Change of Heart (5 page)

The phones jangled steadily, but Brian was deaf to them. In fact, sometimes in the night the absence of their ringing woke him from a restless sleep. Now, however, it was his intercom, buzzing at him like a gigantic enraged mosquito.

Oh, Jesus, not Mrs. Salvello, he thought with dismay as he heard the gravelly voice on the other end of the receiver. She'd brought the firm an age discrimination suit, an action Barbara believed would one day prove historic. In the meantime Brian endured regular doses of Mrs. Salvello's admiration.

“But, Mister Morgan, you know all those judges personally. You can get the date moved up, can't you? I mean, my nerves, I just can't take much more of this. And my daughter's mixed up with this man. She's only sixteen, and he's a junkie or a pimp, you should excuse me. Just this weekend she looked me straight in the eye, and you won't believe this, Mister Morgan, I mean, I've been a good mother, and I believe in discipline, I always have, it's not as if I spoiled her or let her get away with anything when she was a kid, I mean, Mr. Salvello didn't mind giving her a good strapping when she deserved it.…”

Normally Brian could put his attention on hold and go on working through the verbal deluge. Eventually the client would run down and, in a voice choked with gratitude, thank him for his understanding and wisdom, which had consisted of a few well-placed
hmm's
and
oh really's.
Meanwhile, he would have proofread a brief, signed his correspondence, and skimmed the law journal. Mrs. Salvello paid one hundred dollars an hour to talk about her daughter's sexual digressions and then reported to all her friends what a brilliant attorney she'd hired.

Today, however, her percussive narrative pounded away inside Brian's head like thousands of tiny hammers. He longed for an hour of peace to think about Sharlie, and imagined himself saying, Hey, Mrs. Salvello, you think you got problems? There's this beautiful girl who's very sick and will probably never hit twenty-seven and you sit there babbling about your daughter, who's most likely brain-damaged because dear old Mr. Salvello bashed her head in when she was a kid for showing her little bottom to Anthony down the block.

“Mrs. Salvello?”

The voice at the other end ran on for a few more phrases just out of momentum, then came to a halt in midsentence.

“… and you're such a … What?” she said, baffled.

“I've got to be in court in a few minutes. Could you call back another time? Unless there's something urgent …”

“Well, I guess there's nothing
urgent,
I mean, I know you lawyers are very busy, and I'm sorry I bothered you about my daughter. I mean, someday when you're a parent … you don't have any kids, I can tell that. Well, you give me a call when you have some news for me, and I'll just wait. I'm a very patient person. Mr. Salvello always said … well, I guess you don't want to hear about it, with your appointments and all.…”

Finally she came to an abrupt halt and hung up. Brian stared at the phone in remorse. Poor lonely woman.

Half an hour later Barbara Kaye appeared at his door. Brian had been staring out the window, and he wondered how long she'd been watching him. He noted uneasily that she was wearing her “invincible suit,” the navy-blue three-piece thing.

“I've just had a call from Salmonella.”

Barbara's habit of distorting their clients' names had always disturbed Brian. He believed it encouraged an attitude of contempt toward the people they were supposed to be helping, but today he let it pass. His lack of response was not lost on Barbara. She leaned against his desk, her arms folded around an assortment of papers and files.

“What's all this bullshit about talking to me because she thinks a
woman
could understand her half-wit daughter? I thought you were going to keep her off my back.”

“Sorry,” Brian said vaguely.

Barbara watched his face, waiting for him to look up at her. He did, finally, and she continued with quiet urgency.

“I want this case. She needs to have her hand held and she's getting billed for it. You're the one who told
me
she's a pathetic old lady with nobody to talk to.”

“I'll call her later,” Brian said with obvious lack of enthusiasm.

Barbara stood tall and handsome, head set in the no-compromise position so familiar to Brian and to the judges presiding at district court. She kept unsmiling eyes riveted on Brian's face until finally he threw his hands up in a gesture of concession. She shook her head, and he prepared himself for the full treatment.

“I do not read the usual level of human compassion in your face lately, and that scares me.”

Brian smiled dubiously at her, thinking. Nothing scares you, dear Barbara.

“No, somebody around here has to bleed for our guys,” she said. “I count on you for that. What the hell is going on?”

She waited, but Brian remained silent.

“You expending all your sympathy on this new girl?”

His eyes narrowed, and she shook her head.

“I can't lay off, Morgan. You bring it in here, and it's not private anymore.”

He sighed at the rising heat in her voice and waited for the rest.

“You leave early every day and come trailing into court unprepared, and for all the work you accomplish when you do haul your ass in here, she might as well be standing over there in the corner doing a striptease.”

She leaned over to tap his forehead with a long bright-red fingernail.

Brian said quietly, “You're right, Barbara. I'm sorry, okay?”

“What happened to the tennis freak?” Brian kept his face blank. “Susan. The one with the good legs.”

“Nothing.”

Barbara stared at him. “Nothing happened, or nothing's going on there?”

Brian only raised his eyebrows at her to let her know he'd heard the question and chose not to answer.

“You made a nice-looking couple.”

“Do I ask you about your love life?” Brian snapped.

“No!” Barbara burst out, with a bitter laugh. She averted her eyes, staring out the window at the bright sky. Brian watched her pupils contract into tiny black specks. He was astonished to see that she was hurt. There had been harsher words between them over courtroom procedure and client relations, battles in which they attacked each other's basic competence and judgment. What had he said this time except a fairly restrained “butt out”?

He was about to make a bewildered apology when she turned to him and said quietly, “Her father's a real shit.” Brian looked nonplussed, and she smiled. “Listen, I heard her name. I met Walter Converse at the McKaye examination before trial.” Still Brian gazed at her in silence. “Don't you want to know the details?”

“Mildly,” he said, and her smile widened at the curiosity in his face.

“Converse sits on the board at Hollins Communications.”

“Wasn't McKaye the executive they canned for a juvenile offense?” Brian asked.

Barbara nodded. “He ripped off a baseball mitt from the five-and-dime when he was fourteen. The other kids made it out the door, but Bill got caught.”

“You got him a quarter of a million, didn't you?”

“Yeah, but he had a tough time finding another job. Hollins wanted him out, and I think it was Converse who dredged the whole thing up. He made these impassioned speeches about ethics and morality, and what amazed me was he really believed his own bullshit. It was like a crusade, for God's sake. Christ, I'd hate to be his kid.” She hesitated. “How sick is she, anyway?”

“Very.”

Barbara watched him carefully for another moment.

“You know something, Morgan? You're a soft touch for the suffering multitudes. That's one of the reasons I hired you, and also because you're also a shrewd lawyer and you can turn your compassion into logic. But you want to hear my theory?”

“Not particularly,” he said, knowing she'd tell him anyway.

“Walter Converse's daughter is sick and helpless, and you absolutely cannot resist her. You're going to protect her and make her all better, except that if you did, I guarantee you that a bouncing, healthy Miss Converse would have nowhere near the same appeal.”

Out of line, Brian thought. This was not his taste in ties she was complaining about. He felt none of the usual combative stimulation of his arguments with her, the productive contests of will that left them exhausted and smiling and proud of each other, no matter who won the point. He looked at her flushed face and tried to remember his gratitude.

“You're wrong,” he said, carefully controlling his voice.

“I don't think so.”

“In any case, you can keep your theories to yourself.” He heard his voice quaver.

“That would be
nice,
I agree,” she said. She slid off the corner of the desk and began to inspect her armful of files, leafing through the papers silently, methodically, giving him ample time to absorb her displeasure.

Oh God, he thought furiously. She's into her Supreme Court act.

Barbara dropped the files on his desk with a smack and faced him grimly. “You're screwing up around here, and
that
is my business.”

Brian rose now, grateful for the extra three inches of height.

“Look, I'll leave it at home, all right?”

“That will be fine,” Barbara said quietly. Brian strode toward the door. Suddenly she called out after him.

“Brian … about the Converse girl … hey!”

He didn't turn back, and when she followed him out of his office a few moments later, his secretary stared at her curiously. Barbara glared back until the girl reddened and started typing with rhythmic enthusiasm. Barbara rapped her fingernails on the desk, a machine-gun exclamation point then marched briskly down the hallway.

Walter had Sharlie by the elbow, propelling her up the narrow stairs to the crowded dining room on the second floor. A waiter with a heavy tray balanced overhead clattered up the stairs behind them, and Walter flung out an arm, pressing Sharlie and Margaret against the wall.

“Leave it to the Italians. Look at this, kitchen on one floor and dining room on the other.”

Sharlie was silent, but Margaret looked downstairs anxiously, as if she expected a carving knife to come whizzing at them fresh from the hand of a Sicilian busboy.

Brian had chosen Pietro's for his debut, and Sharlie was prepared for vitriolic remarks from her father. There was inevitably something the matter with any restaurant, and Sharlie had often sat in humiliation while Walter refused the wine. In fact, the wine ritual had always signaled trouble. Sharlie was fully aware of her father's expertise in selecting the proper vintage. Hadn't he stormed at Margaret for allowing a new caterer to serve 1972 Lafite at their dinner party for the sheikh and his entourage? Out with his family, however, Walter felt free to expound on the idiocy of spending eighteen dollars on “frog vino” when you could get Blue Nun for six bucks.

Even with the cheap stuff he enjoyed making a ceremony of the first sip, serene under the contemptuous eye of the wine steward. Once last fall he had stormed out of an elegant Park Avenue establishment when the manager protested that refusing Gallo Chablis was like refusing Seven-Up. Sharlie remembered the stares as she and her mother gathered up their handbags and crept out behind him. She prayed that tonight Brian would disappear into the men's room when the wine list arrived.

Margaret had offered to serve dinner at home tonight, but finally Sharlie opted for the restaurant, figuring they were better off luring Walter out for the first meeting. In his castle the man was formidable, but in the neutral territory of a strange restaurant, perhaps Brian would stand a chance.

They sat over their drinks, waiting, while Walter sighed heavily and Sharlie fidgeted. Margaret glanced sympathetically at her daughter, giving her little nervous smiles of encouragement.

“Will you look at the grease spots on those glasses?” Walter said, and Sharlie heard a faint click as the civil servant cassette slid into the tape slot at the back of her father's head. There were unlimited topics in this category, aimed, among other things, toward the sanitizing of restaurant dining rooms, the erasure of graffiti on public edifices, the reformation of derelicts. Walter responded to each challenge with fervor, complaining noisily that no one else had a community conscience anymore.

He made a great display of looking at his watch, and Sharlie squirmed. Where was Brian anyway?

Finally he appeared in the doorway, all ruddy-faced from the cold March night, bringing a roomful of fresh air with him just as he had that first evening at Saint Joe's.

He approached the table, smiling and relaxed. Sharlie thought, my God, he's not even
hurrying.
Walter stood up, extending his hand, and smiled a broad grin that was all teeth.

“I don't suppose you make your courtroom appearances with such casual disregard for time.”

“No, sir,” Brian replied. “Not if I can help it.”

Turning to Margaret to shake her hand, he apologized briefly for the delay, offering no explanation. Then he leaned over and kissed Sharlie squarely, right on the mouth. Holy bananas, thought Sharlie. Daddy is going to take you apart limb from limb.

But Brian and Walter sat down, and Walter's stiff grin sat on his face, frozen there by shock. Sharlie gazed at her father, trying to pretend that his presence held no special significance—just some beefy stranger whose solid, emotionless expression reminded her of specimens on display at the Museum of Natural History.
Stuffed mogul
: Observe the beady, humorless eyes; the square face; and the small, ungenerous ears.

But the iced grin began to fade, and both Sharlie and Margaret noted with alarm the menacing shift of Walter's shoulders and a slight bulging of the muscles in his neck. Sharlie looked at Brian, her eyes fastening on him for comfort. How could he sit there so nonchalantly with his menu as if there were nothing else to think about but his empty stomach? Even Brian's monumental appetite must wither in the presence of such a man as Walter Converse.

When she was a little girl out to eat with her parents, Sharlie had gradually established a pattern of defensive techniques to sustain her through the ordeal. First she'd try to guess which course would provoke the collision between her father and the management. Next she'd turn her attention to the diners at nearby tables, manufacturing fantastic tales about them and their relationships. Loners and grim, silent couples challenged her imagination, and for them she invented implausibly happy outcomes for what appeared to be empty lives.

But tonight she wondered for the first time what other people might speculate about her own table. Middle-aged couple, quite comfortably wealthy (note woman's designer dress, man's initialed shirt), daughter in twenties (colorless young woman, obviously nervous, fidgeting with her napkin), and beautiful young man—not a brother to the young woman, see how she looks at him so hungrily. Her suitor? What could he possibly see in her? Must be the family jewels.

Sharlie glanced at the solid-looking woman regarding her placidly from a nearby table, jaws grinding away in relentless rhythm, a ruminating hippopotamus, then looked down at the mangled wreckage of the napkin that lay in her lap and decided that even a hippo would notice she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Twenty-six years old, she thought disgustedly, and here I sit, paralyzed with terror, waiting for Daddy to chop my man into neat, bite-sized morsels to consume with the antipasto. She watched enviously as Margaret sipped her Chianti. Must be nice to get pleasantly soused.

At this point she became aware of two opposing forces hovering on either side of her like uninvited guests. To the right, Parental Intimidation, an immense, dark, amorphous mass, who spilled over his imaginary chair onto Sharlie's lap, chilling her hands, and whose towering head inspected Brian menacingly, searching for some dire character flaw. The creature plucked at her sweater, pointing triumphantly at Brian's sloppily knotted tie. Sharlie twisted uneasily in her seat, protesting internally to the malignant shadow, What do I need you for when Daddy's here? And on her left, Young Love floated just above her shoulder, delicate and filmy as smoke. It curled itself in an aureole around Brian's head, whispering, This young god is yours. Just reach out and grab.…

Ill-behaved, these guest-ghosts, vying for her attention, tugging at her sleeves all through the appetizers. She tried to ignore them, but soon she was imagining Young Love wrapping its silken cloud around the bulging throat of Parental Intimidation, then pulling hard, harder, mercilessly.…

Walter harrumphed suddenly, and Sharlie glanced at him as he picked at his stuffed mushrooms. Searching for a trace of imported Neapolitan cockroach, no doubt, she thought. She felt Brian watching her, and turning to look at him, she saw the amusement in his eyes and made a surreptitious face at him. The phantom ghosts disintegrated and fell to the floor like soot.

They got through the first two courses without incident. Margaret and Brian discussed the advantages of growing up in the country, and Sharlie smiled as a hint of southern drawl crept into her mother's speech. Well, thought Sharlie, Mother's found for the defense. Easy victory. But the contest lies with His Honor, glowering away over there as if he just ate something rancid. She noticed suddenly that her father's face appeared decidedly reptilian. He sat, half crouched, chewing and watching Brian and Margaret with suspicious little eyes. A bullfrog on a lily pad, assessing his prospective dessert—Brian, of course. Brian, the beautiful
Callosamia promethea.
Without warning, the long, pointed tongue will flash, whipping around Brian's waist, snapping him inside, his unpolished shoes kicking feebly before disappearing forever between the gaping, dank jaws.

“In those days, life was so much
simplah,”
said Margaret, sighing girlishly. Brian nodded at her, then reached out casually and took Sharlie's hand. Walter glared at their entwined fingers as if they were a pile of worms the chef was trying to pass off as spaghetti. Sharlie tried to slip her hand away, but Brian gripped it hard. She looked at him in surprise as he returned Walter's gaze.

“A lawyer, eh?” Walter said suddenly, the deep voice startling after his long, wary silence. Brian nodded. “I hear you specialize in bleeding hearts.” Brian smiled pleasantly, but said nothing.

Undaunted, Walter poured the last of the wine for Margaret, Brian, and himself, then took two swallows from his glass. The silence seemed intolerable to Sharlie, and her eyes pleaded with Brian to say something. Anything. Finally Walter aimed his gaze at Brian again and said, “What about this legislation letting the gay boys into city government?”

“It'll be close.”

“You think the fags'll win?”

“I hope so.”

Walter glared into Brian's unwavering eyes. “You think it's just dandy for homosexuals to teach in the public school system?”

“I don't think the public school system is dandy for anybody,” Brian said. He sat comfortably, his shoulders relaxed against the back of his chair, but Sharlie recognized the tension along his jaw. He never once took his eyes off her father, and she knew he was thinking, Enjoy yourself now, because one of these days, I'm going to get your ass.

Walter signaled to the waiter and listened impatiently to a translation of
zuppa inglese.
Finally Brian said, “Think you can scare up a piece of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla?”

The waiter looked pained and said he'd see what he could do. Walter called after the stiff retreating back.

“Make that two, will you?”

Sharlie gave Brian's foot a quick rap under the table. On the phone with him this afternoon, she'd agonized about Walter's restaurant behavior. No matter how elegant the cuisine, her father inevitably ordered apple pie for dessert. Walter's mutilation of foreign languages was legendary, and Sharlie suspected his mastery of the phrase
à la mode
made him feel dashingly continental.

Brian ignored the kick and said to Walter, “I understand you've met my boss.”

Walter said, “Way back in the days when she was Barbara Krumberg.”

“Kahanian,” said Brian evenly.

“Yeah,” said Walter. “Whatever. Very bright girl, but she's got a few wires loose.” He looked at Brian for a response, but getting none, he continued. “She could be the first lady mayor of New York. I told her that myself.”

“She'd make a good one.”

Walter snorted. “Jesus Christ, we've got freaks up to our asses around here as it is. With that wild woman at the helm, they'd be air-dropping them in from the West Coast.”

He stopped for breath, and Margaret remarked, “You're mixing your military metaphors, dear.
Helm
is naval.…”

Walter's eyes didn't waver from Brian's. “Why doesn't she try Los Angeles? California's got the greatest collection of loonies and misfits per square foot. She ought to win by a landslide.”

He draped an arm over the back of his chair. Sharlie caught a glimpse of the damp stain at his armpit. Her fingers were beginning to ache from the pressure of Brian's grip, but she said lightly, “Well, Daddy, pretty soon the whole state's going to slide right into the Pacific Ocean.”

Walter muttered dubiously, “No loss as far as I'm concerned.”

“But what about San Clemente?” asked Margaret “Isn't that somewhere—”

“Oh, Christ, Margaret. Sometimes you astound me.”

“Well …” she began defensively, her eyes starting to water. “You sound so negative about California, and I
know
there are places out there … why, you adore Palm Springs.”

To Sharlie, Walter's voice seemed a little sad. “It's all right, Margaret. I wasn't being literal.”

Margaret said, “Oh,” and looked down, embarrassed. There was a short silence while she collected herself enough to smile at Brian again. The southern drawl was no longer in evidence.

“Tell me, Brian,” she said with effort. “You don't find it uncomfortable working for a woman?”

Oh, no, thought Sharlie, but Brian's response was thoughtful and courteous.

“She's never made an issue of it. I don't think her being a woman has ever gotten in the way.”

“That's because she doesn't really qualify as one,” Walter remarked.

Brian released Sharlie's hand suddenly. She noted the tight set of his mouth and thought, Here it comes. She looked down at her hands and prayed that it wouldn't be too awful.

“You know, Mr. Converse,” Brian said quietly, “a lot of men attack Barbara's sex because they find her threatening. It's a nice cheap shot.”

Sharlie held her breath. Walter smiled with forced amiability and began, “Your loyalty …”

But Brian held up his hand to stop him and went on in the same level voice.

“She gets a lot of crank letters, some of which have been traced to prominent members of the legal profession. They're pretty sick pieces of paper, and I'll spare you the details. But mostly they're an expression of protest from sore losers, who find a strong woman too humiliating for their own precarious masculinity.”

He stopped, and the two men stared at each other. Both pairs of eyes icy cold. Sharlie's heart had stopped beating altogether, and Margaret wore a frantic smile as if to say, Aren't we all having such a fine time together with such spirited conversation?

Suddenly Walter cleared his throat and said, “I'd say you're getting decent training.”

Sharlie watched Brian hesitate. After a moment he nodded, acknowledging Walter's compliment, and said, “I'm lucky.”