered in faded, burgundy-colored velvet.
“Oof,” said Abigail. “This is like a rock.”
“Take what you get, eh?” said Jay, settling in beside her.
“Anyway, we’re not here to have fun,” she said, trying to agree.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Jay began, “I tend to like my fun and my work mixed up together, if you know what—”
Mrs. MacAdam whooshed in suddenly, her chariot an electric wheelchair. Jay’s mouth paused midword, agape, and Abigail nearly laughed with surprise at the theatricality of the moment. Mrs. MacAdam had an antic, simian look in her eye. If she were not a bag of bones, and wired as a chimp, she could have been beautiful. Her clothing draped about her in Grecian style, the diaphanous fabric printed with paisley and tied here and there with a knot. Her high-cheekboned head was crowned by a loose ball of hair in which a four-tined, fan-shaped tortoiseshell comb stood up. The hair and the wheelchair were the same color, polished silver.
“Hello, Mrs. MacAdam,” ventured Abigail.
“Lovely home,” said Jay.
“Lovely? That’s a damned, stenchful lie. It’s ruined. Why are you lying to me? What are you here for? Chitchat?”
“Not exactly,” Abigail allowed.
“Good!” said the woman. “My attorney’s not here, as usual, probably drunk. Don’t need him; he’s a nuisance. Gets in the way.
“Want to see my leg?” She bent down quickly, reaching into her skirts and pawing around for the stump. Something in the way she moved the leg indicated that she still had her knee joint, but not much else below.
“No, thanks—we know the facts of the case, the leg and—”
“Not ready for it, are you?” said the woman.
“I—I’d rather not look at your leg, at the moment,” Abigail said, clearing her throat. “It’s relevant, of course, but I’m sure the doctor who examined you has excellent records, and we’ll supply our own physician in due time. But to be honest, I’ve just had a long ride in the heat, and I’m not feeling—”
“Of course you’re not feeling! You don’t feel anything, do you, you lawyer?”
“Now, now—” said Jay.
“Look at you two, talking down to me just because you think I’m old and silly and harmless!”
“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, Mrs. MacAdam.”
“I can’t jump to anything, you hypocrites, and you know it!”
The woman hardly seemed harmless, thought Abigail. On the other hand, she reasoned, non compos mentis in a prime adversarial witness would be good for her client, Mr. Cranebill. How could anyone take this woman’s testimony seriously? Abigail watched with detachment as the harridan continue to rebuke them.
“. . . but still you manage to creep and crawl around the world, wanting to see the dirt of it,” Mrs. MacAdam was saying. “Gives you a tingle and a jingle, right, my good friends? There but for the grace of god, and all that?”
She gave a merry, horrifying smile in Jay’s direction. “So come on, you! You! Look at my leg; turn yourself on! I can even show you the part they tried to throw away—but I wouldn’t let them. It’s buried outside, wanna look?”
“You’re not English,” said Abigail, trying, with as much composure as she could manage, to change the subject from the woman’s stump. “They gave me the impression you were.”
“Shows what they know, huh? Just because I married a limey, does that make me love Marmite?”
“What’s that?”
“Forget it, you ignoramus. It’s a yeast spread. I’m from Bangor, Maine, and that’s in the U.S.A. Heard of that?”
“Yes, I’m from New York, but I did think—”
“You think too much, and where does it get you? My husband was a goddamned Tory. He thought all the time, plotted, weighed the pros and the cons. ‘What can I do for me, me, me?’ What a philosopher. But now he’s dead. See what I mean? And I’m alive and kicking.” She kicked with her good leg. “Still can’t jump, though. Can’t jump to all those conclusions.”
“What did he die of?”
“Shagging some whore on the rocky shore of Barbados.
Where you from? Barbados?” This was addressed to Jay.
“Originally I’m from Bermuda, but mostly I work in the West Indies, ma’am.”
“Bermuda. Very English. Very propah. What’s your work?”
“I investigate matters.”
“You look like you’re having a good time doing less than nothing in the so-called sultry tropics.”
“We’re professionals in our respective fields, Mrs. MacAdam,” said Abigail, “and although it is nice to be in Grenada, I’m here primarily to help straighten out the pertinent legal—”
“SHUT UP you big fat bull-crap slinger!” bellowed the old woman, as Cora-Lee came in with two tepid glasses of cloudy water.
“You’re even worse,” she said to her maid, taking one of the glasses. “Look, you can’t even count to three, you ninny. And this isn’t Prince of Wales. It’s maid’s water.”
“I go get another one for the gentleman,” said Cora, handing Abigail the second glass.
“Don’t you have any Sprite or something?” said Abigail. Noticing the maid’s uncomprehending stare, she added, “any Ting?”
“Why water is not anything?”
“I meant the drink, Ting, tell them, Jay!”
Jay was starting to laugh, but concealed it as a throat-clearing.
“Oh, just drink the water, girl,” he said. “You lucky you got yours so fast.”
Abigail put the glass to her lips. She took a big gulp of water and sighed with exhaustion.
“You’re good and knocked up, aren’t you, honey?” said Mrs. MacAdam, her tone still not quite human.
Cora-Lee, who had gone off to get Jay’s glass of water, turned back to listen.
“B
eg your pardon?”
“I’m not the one to pardon you, dear counsel, for your sins of indiscretion.”
Abigail spoke as calmly as she could: “How is my ‘indiscretion’ relevant to you?”
“You like to eat dirt. All lawyers do. Well, so do I, so we’re even!”
“All right, fine,” said Abigail, giving up on all sense. “But why Mr. Moss and I are here,” she said, reaching down into her briefcase and drawing out a yellow legal pad, her gold-plated Cross pen, and a mini tape recorder, “is to ascertain the facts of the case as they appear to you, the plaintiff.”
“All righty. You’re trying to get me some money. That’s fine and dandy.”
“Actually, your lawyer does that. I represent his adversary, that is, our client is on the opposing side.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? I mean you’ll help me get my money because the truth of this case is going to hit all you phony liars right between the eyes!”
With that, she raised her skirt and displayed her stump. It wasn’t so bad, actually. A blind end, healed over: clean, bald, and rounded.
“Now I do see,” said Abigail, gulping. “That must be—awful for you. But it may not be my client’s fault, legally speaking.”
She waited for Mrs. MacAdam to interrupt her with another outrageous concept or display, but for the moment, there was silence.
“Now,” Abigail continued, “My colleague, Mr. Moss, has explained to me that the unfortunate accident occurred roughly seven months ago—”
“Same as you, huh?”
“What? Oh, I see. My pregnancy. Well, I’ve come to see it as a blessing, actually.” The baby moved just then. Abigail made a small, surprised sound, and placed her hand gently down on the settling mound.
“I sure wouldn’t know,” she heard Mrs. MacAdam saying. “Never liked kids myself. Neither did Jock.”
“What I’d like to hear from you, to the best of your recollection,” said Abigail, re-gathering her business wits, “is what happened as the plane fell—it was a Cessna 208 turboprop, wasn’t it, that came crashing down onto your property, creating this cause of action?”
“How the dingleberries should I know what kind of plane it was? Jock used to have some kind of Piper, but that was a long time ago, and he’d use it to see the whores in Venezuela. He loved the way they’d yell out, ‘Ay! Ay!’ Such fakers. But anyway. This plane you’re talking about was a killer. Knocked me down, took the breath away! I thought I’d died! Didn’t feel any pain, though, ’til I saw my leg hanging off. And the bitch about to whelp.”
“Uh-huh, you mean the dog?” said Abigail, who had forgotten to turn on her tape recorder.
“There were two dogs, my Basil and my Rosemary. They were prize Rotties, thick as planks and worthless at anything but winning ribbons. But each one, mind you, could have gone for well over a thousand, and the bitch was expecting a large litter, by the look of her. But afterward, my, oh my! They were horrifying lumps of fur, black and red. My husband, Jock, he used to take everything to get stuffed. Hawks, lemmings, alligators, didn’t matter. But these dogs were roadkill. Nothing could be done. Had to bury them, along with my leg. Right next to Jock himself, they went.”
“You must have loved him very much,” said Abigail mechanically.
“Jock? Hated him! Never knew I was alive! Humping everything in sight—was he your father, too?”
This was directed to Jay.
“Thought you said he didn’t want children,” he answered.
“Not on purpose, he didn’t,” said the woman. “But as you know, sweetie”—she looked over at Abigail—“man proposes, but God disposes.”
“Well, maybe,” said Jay, “but I been told my father is Harling Moss. You can ask him; he lives up by the Beach Plum hotel out on St. Lucia. He bleaches the sheets there ’til they white enough for the guests.”
“You mean that ironically, of course, and you hate us whites; well, we’re not crazy about you either, hating us for being luckier than you.”
“And not all whites are consistently lucky,” Abigail reminded them sagely.
“Is that a fact?” said Jay, but pleasantly enough.
“I knew my share of poor white trash, young man,” said Mrs. MacAdam, nodding. “In fact, we were poor white trash! Ate nothing but pork rinds and lard sandwiches until I met my Jock—and a good thing he had an eye for a shagging then, or I’d still be frying Spammy burgers for my supper!”
The maid came in with Jay’s drink. It was a tall, cold glass of beer with a large head of foam. He took it with delight and, as he looked at her, drank deeply. He licked his lips, tasting the foam, as Cora-Lee winked quickly and disappeared.
“Oh, she wants you, baby,” said Mrs. MacAdam to Jay.
“Don’t they all,” he answered breezily.
“And then I fainted,” said Mrs. MacAdam, returning to her topic, the accident.” I think I had a dream of death while I lost consciousness, and it felt swell, I can tell you.”
“Then you came to, and what happened next?” Abigail prodded.
“Where was your girl?” added Jay, looking for an eyewitness.
“Cora-Lee? She was shouting and being ridiculous, and her friend next door, what’s her name, Minnie or Mimi, I don’t know, she was dabbing at my head with some eau de cologne, 4711 I think it was, nightmarish waking to it, and then the ambulance came, a broken down piece of crap, and some clumsy ox tried to lift me.
“Then we turned and saw this other person in bad shape, and he took her first, with another medic, and I saw a lot of blond hair fall out of a cap, and blood poured out of this person’s mouth, and I fainted again. I suppose that was the damned pilot.”
“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Abigail maturely. She had learned that this kind of moderation might well save a case. After all, perhaps the actual pilot had run away, and had nothing to do with her firm’s client? Perhaps the plane had been hijacked at the airport and the poor dead woman—Kiki, was it?—had merely been a hostage. Maybe she wasn’t even dead, but crawling right this minute through the bush. Litigators were good at creative supposition.
“You think someone else was flying the plane?” said Jay incredulously. “Didn’t your client say that his son’s girlfriend—?”
“Jay, please. It hasn’t been stipulated, so it’s not part of the record.” Abigail was proud of her detached professionalism. Nothing was true unless proved in a court of law, and anything was “arguably” possible. She was proud of her creative imagination. Usually a vestigial trait in the legal business, at times like this—alibi-making time—inventiveness, even a sense of fancy, could be quite critical.
“And where do you suppose your imaginary pilot is now that I’m suing the pants off your very real client? Taking tea on Jay Z’s yacht?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he is, maybe he’s not. It’s not my business to prove my theory, but to disprove yours.”
“Mine’s not a theory. I got knocked by a plane that had a huge stupid blond in it! And you’re going to pay, pay, pay!”
“No, I’m not. My client will—god forbid. And remember,” she added a bit sharply, “I’m an attorney. Whatever happens, I get paid.” Abigail was out of line, but she was tired of being harangued.
“Hoity-toity,” said Mrs. MacAdam.
“What about your botanical specimens?” asked Jay.
“Thanks for reminding me. Yes—that ought to be worth something. I was working on those specimens for the last ten years. Had florists and botanists and horticulturists from Holland to Haifa calling on me, spying on me, wanting to know.”
“Spying, you say?” said Abigail, thinking the diagnosis might now be paranoid schizophrenia. Witness impeachment would be a breeze.
“Yes. Spying. I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’d always wonder, how does she grow roses hardy as carnations and fat as peonies? How can she cross-pollinate rosemary and basil? They didn’t even know that I was planning to market that hybrid herb
to every pizza house in the U.S. and the U.K. Ha! Ha! ‘Basmary’ would have filled every shaker from Hawaii to the Hebrides!”
“Maybe they did know,” said Abigail, egging her on. Clearly, the woman had made this speech before, alliterations and all. It was useful to draw out all her delusions.
“How far did you get in your progress?” said Jay.
“Far enough. And if you ask me, someone wanted to have me stopped.”
“So you are suggesting that this plane crash was some kind of plot to get you, or your ideas?” Jay asked.
“Yes, sexy. But I’m not done yet.”
“You intend to start over?” said Abigail, with a trace of admiration.
“Not just yet. But once I collect from your deep-pocket client—didn’t think I knew that expression, did you?—then I’m going back into business. Except this time I’d like to cross cucumbers with peppers, because making salad with all those different things you have to chop and dice gets tiring. ‘Cupers’ will be the wave of the future.”
“Uh-huh,” said Abigail, with a fond, fleeting thought of dinners with Tim. All those caringly cooked vegetables. Then, pulling herself back to the moment, she jotted on her pad that they must argue that Mrs. MacAdam was incompetent and thus should not testify. This was wonderful. Plaintiffs who were old and disabled could get an inordinate amount of sympathy up on the stand. Juries seemed to think they deserved special treatment; they thought with their hearts instead of their heads. Who wanted some sweet old lady in a wheelchair, sobbing in the box about her doggies? Keeping her out of the jury’s way was critical. Even she, Abigail, representing the other side, would start to see things Mrs. MacAdam’s way if she had to listen to her much longer.
“Do you have an official report on your pain and suffering?” she asked dispassionately. “The—the mental-emotional aspects of your ordeal?”
“I’LL GIVE YOU MY PAIN AND SUFFERING!” the woman lashed out. And then she was silent, with her mouth pursed up like an anus.
“Thank you,” said Abigail in a small voice.
Mrs. MacAdam began again: “Oh, no, thank you! Do you think it’s fun to be in this hot, hot hell in a wheelchair? And that’s not all—I can’t take a swim anymore, and I reek of perspiration! Smell me! You don’t want to, huh? Sure, you don’t! I stink!”