The Perk (26 page)

Inside, beyond a barbell archway, middle-aged
men and women waged personal wars against gravity; they were running, pedaling,
climbing, stepping, and striding on the treadmills, ellipticals, stair climbers,
high steppers, and stationary bikes that faced two TVs tuned to Fox News and
CNN. Young women got tans in a side room, and at the rear of the club young
men pumped iron in the free-weight room and admired their muscles in the
mirrored walls.

Beck was not in the
free-weight room. He was in the circuit training room with the other
forty-somethings, too old for barbells but too young to retire to a stationary
bike. When he had arrived thirty minutes before, Judge Beck Hardin had been
greeted like a local football legend. He was now on his last two reps on the lying
leg press machine; his thighs burned from the one hundred fifty pounds of
weight—
nineteen, twenty.

He released the weight and sat up. He
grabbed his towel and wiped sweat from his face and then from the vinyl seat. He
walked over to the lying leg curl machine—and his eyes were instantly drawn to
a beautiful butterfly. Its wings were bright blue with deep purple highlights
and a four-inch span. In the center of each wing was an eye, a human eye
staring back at Beck—and he was staring intently at the tattoo inked into the
smooth white skin of a young woman's lower back.

The butterfly was visible because the woman's black
Spandex shorts barely rose high enough in the back to cover her bottom, much
less conceal her body art. It was a very nice bottom. Three weeks before at
last harvest, seeing Jodie stomping grapes with her skirt hiked high, the steel
door inside Beck that had been locked shut for over a year now had cracked open
just the slightest; but the bottom he was now staring at blew the door open
like a bomb had gone off. His body was suddenly flooded with hormones that magically
washed away the years and pains of life.

He was a nineteen-year-old boy again.

The woman was lying face down; her legs were extended
and her ankles tucked under pads. Her muscular hamstrings again contracted and
her ankles raised the pads that engaged the pulley connected to the iron plates
until the pads almost touched her firm glutes. She released the weight and sat
up. Both butterfly and bottom disappeared from Beck's sight.

"Hi, Judge Hardin."

Beck's eyes shot up to the woman's face. She looked
familiar. She was Meggie's kindergarten teacher. Beck blushed.

"Oh … uh … hi, Ms. Young. I was
just, uh … admiring your … tattoo."

She stood, and Beck fought to maintain eye
contact, but he lost the battle. She was wearing the shorts and a black tube
top; between them was an open stretch of white skin and lean abs, a sheen of sweat
glistening under the fluorescent lights.

"Ms. Young, you look different without your
clothes … on … outside school …"

She smiled. "Judge, I'm just Gretchen."

"Beck."

"I'm glad you won."

"I didn't win."

She frowned. "But you're the judge."

"Yeah, I'm the judge."

It had been a long first day.

Gretchen stepped away from the machine, and Beck
stepped over and sat down. He set the weight at eighty pounds; on his first
circuit, he had struggled to lift sixty pounds, but Gretchen had just lifted
seventy.

"Meggie's a sweetie," she said.

"I like her," Beck said. "How's
it going at school?"

"Oh, it's a battlefield at the primary school."
She shook her head. "In Austin, we had gangs fighting for turf in
school. These people fight over a foreign language." She bent over and
stretched her hamstrings. Beck's face felt hot. When she came back up, she
said, "But that's just old people scared of change—and this place is like
Grandparents Day that never ends."

"There are a lot of old people here."

"But you know what I don't get?"

"What?"

"The young Anglo parents. They say, 'Oh,
we don't hate Latinos. But they hold our kids back, so we've got to separate our
kids so they get a good education.' They justify it by saying they're just
doing right by their kids. But they can't do right for their kids by doing
wrong to another kid."

"You really care about those children?"

"I'm a teacher, Beck. They're my children,
at school."

"Why'd you move here?"

"For my horse. They tore down my stables
in Austin for condos. It was either move or give her up."

"Well, your kids are lucky you came.
Meggie, too."

"Thanks." She took a step away then
pulled back. "You know, Beck, the only single males in this town are either
goat ranchers or gays moved here from Austin to open another trendy restaurant
for tourists. I haven't had a date in over a year. How about dinner, Saturday
night?"

The nineteen-year-old
boy inhaled sharply:
The teacher was asking him on a date!

The forty-two-year-old man exhaled slowly: "Gretchen,
how old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"Well, I'm … a little old for
you."

"Maybe. But you're a man, you're single, and
you're reasonably handsome." She smiled. "Saturday night then?"

"But you're Meggie's teacher."

"I'm also a woman." She sighed.
"Look, Beck, I fight for my kids at school every day. It's very tense, there's
a lot of stress, people here are crazy. So I work out here every night. Then I
feed my horse and I go home. I eat by myself, I watch TV by myself, and I go
to bed by myself. I'm lonely. Beck, I have needs."

Needs?
Beck
was sure his heart had gone into tachycardia.

Gretchen put her hands on his shoulders and
leaned into him and put her lips close enough to his ear that he could smell her
sweaty scent and feel her soft breath on his skin when she whispered in his
ear.

"Physical needs."

Beck's eyes darted around the room for a
defibrillator. Gretchen stood straight.

"Saturday night."

"But we barely know each other."

"Beck, women my age, we don't wait for
love."

She abruptly twirled around and walked across
the room to another machine. Beck stared after her. After that bottom.

The nineteen-year-old
boy was pumping his fist.
Yes!

"Cute, aren't they?"

Jodie was standing next to him. Beck hadn't
heard her walk up from behind. He had been in the zone.

"Who?"

Jodie nodded toward Gretchen.

"Children."

She walked off in her baggy sweat pants and tee
shirt, her red ponytail bouncing behind her. And Beck Hardin was again a
forty-two-year-old man with two children and a dead wife.

 
 
Dear J.B.,

Surgery is tomorrow. Modified
radical mastectomy. I cried for my breasts, but now I just want the cancer out
of my body. I want to be here for my children. I'm going to get fake
breasts. Really big ones. Beck will love those.

A week later, Annie had written:

 
Home now. Very tired. Seeing
the doctors again tomorrow. Pathology report on the lymph nodes. Love.

Another week passed. J.B. had sent an email every day
asking about her. She finally responded.

 
Sorry for not writing back,
J.B. I had my hopes built up, when we got the pathology results, I lost it.
All lymph nodes were positive. The cancer has spread. Very bad. They call it
metastatic. More tests tomorrow. Bone scan.
CT scan. To see if it's in my
bones, lungs, liver. They say I've had cancer for at least ten years and never
knew it. I can't believe it.

Her next email:

 
It's everywhere, J.B. Stage IV. Crying now.
Love.

"J.B., can I ask
you something personal?"

"Boxers."

"Not that. Mom died a long time ago. Have
you, uh … you know, been with … seen another …?"

"Damn, Beck, we're two grown men. You can
say it straight out: Have I had sex since Peggy died?"

"Well, have you?"

"Not even with a farm animal."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause it never was like that between me
and my goats."

"No. With a woman."

"Oh. Well, I didn't even think about it for
the longest. Then the prostate acted up."

"You had problems?"

"Fifteen years ago. They cut it out. Things never worked
since."

"They've got drugs now."

J.B. snorted. "What's the point if it
requires chemicals?"

"You're only sixty-six. That's not too
old."

"Too much trouble."

"Gretchen asked me out, today at the gym.
She's, uh …"

"Young."

"That, too."

"You going?"

"She caught me by surprise, but after I
started thinking …"

"About Annie?"

Beck nodded. "Doesn't seem right."

"Beck, Annie's been gone more than eight months
now. She wouldn't want you to be alone all your life."

"I have the kids."

"They'll leave one day."

"I have you."

"I'll die one day."

"I'll have Butch."

"Butch don't belong to no one. Look, Beck,
after your mother died, I didn't just withdraw from you, I withdrew from the
world. From life. And then you left, and it was just me and the goats. I
didn't see people or talk to people … until Jodie came to town. We started
talking and I spilled nineteen years worth of thoughts on her. I loved your
mother, but I should've let another woman in my life. Someone like
Jodie."

"She's a lesbian."

"I'd still marry her. Not for the sex—for the
conversation. That's what I miss most about your mother, sitting right here
and talking at the end of each day. Not that I didn't like the sex."

"Gretchen said she has needs."

J.B. chuckled. "When was your last
physical?"

"She's got a tattoo."

J.B. grunted. "Never figured her for a
tattoo. She shaves her legs."

"What does shaving her legs have to do with
her having a tat … never mind."

"What kind?"

"Blue butterfly, right above her
bottom."

"I'll be damned. Girl's got a nice behind,
too. I'd like to see that … her tattoo. Don't hurt to look at her behind
neither, does it? Your mother had a nice behind."

"J.B.?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's don't go there."

J.B. chuckled, then pushed himself out of the
chair, said goodnight, and went inside. Beck forced himself to stop thinking
about Annie and Gretchen and sex and focus on Heidi's case file in his lap. He
had been reading the Autopsy Report, looking for something, anything, that
might take him somewhere other than the medical examiner's conclusions. Cause
of death: "acute cocaine intoxication." Manner of death: "accidental
overdose." Not homicide. Not manslaughter. Nothing to suggest foul
play. Just a tragic accident. His old high school buddy couldn't accept the
hard fact that his daughter's death had just been a tragic accident.

J.B. reappeared wearing Hawaiian print pajamas
and said, "Was thinking in the shower. Why didn't Aubrey tell you about
Slade, him getting arrested? He's the coach, he had to know."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

At 8:45 the next morning, the D.A. was standing
in Beck's chambers looking like he wanted to come across the desk and strangle
him. Beck had taken Grady's advice; after he raised the possibility of the
tape recording being transcribed and printed in the newspaper, Justice of the
Peace Walt Schmidt had not objected to his transferring the examining trial to
the district court.

"Mr. Eichman, you'd better find your
manners or you'll be sleeping in jail tonight for contempt of court."

The D.A. worked his jaws as if he were grinding
granite into dust. Beck didn't like the D.A. standing over him so he stood.

"Judge Hardin …
Your Honor
… you don't transfer a case or set a trial date without
asking me."

"Where does the law say I need the D.A.'s
permission to exercise this court's authority?"

"It's customary."

"Not anymore. Things are going to be different
in my court."

The D.A. snorted.
"
Your
court? If Slade hadn't beaten up that Mexican kid, I'd be
sitting in that chair and you know it."

Beck wanted to say, Not if I had gone public
with your half-Hispanic child in Austin. Instead he said, "You gave up
the judgeship for Slade McQuade?"

"No. For
Quentin McQuade. But only for a year. This time next year, it'll be
my
court." He stepped to the window and gazed out for a long moment. "You
stir things up in the barrio, Judge, you're gonna get some dead Mexicans on Main Street."

"The best way to prevent that is to let
justice prevail."

The D.A. turned to Beck with a bemused
expression.

" 'Let justice prevail'? This isn't moot
court in law school, Judge. This is the real goddamn world. And your decisions
have real consequences. For everyone."

"Friday morning, nine o'clock."

A finger pointed at Beck. "If this town
explodes and Mexicans die, it's your doing. Remember that."

"Then take Slade to the grand jury. Let
those twelve citizens determine probable cause."

"You know damn well the law requires grand
juries to represent the county population."

"Meaning there are Latinos on the grand
jury?"

"Three."

"That leaves nine Germans. Takes nine to
indict."

"Which won't happen."

"But then you've got Latinos marching in
the streets on Thanksgiving weekend, scaring off tourists. That won't be good
for business."

"Won't be good for the Mexicans if a few of
them get killed."

"Then do the right thing."

" 'Do the right thing'?" The D.A. shook
his head. "Is that what you told your corporate clients at your big Chicago firm? Look, Judge, I know the kind of lawyer you were. So don't come to my town
and preach to me, okay? Besides, those Mexicans won't ever get to Main Street."