Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

By prior arrangement, Rob and Maxine went off to spend the night at Kate and John's-a chance for a more intimate visit. Helen begged Stern to stay with her. "Just to sleep," said Helen, who had barely been able to rouse herself in the car. The large, somewhat secluded house which Miles and she had built only a year or two before the end of their marriage seemed to haunt her at times, especially after one Of the children visited.

In her room, Helen without ceremony shed her clothes, leaving them on the floor in a single heaP, and threw herself down naked on the bed. The intimacy pleased her, he knew: to 'be able to bare herself without reflection or fear of his scrutiny under the strong overhead light. See what you like.

Helen had clearly done her best, but in truth she still looked somewhat pounded-on by experience-blotched and slackened here and there, her legs varicose-etched right up to her seat. Not that any of these observations were critical. He was hardly a physical example himself, and he had not withstood two pregnancies. He had been oddly troubled of late to find white hairs growing in his pubic region. But he and Helen were approaching the same point-not quite on last legs, but battered, wobbling, losing the battle to the major forces of physics, gravity, and time.

This was one set of facts beyond the power of even Helen's will.

Stern, who had developed his own routine here, covered Helen in bed, shooed out the cat, and locked the doors. Yet for reasons he could not fathom he was not at ease. He was disturbed at moments by the thought of what it might spell for Dixon to have John in the hands of unfriendly counsel; but these were the kinds of worries that for decades he had been able to quell at night. Dozing off, he thought for an instant about Kate, looking transformed by the world of adult woe, then Nate Cawley, still to be cornered. Tomorrow he would catch him. Soon. And yet each time Stern felt himself gentling down to sleep, he rose like some float in the water. Eventually, it became a night of restless dreams. In,the one that he remembered, Stern, from ground level, had seen a bird, lifeless in the snow, beneath the needled boughs of an evergreen. This bird, an old ragged thing with plumage of black and white, was gently lifted by. a female hand. She stroked the old bird's chest, stated that his wing, which was held erect from his body, was broken but would mend. Her voice struck a note of joy and congratulation. Waking in Helen's room, with the strong morning light haloing the edges of the heavy drapes, Stern recalled nothing of this woman but that encouraging prediction. Helen continued in the shallow breath of sleep.

He reached over to touch her shoulder. But he was certain that the voice he had heard when he was dreaming had not been hers.

Kate had bought Stern an answering machine. For all his love of gadgets, he'd sworn that this was he'd never own. He was a slave to the telephone as it was. More to the point, it always Pained him to listen to his voice on tape; his accent sounded So much more distinct than he imagined. But he could not ' i Kate most spurn his daughter s generos ty. On the machine, days left a bright message or two (lately, as John's problems had deepened, Stern thought he could occasionally detect a lieaden undertone in Kate's greeting); Helen also often re-coried a pleasant word, so that Stern, despite himself, lOOked forward to coming home and fiddling with the buttons. Tonight, however, the first voice he heard was Peter's.

"It's time to schedule your blood test." Typically blunt-and indiscreet. Stern, in the empty house, actually reached to the side of the machine to lower the volume.

But the message was a familiar reminder. He lurked by the window, awaiting Nate Cawley. He had spent a number Of evenings working at the dining-room table in the hopes.of spying Nate as he drove up; Stern had given up on reaching him by phone. While he waited, he opened his mail.

There was a brief note from Marta reminding him that she would be home in a couple of weeks, over the Fourth of July, to continue sifting through Clara's things.

On paper, Marta was terse, but she had taken to calling late at night, on the verge of sleep, sometimes even waking Stern for long, meditative conversations. Marta had continued to dwell on Clara's death-she recognized it as an enormous passage. And in her casting about, which she willingly shared, Stern, as usual, found much common ground with his older daughter. Sitting up in bed, he listened to her talk, mumbling responses, half-drowsed but intent.

Marta had always been a person of somber character; Stern could not remember her as frolicsome. Even at seven or eight, she seemed perplexed by the fundamental nature of things. Why does a woman marry only one man? Why do we eat animals if it is wrong to treat them cruelly? Can God see inside things or merely their surfaces? Stern, much more than Clara, valued Marta's dark, contemplative side and was, inevitably, moved by her internal struggles. She was the child with whom he felt most in touch. Second in his own family, he understood her occasional mighty battles with Peter, her unrestrained-if momentary-resentment of him.

He had been so pleased when she went to law school, not merely because he was flattered to be imitated, but more because the law, with its substance, its venerated traditions, and its relentless contemplation of social relations, seemed capable of providing one set of proposed answers to the questions with which Marta had been so long preoccupied.

But neither law school nor practice seemed to have lessened her brooding or uncertainty. She took the bar exam in four states before deciding to remain in New York; she'd found three different jobs before accepting the present one, the lowest paying, most tenuous, least promising. She was a single professional in New York, caught up in the usual New York swirl of consumption-the latest restaurants, stores, and events-but late at night there was an unguarded tone of deprivation. She was unsuccessful in her relations;with men, stalled in her career, baffled by life, and more or less alone. Stern looked down to her note, with strong ensations of her.

Marta's quest-soulful, troubled, Yearning-was nowhere near its end.

Out the window in the lengthenillingly shared, Stern, as usual, found much common ground with his older daughter. Sitting up in bed, he listened to her talk, mumbling responses, half-drowsed but intent.

Marta had always been a person of somber character; Stern could not remember her as frolicsome. Even at seven or eight, she seemed perplexed by the fundamental nature of things. Why does a woman marry only one man? Why do we eat animals if it is wrong to treat them cruelly? Can God see inside things or merely their surfaces? Stern, much more than Clara, valued Marta's dark, contemplative side and was, inevitably, moved by her internal struggles. She was the child with whom he felt most in touch. Second in his own family, he understood her occasional mighty battles with Peter, her unrestrained-if momentary-resentment of him.

He had been so pleased when she went to law school, not merely because he was flattered to be imitated, but more because the law, with its substance, its venerated traditions, and its relentless contemplation of social relations, seemed capable of providing one set of proposed answers to the questions with which Marta had been so long preoccupied.

But neither law school nor practice seemed to have lessened her brooding or uncertainty. She took the bar exam in four states before deciding to remain in New York; she'd found three different jobs before accepting the present one, the lowest paying, most tenuous, least promising. She was a single professional in New York, caught up in the usual New York swirl of consumption-the latest restaurants, stores, and events-but late at night there was an unguarded tone of deprivation. She was unsuccessful in her relations;with men, stalled in her career, baffled by life, and more or less alone. Stern looked down to her note, with strong ensations of her.