by Ray Merritt
“I am too. Evan likes to be center stage and in control. I’m impressed that he’s letting you share confidences with the bereaved.”
“Well, it’s a big deal for him. His best friend who runs the Firm’s biggest client dies! The king is dead; long live the new king—except no one knows for sure who that will be. Did you hear that Luc Grogaman is interim CEO? Evan is working him hard. He’s a smart guy but he’s no Wizard. Those are mighty big red slippers to fill!”
“Silver, don’t you mean?”
She smiled.
I didn’t have to explain.
Charlotte’s mood then got a bit pensive.
“Tuck, what do you think the Ozone board will do? Some of the corporate partners think they might go outside the company and bring in a seasoned veteran to fill Ben’s shoes. They have to be worried about the market’s reaction to Ben’s death. The hedgehogs are snorting. Their funds have large positions in Ozone. They may be more interested in a quick profit than the long haul.”
“No idea,” I responded, indifferently.
That, I had to admit, would be a blow to Evan. He had always assumed that Grogaman would be the successor and that, if anything, his influence would grow.
“Does the Will say anything about that?” I asked.
“Well, yes, in a way, but it is complicated. Can’t really go into it. You understand.”
That brought me up a bit short. I had sort of presumed that I could still climb under the tent of client confidences. But in reality, I could not. I had resigned my partnership. If anything, I was now only a client and Charlotte was my lawyer. After the accident, she handled all the necessary details. She arranged for my family’s bodies to be returned, probated my wife’s estate, and changed all the account names. She even worked out the settlement with the insurance company. She handled everything but the funerals.
There were none.
Sensing that I was slipping back into sad memories, she intervened.
“Tuck, how are you REALLY? I must say you’re looking quite studly,” she uttered without the slightest blush. “Time off is wearing well on you.”
I reddened, perhaps for the first time in years.
“Reports have it you’re spending your time as Dr. Doolittle with your dog Lucky.”
“Not quite,” I smiled.
“More like Dr. Snooze Little and my dog is indeed lucky, but her name is Nip and I do spend most of my time with her. She’s the only living being who truly knew Alice and the kids.
“Really, I’m OK. Still can’t emotionally process the accident. I should know by now that it wasn’t my fault, but I haven’t been able to convince myself of that. I’m just not a good advocate when it matters. Guess that’s why I never wanted to be a litigator.”
“Tuck, you’re being evasive. You should talk about it, at least to me—we were tight and remember, I am your lawyer!”
She had me there.
“You want the short version of my life story. Well, here it is. Like all of us, I was born bald with no control over my bladder and that is how I’ll die. But in between it’s been rocky. Truthfully, I also think I was born scared, which I parlayed into a touch of hypochondria, a delicate constitution, a hefty dose of insecurity, recurring bouts of self-doubt and a constant yearning for significance. I think that’s what drove me to succeed in the marines and the Firm—both of which I rather quickly exited.”
“You’re not being fair to yourself,” Charlotte protested. “After the accident, who could blame you for taking time off?”
“I didn’t take time off. I quit. The revulsion that was festering in me about the concessions one makes in the practice came to a head. I wanted out—and Twenty Acres called me home. The truth is I love nature. In some ways I worship it. I find more in the natural than in the spiritual. It’s the only place where life and death exist in harmony. Leaves are born green. They quickly mature into a flourish of colors and return when they fade to feed the earth that nourished them. It all fits. Twenty Acres is my place of worship. I’m the high priest and Nip is my acolyte. I didn’t know peace until I heard the dirge of crickets at the end of summer mingle with the sounds of evening and the morning serenade of sparrows followed by the rap of mockingbirds. They are the pipers at the gates of my new dawn.
“Yes, it has made me more than a little mad. And I’m haunted by the shadows of my old self. Jung would have a field day with me. Like Thoreau, I’ve become celibate, abstinent, obstinate, and increasingly distrustful of people. I remember something I once read. Tolkien, I think. ‘Little by little one travels far.’ I may be slow, but I am on my way. In truth, it’s not working out as well as I hoped. I fill the time with just existing. Nip and I are fully occupied during the day with the necessities and niceties of living. At night, though, Nip abandons me to sleep. I don’t have that luxury. I’m then solo. So I fill the night with books. I keep company with Conrad, Kipling, Salinger, and Hemingway. I’ve reread Moby Dick three times. I’m fixated on Ahab’s quest for revenge. In some respect, those stories soothe the canker of my loss, but recently I have become restive. I fear they are no longer enough.”
Charlotte sat upright, for once speechless. Our tea was finished and she sensed that our conversation was over. Hugging me—perhaps a little too long—she gently kissed my cheek.
I hadn’t felt a woman’s touch in three years. I longed for it, yet I was repelled by it. I must admit, though, she was easy on the eyes. I had forgotten how attractive she could be.
“Got to go back,” she said. “Maybe I can catch the end of the reception.”
I was beginning to sense that this trip was a mistake.
As I walked her to the door, the concierge handed me an envelope. It was a note from Dorothy.
Dearest Tuck, I so want to talk to you about a very personal issue. Unfortunately, as you might expect, my brother, Leo, is a wreck. His agitation level is very high. I’m taking him back to Paris immediately after the service. We’re not going to the reception. Please come to Paris. It’s an easy trip. We could dine tomorrow. It’s very important to me and Dad.
It was signed simply “Dorothy.”
6
So here I was hurtling—literally and figuratively—on the Eurostar under the English Channel to Paris. I had blown off the reception. I’m sure I wasn’t missed. Having left Saint Pancras Station in London less than two hours before, I was about to arrive at Gare du Nord in the center of Paris.
It seemed the gait of my life was picking up.
Maybe it was time.
I was being drawn back into a world I had walked away from and I put up no resistance. When a client calls, I still come running. Dorothy’s note spoke softly with desperation. Somehow she knew I wouldn’t refuse.
Luckily the concierge at the Sloan Club was able to get me room 4A at the Hôtel de Seine, although he could hardly disguise his disdain. It wasn’t the Ritz or the Plaza Athénée.
For me, it was much better.
That was where Alice and I had stayed on our first trip to Paris. We had gotten to know that room very well. The bed small enough to invite contact; the tub big enough to bathe a small pony. We didn’t need much more. We got a lot of use out of both.
It felt good to be back. I awoke early, even though I was still on New York time. Having twelve hours until dinner proved an unexpected dividend.
I could take my time. The little patisserie was still there. Pave d’Alsace, palmiers, croissants aux amandes. Those also were still there. I tried them all. From there the route I took was lined with old friends.
The street sweepers were out in their kelly-green garb, armed with the traditional branch and twig brooms, except now they were crafted from plastic. The French will only go so far to accommodate progress.
The one constant in Paris is the pigeons—often a child’s first playmate and an octogenarian’s last. They have always been well regarded and well fed by young and old. I sat and watched a parcel of them. If you take the time, you’ll notice how lu
minous they are in their silky shades of gray, black, and white, with a touch of emerald green on their backs.
It didn’t take long before I crossed the river and came upon the Jardin des Tuileries. That was where I most wanted to be. The gardens have their own dark history. The palace seemed hexed. Catherine de’ Medici abandoned it, Louis XVI was imprisoned there, and during the Revolution, the people of Paris burned it.
I sat there and took it all in.
Lovers meeting and tourists basking in its ether. Parisians short-cutting through the park, indifferent to its treasures. It was the children, however, that interested me the most, particularly a group of boys who were chasing a kit of pigeons they would never catch. When that lost its allure, they turned and chased each other.
It was here in this ancient park, among the bronze goddesses, that I proposed—just twenty steps from the Porte des Lions, where a lion protected the entrance while a lioness guarded his back.
A fitting allusion for a young lawyer’s wife.
I remember Alice’s amusing response to my marriage invitation. It was a perfect acceptance.
“If you want someone to make you a soufflé, marry a cook’s daughter. If you want someone to enhance your career, marry an heiress. If you want someone to light your candle every night, marry the candlemaker’s daughter. But if you want someone who will love you and be your best friend and protect your pride—then I’m the one.”
Case closed.
Verdict: lifelong enchantment.
Promises made but never fulfilled.
7
Paris is a city for all kinds of lovers, book lovers included. And Alice and I would qualify for that group too. I meandered down Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where Sartre, de Beauvoir, and Camus once lived. I had my croissant and coffee at Café de Flore, where James Baldwin once held court. From there I went west on Rue Saint-Benoît where Marguerite Duras had her flings.
I remember she once wrote, “The best way to fill time is to waste it.”
I was good at that.
I slowly wandered back past Notre Dame, dallying at the art stalls, watching the strollers. It was good for me to be anonymous among people. Without design, I found myself at the Café Palette for a late lunch.
It was Alice’s favorite.
Nothing had changed. The black-vested waiters had not lost their swagger nor the roses their bloom. Yellow-and-black rattan wove perfect mosaics into the chairs, which circled the age-worn tobacco-stained tables like petals on a sunflower. Together they cascaded onto the sidewalks, under the watchful cover of expansive green umbrellas. Life here seemed in order—unchanged, unrushed. One had only to sit and watch.
Flounces of skirts decorated legs that were made for more than walking and women’s eyes seemed to do so much more than look. These women were no slaves to fashion; they seemed rather to dominate it. Almost all wore scarves. No one does scarves like the French women do. At that time of year, they are worn defiantly to fend off le mistral.
Americans have only one name for wind. In France, there are many: l’autan, la bise, la tramontane, and le zephyr. And these various winds are often blamed for all sorts of maladies—la grippe, the common cold, flu, menstrual cramps, and bad sex.
Hence, the scarf. It serves like a cross in front of a vampire.
Hours passed uncounted. Fortunately, my rendezvous with Dorothy was close by. As I approached the restaurant, I saw her striding with a determined gait—striking in her gray suit and signature silver shoes. Her sunglasses were the only telltale sign of mourning.
We exchanged sincere greetings, each expressing sorrow for our respective losses. Dorothy had obviously preordered our dinner. The pinot noir was decanted long before we got there; an iced tea was set at my side. She had remembered that I was addicted. Dorothy was classy in every sense of the word.
She had traditional features—fine cheekbones, a perfectly chiseled nose—was of medium height and had what appeared to be a well-proportioned physique. Her clothes made a quiet statement. It was her style never to wear any jewelry, except I noticed a new adornment—a silver friendship ring, which she twisted in perpetual circles as we talked. She might not be trophy material, but she would never tarnish. We had not been close friends, but were in many ways kindred spirits.
I admired Dorothy’s sense of place within Ben’s kingdom. She was his oldest child. I remembered that she and her family grew up in Schenectady, New York, and summered in Macatawa Park in Michigan. It was there that her twin brothers, Woody and Wally, had died. A rafting accident. Her mother shortly thereafter took her own life, leaving Dorothy as Leo’s surrogate mother. Leo, I came to understand, was autistic and, throughout his life, had serious developmental challenges. Dorothy had to learn to cope and compensate very early. I understood better why she seemed to crave order in her life.
I wondered if she’d ever had a childhood.
“Tuck, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming here. I had intended to speak with you in London, but Leo was very distressed. You know he was in London when his father died.”
“I’m so sorry for him. Where is he now?”
“He’s with my partner, Eloise. She is wonderful with him. We have him heavily medicated right now. He is still quite agitated.”
This conversation was difficult for me. Just a month before the car accident, we were advised by our pediatrician that JJ, our son, was an “Aspie.” We were surprised to learn that this form of autism was not that uncommon. I remember Alice’s mantra. “He’s not disabled! He is just differently abled!” Fortunately, JJ was on the high end of the spectrum, meaning he could function moderately well socially.
“He’s destined for great things,” my lioness roared. She was fierce when it came to her pride.
Dorothy saw I was drifting and she reinserted herself. Dispensing with Parisian etiquette not to discuss matters of substance before dessert, she rushed into why she had reached out to me.
“The last three months have been very difficult. Few people know what I’m about to tell you. Ben was dying. He was battling an assortment of ills, including cancer. The doctors thought he might have no more than three, perhaps four, years before it would take him. He understood that and wanted to get his affairs in order while he could still be effective. I don’t know all the things that were weighing him down, but he hinted at what he called ‘dark stains’ that had to be removed. He was not worried about me. He knew I was secure personally and financially. He had several years ago introduced me to his Swiss banker, Andreas Amaroso. He had established an account at UBS and he said it was more than enough to care for our needs—Leo’s and mine. On the day Dad died, he told me he would give me access to another Zurich bank where he had a safe-deposit box. I would need to have the account number and a key. We subsequently got into a rather heated family discussion. I never got the number or the key. I expect they are in his Will papers. It all seems rather overcomplicated so I wanted your advice. I know nothing about numbered accounts and safe-deposit boxes and would not be comfortable dealing with those bankers. Dad’s main concern was who would take my place in protecting Leo if something should happen to me. He did not want it to be my partner, Eloise, for a host of reasons I’d rather not go into.”
She took a deep breath, squirreling up an additional dash of nerve.
“I would like to exercise my power of appointment under any trusts or accounts that Dad set up and name you as my successor should I be unable to serve at any time,” she blurted out.
“I’m flattered.”
An awkward response but it bought me time.
A dysfunctional widower and a career griever seemed an odd choice for a guardian. Who was I kidding? An unattached attorney who knew her family and their fortune very well and who had become an empathetic student of autism. A perfect choice.
“Hopefully, you’ll never have to act. I intend to live a long life, but I won’t be at ease until I know that Leo will be cared for should Eloise and I not be around.”
I immediately agreed and punctuated it with a smile. With that, the stiffness between us dissolved, and we both seemed to relax as our emotional muscles eased. Perhaps the wine helped too.
The meal arrived without cue. I only picked at the first course—dodine de lapin en gelée. Thumper burgers made me queasy. Twenty Acres boasted only a small wrack of rabbits. Seems foxes were keeping the rabbit population in check. I couldn’t possibly eat one. I did not want, however, to embarrass her, so I nibbled at the pickled vegetables that surrounded the fallen hare.
The entrecôte béarnaise was more inviting. I didn’t know any cows. I devoured it and even finished the cauliflower.
“Tuck, it’s not my business, but I can sense your pain. I know how hard it is to lose family from an accident. When my brothers drowned, I blamed myself. I should have gone with them, but I was in the midst of Alice in Wonderland and couldn’t be bothered with earthly things. It took me a long time before I understood that blame is just a hair shirt you wear to deflect the pain. You come to realize when it’s time to take it off. Maybe your time is here.”
After a pause to run her hand through her hair, she continued.
“You know my mother took her own life. For the longest time I blamed her for doing so. She left me and crushed Dad. But with time, I came to see that sometimes life is too hard and I forgave her. You will come to terms and forgive too.”
“It should only be that easy,” I murmured to myself, although I had never thought of it quite that way. There might be something to it.
Alice and I had bickered at Disney World. She complained that I had one ear permanently affixed to my cell phone. A common complaint but this time with good reason. This was supposed to be our family vacation—clients not invited. Yet I resented the accusation. This was how I made our living. I was working on the biggest deal of my career.