Fearless (41 page)
“You’re going to make a big score with Nan’s case and Carla’s case. Do you need money so badly that you’re willing to have me declared insane just to make more money out of me?”
For a moment Brillstein did nothing but blink his eyes. Abruptly he sat down in the plastic chair Max’s mother had moved beside his bed. Brillstein rubbed his forehead with his index finger and studied Max. He seemed to come to a conclusion. He exhaled with a rush of words: “I told you these kinds of cases are almost always settled. And that’s true. But sometimes one side or the other decides not to compromise, to go the whole route. Not necessarily because of the merits of the argument. It’s for the future, for credibility. If you get a reputation for
always
settling, of being afraid to go to trial, then you can be taken advantage of. I’m up against heavy hitters. Their case stinks. We still don’t have the official final judgment of the NTSB but that isn’t legally binding anyway. All the data is in and it shows that it was negligent maintenance that caused the engine to come apart and wipe out the hydraulics. So TransCon is going to be on the hook for this. They should settle. They know it. They’ve already settled seventy-five percent of the suits—got them cheap if you ask me. They did it in a bunch with the two big firms, like a discount sale, using three formulas depending on age. Most anyone got was six hundred thousand. They paid a hundred thousand for the children.” Brillstein shook his head with disgust. “They may—”
Max was impatient with his tedious logic and cut him off—“They may go to trial with you to prove a point, since they’re safe on the other cases if they lose.”
Brillstein snapped his fingers and then pointed at Max. “You got it. Also, I’m working on new law here. Well, not new. There’s been two rulings so far, but not for airplanes. Have you ever heard of posttraumatic stress syndrome?” Max shook his head no. “You’re suffering from it!” Brillstein said eagerly and with a hint of delight, as though it was clever of Max. “We can sue them for compensation for the syndrome’s effects. It’s a gamble for them but they may decide to take it to trial and beat it.”
“ But if they lose on that point they’re screwed in the future, no?”
Brillstein folded his arms. He smiled without showing teeth. “They’re screwed either way. If they settle on this issue, even if we agree to keep the numbers and the argument confidential, other lawyers will find out and use it again.”
“You know,” Max said. He shifted in the bed, to get on his side and face Brillstein. The sheets and all its plastic undercoverings rustled and swished. He let their surf noise the down before continuing. “I’ve never done anything really good or useful in the world.”
Brillstein nodded eagerly, almost encouragingly.
“But at least I’ve never actually added to what’s bad.”
Brillstein’s mouth pursed. His eyes were offended. “Maybe you don’t understand,” Brillstein said softly, but with menace. “If you contradict me on Nutty Nick or Mr. Gordon’s ‘key man’ status you’ll only be hurting Mrs. Gordon.”
Max said nothing.
“You’ll leave me no choice but to take the line that you’re not in your right mind.” Brillstein stood up. His mouth had gotten very tight and severe. He looked too small to achieve the threatening effect he wanted. “Your wife and I have talked about this. There’s a lot of evidence you’re unwell.” Brillstein became nervous again. He grinned and said, “We’re both tired and tired talk is no good. Let me know when you want the psychologist to bring you the questionnaire. Get some rest.” Brillstein scurried out in his brown suit, a small, even cute creature. But the lawyer had meant what he said. And Max knew that sometimes the littlest animals were the most determined and the most vicious.
Carla decided to call a cease-fire with Manny. But only after she asked if he was still seeing “that bitch.”
Manny said no with his head down, ashamed. He mumbled to the floor, “I ain’t seen her since the day in Jersey.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said dispassionately.
“It’s the truth!” His head came up; his black eyes shined. “I called her that night and told her I couldn’t see her no more.”
“I believe you,” she said and let go of the subject. So they were talking again. Nevertheless, she moved her things into Bubble’s old room and slept there. The next morning she bought cans of white paint. Using Manny’s brushes and ladder she began to cover the pale blue color of the nursery.
A few days later Manny came home with a dozen roses. They must have cost half his take-home pay for the week. She told him he was crazy. He took off his coat and revealed he was wearing a clean white shirt, a blue tie and his best slacks. She hadn’t seen him in a tie since their wedding. For one delighted moment she thought he was going to take her out to dinner and dancing. What he wanted was sex.
She let him—in their old room. The lovemaking didn’t bother her although she felt nothing, like always since the accident. But it did bother Manny that she wasn’t ecstatic no matter what he tried. He was a skilled lover. Carla assumed he had been taught by experts—probably his mother’s colleagues—but even his fanciest stimulations were of no use. Afterwards he said softly, “You didn’t like it.”
She told him as gently as she could, “Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me. I feel fine.”
“I can’t.” Manny pushed at his hair with the flat of his palm, agonized. “If you don’t like it, I can’t.”
But he
had
enjoyed himself. He had arched to the ceiling and moaned, like always. “That’s your pride,” she said. “We’re married. You don’t have to show off with me.”
Manny put his other palm to his hair and pressed with both hands. “Did you do it with him?” he said in a choked voice.
“No,” she said and was disgusted. “I’m not you.”
Finally Manny relaxed, stopped asking questions, and began to brag about his triumphs at work. They talked for a while in a friendly way before she went to Bubble’s room to sleep. To her room really. She felt no trace of her dead boy in the real world anymore. Bubble did live on in her dreams. There he was always happy and pleased with her.
She visited Max three times. She made sure each time (once with Brillstein; the others with Manny) that he would be alone when she came. She worried about his health. They said he was healing okay but she thought something in his brain wasn’t working right. When she made jokes he sometimes looked bewildered instead of laughing or smiling; and he didn’t say smart things, the kind of things that he used to, that changed the way she thought about the world. On her third visit she found out why. A kid came in a white coat—he was an intern Max told her later, but he looked like a child to her—and said in a cheerful way, “How’s the vision, Mr. Klein? Still seeing double?”
“No.” Max covered his eyes with the fingers of his right hand, as if hiding from the question.
“Good. Let me take a look.” He came up to the bed, snapping on a flashlight in the shape of a pen. Carla thought he was too young to be so presumptuous with Max.
Max persisted in shielding his eyes with his fingers. To coax them down the intern pulled gently on Max’s wrist. He shined the penlight into one eye and then the other, each time asking Max to roll his eyes up and then down. “Good,” the intern said. “Things blurry, especially in the distance?”
“I can’t really see,” Max said in a tone Carla had never heard from him; he sounded afraid.
“You can’t see!” the young man was skeptical. “You can see everything in the room, right? Things are a little cloudy, right?”
“Right,” Max said dully.
“I don’t want to put words in your mouth, Mr. Klein. You’re the patient, you tell me. But you see everything—it’s just not sharp, right?”
“Right,” Max said angrily.
“But he can see,” the intern said to Carla.
She understood then why Max wasn’t laughing or talking cleverly. She sat by the bed after the kid doctor left and took Max’s hand. It was soft and warm. He was quiet for a long time. Finally, he mumbled bitterly, “It’s not seeing.”
When Brillstein came to the apartment that night to ask if he could offer to settle the case for three hundred thousand dollars, she waited through Manny’s first excited, then suspicious agreement. At first Manny said, “Three hundred thousand!” as if it were all the money in the world. Yet only a moment later he said to Brillstein, “They’d be getting off cheap.” Finally he was satisfied when Brillstein told him that the most any other parent had gotten was one hundred thousand. Carla nodded to indicate it was okay with her and then said, “Are the doctors telling the truth about Max’s eyes?”
While Brillstein assured her that Max’s eyes should be fine, Manny sulked. “He’s lucky to have eyes,” Manny commented.
As soon as Brillstein left, Manny sat opposite Carla in one of the metal kitchen chairs and said in a bullying tone, “I gotta know something. You gonna go on seeing this nut forever?”
“You want me to stop talking to you again?” Carla said.
Manny picked himself and his chair up while still seated and slammed both down. The metal feet and his shoes made a hard and soft clap of thunder. “You’re taking a fuck of a lotta chances with me, woman!”
“When you get your blood money, Manny—” Carla said in a rage, getting to her feet. The white flash of this anger seemed to blind her momentarily. She blinked hard and Manny reappeared. “You can keep it all to yourself and get the fuck out of my life!” She marched to her room and felt bitterly disappointed.
Manny knocked later, came in without permission, and gave her an espresso. “I’m sorry,” he said in a mumble.
She took the cup. She had been sitting at the window, looking out at the street, wondering about the tourists and rich New Yorkers passing below. Max had once said that walking through Little Italy made those people feel they were in a
Godfather
movie. She wondered if that was entirely a joke. After a while, she said to Manny, “Thank you.”
Manny studied her while she sipped the coffee. It was good.
“Do you want a TV in here?” he said eventually.
“No thanks,” she said. She liked the room this way, all white and empty except for the small bed, dresser and rocking chair she had kept from the nursery. A television would spoil it.
“You’re my wife,” Manny said quietly.
“Yes, I am,” Carla answered.
Manny nodded and left. She got up early the next morning and made him pancakes. He kissed her with syrupy lips on his way out. He hummed with pleasure and pushed his sweet tongue between her teeth. She eased him out the door.
She cleaned the apartment in an hour. The laundry was done and there was food for dinner. She thought about going to Old Saint Pat’s. She could pray for Max’s eyes.
I need a job, she thought.
Manny would want her to get pregnant again. She didn’t think she could have another child—at least not physically. To raise one, yes; to make one, no. But Manny would never adopt.
Her intercom buzzed. When she asked who it was, she didn’t believe the answer: “Debby Klein. Max Klein’s wife. Could I come up and see you?”
Carla was so taken aback she didn’t reply, she buzzed her in, wandered to the front door in a daze and opened it.
Carla was surprised by Max’s wife. She was slight and nervous, not commanding as Carla imagined she would be, and although Debby looked to be around forty years old, she had the uncertain expression of a timid girl.
“I’m sorry,” were Debby’s first words as she climbed the last few steps.
“That’s okay.”
“If I’m interrupting something—”
“That’s okay,” Carla said again.
Debby offered her hand. “I’m Debby.”
“Hi, I’m Carla.” Carla shook it. “Come in. How’s Max doing?”
Debby passed her and entered the apartment with open interest in the objects. She peered at the furniture and the photographs as they moved into the living room. “I guess physically he’s getting better. I’m worried about what’s going on in his head.”
Carla nodded. She gestured for Debby to sit and asked, “Do you want something? Coffee?”
“No. Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you. I guess this is crazy. I’ve never done anything like this in my life.” She laughed and it was a surprise. Her laugh was deep and mature and confident. “When have I ever been in a situation like this? I don’t even know what my situation is—” Her amusement shut off, as suddenly and completely as a light going out. “There are no rules about what’s happened to you and Max. I guess that’s what I realized last night. What a terrible night.” Debby looked into the distance and there was grief in her eyes, the sort of hopelessness that Carla understood very well. “It was the worst night of my life. I thought there would never be anything as bad as the night I thought Max had died—” she found Carla’s sympathetic eyes and stopped. She smiled feebly. “Did Max help you? I talked to Bill Perlman yesterday. He said Max helped you.”
Carla waited to think how she could say it. She felt she owed Debby the truth, if she could figure out what the truth was. She considered and then had an answer that was right. “He saved my soul,” she told Debby.
Debby’s eyes filled with tears. Her lips trembled. “Well,” she stood up, so agitated that she obviously wanted to hide. “Well, then, that’s that. Thank you. I’m going to go.” She turned away. Carla stood up. She hadn’t wanted to make her feel bad and yet she seemed to have hurt her. It was confusing.
Debby moved toward the door. Carla hurried after her. She wanted to say more but she didn’t know what else to say; she had an impulse to take care of Debby, she seemed so fragile. Debby was still upset, only barely managing to contain her tears. She pulled at the front door but couldn’t get it open. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“It’s okay,” Carla said, unlocking it.
Debby opened the door. Her eyes were awash with tears. “I think,” she said to Carla and swallowed hard. “I think maybe you’re the only one who can help Max.” And she rushed out, hurrying down the stairs.
It was sometime later that Carla found herself sitting in the kitchen eating from a box of crackers. She had been thinking so hard it was like a trance: What did Debby mean? How could she help Max? Was there anything wrong with him? To her it seemed that he was as great as anyone could be, that he was fearless and kind and smart and loving. Why would anyone want to change that? She didn’t know, except that obviously he wasn’t being a good husband to Debby. She seemed lost, grief-stricken. Was it Carla’s fault, somehow? Had she done this to them? That was an awful thought, a sin she couldn’t bear. The crackers were so dry she had to go to the sink and drink two glasses of water. As she put the box away the phone rang.