Mittman, Stephanie (33 page)

"That
means that Davis Flannigan, poor child, will remain on your caseload. But then,
you've learned all you need to from me, so I'm sure that you'll be able to
convince O'Malley to take the boy from his surviving parent and give him to...
well, the boy could be a ward of the court, anyway, since the situation here
would be altered considerably.

"And
then there's that ridiculous Halton case. Frankly I'd be happy to see that one
go, though you know your involvement does worry me more than a little. Still,
the same precautions could be exercised.

"It's
Ashford's trial that really concerns me. Do you think you can win that one on
your own? It's a pretty thin defense we've got so far—a few aspersions cast on
Greenbough and little else."

"Ashford's
case would be mine?" she questioned.

"Why?"

"Really,
Charlotte," he said with one eyebrow raised, "do we need to spell it
out? Dot
i's
and cross
t's
and account for hours that are simply
unaccounted for? Wouldn't you prefer to simply remain unaccountable? Consider
me a generous man, Charlotte. The cases are yours."

He
was bluffing. She knew he was, even if he wasn't picking lint from his suit or
stretching out his knuckles, which were his usual signs. But he'd made his
point nonetheless.

O'Malley
would never even hear her reargument in Davis's case. She'd only been granted
the reargument because Cabot's name had been on the Notice of Appeal. Alone
there wouldn't be anything at all she could do for the boy.

And
Ash! She could never get Ash off by herself, had no illusions that she could.
Working together with the strain between them all would make things difficult
enough, but Cabot would be able to pull it out. Cabot could make magic happen.
Hadn't he made a lawyer out of her?

"I'm
not going anywhere. But I still do feel that it devalues my work not to receive
pay for it," she said, trying to give him some reason other than the fact
that at the moment she hated him over a stupid bird she'd had no kindly
feelings for in the first place.

The
room was silent, save for that droning clock that ticked on and on, winding her
nerves as tightly as its spring.

"I
see," he said at last. "I'm glad. And sorry, too, Charlotte, if I've
ever made you feel less than essential in any way. Ironic isn't it, that I can
be so eloquent in court and yet here I find it so hard to say the things I
feel. And so instead I say ridiculous things about the price of your education.
I suppose in truth I should have paid you just to come into this room every
morning for the good it did my heart."

"It
isn't the money," she lied, rubbing her sweaty palms against the green
velvet skirt she wondered what had ever possessed her to wear. "It's
the..." she searched for a word other than
independence,
but none
stumbled into her path.

"—tangible
sign of appreciation and worth," he finished for her. "I've been a
boor, haven't I? What do you say to a little vacation? When Ash's case is over?
We could take a ship somewhere, perhaps. Or a train. Would you like that?"

"I
think we'd better win his case before we plan the celebration," she said,
wishing she could get on a boat or a train and never come back, never see
another law book, or courtroom, or lawyer—her husband included.

"However
it ends up, I think it wise we get away. Can't you smell that ocean
breeze?" he egged her on. "Salt spray in your hair, and all that.
Maybe Ashford could recommend a place. Though I suppose we wouldn't be looking
for the same sorts of things."

"We
should get back to work." She stood and took the papers from the out
basket and turned toward her office.

"I'm
sorry, Charlotte," he said, and she stood perfectly still with her back to
him. "I'll try harder. I'll notice the things I ought to and comment on
them."

The
harsh light of day had revealed the butchering she'd done to her hair, and no
green velvet skirt or striped shirtwaist was going to make it look any better.
Still, she wouldn't have minded someone at least acknowledging the change in
her appearance this morning. Kathryn had simply stared, Ash had held his
tongue, and Cabot had dashed extra bitters in his tea upon her entrance into
the dining room.

"Yesterday's
memo was well done," he said, tapping his desk with a pencil. "Well
done indeed."

Especially
when you consider what you paid for it,
Charlotte thought bitterly. But then,
the memo had been for Ash, who had caressed her with his eyes even while he was
holding his tongue.

***

They
were all in the dining room waiting when Ash came down to dinner. As always, he
was seated next to Selma and across from Charlotte. The intention was for him
to entertain Selma while Charlotte made polite conversation with Eli on her
left and Kathryn on her right. Cabot, pontificating at everyone, sat at the
head of the table with Davis on his right, since the child needed the most
edification from the master.

The
chip on Ash's shoulder was so heavy, he was surprised he could walk upright
into the dining room, make his apologies for being late, and take his seat, all
without breaking under the weight of it.

"You're
late," Cabot said. "Which is amazing, considering the fact that you
can't leave this house."

Ash
tried simply ignoring him.

"Equally
amazing is the fact that someone whose description is remarkably close to yours
was seen down on the docks last night."

Ash
watched Charlotte's eyebrows rise, but busied himself with his napkin. The
closest he'd come was a woman named Jamaica, who'd told him about a blonde
who'd moved farther south to ply her trade in the better weather.

"A
man of low moral fiber, this one was, consorting with those of the same
ilk."

"That
is an exceptionally pretty dress," Ash said to Selma, without so much as a
look in Cabot's direction. "It seems to make you glow."

"That's
not the dress," Eli said with a slight grimace. "That's her
goyisher
beau, you should pardon the expression but I feel I am among friends."

"Eli,
he's not a beau," Selma said, blushing to her widow's peak. "He's a
nice man I see every now and then."

"For
vhat?" Eli demanded.

"For
tea, or a little supper. You're always at the office and I get lonely. Why
shouldn't I eat with whomever I please?"

"Goyim?"

"We
aren't out eating pig's feet, Eli. At least I'm not. What does it matter if the
man is not Jewish? I'm eating dinner with him, not standing under the
chuppa."
Ash was surprised Selma could turn any redder, but she managed it at the
reference to the bridal altar.

"You're
breaking bread with us, Dr. Mollenoff," Kathryn reminded him. "And
we're not of your faith."

"It's
different," Eli said. "And you know it. We're friends here, a group
of people not looking for more than that. Now if I vas to vork up the nerve to
ask if you should maybe one day vant to go for a sip of tea vit me down in the
city, and you should maybe take leave of your senses and say yes to an old fool
like me, then maybe ve vould have something to compare.

"But
even then it vould be different. Selma is, you should take no offense, much
younger than you or me, and children are not so distant a possibility for
her."

Next
to him Selma threw up her hands, but what caught Ash's attention was that his
mother's cheeks had taken on the same pink tinge as the woman next to him.
"Now he's got me calling in the midwife! Eli, we had tea, that's all. The
man delivered my mail at the warehouse and then when we moved to the new
building, there he was again. He smiled, I smiled, and from this you've got
little crosses hanging around my children's necks."

"God
forbid!" Eli said, his hand shaking as it covered his heart. "Better
you should be dead."

"Dr.
Mollenoff!" Charlotte shook that pretty little head of hers, smaller now
without that ridiculous bundle of hair piled atop it. He couldn't look at her
without thinking of rolling her about in the grass, tumbling down a hill with
her like two carefree children. Thoughts he clearly had no right to.

"Religion,"
Cabot said with a huff, the way he said most things of late. "Just another
weapon to divide people from one another. Race, sex, religion. All excuses for
discrimination and hate."

"All
sources for unity and progress. People banded together with the same cause can
achieve great things," Charlotte said. It was simply amazing to him that
such brilliance could come out of the same darling little mouth that had nearly
accused him of stealing her honor. "Look how close the women are to the
vote."

"Oh,
yes," Selma said sarcastically. "In the meantime the man who stables
my horse has more say about our President than I do."

"I
think we tend to write off people too quickly," Ash said. What was it his
father had told him when he'd handed him a nickel to give the man who begged by
the church?
There but for the grace of God go I.
"How many people
thought Charlotte, here, could never make a fine lawyer because she's a woman?
How many would have said that my brother could never become a lawyer because
he's stuck in that chair? Look at all of us—"

"But
that's just man fulfilling his potential," Charlotte said. "Selma's
asking why those who don't achieve their full potential still have rights that
others of us have proven we deserve."

"Because
if we had to use reaching their potential as the criterion for the right to
vote, my dear Charlotte, only you would be allowed to vote!" He raised his
glass to salute her.

"Here,
here," the doctor seconded, and everyone drank to a clearly embarrassed
Charlotte.

"I
think what we're really at here is suitability," Cabot said. "Eli
probably has nothing against Selma's friend personally, but I can certainly
understand his concerns regarding whether the friend is an appropriate one for
his sister and whether condoning a relationship between them is not inviting
trouble in the door."

"Come,
now, Mr. Whittier. You wouldn't try to decide what was right and appropriate
for your brother, would you?" Selma asked.

Ash
noticed Charlotte's pale face, the way she busied herself lining up her spoons
against the edge of the table, the way her gaze refused to rise and meet his
own. "I think," he said, "that you and I suffer the same fate,
Miss Mollenoff, and that what was once a blessing has become a curse."

"Because
we raised you," Dr. Mollenoff said, nodding his head. "A parent and
yet not a parent. Fine lines, we draw, and then we cannot seem to cross them,
eh, Mr. Vhittier?"

"Am
I your curse?" Cabot asked, erasing everyone from the room but the two of
them.

"Of
course not," Ash was forced to say. Cabot had been there too many times
for him, smoothing over rough spots Ash himself had created.

Cabot
snorted quietly, apparently deep in thought. "Just your albatross, then,
is that it?"

"Don't
be absurd," Ash responded, recognizing for the first time the millstone
his brother had become, the weight of the guilt that he had dragged around the
world with him, and denied to Cabot's face because it upset his brother so.

"You
know," Cabot said abruptly, addressing Selma as if the private exchange
between him and Ash had never taken place, "Davis's father is a mail
carrier. Perhaps he knows your new beau."

"The
man is not a beau," Selma said, crossing her arms and grimacing.
"He's merely a friend I would just as soon not discuss."

***

Davis
had no doubt his da would know Miss Mollenoff's beau or friend or whatever she
wanted to call him. His father knew everyone, knew everything. To hear him tell
it, there wasn't a shamrock in all of Oakland he didn't hear growing before it
broke the ground. Like he knew that big fellow Moss would be waiting at
McGinty's Bar for him to come in after court, and that the man would follow
them home like a shadow on a summer afternoon. Like he knew that Mr. Ash had
someone searching all over the bay for some dish like it would prove he hadn't
set fire to his warehouse.

Da
had been different all week. So different that when Mr. Johnson had said he was
taking Davis over to the mister's place, his da hadn't even blinked.
Yeah,
go,
he'd told him, and he hadn't opened the bottle until Moss had knocked
on the door.

"How'd
you like to sleep up in the high room?" the mister asked him as Maria was
circling the table with a platter of something that smelled extra good. Fish in
papillote, old Mrs. Whittier had told him, and warned him to take the paper off
like he'd never gotten fish or chips wrapped up in a newspaper before.

The
missus's fork fell against her plate with a clang and a clatter, and she chased
it to stop the noise in a hurry. "The high room?" she asked.
"But that's your brother's room. Where would Ashford sleep?"

"The
carriage house," the mister said, like it had all been decided already.
Except Davis guessed it wasn't, since the mister added, "Unless, of
course, you object, Ash. It's clear you're feeling a bit confined by now.
Perhaps a little space, a little distance, might make you more comfortable. And
keep you on the grounds."