The Laws of Gravity (13 page)

“I thought computers randomly assigned the cases,” Sarah said.

Flannery laid one hand over his heart. His eyes fluttered closed. “The power of prayer, dear. My word of honor.”

“This is it?” Arthur asked his brother. “They’re forcing you to retire?”

“Age seventy.
Finito
,” said Sol.

“It didn’t used to be that way,” Sarah said, distressed. “You were automatically granted the extra years, up to age seventy-five. But the Office of Court Administration changed the rules under the new director, Pescatori.”

“Pescatori,” Arthur mused. “Why is that name familiar?”

“I ran against him almost thirty years ago. It was an ugly race. No love lost there,” Sol said shortly.

“It’s a disgrace,” Flannery said. His face was flushed. “A man at seventy has just reached his prime.” He himself was seventy-one. “Damn the OCA. Injustice to justice!” He looked like he was about to cry. Poor drunken Flannery.

“Well,” said Sarah uneasily. She was looking in Sol’s direction, trying to gauge his mood. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“What’s the big deal?” Ruth hollered. “I worked! I was happy to retire!”

Solomon turned his head to look at his sister-in-law. Beside him, he felt his daughter Abigail suck in her breath. “You sold lingerie at Lord & Taylor,” he said.

“So?” Ruth’s voice got even louder and sharper. “Work is work! You think I didn’t work hard? We weren’t even allowed to sit down!”

“Dear God,” Sol said. He dropped his fork with a clatter onto his plate.

Abigail reached over and put her small hand on his wrist. Her skin was cool and calming to the touch. Even as a little child, she’d had that soothing effect on him.

“I made a savory pâté for an after-dinner treat,” Sarah said. She rushed to the sideboard and lifted it in the air.

Arthur put one fat freckled hand on his heart. “My dear,” he said. “After dinner. How European of us.” He leaned forward to investigate. “I’d almost call it a timbale,” he said. “What’s in it?”

“Beef, veal, butter, spices,” Sarah intoned. She raised a knife to cut it. “Wait,” she said, putting the hand back down again. “I’ll show you the recipe.”

“I would love to see it,” Arthur said. “It’s glorious. Glossy. Beautiful.”

“I found it online,” she said.

“See how golden brown the pastry is on top,” Arthur said. “Look, dear.” He turned to his wife, Ruth. She still sulked.

“I’m not a chef,” Ruth said. “It looks okay.”

“Let me go get my camera,” Arthur begged. “I want to take a picture before you slice into it.”

“All right,” Sarah said. “It is rather pretty.”

Sarah frowned down at the recipe. “I can’t read anything without my glasses. Tomas, would you be a dear and go get my glasses from the kitchen?”

“Does it have potato in it?” Flannery asked. “If it has potato it’s more of a shepherd’s pie.”

“If my grandmother had wheels she’d be a wagon,” Ruth said.

Tomas called back to Sarah from the kitchen, “Where do you keep your glasses?”

“I’ll help—” Abigail began to rise, but Sol snapped, “Sit! For God’s sake, why are we making such a stink about this!”

Arthur came back just then, aiming his camera. “Smile,” he said. “Everyone crowd together and say, ‘Pâté!’” He quickly changed his mind. “No. Let’s all say—let me think. It’s a sort of cross between a pâté and a terrine. Did you chill the butter?”

“For two hours,” Sarah said. “Was that long enough?” She lowered the knife again.

“Lean in a little closer,” Arthur said. “But don’t cover the crust.”

“Just cut it! Cut the goddamn meat loaf!” Sol exploded.

Sarah burst into tears.

“You are so nasty!” Ruth announced. “There’s no fool like an old fool.”

“What would you know?” Sol said. “You’re an old sales clerk who dresses like a dead teenager.”

“Dad!” Abigail said, outraged. Flannery laughed then tried to straighten his face again.

“Do I?—Do I look—like that?” Ruth demanded of her husband.

Arthur rubbed small circles on her back and said, “You look like a movie star. A glamorous movie star.” He lumbered out of the dining room and brought back a box of tissues. He pulled one tissue out for his wife, and then slid the whole box over toward Sarah. “Sarah, my darling,” he said. “I don’t know how you put up with him all these years.”

Sarah blew her nose, shaking her head. “Neither do I.”

“There is no way to win in this world,” Tomas said. “When you are too young they don’t want you. When you become seasoned they throw you out. ‘It so happens I am tired of being a man. It so happens I enter the shops and movie theaters, marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro.’”

“What are you jabbering about?” Sol demanded.

“He’s quoting Neruda,” Abigail explained. “A Chilean poet. Don’t you dare pick on Tomas!”

“You’re tired of being a man?” Ruth shrilled. “What do you want to be, a little girl?”

Sarah announced, “I am going to go wash my face. When I come back I want every
one
to be normal and I want every
thing
to be normal, and then I will serve this stupid meat loaf. And then we can have cake. All right?”

“I apologize,” Sol said meekly.

“As well you might,” Arthur said.

“I didn’t mean it,” Sol said to Ruth. “Everyone knows you’re a knockout.”

“Screw you,” Ruth said, but she looked pleased. “What kinda cake?” she asked.

Arthur stopped by Sol’s house the next day holding a Bloomingdale’s bag.

“Happy birthday, big brother,” Arthur said. He stood in the front hall in his tan jacket with a plaid collar. He looked like he should be wearing knickers, a fat newsboy from the 1930s. He thrust the bag toward Sol.

“You shouldn’t have,” Sol said.

“It’s nothing big,” Arthur said. “But I’ve been looking for this for a while.” He set down the bag at his feet and picked out one smaller flat object, wrapped in blue foil paper. Obviously a book.

When Sol tore off the wrapping and saw the cover, his heart gave an unexpected leap. It was an old hardcover of his favorite childhood novel, Ransome’s
Swallows and Amazons
. He had not seen the book in forty years at least. Here again was the familiar beige cloth cover, covered with a map that suggested a river. He opened it and found it signed by the author in a strong and loopy hand.

“Thank you,” Sol said. Without thinking about it, he pressed the book to his chest.

Arthur took a seat. He rested his checked cap on one round knee. He pointed at the book in Sol’s hand. “If you remember that book at all, you remember it is full of small adventures. The very ordinary things of life. Ginger beer. Outings by the river. You were always trying to set things floating in the Brooklyn Bay, wearing that sailor’s cap. You named your toy boat the
Kinship
, remember?” He laughed.

“What is your point,” Sol said. “That I am about to enter my second childhood?”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Children know what’s essential: friendships, our families. Those are the things that matter. We love what we love. Our hobbies—building toy boats, trying to figure out how to fit ships inside of bottles. Playing stickball. Listening to radios late into the night.” He was citing all the things he had watched Solomon do, of course. “I used to spend hours on my back gazing up at clouds. Full of wonder. I was so sure I would see God come striding around the corner of a glorious sunset one day.”

“And did you?” Sol asked.

“Not yet,” said Arthur. He leaned forward in the chair, shifting his weight, trying to get comfortable. “Sol, all I am trying to say is that no one is taking your life away. Maybe they are giving it back. You’ve been driven so hard for so long. Ease up a little. Now you can pay attention again to the things that matter most.”

“Is that it?” Sol said. “Is the lecture over?”

Arthur got to his feet. “It’s over.” He groaned a little, straightening up. “Enjoy the book, big brother.” He held his arms out and tottered forward. Sol accepted the embrace. He felt himself fall into it, falling back into memory, like the cream-colored book he was still clutching in one hand.

“You were always the nice one of the family,” Sol said.

“You were always the smart one,” Arthur said. “We each have our cross to bear,” he added and patted him on the cheek. Three soft pats, like being touched by bread dough. “Ah, Solly,” he said. “It is never too late to be grateful for your life.”

They Tried to Kill Us, We Won, Let’s Eat

Nicole knew that their family lawyer, Peter Allister, had an innocent crush on her. He was easy on the eyes himself—he looked like the aging Robert Redford, a splash of the Sundance Kid about him. His eyes were a piercing blue. A shock of whitish-blond hair fell over his forehead. When he walked through a room, female heads turned.

Nicole watched it happen now as he stepped into the reception area to bring her back to his private office. It was decorated, if that was the word, with glass-cased chunks of rocks that he’d collected from rock-climbing expeditions, each crystal box lit from below by fancy track lighting. On one of those rock-climbing adventures years ago he’d slipped and fallen several feet, and as a result he walked with a slight limp—adding to the general romance and ruggedness of his appearance.

When he sat and faced her now, though, there was not much romantic bravado, and no smile. He searched her face, the brilliant blue eyes scanning her like a lighthouse beam.

“How you feeling?” he asked. He had a ream of papers in his hand and glanced down at them.

“All right,” she said.

He looked up.

“Not so great,” she admitted.

“I bet not,” he said. “Well—let me tell you, I think our chances are very slim. It’s a tough case. In fact I’m wondering if we have a chance to legally survive a motion to dismiss. They may toss it. It’s all luck of the draw, really.”

“But you’re willing to give it a try?” she asked.

He nodded brusquely. “I am.”

She hesitated. “Can I ask how much it will cost?” Her hand crept to her throat. This was where she had first felt the lump; somehow her fingers went back again and again to the spot of their own accord. Last thing at night, first thing when she woke.

“It could cost a fortune,” he said, then seeing the frightened look on her face he added, “but it won’t. It’s my firm, I call the shots. We’ll work something out with court costs if it comes to that, but basically, I’d say money’s the least of your worries. I just don’t want to lead you on with false hope as to the probable outcome.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” she said. Then she added, because he looked as if he didn’t believe her, “I get tired of lying, and tired of being lied to.”

“Well, I’ll try to be straightforward,” he said. “I’ll get this filed in the Suffolk Supreme Court in Riverhead right away. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know anything. All right?” he said. “Anything else?”

“No,” she said. “Peter—I’m very grateful.”

He waved that away. “Don’t be grateful till I accomplish something,” he said. “Meanwhile, try to take it easy. Don’t worry about anything unless you have to.—Now I’d better run. Got a meeting to get to.”

He was already halfway out of his chair, but he took her hand when she put it out to shake his, and he held on to it for a half instant longer than he absolutely had to. She was surprised by the warmth of his grasp—and then it was gone, and he was striding out of the room, favoring his good right leg over his left.

She took a little more time to get her pocketbook back over her shoulder, button up the lightweight jacket she was wearing. It was a warm fall day, she could see sunlight through his window, and the usual crush of traffic outside on the Turnpike. She’d have to hurry to get Daisy picked up from school on time.

Daisy hated to wait—she got a look of panic on her sharp little face when Nicole was one of the last mothers to arrive. “I like you to be early,” Daisy had said the night before. “Please, tomorrow, can you be a little early?” So Nicole worked her day around that promise—it was a good way to organize a day, better than most. She would get there ten minutes early, fifteen, maybe, and read in the car while she waited. Or stand out on the blacktop by the door, so Daisy could see her face right away. Who was she fighting for, if not for Daisy? Then again, wasn’t Ari fighting to protect his own two children? Funny how it boiled down to that. Trying to get to the bottom of a family schism was like peeling an onion—by the time you got to the end of it, there might be nothing left. And yet, here she was.