Barefoot (22 page)

Brian Delaney, Esquire, had called nine times since Brenda had been on Nantucket, and Brenda had yet to return a single phone call. She had hoped that dealing with the charges the university was slapping her with in regard to the Jackson Pollock painting could be done via voice messages and e-mail, but Brian Delaney, Esquire, seemed intent on having a person-to-person chat on the phone at the cost of two hundred and fifty dollars an hour. The reason, plain and simple, why Brenda didn’t want to talk to the man was that she didn’t want to pay. He must have sensed this. On the tenth call, he said,
Call me back or I’m dropping your case.

And so, once Brenda was safely away from the house, ensconced on a stretch of deserted beach that she’d discovered north of ’Sconset Bluff, she called him back.

Brian Delaney, Esquire’s secretary, Trudi, put Brenda right through. Seconds later, Brian Delaney, Esquire’s voice boomed over the line, with as much unleashed testosterone as a linebacker from Ohio State, which was, in fact, what Brian Delaney had been in his previous life.

“Brenda Lyndon! I thought for sure you’d fled the country!”

She should have a snappy comeback for that, she knew. When she’d first met Brian Delaney, Esquire, she’d been full of snappy comebacks, and that was one of the reasons he’d agreed to take her case. He liked her. It wasn’t just his Big Ten jock inferiority in the face of a near–Ivy League professor; he also liked the fact that she was young, attractive, and sassy.
I can’t believe you’re a professor,
he kept saying. Despite the damage done to her reputation by her relationship with Walsh, Brenda had worn a snug pencil skirt and very high heels to her initial meeting with Brian Delaney, Esquire, in the hope that he might cut her a break on his fee. No such luck—though Brenda seemed to be rewarded by his confidence. This case was fun for him, it was a no-brainer. He was used to dealing with criminals, he said. Thieves, rapists, drug lords. Next to these people, Brenda looked like Queen Elizabeth.

“Nantucket
is
another country,” she said. “It feels like it, anyway. Sorry I haven’t called you back. I told you about my sister, right? She’s going through chemotherapy? And I’m responsible for watching her kids? I’m very busy.”

“Right,” Brian said tentatively. Brenda had also thought that mentioning Vicki’s cancer might inspire him to lower his fees, but it was clear he didn’t remember what she was talking about. “Well, I’ve been in contact with the university’s counsel, and she’s been talking to both the head of the Art Restoration Program and the chair of the English Department—because, as you know, it’s the English Department that technically
owns
the painting—and they are coming at this from two different places. The art restoration guy, Len, his name is, says that only a small amount of damage has been done to the painting. It just needs what he calls ‘a little work.’”

“Thank God,” Brenda said.

“Well, hold your horses there, sister. ‘A little work’ is going to cost you ten thousand dollars.”

“What?” Brenda said. There wasn’t another soul on the beach for as far as she could see in either direction and so she felt free to shout. “What the hell?”

“There’s a divot in the lower left quadrant of the painting where the spine of the book hit it. The divot is three-quarters of an inch long.”

“A divot?”

“Would you rather I call it a gouge? Fine, it’s a gouge. It needs to be stitched up, filled in, whatever it takes to restore the glory of Pollock’s fine work. But that’s not the bad news,” Brian Delaney, Esquire, said. “The bad news is the other woman, the chair of your former department.”

“Atela?”

“She’s pursuing a grand larceny charge.”

“Grand larceny?”

“It’s art,” Brian Delaney, Esquire, said. “The value is all perceived. It doesn’t have to be taken from the room to be stolen. Atela is convinced you were trying to sabotage the painting.”

“We went over this in the deposition. I threw the book in anger. It was the heat of the moment, which makes it second degree. Possibly even third degree because it
was
an accident.”

“Listen to you with the legal jargon.”

“I wasn’t aiming for the painting.”

“She’s claiming that you went into that room with the intent to destroy.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Brian. Doesn’t that seem a bit extreme to you?”

“A jury might believe it.”

“So what does
that
mean?” Brenda said. “Is there going to be a trial?”

“They’ll threaten with a trial. But what they really want is a settlement. Which means more money.”

“I am not giving the English Department a single dime,” Brenda said.

“You may not have a choice,” Brian said. “They’re asking for three hundred thousand dollars.”

Brenda laughed.
Ha!
Though the number was funny like a slap across the face. “No chance,” she said.

“The painting’s been appraised at three million,” Brian Delaney, Esquire, said. “They want a tenth of the value.”

“Do you think I compromised one tenth of the painting’s value?” Brenda said. “The art guy said there was just a little divot.”

“What I know about art I could write on my thumbnail and still have room for one of Andy Warhol’s soup cans,” Brian Delaney, Esquire, said. “The point is,
they
feel you’ve compromised one tenth of the painting’s value. But I can get them down to a hundred and fifty.”

“This is why I don’t take your calls,” Brenda said. “I can’t stand to hear this.”

“In some people’s eyes you did a bad thing,” Brian said. “You made a series of very bad judgment calls. It’s time to own that.”

She owned it, all right. Her fall from grace was spectacular. She felt not like Queen Elizabeth at all but rather like Monica Lewinsky, Martha Stewart, OJ Simpson. Her good name had been slandered across Champion’s campus and campuses across the country. She would never work again, not like she was meant to. And if that weren’t punishment enough, she had separated herself from Walsh. But, as with everything, there was the issue of money, of which Brenda had very little. Brenda couldn’t own her mistake to the tune of a hundred and sixty thousand dollars plus however many millions Brian Delaney, Esquire, was going to charge her.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” Brenda said. “I just flat out do not have it.”

“How’s the screenplay coming along?” Brian asked. “Sell that baby for a million dollars and all the rest of this will look like milk money.”

“The screenplay is going just fine,” Brenda said. This was an out-and-out lie. In truth, she’d written one page. “I really have to go, so . . .”

“Time to flip over, huh?” Brian Delaney, Esquire, said. “Too much sun on your face?”

Was she really paying him two hundred and fifty dollars an hour for this?

“Good-bye,” Brenda said.

A hundred and sixty thousand dollars.
Each time Brenda thought it, it was like a medicine ball to the stomach. In other circumstances, she might have called her parents and asked for a loan. Despite the inevitable comments that she was thirty years old, and a reminder that they had subsidized her income through eight years of graduate school, the money would appear from somewhere. But Brenda had to downplay her misfortunes with her family. They knew the basics: fired from Champion, a “misunderstanding” about an important painting that was making it necessary for her to retain a lawyer, but she had kept it at that. The Lyndons had always been open-minded and tolerant, but this stemmed from a sense of their own superiority. Their behavior was impeccable; they lived up to very high expectations but they understood, in their infinite wisdom, that not everybody was like them. Vicki thought this way, too—and so, for a long time, had Brenda. She couldn’t stand being numbered among the sinning masses, the morally bankrupt, which is right where her parents would place her if they found out what she’d done. They might lend or flat-out give her the startling sum of money, but they would think less of her, and Brenda couldn’t abide that. And, too, she couldn’t bear to burden her parents with the details of her own idiotic scandal when Vicki was so sick. As it was, Brenda was going to have to start lying to her mother about Vicki’s condition. Because despite Brenda’s prayers, Vicki was getting worse. The chemo was taking its toll. All the things the doctors warned might happen, happened. Vicki had lost more than ten pounds, she was chronically tired, she had no appetite—not even for grilled steak or corn on the cob. Her hair, which had always been like corn silk, began falling out in ghastly clumps; in places, Brenda could see right through to her scalp. Vicki had a wig in one of the suitcases she’d brought from home, though Brenda couldn’t bring herself to suggest Vicki wear it.

One morning, a Tuesday, a chemo morning, Brenda found Vicki in her room, rocking back and forth on the bed with both of the kids in her lap, crying.

“I don’t want to go,” she said. “Please don’t make me go. They’re trying to kill me.”

“They’re trying to help you, Vick,” Brenda said.

“Mom’s not going to the hospital today,” Blaine said.

“Come on,” Brenda said. “You’re scaring the kids.”

“I’m not going,” Vicki said.

“Josh will be here any second,” Brenda said. “You haven’t made him anything for breakfast.”

“I can’t cook anymore,” Vicki said. “Just looking at food makes me sick. If Josh is hungry, Melanie will make him something.” This had happened two or three times now: With Vicki too sick to cook, Melanie had attempted to step in and cook for Josh. There had been a platter of scrambled eggs, somehow both watery and burned, and some limp, greasy bacon—after which Josh said he would be happy with just a bowl of Cheerios.

“You can’t skip chemo, Vick. It’s like any medicine. It’s like antibiotics. If you stop taking it, even for one day, you’ll go back to being sick.”

“I’m not going,” Vicki said.

“She’s not going!” Blaine shouted. “She’s staying home!”

Vicki made no move to shush Blaine or reprimand him for yelling at his aunt who was, it should be pointed out,
just trying to do the right thing!
The family was going to hell in a handbasket.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Brenda said. “But we are leaving at eight-thirty.”

Brenda left the room, dreading her mother’s inevitable phone call.
How is she?
Ellen Lyndon would ask. And what could Brenda possibly say?
She’s scared. She’s angry. She hurts.
It wasn’t possible to give their mother a dose of that kind of unadulterated truth.
She’s fine,
Brenda would say.
The kids are fine.

As Brenda was feeling guilty for lies she hadn’t even told yet, she heard the predictable crunch of tires on shells. Josh. Somehow, Brenda thought, Josh would keep them afloat. Now that Brenda was a regular communicator with God, she believed Josh had been sent to them for a reason. Brenda tiptoed down the flagstone path and met Josh by the gate. She was still in her nightgown and it was a misty, chilly morning. She crossed her arms over her chest.

He furrowed his brow. “You’re not throwing rocks today?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“Kind of,” Brenda said. “I need your help.”

“Okay,” Josh said. Brenda saw his eyes brighten. In this, he was like Walsh. Being typically Australian, Walsh loved to help. “Anything.”

“I need you to talk to Vicki.”

Another person might have said,
Anything but that,
but Josh had no problem with Vicki. He liked her; he wasn’t afraid of her cancer. He called her “Boss,” and each day he teased her about her “non-list list.”

“Okay,” Josh said. “Sure. What about?”

“Just talk to her,” Brenda said. “She needs a friend. She’s sick of me.”

“No problem,” Josh said. “I’m here for you.”

Brenda was about to lead him into the house, into Vicki’s bedroom, but those words,
I’m here for you,
even though they were said in a casual, lighthearted way, nearly made Brenda weep with gratitude. She suspected that Josh wasn’t a college student at all, but rather, an angel. Brenda placed her hands on his shoulders, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him. He tasted young, like a piece of unripe fruit; his lips were soft. She felt him move toward her, he took hold of her waist.

Immediately, Brenda realized she’d made a mistake. What was
wrong
with her? Gently, she pushed Josh away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was unfair of me.”

“You are so beautiful,” Josh said. “You know I think so.”

Yes, Brenda knew it. She had seen how he looked at her in her nightgown and her bikini, but she had done nothing to encourage him. When they spoke, she was friendly but never more than friendly. If anything, she had worked to keep Josh at arm’s length. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to think . . . But, as ever, her good judgment fled her for one instant. She had kissed him—and it was a real kiss—so now, suddenly, on top of everything else, she was a tease. She had so much on her mind, so many heavy, difficult things, that the idea that there was someone willing to help, even a little bit, overwhelmed her good sense. She had made a mess of nearly everything in her life, but she didn’t want to make a mess with Josh.

“It was unfair of me because I’m in love with someone else,” Brenda said. “Someone back in New York.” She thought of the damn napkin tucked into her book; the ink was smeared now.
Call John Walsh!

“Oh,” Josh said. He looked pissed off. He had every reason to be; he had every reason to leave Number Eleven Shell Street and never come back, but Brenda hoped he wouldn’t. She hoped he was here for reasons a lot more powerful than any crush he might have on her.

“You’ll still talk to Vicki, won’t you?” Brenda asked. “Please?”

He shrugged. His eyes were filled with hurt and boyish disappointment. “Sure,” he said.

The bedroom was dim, with the muted morning light peeking in around the edges of the pulled shades. Vicki rocked on the bed, holding both kids, but Brenda lifted Porter out of Vicki’s arms and said to Blaine, “Come on out now. We have pebbles to throw.”