A Crack in Everything Read online

  Self?

  That’s not what I meant.

  Or was it?

  I found myself in my driveway, so I used the side entrance. From the kitchen, I kept my promise to Roddie and left Lauren a message to pick up the voter surveys by noon, and that I’d drop over around five, to help her set up. Roddie would like me to pitch in. Not part of the deal, but I had no plans for tonight.

  After packing office clothes in my bag, I changed into gym sweats and tied back my hair with bungee bands, yellow for cheerfulness. Like a Zen archer stringing his bow, I laced my sneakers in tight even rows, then took the first halting steps on my journey to self-abnegation. They led straight to the kitchen, where there was just enough coffee for the sixteen-ounce mug. The caffeine rush came quickly. My mind began to chug and whir, not the Zen way, but I was a novice. I ate the last banana, grabbed my bag and scooted down the back stairs, agile as a Slinky and twice as wired.

  Chapter Seven

  Babes and Fools

  At Spaal’s, I paid the day rate and went directly to the treadmill Lauren had used, stepping into a rhythm that was far too brisk for an out-of-shape desk jockey. After five minutes, my legs were flaccid bands, only pumping because I insisted. And I did insist. I intended to achieve a little Zen inner peace before I left Spaal’s, if it killed me.

  The piped-in music switched from sad violins to heavy metal to synthesized jazz, but I thudded to my own beat, my mind roaming to Nino’s lease, Chaz’s smile, Torie’s nightmare cry. I began to trot, using the pain in my legs to shut them out.

  Nino had asked if I could undo what I had done, and I’d given him the only answer I knew, a firm maybe. But maybe takes longer than yes, and time was Lombard’s ally. I needed advice. I decided to call my old boss and mentor Al Volpe today. During my unsatisfying years at the firm, Al and his wife had taken me under their wing, and we were still friends.

  Damp hair coiled down my neck, but I kept pounding the roller belt, pushing stray locks off my hot face. How had Lauren stayed cool while she sweated? Cool Lauren, warm Roddie. Opposites attract, but after awhile, the tension must be unbearable. Michael and I were alike in our armored hearts, our stubbornness. A tendency to pun under stress. But if sameness repelled, why did I miss him? There was a Zen lesson here, if I could find it.

  ***

  I drove to Waltham under one of those tricky New England skies, black clouds to the west, haze to the north. There were rumbles of thunder, brief bursts of sun, and for a few minutes rain pelted my roof. When it let up I craned my neck for the rainbow that sometimes arched across the sky on days like this. A pickup truck passed on my right, tires snicking down the wet road with a sound of zippers in silk. No rainbows today.

  My office staff…me…had neglected to replenish the coffee, so I brewed a pot of hot water and tried to reach Al Volpe, who was not at his desk. A yearning for Michael swept over me then, Michael as he used to be, funny, wise, the loner who puzzled and beguiled me. There was enough tea for one small pot which I drank staring out the window at the busy street below. Not a single plain blue sedan looked like Michael’s.

  When the gentle jolt of theanine lifted my mood, I checked in with Deirdre who took a long time to answer and sounded tired. “Thank God it’s Friday,” she said, and I made a feeble joke about napping on the job. She actually laughed. “Odette Brenner left you a message. Wants to consult about Roddie Baird’s campaign.”

  Disappointment threaded through my veins. “I don’t suppose anyone else called?”

  Deirdre understood me only too well. “Would you like to talk about him?”

  “I would not. Talk is futile.”

  “It’s a step toward health, and your Michael is a wound that won’t heal.”

  “Michael is not my anything. I…oh never mind, Deir. I gotta go.” I hung up, too abruptly, I realized, wishing I could stop using haste and humor to cover my gloom. Maybe I was Zen-proof. But I was grateful for Deirdre’s concern, for her almost professional mercy. I should have been more cordial, offered her an imaginary cup of tea.

  I dialed Odette.

  “Susan,” she said in the hearty voice I remembered from Monday’s finance meeting, “you do return your calls. Roddie never does.”

  “Of course I do. Roddie’s out of town until Sunday afternoon.”

  “Nobody tells me anything. Listen dear, I’ll be quick. I’m on my way out. I want to move Roddie’s money to a different bank. Any reason I shouldn’t?”

  “No, but why do you want to?”

  “They don’t pay interest. Can you believe it?”

  Banks never pay interest on local campaign accounts, I explained. “Too little money for too little time.”

  “Well, I think eighteen thousand dollars deserves some interest and I’m going to get it.”

  “Eighteen thousand! Already? Last time I looked, Roddie had twelve hundred.”

  “My committee has been busy.”

  I guessed what was going on. Under cover of his alderman’s race, Roddie was building his war chest for Congress. “You are keeping a record of every contribution over fifty dollars, aren’t you?”

  There was a silence, then she said, “I think we’ve been a little lax in that department.”

  “God, Odette. Put notes in a shoebox. You can organize later. But one way or another, keep meticulous records. You better sit down with Roddie and reconstruct.”

  “I will. We will. You and I should get together. I could use a little help with the paperwork.”

  “How about this afternoon?”

  “Perfect! I’ve got an office at the Bibliotecque des Beaux Arts. Can you meet me there at three? We’ll have coffee and petits beurres and you can tell me what to do.”

  Telling Odette what to do was not how it worked, I had a feeling. She looked like a kindly earth mother, but I suspected her warmth flowed off hot steel.

  “Give me directions, s’il vous plait,” I said.

  “En français?”

  “Better not. I don’t have much French.”

  “That’s all right. Nobody at the Biblioteque does either.”

  ***

  Real estate closings help pay the rent, but privacy law is my passion and it took up most of the next several hours. I was charting case law, scouring the Web, surveying the contradictions. All was in flux, but the concept itself derived from Justice Brandeis and his landmark opinion defining a right to be left alone. Lord save us from meddlers. Nino, I thought sadly, would agree.

  On my way to Odette, I stopped at Waltham Color Lab where, now thinking of peace offerings, I left Nino’s photographs for restoration.

  Just before three, I found the Biblioteque des Beaux Arts, two pretty townhouses on Yarboro Street in a neighborhood of historic brick and stone mansions with tiny front gardens and wrought iron fences. That endangered species, the Boston Brahmin, still dwelt here, though many of the houses had been converted to condos and flats. Odette had said I could park in the alley, which turned out to be as narrow as a medieval donkey path. By the time I wedged my car between two others, I was late, and I hate to be late. It’s disrespectful, my mother had instilled in her daughters, unless a meteor struck or you lost your underwear.

  I marched through the leaded glass entrance, my new chino skirt flapping around my calves. “I have an appointment with Odette Brenner,” I said to a surly girl at reception who pretended not to understand me. “Odette Brenner,” I said twice more, then bellowed “Odette!” inner peace a lost cause for the moment.

  The girl stared at me with the blank beady eyes of a pomme de terre. “Odette?”

  I was damned if I was going to answer “Oui,” one of my actual French words. “Yes,” I said.

  “Oooo-hoo!” High above the reception desk, a familiar voice, lilting and assured, came spiraling down the oval st
airwell. “Su-zanne!”

  I looked up. A foreshortened Odette was leaning over the banister. “I’m on the fourth floor,” she called down to me.

  Comprehension dawned on the receptionist’s face. “Ah, Odette!”

  Her office was a small room off a narrow hall lined with dozens of cases of champagne, left over from Biblioteque events, she explained to my wondering stare. “The director is a hoarder.” She shrugged, very Gallic under the circumstances.

  I settled myself in an armchair near the cookies. “Do you work for the Bibliotecque?”

  “I’m writing a book about my French grandfather. They’ve got a small but worthy research library here.” Hovering over the brass table-tray, she lifted a pumpkin-shaped pot and poured the best coffee I had ever tasted. “My husband Stan gave a lot of money to the Biblioteque, so they let me use this office. Not that I accomplished anything literary today.”

  She took her lipstick-stained cup to a desk heaped with envelopes and papers, closing the door on her personal life. “Roddie’s contributors are legion. I broke out every name and dollar I could identify.”

  We dug in together, and at the end of a long hour, more than half the money was accounted for, every paper tucked into a tickler file. I offered to set up a simple finance chart, using my spreadsheet software. This meant time at my office tonight, but after I paid my visit to Roddie’s wife, I’d have nothing to look forward to but reading in bed, followed by insomnia.

  “Susan, you’re a trooper.” Odette handed me the file. “I’m sure Roddie has more names at home.”

  “I’ll get them from Lauren.” I took a last look around Odette’s comfy lair. “If you like, I’ll manage the data until you get your own computer.”

  “Computer? Not in my lifetime, dear. An abacus, maybe.” The slant of her brow made her look suddenly French, a Simone Signoret without the cigarette. “Print me a paper copy. No hurry. I’ve got a closet full of shoeboxes.”

  We came downstairs into the grand hall now swirling with visitors to an art opening in the salon. Gilded rooms, people in linen and silk, for a brief moment I’d stepped into a world where politics and murder were elegant abstractions, if they existed at all. What a safe place to escape to, I thought, feeling all the more troubled and insecure as we worked our way to the exit.

  Odette walked with me to my car. “I’ll have more names in a few days,” she said. “John Snow will help me remember when he gets around to returning my calls.” I tried to picture Snow, a professional money manager, from Roddie’s finance meeting. Blancmange over wingtips.

  “Don’t forget thank you notes to every contributor, even the ten dollar sports,” I said. “And please, tell Roddie no bulk mailings. People like to be thanked first class.”

  “Roddie can be a penny-pinching spendthrift fool,” Odette said. Her affection took the sting out, but her insight was spot-on. The Roddie I’d come to know wore layers of leather patches over the holes in his jackets…and handmade shirts. He drank Peet’s coffee from San Francisco…and no-name cola from the discount store. He adored his BlackBerry, but his chunky black home-office phone made me want to warble oper-ay-tor every time I saw it.

  “Make him order those customized stamps from the Post Office,” I said, “printed with his name and a campaign slogan.” But not his picture, I was too superstitious for that. Only the dead should be celebrated on stamps.

  Odette watched me advance by millimeters out of the alley. Just before I turned onto Yarboro, she called after me, “Susan, when does the chairwoman start having fun?”

  “After the campaign,” I shouted back. “Dining out on your war stories.”

  War stories. My own were fresh wounds, especially my Nino story, and in the absence of Al Volpe, I felt a sudden urge to confide in this no-nonsense woman of the law. Former judge Odette Brenner might be willing to opine about what was irrevocable and what might be undone. I yanked up the emergency brake. “Got a minute? I need your advice about a confidential legal matter.”

  Settled in the passenger seat, she listened while I told her about the lease, an un-Zen-like catch in my throat. “I made a huge mistake. Nino will never trust me again.”

  “Mistake? You signed without his permission.” She put her blunt hands on her knees. “Unprofessional behavior, Susan.”

  This was not the weary comment of a bored judge. It was a slap that left a handprint. I sprang out of my slouch. “Nino was unconscious. I made a judgment call.”

  Her poker face dissolved, and her sleepy Signoret eyes brimmed with humor. “You can stand on your hind legs! I was beginning to fear for Roddie’s campaign. And for you, dear. My advice, I am sorry to say, is to wait and see.” She got out of the car and leaned in at the window. “As soon as you said his name, I remembered Peter Lombard. In my day, he was a relentless litigator.”

  “Still is.”

  “I’ll give him a call. Who knows? There might be a rabbit left in my poor old hat. But unless Mr. Lombard changes his mind, I don’t have to tell you, it’ll be difficult to overthrow the new agreements.”

  So the answer to Nino’s question remained a firm maybe, but I thanked Odette and headed up Yarboro, glad I’d passed her little test, eased in spite of her caution. For once talking seemed to work, better than treadmills anyway. I wondered about that French grandfather, if reconstructing him at her desk was how Odette calmed her own angst. Surely she had some behind that brilliant smile.

  I downshifted, edging onto the river road. There were faster ways to Lauren’s house, but I liked to keep an eye on the Charles. The way it tacked to the ocean through miles of urban clutter made me feel safe, like I had a means of escape. I chugged past sailboats, the Hatch Shell, fishermen casting just for the hell of it. The Publick Theatre materialized, and in a burst of optimism, I parked near the risers and dialed Falkman Hospital on my cell. It was time to rear up on my hind legs and talk to Nino.

  “He’s gone,” an ICU voice, not Mary Foley’s, said. “Signed himself out this morning.”

  “That’s impossible!” An unmufflered car tore past, and I shouted over the roar. “How could you let that battered old man leave?”

  “Excuse me, Miss. Patients are not prisoners. Mr. Biondi was ambulatory. He called a friend, and off he went.”

  “You should have notified me before you discharged him.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Susan Callisto, his attorney.” Was.

  “Please hold, and I’ll transfer you to the business office.”

  But before the voicemail wringer flattened me, I pressed “off”, my anger already fading.

  I punched in Nino’s number, and Benny answered.

  “It’s Susie. Can Nino come to the phone?”

  “He’s…” Silence. I could almost hear Benny’s brain chugging. “He’s sleeping in the big chair. He can’t talk to you.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “Taxi. I paid with my own money.”

  Benny barely got by on Tavola meals and minimum wage. “I’m sure Nino will pay you back as soon as he’s better.”

  “I don’t want it back! I don’t want it back!”

  “You’re very generous.” Benny’s emotions were loose cannons, and I spoke softly to his pride. “Nino is lucky to have a good friend like you. Will you call me if he needs anything?” I gave him my numbers and hoped he was actually writing them down. “When Nino wakes up, tell him I love him.”

  “I better not, Susie. He don’t love you no more.”

  The honesty of babes and fools.

  Chapter Eight

  Shadow Man

  The front door was wide open. Roddie’s little girl, in a pink and white sundress, marched across the hall singing and waving a paper banner.

  “Hello, Delia,” I said.

  “I’m helping M
ommy.” Her banner was a sheet of blank labels. With a delicate flick of her fingernail, she peeled one off and smoothed it over her shin.

  “Are you mailing yourself?”

  She giggled. “We drawed pictures in camp, and I mailed mine to my daddy. He’s in Colorado.”

  “Is camp fun?”

  She nodded, silky hair flying, and stuck a label on my wrist. She jabbed it with a fuchsia crayon, and the rich smell of Crayola made me wish I was a kid again.

  “Susan, I just got your message.” Lauren came in through the dining room, wearing a sleeveless country-print dress that showed off the shoulders-by-Spaal, the taut slender arms. “I was afraid we’d missed you. We’re just back from supper.”

  “MacDonald’s!” Delia shouted. “I had chicken nuggets.” She scrawled the air with her crayon. “And french fries!”

  “I didn’t feel like cooking. The boys are with my mother in Maine. Roddie’s in Colorado.” Lauren’s cheeks actually reddened.

  “I didn’t mean to nag, but I promised Roddie I’d remind you about the deadline.”

  “Roddie’s a worrier. I picked up the surveys with an hour to spare.”

  “The worry wart should have left you his van. Twenty-five thousand brochures in the Mazda must have been a tight fit.”

  “A friend helped me. Roddie had no idea there’d be so many boxes. And now this.” She led me through to the dining room where I’d already glimpsed the yew wood table covered with surveys and dozens of cartons on the floor.

  “Bring the printed labels, I’ll get you started.” I pulled up a chair, and Delia circled the table, patting the wobbly stacks.

  “You were at my house before.”

  She knelt on the chair next to mine, and I gave her a few surveys to mark with her crayon.

  “Good job,” I told her. A little encouragement now, and by the time Roddie was ready for Congress, Delia would be running the show.