Void in Hearts (24 page)

“Have you reported this to the police?”

He lowered his head and regarded me somberly. “She asked me not to. I have honored her request.” He shrugged. “I suppose I’m a difficult man to love. I’m very set in my ways. Inflexible, some would say. Rigid, even. Not only in my routines, but in my values. I am judgmental. You may think this is a shortcoming. Nowadays, firm convictions are interpreted as a sign of intellectual shallowness. But you see, I know what’s right and wrong. I mean, I
know.
I have little patience with moral relativism or those who preach it. I certainly don’t preach it.” He frowned at me. “It’s not my ministry. We Unitarians aren’t necessarily like that. It’s me.” He jabbed his chest with his thumb. “There are guidelines. Universal truths. They’re as firm as stone. You can question them and debate them and philosophize about them. Men have been doing it since Plato. You always come back to them. They are as eternal and as lawful as gravity. I adhere to them. I expect others to do the same. I always thought Connie and I were of one mind on that. We tried to bring up our children the same way. It caused conflict, sometimes. Not between me and Connie, but with the kids. Well, with Marc, mainly, as it has turned out. The minister’s son. Kat has always been good.”

Our drinks arrived. Desmond Winter’s third, my second. He took one third of his in his mouth, tipped his head back, and swallowed. He sighed deeply. “This is difficult for me, Mr. Coyne,” he said.

“Call me Brady, please.”

He nodded. “My friends call me Des. I hope we will be friends.”

It was a question. I shrugged. This seemed to satisfy him.

I sat back and lit a cigarette. I peered at him through the plume of smoke I exhaled. “So you assume that your wife left you because she just didn’t want to remain living with you. She got tired of you. Didn’t like being a minister’s wife. She wanted more excitement in her life than you gave her. Probably had a lover. She brought your daughter with her, and left your boy for you. An equitable arrangement. Then she changed her mind about that and sent the girl home. The girl tied her down, probably.”

He stared at me. His mouth twitched. It was hard to tell whether he was fighting tears or a smile. “You are a candid one, aren’t you,” he said, neither smiling nor crying. I guessed I had underestimated him. “Florence warned me about that. ‘Brady doesn’t pull punches,’ she said. ‘He’ll smack you right between the eyes when you’re least expecting it.’ I told her that was all right with me. I’ve had enough of those mealymouthed smooth-as-velvet Ivy types.”

I shrugged. “I got my law degree at Yale.”

“Yale Law School,” he said, “doesn’t count.”

“She walked out on you,” I persisted.

He nodded. “Something like that, I guess, yes. It happens, I understand. Even in the best regulated of families.” He tried a smile. He didn’t look like a man who practiced smiling. “I suppose she needed time and space. I felt stupid, not to have seen it, realized it. And I felt incompetent not to have been available enough to her that she could talk to me about it. I never had a clue, Brady. One day we are loving husband and wife. The next day she’s gone. Forever, it now seems.”

“In her note she said she’d be back.”

He made a throwaway gesture with one hand. “So I wouldn’t go looking for her, right?”

I shrugged.

He hitched himself forward in his seat and removed his wallet from his hip pocket. He opened it and slid out a photograph. He held it to me. It showed a somewhat younger Desmond Winter, his hair thicker, still black, smiling self-consciously. Standing in front of him, her head resting on his shoulder and tilted back to look up at him, was a freckle-faced woman grinning with apparent affection. She wore her hair long and loose in the manner of one who had not quite outgrown hippiedom. I imagined her playing a guitar. Joan Baez songs. Smoking pot. Flowers in her hair. Bare feet. Sleeping with all the longhaired young men. Protesting war and segregation and nuclear weapons. She appeared to be ten or fifteen years younger than Des, a slim, vivacious woman.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Winter to me as I examined the photo.

He arched his eyebrows, asking for my response. I handed the photo back to him. “People aren’t necessarily how they appear in photographs.”

He nodded. “Exactly. If Connie was that way, she surely hid it well. I never suspected. But,” he said, shaking his head, “evidently I was naive in my own case.”

“Your daughter. What did she tell you?”

“Not much. Nothing, really. Kat seemed traumatized by the experience, to tell you the truth. She didn’t want to talk about it. She cried easily for over a year after she got back. Wouldn’t even talk to her brother. I assumed she was missing her mother. They were very close. That’s why Connie took Kat with her, I guess. Anyhow, I didn’t push her. It really doesn’t matter where they went. What matters is that Connie chose not to come back to me. And”—he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“she still hasn’t.”

“It must have occurred to you that something has happened to your wife.”

He nodded slowly. “Sure. Of course. What can I do about that? I assume that if Connie got into trouble, got injured, or—or died or something—I would be notified.” He looked at me, imploring me to agree with him.

I cooperated. “Of course. Makes sense.”

“Since I haven’t heard anything, I assume…”

“That she has chosen not to return.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Anyway, that’s the background, Brady.”

I tilted up my empty glass and looked in at the yellow dregs. “Maybe we should order some food.”

“I’m sorry. Of course.” He lifted his head and looked around, which brought our waiter instantly.

“Gentlemen,” he said. He was swarthy and somber and spoke with a Middle Eastern accent I couldn’t place.

“I’ll have the scrod and Bibb lettuce salad,” said Winter.

The waiter nodded his approval and looked at me. I shrugged. “Sounds good. Me too.”

The waiter bobbed his head and slipped discreetly away.

“This way I can say I got scrod today,” said Winter. He tried a smile to let me know he had made a joke. He seemed uncertain about how I would take it.

I gave him a grin. “Let me see if I understand,” I said. “Your wife has been missing for six and a half years. Now you want to track her down.”

He shook his head. “No, no. That’s not it. You misunderstand. It’s painfully clear to me she’s decided to make it permanent. If so, I must accept and respect her decision, as much as it hurts. If she should by some miracle decide to come back to me sometime in the future, I will welcome her with open arms, no questions asked. No, it’s nothing like that. Last month, Brady, I received a communication from the Boss.” He hesitated. “God, that is.”

“I figured that’s who you meant.”

“A myocardial infarction. Minor, they tell me. But I’m fifty-nine years old. A small lesson on mortality is not lost on me; Do you see?”

“You want to put your affairs in order, so to speak.”

“Yes. Should the Boss decide to give me the pink slip, Marc and Kat would be left with a terrible mess. Connie, of course, is the beneficiary of all my insurance. Virtually all my assets are in our joint names. I want the kids to have what’s coming to them when I die without a protracted legal hassle. And I want to get this squared away without a protracted hassle from my attorney. Protracting hassles is what Flynn and Barrows are best at. Florence Gresham said that this sort of thing was right up your alley.”

“It is. It’s the sort of thing I do.”

He held out his hands, palms up. “Well?”

I frowned. “It’s kind of interesting, actually.” I looked up at him. “Easiest thing would be to get yourself a divorce.”

He recoiled from this as if I had shaken a fist at him. “Never. Absolutely not.” He sighed. “I guess I’ve made a mistake. I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Coyne.”

I smiled at him. “Ah, take it easy, Des.” I reached across the table and put my hand on his wrist. “I was testing you.”

He blinked. “I don’t get it.”

“You have insisted that you continue to love your wife. That you’d accept her back, no questions asked. I assume that if she should return upon hearing of your death, you’d want her well taken care of.”

He nodded. “I thought I told you that.”

“You did. And if you were telling me the truth, you would refuse a divorce.”

“Which I did.” He frowned for an instant, then widened his eyes at me. “You doubted my veracity.” There was a note of incredulity in his voice, as if the idea was inconceivable.

“Your sincerity, Des. I’m big on sincerity. It’s not something that is necessarily required between a lawyer and his client. But it is required between this particular lawyer and his clients. Of course,” I added, “it works both ways.”

He gave me a smile, the first genuine one he had allowed himself. “Florence said you’d find a way to check me out.”

“It’s a weakness of mine. I insist on knowing where I stand with those who want my services. In the short run, it costs me some business. In the long run, it makes the business I do have more pleasant for me. My own pleasure is important to me.”

He rolled his eyes. “And I thought
I
was straitlaced.”

“I prefer to think of it as principled.” I smiled and extended my hand to him. “If you still want me, I’d be happy to work with you,” I said.

He grinned and grasped my hand. “I absolutely do.”

R
EARRANGING DESMOND WINTER’S ESTATE
posed no problem. It was simply a matter of asking him the right questions, figuring out what he wanted, and translating it into words that others trained in the peculiar argot of the law would all understand the same way.

To accomplish this, one simply has to find ways to say things that those not trained in the language of the law find impossible to understand. It’s what makes us lawyers necessary. We’re about the only ones who can figure out what any of the others are saying.

It’s not hard. They teach us how in law school.
Wherebys
and
whereases,
a few
parties-of-the-second-parts.
Judicious use of semicolons. The odd Latin phrase.

This was my work, my chosen profession.

It usually bored the hell out of me. Since my peculiar niche in the legal scheme of things failed to interest me, I tried to compensate by selecting clients who did. Clients like Des Winter.

Fortunately, my chosen profession didn’t interfere too much with my pursuit of brown trout and golf scores in the seventies. In fact, my profession subsidized those pursuits. It also paid Gloria’s alimony, the college tuition for Billy, my number one son, who tended to squander it, and it would take care of Joey’s in a couple years, too. Joey wouldn’t squander it.

Des and I inevitably became friends. That’s what I was checking for that day at Locke Ober’s—the possibility that I would be able to like and respect the man who wanted to become my client. I have fired clients whom I lost respect for, or who liked to cut too close to the cutting edge of legality, or whom I just didn’t enjoy being with. Life is too damn short.

In many respects, Des Winter was not a likely prospect to become my friend. For one thing, he turned out to be a prude, an indictment to which he freely confessed and about which he made no apology. While, for example, he acknowledged that the famed Massachusetts blue laws were a violation of any civilized concept of privacy, he agreed with every one of them as appropriate rules of conduct. Adultery, of course, was a sin. Period. Not far behind came cohabitation. Public displays of affection offended him.

He liked to tell what he considered jokes. They typically bore on theological themes. They mostly took the form of riddles. They tended to embarrass the listener, especially since Des had a short repertoire and a poor memory of whom he had run through it with.

For example: Q—Who was the fastest runner in the Bible? A—Adam. He was first in the human race.

Or: Q—How do you make holy water? A—You boil the hell out of it.

Knee-slappers. But it was hard not to love the man, dumb jokes and all.

I went to hear him preach a few times after I began to work with him and realized that I liked him very much. I found his theology more liberal, if anything, than my own, and strangely at odds with his personal ethic. He was, he told me, a Deist, a believer in a concept he said was popularized by Benjamin Franklin, and which postulated a universe like a clock—wound up by a God who then sat back bemusedly to wait for it to wind down. He took the Unitarian postulate—which denied the divinity of the Trinity—and pushed it to the edge of atheism. He advocated good works not, as the Calvinists would have had it, as a hedge against damnation, but as the moral obligation of a civilized human being. Theology had nothing to do with it. But it was the essence of religion.

I found Des Winter’s homilies provocative and disturbing right up to his last one on Easter Sunday of 1982.

“I doubt if Jesus of Nazareth appeared on that day,” he said. “I do not doubt that some people wanted him to do it so desperately that they were willing to imagine it. If he did, it would be a miracle. It’s dangerous to live for miracles. It makes us lazy and immoral.”

Although Desmond Winter practiced what he preached as well as any man I ever knew, he never was able to suspend his belief that Connie would one day return to him, even though he freely admitted it would be a miracle.

I am proud to say that I didn’t learn Des owned a thirty-eight-foot Bertram named
Constance,
which he moored at a marina in Newburyport and from which he loved to troll for striped bass and bluefish, until after I had agreed to take him on as a client.
Constance
was a gorgeous craft, with a flying bridge and outriggers and berths for six and twin Cummins diesels, and I fear I could easily have compromised the rigorous standards I held for admitting new clients to my roster had Des told me about her earlier.

Des was an agreeable companion on a fishing boat. He loved and respected the sea and the fish we chased. He taught me how to recognize the distinctive odor of a school of rampaging blues, and he was as happy as I was to switch over to a fly rod when we got into them and to release all but the one or two we might want for the table.