Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

From the kitchen window, Stern observed her arriving with a large purse and an armory of aluminum-foil containers. Buy bauxite, Stern thought as he watched her under flag, proceeding to' the front door with the trays pyramided beneath her chin.

"Helen, my Lord, I am one person." Stern unburdened her and showed her to the kitchen. "There's enough here for six.

Sixteen." Peeling the foil wrapper back from a tray of chicken, he was braced by the aroma. Garlic and thyme. Had he been required to wager, he would have bet that Helen Dudak was a good cook. It was part of her image of substance. "You must join me. It would be a pity to see all of this consumed from the freezer. Do you have time for dinner before your meeting? Please stay. I would welcome your company."

Helen faltered, but eventually was persuaded to surrender her coat. Had this been planned? Stern doubted' it. Helen was not a schemer, although she was clearly pleased to be asked. He took her raincoat to the closet, a fawn-toned garment with a famous label-Miles had not bought his freedom cheaply. She'd already found plates and flatware and was setting the kitchen table when Stern returned. He admired Helen's good sense in not promoting this into a more auspicious encounter in the dining room, but, notwithstanding, there was a certain animated excitement as Helen traveled from the cabinets to the table. Here. they were, people in their middle years. His wife was five weeks dead. But he was single, she was unattached, and because of that, they both seemed strangely, almost painfully enlivened.

And he was interested; there was no concealing that from himself. Since his evening at Fiona's, he was aroused in some measure by every woman he saw. For Stern, it was a disconcerting fixation. As he put it to himself, he had not recently tuned in this channel. Oh, he thought, of course.

He admired a hundred women in a day, just moving about downtown. But he had practiced such deliberate oblivion. He was one of those men glad for middle years, the settled portion of life, when sexual preoccupation could comfortably be left behind without some slur on masculinity. Now he received, almost in spite of himself, an eager, exhilamnt message from his own systems. He could not truly envision himself as the companion of another womanwit was much too soon-but he nonetheless cast a somewhat naughty eye on Helen when he went down the corridor to draw a bottle from the wine, closet.

She was, all in all, a handsome person-her midriff had given way somewhat, but Stern could hardly be critical on that score-and even if she looked a little rougher/ed by experience, there was something in that which was admittedly attractive. Her hair was reddish, the color of a fox, enhanced somewhat by a coloring agent these days, but drying with age and verging therefore on a kind of unmanageableness. Her legs were well turned; she had no bottom to speak of; her face was large-pored, heavily made up, but in its own way comely. Helen had her well-worn look-humor, anguish, and dignity. Stern's impression was that she had been utterly lost when Miles departed, but she was a strong person, perhaps not an intellect, but well grounded. She had carried on bravely, rightly convinced that she was not deserving of abuse.

"Well, this is an unanticipated pleasure," he said when the meat was set out before them both. "What did you do to these potatoes, Helen?

Really. They are quite remarkable."

Helen described the process. Stern listened carefully. He was fond of potatoes.

She told him about her business. She had been trained. as a travel agent along the way, but longed for something less mundane and had become a convention planner. Large organizations.hired her to arrange sites, hotels, presentations. She worked out of her home, with a fax machine and a telephone console. A rocky start, but now she was well under way. She delivered the tale with good humor,. an entertaining talker and willing to take the lead in maintaining this fragile, convivial air.

The doorbell rang. Glancing through the panes beside the front door, he saw Nate Cawley. Stern seemed to have caught him in a moment of reflection. On the slate stoop, he had turned to look into the wind. He was a smallish man, narrow. His hair was gray and most of it was gone; a few longer hairs stood up straight now in the breeze. Rain was in the offing; late April here was always wet. Nate had mn out without a coat and he jiggled a bit to keep himself warm. He wore a golf cardigan and a pair of blue pd by experience, there was something in that which was admittedly attractive. Her hair was reddish, the color of a fox, enhanced somewhat by a coloring agent these days, but drying with age and verging therefore on a kind of unmanageableness. Her legs were well turned; she had no bottom to speak of; her face was large-pored, heavily made up, but in its own way comely. Helen had her well-worn look-humor, anguish, and dignity. Stern's impression was that she had been utterly lost when Miles departed, but she was a strong person, perhaps not an intellect, but well grounded. She had carried on bravely, rightly convinced that she was not deserving of abuse.

"Well, this is an unanticipated pleasure," he said when the meat was set out before them both. "What did you do to these potatoes, Helen?

Really. They are quite remarkable."

Helen described the process. Stern listened carefully. He was fond of potatoes.

She told him about her business. She had been trained. as a travel agent along the way, but longed for something less mundane and had become a convention planner. Large organizations.hired her to arrange sites, hotels, presentations. She worked out of her home, with a fax machine and a telephone console. A rocky start, but now she was well under way. She delivered the tale with good humor,. an entertaining talker and willing to take the lead in maintaining this fragile, convivial air.

The doorbell rang. Glancing through the panes beside the front door, he saw Nate Cawley. Stern seemed to have caught him in a moment of reflection. On the slate stoop, he had turned to look into the wind. He was a smallish man, narrow. His hair was gray and most of it was gone; a few longer hairs stood up straight now in the breeze. Rain was in the offing; late April here was always wet. Nate had mn out without a coat and he jiggled a bit to keep himself warm. He wore a golf cardigan and a pair of blue plaid slacks.

"Welcome, Nate." Helen had stood up from the table in the breakfast nook, and peered down the hall toward Stern and Nate in the foyer. In spite of the distance, Stern attempted the introduction. "Do you know Helen Dudak?" asked Stern.

"Certainly." A moment of decided awkwardness occurred. Nate did not move. Clearly, he thought he had interrupted, and Stern had an instant aversire response, old-fashioned but strong, that he was not happy to be seen alone with a woman in his home. This was not the message he wanted Nate to take back to Fiona, who would put it out promptly over the neighborhood wire. Stern swung out a hand magisterially, a hammy bit, to gather some forward momentum "We are in the midst of a splendid repast Helen has provided, Nate. Do you care for some wonderful Chicken Vesuvio, or may I get you a drink?"

"No, Sandy. I just ran over for a second. Fiona said you were looking for me." Nate apologized for being hard to reach. Much, he said, was going on. Yes, indeed, thought Stern. The Lord only knew what Fiona said they had discussed, but clearly she had offered an edited version.

Preoccupied as he seemed, Nate did not wear the predictable air of a man who knew you and his wife had spent a moment commenting on videos of his erection.

Stern showed him to his study, where he had filed the lab's bill.

"Have you any idea what that might have been for?"

"Huh," said Nate. "Westlab." He studied the invoice at length before handing it back. "I don't use them much."