Death Qualified (31 page)

    Barbara shrugged. This wasn't what he had brought her up here to say. She sipped her wine.

    He looked out at the city below, cleared his throat, sipped his drink, cleared his throat again, and finally said, "If Nell is seen out with someone, me, would that go against her now? I mean, all those reporters, if they found out that she's going out or anything, would that matter?"

    His fingers were pressed so hard against his glass they had whitened; a the played in his jaw. He put his fingers on it, then, even more self-conscious, jerked his hand away again. He was like a college boy facing his orals.

    "Depends," Barbara said judiciously.

    "If she's spotted getting rowdy in a topless bar, for instance, that could be an item for comment. Or snorting up in a dim discotheque Not that the jury should be influenced by it, of course. No way could it be introduced as evidence, but still they do read papers and watch television news even if they aren't supposed to-."

    He looked sheepish and more embarrassed.

    "I didn't mean anything like that. I mean dinner, a drive to the coast. You know. With just her, not the kids. We've all done things like that together, family friend sort of things, but I'm thinking of just the two of us."

    Barbara smiled at him.

    "She's a free woman, free to do what she pleases, with anyone who pleases her. Forget it.

    If Tony had been able to cast any suspicions on her character he would have done it long ago. He couldn't, and now it's too late to worry about it."

    He took a long drink and set his glass down firmly.

    "Thanks. That's really what I thought. The other thing I wanted to ask is would you and your friend come to dinner Sunday night at my place? I'm asking Nell, of course."

    "I'll have to let you know. I've got your number. I'll give you a call tomorrow." She glanced at her watch and finished her wine.

    "And now, it's time again."

    He left a ten-dollar bill on the table; they retraced their steps, got into his car when it was delivered, and he drove her to the garage where she had parked. When she got out, he said, "Barbara, just thanks. For everything.

    Thanks."

    They went to Mazzi's, where Mike had calzone and she had Adriatic snapper and vegetable salad. Months ago when he said he never cooked, she had responded, "Neither do I!" thinking he had been suggesting that she should. Instead, he had nodded in complete agreement.

    "Good. So, Mexican, Chinese, Italian, what?"

    "I pay my way whatever we decide," she had said.

    "Fine. So name it."

    It was not that he was stingy, mean with money; it was rather that he did not care. She paid, he paid, it simply did not matter. And he relished whatever he ate; Italian was his favorite when they were in an Italian restaurant.

    Then Chinese was the world's finest cuisine, or Mexican was.. .. One night, she would actually cook dinner, see if he thought that was the best thing since sliced bread.

    Don't you eat vegetables, she had asked early, and he had become enthusiastic over a vegetarian restaurant that he knew.

    "What were you writing in court today?" she asked at dinner that night.

    "You saw? That's really surprising. You seemed to be concentrated to an inhuman degree."

    "Is that how it looks?" she asked. She never had considered how she appeared to others in court.

    "Don't you know that? I thought it must be one of the things they drill into you in school. You look absolutely there, with what is being said, what the jury is doing, what your client is doing, just there. One day I might decide you're someone to be afraid of, you can get so concentrated."

    "What on earth are you talking about? Afraid? Of what?"

    "I think you must be analyzing every word all the time.

    At least in court you seem to be doing that. If you decide I'm lying, all is lost."

    "When's the last time you lied to anyone?"

    "It happens." He looked thoughtful.

    "I'm sure it happens to everyone, maybe on a daily basis, but we're all so used to it that we don't even notice anymore."

    "Yes, I agree. But when's the last time you lied?"

    "See what I mean?" he said, leaning forward, grinning.

    "You've got that concentrated look."

    "You can't answer because you can't remember lying."

    She took a quick breath and found herself saying swiftly, "You don't need to lie about anything because nothing's in your way; you have what you want; you don't envy anyone; and the world's just another interesting problem that you may or may not be able to solve. Either way, it's all right. If you can't, maybe someone else will, or maybe not. You would never be afraid of me or anyone else because you are totally self-sufficient. If I left tomorrow, you'd regret it for a time, but not too much, not enough to interfere with your life. You might be tempted to try to reduce our relationship to a formula that you can work with, try to simplify the complexities so they can be expressed with your magical symbols and so dealt with."

    She was out of breath, and appalled at her own words. She had not planned that, had not thought through any of that, would never have brought any of it up this way, in a restaurant, on purpose. It had happened, had taken them both by surprise. She reached for her wine, kept her gaze on her hand, the glass.

    "You're keeping score at the trial, aren't you?"

    He sat back in his chair.

    "See why I could be afraid of you? Yes."

    "You can't even lie about that, can you?" Now she felt she was no longer out of control; her voice was measured, reflective.

    "You knew it might make me furious, that I might create a scene here in a public place and you would feel like dying of embarrassment, but even so, you won't lie about it. Do you have a formula worked out yet?"

    "It's harder than I thought it would be," he admitted.

    "But I'll get it."

    She shook her head.

    "You won't. I don't want to know how your score is shaping up, by the way. Don't stop, but don't tell me. Okay?"

    Her own outburst, she wondered, how could something like that be factored into an equation? How could mathematics formulate the moment of unendurable jealousy, in expressible yearning, the moment when anger found expression in an act of violence, the wrenching fear of a parent with a desperately ill child? No equations, she told herself, not with people.

    They had walked to the restaurant, just five blocks from his house; they walked back holding hands in the drizzle.

    He never cared if it was raining, or if it was warm, cold, what the weather. At his house, where her car was parked at the curb, she said she wouldn't come in, too tired.

    "I need sleep, lots and lots of sleep," she said.

    He held her hand and studied her face in the unsteady, nickering glow from a distant streetlight.

    "You're not mad at me? Really not?"

    "Really not," she said.

    "I thought you would be."

    "I know, but you see, I'm not one of your funny little squiggles with a plus or minus sign, or an equal sign be fore or after me. Or, God forbid, x times the square root of minus one anywhere in my equation."

    He laughed and pulled her hard against his chest and then kissed her.

    "I'm learning more about people these days than I knew there was to know. When will I see you again?"

    That was new. Neither of them ever asked the other that particular question. Just as neither ever said I love you.

    He had to go first there, too, she had decided. She told him about dive's invitation to dinner on Sunday.

    "And later? Your place or mine?"

    She definitely was not ready to keep him overnight in her father's house. The decision was instantaneous.

    "Yours," she said, laughing. They kissed again, and she got into her car and left him standing in the drizzle as she drove away.

    The drizzle became rain briefly, then drizzle again, then the moon was sailing through streaky clouds, and the drizzle came back. She even saw some stars for a short time when the city lights were well behind her and the countryside closed in dark and mysterious, as if the world ended where the light from her high beams got lost in the trees on both sides of the road.

    For long stretches she was alone on the road. An occasional car passed her, a truck, another car or a cluster of traffic, some came opposite her, vanished with twinkling red taillights.

    "Okay," she muttered at one time, to herself, the rain, the oncoming lights, or nothing.

    "Okay." She was thinking of Mike Dinesen, and their non commitment to each other, their denial of the future, not through words, but the lack of words. Neither of them wanted the future wrapped in plain brown paper; neither was willing to be the trailing spouse while the other achieved fame and fortune.

    He would be in Oregon through this year, and then where? He had no idea, was unconcerned. For three summers he had been in Austin, Texas, working with people he spoke of with a touch of awe. Gods, she had decided.

    She could not imagine anything short of a god inspiring him with awe. All over the country people were willing to kill for tenure, but he had shrugged it off, not caring that the university here had given it to him in spite of his lack of enthusiasm. There were other offers pending; she knew so little of his field that she could not tell if they were important, and he seemed to treat them all the same way interesting, but not compelling.

    Up ahead she could see the lights of a covered bridge, the last landmark before the road twisted and turned as it followed the shoreline of the reservoir. Ten, twelve more miles, then a hot bath, a boring book, and sleep. Her eyes burned with fatigue.

    The road made a Y at the bridge, the right lane aimed at the bridge; she made the left turn, went under an overpass, and suddenly her car was out of control as the windshield seemed to explode, not throwing glass--it was tempered and didn't do that but cracks ran through it, glass shattered and dropped out, and the car careened dizzily from the right lane to the left, grazed a rocky formation was flung back to the right lane and sideways into a tree, then another. She was jerked from one side to the other, thrown against the steering wheel, then snapped back sharply as she fought to control the car. And then it scraped a tree again, and this time both right wheels were off the road, dragging. The car turned halfway around and finally came to a stop. She had a cramp in her foot from pressing on the brake.

    After that her memory played games with her. She was sitting in the car, dazed, afraid to move, twenty feet above the reservoir, and then she was driving again, with rain in her face, but there was no memory connecting one event to the other. She was parked on the shoulder, blinded by a red film in her eye, then driving again, just as before, without memory of stopping or starting. Driving, stop ping, driving again, she continued through Turner's Point where there were a few lights still on; she did not even consider stopping. She found herself on the private road without any recollection of arriving there.

    Now she found herself leaning against the front door of her father's house, as if a giant hand had plucked her from the car and propped her there. When the door opened, she fell.

    Frank took her to the hospital, where they kept her over night for observation but they did not let her sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, someone came along and made her open them again, to do this or that, submit to this or that new procedure or test. By Friday afternoon she was so tired she wanted to cry; when Frank came to take her home, she warned him that she intended to sleep for twenty-four hours and not to be alarmed, and if he valued his head, not to try to wake her up because she would have the head of anyone who did.

    "Did you watch the video in court?" she asked as a nurse's aide wheeled her down the corridor toward the elevator.

    "Yes. Just what you expected."

    She groaned.

    He left her to get his car, and took her home. She went to bed and slept.

    When she woke up, the light beyond her windows was twilight; she did not know if it was morning or evening light. She dressed, moving very cautiously, every muscle aching. She felt her head gingerly; there was still a lump, not as bad as it had been, she could actually touch it without flinching. Progress, she muttered, and started downstairs.

    Then she heard voices from the kitchen. Frank had company.

    At the door she paused again, but they all jumped up, and her father hurried to her side.

    "How are you? How do you feel?"

    "Like someone who got in the way of stampeding elephants.

    Not too bad."

    Mike was there, on the other side of the table; she remembered that he had been in her hospital room most of the day, whenever that day was. He grinned at her and sat down again. And the sheriff, Tony's sheriff was how she thought of him, Bernard Gray, had been at the table having coffee; he was on his feet now.