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"Excuse me, Mrs. Fitzgerald. I'd like to introduce myself." I step forward, extending my hand. "I'm Julia Romano, the guardian ad litem appointed by the court."
She slides her arm around A
"Actually, I was hoping I could speak to you. I've been asked by the court to present my findings in less than a week, so if you've got a few minutes—"
"I don't," Sara says abruptly. "Now isn't really a good time. My other daughter has just been readmitted to the hospital." She looks at A
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"I am too." Sara clears her throat. "I appreciate you coming by to talk to A
She takes a step backward, challenging me—and A
"A
The law offices of Campbell Alexander look exactly the way I've pictured them: at the top of a building cast in black glass, at the end of a hallway lined with a Persian ru
"He'll be expecting me," I say.
Campbell doesn't look up from whatever he's writing with great fury. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow. He needs a haircut. "Kerri," he says, "see if you can find some Je
"Hello, Campbell."
First, he stops writing. Then he lifts his head. "Julia." He gets to his feet, a schoolboy caught in an indecent act.
I step inside and close the door behind me. "I'm the guardian ad litem assigned to A
A dog that I haven't noticed till now takes its place by Campbell's side. "I'd heard that you went to law school."
Harvard. On full scholarship.
"Providence is a pretty tight place… I kept expecting…" His voice trails off, and he shakes his head. "Well, I thought for sure we'd run into each other before now."
He smiles at me, and I suddenly am seventeen again—the year I realized love doesn't follow the rules, the year I understood that nothing is worth having so much as something unattainable. "It's not all that hard to avoid someone, when you want to," I answer coolly. "You of all people should know."
CAMPBELL
I'M REMARKABLY CALM, really, until the principal of Ponaganset High School starts to give me a telephone lecture on political correctness. "For God's sake," he sputters. "What kind of message does it send when a group of Native American students names their intramural basketball league The Whiteys?"
"I imagine it sends the same message that you did when you picked the Chieftains as your school mascot."
"We've been the Ponaganset Chieftains since 1970," the principal argues.
"Yes, and they've been members of the Narragansett tribe since they were born."
"It's derogatory. And politically incorrect."
"Unfortunately," I point out, "you can't sue a person for political incorrectness, or clearly you would have been handed a summons years ago. However, on the flip side, the Constitution does protect various individual rights to Americans, including Native Americans—one for assembly, and one for free speech, which suggest that the Whiteys would be granted permission to convene even if your ridiculous threat of a lawsuit managed to make its way to court. For that matter, you may want to consider a class action against humanity in general, since surely you'd also like to stifle the inherent racism implicit in the White House, the White Mountains, and the White Pages." There is dead silence on the other end of the phone. "Shall I assume, then, that I can tell my client you don't plan to litigate afterall'"
After he hangs up on me, I push the intercom button. "Kerri, call Ernie Fishkiller, and tell him he's got nothing to worry about."
As I settle down to the mountain of work on my desk, Judge lets out a sigh. He's asleep, curled like a braided rug to the left of my desk. His paw twitches.
That's the life, she said to me, as we watched a puppy chase its own tail. That's what I want to be next.
I had laughed. You would wind up as a cat, I told her. They don't need anyone else.
I need you, she replied.
Well, I said. Maybe I'll come back as catnip.
I press my thumbs into the balls of my eyes. Clearly I am not getting enough sleep; first there was that moment at the coffee shop, now this. I scowl at Judge, as if it is his fault, and then focus my attention on some notes I've made on a legal pad. New client—a drug dealer caught by the prosecution on videotape. There's no way out of a conviction on this one, unless the guy has an identical twin his mother kept secret.
Which, come to think of it…
The door opens, and without glancing up I fire a directive at Kerri. "See if you can find some Je
I am going crazy; I am definitely going crazy. Because not five feet away from me is Julia Romano, whom I have not seen in fifteen years. Her hair is longer now, and fine lines bracket her mouth, parentheses around a lifetime of words I was not around to hear. "Julia," I manage.
She closes the door, and at the sound, Judge jumps to his feet. "I'm the guardian ad litem assigned to A
"Providence is a pretty tight place … I kept expecting… Well, I thought for sure we'd run into each other before now."
"It's not all that hard to avoid someone, when you want to," she answers. "You of all people should know." Then, all of a sudden, the anger seems to steam out of her. "I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for."
"It's been a long time," I reply, when what I really want to do is ask her what she's been doing for the past fifteen years. If she still drinks tea with milk and lemon. If she's happy. "Your hair isn't pink anymore," I say, because I am an idiot.
"No, it's not," she replies. "Is that a problem?"
I shrug. "It's just. Well…" Where are words, when you need them? "I liked the pink," I confess.
"It tends to take away from my authority in a courtroom," Julia admits.
This makes me smile. "Since when do you care what people think of you?"
She doesn't respond, but something changes. The temperature of the room, or maybe the wall that comes up in her eyes. "Maybe instead of dragging up the past, we should talk about A
I nod. But it feels like we are sitting on the tight bench of a bus with a stranger between us, one that neither of us is willing to admit to or mention, and so we find ourselves talking around him and through him and sneaking glances when the other one isn't looking. How am I supposed to think about A