We All Sleep in the Same Room (6 page)

“You're full of shit,” she says.

“Perhaps,” I say, leaping onto the bench, leaning back, and aiming wide for a panoramic shot.

I drag back the camera's lever with my thumb. The film, loaded and stretched, advances with a satisfying click, like cocking a shotgun. Something, I suppose, I've also never done.

“So whose camera is it?”

“Raina's.”

“Oh.”

I nudge Jessie's thigh with my foot. When she looks up, I snap her photo.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out. Raina.

“Speak of the devil,” I say—unwittingly, I immediately realize—and push the phone back into my pocket.

“Aren't you going to answer?”

“Artists at work can't be bothered,” I say and snap her photo again. Then I jump down from the bench to take shots of my son.

Three photos down. I snap a low angle of Superman poised at the slide's summit to descend, an action shot of the princess and Superman sailing down together, hands raised ecstatically above their heads as if aboard a roller coaster. I turn the lens shaft counter-clockwise to 1/10. Suddenly I'm reminded of the movie
Blow Up
. I drop to my knees to get Ben heading down the slide. If I use up her film, I'll buy her some more.

Ben, for his part, behaves like a practiced subject. Arriving at a chain-link ladder, the princess pauses briefly, hands on her hips—a moment I capture with a click.

Jessie and Kristina may be asking themselves, costume or no costume, why I think it necessary to devote an entire roll of film to my son's prosaic morning at the park. Am I one of those parents who believe his child is that special? I do. I'm enjoying myself and have no intention of stopping.

My phone vibrates again, at which moment Ben, stepping off the playground's raised, rubbery surface to the concrete below, clambers onto one of the benches on the far end of the playground and lies on his belly. He's crawling on the bench, sliding along its smooth surface. When Ben reaches the end of one bench, he slides under the steel armrest, shoots up, turns, then drops down again, shimmying back under the armrest and along the bench in the other direction. The princess resumes her hands-on-hips pose, watching Ben's esoteric wiggles. I ponder putting an end to this perplexing game. It's weird, and probably pretty unclean. That costume may require dry-cleaning. But I let him be. The princess retreats to her mother for a snack, and I take a few backward paces to check in with my other companion.

Ben doubles back and completes another lap across the bench. Only this time, instead of standing and turning, he slides under the final armrest, and reaches out to the neighboring bench, cemented an arm's length away. He strains his arms and bucks his back, determined in his struggle, but he's too short, the gap too wide. But Ben thrusts himself forward. Bending at the waist, his torso flops and his head smacks down hard against the adjacent bench. Damn.

I slip out of the camera—Damn—I'm running—Damn, Damn—running to my son to dry his eyes, which, if they aren't watering yet, are surely about to flood.

I gather him in my arms and hoist him up, careful not to conk the other side of his head. The bench's edge has put a deep gash into his forehead. I can see layers of pink tissue and skin. Ben looks at me with confusion. A low whine stammers from his lips. His face contorts as blood issues from his wound. It streams into his eyes, into his mouth, over his chin, onto both our chests. My phone is vibrating.

“Call an ambulance,” I cry. “Right now. Get an ambulance out here. Tell them to come to the northeast entrance of the Park.” Ben's whine turns to shrieking sobs.

I tuck Ben in close and dash out the gate, flying over the grass, crossing the baseball diamond. Ben lets out tortured yells.

“It's okay. It's okay. Everything is gonna be alright,” I say. “You're going to be okay. You're such a tough guy. We're gonna get you to the hospital. They're going to bandage you up and make you all better. Daddy's got you.”

But what I'm thinking is—I've broken him.

The thought plays over and over again. I've broken him. I've broken him. I've broken my son. Oh god, what if there's brain damage? Ben, Ben, Ben. God I hope you heal. My beautiful son's got a hole in his head. He'll never be normal again. It's my fault. I let it happen.

“Mommy. I want Mommy.”

“Mommy's coming, Ben. Mommy's coming.”

The ambulance finally arrives and a boyish medic jumps out of the passenger side.

“I'm the boy's father,” I say. “He hit his head pretty bad.”

Jessie takes my hand in hers. I shake it free.

The medic sets about securing a large bandage over Ben's forehead—a hefty layer of gauze and two swatches of white tape.

“He can ride on your lap if he wants,” says the medic.

The medic opens the trunk and motions me in. I climb up and he passes my son to me and then climbs in too. Jessie puts her foot on the bumper, about to get in.

“No,” I say.

“I'll ride with you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Tom, I want to make sure he's alright.”

“In or out, ma'am? I need to close this door,” says the medic.

“Out,” I say. “You can't come.”

“Hit the siren,” the medic calls to his partner.

“I'm coming,” Jessie says.

“Thanks for your help, Jessie, but please.”

“You the boy's mother?”

“No, but I'm coming.”

“Alright.”

Jessie hops into the ambulance and the medic reaches to pull the doors closed behind her.

“Wait,” I say and seize Jessie's wrist. “Listen to me. Get out of the ambulance. You can't come. I'll call you. Thanks for everything. Just please leave.”

Jessie hesitates, gazing at me with plaintive eyes.

“Get the fuck out of the ambulance!”

Jessie turns away and jumps down. Doors are pulled and latched. Ben is crying.

“Thanks,” I say.

The medic doesn't respond.

I see her through the window, receding.

My phone vibrates.

“Raina—”

“Why didn't you pick up your phone?! I've been trying to reach you all morning. Didn't you notice? I called you four times!”

“Raina, listen—”

“Do you have my camera, Tom?”

I reach for my neck where the camera strap had been. My hand traces the top of my son's silky head. I watch the fronts of the cars on the road through the rear window. It feels like I'm going backward.

“Tom?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I mean, I had it. But... Raina listen to me—”

“Tom, I need it. I need my camera.”

“For what?”

“What does it matter? I need it for work.”

The medic avoids eye contact by looking forward, at the divider between us and the driver.

“Why didn't you pick up your phone when—”

“I'm sorry. Look, Raina—”

“I can't believe you—”

“—Wait. Raina, you have to listen to me. Raina... Raina, Ben hit his head. We're in an ambulance. Hello?”

The line is dead.

Ben is crying. “I want Mommy.”

“Mommy's coming,” I lie.

I call back. It just rings. I call again. The call goes straight to her voicemail. I picture the drama that's sure to ensue at the hospital when Raina doesn't show.

I try Raina again. It's ringing. Which hospital was it? I wish my son would stop crying.

Raina. Please answer my call.

November

1

M
y bruised and bandaged son sleeps perpendicular to my wife. Frank had reported concerned neighbors dropping generous fistfuls of candy into Ben's bag over Halloween, but that Ben had seemed to forget his disturbing appearance, as did his fellow nursery school trick-or-treaters. Frank said that a few times he felt as if some of the parents were looking at him with a certain suspicion as if he'd been responsible for Ben's injury. Yes, Raina had concurred, we've both gotten looks like that.

On the N train, while riding a car decked out with glossy posters of good-looking, starry-eyed youths enjoying Bud Light, it dawns on me that I've crossed into my twentieth year of riding the subway to work at Cunningham, Klein, and Levan. At the far end of the car, a neatly dressed, bespectacled man yells at an unwavering pitch about the return of our Lord.

42nd Street—the dreadlocked jazzmen are pounding and blowing out the same furious music in the same corridor underneath Lichtenstein's strange aquatic vessel. I deposit my bill and keep moving.

* * *

Jessie and I are
making an uncharacteristic Tuesday afternoon trip to Dunkin' Donuts. Doreen's case is coming up, so I have her working extra days in order to properly prepare. She has her regular hazelnut coffee. I've decided to try something new: blueberry blend.

I'm inclined to begin by apologizing about the scene in the ambulance, though I'm unsure why I ought to be sorry. I haven't hurt anyone.

“So the arbitration is in thirteen days,” I say.

Jessie nods.

“I'm going to build up and compile some of our questions about the clinic's termination procedure,” I continue. “How soon was the complaint lodged? By whom? Who else heard the alleged conversation?”

Jessie nods again. We've discussed all this before.

I taste my fruity beverage. A letdown. I reach down for my notepad and realize I left my briefcase back at the office.

“Okay,” I say. “So I've been thinking: while we can't know precisely what they'll pull out the day of the arbitration, I imagine there are two scenarios that could hurt us. One—they bring some indisputable piece of incriminating evidence such as a surveillance recording, something of that nature. But that's unlikely, not to mention unethical, because I've asked them to produce anything they've relied on in deciding to fire Doreen. Or two—a witness testimony from either a co-worker corroborating the complaint, or Olga herself. That's what I'm more concerned about. In all honesty, any witness they provide has the potential to come off sounding more credible and to appear altogether more stable than Doreen. Our letters, strong and impassioned as they are, may fall short when compared to living, breathing testimony, especially if Norcross doesn't credit what he might consider to be Doreen's self-serving denials. Arbitrators always scrutinize the testimony of the alleged wrongdoer.”

“So what do we do, Tom?”

I hesitate a moment to appraise whether I'm being mocked, but Jessie's question is inflected with the appropriate level of concern.

“I propose,” I say, “aside from using the letters, we try to corral a character witness. You know, a person of some repute to testify to the honorable nature of Doreen's ethic and standing.”

“I know what a character witness is.” She seems irritable. Maybe she's mad about the other day at the park.

“Well,” I say. “What do you think?”

“Sounds right,” Jessie says.

“The concern,” I say, “is that we might overwhelm an arbitrator with too much character-related evidence. Certainly, an arbitrator like Norcross would have little tolerance for repetition. That's why we need just one stellar witness, assuming he or she exists. I thought a co-worker from the old clinic or maybe the supervisor, but then I thought, what about someone outside the healthcare field, someone with more universal respect. Unfortunately, I can't think of anyone like that who would also know Doreen.

“Maybe it won't work,” I continue while Jessie sips thoughtfully. “Though it seemed like the right idea to me this morning. The director of the clinic in Queens could be good though, assuming Doreen's record there is as untarnished as she says. I don't know if she worked for any major volunteer groups back then. I doubt she knows any councilmen or politicians…”

“She mentioned that she went to church growing up, right? Maybe one of the clergymen?”

“A priest, that's perfect,” I say. “I never would have thought of it.”

“Where I grew up, the church leaders were some of the most respected members of the community.”

* * *

Raina sleeps coiled away
from me. Past her, just below, Ben snores.

Raina had made it to the hospital eventually. Although she was upset that she wasn't there during the stitching, the doctor, a confident, gentle man and a father of three who cleverly kept his office stocked with
Dora
episodes, had helped assuage her panic. Our son would be fine, he told us, just a matter of time for the body to heal itself. The scar on his forehead would grow lighter with each passing week.

The camera in its orange carrying case rests on the bureau. Jessie had retrieved it from the park playground and returned it to me when she came in on Monday.

I run my fingertips down Raina's leg, feeling the intermittent prick of tiny hairs. She's started shaving her legs again.

2

T
he lobby of the Sheraton is a sprawling, scrubbed and polished jungle. Waterfalls splash down into pools. There are potted, full-grown palm trees, and ceramic vases filled with wildflowers. Dreamy notes from a piano wander through the room.

Looking out from the glass elevator, Jessie and I spy Doreen near the revolving door. She's wearing the same green dress she wore to my office in October. She's having a conversation with a man. They appear to be arguing.

We wait for her on the couch in the small foyer, outside conference rooms 27A and 27B. When she arrives, she sits silently. She seems distracted.

An energetic young union rep approaches, offering firm handshakes for each of us. He's wearing his blue and yellow pin for Local 72.

“John McDougall,” he says amicably. “Hi, Doreen. You ready to go? Attorney Claughlin is one of the best in the business, known throughout the land. He wins all of our cases.”

“Thank you,” Doreen says, “I feel so fortunate.” Her eyes wander back toward the floor.

“Everything's all set for the Christmas party,” McDougall says, flashing me a conspiratorial smile. “They say it's gonna be a big one. At the museum again this year. And I hear you're gonna be the man of the evening.”

“One of them,” I say. “This is Jessie Engel, a talented legal assistant at Cunningham, Klein, and Levan.”

“Lovely to meet you,” she says, shaking hands with McDougall.

Father Alexi arrives, overcoat over his arm, wearing his collar and spotless black attire. Doreen brightens when she sees him. Alexi has broad shoulders and a wide, serious face. The kind of guy who's always ready to dispense some profound, encouraging phrase or another.

In walks the opposition—three men in dark jackets. One of them wears a crisp pinstriped suit and bow-tie, hair parted and gelled. He surveys the room, does a double-take at the sight of the priest.

“Mr. Claughlin?” he asks.

“That's me,“ I say.

“Franklin Waxman, I'm representing the Coney Island Health Clinic. We were wondering if we might have a word with you in private.”

“Before Norcross gets here?”

“I think we can clear up some things and save everyone some time.”

I look around at my seated companions who look expectantly back at me.

“I suppose a little non-binding discussion is harmless,” I say.

In the bare, windowless room, the six of us huddle around a long table. Waxman introduces his clients. The more muscular one is Kaplan, the physician-in-chief and executive director, and the heavy-set man is Sarnoff, an officer on the clinic's board of directors. Kaplan appears to be in his sixties, while Sarnoff doesn't look a day under ninety. Jessie, McDougall, and I sit on one side, the three of them on the other. They haven't brought along any witnesses. Waxman does the talking.

“I'd like to begin,” he says, “by emphasizing that the foremost priority of the Coney Island Health Clinic is to give the highest quality of service to its patients and to the Coney Island community. My clients have always maintained a record of solid labor practices. They make a genuine effort to be considerate, judicious, and fair to all their workers.”

His delivery sounds rehearsed.

“My clients are not in the practice of being called to arbitrate. We hope to avoid a protracted litigation, if you are willing—”

There's a knock at the door. Norcross's head pokes through the doorway.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he pauses when he spots Jessie, “and lady.” He checks his watch theatrically. “The arbitration is set to begin in a minute. I know we all want to get started as quickly as possible. So, by all means take a few minutes. It's always better if the parties can reach a resolution, but if nothing seems to be developing, I'd like us to get on the record soon.” He nods to me. “Hi, Tom. Waxman, right?”

“That's me,” Waxman says. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Norcross says. “I'll check on you all in a few.”

The door closes again.

“Let's cut to it,” I say.

“Alright,” Waxman says. “I'll let that be my segue. Our proposal is quite generous. In a show of goodwill, my clients are willing to let bygones be bygones and offer Ms. Grant reinstatement to her previous position.”

“And what about her record?”

“We are also willing to offer her a clean slate by removing any misconduct from her permanent record.”

Let bygones be bygones? What's the catch? Have I missed something?

Waxman continues, “My clients merely request recognition from Ms. Grant of what transpired in July.”

“How would that work?”

“We ask that Ms. Grant sign a formal letter of apology pledging to respect the rules of patient confidentiality in future dealings with patients of the clinic.”

Waxman reaches down into his briefcase and slides a single sheet of paper across the table.

“Alternatively, my clients are prepared to offer a clean record as well as eight weeks' back pay in exchange for her resignation and her agreement never to seek re-employment with the clinic.”

The letter is exactly as he says, first the barest of apologies and then promising to do differently. The sentences are void of any specifics—no names, no dates, no context. As a contractual document, it's next to nothing; it promises to do only what she must in any event.

McDougal leans toward me and whispers, “What do you think?”

“I don't know. It seems good,” I whisper back.

“It'd be great if we could get her back at that job.” McDougal whispers. “A reinstatement would make the union look good. I think we'd come out looking strong.”

“Right, I know,” I whisper back. “As long as Doreen's happy with it, I think we'd better take it. But I'm going to try to get her more money.”

“Can you do better on back pay?” I say to Waxman. “She's been out of work for four months.”

“Let's be clear: Ms. Grant's termination was a unanimous decision.”

“A unanimous decision?” I say. “An unjust termination is an unjust termination. Your client has yet to provide any evidence that Ms. Grant's termination was anything but. Unless you'd rather see what Norcross thinks, I suggest you come back with a better offer.”

“Fine. There's no need to raise your voice, Mr. Claughlin,” Waxman says. “How does two weeks sound?”

“Make it four.”

Waxman glances at Sarnoff, then at Kaplan. He looks again at me and nods.

I rise. “If you'll excuse us while we confer with Ms. Grant.”

Jessie, Doreen, McDougall, and I march into the neighboring conference room.

“Everything amicable in there? You guys making progress?” Norcross calls.

“Real progress,” I say. “I just need to review matters with my side.”

“Fantastic,” says Norcross. “I'm delighted.”

The four of us gather around the table. If I were in her position, I'd take the money and the scrubbed record and never set eyes on that place again. But the union's my client. I've got to look out for its interest. Doreen said she wanted her job back. Now, I've just got to get her to sign the letter.

“Okay, Doreen. They've given us an offer with two possible scenarios. In the first scenario you receive eight weeks of back pay and your record would be cleared, but you'd resign and wouldn't be able to work at the CIHC again. In the other scenario, you'd get your job back, your record is cleared, and you get a month paid. All you'd need to do is sign off on a statement acknowledging past misconduct and committing to adhere to the clinic's patient confidentiality rules.”

“But I didn't do anything,” Doreen says.

“While that may be the case, I don't think we're going to get a better offer than this. If we go forward, we run the risk of getting nothing—neither your job, nor the money. There are no guarantees in arbitration. I told you I'd do everything I could to get your job back. That's what you want, right?”

She looks down at the table where I've laid the letter.

“On the other hand, you could just take the back pay and walk.”

“No.” Doreen looks up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears. “I'll sign.”

* * *

Outside the Sheraton, the
nine of us congregate for one last round of handshakes. Each side holds a copy of the settlement. Kaplan tells Doreen he looks forward to having her back on the team. Doreen thanks Kaplan, Sarnoff, and Waxman respectively. The two men from Coney Island trudge east toward the subway station. Norcross congratulates us, gives me a pat on the shoulder, and hails a cab. Father Alexi congratulates and embraces Doreen.

I nod to Waxman and pull him aside from the others.

“So what happened in there?”

Waxman smiles. “Things didn't quite materialize the way we hoped as far as evidence. Off the record? The firm has me focusing on another big fish right now. We've got a major anti-trust case coming up. Front page, above-the-fold type stuff. You understand.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and winks.

Before departing, Father Alexi smiles broadly and says, “As Matthew tells us, He that endureth to the end shall be saved.”

“Amen,” Waxman says before turning and ducking into a town car.

“What a day for the union!” McDougal beams. “You were incredible in there, Claughlin. What did I tell you, Doreen? This guy's the best.” He turns to Jessie. “I hope you were taking notes. You could learn from a guy like this. Hell, we all could.” He claps his hand against my back. “I hope you all have excellent days. This one's worth celebrating!” He gives one more wave before heading uptown.

Doreen turns to me. “Thank you for everything you've done. Thank you.”

“Maybe we'll cross paths again under different circumstances,” I say. “At a union function, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she says, “I'd like that.”

“Me too,” I say. “Good luck with everything.”

Doreen takes off briskly down the sidewalk in the same direction as her employers. Jessie and I watch her until she disappears around the corner.

* * *

“Shall we have what
Cunningham and I used to get?”

“What's that?”

“Pasta with clam sauce and gin and tonics.”

“I like vodka,” Jessie says. We're at the Italian restaurant in the Edison Hotel.

“The linguine alle vongole and two vodka tonics.”

“Ah, very good,” says the waiter, an older Italian man, “Very good. And for the pretty lady?”

“Just the drink,” Jessie says. She's wearing a black v-neck dress. I was too preoccupied during the arbitration to notice. She's looking down at a compact mirror.

“I never do this,” she says as she dabs herself in a circular motion with a soft brush. “Only for important events. I don't trust it to stay on right.”

Her complexion is milky clean. It's like she's buffing marble.

“You look nice,” I say.

The old waiter returns with our drinks. He smiles at Jessie.

“In Italy they would call you
donna bellissima
. That means
beautiful woman
. Are you going to the theatre tonight?”

“No, we're celebrating.”

“Aha. Is she your daughter?”

“My partner, we're celebrating our first victory together.”

“A victory? What did you win?”

“We won an honest woman her job back, plus back-pay for the time when she was out of work,” Jessie says and gives the waiter a satisfied grin.

“Well, very good. Very good indeed. You must toast. In Italy we say
cento di questi giorni
. That means,
may you live for one hundred years
.”

“And may all your victories be as smooth,” I say to Jessie. We touch glasses and drink.

“She's going to make a great lawyer,” I say. The waiter nods in approval before turning to attend to another table.

“So is she coming?” Jessie asks.

“Raina? She didn't pick up.”

“I'm really happy we won. Doreen deserves what she got,” Jessie says. “It's just that, with all that work we did. It's silly, I know. But I was looking forward to a struggle. I didn't want it to be easy. Is that crazy?”

“It's not crazy,” I say. “I was ready for a fight too. But trust me, there'll be plenty of times in your career when you're going to wish cases would resolve like this one. Some lawyers never want to settle, but the good ones do, because they know they need to do what's best for their client. Ultimately you're not representing just one person. You're representing hundreds, or thousands or millions, depending on how you look at it. You always have the union's reputation on the line, not to mention the limitations of its resources.” I shrug. “All things considered, this was a profitable day.”

“You're right,” Jessie says.

“Well, you are too,” I say. “I don't know why they didn't just send us a letter two months ago. Would have saved them money. Would have saved us a lot of time and energy. It kills me knowing the union's money goes to enrich Norcross. But you're not sorry, are you?”

“No,” she says, still looking down. She swirls the half-melted cubes in her glass.

“Sorry I got you involved, I mean.”

“No.”

“Good. I'm glad things worked out the way they did,” I say. “It was nice to work with you. I mean, I'm glad to have shared it with someone.”

“Do you think she really did it? Doreen—do you think she said all those nasty things?”

“It doesn't matter now,” I say.

“Off the record?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you mean it when you say I'm going to make a great lawyer?”

“I have no doubt.”

“Thanks,” Jessie says. She looks up at me. Water eyes. “Tell me how it was with you and Cunningham in the old days when you used to come here.”