Steve Martini
Undue Influence
“And the blood shall be a sign for you on the
houses where you live; and when I see the blood
I will pass over you…”
Prologue
There is a special clarity of thought, an unclouded focus which is granted to those who shed all fear and panic, who in the end stare death in the eye, and who leave this world on their own terms.
It was this clarity of mind that, in those final days, gave Nikki a superiority of will that I could not resist. Lingering as she was on the edge of death, I found myself unable to refuse her a thing. She would merely ask, and it would be as if she had cast some indefinable spell. All I could say was yes. Floating on an ether of immeasurable courage in a sea of white sheets and pillows, in her last days Nikki finally found her own form of undue influence over me.
Nikki’s doctors said she had a virulent strain. They called it ‘small oat cell cancer.’ Before they could move, it had metastasized, migrating from the lungs to a dozen other organs.
In those weeks after the funeral, when I finally came to dodge my own self-pity, I dwelled most on the irony. That Nikki, who had never touched a cigarette in her life, who on sensing any negligible odor of smoke would turn on her heel and walk from the most crowded restaurant, who swore off as the foulest of vices all forms of tobacco — that Nikki should die of lung cancer.
It was just eleven months from diagnosis to death. It has become the mirror image of a nightmare where sanctuary is found in the wakened mind. My only peace with Nikki’s death now comes when I can sleep. And it seems I am condemned to insomnia.
The lawyer in me demands some explanation, some cause to which I can affix blame — not for the usual reasons of money damages, but to make sense of this, to give our existence symmetry, some rational design. My lawyer’s mind turns, even in its rare moments of sleep, searching for some reason, a logical accounting for this loss, this deprivation now shared with my daughter, Sarah, who is seven. But as to the question of why, there seems no answer. When I told them Nikki never smoked, our family doctor and the oncologist both looked at me skeptically. This was the classic case of smoker’s cancer, they told me. And by their looks, the expressions they flashed to each other, lighted by the muted glow of backlit X rays, they squeezed out and conferred their benefit of doubt on me, meager as it was.
Our eighteen years had been a rocky marriage at best, more my fault than hers. An affair during our separation, now some years ago, the constant strain of my law practice — the eternal jealous mistress. Each of these brought their own form of anguish to Nikki. Now I read with increased emphasis articles in popular literature linking cancer to stress, and wonder to what degree Nikki’s life was shortened by me.
The therapist to whom I trekked for weeks after Nikki’s death — a referral from my physician — told me this was normal, the phase of guilt. He tells me disdain for my dead wife will come next, a loathing that she has left me behind to struggle alone. Each, he says, is an aspect through which I must pass, like the portals of life.
Before, when I shared the trauma of her looming death with Nikki, it was always easier. When she was diagnosed, we entered the phase of denial together. The tests were wrong. She was healthy and young. The doctors, with all of their science, after all, could not test or measure her will to live. We would beat this thing together, subdue the demon inside her body by sheer force of will if necessary. My conversations with Nikki were laced with bravado, though to my own ear my words too often resonated with fear.
In the end it was Nikki who accepted the truth first, leaving me behind to grasp at the haggard images of naked hope, my dreams of last-minute miracle cures from the shelves of science. Toward the end I found myself in silent bargains with a higher being with whom over the years I have not been on familiar terms.
When I finally subdued my panic, I caught up to Nikki in the serenity of her own acceptance. One afternoon she took my hand, and in the dappled sunlight of our yard, she told me that she had two wishes: to die quietly with her family in her own home, free from the contraptions of modern medicine, and another more personal request that I now fulfill.
Chapter 1
‘Bottom line, she was an unfit mother.’ Melanie Vega, Jack’s new wife, speaks of Laurel in the past tense — as if she were dead.
In this, I suspect, is some inkling of how Jack and Melanie see their case, like blue chips in a bull market. For two days their lawyer has chewed on Laurel’s past. He’s had her fricasseed and fried, spiced with indiscretions, and served always in the same way, marinated in liquor. In the valleys that have been Laurel’s life, this is a common theme, though I’ve seen no hint of the bottle through all of this.
‘Move to strike. Not responsive.’ Gail Hemple, Laurel’s lawyer, is on Melanie in the witness box like mustard on rye.
The judge tells the court reporter to strike the witness’s last statement. Alex Hastings, up on the bench, has the look of perpetual irritation carved on his face like a death mask. This is taking far too long.
Laurel is Jack Vega’s former wife, Nikki’s sister, and the reason I am here, a blood oath that I would look after Laurel. It was Nikki’s last request, for a lot of reasons. Our children are close. While Sarah is younger, she dotes on her two cousins, Laurel’s teenagers. But in the end, for Nikki, I think it came down to a more basic denominator of nature, an older sibling’s watchful eye over her little sister. Nikki was three years older than Laurel.
Though initially I thought I might grow to regret my involvement here, the fact is that Laurel’s cause has grown on me. This may be for no other reason than that Jack, my former brother-in-law, is a jerk of the first water. That his experts and lawyers have Laurel on the run merely proves the adage that there is no such thing as justice — either in or out of court.
I’ve spent this time here in Family Court as a kibitzer in Laurel’s corner, for support. Another lawyer is doing her case.
Laurel is thirty-six, an inch taller than I, a sandy blonde with green eyes and dimples that look like they’ve been press-punched beneath high cheekbones. When she cares for herself she’s an attractive woman. In the years when our families spent time together for holidays, and one brief vacation, Laurel always wore the look of leisured money. But the two-hour facials are now faded memories like her leached-out salon-driven tan.
In recent months she has been forced to fend for herself and her children. With a college degree in the arts, when the divorce came Laurel had no immediately marketable skills or experience. To fill in around the ragged edges of support, which comes hit-and-miss from Jack, she has taken a job at the health club where she used to be a member, teaching aerobics and swimming. At night she chases a teaching credential at the university — something with a better future.
Laurel’s fall from affluence can be measured with the precision of the Pearl Harbor bombing. It came one morning with the service of process, divorce papers on the front steps of the family home, and like an iron bomb in a powder magazine it has scattered the pieces of her life.
A rational person might not call this a sneak attack. Over the years Laurel has either known of or suspected Jack’s infidelities. They came with the regularity of the seasons, as predictable as blossoms in the spring. Like Ferdinand the Bull, Jack’s testosterone level always elevated along with the length of skirts in warm weather. And Jack did little to conceal these moments of misdirected passion. If it weren’t so painful, I’m certain he would have carved notches in his dick to commemorate the conquests.