Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

"So," she said. "That's the story. It's terrible, don't you think?"

"Painful," said Stern.

A breath, almost a sob, rattled through her, and she nodded.

"Do you know what humiliates me most? That I didn't realize what I wanted. That I was almost twenty-five years old and had no idea. I should have known better than to care for the likes of Ham Kreitzer. I did know better. And I Couldn't help myself." She lifted her arm in the dark to see her watch.

They drove largely in silence. At her home, he began to get out of the car to open her door, then stopped.

"This was a very fine evening."

"Oh, certainly." She laughed. "You'll be indentured to George Murray for the rest of your life and your date turns out to wear a scarlet letter."

Stern looked at her directly.

"I heard the most wonderful 'music played on the piano. ' '

She reverted to the gestures of the rich, and kissed him, French style, on each cheek. Then she left the car by herself and ran up the concrete stoop of her parents' Georgian home. She waved to him from the doorway.

Driving away, he still felt the liquor. But he knew he would never sleep. There was a briefcase full of WOrk at home. And the problem of the car to be fully contemplated, waiting like some vexing puzzle he knew it was his responsibility to solve. But he could not make his mind work over those things. Even a few blocks away, he recognized his emotions. He was thrilled. Thrilled. The cool racing beat of high excitement was in his blood. He was thrilled-by her trust, her depth.

There was wild, exciting news in her confession of a carnal side. But what thrilled him most, Mr. Alejandro Stern, immigrant American, refined rascal, placid scheming soul-what thrilled him most was that he knew now she was truly available to him,

"GREETING Helen on Sunday night, he was unprepared for his tender feelings: How welcome the k 'l'scent of her perfume, her very form, as he lifted his hands to embrace her. Ah, Helen. In her doorway, he took her in his arms and lolled her about. They both laughed. Even now, though, the thought, the ache for Sonny was not far away.

"Tell me of your journey," Stern insisted.

She described Texas, hot and desolate. You drive seventyfive on the highways and the city towers loom ahead through the shimmering heat and seem to come no.closer.

"You were bad while I was gone," she said. They were in the kitchen;

Helen was tossing a salad and Stern was making a faltering effort at assistance while he drank his wine.

"Me?"

"I called last night and got your machine. At eleven o'clock." She raised an eyebrow.

"I was working," he said. "Dixon's case," he added to enhance his credibility. He had attempted to reach Dixon all day. He wanted the man back in town at once. He phoned the island house directly a number of times, and finally called Elise, Dixon's secretary, at home-she could reach Dixon twenty-four hours a day, like the President. Today, however, Dixon was out of touch, lost under the Caribbean sun. Perhaps he had done the wise thing and decided never to return or, more realistically, wanted to enjoy, unencumbered, the last breath of freedom. Certainly, Dixon knew best how grave his problems were. There was a reason that he felt he had to get 'away.

In the meantime, Stern stood in Helen's kitchen, if not lying to her, then avoiding the truth. To what point? he wondered. He had no idea what to do. Go on? Long? Suffer?

There was at all moments this intense sensation of heat.

Sooner or later his resistance would erode; he would seek out Sonny and perform some lunatic act. Today at home, he had been utterly useless.

He came to rest, and sat, mouth agape, eyes caught, replaying all me same images in a heart-bursting swoon. He was hopelessly smitten. But what about the present? The world? Here was Helen, decent, capable, and kind. How should he treat her? He had no plans, except a vague inclination to avoid sleeping with her tonight, for the sake of decency perhaps, or more likely because he could not stand further stimulation.

Helen as usual had prepared a splendid meal, shrimp remoulade, his favorite, with two warm vegetables and potatoes. She wanted this to be a glorious reunion. Just last week, in speaking about Miles, Helen had said in the mildest, most casual fashion that when she divorced she could not imagine marrying again. There was no emphasis, but she clearly intended to describe that state of mind in the past tense. Stern had not missed the point but had pmdenfiy allowed the observation to pass. Now, over time, he would have to maneuver gently for distance.

They ate and chatted. He was grateful, even in his punished, overwrought state, for their constant amiability.

Stern pushed the potatoes aside with his fork.

You like those," Helen told him.

A Stern face: a world of emotions too hard to express. "I am contemplating a diet," he admitted.

"Dieting?" Helen took a bite, chewed once, and eyed him acutely. The intelligence flashed in her eye. He felt his stomach sink. What in the world had led him to conceive of her over the years as not bright? "I was right," she said.

"You're seeing someone younger, Sandy, aren't you?"

Now what? Why is lying so often the truth? Seeing? Oh yes, he was seeing. On the air, in the sky. A holographic projection. He was seeing solneone younger, all the time.

He had been still a few seconds. "Yes," he said.

Helen looked straight at him. She said, "Shit." A moment passed.

"Well," said Helen,

He coen utterly useless. He came to rest, and sat, mouth agape, eyes caught, replaying all me same images in a heart-bursting swoon. He was hopelessly smitten. But what about the present? The world? Here was Helen, decent, capable, and kind. How should he treat her? He had no plans, except a vague inclination to avoid sleeping with her tonight, for the sake of decency perhaps, or more likely because he could not stand further stimulation.

Helen as usual had prepared a splendid meal, shrimp remoulade, his favorite, with two warm vegetables and potatoes. She wanted this to be a glorious reunion. Just last week, in speaking about Miles, Helen had said in the mildest, most casual fashion that when she divorced she could not imagine marrying again. There was no emphasis, but she clearly intended to describe that state of mind in the past tense. Stern had not missed the point but had pmdenfiy allowed the observation to pass. Now, over time, he would have to maneuver gently for distance.

They ate and chatted. He was grateful, even in his punished, overwrought state, for their constant amiability.

Stern pushed the potatoes aside with his fork.

You like those," Helen told him.

A Stern face: a world of emotions too hard to express. "I am contemplating a diet," he admitted.

"Dieting?" Helen took a bite, chewed once, and eyed him acutely. The intelligence flashed in her eye. He felt his stomach sink. What in the world had led him to conceive of her over the years as not bright? "I was right," she said.

"You're seeing someone younger, Sandy, aren't you?"

Now what? Why is lying so often the truth? Seeing? Oh yes, he was seeing. On the air, in the sky. A holographic projection. He was seeing solneone younger, all the time.

He had been still a few seconds. "Yes," he said.

Helen looked straight at him. She said, "Shit." A moment passed.

"Well," said Helen,

He could not think of a single comforting word.

"I'll live," she told him.

Tongue, speak. He merely watched.

Helen got up from the table.

He found her by the island cutting board in the fancy kitchen Miles had built her before he set himself free.

Chin high, she watched the darkening sky through a broad window, her view partly obscured by an apple tree that had blossomed magnificently only a few weeks ago.