Justice

“Gigs?”

“I do fill-ins for ensembles, orchestras, small chamber groups. Once in a while, I even do solos in some of the smaller towns for special occasions. It’s usually for only one or two performances. But my time away includes another day or two for practice beforehand. So I can be gone as much as a week at a time. I miss a lot of class.”

He sipped more coffee.

“I talked to Bull Anderson. He says you charge fifteen an hour.”

“That’s right.”

“Then you’re going to make out like a bandit from me. ’Cause I figure I need five days a week, ’bout two hours a day. I need a teacher as well as a tutor. Are you up for it?”

He stopped talking. I stared at him. “That’s one hundred fifty a week.”

“You can add.”

“Classical music must be a high-growth industry.”

“Money’s not a problem. You save your dollars, Terry, you can earn yourself a fine set of wheels by spring break. What do you say?”

I paused. “Sounds great in theory.”

“The money won’t be theoretical.” He stood. “We can start tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at ten to seven, take you to my place, and have you back here by a little after nine.”

“That’s a big commitment for me, Chris. I need time for my other students. Plus there’s my own studying.”

He sat back down. “How about this? I’ll pick you and your sister up from school every day. That’ll save you five hours just like that.”

“I still have other students—”

“Terry, why don’t you open your appointment book and we’ll go through it together. Find a schedule that suits both our needs.”

I was being pushed, but the money was too tempting to protest. I opened my datebook. With some rearranging and haggling, we decided on four days a week—two hours a day, with Wednesday our day off.

“Mondays and Fridays I can come to your place at seven,” I said. “But Tuesdays and Thursdays it would be better if you just came here right after school. Melissa goes to gym so we’d have privacy. Sound okay?”

He took a pen and a sheet of paper from his backpack. “Tell me the schedule you want.”

I dictated. He wrote. “You’re left-handed,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you play cello right-handed?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t it hard?”

He looked up from his writing. “I don’t know any differently. I play all my instruments right-handed.”

“What else do you play?”

“Anything with strings.”

“Violin?”

“Yep.”

“Are you a prodigy on violin like you are on cello?”

“Why? You want to exchange violin for French lessons?”

“No, Chris. I think I’m hopeless.”

He studied at my face. “Violin’s a hard instrument.”

“You’re diplomatic. What else do you play?”

“Viola, bass, mandolin, guitar. I started guitar when I was about twelve. Picked it up like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But then my mother died and I was taken into custody by an old-fashioned aunt. She thought electric guitar was a very rude invention. I was instructed to find a more suitable instrument. You want to do Tuesdays and Thursdays here?”

“It really would be more convenient. Are you still in contact with your aunt?”

“Nope. She died two years after my mom.” He looked up. “Natural causes, Terry. She was in her sixties.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You had a look on your face.”

“Just because a sixty-year-old woman seems old to be your aunt.”

“Yeah, she was old and old-fashioned.” He flipped his hair back again. “But she wasn’t without her good points. She fancied herself a real classy lady. I was a punk when I went to live with her. She reinvented my life. Sent me to private school, taught me about music and art. She even gave me diction lessons. I useda towk like a real Noo Yowkeh.”

I smiled. “You should have given your accent to Blake Adonetti.”

That got a laugh out of him. Encouragement. I was on a roll. I said, “Yeah, Blake’s trying very hard to be the resident street guy. Someone should tell him that street guys don’t drive Porsches, they don’t have neurosurgeons for fathers, and they don’t live in ten-thousand-square-foot houses. They also don’t mousse their hair.”

He said, “How do you know Blake?”

“I tutored him for a couple of months—chemistry. His dad harbors hope that Blake’ll be a doctor.”

Chris said, “You tutored him, you tutored Bull.”

“Yeah, also Trish and Lisa for a while. I went through most of your group—”

“They’re not my group.”

His vehemence took me by surprise. I looked away. “Sorry I pigeon-holed you. It’s just that our class is so large, one is more or less defined by one’s clique.”

He said nothing.

I kept blathering on. “I mean everybody has to hang out with someone. Being a B.M.O.C. is infinitely better than being president of the nerd squad, the honored post occupied by yours truly.”

He was still stone-faced. I gave up. “I’ll need your backpack … to see what classes you’re taking.”

He dropped his knapsack to the floor. “Funny how we see ourselves. Guys I know don’t find you nerdy. Matter of fact, they think you’re very pretty. Just a little … frosty. But that’s okay. It’s good to be picky.”

I felt myself go hot. He told me he’d see me tomorrow. I nodded, keeping my eyes on my shoes. I knew he’d left when I heard the screen door slap shut.

3

In school, Chris stayed with his crowd, I stayed with mine. I’d have liked to talk to him, but one never crosses party lines unless invited to do so. And Chris didn’t hand me the scepter. So I looked on from afar, seeing him laugh with the beautiful people, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs. A righteous-looking troop—both girls and guys being lean and lovely—typecast for a syndicated TV school serial. I guess I would have played the odd girl out. Because that was what I was.

The dismissal bell rang and he made it to my locker before I did. He waited as I rearranged my books, then carried my backpack as we walked to his car. I reminded him that we didn’t have to pick up Melissa today. She went to gym with a friend whose mother drove them both. Jean did the pickup.

By six in the evening, I was expected to have finished the laundry, set the table, and prepared dinner. Afterward, Jean would load the tableware in the dishwasher. Unless, of course, she and my father had plans for that evening. Or Jean had a date at the health spa. In that case, my stepmother assigned cleanup to Melissa. Which meant she assigned it to me. When Jean yelled at me, I shined her on. But I hated it when Jean yelled at Melissa.

As talkative as Chris was yesterday, he was quiet as we rode to my house. Last night, I had gone through his backpack, scanned his textbooks, and flipped through his spotty notes. He wasn’t much of a student, but he was a great artist. His sketches seemed to be a cross between Matisse and Picasso. Just a few well-placed lines and there was an image. Amazing to me because I couldn’t draw a straight line.

I also discovered that he smoked and believed in safe sex, judging from the loose packets of condoms. He might be a practicing Catholic, but he was practicing other things as well.

As soon as we settled in, I made coffee. Sipping java, we went through his subjects one by one. He was way behind in his classes, and it took me some time just to find out his level. Once I did, we started with Geometry. My gift was numbers. I’d already completed advanced-placement calculus for seniors, and was doing studying on my own. His level of math was a cakewalk for me.

Chris wasn’t a terrible student. His attention tended to wander, so we took frequent breaks, but at least he was methodical. After two hours, he thanked me, paid me, and left.

The next evening I drove to his apartment. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect what I saw. His unit was on the top floor of a four-story building. He had a balcony that looked out on a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the Valley. It was something out of an uptown movie set.

In actual size, the place was compact. The living area was a small open pocket separated from the kitchen by a bar-top counter. Under the counter were two high leather stools. The place had white carpeting and was furnished with a five-foot black leather sofa, a glass coffee table, and one skinny-looking modern red chair. The walls held two large, abstract canvases—one was minimalist, the other was covered in color. In another world, I might have asked about them. But I wasn’t here in that capacity. I came to do a job.

As he put up coffee, he gave me spare details of his life. He had moved out to Los Angeles a year and a half ago. Initially, his guardian had helped him financially. But now his work was enough to support him. He was completely independent, having turned eighteen around six months ago.

We studied at the countertop, sitting on stools. He asked me if he could smoke while we worked. I told him yes and thanked him for his consideration. He not only smoked, he also drank. Not much, just a couple of shots of Scotch over a two-hour period, but it bothered me. I didn’t like it, but it was his house. I was only hired help.

The next week went smoothly. He was always on time and always respectful. I would have liked more, but it was obvious he didn’t. That might have been painful, but rejection was nothing new to me.

A couple of times, I somehow got sidetracked, found myself telling him my dreams. I wanted to be a doctor, do top-notch research. I wanted independence and respect. He was a good listener. He’d missed his calling as a shrink.

After a few weeks of tutoring, he called me, saying he had a gig, he’d be away for a few days. When he came back, we were back to square one. Two weeks later, he was almost caught up with his classes and I was three hundred and sixty dollars richer. Five more sessions passed and my earnings topped the five-hundred-dollar mark. Chris placed three tens on my dining-room table.

I pocketed the money and thanked him. He stood and stretched. He was not only very tall, but also long-limbed. Fully extended, he could palm my eight-foot ceiling with little effort.

He said, “Tomorrow’s our free day, right?”

“Right.”

He gathered his backpack. “Then I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Chris?”

“What?”

“I need a favor.”

He looked at me. “Shoot.”

“Can you keep the money you give me? Hold it for me at your place?”

He stared at me.

“I have my money hidden upstairs,” I said. “I’m afraid Jean’s going to find it and start asking me questions.”

“She doesn’t know you’re tutoring me?”

“She doesn’t know you’re here on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays, I’ve been telling her that I’m out with friends. She thinks I’m tutoring you once a week. Like I do with most of my students.”

“Why the subterfuge?”

I rubbed my hands together. “I’m afraid she’ll hit me up for some of the cash. You know … family obligation. I’m trying to save as much as I can for college.”

“She’d ask you for your money?”

I looked at the ceiling. “My father was laid off from work a couple of years ago. He started drinking heavily—”

“This sounds familiar.”

“No, no, he’s getting better,” I said, defending him and not knowing why. “He has a job now, but it doesn’t pay much. Jean’s as nervous as a cat.”

“So what does that have to do with you?”

“You don’t understand my stepmom. She won’t demand it. But she’ll … you know … the guilt. Look, if it’s too much—”

“Why don’t you just put it in the bank?”

“They’ll send the statements here. If I don’t get to the mail before she does, she opens my stuff.”

“Jesus!”

“Look, Chris. I don’t like her. But she takes care of my dad, keeps him sober enough to be respectable. So I don’t want to anger her. If it’s too much of a problem—”

“Give me the money. I’ll keep it for you.”

“Thanks.” I ran upstairs, retrieved my wad, and handed it to him. I laughed nervously. “One of the reasons why I never took drugs. I knew Jean would find my stash.”

He stared at me.

“I’m kidding!” I said. “I don’t do drugs. Actually, I don’t do anything except study. I’m a grind. It’s pretty pathetic.”

He kept staring at me.

“Look, just forget it.” I made a grab for my money but he pulled it out of my reach, then pocketed it.

“You want to go out for a hamburger or something, Terry?”

I became aware of my heartbeat.

“Just as friends,” he amended. “Nothing else.”

Crushed, I averted my eyes before my blighted hope slapped him across the face. “I have to make dinner.” I turned to walk away, but he held my arm.

“Believe me, Terry, it’s not you. It’s me. I can’t. I’m engaged.”

My eyes met his baby blues. “You’re what!”

“I’m engaged to be married.”

“You’re eighteen years old!”

“I know that.”

I couldn’t find my words. Finally, I managed to ask him who the girl was.

“Someone I’ve known forever. She lives back east.”

“And you’re serious?”

“Am I ever not serious?”

This was true. Chris had a good sense of humor, but he was a grave boy. Always organized and completely controlled. Just like me. Two hyperadults—had turned out that way because our families were nests of insecurity.

I threw up my hands. “I appreciate your honesty.” I bit my lip. “I guess I also admire your loyalty. That’s unheard of in this day and age. You must be deeply in love.”

“She’s okay,” he said.

“She’s okay? That’s it? She’s okay?”

“She’s okay,” he repeated.

“Chris, why are you marrying a girl that’s just okay?”

He shrugged.

Suddenly, it dawned on me.

Chris caught my look. “No, she’s not pregnant.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll keep your bread safe. Bye.”

He left before I could ask another question. And maybe that was good.

As usual, he was waiting at my locker after school. We walked to his car, neither one speaking. But he didn’t drive to my house. Instead he drove to the bank. He pulled into the parking lot and shut the motor.

“I feel funny keeping your cash. What if you need it and I’m not home?”

“I told you I can’t put it in the bank.”

“We’ll open up an account together. I’ll make sure the statements come to my house.”

I paused. “How cute. Like playing house.”

“Terry—”

“I still don’t understand why you’d marry a girl you don’t love.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t love her.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

I slumped in my seat. “This is none of my business, right?”

“Right.” He opened the car door, but I held his arm. Instantly, he stiffened. I jerked back my hand.

“Sorry.”

He closed the car door, looked at his arm, then looked at me. Without embarrassment, he said, “I have a problem with being touched.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I’d like to go into the bank now. How about you?”

I didn’t move.

He raised his eyebrows. “Would you prefer to wait out here, Terry?”

“You’re very polite.”

“I was trained with manners—yessir, nossir. I wasn’t polite, I got the shit kicked out of me.” He started the car. “Bad idea. Let’s forget the whole thing.”

I started to place my hand on his arm, but caught myself and pulled it back.

“Sorry. I’m a touchy person.”

He killed the motor. “Terry, anyone touches me, I tense. It doesn’t mean I’m mad. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t mean much of anything anymore. It’s just a habit. So don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Doesn’t it get in the way?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean with your fiancée … if you don’t like being touched …”

He stared at me. I should have cut my losses and shut up, but I didn’t. “I noticed you carried … stuff … in your backpack.”

“Stuff?”

I felt my face go hot. “Never mind.”

“Do you mean condoms?”

If the earth had opened up, I would gladly have jumped in.

Chris said, “Are you asking if my peculiarity about being touched gets in the way of sex?”

My face was on fire.

“The answer’s no.”

I covered my face. “God, I am such a jerk!”

“You want to go into the bank now?”

I opened the car door and so did he. We sat at a desk titled NEW ACCOUNTS. The woman in charge wore a crepe wool suit of deep purple, with contrasting black velvet collar and cuffs. It was beautiful and I wondered if I could remember it well enough to copy it. I was very handy with pattern paper and a sewing machine.

She handed me an identification card. I started to fill it out. It had been at least eight years since I opened a bank account. By now, I had a driver’s license number as well as a Social Security number. I felt very important.

I was racing through my personal data when my eyes suddenly blurred. Small typed letters mocking me. I blinked hard, then moved on, but with less bravado. I handed the card back to Ms. Beautiful Suit, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

But she did.

“You forgot to fill out your mother’s maiden name,” she told me. She poised her pen, ready to catch my pitch.

I sat paralyzed.

Chris looked at me. “What’s wrong, Terry?”

My eyes darted between him and her. “I … don’t know it.”

Ms. Suit stared at me.

My eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I forgot it.”

“Forgot it?” Ms. Suit asked.

I felt so stupid. Chris said, “Can we phone it in?”

Ms. Suit was still staring at me. Finally she returned her eyes to Chris. “Certainly.”

Chris gave her the cash. Ten minutes later, she handed him a bank book. Transaction completed. I got up slowly, feeling like a fool.

Once seated in his car, I found my voice. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Chris waited a beat. “Maybe we should call it quits for today. You look upset.”

“Her first name was Amy,” I said. “And I really did know her last name.”

“Terry, she died a long time ago. It’s only natural—”

“No, you don’t understand. I really knew it. I just forgot it!” I stared out the window but saw nothing. “There were grandparents. I don’t know what happened to them.”

“Why don’t you ask your dad?”

“If I ask him anything about my mother, he gets weird. And if Jean overheard …”

I turned to face him.

“I was five when he met Jean. Soon after, he went through the closets and threw my mother’s stuff out—pictures, clothes, mementos, anything that reminded him of her.” My eyes widened. “Except …”

“What?” Chris asked.

I didn’t answer. We rode back to my house in silence. When we got there, I leaped out of the car and dashed into my father’s den. Chris found me rummaging through the drawers like a bag lady sorting through garbage.

“What are you looking for, Terry?”

I barely heard him, kept digging until I hit success. The brittle newspaper clipping had yellowed with age, but it was still legible.

“It’s Reilly. Her name was Amy Reilly.” I showed him the obit. “It’s such an easy name, I can’t believe I forgot it.”

I read aloud. “… survived by her husband, William McLaughlin, infant daughter, Teresa Anne, and parents, Mary and Robert Reilly of Chicago, Illinois.” I stopped reading. “I wonder if they still live there.”

Chris said, “Why don’t you call and find out?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I just couldn’t.” I searched my brain for images to match the names. None came. “They must have had their reasons for breaking off contact with me.”

“I doubt that, Terry. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”

“I’m not going to call them.” My eyes settled back onto the obit. With shaking hands, I held it out to Chris. “Can you keep this for me, too?”

He took the clipping. “Are we on for tomorrow night?”

I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I can work now if you want.”

Chris studied my face. “All right. I’ll get my books from the car.”

“Chris?”

“What?”

“What’s her name?”

He rolled his eyes. “You ask a lot of questions. It can get you into trouble.”

I said nothing, continued to wait him out. Finally, he said, “Lorraine.”

4

The next evening, as soon as I walked inside Chris’s apartment, he handed me a slip of paper—the name of my grandparents with an accompanying phone number. He closed the door, beckoning me forward with a crooked finger. He pointed to the countertop.

“I found the number, but you make the call. There’s the phone.”

My eyes returned to the slip of paper. “I can’t do it.”

“Terry, just pick up the phone and punch in the numbers. Underground cables will do the rest.”

I couldn’t move.

Chris blew out air, then snatched the number from my trembling hands. “It’s a good thing you’re smart. Because you’d never make it on aggression.”

He lifted the receiver, but I ran to the phone and depressed the hang-up button. “Please don’t.” My voice cracked. “It’s probably too late over there anyway.”

“It’s nine in the evening Chicago time. I’m sure they’re up.”

As soon as he started pressing the numbers, I tried to grab the phone again. But this time he held it above his head, out of my reach.

My stomach was suddenly a wave pool of acid. I could hear the phone ring, I could hear someone pick up. Chris started talking and I started dying.

“Hello, my name is Christopher Whitman, and I’m a friend of your granddaughter, Teresa McLaugh—Hello?”

“She hung up?” I whispered.

Chris waved me off. Into the phone, he said, “Yes, I’m still here … you can ask her yourself. She’s standing right next to me. Would you like to speak with her?”

Chris held the receiver out to me.

“She’d like to speak with you.”

Slowly, I took the handset. My hand was cold and clammy and I almost dropped the phone. I leaned against the counter for support and cleared my throat. “Hi.”

“Teresa?”

The voice on the other end was frail and choked with emotion.

“How are you, Grandma?”

“Oh, my God!” She paused. “You sound just like … excuse me … I think I’m going to cry.”

I beat her to it. Tears started streaming down my face. My past had been closed for so many years. And suddenly, without warning, the door had swung wide open. We both started talking at the same time, then we both started laughing, then crying.

I heard a beeper go off. I looked up. I hadn’t realized that Chris carried a pager. He put on a leather jacket.

“I’ll be back.”

“What?” I suddenly started shaking uncontrollably. “Wait. Don’t leave.”

“Teresa, are you all right?” my grandmother asked.

I spoke into the phone. “Grandma, can you hold for a moment?” I covered the receiver and said, “Chris, don’t leave me alone.”

Chris walked up to me and held my face, wiped my tears with his thumbs. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back. Talk as long as you like. Good-bye.”

He was out the door.

I put the receiver back to my ear. Actually, it was good that he did leave because the conversation became very emotional. We laughed, we cried; I asked questions and so did she. Then my grandfather got on the extension and soon we were all talking so fast, it was hard to understand anyone. But it didn’t matter. Because within minutes, I was talking to family. Eleven years of emptiness vanquished in a single stroke, all because someone had cared enough to make a phone call.

I gleaned a history of what had happened to them. They had faded into the breeze at my father’s request. He had felt that as long as my mother’s memory was kept fresh in my mind, I would never develop a close relationship with my new stepmother, Jean. They had wanted only what was best for me, so they had pulled away. They related my history, defending my father at every twist and turn. But I could feel only anger and resentment.

Did I ever receive the Christmas cards and presents they had sent me?