Great With Child

by Sonia Taitz

  Thanks to Dave, Mr. Fudim now knew that the weakest link wasn’t Jackson but rather the firm’s own seventh-year associate. Jackson might have broken ranks and sent the camera to the old lady, but it was more likely that he’d simply sent it to Abigail, from whom he took direction. So it was Abigail herself who must have gotten word of this material evidence—or, worse, the evidence itself—to Evelyn MacAdam.

  All along, Dave had stressed, Abigail had been sympathetic to their adversary. After all, both he and Fudim had heard her imply that she “felt” for her. This kind of sentiment, these “feelings,” while acceptable in their place (at home), had no place in a law firm. It was inexcusable, even if, as they both knew, it was brought on by the destabilizing hormones of pregnancy and motherhood.

  If Abigail Thomas could be blamed for losing the case, Fudim might now offer Cranebill some financial incentives to stay with the firm, some discounts on the billables. Naturally, he would assure his client that Ms. Thomas would no longer be working on his account in any capacity. If Abigail quit on that note, so much the better. Firing her would only raise her profile as a wronged woman. Some maverick Yalie straight out of law school could take her on as a poster girl for mother’s rights.

  There was an even better way to send her out the door to legal oblivion. They could tell her that they had decided, in light of the firm’s current financial troubles, not to make her a partner. She would have to accept that; there had never been any guarantee. They would then kindly suggest that she look at smaller firms, or perhaps take a position as in-house counsel to a minor corporation. Such jobs provided better hours for working mothers and might be ideal for her in the long run. “Up or out” was firm policy. They really had no provisions for disappointed associates—especially those who felt sorry for all the legless widows of the world.

  Something just like this had happened to Richard Trubridge, Fudim remembered. He’d had a great career until he’d switched sides in the middle of a custody suit. Trubridge had claimed he “could not ignore” evidence brought to his attention: that the Fletcher, Caplan client—the father in question—was a bigamist, with another family upstate. (The other wife had called him collect from Troy; the records were plain.) Trubridge himself had disclosed this ruinous information to the judge. But it went beyond that. Not only had Richard Trubridge not been penitent; he’d gone and reported some of the partners to the bar association for “suppression of evidence,” as though he himself were ethical judge and jury.

  Fudim knew the bottom line: it was good to see the back of the “goody-goodies.” Such people really had no business becoming lawyers.

  Once Fudim had settled on his strategy, it was time to call Dave Biddle-Kammerman in. He lifted a cigar from his humidor and decapitated it.

  “Say, do you want one of these big boys?” he said, offering Dave his first official partner’s smoke.

  “Thought you’d never ask,” said Dave, so moved that his hands shook as he took the prized Cohiba.

  “I’ll tell her she won’t make it here. This is no place for pantywaists,” Fudim said to his protégé. Leave them to traipsing around kiddie parks, he thought. Rumors reaching Fudim had suggested as much about the late, great Richard Trubridge. He was said to be haunting city playgrounds like a perv. Sad.

  “Will you actually say ‘panty-waists’?” Dave laughed. “Isn’t that an archaic turn of phrase? And somewhat sexist?”

  “I know! But just between you and me and the doorpost, that Trubridge kook and this girl we’re discussing, they’re both pantywaists of the first order. Am I right?”

  “Yes, you are!”

  “I mean, all terms come from somewhere, OK? Someone must be wearing big granny panties! And I’m thinking, for starters, old MacAdam—”

  “Of course—” Dave reached for Fudim’s big lighter and flicked it.

  “And Mr. Dickhead Sell-Your-Firm-Out—”

  “Natch,” puffed Dave, trying not to cough. “No question Richard Trubridge is also a prominent wearer.”

  “And their ranks are now joined by our darling young Ms. Thomas.”

  “To whom we will now say goodbye.”

  “In the kindest possible way.”

  Having resolved not to directly fire Abigail Thomas, but merely to pass her over for partnership (which would amount to the same), Fudim could wait until she decided to come back to the office. There was no point calling her in and sending her into hysterics, only to send her back out to some kind of permanent leave.

  Privately, Fudim felt sorry for the kid; she’d had some spunk, some drive, some good ideas. And she could work her tail off! But lawyers like him couldn’t keep her in the clubhouse. Smart young things with a compulsive work ethic came off the ramp every day lately. But a client like Cranebill? A goldmine? Once a decade, maybe.

  33

  But matters with that annoying associate just wouldn’t stay put. As soon as Bertram Fudim had set his mind at ease about his recommendation in re Abigail Thomas, his secretary patched through a call from Grenada.

  “Oh, god, I thought we’d settled this,” he groaned. Wasn’t it enough that the old coot was about to win the case?

  “Not in the slightest,” rasped the voice of Mrs. MacAdam. “New information keeps pouring my way. I’ve got pictures printed and nicely blown up here that make your client look like the idea-stealer of the century. He’s probably growing cucumber-peppers right now!”

  “No, he isn’t” said Fudim. “He happens to be in New York City, getting wined and dined by one of my finest associates.” And hopefully learning to forgive and forget—as long as they got rid of that viper in their midst.

  “Which associate do you mean? That wonderful girl you sent?”

  “No, no,” he laughed. “Abigail Thomas? No chance Fertile Myrtle will ever see Cranebill again.”

  “What happened to her? Did she have the baby?”

  “What do you think? Of course she did.”

  “Girl or boy?”

  “I don’t know! Girl, I think. Call her up and ask her.”

  “What’s her number?”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t know!”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t she still working for you?”

  “Leave of absence, maternity.” Fudim thought it was strange and unorthodox, chatting like this to a former adversary, but something about the Thomas situation annoyed him so much he didn’t care. How had an emotional young mother and a daffy old dame gotten him into this fix? Thank goodness he could get out of it.

  “She was a very interesting girl,” Mrs. MacAdam was saying. “And she’s a good girl, too. With a heart and a soul and a conscience. Don’t know why she’d waste her life working for a bunch of thieves and liars.”

  “Is that what you told her when she was down there—that we were a bunch of thieves and liars? Or is that what she told you?

  “She isn’t stupid. Hey! You admit it, do you?”

  “No, I don’t admit anything! It isn’t in evidence, is it?” Fudim gave a little chortle.

  “Is that some kind of lawyer joke? I don’t get those.”

  “Sure you do. If it isn’t in evidence, it isn’t real. Even if he knows it, she knows it, you know it, and I know it.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s real. My beautiful settlement.”

  “I’ll say,” said Fudim, sighing. He reached for one of his white antacids.

  “You know what else was real?” he added, sucking. “That kid was soft on you. You took a potentially great lawyer and ruined her.”

  “Oh, I know I ruined her!” said Mrs. MacAdam proudly. “Someone had to do something.”

  “She was driven, laser-sharp. But she lost her focus big-time.”

  “Abigail’s my kindred spirit, you know. She’s prone to great flights of passion, like me. But she comes down to earth when she needs to. When important things come up. New information, new priorities. That’s what makes both of us gals so challenging to the likes of you.”

  “I’m no
t clear on what you’re talking about. But you’re both about as challenging as—as—” Slightly rattled, Fudim couldn’t think of any conclusion to his simile.

  “At a loss for words? I know we threaten you.”

  “‘We,’ huh?”

  “We’re alike, I said. She and I.”

  “So maybe you had a kind of mother-daughter thing going on? No kids of your own, I can understand the need to connect.”

  “You can? Good. Because I think we did. Maybe I needed to leave some kind of lasting legacy.”

  “What about my legacy? OK? What about all the training the firm put into her? Here she was, working for me, but feeling something for you, taking notes and e-mailing me, but somehow looking for depositions, listening to what she shouldn’t have listened to, and looking at things she should never have seen.”

  “I applaud her ambivalence. Best sign of moral balance.”

  “Applaud all you want,” said Fudim, as his voice descended to a quiet, settled sneer. “Your darling girl’s history anyway,” he added vindictively.

  “What do you mean? You said that Abigail’s on leave.”

  “You said it yourself, she doesn’t belong here.”

  “You’re not firing her?”

  “Of course not! What kind of people do you take us for?”

  “She’s up for partner, isn’t she?”

  “She tell you that? What a mouth on her!”

  “We’re all big mouths, aren’t we, Mr. Fudim. That’s why we like each other so much. Anyway, Abigail told me a lot of things. We had a nice conversation. I shared my hopes and dreams, and she shared hers. She even peed on my floor. I tell you, that girl put me right at my ease.”

  “She had no business letting down her guard.”

  “You mean she can’t be a lawyer if she’s loosey-goosey?”

  “Not with the opposing side. No.” He paused. “I mean it’s different, me and you, right now. We’re settled, we’re not in the thick of litigation.”

  “She did keep her mind on the case—your side, that is. I remember there were moments where she seemed frighteningly litigious. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “In many ways, yes. I’m glad to hear that. Thomas, she’s a good thinker, she works hard, and sure, there were moments of competency. She had the hunger in her eye, I’ll admit. I mean, we did hire her, but—”

  “But?”

  “But now she thinks with her, I don’t know what to call it.” Fudim’s melting antacid coated his tongue, making his words more slurry.

  “Her vulva?” she blurted. “Is that what you think of us females?”

  “Her heart—please, the language, all right? Now, if you don’t mind, I need to go. I happen to have a date with my son.”

  “You have a son?”

  “Sure, I got a great kid,” said Fudim, brightening. “He’s ten now. Every three months we have dinner at 21 and I check his stock listings. If they go up, he gets dessert.”

  “How good of you,” said Mrs. MacAdam.

  “Really? My wife thinks it’s crass, says he’s still a child, blah, blah. Like there’s a string attached to my affection, moan, moan. But I tell her, everything has its price, and it’s good for the boy to learn it.”

  “What do you get out of it?”

  Fudim took a moment to reflect.

  “I like having him look up to me. Teaching him what he needs to know.” Despite himself, Fudim was enjoying the conversation.

  “I could get something out of teaching you, too.”

  “Oh, you’ve taught me, lady. That settlement hurt.”

  “I’d like to teach you something else, if you’d let me.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Fudim. Why did everyone, from young damsel to old coot, eventually come on to him? “Anyway, I really have to be going.”

  “Just a minute,” said Mrs. MacAdam. “Everything has its price on my end, too. You’d better offer that Thomas girl a partnership if you know what’s good for you. I’m taping this conversation and I’d be happy to excerpt the part about ‘he knew, she knew, I knew.’”

  “You’re not really taping this conversation.”

  “Yes, I am. Cora-Lee! Am I taping this conversation?”

  “Yes, you taping it.”

  “You bitch!” said Fudim. “You panty-waisted Trubridge!”

  “What did you call me?”

  “A bitch, which you are.”

  “The other part.”

  “Oh, I named you after the guy who tried to bust us for suppressing evidence before. He got a lot of us in trouble, and the firm pretty well almost folded. We had to pay fines, baby. Don’t ask.”

  “You’ll pay more fines with me if you don’t make her partner. On the other hand, if you do make her partner, I could send some business your way, baby. That will teach you to be good to people who have dedicated their lives to you.”

  “Like who? My first wife?”

  “Abigail Thomas, of course. She’s worked for you like Jacob for Rachel. Seven long years.”

  “What business will you send my way?” said Fudim, still wondering about the Jacob reference. Biblical, maybe? It had been a few years since Sunday school.

  “The business of my agricultural patents. They’re worth millions.”

  Fudim stifled a laugh.

  “Thanks. I’ll consider it very carefully.”

  “She’d make an excellent partner.”

  “You’ve known her for a very short time.”

  “Long enough to know that her head’s attached to her heart, like mine. And see where it got me?”

  He sighed, as though to say, Lonely and legless in Grenada.

  “Give up?” she said, laughing. “It got me to the point where I’m rich and powerful enough to do a good turn for someone else. Especially one who’s been kind to me. And that’s just what I’m going to do.”

  34

  When Chloe was three months old, Abigail decided to call the firm again and see how everything was going. If they let her, she had decided, she would like two more months, unpaid of course, with the baby. (There was a precedent; Rona DeWitt Miller was on unpaid leave.) And when she returned, she had decided, she could work only part-time, which in her world meant fifty hours a week instead of seventy. They could prorate her salary accordingly.

  Mr. Fudim, sounding pleased to hear how well she was enjoying motherhood, had told Abigail she could take the extra few months.

  “Take your time,” he had said. “There’s one thing money can never get back for you, and that’s time. One day the baby’s here, the next it’s a kid or a teen or a daughter you walk down the aisle. And one day your mom, who you’ve known all your life, she’s a bag of bones and you’re next. Follow?”

  “I—I think so.” He still had a mom?

  “Yeah, you’re no dummy. Take care of your nearest and dearest, and the rest kind of falls into place.”

  Abigail had hung up amazed. But then, amazing things were happening all the time now. She and Arlie were getting on better than she ever could have imagined. That early tension between them was gone. Abigail no longer felt like a stranger in her own home, deferential to an alien “expert.” Arlie, for her part, seemed happy to play the part of helper, lending a hand to Abigail whenever she needed it, taking over when Abigail was busy, and sharing impressions when the three of them went out together. Chloe had started to make a sound like “Ma” just for Abigail. Abigail had lit up when she had said it the first time, and Chloe had noticed.

  “Ma,” she had repeated. “Ma.” “Ma.”

  “What she say?” Arlie had come running.

  Chloe had not repeated it then. She’d simply smiled and produced a few bubbles. Arlie had walked away, and Abigail had picked up the baby again. Only then had she repeated it, to her mother’s joyful laughter:

  “Ma!”

  Arlie and Abigail shared a park bench now. They sat neither in the mothers’ area nor the nannies’ area, but in a third area that seemed
to accommodate fathers, grandmothers, and the two of them, talking as though nothing was stronger than their common interest, Chloe.

  Already, the little girl had forged a bond between them. Who else would Abigail have talked to when walking her daughter in her stroller, admiring how she kicked her feet to the beat of the tune her mother sang? Who else would have glowed with pride when Chloe rolled over from stomach to back one day on the Great Lawn, looked at the sky, and laughed?

  “She’s a gift, this child,” Arlie had said, as they walked to the park together. “A real gift from up there.”

  “You’ll have one of your own one day,” Abigail had responded, touched by the comment. She leaned over to fix Chloe’s hat, to feel her soft chin, so warm even as the weather chilled.

  “I think so, too.” Arlie had seemed so lost in thought that she had stopped pushing the stroller. Abigail had taken over, like a relay, so that Arlie could walk along unburdened.

  What a luxury to have this woman share her life for so many hours, each day! Arlie was no longer imperious or cold. Something had come over her in the last few months, a feeling of confidence, of right being restored to the world. It was because of Tim, Abigail knew.

  “Don’t you think he’s adorable, Arlie?” Abigail had ventured, one evening after he’d had dinner with the two of them. “And not only that, but he cooks, teaches computers to children—I mean, he’s got numerous soft spots.”

  “He’s not bad-looking,” Arlie conceded. She was clearing the dishes but moved slowly, as though she wanted to pursue the conversation further. That was another clue that Tim had made an impression. Tim was so handsome that every woman in his orbit had to at least consider what he would be like as a boyfriend.

  “And you’re good looking, too, Arlie. Plus you’re smart, you’re decisive, you’re stronger than you think. Don’t you think it’s time you tried to be with someone again?”

  Arlie was rinsing a big pan in the sink. She took a scouring pad and scrubbed at it, then rinsed again.

  “Tim and I are not in a ‘relationship,’ you know,” Abigail offered. “Maybe at the beginning there was something in the air, but now we’re just friends. I’m not sure why we never really clicked, but—” She hadn’t known how to finish the sentence.