Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (9 page)

Before
I could leave the room, Fabian tapped his wineglass with a spoon to quiet the
crowd. He stood to speak.

“I
know many of you have to get up early tomorrow to squeeze the most billable
hours out of the day”—polite laughter—“so I want to thank you all now for
coming. After you’ve eaten Deirdre’s fabulous Grand Marnier souffle you won’t
want to listen to my twaddle anyway.”

He
smiled easily, the perfect family man and host. They could have afforded a
caterer, I realized, but that wouldn’t have given Fabian as much to brag about
as a wife who stayed at home to make perfect souffles.

He
moved into an adroit tribute to Manfred. As he started to speak the staff went
around filling our glasses with Dom Perignon. The money he’d saved on whisky
had gone to champagne, apparently.

“Our
little gathering tonight is a tribute both to Manfred and to the rule of law,”
Fabian concluded. “He has taught trial lawyers and judges, prosecutors and
defenders, and even somehow trained both liberals and conservatives. Some of us
have contested mightily with one another, but, as Shakespeare said, we gather
here to eat and drink as friends, and to do honor to the best friend both we and
the law have ever known.”

We
all stood to salute Manfred with champagne. I looked at my watch. It was
ten-thirty, but my hopes of sidling out the door were halted as Fabian began to
speak again.

“Other
people also want to make some remarks, but before they speak, the youngest
person present wants to say something. He’s not a lawyer, at least not yet, but
he knows, as Daniel Webster noted, that ‘there’s always room at the top’—and
with Manfred’s departure we have, of course, a great gap at the top.

Joshua?”

As
the little boy climbed down from his chair, the dictionaries he’d perched on
slid out from under him and landed on the floor. Those who could see what had
happened laughed. Joshua turned red. Emily bit her lip and helped her brother
move clear of the books. She then turned her chair so that he could see her
face.

Putting
his hands behind him, Joshua started to recite Prospero’s farewell speech. He
spoke fast, in a high, soft voice:

“Our
revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:

And,
like the ... the ... ”

“Baseless,”
Emily mouthed.

“Baseless
fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The
solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which ... all which ... ”

“It
inherit,” his sister prompted again.

“It
inherit,” the little boy repeated. “It inherit.”

“
‘Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,’ ” Emily whispered.

Joshua’s
face worked as he mouthed the words. “I can’t,” he burst out. “I don’t remember.
I can’t do it.”

He
started to cry. Emily got up and put her arms around him, but kept her eyes on
her father. Fabian was smiling,but from where I sat he seemed to have an ugly
gleam in his eye.

“It’s
awfully late for such a small boy to be up and on public display,” I heard
myself saying. “I think we all know he learned the verse. Let’s give him a hand
and let him go to bed.”

Fabian
turned to me in surprise, as though one of the candlesticks had spoken, but the
rest of the crowd took up my suggestion in relief. We clapped for the boy, who
ran from the room, his sister close behind him. I glanced at Deirdre as they
left. She was gloating openly. Because Fabian had been embarrassed, or her
daughter, or both? My stomach turned and I quickly looked away.

Other
people rose to put in their two cents for Manfred. The waiters served dessert
and coffee and people began soft side conversations.

Eleanor
Guziak leaned across the table toward me. “Good for you. Fabian loves to trot
out his children’s accomplishments—they’re all brilliant—but what a terrible
ordeal to put a little boy through.”

Around
eleven, when I thought I couldn’t endure another moment in the room, Manfred
got up to respond. After thanking Fabian and Deirdre for the beautiful
evening—and why not? he hadn’t been sitting near them—he surprised me by
repeating what he’d said to me earlier in the living room.

“The
practice of law has changed too much since I began its study a half century
ago. People seem to take more pleasure in money than in justice. If I’ve taught
any of you here to care for justice, then I leave my professional life content.
We’ve heard a lot of high-minded poetry quoted tonight. I’d just like to remind
you of the words of another Elizabethan, Francis Quarles. He wrote them almost
four hundred years ago, but they’re not so out-of-date that we can’t profit by
them:

“Use
law and physic only in cases of necessity; they that use them otherwise abuse
themselves into weak bodies and light purses; they are good remedies, bad
recreations, but ruinous habits.’”

He
resumed his seat to stunned silence. I got up quickly and went over to him.

“People
have praised you more memorably than I can tonight. I just want you to know
that every time I hear you speak you say something important. Thanks for doing
it again tonight.”

“Good
luck, Victoria. I’ll have plenty of time to see friends now. Stop by for a cup
of coffee some afternoon if you’re ever beating up thugs on the South Side.”

He
grasped my hand briefly. Other old students had swarmed over. I fled the house
without saying good-bye to my host and hostess. As I turned the Trans Am in a
tight U to head back north I could see the rest of the guests begin to leave.

It
wasn’t until I was at McCormick Place, some three or four miles north of
Kenwood, that I remembered my coat. I grunted aloud in annoyance. If I didn’t
go back now I’d have to call and arrange a time to fetch it. And I’d either
have to be social with Deirdre, or decide to let her know just what I thought
of her antics tonight. Neither choice was appetizing. I whipped over to the
left-hand lane, exited at Twenty-third Street, and returned south.

Light
still poked around the shutters in the front windows. I tried the door but it
had been locked. I rang the bell, tapping my foot impatiently as a minute or
more ticked by. I rang again.

One
of the bartenders finally came to the door. “The party’s over, miss—everyone’s
gone.”

“Sorry.
I forgot my coat. One of the kids took it upstairs—I’ll just run up and get it
and be on my way.”

He
looked me up and down. Apparently my frank, honest face persuaded him I was
neither burglar nor murderer. He opened the door wide and waved me toward the
stairs. Halfway up I realized I had no idea where to go when I got to the top.
I called down to ask him, but he’d already disappeared into the back of the
house.

Antique
wall sconces lit the stairs and the upper hall, giving a rich glow to the gray
flocked paper. Thick carpeting masked my footfalls.

At
the top I hesitated, not wanting to open doors at random and wake sleeping
children. Voices were coming from a room at the end of the long hall. Its door
was open a crack, letting out a bar of light along with the sound. By the time
I was halfway down the hall the sound had clearly resolved itself into Fabian’s
voice.

“How
dare you?” he was yelling. “Humiliating me in front of my guests like that. I
told you weeks ago what I wanted and you agreed to coach him. You assured me he
was letter perfect. How long have you been plotting to show me up?

When
did you realize this would be an ideal way to embarrass me?”

I
paused outside the door. Emily was answering him, muttering something
unintelligible.

“Were
you a party to this?” Fabian demanded, apparently of Deirdre, because she said,
“No, I wasn’t a party to it. I asked Emily this afternoon if she was sure
Joshua could perform and she told me he could.”

I had
been about to push open the door, but the sheer shock of the conversation
stayed my hand. They were browbeating Emily because they’d kept their son up
long past his bedtime to expose him to a crowd of strangers?

“And
what were you doing, baiting Donald and Alec with all that crap about the
homeless? If Warshawski wants to waste her time and energy in the gutter
instead of turning her legal training to good use, that’s her business. But
what are you doing signing on for it?”

“I’m
not signing on for it.” Deirdre was using loud, measured tones, but her voice
had cracks around the edges. “You might remember I serve on a board with her
and also one for the homeless.You wanted me doing good works instead of holding
a proper job. You thought it would make you look good.”

A
loud smack, hand on flesh. “I’m not talking about Home Free, Deirdre, but this
crap you were spinning about homeless families living in Warshawski’s office
building. Why did you have to bring that up?”

“I
brought it up because I’m going to try to work with the woman. I’ve talked to
Vic about it and she thinks I might be able to help her.”

“You?”
Fabian gave a crack of angry laughter. “You can’t look after your own house and
children. What are you going to do with someone else’s? And don’t you try to
sidle out the door, young lady. I’m not through with you yet tonight.”

I
knocked loudly on the door and pushed it open. Fabian stood in front of an
empty fireplace, facing his wife and daughter like an old-fashioned
schoolmaster with errant pupils. Emily, still in her absurd pink dress, was
kneading her hands in its skirt. Deirdre’s head was back, cobralike, but the
stain of Fabian’s hand showed on her left cheek. They were so involved in their
fight that they showed no surprise at my arrival.

We
were in the master bedroom—the bedroom for mastery. It was large enough to hold
a desk and a chaise lounge and still leave room for ballroom dancing. I could
see my black wool coat on the king-size bed in the far corner.

“You
guys could let up on Emily,” I said. “How old is she, anyway?”

Deirdre
moved to stand next to Fabian. They stopped glaring at each other and joined to
look at me in hate.

“What
business is it of yours, Warshawski? Why don’t you save your interference for
men whopay you to peek through their wives’ keyholes?” Fabian spat out.

“Gosh,
Fabian, maybe because I took Manfred’s words to heart and want to do a
littlepro bono work. I’ve spent a nauseating evening in your house, with
Deirdre drunk and you preening like a cock on a dunghill. I’m fed up with both
of you for making your daughter act like a nursemaid, and not even questioning
the absurdity of the burdens or accusations you’re laying on her.”

“I don’t
remember asking you to stay.” Fabian tried to look haughty. “If we’re so
nauseating, why don’t you leave?”

I
crossed to the bed and picked up my coat. “I’d like to, but I’m worried about
what you’ll do to Emily if I take off now.”

“Don’t
worry about Emily,” Deirdre said. “She’s her daddy’s darling; she won’t come to
any harm.”

Emily
had started to cry. She was trying to do so quietly, but at Deirdre’s words she
gave a racking sob and cried, “I hate you. I hate both of you! Why don’t you
shut up and leave me alone!” She ran from the room and slammed the door.

“Thanks,
Warshawski,” Fabian said sarcastically.“Thanks for upsetting my daughter and
ruining my party for Manfred. Now why don’t you go home.”

My
head was spinning from trying to follow his dizzying loops around logic.

“Yeah,
I’ll leave. And Deirdre, you and I need to talk. Tomorrow, when your head is
clearer.”

“My
head is perfectly clear, thank you,” she started, but I couldn’t take any more
of either of them; I followed Emily out the door, slamming it hard behind me.

Back
in the hall I tried to guess which room Emily might have fled to. None of them
showed any light, so I stopped to listen at each keyhole—the peeping eye Fabian
had denigrated—until I heard stifled sobs behind one.

I
knocked gently on the panel. “It’s V.I.—Vic Warshawski. Can I come in?”

When
she didn’t answer I opened the door and felt my way through the dark room to
the bed. She was sprawled fully dressed across the spread, bucking with the
force of her sobs.

“Hey,
there, girl, take it easy. You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep on like
that.”

“I
wish I would,” she gasped. “I wish I would kill myself.”

I
knelt next to the bed and put a hand on her heaving shoulder. “I don’t think
you can cry yourself to death, but you might break a rib. ... Out of curiosity,
how old are you?”

“Four
... teen.”

“Awful
young to be doing what you’re doing. How old are those brothers of yours?”

“Josh
is six and Natie’s two.” Answering simple questions was slowing her sobs down.

I
kept my hand on her shoulder and rubbed it gently while I tried to think of
what I might do to help her. I had a fleeting memory of Lotty’s words, that
when I decide to intervene in other people’s lives someone always gets badly
hurt. My worry that Lotty might be right kept me from suggesting any bold
action to Emily.