Piano in the Dark (9 page)

She’s crazy. Has to be,
I thought to myself. I’d left Ava there as she tried explaining herself fully. But I refused to listen further. I couldn’t hear anymore lest I got dragged into her delusional world.

Now, a full twenty-four hours later, I couldn’t escape her voice.

The jury of twelve watched and waited, wondering what Jim Warner, the senior partner, fumbled for at our table after abruptly halting his diatribe. Our client Iris kept her head low, despite Jim’s impromptu coaching, refusing to look toward the jury stand.

“Chase, where are Jacobi’s notes on exhibit number five?” Jim asked in a low voice, expressing his displeasure with trying this matter on such short notice. Jacobi had called in sick this morning, bailing on Iris’s case after things went south. The black eye he received last night from her husband over a
misunderstanding
wasn’t going to be brought up by me. But still, his carelessness didn’t reflect well on the firm—something Jim Warner was sure to consider when debating over accepting Jacobi as partner with them.

“I don’t know, Jim” I answered absently, not meaning to say what I thought as I fished around the stacks of trial material on our table. I could be careless too, my mind addled from too many restless nights.

My first night after leaving Ava, I’d dreamed of the Netherlands, somewhere I’d never been. The red lighthouse in her painting was as real as the waking world. I stood impatiently before it while she maneuvered me with her hand for the perfect camera shot. And I was happy, smiling at her contently while heeding her directions. Waiting for a flash while fixated on a row of slowly spinning windmills behind her in the distance, separated from us by fields of tulips as far as the eye could see. At peace while those odd sailboats drifted in the choppy waters offshore. Great. Living in someone else’s dream. She’d successfully pulled me past the event horizon of her maddening world, the gravity of her false beliefs offering no chance at escape.

A loud harrumph snapped me back to my reality. Jim clearing his throat as a stalling tactic.

“Get it together, Chase. You’re about as useful today as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest,” he caustically remarked under his breath before turning to face the judge. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?” he asked in his turned-up small-town drawl. Judge Kemp covered his microphone to let out a deep sigh before motioning both attorneys to approach the bench. Then he instructed the jury to be patient, explaining that the legal process wasn’t always smooth and organized, but prone to fits and starts.

As the mustached judge spoke in whispered tones to both Jim and the lead defense attorney, I checked my watch. Despite our less-than-stellar start, this trial might be salvaged due to the time at hand. It was close enough to lunchtime that the jury had become impatient. Perfect opportunity for the judge to set them free so they could return focused. And it would give Jim time enough to retrieve the absent trial materials from Jacobi’s possession and consult with him.

The lunch break would also do Iris well, as she was probably spent and flustered from last night’s circus. Once the jury was excused for lunch, Jim immediately turned to me.

“Want me to track down, Jacobi?” I asked, ready to do the damage control I’d done so many times in the past to cover my friend’s ass.

“No. I’ll speak with Mr. Stewart. Don’t you worry about that,” Jim replied. “Our client looks like she needs some fresh air. Why don’t you mind her? I trust there won’t be any complications from a married man such as yourself.”

“No. Not at all,” was all I could say about being volunteered by Jim to baby-sit. After all, he paid my check. I was guaranteed not to be a problem like Jacobi, but Jim might feel otherwise if he knew my current dilemma.

“Ready to get out of here and take a break?” I asked cheerfully, offering my hand for the deathly quiet Iris to take. I said nothing further, leaving it to her if she’d respond. On our way out the courtroom, I sent a quick text to Jacobi.

I led Iris outside the courthouse, skipping the basement cafeteria’s fair for some good Southern cooking, a ritual I tried to follow whenever my schedule permitted. We crossed a traffic-lined Fannin Street and walked the two blocks up Congress past a closed Red Cat Jazz Café, frequented by me and Dawn on Sundays. Making a quick left on Travis, we arrived at Treebeard’s restaurant, housed inside the Baker-Travis Building, the second oldest building in Houston.

The sullen Latina, still playing mute, cracked a smile when the smell of fresh cooking hit her nose. Probably hadn’t eaten much nor thought about food since last night. Not sure of what she wanted to order, she motioned for me to go ahead. I was salivating for my usual: the red beans and rice with sausage along with a slice of their homemade jalapeño cornbread. I looked back to see Iris’s decision, a lone bowl of shrimp étouffée and a can of diet Dr Pepper, on her tray.

“That’s it? Have you had their butter cake?” I asked her as I slid my tray along toward the cashier. She needed her energy up for the afternoon session.

“No,” she solemnly replied. It must have taken all of her strength to come downtown and sit through a trial with neither support from her husband nor Jacobi. After putting our meals on the company credit card, I found an open table for us amid the other lunch patrons. We parked ourselves outside beneath the ceiling fans, facing the bit of green space across the street that is Market Square. The sparse decor, aged architecture, and balcony above reminded me of a time when we might’ve been greeted by horse-drawn carriages on Travis Street rather than cars and bicycles.

“How do you think the case is going?” I asked, engaging in more small talk to crack her shell.

“That man Jim. He hates me,” she replied, moving her straight ebony hair away from her pleasant yet weary face. For the first time today, she made eye contact. Progress.

“Naww,” I scoffed. “He’s just focused on your case. Once this is over, he’ll loosen up. Trust me.” Jim didn’t hate Iris. I doubt he cared about her one way or the other. He just hated the mess this case had devolved into thanks to Jacobi’s inability to keep his dick in his pants. I said nothing about her husband’s attack on Jacobi, having caught them slipping at Hotel Zaza last night when he recognized her car and decided to follow. Remained noncommittal despite what she assumed.

“Have you talked to Charla lately?” she asked, referring to Ava by her artist pseudonym.

“Not since that day at the Breakfast Klub,” I replied, unsure if Iris was another one of those patrons of Ava, like Smith Sampson. Still, my business was my own.

“There’s no need to lie to me. I would be the last one to talk. People in glass houses and all,” she said, motioning toward my wedding band.

I chuckled nervously, taking a moment to look at my phone and the series of recent messages from Ava to which I hadn’t replied. “Maybe once since then,” I responded. “How long you known her?”

“We met a few years ago. By chance. Jacobi told you what I said?”

“About sharing the same therapist? Yes.”

Iris’s lips tightened. “Yeah. Jacobi talks too much. I’m not one to strike up conversations with fellow patients, but we shared the elevator once…and she just seemed so approachable.”

“Relax. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“What if it comes up in trial?”

“You’re not alone when it comes to those needing a little help in coping with the pressures of life. At least you sought it. If they ask you about it, just tell the truth. If they get too belligerent, Jim will step in. Our firm is the best at what we do, Mrs. Wilson.”

She chuckled. “Funny hearing you say my married name. After all these years I’d finally gotten used to it. Used to hyphenate like crazy.”

“What’s your maiden name?”

“Garcia,” she answered haughtily. “I certainly don’t look like a Wilson, eh?”

“You said it. Not me,” I said with a grin, noticing the innate sex appeal Jacobi had acted upon recklessly.

“What’s your last name, Chase?”

“Hidalgo.”

“You’re Latino?”

“My dad,” I answered, wobbling my hand for effect to show that was only half my heritage. “
Cubano
.”

“Oooh. Do you speak—”

“Not in the least,” I said, cutting her off with a wave of the same hand. I cut into my sausage link and quickly stabbed the loose piece with my fork. “My dad wasn’t around to teach me much of anything, let alone Spanish. Musician ‘n all.”

“Is he famous?”

“Used to be,” I said with a grimace. I’d broken the ice and got her mind off stuff, now it was twenty questions with me on the receiving end. “Performed with a band called the Asylum Seekers decades ago.”

“Wait. Hidalgo. Joell Hidalgo?
Nooo
. Joell Hidalgo’s your father?”

“Yeah. That’s him.”

“Wow. My father used to listen to them when I was a kid. I used to dance along with him. He was a photographer for one of the old music rags. Told me he saw your papi and the Asylum Seekers in concert down in Miami when they were just getting started. He left me one of their albums—
Follow Me, No?
Good old vinyl. Do you play an instrument as well? Hell, music’s in your blood. You have to.”

“No. Not at all. Are you doing okay after last night?” I asked, deftly turning the conversation back to her despite my reluctance to throw her blowup in her face. She left me no choice.

“Yes. I’m fine, considering. What did Jacobi tell you?”

“Just the bare minimum. Let me know he needed someone at the firm to fill in for him. I don’t have a law license, so that is where Jim comes in.”

“You strike me as very capable. Maybe more so than your friend,” Iris admitted. “Why aren’t you a lawyer?”

“Go figure,” I said deadpan. I was getting tired of people focusing on my career choices. Like I was some kind of poster child for missed opportunities. “Is everything going to be okay for you at home? Your husband didn’t lay his hands on you, did he?”

“No. For that, I’m lucky. We have children and I fucked up, Mr. Hidalgo. Who knows, maybe your firm will have another case of mine—a divorce. Think that man Jim would like me then? This whole thing is so embarrassing. Can’t believe I let myself get caught up.”

“I can kinda empathize with that; getting caught up in something.”

Iris got a glint in her eye. Another diversion from her troubles. “Charla. She’s a lovely woman. Inside and out. I’m not surprised she appeals to you.”

“Charla. Do you always call her that?” I probed.

“Yes. But I don’t know if she knows me by Iris. Confidentiality,” she chuckled. Color returned to her face.

“How well do you know her?”

“Why?”

“Because. I’m curious.”

“What do you want to know?”

I looked at my watch. We still had a few minutes to spare before hurrying back to the courthouse. Iris began to speak, hopefully illuminating my understanding of Ava and her wild ideas. I moved my empty plate to the side, leaning closer to hear what she had to say.

But her mouth froze at the first syllable, her lip quivering instead of speaking further. Her neck craned to allow her to better see something over my shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

The rev of a truck engine drowned out my voice. I turned to see a large Ford F250 diesel pickup as it lurched forward. It jumped the curb, partially rolling onto the sidewalk near our table and almost striking a support column. I leaped from my seat, fearful of being run over. But it stopped short, the truck door swinging open as its driver stepped out.

“Another one, Iris? How many more are there?” the tall white man yelled, his voice cracking from the strain. He wore a Texas A&M baseball cap, a pair of basic blue jeans—probably Wranglers—but the tan button-down and light leather jacket spoke of an engineer or some kind of problem solver who preferred getting out in the field rather than being tied to a desk. Iris’s husband, I presumed, without much thought.

“Honey. No. He works for the law firm. My—my trial. We’re just having lunch,” Iris urged with her outstretched hands trembling.

“Like hell you are! Lunch? Like dinner last night with that n—”

“Sir, please calm down,” I said quickly, before the disparaging word I assumed was about to come out his mouth could be said. “I can assure you nothing inappropriate is going on. My name is Chase Hidalgo with—” I said just as her husband charged me, blind and deaf to reason.

I sat like some scolded schoolkid, pouting in the principal’s office for the past half hour. Ignoring my bruised and tender knuckles, I reviewed the recent message on my phone.

Chase. I’m not crazy. Miss u. Pls call.

I didn’t need to be reading this at the moment. I quickly deleted Ava’s message and stowed my phone. Most of the staff at Casey, Warner & Associates had gone home for the evening. The only thing breaking the silence was the clicking of the brass clock on the wall. Finally, the door cracked. I stood up, straightening my shirt and tie before I entered the conference room. I caught the faint trailing murmurs of brief conversations hastily ending the closer I got.

They sat around the splendid executive table, silently judging everything from my body language to my facial expression. As if they didn’t truly know me before. Friends and colleagues most times, but not tonight. Jim Warner, Abner Casey, Maryann Milner, and Rick Stein—the senior partners of Casey, Warner & Associates—were hastily gathered to do damage control and protect their necks. My frayed nerves and total frustration were bubbling over. Had me wanting to throw up.

“Do you know what you did, Chase?” Rick Stein asked, breaking the silence with his high-pitched voice as I sat down at the closest open seat. He had the most cordial relationship with me, so they’d probably delegated this to him after Jim Warner brought them up to speed on everything. As Jim sat stonefaced, his eyes spoke of sheer disappointment when I looked into them.

“Yes,” I answered softly, having decided on my answer while fretting over their deliberations beyond these doors. “I beat his ass.”

“Excuse me?” Maryann Milner sputtered, obviously flabbergasted. She was already planning another run for district judge in the upcoming elections. I turned my eyes to her.

“I beat his ass,” I answered again, worn and tired over my shabby treatment by everyone, starting with Jacobi for crashing this ship on the proverbial rocks. Iris’s enraged husband was wrong for attacking me at Treebeard’s, but I escalated matters by not turning the other cheek. Maybe I could’ve sloughed him off like a minor annoyance and eased up after my first punch put him on his ass. But I didn’t. I refused to relent, instead raining down several more until Iris begged me to stop. Like I said, I was on a short fuse with little sleep. Perhaps he gave me a chance to vent my frustrations. Frustrations over that damn woman Ava and how she was making me look at things. Frustrations over doing the same stuff everyday that I really didn’t want to do. But did it with a smile and maximum effort anyway. Playing the good little worker bee because that’s what was expected of me. Good old dependable Chase.

Playing.

The same old song. Day in and day out.

Rather than coming up with a new tune.

Maybe the smile and certainty was a course I could no longer maintain.

“Chase,” Jim Warner interrupted, sensing it was his turn to add something. He continued, “We don’t ‘beat asses’ at Casey Warner. At least not on the street. Only in court, son. What was a good malpractice case has devolved into an embarrassment—a dad-gum three-ring circus—due to the actions of Jacobi and you.”

“Me? But I—”

“Yes, son. Nobody else did that to our client’s husband’s face outside Treebeard’s.”

“And nobody told him to lay his hands on me, Jim,” I responded, my blood pressure rising.

“Which he wouldn’t have if not for some alleged improprieties with his wife. And from what I understand, Mrs. Wilson had to pull you off him. Do you have anything else to say? Besides the obligatory bravado you’re displaying?”

I sighed. “No. I put up with a lot of stuff for all of you…for the betterment of this firm. Things above and beyond what I am paid to do. And I’m damn good at it. I don’t think anything else needs to be said.”

“And I agree with your assessment, Chase,” Abner Casey, the elder statesman who was rarely seen these days, added. “We know you’re an asset to this firm. However, this isn’t about what you’ve done day in and day out. This is about what you did today. And what you did was wrong.”

“Chase, we talked things over after Jim informed us of today’s events,” Rick Stein said, asserting himself as the lead voice once again. “We’ve decided that you should take some time off. Cool off while we try to sort this out and figure out how best to deal with Mrs. Wilson, her husband’s potential civil suit, and the exposure to our firm.”

As I stormed out of the office, I don’t know which was greater at the moment: My embarrassment over having to share this news with Dawn. Or my insane desire to be with Ava.

Parked on the corner of Oak Place and Baldwin Street, outside the Midtown Arbor Place apartments, I learned the answer to that unbalanced equation.

I dialed home.

“How’s the trial going, babe?” Dawn asked, stifling a yawn.

“Not so good. A bunch of unexpected developments threw everything into turmoil here at the firm. Shit’s really hit the fan,” I said, withholding the nature of the shit.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Can’t. Confidentiality.”

“Okay,” she said, followed by a pregnant pause. “When are you coming home?”

“It’ll be way late. A ton of damage control to do. All the partners are over here. Expected to put in overtime tonight,” I said, focusing on my wedding band as it glistened in the streetlight. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. “Get some sleep.”

“Mmm. Okay. Love you, babe.”

“Love you too,” I replied, tasting the hollowness of it.

I texted Ava after hanging up with Dawn.

It would be another full ten minutes before I exited my car, seeking
something
.

Not some further explanation for Ava’s delusions. Just the unexplainable I felt when I was with her.

“I can’t keep coming back,” I said aloud, as if a junkie at the threshold of a crackhouse.

“And yet here you are,” Ava said softly.