by Elaine Fox
For one heartbeat the bottle teetered on the edge of the table while Marcy and Trish sat rooted in frozen anticipation. Finally it tipped over the edge, spraying red wine across the cushion and down the front of the couch, then into a puddle on the white carpeting.
Marcy stared at the growing stain, inert.
Trish leapt across her and grabbed the bottle, righting it as quickly as she could and setting it on the table. She grabbed the roll of paper towels nearby and started blotting at the floor.
“Oh my God, Marcy, I am so sorry,” she said, frantically trying to sop up wine that had instantly soaked into the white couch. “I’ll have it cleaned, recovered, whatever. I’ll buy you a new couch, a new carpet. I’m so sorry.”
Marcy felt laughter tickling at her breastbone, then the back of her throat. She let it out, laughing softly at first, then more loudly. Finally she couldn’t stop, and when she saw the confused expression on Trish’s face she laughed even harder. Tears streamed from her eyes and she doubled forward.
“Oh God, Trish,” she said when she could catch her breath. “You’ve done me a favor! I feel positively liberated!”
“Marcy, honey, we’ve had an awful lot to drink,” she said carefully.
“I’m serious. I’m not drunk.” Another shot of laughter burst forth. “Okay, I’m a little drunk. But trust me, I’m not upset. I’ve lived in fear of this for three years, that something would happen to these damn couches, and now it has. Thank God! I’m so glad. And on the very day I realized I hated them.”
Trish began to look hopeful. “You’re sure you hate them? I’m still going to clean them for you, but I’ll feel better if you really and truly dislike them.”
“Trish, I loathe them. Don’t you see? This is a sign. The hell with tarot cards.” She laughed again. “This is the assassination of my former life. I’m going to start to ‘live honestly,’ as Truman put it. I’m going to stop buying ugly things for my portfolio and living with things that seem appropriate but that I really hate…” She shook her head in wonder at how free she suddenly felt.
“And you’re going to go find your construction worker?” Trish braved with a smile.
“Yes!” Marcy stood up. “I’m going to go to Tru Fleming’s apartment and tell him I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a selfish, superficial idiot and I’m going to ask him to forgive me for judging him. I want him just the way he is. Unpretentious, down-to-earth, funny, handsome, articulate…”
Trish smiled and squeezed Marcy’s arm. “You’re getting that dreamy look on your face, Marcy. I’m not sure about you, but I know this is love. Whether you like it or not.”
In the end, they decided it would be best if Marcy waited until she sobered up. At the same time, Trish said, if she then felt upset about the wine stains, she was to call Trish immediately so she could apologize profusely again.
Sunday evening Marcy dressed and redressed, then redressed again, scattering her bed, chairs, and the floor of her bedroom with clothes. What did one wear to eat crow?
Not that she didn’t think Truman owed her an apology too, but the more she thought about their conversations the more she realized how constantly she’d brought up jobs, or clothes, or things he didn’t have that most people did. Like the phone. She cringed to remember how many times she’d inadvertently complained about him not having a phone.
She also cringed to remember her offering to treat on more than one occasion. His pride had to have been stung by that.
How many times had she discounted his life by pasting her own interpretation onto it? Not to mention coloring it with her fears and anticipations, her mother’s expectations, her father’s mistakes…
He’d been hard on her the night of the holiday party, but she could see now he’d been hurt. Dreadfully hurt. That’s why he’d spoken so harshly.
She could also see now what he’d seen: that she was not living honestly. She dressed to suit whomever she was to be with. She drove a Lexus because Win drove a Lexus. She liked the car—she wasn’t sycophantic—but she’d made her choice based on what would appear correct.
Everything she did was based on what would appear correct for a given situation. She’d thought she was being smart. She hadn’t realized she was being someone else.
She even lived in Dupont Circle because Trish lived there. Going purely on her own desires she’d have moved to Adams Morgan, the eclectic neighborhood just east of Connecticut Avenue she’d always loved.
Now it was time to live according to her own tastes, she thought. Leaving out everyone else’s decisions, opinions, and mistakes. This was her life.
Once she’d settled on an outfit—jeans and a sweatshirt, because that’s how she was most comfortable—she got in the car and drove to Southeast.
Her heart was in her throat the whole way, and several times she was tempted to pull over, just to reevaluate what she was doing, but she didn’t.
What if he wasn’t happy to see her?
What if Heather was there?
What if some other, unknown woman was there?
What if he wasn’t home?
Doubts rolled through her mind like steamrollers over fresh asphalt, quashing her determination to talk to Truman again and again. Still, she drove on, propelled by a force she’d never felt before.
She pulled up in front of his apartment and her stomach sank. His living-room window was dark. He could be in the bedroom, but as it was only seven o’clock, that was doubtful. Maybe he’d gotten some curtains, she thought hopefully, but she knew that was grasping at straws.
She got out of the car and went up the walk. With every step, she remembered the times she’d done this very thing, knowing that Truman was there. Knowing that he wanted her. What a fool she’d been to resist him for so long. And now…had she missed her chance?
She opened the door to the hallway and went to his apartment. She lifted a hand to knock, but noticed the door was ajar.
She pushed it open.
The room was dark, but she could tell it was empty just the same. Not just empty of Truman, empty of everything.
“Truman?” She said his name hesitantly, half-heartedly. She knew he wasn’t here.
Barely breathing, she slid her hand along the wall just inside the door. Her fingers found the lightswitch, pushed it up and the overhead light sprang to life, revealing the empty space with a suddenness that felt like gotcha!
Marcy brought both hands to her mouth. Her eyes trailed slowly around the room. Nothing but dust bunnies. She glanced back at the door to be sure she was in the right place.
She was.
She walked back toward the bedroom, footfalls echoey in the vacant space.
She felt sick. Pausing at the door to the tiny kitchen, she flicked on the light and saw that even the little spider plant was gone.
She turned and moved to the bedroom. The door was closed and, God help her, she still found an iota of hope in her heart that Truman had been robbed, or decided he hated his furniture too, and was in there sleeping on his mattress on the floor.
She turned the knob, felt for the lightswitch and pushed it up.
She screamed. Then jumped back.
There in the corner, like something cobwebbed and forgotten in an attic, sat a street person. He was dressed in layer upon ratty layer of clothing, had a beard that had obviously developed into the tangled nest it was over the course of years, and he looked at her through wild, red-rimmed eyes.
“I thought nobody lived here. I thought it was empty,” he said, staring at her like an untamed animal about to be caught and caged. “Empty. Empty. Empty, I tell you!”
She held her hands out to him, palms out, so that he wouldn’t move, would not get up. “It is, it is. I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she said, backing away from the door. “It’s all right. You stay there. I’m going.”
She leaned forward to close the door and he shrank back against the wall. Marcy closed the bedroom door and rushed to the front door. She paused, cast one la
st look around the barren space, then turned out the light and left.
Empty. Empty. Empty.
Her eyes streamed tears as she drove slowly home.
“That all looks real good then,” Donnie Molloy said, rising from the chair opposite Marcy’s desk. “Thank you, Ms. P. I’ll be happy when Burton’s case is over and we know just where we stand.”
Marcy stood too. “Well, regardless of the outcome of Mr. Burton’s case, we’ll go forward with yours. While I believe Burton versus Planners will be successful, even if it’s not, that doesn’t mean yours won’t be.”
Donnie shook his head admiringly. “I wish I could do what you do, Ms. P. Helping people like me and Bob Burton.”
She smiled wryly. “Well, I’m not doing it for free.”
He shrugged, grinning. “Yeah, but you ain’t taking any money ’less we get some. That’s the same as free to me. Least for now.”
“I’m glad. In any case, I’ve got good reason to believe we’ll be successful.”
Donnie laughed and slapped his palms together. “If old Bob Burton walks away with a great big check, then you can be sure the first thing I’ll be doing is making my reservations at Avenel.”
“Avenel?”
“Only the best golf course in the Washington, D.C., area. That’s what I hear, anyway. I got a connection can get me in, but I ain’t never had the money to try it before.”
“Well, you don’t have it yet,” Marcy cautioned. “You never know what a judge will do. And I mean never. Let’s not count our chickens—”
“Or birdies!” Donnie cackled.
She laughed. “Right. That’s very good. But you know what I’m saying, don’t you, Donnie?”
“Oh sure. I know most people don’t get the kinda money you hear about in them big cases. Like what was that one? The McDonald’s one?”
Marcy sighed. Everyone brought up the McDonald’s case. The one where a woman won a huge settlement for spilling hot coffee on herself. There was so much people didn’t know about that case, though. Circumstances and injuries that went far beyond a mere spilling of a hot cup of coffee.
“Yes, well, that was a jury trial, for one thing, and juries are even more unpredictable than judges. But I’m glad you know most cases don’t end up like that.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I can dream, can’t I? Thanks again, Ms. P. I know you’re doing what you can.”
“You’re certainly welcome. I’ll do my best. But, uh, Donnie?” she said hesitantly as he began to turn away. She looked at the desk, at her fingers tented on its surface. “There is one thing you could do for me, if you wouldn’t mind. Just a small favor.”
His brow beetled. “Sure. You name it.”
She opened the long desk drawer in front of her and took out an envelope. “Would you mind, and please tell me if this makes you uncomfortable in any way, would you mind giving this to Truman Fleming when you see him at work?”
Donnie looked solemnly at the envelope she held without making a move to take it. Dread moved into her stomach.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind,” he said, “not if it ain’t a death threat or nothing…” He chuckled and she smiled uncertainly. “But, thing is, he quit, Truman did. Up and quit, oh, ’bout a week and a half ago.”
Marcy was stunned. “He quit?”
Donnie nodded. “Sure did. Said he was starting fresh, or something like that. Promised to keep in touch, though, ’cause we got to be friends, Tru ’n’ me. Hope he does.”
Marcy felt as if she’d been punched. Truman was gone. Really gone. He’d disappeared.
She’d lost him for good.
“Did he mention anything about the case?” she asked, the uncertainty finally hitting her that if he were well and truly gone he might not be planning to testify.
Donnie thought for a second. “No, don’t think he did. Wished me luck on mine, but I don’t recall him saying anything else.”
She nodded slowly, working to keep her composure.
“If you want,” he offered, his expression worried as he looked at her, “I’ll take the envelope and give it to him if I see him. I invited him to stop by the house for dinner any time he got the urge. That boy ate the worst kind of junk food I ever seen.”
Marcy swallowed hard and forced a smile. “That would be great, Donnie. Thank you.”
She held the envelope out to him and he took it. He was her last, best hope, unless Truman showed up for the trial on Thursday. In which case she would talk to him herself.
If he didn’t show up, though…
Well, it just didn’t bear thinking about.
She wondered, though, how she’d manage to think about anything else.
18
Thursday, December 12
WORD-A-DAY!
JEOFAIL: n., a mistake or oversight during a legal proceeding; quite simply, something a lawyer did not plan or want to have happen in a court of law
Marcy was a mess. It was seven A.M. the day of the trial, she’d been up since four, and she was sitting at her desk at work, sure she was going to throw up at any moment. She’d already rushed to the bathroom twice and felt better once she got there. Which was only one reason she wished to God she could spend the entire day, if not the rest of her life, there.
It had started with waking up. Waking up with the instant knowledge that Truman was gone, untraceable. She’d asked her assistant to try and track down the landlord to see if he knew where Truman had moved—he was, after all, a missing key witness—but to no avail.
“The landlord, one Mr….” Jan had paused and flipped back a sheet on her steno pad the previous day. “…Calhoun, said he had no idea where Mr. Fleming was. Said people come and go all the time and there’s no way he can keep track of them all. Actually, he said it a lot more colorfully than that but that’s the gist of it.”
Marcy felt tears pushing at her eyes. Again. It seemed they did that every time she thought of Truman.
“He didn’t have anything else to say? The landlord?” she’d asked.
“Yes, he said Mr. Fleming was at least paid up on his rent, which was more than he could say for most people who disappeared. So I asked him how Mr. Fleming paid his rent, if he used a check, and if he did, did Mr. Calhoun remember which bank he used?”
“Oh, good thinking.” Marcy had felt a smidgen of hope blossom in her breast at that.
But Jan had shaken her head. “He said that was one memorable thing about Mr. Fleming, he always hand-delivered his rent in cash.”
In cash. Marcy had been surprised at that. And disturbed. Who paid for things like rent in cash but drug dealers and members of the mob?
But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was that he was one of her key witnesses, one she planned to call today, and he was nowhere to be found.
Okay, she let her head sink into her hands, fingers in her hair. That wasn’t all that mattered now, but that was all she would allow herself to think about. She could tell herself she only sought him because he was an important witness but the anxious murmurings of her heart were difficult to ignore.
She let her eyes drift up to the calendar on her desk—her Word-a-Day! calendar—and felt nauseous all over again. How in the world had that hideous word—jeofail, of all the godforsaken words they could’ve chosen—managed to show up today? Was it a sign from God? An omen to persuade her to give up the case? Had Planners made this calendar?
She couldn’t do it, of course, and there was no reason she should drop the case even if Truman didn’t show. The evidence was strongly in her favor even without his testimony. But she was so tired from lack of sleep, so anxious about Truman, so conscious of the broken state of her heart, that chances were she wouldn’t have any trouble using that word in a sentence by the end of the day.
She was more than distracted enough to make a mistake.
Three hours later, Marcy had pulled herself together enough to make her opening statement and question Mr. Burton on direct examination without mishap. In fact, s
he’d felt stronger as soon as the trial had started. The familiar rush of adrenaline had kicked in and her confidence that she had a strong case returned. She’d have felt better if she’d seen Truman in the lobby beforehand. There was no denying her case for willful negligence would be much stronger with his testimony, stating that he heard Lang refuse to install the required guardrails. But, all things considered, she was doing all right.
She was just taking a deep breath after Marty Strape cross-examined Donnie Molloy in a relatively mild way when Win Downey leaned over the bar behind her and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me Tru Fleming was one of your witnesses?”
Marcy sat bolt upright and swiveled in her seat. What difference did it make to Win that Tru Fleming was her fact witness?
“I, I…didn’t I? Is he here?” she asked.
Win nodded, still smiling at her.
“Nice going,” he mouthed, giving her a thumbs up as he sat back down.
Marcy’s eyes scanned the courtroom, but of course he wouldn’t be there even if he’d arrived. Defense had requested that all witnesses be kept out of the courtroom, a common request, to lessen the chance that they’d influence each other’s testimonies. She wished she could ask if Win had actually seen him, or if he’d just seen the witness list.
“Miss Paglinowski?” Judge Bailey asked. “Your next witness?”
She’d never argued before Judge Bailey, but Marcy had heard she was a fair, if tough, judge. A gray-haired woman with a strong-jawed face, she surveyed her courtroom with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor.
Marcy stood, praying to God that Win was right and Truman was here. “Yes, your honor. Plaintiff calls Truman Fleming.”
Marcy turned to watch the bailiff open the courtroom doors. Truman Fleming took two steps into the room and the breath left Marcy’s body.
He looked—incredible. Not because she hadn’t seen him in over three weeks but because he was dressed like he’d just stepped out of GQ Magazine. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit, had cut his hair, and was cleanly shaven. He looked as if he’d just come from a boardroom.