Mittman, Stephanie (27 page)

"I
didn't mean it," the boy said, his eyes getting overly bright. "I
I-I-I-" He gave up and gulped back a sob.

"Things
happen," Ash assured the boy, "that we never meant to happen. We
leave a lamp burning and start a fire. We leave a toy on the stairs and someone
tumbles down." He searched for other things that Davis might hold himself
responsible for. Just what could a boy so young, so small, have done that would
make him think he needed to pay with his own well-being?

"Sh-Sh-Sh—"

Ash's
skin crawled with the wait as he let the boy push the words from his mouth. Of
all God's afflictions on man, all the scars and pains and disabilities, he
thought Davis's must be up among the worst, and he wasn't going to make it any
harder with his impatience. Not guessing what the boy wanted to say was almost
as hard as not taking Charlotte's hand as together they waited for the child to
spit out the awful truth he carried beneath his scars.

When
he'd gotten it out, Charlotte had grabbed the boy and was hugging him to her
chest while Ash patted his back. All the while the boy cried, Ash tried to
organize his thoughts, find a way to help the boy forgive himself.

"You
were how old?" he asked when the tears subsided and Davis wiped at his
face with Ash's hankie, pulling away from Charlotte now in embarrassment.

"S-S-S—"

Oh,
Lord! S's were the hardest for Davis. Ash wished the boy had been five at the
time.

"Six."

"And
this little six-year-old boy's terrible crime was that he stood up in a
boat."

"My
ma," Davis began.

"Your
ma fell out of the boat and drowned, and that was a terrible, terrible thing,"
Ash agreed, reaching out to take Davis's hand, only to be denied. "But all
you did was stand up. Could your ma swim?"

Davis
shook his head.

"You?"

Again
he shook his head.

"Your
papa?"

Davis
nodded, but with a face that said his father wasn't ready to cross the bay
without a boat.

"So
your papa, a grown-up, took you and your mama out in a boat on the ocean even
though you couldn't swim, and you stood up."

"But—"

"Do
I have it right so far?"
Ash saw himself out on the roof his bare feet
hugging the tile shingles.
"And you wanted to sit near your ma."
He
moved farther out onto the roof where he'd hidden Cabot's birthday present.
"And
you stood up."

Davis
covered his ears with his hands. "Sit down! Sit down!" he shouted,
the words ringing true and clear.

"Come
here, you little twerp! Come on, Ashford, you little twerp!"

"You
were just a baby," Charlotte said softly. "A small child. You didn't
do what you were told right away, and something went wrong. You were guilty of
not listening, like every other child at one time or another, that's all."

"Sit
down! Sit down!"

Cabot
was laughing, placing one foot in front of the other down the ridge of the
roof. "Com'ere! Com'ere!"

Ash
pulled Davis's hands down from his ears. Guilt was something he understood
better than love, better than life. "It was not your fault," he told
the boy. "Your memories are punishment enough, aren't they?"

Davis
shut his eyes tight rather than meet Ash's gaze.

"Aren't
they?" He shook the boy gently. "Do you need your father's beatings
to help you remember?"

Davis
shook his head.

"Believe
me, son. There aren't enough beatings in the world to make you forget."

The
rain was wet and cold, but Charlotte was numb to it, numb to everything around
her but the pain. She'd watched Ewing Flannigan charm Judge O'Malley with his
lilting brogue, and then leave the courtroom with the collar to Davis's coat
balled in his fist and his son nearly dangling from the strong hold.

O'Malley
had called her a frustrated woman, warped by guilt at turning her back on her
true destiny, and hoping to steal away someone else's child for her own. He
claimed that the mother in her would never be denied, but the course she had
thus far chosen to pursue went so against nature that he feared she was
actually unable to see the great injustice she was petitioning the court to
effect. That just because a man had seen to his duty by raising a child up
right in a world where anything had become permissible...

She
couldn't remember the rest. All she could recall was the hollow look in Davis's
eyes as she and the court and the world all betrayed his trust and left him to
the mercy of his father.

She
had filed the notice of appeal that Cabot had made her prepare just in case.
Now all they'd needed was some grounds to base it on. And then she'd left by
the side door as Cabot had told her to. He'd had his concerns about the case
from the beginning, but she'd insisted on forging ahead. He'd advised her to
wait until he could take care of the whole matter behind some chamber doors,
but she had been adamant.

She
clutched her coat around her more tightly. Cold rain slipped down the back of
her neck and the rawness of the day crept into her bones.

If
Ewing Flannigan didn't stop at a bar on his way home, she'd be the next mayor
of San Francisco.

It
might just as well be her own fist that pounded that poor boy's sweet face, her
own hands that boxed his ears. Whatever that man did to his son tonight, she
had brought on him herself. What had all her high talk and overconfidence
gotten that boy tonight? A bloody nose? A split lip? A broken bone?

She
fought with the cast iron gate that separated Whittier Court from the street,
Argus squawking at her as if she were some intruder bent on destroying anything
beyond herself.

She
had failed.

And
she had to face Cabot and Kathryn and Ash and tell them all that Davis wouldn't
be brightening their lives anymore and that they had lost their opportunity to
brighten his.

The
gate conceded and reluctantly allowed her entry. But Argus was less accommodating,
pecking at her unmercifully, chasing her up the steps and into the house. When
she turned to glare at him after Maria let her in, she found him happily
picking apart her newly cropped navy hat. "You are the meanest thing that
ever lived, Argus Whittier," she shouted at him, "and someday you'll
get yours!"

Gingerly
and without a word Maria helped her out of her coat, as if the poor woman was
just a little frightened of Charlotte's mood.

"Where
is everyone?" The house was quiet enough to hear the rain slipping down
the windowpanes, and Charlotte's sniff echoed in the silent foyer.

"The
mister is in his office," Maria answered. "The Mrs. Whittier, she's
not feeling so good. Her eyes they are smarting and she is in her room, where
the other mister is reading to her."

"Is
she all right?" Charlotte asked, pulling a soggy scarf from around her
neck and handing it to the maid. "Has Mr. Whittier been told she's not
well?"

Maria
held the scarf away from her body, not pleased by the smell of the wet wool.
"I think she is liking Mr. Ash's company. She don't want the mister and so
he told her 'fine' and went to his office and yelled at Mr. Arthur to get out
of his way."

She
gestured toward the inner hall, where Arthur sat in the chair usually reserved
for Kathryn and stared at the closed office door.

Charlotte
rubbed her hands together, but it was no use. She would never be warm again.
Not until she had managed to make Davis safe. She thanked Maria, nodded at
Arthur, and went through her office into Cabot's. He started at the
interruption and then nodded his head toward the seat across his desk,
signaling her to sit.

"Oh,
it was dreadful," she began, her lip trembling uncontrollably.

He
put up one finger. "In a moment, Charlotte. Just let me finish this
thought." He wrote furiously on the pad in front of him. And she waited.

"It
was O'Malley," she said while he continued to write. "Luck of the
draw, huh? First Mallory and then O'Malley. And he wasn't interested in—"

"I
said just a moment, Charlotte." He didn't bother looking up.

"He's
going to beat that boy, Cabot. And it will be my fault." When the words
were out they seemed even more awful than the thought had been.

"We'll
take care of it, Charlotte, but not now. I need another few minutes. Why not
have a cup of tea and see if you can't compose yourself while I finish this
up." Again he didn't bother raising his eyes to her.

With
a ragged sigh she pushed forward slightly on her legs, only to find that they
were too rubbery to hold her up. She sat back in the old leather wing chair
with the cracks that pulled at her clothes, and caught her face in her hands.

What
had she done to that innocent child?

"Oh,
my God," she said, seeing with closed eyes the boy's face the way it
looked when Eli Mollenoff had first brought him to her. "What have I done,
Cabot? What in heaven's name have I done?"

"Beside
interrupt me for the fourth or fifth time?" he asked, finally looking up
at her. "Raining, is it?"

"It's
raining in my heart, Cabot. It's pouring in my soul." She fought to
swallow and choked, coughing until she was nearly dizzy. When she was done she
leaned back against the seat where a thousand clients' heads had rested before
hers.

"You
did file for an appeal?" He flipped the days on his calendar, waiting for
her response.

"What
about tonight, Cabot? What good will the appeal do Davis tonight?"

"Calm
down. Will the tears do him any good? Did you remember to change the date of
Ash's jury selection?"

"I've
done a terrible disservice to that little boy, thinking I could win a motion on
my own. And he's going to have to pay for my hubris. My pride will be his
downfall!"

"I'll
take the appeal," Cabot said. "I should have gone down there in the
first place. You get a date?"

She
nodded. It wasn't for three weeks. By then Davis could be in a hospital. Dear
Lord, he could be dead!

"When?"

She
couldn't recall the exact date. When the clerk had told her she'd been so
distressed, she'd had to write it down rather than commit it to memory.

"You
have to go to court, Cabot," she said, jumping up and pushing things on
his desk out of the way. "You can convince them to change their minds.
Make him a ward of the court. Get an ex parte order or a temporary restraining
order or—" He wasn't moving. "Cabot, come on! I'll tell Arthur to get
your coat. It's terrible out there."

"Sit
down, Charlotte." He waited while she raced around the office like some
sort of lunatic just let out from the asylum. Or maybe just committed, as the
walls moved in and the room got smaller around her. "Sit down!"

"I
will not sit down," she cried. "There is a boy out there who needs
us!"

"It's
four-thirty, Charlotte," he said, pointing to the clock on the mantel
whose ticking had often driven her to distraction. "By the time I got down
to court, the building would be closed."

"We
could go to Judge Pollack. You've done him enough favors, Cabot. Call one
in."

"I
will not even discuss this with you when you are in this state. I will take
care of the boy, Charlotte. Sit down. You are acting like a blubbering
female!"

She
took a step toward the chair and then stopped. "I
am
a blubbering
female," she said. Couldn't he see that? No one else in the world had
failed to notice she was a female. Only this man seemed to be oblivious to the
fact.

"Well,
Charlotte, that's nothing to be proud of."

"It's
nothing to be ashamed of either," she said. She wondered if she meant it,
truly, and decided that she did indeed. "I do have feelings like a woman.
And right now I'm cold, the kind of cold that a woman gets that makes a man
pull off his coat and offer it to her. And I'm sad. I'm sad enough to cry and
need comfort. I lost that case, Cabot, and it breaks my heart that Davis will
have to pay for my failure."

"Charlotte,
believe me, I'm sorry that you lost this round. Sorry for you and sorry for the
boy, and I'd cry along with you if it would do a damn bit of good. But a lawyer
can't come apart with every setback. Lawyers don't cry—they file appeals,
they—"

She
put her hand out across the desk. "Please, Cabot. I don't know what to
do."

He
focused on her hand, but didn't take it. Instead he backed the chair away from
the desk and she thought for a moment he might come around and take her in his
arms.

"Go
wash your face," he said. "It'll be all right." And then she
watched as he wheeled his chair from the room.

***

Ash
thought that Kathryn would never fall asleep. It had taken the whole volume of
Sonnets
from the Portugese
(of all things for her to choose!) and two of Robert
Browning's poems as well, but finally she was snoring lightly and Ash could
tiptoe from the room without having to discuss with her his need to make sure
that Charlotte was all right.