This cheery thought convinces me I need another beer to go with the inorganic meal I’m steeling myself to ingest. I gulp the last few ounces of my beer and drop it into the paper bag Sarah has insisted we reserve for cans. Too bad they can’t recycle humans. When scientists are able to start doing that, the preachers really will get the shakes. I open the refrigerator again and take out another beer. What is important to me about religion is the way Sarah handles it. I ‘m much more interested in her being happy than in her thinking she has to discover the meaning of life. Actually, I’d rather my taxpayer’s money be spent on her learning to work our VCR, but I guess Arkansas has to try to keep up appearances on this score, too.
I decide the pizza isn’t so bad and chew and drink contentedly seated at the kitchen table, while I stare out the window into the growing darkness. Saturday morning, be fore we pick up our kids, the parents are invited for a session to learn what is supposed to be going on, and then hear one of our U.S. senators (I forget which like old married couples, they have all begun to sound and act alike) surely tell us how wonderful our children are, a fail-safe topic if ever there was one. I know I will not be permitted to make fun of all this sound and fury. It is serious stuff. Yet maybe I’m afraid of it (or jealous) and am minimizing my daughter’s experience by making light of it.
Missing Sarah desperately, I rinse off my dish and then call Rainey McCorkle, my best friend. In an ideal world Rainey and I would be married by now, but we are still working things out. We seem to function better as friends.
Since my wife’s death, even the most sympathetic of observers would concede that I have behaved on the erratic side when it comes to women. Rainey, I think, would like nothing better than to be able to trust me, but like the most promising politician, I bear some watching. Apparently she has decided I am a long-term project, and since about four months ago, when we made the decision to relieve our relationship of the stress of courtship and simply be friends, we have gotten along better.
“Be sure to turn on the ten o’clock news,” I say when she answers the phone.
“It’s been a busy day for me.”
Rainey, who likes to tease, says brightly, “Oh, was there a big pileup on the interstate?”
“You can do better than that,” I reply. Rainey’s distaste for members of my profession is not a well-kept secret. A social worker at the state mental hospital, who, at the time we met, counseled patients I had unsuccessfully represented at civil commitment proceedings, she thinks lawyers are licensed leeches.
“Actually, I was fired today, went into private practice, and picked up a client whose case is so big he’s going to put me on TV, but probably not until tomorrow.”
Rainey zeros in on what sounds most like the most important news to her.
“What happened at Mays amp; Burton?”
she asks, immediately serious.
I tell her the story, trying to make light of it, but I am embarrassed. The humiliation of being let go has begun to sink in. I can tell myself and others that competence had nothing to do with it, but I’ll go to my grave believing that Martha and I were rookies who simply couldn’t make the final cut. After all, appellate courts reverse handsome jury verdicts a good percentage of the time. It comes with the territory in plaintiff’s litigation. A firm doesn’t take its broom out of the closet every time a case goes the wrong way.
“It’s probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I bluster. I don’t want her pity. In her eyes I’ve already screwed up too much. Besides, she’s not the type to give sympathy to someone who begs for it.
She is quiet for a moment when I finally shut up. Her voice warm and genuine, she says, “If you need to borrow some money, don’t be too proud to ask me. I’ve got some put away for a rainy day.”
I shake my head, floored by her generosity. She is offering to lend me money she doesn’t have. At one point we were close enough to marriage to compare the condition of our bankbooks. Social-work salaries aren’t going to drive the state into bankruptcy.
“I’m okay right now,” I temporize, knowing I would sooner die than take money from her.
“This new client is going to be okay. I’m not kidding.” I tell her about the employment agreement I had signed with Mays amp; Burton. This confession is at the expense of my dignity, but Rainey has seen me at my worst and can handle it. If she were the sort of woman (or man) who could be counted on to throw my weakness back into my face, discretion would definitely be the better part of valor. But Rainey doesn’t hoard ammunition. She says what she thinks and moves on to the next round.
In response she merely says, “I doubt if this episode will make the chamber of commerce highlights film, but lawyers have done worse things than steal clients from each other.”
I wince. It wasn’t stealing at all. Yet mincing words is not part of Rainey’s behavior, and I’m not really in a position to put too fine a point on my own actions.
“I was furious,” I say, one ring an excuse since she won’t do it.
“You still haven’t told me the name of your big fish,” Rainey says, adroitly changing the subject. She knows she doesn’t need to make a speech on ethics. She has made her point.
I pause, knowing the Model Rules on ethics adopted by Arkansas technically require me not to disclose Andy’s name without his permission, but by tomorrow morning everyone will know I’m his lawyer (I’m surprised I haven’t gotten a call from the papers already), so a few hours don’t matter.
“A black psychologist by the name of Andrew Chapman, the guy who accidentally electrocuted the girl at the Blackwell County Human Development Center,” I explain.
“He was charged with manslaughter today. You ever hear of him?”
“I know Andy,” she says in a shocked tone.
“He’s a real neat guy.”
After this last contribution, I feel a pang of jealousy. Even in a prison jumpsuit Chapman looked impressive.
“It’s an awfully small world,” I say, trying not to sound irritated.
“He worked at the hospital briefly as a psychological examiner, before he went back to get his Ph.D.,” she explains.
“How could they possibly charge him? It was an accident.”
I nod, glad to get this response. Though she is a do-gooder when it comes to poor people, Rainey is no bleeding heart on the subject of crime. She is from the tough-guy school of criminal justice. A certain percentage of society is regrettably sociopathic. A water moccasin has a better chance of being rehabilitated than many adult criminals, according to Rainey.
“Politics, possibly, but I don’t know,” I say, not yet comfortable enough with Amy’s theory to regurgitate it. Amy may have an ax to grind that I don’t know about.
“Would you keep your ears open for me?” The state is small, and the network among state employees makes it even smaller for a good number of the population. Mental health and developmental disabilities are under the same organizational umbrella, and news from one spoke travels to the other at the speed of the latest computer.
“Sure,” Rainey says, shifting the conversational gears slightly.
“Have you told Sarah what’s happened?”
When we broke up, one of the major casualties I expected was Sarah. Rainey and Sarah became friends in a way I never thought would be possible. Rainey has come to know and love Sarah in a way I somehow can’t. Half the time I come home and see Rosa standing in the kitchen (and expect far too much in the way of maturity), but when Rainey comes over, she says she sees a dazzling young woman who reminds her of no one else. For her part, Sarah has blossomed under such attention like an exotic flower. She was crushed when I came home with the news that Rainey and I didn’t seem headed for the altar any longer, but they have remained good friends. I tell Rainey that I will be picking up Sarah on Saturday for a three-day break from her camp and get her to laughing over my reaction to my daughter’s letter.