“What should I do?” Nicole asked.
Aunt Patti lifted her head. She’d had enough facelifts so that her features looked windblown; she always looked faintly surprised. One brown eye was wider than the other.
“Do?—You fight back. That’s what you do. And you have to act as if nothing’s wrong, as if you know everything is going to come out all right. You have to do it, for Daisy’s sake. You can’t just lie down on the carpet and die.”
Nicole felt relief and dread. There were days when lying down and dying seemed easier than this endless struggle. And what if in the end she lost the battle anyway? She had read the statistics. They were not good, not for cases like hers. She sat up straighter against the lemon-yellow sofa. A Van Gogh painting of a woman’s sharp face, also yellow, sat across the room from her, above the piano. The woman looked sickly. Nicole remembered the print from her childhood.
“Once upon a time,” Aunt Patti said, “your mother and I were together, driving through the Catskills. We were only teenagers. I had just gotten my license. I took her out for a ride, and on one of those mountains around Ellenville the brakes just went kaput. I felt them go. The car kept rolling downhill faster and faster, picking up speed, zooming around curves. Your mother was terrified. She started screaming.
“What could I do? She was my little sister. It was my job to take care of her. So I just pretended it was on purpose, like an amusement park ride. ‘Wheeeee!’ I yelled. ‘Isn’t this fun?’—And I hung on like death till the road finally started to go uphill and I could pull over to the side.
“Sometimes you go through the motions. You bluff your way through. Act like you know it’s all going to come out hunky-dory.” She laughed and crammed another Fig Newton in her mouth, then dabbed daintily at her mouth with a paper napkin, orange, decorated for Halloween. “I understand there was something in writing. May I see it?”
Nicole unzipped her big pocketbook now and handed the letter over, still in its envelope. Her aunt examined the envelope first, front and back, then opened it. She wore her reading glasses around her neck on a beaded chain. She read slowly, moving her head from side to side. Despite all the plastic surgery, she had jowls, and age spots on the back of her hands. She looked young and old at the same time, angry and sugary. Nicole wanted to grab hold of her and hug her, the way you would an old tree that has survived a hundred storms. But you didn’t do that sort of thing with Aunt Patti. Finally she frowned over the tops of her glasses at Nicole.
“Well, it looks legal to me. Signed by a lawyer. You have to shame him into this, my darling. That’s the only way.”
“How?” asked Nicole.
“He refuses to listen to reason, right? Drag him into the public eye. He’ll hate that. Ari has always had an excessive sense of pride. When he was six years old he wet his bed. Not for the first time, mind you. And I drew myself up to my full height”—here Aunt Patti did a demonstration, and without rising from the chair, she appeared to grow several inches—“and I said, ‘Oh, Ari! Shame on you. Such a big boy!’—That’s all I had to say. It offended his dignity. He never had another accident again.”
She folded the paper back into thirds, slid it into the envelope, and handed it back. “There’s your weapon. Shame him. Take out an ad in the New York Times. Haul him into court if you have to. The public will lap it up, and Ari will hate that. He’ll back down in a red-hot minute.”
Nicole looked at her aunt. “Why are you taking my side?” she said.
“I’m not taking sides,” Aunt Patti said. “This is a matter of life and death. If they invented this cord thing now, they’ll invent something else next year, or two years from now. I’m not worried about the distant future. I’m talking about what’s happening right now. Without this, the doctors say you are going to die. Leukemia and lymphoma. Correct?”
Nicole nodded. Without intending to, she touched the side of her neck.
“The purpose of family is to preserve life,” Aunt Patti said. “We treat family members the way we’re supposed to treat everyone else on the planet. Listen, Nikki—if you died, Ari would never forgive himself. I know my son—he has a good heart. I’m protecting both of you, I’m not taking sides.”
“Jay says I can’t give up,” Nicole said.
Aunt Patti dismissed this with the wave of one hand. “Well, but Jay adores you. He’s gaga over you. He would say or do anything. I’m telling you what you have to do.”
Nicole shook her head. “It doesn’t feel—natural.”
“There’s nothing natural about this,” Aunt Patti said. “Maybe chewing each other to bloody stumps would be natural, I don’t know. Your brakes have gone out,” she said. “May as well pretend to enjoy the ride. All I can say is, it worked for me.—And now,” she added, “I have to take a nap. I hate to admit that.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Nicole said. She got to her feet.
“Good,” said Aunt Patti. “And you can tell Ari I’m on your side. He won’t like that, either, but it may motivate him. That’s all my boy needs—a little motivation.”
Then, as if to demonstrate, she propelled her sick niece into her coat and out the door, into the fall sunlight.
SEPTEMBER 2011
The Age of Mandatory Retirement
“Oyez! Oyez!” Flannery sang out in his piercing tenor. Solomon’s court chamber echoed like a swimming pool, though the smell in the room was one of something melting or burning.
Listen, listen. The way Flannery called it, the words sounded like Oh yes, oh yes! Ecstatic. Like a lover. It reminded the judge of the opening words to the most seminal prayer in Judaism, the shema, “Hear, O Israel!”
Of course Flannery need not have cried “Oyez” at all. The principal clerk was a standing joke at the Supreme Court offices of Mineola, clown of the third floor, of Part 301. There was no need for this bit of fancifying, this calling out of the “Oyez, oyez!” in New York, and it was normally the task of the part clerk anyway, a lowlier position, to bang in the judge and call out the “All rise,” but try telling Flannery.
“The Honorable Justice Solomon Richter, Supreme Court of the State of New York! All ye draw near! Give your appearance and ye shall be heard.”
A few heads turned. Sergeant Carter Johnson, tipstaff in charge of security, grinned at the judge and winked, his big arms folded across his dark blue uniform. The silver badge twinkled on his broad chest like a fallen star. It was not like him to be jovial. Two younger security officers shifted from foot to foot in front of the two exit signs. They reminded Sol of colts in a field—better to let them run. Sol gathered up the folds of his robe and moved behind the oak stand.
Solomon’s courtroom seemed fuller than usual for a simple civil case. A married couple was suing a local caterer over an incident with a sprinkler system. Claimed it had ruined their wedding. The bride had slipped and fractured her ankle. The real question, Sol thought, was whether they’d allow it to ruin their whole marriage.
His elderly court recorder nodded and beamed at Sol over her stenotype machine, as if he were accomplishing something momentous simply by walking into the courtroom and mounting the three steps to his bench. He had always felt uncomfortable ascending those last few steps, unworthy.
There was a note at the bench, in his chief clerk’s flourishing handwriting: “Important. Please recess for five minutes.” The judge looked over at Flannery and frowned. Flannery beamed back. The smell of burning had grown stronger. Maybe there was a fire somewhere in the building.
“Good morning,” the judge said, keeping his face unreadable. “Court will recess for five minutes.” There was concern—near panic—among the people gathered, defendant and plaintiffs. The bride limped out exaggeratedly on the arm of her groom. It took just a few minutes to clear the room. Sergeant Johnson, in his dark blue uniform, kept everyone calm as if organizing a class trip for elementary school students. When he shut the heavy doors leading into the courtroom, however, he stayed inside. So did the judge’s entire s
taff.
“Would you kindly step into your chambers a moment, Your Honor?” said Flannery.
“What the hell is going on here?” the judge asked.
He entered his chambers, saw the cake, and finally understood all the smiles and secret nods. He’d nearly forgotten what day it was.
Flannery turned and waved his bony arms like an orchestra conductor. “Hummmm…Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” his voice sharp as a whistling teakettle. All the others joined in, even the judge’s misanthropic secretary Myra.
Solomon grumbled, “You’re lucky the smoke alarm didn’t go off. That thing is a hazard.”
“You’re lucky we used long-burning candles!” Myra called back.
The court recorder said, “Make a wish!”
A few of the candles had already burned out. The birthday cake looked like a forest fire with small blackened trees; more the scene of a disaster than a celebration. Here he was, Justice Solomon Richter, seventy years old, the age of mandatory retirement. Three months left, and the clock ticking. It was the end of an era, his era.
He thought an instant, made his hopeless wish, bent at the knee, and blew out the candles.
That night, Sol had to run the gauntlet of a family party. His wife, Sarah, had organized it, and their daughter Abigail was there, along with her good-for-nothing live-in boyfriend, Tomas.
Sol’s only living brother, Arthur, and his wife, Ruth, sat at the table; his clerk Flannery showed up wearing a bright blue vest and matching tie. Sarah had made roast leg of lamb, Sol’s favorite.
“Lovely, lovely,” his brother Arthur said, rubbing his hands—the chubby gourmand, though his blood pressure and cholesterol were lousy, and he’d already suffered one heart attack the winter before. The next blow might kill him, but he’d be happy if he died with his mouth full, Sol thought grimly.
“Is there any mint sauce, dear?” Arthur asked Sarah.
“Of course,” Sarah said. She pushed a cut-glass bowl closer to Arthur’s doughy hand. Arthur wore a diamond pinkie ring, and a ring with a red stone in it on his pointer finger. There was something damned effeminate about Arthur, in Sol’s opinion—the way he gushed over food; the silly bright-colored clothes he wore. But his loudmouth wife seemed not to notice or to care.
Sol had stopped for wine on the way home. He went by way of Roslyn, a ghost town these days—more small businesses closed than open. Even the duck pond was deserted in the center of the park, though here it was the end of winter. Sol parked by the water and stood looking down at the bedraggled cattails. Wind cut at his face.
What next, he thought.
Bridge. Gin rummy. Four months a year sweating in exile down in Florida. Golf, chess—he had always hated games.
In Ray’s liquor store Sol felt overwhelmed by choices. What kind of wine did he want? asked the man behind the counter. This was Ray, the owner, renowned for his foul temper and good heart. It was known he let drunks sleep it off in the back of the store. He glowered at Sol. “What’ll it be—French, Italian, Californian?”
Sol rubbed his head. “Lamb,” he said.
“Lamb,” Ray snorted. “That tells me nothing. I know people who drink rosé with lamb.”
“What do you recommend?” Sol asked.
“What do you like?” Ray countered.
“I would like,” Sol said, “to be five years younger. What kind of wine do you have for that?”
Ray made a face, twisting his lips. “Let me suggest a syrah or a Côtes du Rhône,” he said. “Not for you, for the lamb.”
“Just give me two bottles of the best.” Then Sol remembered that Flannery was coming to dinner. “Make that three,” he said.
“Where were you when I was in real estate?” Ray asked. He limped to the back of the store and reappeared a few minutes later, thumping the bottles down on the counter. “So what is it, an anniversary?”
Sol dug out his wallet. “Birthday,” he said.
“Oooh.” Ray raised his eyebrows. “One of the big ones?”
“None of your goddamn business,” Sol said. He wasn’t smiling.
Ray wedged the wine bottles into a cardboard container. Then he took a tiny bottle of schnapps and tossed it into the paper bag. “Happy birthday,” he said.
Sarah met Sol at the front door, took his coat and hat, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “Tomas got laid off again. Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Sol grumbled.
Sarah rolled her eyes.
“There’s something wrong with a grown man who can’t hold down a job,” Sol said.
“Stop.”
“I’m just saying,” he said.
“Sol,” she said, in a warning voice. “Make an effort. Please.” Sarah was wearing the diamond necklace he’d bought for their twenty-fifth, and the matching earrings he’d purchased when she turned sixty. It reminded him of the old story of a millionaire, who, when he was first married, couldn’t afford anything but some candy peanuts, which he gave to his wife with a note, saying, “I wish they were emeralds.”
Years later, he gave her emeralds with the note, “I wish they were peanuts.”
He kissed Sarah’s soft cheek. “I promise I will make an effort.”
She shook the cold air out of his coat. It fluttered across him like a ghost. Then she hung the coat in the closet and patted his hand. “Happy birthday,” she told him.
He groaned.
Flannery was three sheets to the wind before the lamb was served. He sat so close to Sol’s daughter Abigail that he was practically in her lap. He was in the process of demonstrating how limber he was. He performed this same trick at every dinner party; pulling his leg back behind his head and over his shoulder, like some contortionist elf. He looked like a trussed old turkey.
“Yoga,” he said. “That’s what keeps me young. Hatha yoga. Your Honor, you should give it a try.”
Abigail regarded him with amazement. Her eyes were hazel, with orange circles around the iris, which gave her the bright-eyed look of a cat. “I remember you did that once when I was a teenager,” she said. “I think at my sweet sixteen. I can’t believe you can still do it.” Her long, ginger-colored hair was tied back in a bow, resting on the back of her slim neck.
“Oh, yes,” Flannery said. “I’m extremely limber for my age. Extremely active.” He managed to make it sound obscene.
“That’s enough of that,” Sarah said.
“I am willing to bet that no one else at this table can do this,” Flannery said, still a human pretzel.
“I wouldn’t want to!” called his sister-in-law Ruth in a loud, carrying voice. Her voice wobbled, her throat wobbled. She was wearing a baseball cap covered with gold sequins perched at a rakish angle on top of her bright orange-red hair. Ruth dressed in jeans two sizes too small, embroidered denim jackets, short skirts, and high heels. She still wore low-cut blouses to show off her ample bosom. Tonight she was wearing a gold miniskirt and a white T-shirt with gold lettering that read “Fort Lauderdale Yacht Club.” You’d think she lived on a yacht, but in fact she and Arthur spent one month each winter in a one-bedroom condo rented by their son Morris, the lawyer.
Ruth patted Flannery on the shoulder. “But it’s very impressive!” She sounded like she was hollering even when she spoke in her normal volume, her voice like that of Judy Holliday, the gangster’s girlfriend in Born Yesterday. Ruth had grown up dirt poor in the worst area of Flatbush. For this reason she never left the house without matching jewelry—matching earrings, bracelets, rings, pins, shoes, bags, matching everything. No wonder she shrieked.
Flannery untied himself. He brought the foot back down to the floor and wriggled his shoulders to loosen them. His right arm rose in the air, holding a glass of wine.
“To the Right Honorable Justice Solomon Richter,” he said. His voice trembled. “The best judge in the state of New York; the fairest, the smartest, the most committed judge it has ever been my pleasure and privilege to serve.” He drained the glass and s
et it down.
“Hear, hear!” said Abigail with a delighted smile. “To Dad!” She clapped her hands together as she had when a child. The slender fingers were ringless, of course, a fact that bothered Sol more than he cared to say. Why wouldn’t Tomas want to marry her? Why wouldn’t any sane man?
Flannery leaned forward to look directly at Sol. “I promise,” he said, “to find you the case of a lifetime this year. Something worthy of your valedictory term.”
“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!”