The Rainmaker (26 page)

She pauses for a second, looks around, says, “Hand me the gown too.”

I take a jittery step to the table, and hand her the fresh gown. “Need some help?” I ask.

“No, just turn around.” As she says this, she’s already tugging at the old gown, pulling it over her head. I turn around very slowly.

She takes her time. Just for the hell of it, she tosses the stained gown onto the floor beside me. She’s back there, less than five feet away, completely naked except for a
pair of panties and a plaster cast. I honestly believe I could turn around and stare at her, and she wouldn’t mind. I’m dizzy with this thought.

I close my eyes and ask myself, What am I doing here?

“Rudy, would you get me the sponge?” she coos. “It’s in the bathroom. Run some warm water over it. And a towel, please.”

I turn around. She’s sitting in the middle of the bed clutching the thin sheet to her chest. The fresh gown has not been touched.

I can’t help but stare. “In there,” she nods. I take a few steps into the small bathroom, where I find the sponge. As I soak it in water, I watch her in the mirror above the sink. Through a crack in the door, I can see her back. All of it. The skin is smooth and tanned, but there’s an ugly bruise between her shoulders.

I decide that I’ll be in charge of this bath. She wants me to, I can tell. She’s hurt and vulnerable. She likes to flirt, and she wants me to see her body. I’m all tingles and shakes.

Then, voices. The nurse is back. She’s buzzing around the room when I reenter. She stops and grins at me, as if she almost caught us.

“Time’s up,” she says. “It’s almost eleven-thirty. This isn’t a hotel.” She pulls the sponge from my hand. “I’ll do this. Now you get out of here.”

I just stand there, smiling at Kelly and dreaming of touching those legs. The nurse firmly grabs my elbow and ushers me to the door. “Now go on,” she scolds in mock frustration.

AT THREE in the morning I sneak down to the hammock, where I rock absently in the still night, watching the stars flicker through the limbs and leaves, recalling
every delightful move she made, hearing her troubled voice, dreaming of those legs.

It has fallen upon me to protect her, there’s no one else. She expects me to rescue her, then to put her back together. It’s obvious to both of us what will happen then.

I can feel her clutching my neck, pressing close to me for those few precious seconds. I can feel the featherweight of her entire body resting naturally in my arms.

She wants me to see her, to rub her flesh with a warm sponge. I know she wants this. And, tonight, I intend to do it.

I watch the sun rise through the trees, then fall asleep counting the hours until I see her again.

Nineteen

I
’M SITTING IN MY OFFICE STUDYING FOR the bar exam because I have nothing else to do. I realize I’m not supposed to be doing anything else because I’m not a lawyer yet, and won’t be until I pass the bar exam.

It’s difficult to concentrate. Why am I falling in love with a married woman just days before the exam? My mind should be as sharp as possible, free of clutter and distractions, finely tuned and focused on one goal.

She’s a loser, I’ve convinced myself. She’s a broken girl with scars, many of which could be permanent. And he’s dangerous. The idea of another man touching his cute little cheerleader would surely set him off.

I ponder these things with my feet on my desk, hands clasped behind my head, gazing dreamily into a fog, when the door suddenly bursts open and Bruiser charges through. “What are you doing?” he barks.

“Studying,” I answer, jerking myself into position.

“Thought you were going to study in the afternoons.” It’s ten-thirty now. He’s pacing in front of my desk.

“Look, Bruiser, today is Friday. The exam starts next Wednesday. I’m scared.”

“Then go study at the hospital. And pick up a case. I haven’t seen a new one in three days.”

“It’s hard to study and hustle at the same time.”

“Deck does it.”

“Yeah, Deck the eternal scholar.”

“Just got a call from Leo F. Drummond. Ring a bell?”

“No. Should it?”

“He’s a senior partner at Tinley Britt. Marvelous trial lawyer, all sorts of commercial litigation. Rarely loses. Really fine lawyer, big firm.”

“I know all about Trent & Brent.”

“Well, you’re about to know them even better. They represent Great Benefit. Drummond is lead counsel.”

I would guess that there are at least a hundred firms in this city that represent insurance companies. And there must be a thousand insurance companies. What are the odds of the company I hate the most, Great Benefit, retaining the firm I curse every day of my life, Trent & Brent?

Oddly, I take it well. I’m not really surprised.

I suddenly realize why Bruiser is pacing and talking so fast. He’s worried. Because of me, he’s filed a ten-million-dollar lawsuit against a big company that’s represented by a lawyer who intimidates him. This is amusing. I never dreamed Bruiser Stone was afraid of anything.

“What did he say?”

“Hello. Just checking in. He tells me the case has been assigned to Harvey Hale, who, son of a gun, was his roommate at Yale thirty years ago when they studied law together, and who, by the way, if you don’t know, was a superb insurance defense lawyer before his heart attack and before his doctor told him to change careers. Got himself elected to the bench, where he can’t shake the
defense notion that a just and fair verdict is one under ten thousand dollars.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“So we have Leo F. Drummond and his considerable staff, and they have their favorite judge. You got your work cut out for you.”

“Me? What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll be around. But this is your baby. They’ll drown you with paperwork.” He walks to the door. “Remember, they get paid by the hour. The more paper they produce, the more hours they bill.” He laughs at me and slams the door, seemingly happy that I’m about to be roughed up by the big boys.

I’ve been abandoned. There are over a hundred lawyers at Trent & Brent, and I suddenly feel very lonely.

DECK AND I eat a bowl of soup at Trudy’s. Her small lunch crowd is strictly blue collar. The place smells of grease, sweat and fried meats. It’s Deck’s favorite lunch spot because he’s picked up a few cases here, mostly on-the-job injuries. One settled for thirty thousand. He took a third of twenty-five percent, or twenty-five hundred dollars.

There are a few bars in the area he also frequents, he confesses, low over the soup. He’ll take off his tie, try to look like one of the boys, and drink a soda. He listens to the workers as they lubricate themselves after work. He might tell me where the good bars are, the good grazing spots, as he likes to call them. Deck’s full of advice for chasing cases and finding clients.

And, yes, he’s even gone to the skin clubs occasionally, but only to be with his clientele. You just have to circulate, he says more than once. He likes the casinos down in Mississippi, and is of the farsighted opinion that they are undesirable places because poor people go there and
gamble with grocery money. But there could be opportunity. Crime will rise. Divorces and bankruptcies are bound to increase as more people gamble. Folks will need lawyers. There’s a lot of potential suffering out there, and he’s wise to it. He’s on to something.

He’ll keep me posted.

I EAT ANOTHER FINE MEAL at St. Peter’s, in the Gauze Grill, as this place is known. I overheard a group of interns call it that. Pasta salad from a plastic bowl. I study sporadically, and watch the clock.

At ten, the elderly gentleman in the pink jacket arrives, but he is alone. He pauses, looks around, sees me and walks over, stern-faced and obviously not happy doing whatever he’s doing.

“Are you Mr. Baylor?” he asks properly. He’s holding an envelope, and when I nod affirmatively, he places it on the table. “It’s from Mrs. Riker,” he says, bending just slightly at the waist, then walks away.

The envelope is letter-sized, plain and white. I open it and remove a blank get-well card. It reads:

Dear Rudy:

My doctor released me this morning, so I’m home now. Thanks for everything. Say a prayer for us. You are wonderful.

She signed her name, then added a postscript: “Please don’t call or write, or try to see me. It will only cause trouble. Thanks again.”

She knew I’d be here waiting faithfully. With all the lust-filled thoughts swirling through my brain during the past twenty-four hours, it never occurred to me that she might be leaving. I was certain we’d meet tonight.

I walk aimlessly along the endless corridors, trying to
collect myself. I am determined to see her again. She needs me, because there’s no one else to help her.

At a pay phone, I find a listing for Cliff Riker and punch the numbers. A recorded message informs me that the line has been disconnected.

Twenty

W
E ARRIVE AT THE HOTEL MEZZANINE early Wednesday morning and are efficiently herded into a ballroom larger than a football field. We are registered and catalogued, the fees having long since been paid. There’s a little nervous chatter, but not much socializing. We’re all scared to death.

Of the two hundred or so people taking the bar exam this outing, at least half finished at Memphis State last month. These are my friends and enemies. Booker takes a seat at a table far away from me. We’ve decided not to sit together. Sara Plankmore Wilcox and S. Todd are in a corner on the other side of the room. They were married last Saturday. Nice honeymoon. He’s a handsome guy with the preppy grooming and cocky air of a blueblood. I hope he flunks the exam. Sara too.

I can feel the competition here, very much like the first few weeks of law school when we were terribly concerned with each other’s initial progress. I nod at a few acquaintances, silently hoping they flunk the exam because
they’re silently hoping I collapse too. Such is the nature of the profession.

Once we’re all properly seated at folding tables spaced generously apart, we are given ten minutes’ worth of instruction. Then the exams are passed out at exactly 8 A.M.

The exam begins with a section called Multi-State, an endless series of tricky multiple-choice questions covering that body of law common to all states. It’s absolutely impossible to tell how well I’m prepared. The morning drags along. Lunch is a quiet hotel buffet with Booker, not a word spoken about the exam.

Dinner is a turkey sandwich on the patio with Miss Birdie. I’m in bed by nine.

THE EXAM ENDS at 5 P.M. Friday, with a whimper. We’re too exhausted to celebrate. They gather our papers for the last time, and tell us we can leave. There’s talk of a cold drink somewhere, for old times’ sake, and six of us meet at Yogi’s for a few rounds. Prince is gone tonight and there’s no sign of Bruiser, which is quite a relief because I’d hate my friends to see me in the presence of my boss. There’d be a lot of questions about our practice. Give me a year, and I’ll have a better job.

We learned after the first semester in law school that it’s best never to discuss exams. If notes are compared afterward, you become painfully aware of things you missed.

We eat pizza, drink a few beers, but are too tired to do any damage. Booker tells me on the way home that the exam has made him physically ill. He’s certain he blew it.

I SLEEP for twelve hours. I have promised Miss Birdie that I will tend to my chores this day, assuming it’s not raining, and my apartment is filled with bright sunlight when I finally awake. It’s hot, humid, muggy, the typical
Memphis July. After three days of straining my eyes and imagination and memory in a windowless room, I’m ready for a little sweat and dirt. I leave the house without being seen, and twenty minutes later I park in the Blacks’ driveway.

Donny Ray is waiting on the front porch, dressed in jeans, sneakers, dark socks, white tee shirt, and wearing a regular-sized baseball cap which over his shrunken face looks much too large. He walks with a cane, but needs a firm hand under his fragile arm for stability. Dot and I shuffle him along the narrow sidewalk and carefully fold him into the front seat of my car. She’s relieved to get him out of the house for a few hours, his first time out in months, she tells me. Now she’s left with only Buddy and the cats.

Donny Ray sits with his cane between his legs, resting his chin on it, as we drive across town. After he thanks me once, he doesn’t say much.

He finished high school three years ago at the age of nineteen, his twin, Ron, having graduated a year earlier. He never attempted college. For two years he worked as a clerk in a convenience store, but quit after a robbery. His employment history is sketchy, but he has never left home. From the records I’ve studied so far, Donny Ray has never earned more than minimum wage.

Ron, on the other hand, scratched his way through UTEP and is now in grad school in Houston. He, too, is single, never married, and seldom returns to Memphis. The boys were never close, Dot said. Donny Ray stayed indoors and read books and built model airplanes. Ron rode bikes and once joined a street gang of twelve-year-olds. They were good boys, Dot assured me. The file is thoroughly documented with clear and sufficient evidence that Ron’s bone marrow would be a perfect match for Donny Ray’s transplant.

We bounce along in my ragged little car. He stares straight ahead, the bill of the cap resting low on his forehead, speaking only when spoken to. We park beside Miss Birdie’s Cadillac, and I explain that this rather nice old house in this exclusive section of town is where I live. I can’t tell if he’s impressed, but I doubt it. I help him around the mulch to a shady spot on the patio.

Miss Birdie knows I’m bringing him over, and she’s waiting eagerly with fresh lemonade. Introductions are made, and she quickly takes control of the visit. Cookies? Brownies? Something to read? She props pillows around him on the bench, chirping happily the entire time. She has a heart of gold. I explained to her that I met Donny Ray’s parents at Cypress Gardens, so she feels especially close to him. One of her flock.