Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

"Highball?" Fiona asked now.

Stern put himself down on a love seat upholstered in a fabric of peonies. The Cawleys' living room was decorated in what Stern took to be Irish modern fashion, a selfconscious upgrading of American colonial style. The rooms were crowded with dark tables and commodes, most of the 'Pieces beset with shawls of lace. Fiona occupied herself in a small adjoining den, where she'd set up a tea cart with booze. She drank in elegance; the liquor was in cutglass snifters, and a large sterling-silver ice bucket had been set down like a centerpiece.

"Some dry sherry, if it is there, Fiona. On a cube of ice.

I really must do some work this evening."

"Work?" she asked. "Already? Sandy, you should give yourself a chance."

This was a frequent comment. But no one mentioned alternatives.

Danring? Nightclubs? He must have missed the boat somewhere. What was the etiquette of grieving? To disdain useful labor and watch addlepated fare on TV?

Really, Stern was tiring already of these conventional efforts to orchestrate his feelings.

As she handed him his drink, he asked if she was well. "Oh, me? I'm just ducky," said Fiona, and looked into her glass.

Stern recalled now that he had determined years ago, without reflection, not to ask Fiona such questions. The dog was pawing about and growling in the kitchen, where he had been shut up; you could hear his claws racing on the tiles. "What is it you wanted with Nate?" 'I merely had a question or two concerning Clara. Tell him I need only a moment. I wanted to know if he was treating her for any ailment."

"There was something," said Fiona. She used her glass and gestured with a rummy lushness.

"Was there?"

"He used to stop over there in the morning. She needed medication or something." Fiona waved her free hand about, suggesting the way Nate, probably, had put her off.

"Ah-ha." As he suspected. Stern held still. Then, fortitled to Iearn he was right, rose to go.

"Oh, you can't leave yet. Remember? I wanted to ask you somethings"

"Just so," said Stern. He had indeed forgotten.

She went into another room and returned with a small package.

"Sandy, you're probably not ready for this yet, but when you are, you have to let me introduce you to Phoebe Brower.

She is charming. And you'd have things in common. Her husband, you know-" Fiona fiddled a hand and wriggled her features. "Sleeping pills."

He could not quite remain silent-some sound escaped him, a noise of sorts. If Fiona were not drunk, or Fiona, he might have actually taken offense. Perhaps she thought he was starting a club. Unbearable Spouses Anonymous. He recognized the wrapper of the local camera store on the package Fiona was holding. Photos, too? There should be a sign up on his house. Decommissioned. Shipwrecked. Out of use.

"As you say, Fiona. It i's much too soon."

She shrugged. "I would Really, Stern was tiring already of these conventional efforts to orchestrate his feelings.

As she handed him his drink, he asked if she was well. "Oh, me? I'm just ducky," said Fiona, and looked into her glass.

Stern recalled now that he had determined years ago, without reflection, not to ask Fiona such questions. The dog was pawing about and growling in the kitchen, where he had been shut up; you could hear his claws racing on the tiles. "What is it you wanted with Nate?" 'I merely had a question or two concerning Clara. Tell him I need only a moment. I wanted to know if he was treating her for any ailment."

"There was something," said Fiona. She used her glass and gestured with a rummy lushness.

"Was there?"

"He used to stop over there in the morning. She needed medication or something." Fiona waved her free hand about, suggesting the way Nate, probably, had put her off.

"Ah-ha." As he suspected. Stern held still. Then, fortitled to Iearn he was right, rose to go.

"Oh, you can't leave yet. Remember? I wanted to ask you somethings"

"Just so," said Stern. He had indeed forgotten.

She went into another room and returned with a small package.

"Sandy, you're probably not ready for this yet, but when you are, you have to let me introduce you to Phoebe Brower.

She is charming. And you'd have things in common. Her husband, you know-" Fiona fiddled a hand and wriggled her features. "Sleeping pills."

He could not quite remain silent-some sound escaped him, a noise of sorts. If Fiona were not drunk, or Fiona, he might have actually taken offense. Perhaps she thought he was starting a club. Unbearable Spouses Anonymous. He recognized the wrapper of the local camera store on the package Fiona was holding. Photos, too? There should be a sign up on his house. Decommissioned. Shipwrecked. Out of use.

"As you say, Fiona. It i's much too soon."

She shrugged. "I would think that's something most men would look forward to. Being on the loose again."

Well, they had done fairly well until now, but Fiona was veering off the road. Stern slapped his thighs, a sign he was ready to be on his way.

"Perhaps you are correct, Fiona. Women always know better about men."

"Don't humor me, Sandy. You do that too much. I have a reason for asking."

She was masterful, no doubt about that. Stern sat silent, watching, as Fiona at last drew herself together.

"Sandy, I want you to look at this. I need to ask you a question." She offered the package.

"What is it, Fiona?"

She shook her head. Just look at it, she said. She had no wish to explain. Somehow he had a powerful sense of Clara's absence. This scene could never have taken place a few weeks ago. Fiona, even drank,. would have felt less free to prevail upon him.

When he opened the package, he found a videocassette.

"Watch it." She gestured through an arch toward the small adjoining family room. Stern, thinking of resisting further, abandoned the notion. With Fiona, there was no point. lie found the VCR and pushed the buttons; he was good with machines. The images jerked onto the screen in the midst of some sequence. The picture was of poor quality, homemade.

The skin tones were far too rosy. But they showed enough.

The first frames were of a young woman. She zoomed in and out of focus, but she remained naked as the day of her birth. She was slender and small-breasted-seated on a bed, and smiling at the camera in a harmless way. He was too taken aback at first to understand what consequence this naked woman could be to Fiona. But then he recognized Nate's voice on the sound track; the words were not clear, and Stern, as he stood there,.suddenly nipping at his sherry, had no wish to boost the volume and further intrude. He understood enough: Nate was the cameralilan.

Strangely, his first impulse was to feel sorry for his neighs, bor. How could he have done this to himself?. There was nothing particularly salacious about the girl's poses.

She crossed a leg casually at one point; she had on black high-oheeled shoes, and as Nate moved the camera about her, the dark pubic triangle was more visible, split with the bright pink lick of her labia. There was something almost innocent about these pictures. Certainly relaxed.

Nate and the young lady, whoever she was, were well acquainted. She smiled as if she were on a beach.

Then, as Stern had a finger poised over the stop button, the picture flipped; the screen went black, then raced with fuzz, and finally filled once more with figures. It took him an instant to sort things out, and a sense of disturbance preceded his willingness to name what he was seeing. Nate, it seemed, had turned the camera on himself.

Out of focus, the white shaft of his erect penis was nonetheless recognizable; perspectives were hard to discern, but Nate appeared to be a man of generous proportions. Then, without warning, the image jumped again and settled finally on what Nate likely had been meaning to portray all along. The distances were too short for the camera's focal range, and you saw mostly the young woman's hair, which, blurred, looked like some matted bathroom rug.