“Today, while you were painting. The mailman knocked on my door, asked for you but I said you were busy, and so I signed for it.”
Signing for it is one thing. Opening it is another matter.
“You shouldn’t have opened it,” I say, but not really angrily. It’s impossible to be furious at a time like this.
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d want me to. But isn’t it exciting?”
Indeed it is. I float to the kitchen, grinning like a goofy idiot, taking deep breaths of unburdened air. Everything is wonderful. What a great world!
“Let’s celebrate,” she says with a naughty little grin.
“Anything,” I say. I feel like running through the backyard, yelling at the stars.
She reaches far into a cabinet, fumbles around, smiles, then slowly extracts an odd-shaped bottle. “I save this for special occasions.”
“What is it?” I say, taking the bottle. I’ve never seen one of these at Yogi’s.
“Melon brandy. Pretty strong stuff too.” She lets forth a giggle. At this moment, I’ll drink anything. She finds two matching coffee cups — drinks are never served in this house — and fills them half full. The liquid is thick and gooey. The aroma reminds me of something from the dentist’s office.
We toast my good fortune, clink our Bank of Tennessee cups together and take a sip. It tastes like children’s cough syrup and burns like straight vodka. She smacks her lips. “We’d better sit down,” she says.
After a few sips, Miss Birdie is snoring on the sofa. I mute the movie, and pour another cup. It’s a potent liquor, and after the initial searing the taste buds are not as offended. I drink it on the patio, under the moon, still smiling upward in glorious thanks for this divine news.
The effects of the melon brandy linger until well after sunrise. I shower and ease from my apartment, sneak to my car, then race down the driveway in reverse until I hit the street.
I go to a yuppie coffee bar with bagels and blends of the day. I pay for a thick Sunday paper and spread it on a table in the rear. Several items hit close to home.
For the fourth day in a row, the front page is filled with stories about the paddle wheel disaster. Forty-one kids were killed. The lawyers have already started filing suits.
The second item, this one in the Metro section, is the latest installment of an investigative series about police corruption, and more specifically the relationship between the topless business and law enforcement. Bruiser’s name is mentioned several times as the lawyer for Willie McSwane, a local kingpin. And Bruiser’s name is mentioned as the lawyer for Bennie Thomas, also known as Prince, a local tavern owner and former federal indictee. And Bruiser’s name is mentioned as a likely federal target in his own right.
I can feel the train coming. The federal grand jury has been meeting nonstop for a month. This newspaper runs stories almost daily. Deck is increasingly nervous.
The third item is a complete surprise. On the last page of the business section is a small story with the caption 161 PASS BAR EXAM. It’s a three-sentence press release from the Board of Law Examiners, then an alphabetical listing, in very small print, of those of us who passed.
I pull the paper closer to my face, and read furiously. There I am! It’s true. There’s been no clerical error. I’ve passed the bar exam! I blitz through the names, many of whom I’ve known well for three years.
I search for Booker Kane, but he’s not here. I check and triple check, and my shoulders sag. I place the paper on the table, and read aloud each name. There’s no Booker Kane.
I almost called him last night, after Miss Birdie’s memory revived itself and she handed me the wonderful news, but I just couldn’t. Since I passed it, I decided to wait and let Booker call me. I figured if he didn’t call within a few days, then I’d know he failed it.
Now I’m not sure what to do. I can see him, at this moment, helping Charlene dress the kids for church, trying to smile and put his best face on it, trying to convince them both that it’s just a temporary setback, that he’ll nail the exam next time.
But I know he’s devastated. He’s hurt and angry at himself for failing. He’s worried about Marvin Shankle’s reaction, and he’s dreading tomorrow at the office.
Booker is an intensely proud man who’s always believed he could achieve anything. I would love to drive over and grieve with him, but it wouldn’t work.
He’ll call tomorrow and congratulate me. On the surface he’ll be a sport with vows to do better next time.
I read the list again, and it suddenly hits me that Sara Plankmore’s name is not here. Neither is the name Sara Plankmore Wilcox. Mr. S. Todd Wilcox passed the exam, but his new bride did not.
I laugh out loud. This is mean and petty, spiteful, childish, vindictive, even hateful. But I just can’t help it. She got herself pregnant so she could get herself married, and I bet the pressure was too much. She’s been sidetracked for the past three months, planning her wedding and picking out colors for her nursery. Must’ve neglected her studies.
Ha. Ha. Ha. I get the last laugh after all.
The drunk who hit Dan Van Landel had liability insurance with a limit of one hundred thousand dollars. Deck has convinced the drunk’s carrier that Van Landel’s claim is worth more than the limit, and he’s right about this. The carrier has agreed to fork over the limit. Bruiser was used only at the last minute, to threaten litigation and such. Deck did eighty percent of the work. I did fifteen percent at most. We quietly give Bruiser credit for the rest. But under Bruiser’s firm’s scheme of compensation, neither Deck nor I will share in the profits. This is because Bruiser has a clear definition of fee generation. Van Landel is his case because he heard about it first. Deck and I went to the hospital to sign it up, but that’s what we’re supposed to do as Bruiser’s employees. If we had seen the case first, and signed it up, then we would qualify for some fees.
Bruiser calls both of us into his office and closes the door. He congratulates me on passing the bar exam. He, too, passed it on the first try, and this I’m sure makes Deck feel even more stupid. But Deck shows nothing, just sits there licking his teeth, his head cocked permanently to one side. Bruiser chats for a moment about the Van Landel settlement. He received the hundred-thousand-dollar check this morning, and the Van Landels will be in this afternoon for the disbursements. And he feels that we, perhaps, should get something out of the deal.
Deck and I exchange nervous looks.
Bruiser says he’s already had a good year, made more money than all of last year, and he wants to keep his people happy. Plus, it’s been a very quick settlement. He, personally, has worked on it less than six hours.
Deck and I are both wondering what he did for six hours.
And so, out of the goodness of his heart, he wants to compensate us. His cut is a third, or thirty-three thousand dollars, but he’s not going to keep all of it. He’s going to share it with us. “I’m going to give you boys a third of my share, to be split equally.”
Deck and I silently do the math. One third of thirty-three thousand dollars is eleven thousand, and half of that is fifty-five hundred.
I manage to keep a straight face and say, “Thanks, Bruiser. That’s awfully generous.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says as if these favors are a way of life for him. “Call it a gift for passing the bar.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Deck says. We’re both stunned, but we’re also both thinking that Bruiser gets to keep twenty-two thousand dollars for six hours of work. That’s somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five hundred an hour.
But I didn’t expect a dime, and I suddenly feel wealthy.
“Good work, you boys. Now let’s sign up some more.”