by Amanda Brown
He had stopped by the Union Club to get the apartment key he knew Arthur left there, and arrived at the apartment in the late morning, though he had woken, by his standards, pretty early, with the alarm ringing at seven-thirty. He had gotten through to the apartment only to reach voice mail, where he left word of his imminent arrival.
The doorman knew Edward and led him upstairs. The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside. He called for Emily, and, hearing nothing, started slowly toward the library, his feet carrying him on autopilot to the room where Arthur liked to sit. He cleared his throat and called the lawyer’s name, but the silence that met him told Edward that nobody was in the apartment. The step of his leather soles creaked on the aged wooden boards of the hallway.
He caught his breath as he turned on the desk lamp and took in the familiar sight of Arthur’s library. Sitting down heavily in Arthur’s leather reading chair, Edward ran his eyes across the spines of the venerable old books that lined the built-in shelves. His eye traveled over the worn volumes of law and literature, ragged travel guides and large glossy fly-fishing books, the sections of memoirs, biographies, the novels from continental Europe, bound photo albums of mountain hikes and fishing trips with Amy. A tabletop chessboard, little used, was pushed into a corner where it bumped against a brass, standing lamp. A humidor stood on a shelf behind it; Arthur had been proud of that, a gift from Amy that he proclaimed as “the best in its class.” The Persian carpet, with predominant hues of burgundy and navy, was worn where Arthur moved an ottoman to rest his feet. Someone’s got to settle where all these things go, Edward thought.
Near the window facing Fifth Avenue, he saw a folder marked Alaska. Taking a deep breath, Edward walked toward the window and opened the folder. A receipt fluttered out; just two weeks ago Arthur had bought new chest-high waders from the Cabela catalogue in Amy’s size. Amy had laughed at Arthur’s waders, Edward remembered, since they had overall-style straps. She called him Farmer Stearns when he wore them. But she had relented, feeling too many times the cold rush of river water over the tops of her thigh-high waders rendering useless their waterproof effect.
On the Stearns & Fielding notepaper that Arthur kept on his desk were notes about flight arrival and departure times, several brochures describing different Alaskan fishing lodges, and a scribbled note that caught Edward’s eye: “Big Kodiak bear at FAO Schwartz—holding for Em.”
Edward tucked the paper back into the file. This was a life interrupted midstep.
Squaring his shoulders, Edward took a deep breath. Emily could walk in anytime. She would be sad enough, he imagined; it wouldn’t help for her to find him stumbling moon-faced around the apartment. He slapped his cheeks with his hands as if he could wake himself from this nightmare and walked down the hall to the kitchen.
A note addressed to him, written in an unfamiliar hand, lay on the table. At the top, underlined several times, was scribbled the name “Eddie.” He smiled. Nobody called him Eddie. It was signed by Becca Reinhart. It was hastily written, and the sentences tilted across the page in long collapsed lines. He noticed some flowers had been colored around the edges in crayon. Emily!
He leaned into the dim light cast by the hanging lamp in the kitchen to read.
Eddie—
we couldn’t get in touch with you so i took emily with me to hong kong. i’m there on business until sunday. Thirstan—the lawyer—says we have an expedited hearing monday am with judge jones. talk to him about where to go.
FYI i’m emily’s other guardian—thirstan will explain, it was a big surprise to me too.
i hope you’re doing okay, eddie. i heard how close you were to arthur. don’t worry about em. she’s a real trooper. she’s going to be fine.
sincerely—becca reinhart
PS—doorman knows to let nobody but thirstan up—already sent two PI lawyers and a dozen real estate agents packing! thirstan says the apartment’s in trust in emily’s name—she can stay here. she has more than enough to live on.
PS—will you talk to the nanny? i can’t understand a thing she says. Thanks.
Edward closed his eyes and rubbed his temples slowly. Matters were growing stranger and stranger. Edward felt a mild quake run through his body. He was frightened. Or was he mad? He had wanted to get going with his new relationship with Emily. And shouldn’t this Becca, his coguardian, have consulted him before she took the child to the bottom of the globe? He re-read the note, then folded it and put in the pocket of his khakis. He glanced at the refrigerator, where was posted the office number of Thirstan Heston. The lawyer was with Stearns & Fielding, Edward noticed, Arthur’s firm.
He should stop by Arthur’s office and get his matters in order. Alert his clients, have his papers filed, take his pictures down and bring them back to the apartment: final matters. There were funeral arrangements to be made, he thought, feeling his eyes burn. It didn’t sound like there was anything left to bury, but somebody had to handle the obituary, put together a memorial service at least.
Edward felt no better suited to the task at hand than a cat contemplating the feel of a deep-sea dive, but he didn’t know if anyone else would see to it. Arthur’s dad, who had suffered from heart trouble, had died several years ago, followed quickly by his mother. There was only a step-sister, Edward recalled. Perhaps Thirstan had already informed her.
Instinctively, Edward opened the refrigerator. Inside he found several yellow boxes with animated Pokemon characters, containing cherry-flavored drinks, presumably for Emily. The back and the shelves of the refrigerator were full of useless condiments: capers, Kalamata olives, balsamic salad dressing, several types of mustard, and the like. There was a large pitcher of thick melon-colored juice that smelled a bit sickly, a shrivelly couple of apples, a package of hot dogs, and a box of Thai takeout.
He withdrew a Pokemon box drink, poked the straw into its top, and immediately squirted his shirt with a flood of cherry punch. Edward sighed, rubbing the stain on his shirt with his hand as if he could hide it, which only succeeded in spreading it out until it bled over most of the left side of his oxford. He moved to the bathroom to take a look at the damage, feeling miserable and stupid.
Edward caught sight of himself in the mirror of the Jazz Age bathroom, a convenience no larger than a stall that was made to feel confiningly small by the tiny tiles of black and white, which the mirror repeated endlessly, in every direction, like an Escher print. He was a pitiable thing to see. His tired eyes drooped with exhaustion, his face was unshaven. His cherry-stained shirt, reflected in the checkerboard headache of the walls, gave him the surreal feeling of posing for a pop art postcard.
Welcome to parenthood, Edward thought to himself. He felt composed, though ruefully so, when he considered the task he had assumed upon himself. He would pay his respects to Arthur by handling all of the matters left undone by his and Amy’s deaths. And then he would make arrangements for the memorial service.
A noise coming from the front of the apartment shook him out of his own thoughts. He heard a woman calling, “Hello, is anybody here?”
Edward walked to the foyer where he found a middle-aged woman, nicely dressed in a black pantsuit. She had a big gold heart suspended from a chain around her neck and a number—a lot—of gold chain bracelets, each a different style, on her left wrist. She was removing a bright red Pashmina shawl. This woman probably wouldn’t be on any A-list he knew about—she was too colorful.
“Edward Kirkland?” Her eyes seemed electrified, lit from a source within. Her double chin was beginning to sag. But his eyes didn’t rest there. He was drawn back to her eyes.
“I am Edward Kirkland.” As he drew closer, he saw her looking at his shirt.
“You have to put seltzer on that stain immediately—come, let’s see what’s in the refrigerator. Where’s the kitchen?”
“There is no seltzer,” he said without thought.
“I am Arlene Reinhart.” The somewhat stocky woman held out a pudgy hand and he noticed she wore a
sedate diamond ring on her right ring finger, but no wedding band. Then it hit him.
“Reinhart? Then you are…”
“I’m Becca’s mother.”
“Oh—how nice to meet you,” he hesitated, hoping she’d explain this visit.
The silence was growing just a pinch too long. So he said, “Would you like to sit down?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t offer you anything to drink.”
“I brought water, juice, a little instant coffee.”
Edward looked behind Mrs. Reinhart, but there was no indication she’d brought a bag or tote with her.
“I left it with Frank.”
Edward looked blank.
“Frank—the doorman. Such a great guy. He has a cooler in the employees’ locker room. He offered to leave the sandwiches and other stuff there.”
“You have visited here?”
“No, I just met him downstairs and one thing led to another. If you want, I’ll ring for him.”
“No, that’s all right. You must have quite a gift for chatting people up quickly, if you discovered there was a cooler in the locker room in such a short time.”
“Why don’t we see about my gift of gab. Let’s sit.”
He led her to Arthur’s library. “This is not the sunniest room in the house,” he apologized as they made themselves comfortable. “But I’m just familiarizing myself with the apartment.”
“I imagine so.” Arlene’s eyes swept over the shelves of books, the sculptures in brass and clay. There were two paintings. One, a small oil, was obviously a portrait of Arthur fishing. It was inscribed “To Arthur—Safe Passage—Wherever you roam,” and it was signed “Laura.” Well, that was pretty eerie. The other painting was abstract and very futuristic. It looked like an important piece. Also expensive.
“So, where are all their things going? Who’s taking care of the packing?” Arlene Reinhart had an expressive stare. Edward determined from just a moment of her glance that this was something of a priority in her opinion.
“Well, I was thinking about that myself. And I thought either the lawyer had some instructions that he hadn’t had time to convey, or perhaps Ms. Rein—I mean, your daughter and I should make decisions about these things together.” This wasn’t exactly true. Edward had thought about this, but never considered the logistics. “I guess I thought my assistant could take care of organizing things.”
“Are you crazy?”
Edward considered this statement thoughtfully. Certainly nobody had ever talked to him in quite that way. Nor questioned his sanity.
“I don’t think so. I wasn’t when I walked in here this morning. It’s conceivable that I lost my mind since I’ve been here. Why do you ask?”
“Obviously no one you love has ever died before. Because these things are personal treasures. This place is like a museum of Amy and Arthur’s stuff. And someday that little girl is going to start making trips to visit this museum. These objects have to be organized so that she doesn’t look at everything too reminiscent right away nor anything too valuable, because she’s young and she’ll just take it and put it in her plastic purse and that will be that. And then there are things she can have as soon as she asks.”
This made sense to Edward. He just didn’t have a clue how this could be accomplished.
“I have to admit, Mrs. Reinhart—”
“Arlene.”
“I know nothing about this—any of it. Handling personal effects, planning memorial services.”
“Looks like you have a tough time drinking juice from a box too.” Arlene kept a straight face.
Edward looked down at his shirt and, pulling it away from his body, said, “I’m still at the drinking glass stage, but I’m learning.”
Arlene liked this. She was relieved that he wasn’t totally uptight. Becca had asked her to check at the apartment, make sure everything was all right. She imagined hordes of lawyers, reporters, auction house representatives, real estate agents swarming and circling like insects and man-eating fish. It was a huge bonus that Kirkland was here, that she got to meet him. She might call Becca tonight.
“Let me call for Frank. I’m sure there’s a washer and dryer here.”
Edward held up his hand. “It’s a shirt, Arlene. I’ve got many. I want to spend time talking about your daughter—I assume that’s why you’re here—”
“Why?”
“To learn what you can about me.”
Arlene sat back against the arm of Arthur’s well-worn leather couch, took her shoes off, and put her stockinged feet up. “I had no idea you would be here. I live in Brooklyn. Do you think I’d come into the city just in case there was a chance you’d be here?”
Good point. He had spent too many years as the center of everybody’s universe. This was refreshing—Arlene Reinhart was refreshing—strong with a positive attitude—not like his mother, who seemed to bring the dark with her wherever she went.
“I’m here because my daughter asked me to make sure vultures stayed away.” Arlene paused but it was clear she wasn’t finished with this thought. “You’ll find she has a mind like a shooting star.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s brilliant. She is always in motion. And she is rare.”
Edward mulled this over—stripped of a mother’s tendency to blow her child’s assets out of proportion, Edward heard that Becca Reinhart thought ahead, was either hard to pin down or had lots of energy, or both. The rare part seemed one hundred percent mother’s love.
“Does she know anything about raising children?”
“No.”
Edward’s stomach grabbed at his chest. “Neither do I.”
Arlene didn’t even turn her head to look at him. She was studying a painting. “Sounds like an interesting experience awaits both of you.”
And that was that. No advice, no suggestions about what to do when he first saw Emily, not a word of direction about how he and her daughter might work this out together.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she walked barefoot over hardwood herring-patterned floors and pushed the call button. A voice came on and Arlene asked if Frank might send someone up with her package.
“Let’s move to the kitchen, shall we? God forbid I drop a crumb on that Persian rug. I’ll kill myself.”
“That seems a little extreme,” Edward said.
“You don’t know anything about Jewish mothers—I can tell.”
So she told him the joke about how the Jewish mother tested her son’s love and wasn’t satisfied until he gave her his heart—then she took poison because her son was dead and she didn’t want to live without him. And Edward threw his head back and laughed, so she told him another joke about a Jewish mother, and one about a Jewish grandmother. Then he started telling her jokes that he did not even know he remembered. And Edward, who always considered himself one of those people who couldn’t deliver a punch line, had Arlene screaming with laughter.
Edward laughed so hard that tears ran down his face and Arlene had to excuse herself to go to the bathroom.
And then they ate—turkey breast sandwiches, pickles, a plastic container of vegetable soup (some people can make more than just chicken soup, Arlene said), babka, a little salad for Arlene’s diet. While they ate they planned how to store Amy and Arthur’s possessions—and still keep them in the apartment. Edward called Alice and Arlene called her nephew Brian, who needed money (“Come, help the new Bubbe,” is what she said). And soon enough the two ersatz packers had their instructions.
Arlene put on her shoes and shawl and at the door she patted Edward’s cheek and stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss.
“Where to next?” she asked.
“I’m going to Thirstan Heston’s office and then I’m going to see what we should put in our museum from Arthur’s office.”
The elevator came. She blew him a kiss.
Edward left Arthur’s apartment, determined to handle this matter well. H
e hailed a cab to the offices of Stearns & Fielding. He forgot all about the stain on his shirt.
CHAPTER 7
Tell It to the Judge
On Monday morning, Edward was waiting at the courthouse to meet Becca Reinhart. He had arrived fifteen minutes early, knowing she was planning to come straight from the airport, and he had spent the time watching a regular stream of people enter the courthouse. Most of them he judged to be lawyers. And everyone seemed to be talking on the phone. The sun was deceptively bright, shining over a temperature that had dropped into the forties, but Edward was comfortable in his warm tweed jacket. With his back to the wall of the courthouse, Edward saw the lean, muscular calf of a woman stretching her leg out of a taxi. He kept his eye on the dark-haired woman, who struck him at once as being in a hurry. She ran around to the trunk to move several pieces of luggage to the sidewalk, carrying them energetically, with dispatch, but without display of effort. The driver made a move to assist her, but she brushed him off courteously, handing him a couple of bills with a quick smile. He noticed one of the two rolling suitcases, a shiny, pink patent bag, was unusually small and featured a picture of Airport Barbie.
He smiled. This must be her.
He watched the lady lean toward the backseat of the taxi, offering her hand to a child inside. She stood, tossing back her loose black hair, and guided Emily Stearns to the sidewalk.
“Emily!” Edward called out.
Emily wore no coat over her red silk kimono, and gave a little shiver when she felt the cold air. She stood in place, her hand raised slightly. Edward watched her, knowing she had not heard his voice over the busy street noise.