9
Wednesday
morning the mayor of New Orleans announced that at a minimum hundreds, more
likely thousands of people had died in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Doctors
and hospital administrators, hampered by a lack of power, clean water and
transportation, were overwhelmed by Katrinas medical demands. In Baghdad,
hundreds of people were trampled to death in a stampede that occurred after a
mortar attack spread panic among a crowd of Shiite pilgrims crossing a bridge.
Though my drive to the
office is fairly short and does not involve crossing any physical bridge, in my
mind it often feels like a symbolic one: between home and work. And this time
as I drove I experienced a stampede of thoughts: Libby, Andy, Margo, Chris, Libby
My first thought of
Libby came right after the weather forecast. The heat wave that had begun the
previous day, with midday temperatures well in the eighties, was due to
continue. I imagined that what Libby would wear when she came to my office that
afternoon would be even skimpier than what it had been on Monday.
Unlike Mondays
impromptu drop-in, this time I had her scheduled for a full forty-five minute
appointment. The business at hand would be unlikely to take up the full time,
and so there would be some time for conversation. Then I could ask her about
her memories of Andy, and perhaps tell her Barbaras story.
It seemed fairly certain
that Libby held no feelings of rancor towards Andy. If anything, she seemed
rather favorably inclined toward him. The shock that she had felt on hearing
about him and Peter seemed to have been just a tremor of surprise. But Andys
heroic deed did not seem to surprise her.
I began to feel regret over my belligerent
treatment of Margo. Yes, she was a manipulator; of that I no longer had any
doubt. But, given that Libby was in no hurry, there was no good reason to
proceed roughshod with the action without apprising Andy, and his attorney, of
the circumstances.
It might be good to talk
to Chris about Margo, I thought, in the context of comparing notes on our
respective exes. But when I tried to think about Chris I could not evoke a
visual image to go with the thought. Except that she had long black hair and
was not tall, I remembered her appearance only vaguely, and what imprinted
itself on the blank that I had for Chris was something like a digitally
modified image of Libby, her hair darkened and straightened, her stature
diminished.
It would be, then,
something like a blind date. Not quite, since Chris seemed to remember me quite
well. But enough to give it a quality of mystery that, for the moment, felt
exciting.
Libby came in
wearing bicycle garb, tight-fitting but not especially revealing. As she
stepped into the office she was shaking loose her lush hair (which was, at the
moment, the most striking thing about her), as though to relieve the pressure
of the helmet that she had probably left with her bicycle.
The formal business was
disposed of fairly quickly. She read the petition thoroughly but quickly before
signing it. She made no comment on the fact that the references to her included
her middle name, and she gave every indication of understanding every part of
the petition, even though it covered several issues: paternity, succession,
administration. I took it as a compliment on my ability to write in not overly
legalistic prose. I asked her if she needed any explanation, and she said no.
Remember Lauras lawyer friend that I mentioned to you? They were seeing each
other back when I was in high school, and I worked part-time in his office, so
I learned a little legalese. So much for the compliment.
As I had expected, there
was time for conversation I had previously turned off my telephones ringer,
as I normally do for appointments and it quickly came around to the subject
of Andy Stone.
When you said, That
sounds like Andy, what did you mean?
He was into rescuing
people. He was a ski patroller on Mount Ashland and a lifeguard on the Rogue
River. He would go there on weekends and sometimes take me with him. It was
fun!
Theres something else
that might interest you. I was told by a woman who had slept with him that he
mentioned you as the first woman he ever had sex with.
Really? Libbys
expression showed astonishment, but did not indicate any outrage over such a
preposterous lie.
Do you believe it?
Well, I never would
have thought so, but I do remember feeling a little surprised at how
inexperienced he seemed. I mean, I was eighteen, and he was twenty-one, and I
had to teach him some things.
I wondered what those
things might have been, but of course refrained from asking. She sensed my
curiosity and smiled.
Like, for example, she
went on, that it wasnt just about penetration. I thought that maybe it was
just me, that the other girls hed been with didnt know any better or didnt
care. But maybe he really was inexperienced. He caught on pretty fast. She
smiled again. I remembered her describing Andy as gentle, in contrast to his
even handsomer cousin Tommy the bully. But, now that I think about it, I do
remember him telling me that I was the first girl he ever loved. But I thought
he meant loved as distinct from fucked, which is what he was for
me. The first guy I ever loved, though I had fucked plenty.
By eighteen?
Yes. She paused and
smiled. It isnt anything Im ashamed of.
No reason you should
be.
I ran with a fast crowd
of girls in high school, and we didnt limit ourselves to high-school boys. I
learned a lot, pretty early. Thats why I work well with teenagers. And I kept
it up for the first month or two in college.
Until you met Andy?
Yes. After we split up
I went back to my old habits. Then I slowed down. And thats how my life has
been. Phases.
I was surprised by how
comfortable I felt in such an intimate conversation with a woman I barely knew.
But I felt that asking her, as I would have liked to, what phase she was in at
the moment would breach the comfort zone.
How did you and Andy
become a couple? I asked instead.
I met him at a party,
and I came on to him, pure and simple.
Pure and simple.
The very words that had come into my mind when I thought of Andy as a liar. I
still thought of him as a liar, but perhaps not so much of one. And the
capacity of any man, of any condition, persuasion or orientation, to resist a
come-on by Libby Schlemmer was beyond imagining.
Did you think of him as
gay?
I did at first he
passed for gay but then he told me he wasnt really gay. I was confused. I
guess I still am. She smiled again.
I felt the need to make
the conversation less personal. What you said earlier is interesting, I said
after musing for a moment. Ive noticed, I went on hesitantly, that when I
see a movie or a TV show in which sex between and man and woman I mean
consensual, recreational sex is pretty much just penetration, with maybe some
fellatio thrown in, then it often turns out that the director or the writer or
the producer is a gay man.
That is interesting.
She paused and smiled yet again. Maybe theyre the same ones who make the
woman keep her bra on. That was another thing I had to teach Andy: to wait till
I took it off, and later to take it off for me. He got pretty good at it
I felt a strong need to
make it impersonal again. Maybe gay men I mean men who are basically
homosexual even if they have sex with women dont appreciate how important a
womans breasts are to a straight guy. But Libbys breasts, superbly molded by
her orange jersey, seemed to be staring at me, mocking my attempt at impersonal
talk.
Perhaps Libby sensed my
discomfort. Do you like talking about movies? she asked.
Yes.
So do I, she said.
What was she doing? Was she challenging me to ask her out on a coffee date to
talk about movies? Or to go to the movies with her?
I dismissed the thought.
I wondered if Chris liked movies, other than movies that she might take her
teenage kids to.
I felt strangely pleased
by the fact that I had thought of Chris while in Libbys presence.
Seen any good movies
lately? I asked with a laugh.
As a matter of fact, I
did, she said without returning my laugh. I have a friend whos a critic, and
I got to see a preview of The Constant Gardener. Its opening tonight,
and Id recommend it.
I read the book, I
said. Ill probably like the movie. You say its opening tonight? On a
Wednesday?
Yes. Probably to set it
apart from the blockbusters that will open on Labor Day weekend. Quoth my
critic friend, she added with a smile.
There was a pause.
Did I tell you that I
was at Peters funeral?
You mean the memorial
service?
Yes. I got there late.
It felt so strange to see Andy. I saw you and him talking near the end. I asked
someone who you were, and I found out a lot. Thats why I came here the next
day. I wondered who someone was.
I didnt see you, I
said.
I can be inconspicuous
if I want to be, she said, chuckling.
I find that hard to
imagine.
You dont know me yet.
At this point Im not
sure I know anyone, including myself! This time we both laughed. Libby
remained smiling. It might easily be said of her that she had a beautiful
smile, but in the context of her spectacular beauty that would not be saying
much.
It was three-thirty.
Id better go now, she said, shaking her head again as though readying it
back for the helmet. Bye!
Well keep in touch, I
said.
After
Libby left I turned the ringer back on and noticed that my voicemail light was
blinking. The message was from Rose. Hi, Andy, its Rose. Ive got more stuff
about Andy Stone. It suddenly struck me that, despite having Andy on my mind a
good bit of the time, I had forgotten about the assignment I had given Rose.
I called Rose. She
picked up and said she would call me back shortly. After ten minutes she did
so.
There were no
preliminaries. Youve heard about what our boys been doing of late? she
began.
Rescuing people from
New Orleans?
Yes, poor people with
AIDS, black and white, who wouldnt have gotten out otherwise. When he realized
that there were more people than he could fit in the van hed rented, he
borrowed, or commandeered, a city bus they arent running anyway and drove about
fifty people to Lafayette, where hed rented a whole motel. It seems hes
involved with some kind of AIDS support group in Baton Rouge. And as far as
Ive been able to determine, he himself is not HIV-positive. Rose had
anticipated a question that was forming in my mind as she spoke.
Now, to go back to the
beginning, Rose went on, it turns out that hes got roots in Louisiana. His
mother, the former Margaret Anderson, is from Lake Charles. She was an Army
nurse in Vietnam, and Andys father was wounded there. Thats how they met.
Shades of Hemingway, I
said. A Farewell to Arms, I added when Rose didnt respond.
Whatever. Literature
was not Roses forte. They got married, and she moved to Oregon with him, and
they had Andy. Or maybe not quite in that order Andys kinfolk in Oregon
arent so clear on that. What they are clear on is that they didnt like
Margaret she was too foreign for them and I would guess that they made her
life miserable. Eventually she left her husband and moved back to Louisiana.
Andy stayed in Oregon, because of school and friends and all that, but he went
to visit his mother every so often.
What about the time in
between?
Thats where it gets
complicated. I located the biotech company that he went to work for. As you
might have guessed, they were working on an AIDS drug, an unconventional one,
and they were doing some testing in Africa, Namibia to be precise. I thought
of The Constant Gardener, which deals with a similar topic, but said
nothing to Rose. Andy went there, and then at some point he vanished from the
company payroll, and from any other record that weve been able to locate. If
you want to know any more about that, someone might have to travel to Africa.
Ill have to think
about that. What else have you got?
The last place where he
was before coming here seems to have been Houston again. But theres still a
big gap. Would you like me to work on that, going backwards?
I hesitated for a
moment. Yes, I finally said, with a conviction that grew in the course of my
saying it. What motivated it was the probability that I would end up knowing
more about Andy Stone than Margo, his attorney. Yes, go ahead, Rose. And
thanks for your work so far!
Youve got it. See you
at the picnic on Saturday!
Wednesday
evening the fog rolled in, and the brief hot spell was over. Thursday morning
was cloudy and cool.
The multifaceted
petition by Elizabeth Perino Schlemmer in re the Estate of Peter
Marshall Hart, with all its supporting documentation attached, and with the
requisite number of photocopies made, was ready by noon. But I decided to
postpone filing it until the next day, when I would combine the trip to the
Courthouse with a walk to the Financial District. I called the Wells Fargo
trust department and arranged for a meeting with the banker in charge of
Peters assets. It would be at three oclock on Friday. However long it might
take, realistically, it would leave enough time to get home and get myself
ready for Chris.
After signing the checks
that Diane had prepared for me it was the first day of the month I spent
most of Thursday afternoon working on various pending cases. A new client,
another wealthy man seeking a divorce, was due at four-thirty. He had been
referred to me by the software developer. Perhaps he was one himself. I could
not summon much enthusiasm for the appointment.
I thought back to The
Constant Gardener, and pondered the possibility of going to see the movie
in the evening.
The software developers
friend turned out to be a writer who had been published in The New Yorker
and the like, and who had made money writing software manuals. The problem was
that he had written most of them in varying degrees of cooperation with his
soon-to-be ex-wife, and the apportionment of the income would be a delicate
matter. But he was a witty and cultured man, and I enjoyed the meeting, which
lasted until almost six oclock.
When I got home I found
the latest New Yorker in my mail. I decided to stay at home and read it.
If a dating relationship should develop with Chris, and if she liked movies,
then I would go to see The Constant Gardener with her.