Clamour of Crows

by Ray Merritt

  JJ’s diagnosis had made both of us particularly prickly. We spat venom at each other.

  By the end of the trip, we were just going through the motions. I was becoming anxious about the car trek back to New York—three days and two nights with the four of us in our van and little opportunity to conduct business with two overly excited and very tired kids overdue for major meltdowns.

  When a crisis call came from Evan, just as we bade good-bye to Mickey and Minnie, I convinced myself I had to bolt and fly back solo. Alice’s response was brittle, but a relief.

  “Fine! You’re not good company right now. Even the kids are starting to call you Grumpy! Besides, I’m a better driver.”

  That final dig was intended to hurt.

  Two hours later, Alice, JJ, and Lilli were dead, crushed against a concrete pillar in an underpass on I-95 North. An SUV had slid into their lane, according to eyewitnesses. It never bothered to stop.

  “Dorothy,” I responded with more than a trace of resignation, “I know what you’re saying. I tell myself that all the time. But if I were driving, their fate might have been different. Perhaps we would not have been at that underpass as the SUV came through. I’m a much slower driver. It was my place in the order of things to protect my family and I didn’t.”

  What I declined to add was that my ambition and insecurity had deflected me.

  Dorothy reached across and put her hands over mine.

  It was more comforting than any words she could have uttered.

  It was the first time that I had verbalized the core of my grief. I had been far too possessive about my loss to share it with anyone. I’d always felt that to do so would bring to anyone who touched it a bit of my darkness.

  From that point on, I was sure Dorothy and I were indeed kindred spirits. At least kindred in our grief. She was the first being other than Nip with whom I was not on guard. It felt good.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” she queried, to my surprise.

  “No.”

  That was my stock response—a Pavlovian one, intended to cut off any further inquiry in that direction. In fact, it was also an accurate one. People think that there is a shelf life to grief.

  “Well, there will be someone someday, Tuck. Trust me, I know,” Dorothy proclaimed.

  I nodded a polite assent.

  I had no desire to release myself from melancholy. Solitude was my penance and also my balm for what I sensed was a chronic condition, and having Nip helped the past, the present, and the future all meld together. Nip was all the comfort I needed for now.

  In truth, it was inconceivable that there was someone else for me. I sabotage every budding relationship that threatens to make Alice and the kids part of an older version of me—a footnote in my biography.

  Finally the conversation evolved into mellow chatter about her job as Ozone’s president of European operations, the company’s recent successes, her partner, Eloise, and other equally safe subjects. Ben was not discussed at all.

  Our meal ended and we promised to keep in touch.

  8

  The return from Paris proved painless. A perfect flight. Mrs. Grady met me at the airport with Nip in the car. She gave me the keys; I gave her the laundry. Within two hours, Nip and I were home, fed, and in bed.

  Things felt good again.

  That night I dreamt of the white deer, the most prized and respected inhabitant of Twenty Acres. She was a delicate creature, having been born without body pigment. For an animal, whether it’s a predator or prey, this condition is a handicap. Unpigmented irises make strikingly beautiful white-pink eyes, but result in very poor vision. She was, nevertheless, beautiful, enigmatic, and elusive. She rarely ventured close by.

  Perhaps nature warned her that she was not inconspicuous.

  Our little Lilli had christened the albino doe Snowdrop. Whenever we took family walks, we were always alert for Snowdrop and the first one to see her got to select dinner that night.

  That meant pizza, three out of four times.

  This was not a good way to start the day, for the tale of Snowdrop is not a happy story. One day our family went out to gather acorns, chestnuts, and fallen leaves for the Thanksgiving table. I remember it was a picture-perfect autumn day. JJ was the first to spot her, proclaiming delightedly, “Snowdrop! She’s sleeping.”

  Nip sensed her too, but her reaction was much more guarded.

  The fur on her back rose, accompanied by a low growling murmur. She raced off toward Snowdrop, with JJ and Lilli in close pursuit. Nip then did something very unusual. She ran with manic energy around in circles three times and then lowered herself in a suppliant position.

  It was then I saw the arrow in Snowdrop’s haunches. She had been decapitated—her head a hunter’s trophy. Alice gathered JJ and Lilli in her arms. I covered Snowdrop’s bleeding neck with my sweater. It was the only thing I could think of. I knelt down and touched her. She was still warm. I remained still until I felt a rattle in her stomach. I would later learn she was pregnant and the last of her twins had just expired.

  That was the children’s first exposure to the death of somebody they loved. It would be their last. Three weeks later they too would be dead, also at the hands of an unknown killer.

  I could not bring myself to walk the woods that morning after dreaming of Snowdrop.

  I wanted no part of Twenty Acres that day.

  Nip is best at licking wounds and that’s what I needed most. Whenever my mood turns down, a wag of her tail or a stutter-step dance can turn up the edges of my lips.

  “Nip,” I said, “I’m not trying to change my lot in life; I’m just trying to understand it. I know there’s a life out there. I glimpsed it between the cracks when I was away. I saw a bit of the world I left behind, but I am still drawn back to this place and my time here with them. I would rather live here with their memories than live elsewhere without them. You are all I have left.”

  9

  The phone rang as I was preparing breakfast. I still don’t have the kind of land line that identifies the caller, so I was taken aback when the friendly voice on the other end was Lutwidge Dodgson Barr, known to his friends as Wiggie. To the rest of us he is known simply as “sir.” He is the Firm’s reigning WASP and the chairman of the Executive Committee, a position he has held since well before I joined the Firm.

  I have never quite understood the deference mongrels bestow on thoroughbreds, but I’m observant and he clearly fit the template. Wiggie traced his ancestors all the way back to England and had the gilded portraits on his stair walls to prove it. His manor in Bronxville seemed imported from another time. He welcomed all Firm lawyers there every Christmas season. Attendance was mandatory.

  “Good morning. Sorry to disturb you, but a matter of significance to the Firm and Ozone has cropped up. The Executive Committee would like to discuss it with you. We need to impose on you and have you join us at your earliest convenience.”

  “Well,” I began, rather awkwardly, “what is the nature of the matter?”

  “It’s exceedingly delicate. Best we not go into it on the phone. I must apologize, but could you accommodate us by coming in?”

  I was somewhat annoyed, even though I can’t deny I’d found the London trip quite exhilarating. I had put myself out for the Firm in attending Ben’s funeral. Now they wanted me again.

  “I suppose I could do a round-tripper today and meet you at one. If I leave in an hour, I should make it. Traffic might not be too bad this morning. Would that work?”

  “Yes,” he responded with a hint of relief.

  I really did not know Barr well and had not thought about him in years. I had only glanced at him from afar at the funeral. He was as I remembered him—tall, a touch portly, with white hair and blue eyes that matched his blood. He was aloof, yet not condescending. He was hard of hearing and had a bit of a stutter he’d developed, I understand, from a childhood disease. That made him somewhat less patrician and a bit more avuncular.

  All in all,
he was to the office born.

  The Executive Committee of a Wall Street law firm is more than a knight’s roundtable. It’s the College of Cardinals, the Duma, and the Guardian Council wrapped into one, and Wiggie was its Supreme Leader.

  To those not on it, an invitation to attend was greeted with trepidation. Those summoned to the nest were often devoured career-wise. Even though that really wasn’t any longer a concern of mine, I still didn’t take the invitation lightly.

  Nip was still out of sorts. I then realized I had forgotten to feed her. I quickly corrected that oversight. I then arranged for my caretaker to take her for the day and I took off.

  I was bemused by my submissiveness to Barr’s request. Old neuroses never die. Barr would always be “sir” and I would always be accommodating. In my working years, I tried my best to avoid him. He was a rabbi to no one but himself and therefore could only hurt you, not help you.

  What possible problem could they need my help on? If this was a pretext to lure me back to service the Ozone account, they were wasting their time and mine. I might someday rejoin the legal community, but not in my old suits and not yet.

  There had to be something more to this summons.

  10

  I arrived precisely on time. I was never late—an acquired trait of all good associates. Partners and clients do not like to be kept waiting. I was quickly escorted into the conference room. It was clear that they did not want me responding to inquiries from old friends and acquaintances.

  I couldn’t help feeling like the knave being called before the Court of the King of Hearts. And no, I did not know who stole the tarts. Barr’s request—although polished and polite—was in fact a command. I had been heralded to attend and I, like a good subject, obeyed.

  It took me only a few seconds to size up the room’s occupants. The Firm had more than twenty conference rooms of various sizes and configurations. This was its special one—super-modern, yet classy. It was reserved for very important clients and Executive Committee meetings.

  Barr was at the head of the table, Evan was to his right, and Gordon Brady, the Firm’s senior litigator, was next to Evan. The vacant chair was for me. That put Dan Finn, the Firm’s other senior corporate partner and Evan’s nemesis, to my right. The last three seats were taken by Caden Caufield, the senior investment-banking partner; by Reed Sawyer, the very proper senior estate partner, and by Charlotte.

  She wore a black blazer. Her hair was constrained in a tight bun. She looked much more vulnerable in this pond of power partners than she had in London. She was clearly nervous. I couldn’t stop watching her long fingers caressing a chain that dangled from her neck as her wrist brushed the swell of her undeniably alluring cleavage. Her presence signaled that this had to do with Ben’s estate. That, however, did not advance my speculation very far.

  “Jonathan—or would you prefer Tuck?”

  “Tuck’s fine, sir,” I responded.

  Wiggie was his baronial self, nattily turned out, even though his Brooks Brothers suit was well into its second decade. His Sulka tie drew your attention, as it rested casually on the Egyptian cotton of his starched white shirt. Although his hair had lost its luster and faded to gray, his face radiated character that only age can bring. It was lined by the tumult of a thousand deals and creased by years of partnership politics. Notwithstanding, he seemed relaxed and at ease. You could not say the same for the others. Evan seemed drained and tense. Charlotte, in turn, looked meek and penitent. She deflected my stares. The rest simply looked as if they would have preferred to be elsewhere.

  “Ah . . . well, Tuck, I’m sure you know that all of us here appreciate your extending yourself to accommodate us and I’m sure you will understand why we needed to see you when we explain the situation. I will let Reed do that.”

  “A situation has arisen that requires immediate attention. It has to do with Ben Baum’s Will,” Reed intoned archly. He was Charlotte’s boss. He was, like Wiggie, an aristocratic WASP and he did his best to emulate the chairman’s polished grace.

  “It seems that Mr. Baum left a Precatory Letter attached to his Will, with instructions that it not be opened until after his funeral. The letter presents the Firm with some exceedingly difficult issues. He dictated it two weeks before his demise and, in part, it seems to suggest that if he should die in the near future, it might be the result of foul play and that the perpetrator was someone close to him.”

  He paused as if to gather his thoughts.

  Evan seized the moment.

  “Tuck, Ben was quite conflicted in his last few months and this letter may well be nothing more than a release of his pent-up frustration. You know how melodramatic Ben could be.”

  Barr interrupted him with more than a trace of annoyance. “Evan! I think it best that we don’t color the introduction of this matter with personal opinions.”

  To spare Evan any further awkwardness, I preemptively said, “Perhaps it would be helpful if I read this letter before we discuss it further.”

  Gordon Brady quickly concurred.

  “Yes, I think that would be appropriate, but there is a matter of professional ethics, or perhaps etiquette, that must be resolved. Since you are no longer associated with the Firm, we are reticent to share too much information with you from a privilege standpoint. So we would like to propose that you accept an appointment as special counsel to the Firm to make us all more comfortable in giving this information to you.”

  He had me.

  I had no choice but to crawl back under the Firm’s tent.

  “I accept for this limited role. I should, however, advise you that recently I agreed to serve as the successor trustee and personal guardian for Ben’s son, Leo, at the request of his daughter, Dorothy.”

  Charlotte’s frozen trance cracked a bit with my pronouncement.

  “I don’t see that undertaking to be a conflict. Does anyone else?” Reed rejoined.

  The assembled all swayed their chins in agreement.

  “Fine. If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll read the letter in the caucus room.”

  “Good idea,” said Wiggie, as he handed me the folder.

  “You might want to take a cup of coffee with you. Wish we had something stronger.”

  11

  Dear Evan,

  I am dictating this from my office. At the outset, let me profess: I am not lonely. I am not unloved. I am not tired of living. And I am not ready for the hereafter. I quite enjoy the now and here.

  I own the building below me and a large share of the company it houses. My assets exceed two billion, if you trust my financial advisers. My corporate reach extends from Kansas to New York, Boston to Washington, London to Paris, Spain to Nigeria. We produce products every one of us uses, provide technology that every one of us needs, and create entertainment and fantasy that every one of us should enjoy.

  I have had all the spoils of that success. I’ve tired of them all.

  Perhaps fate has tired of me. As you know, I have the black menace and I fear its shadow is spreading. They say I may have but a few years left so it’s not too early to right some wrongs, settle some scores, make some amends, and profess my love—in a way not found in wills. You lawyers don’t want any emotion to melt your frozen prose.

  I do not fear death. It cannot take away my memories. If one has the courage to live, one has the courage to die. I lived as I wished and am doing so now. I laugh. I love. I cry. I hurt. I know it’s all part of the circle of life.

  I left the comforts of Glend End a long time ago. There, I was the daydream believer and Maude the homecoming queen. I was blessed with a little wisdom and a lot of luck and I needed to spread my wings. In doing so, I have been beset by trolls and goblins. Yet I am no hobbit. I still prefer excitement to comfort. That is where Maude and I parted.

  Now let me tell you a little about what I believe. Imagination trumps knowledge; myths are more potent than history; dreams are more powerful than reality; hope triumphs over despair; love is str
onger than hate; questions are more engaging than answers.

  I have little faith in religion as we know it today. I find my gods in books and in nature. Who then are my gods and angels, you might ask. I found in children’s stories the Alice and Dorothy and Bilbo and Frodo in all of us. I loathe the Wicked Witches and, yes, even the Tinker Bells we always find lurking about. But the hobgoblins have not prevailed over me, at least not yet. I’ve had Roäc on my shoulder.

  The one spirit who affects me the most is my own Duende. That force empowers me to public success while torturing me in private. It alone understands why I did the things I did.

  So I am off down the road again. And I’m late, I’m late, I’m late. This may be my last adventure. Kerberos will not stop me. If I don’t succeed, there could be dire consequences for all those I love. I will continue my quest until my body gives out. I may just end it there, if someone else doesn’t do it before me. Either way, I will have given everything to life itself.

  Now let me get back to the matters at hand. To build a lasting kingdom on earth, one should take the right paths even if they are not easy. If I had done so more often, I would not be faced with the problems I am now encountering. Those problems are my private purgatory.

  I will solve them before I go.

  I have among me people who have no shame and who will go silent to their graves. I will not. I will right my ship before I die but I sense an unkindness—a murder most foul. So I warn you, if I should die from other than my curse, look carefully at the cause. And look at those who would benefit, particularly those who have the most to gain if I die and the most to lose if I live long enough to finish my tasks. I can taste their disappointments at my impending actions. Evil may be coming my way and even the Dark Lady cannot protect me.

  Please do not take any of this as the ravings of a demented soul. My mind is very sound, even though my body is failing. Tereza and Viggie can attest to that.

  As imperfect as I have been, I revel in small morals, my family, my friends, and the company of animals. Yet I have done things, ignored things, and excused things that were wrong. I want to do my best to erase them.