“Brent, we didn’t-”
“Suicide! Mary, it’s suicide! I go to a funeral every weekend! Everyone I know is sick, except for me. And now Jack.” He throws down the paper towel.
I feel a chill. “Jack?”
He looks up at me, his eyes full of tears.
My God. Brent is going to lose Jack. My own eyes sting. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.” I kneel down and rub his back through his thin black sweater. He returns to cleaning the stain, mechanically.
“I’ve known for a while, Mary, so it’s not sudden, like it was with you and Mike. And you don’t have to worry about me. I’m HIV negative. We always practiced safe sex, even from the beginning.”
“My God.” I hadn’t even considered losing Brent. I couldn’t lose him too. We’ve been together for eight years. I don’t know what would happen to me.
“It’s no joke, Mary. It’s real. Anyone can get it, even Magic Johnson, even you. You’re playing with fire.”
“We didn’t do it, Brent.”
“You were going to.”
“No, I wasn’t.” I wasn’t going that far, but I did feel something for Ned when he kissed me. And I felt something else, a flicker of physical need that I thought had been buried with Mike. It thrilled me; it frightened me. I look down at the stained carpet and Brent does too.
“All that work,” he says, “and it’s only gone from coffee brown to Palmolive green.” He offers me a paper towel and takes one for himself.
I blow my nose. “It looks like Hawaii.”
“No. It looks like Placido Domingo.” He wipes his eyes and throws an arm around my shoulder. “So tell me, Mare. Why is it always the Catholic girls who are doin’ it on the desks?”
“Brent!” I shove him.
“With Waters yet, who writes you poison pen letters. Who follows you around!”
“It’s not him.”
“He’s mind-fucking you, girlfriend. That man is a mind fuck.” He gets up and pulls me to my feet.
“I know what I’m doing, Brent.”
“Say what?” He bursts into laughter.
I laugh with him, in spite of myself. “All right, maybe I don’t. But I don’t think Ned’s the one. I just don’t.”
“Oh, really? Well, you’d better be sure about that, because you got another note in this morning’s mail.”
“No, really?”
“That’s what I was coming in to tell you.”
From his back pocket, he hands me a piece of white paper. The message is laser-printed in capital letters and reads:
WATCH YOUR STEP, MARY
The envelope, the stamp, everything is the same as last time.
My heart sinks. “Who’s doing this, Brent? This is so awful.”
“You have to call the cops, Mare.”
“I talked to them last night.”
“Hallelujah! You called them?”
“After someone broke into my apartment. Which they didn’t. I hope.”
Brent looks crazed. “Mary, what the fuck is going on?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that when I got home, the door was open. Nothing was taken. The apartment was untouched. Except for Mike’s picture, which either fell off the shelf-”
“I can’t believe this. This is insane! What did the cops say?”
“They think I left the door unlocked. There was no sign of a break-in.”
“What do you think?”
“Last night after I saw the picture, I was sure someone was there. Today I’m not so sure.”
“You didn’t report it?”
“Brent, if I file a report, they’ll investigate. The cop told me. They’ll interview people at the firm, people I suspect. Which at this point is everyone but you and Judy. Can you imagine that? Even if they interview a handful of people, you don’t think that’s going to be the kiss of death?”
“They could keep it confidential.”
“Sure, like they keep the number of partners confidential. Like they keep the associate reviews confidential. You know better than that-people stand in line to give you the dirt. And as soon as the gossip mill starts up, I look like shit. Either I’m accusing them of something criminal or I’m a hysterical female.”
Suddenly, the phone rings. Brent answers it and then hands it to me, mouthing “Martin.”
“Hi, Martin.” I stare at the note in my hand.
“You’re too busy to return my calls?”
“I’m sorry, Martin. I was in a dep until late at Masterson.” I read the note again.WATCH YOUR STEP, MARY.
“Bernie Starankovic called. Think you can find the time to call him back?”
“Sure, Martin.”
“Capital. Do so.”
I hang up slowly and hand the note back to Brent. “Will you keep this somewhere safe, with the other one?”
“Now I’m storing evidence. The cops should have this, not me.”
But I’m lost in thought. “You know, what about Martin? He just sounded pissed as hell, and I can seehim writing notes like this. He’s got a motive, because I’m taking his place onHart. If Berkowitz is grooming me to start doing his work…”
“You’re just guessing, Mary. Only detectives can do detective work. Let them help you, goddamn it! If you don’t call them, I will.” Brent reaches for the telephone, but I press his hand down onto the receiver. Our hands pile on top of one another, like a dead-serious game of one potato, two potato.
“No, Brent. Wait. It’s my career you’re playing with. If they investigate, I’m gonna lose my job. I can tell you that right now. As sure as you and I are standing here.”
Our eyes meet over the phone. He looks surprised at my urgency. So am I.
“I need this job, Brent. It’s what I have now. I started eight years ago, and I want to see it through. It’s been a constant. For all the faults in this firm, I know when I come in on Monday morning I’ll see you and Judy and The Amazing Stella, and I know where the water cooler is.”
“I know that, Mare, we’ve been together since day one. I love you. You’re my friend.”
“Then listen to me. I’ll make you a deal. After the election, if it’s still going on, I’ll report it. I’ll raise holy hell, I mean it. But not until after the election.”
“You don’t gamble with stuff like this, Mare.”
“My job?”
“Your life.”
I give his fist a quick squeeze. “Don’t be so dramatic, Brent. This is notCamille, Act Three. Nobody’s dead.”
“Not yet,” he says, and his glistening eyes bore into mine. “Not yet.”
15
Because of my discussion with Brent, which we resolve by agreeing to disagree, I’m ten minutes late to the Friday morning litigation meeting. Nobody seems to notice except Judy, who looks at me curiously as I take a seat along the wall and put the marked-upNoone brief face down in my lap. The meetings are held in Conference Room A, the only conference room large enough to accommodate the whole department. Conference Room A is on the sixth floor, Avarice, but the A doesn’t stand for Avarice. At least not officially.
I used to love these meetings, full of war stories about Actual Trials and Real Juries. I loved them even after I realized that their purpose was self-promotion, not self-education. I loved the meetings because this group of litigators-or alligators, as Judy calls us-was my own. I felt I belonged in their swamp. I believed, on faith, that they wouldn’t eat me; I was one of their young. But I believe this no longer. I’ve lost my religion.
I watch the alligators feed voraciously on delicatessen fish, Danish, and bagels. You’d think they haven’t eaten in years. I look around the room, seeing them as if for the first time. I scrutinize each freshly shaved or made-up face. Which alligator is sending me these terrible notes? Which one broke into my apartment-or maybe hired someone to do it?
Is it Berkowitz? He starts off the meeting, smoking profusely, telling everyone about the victory before Bitterman, which seems as if it happened a decade ago. He mentions my name in a familiar way and comes dangerously close to giving me some credit. Every head turns in my direction. I hear an undercurrent of snapping jaws.