Perri O'Shaughnessy - Unfit to Practice

She hadn’t seen the doggone key since she’d parked at the office at eight that morning. Sandy had dropped her off at the courthouse and Paul had picked her up.

She should go back into the building and look for the key, a very daunting thought right now, but she was already half out the door again when she remembered that she had an old plastic key in her wallet, which the auto association had sent her for use in an emergency.

The fan on the heater at home wouldn’t work without electricity. Bob would be making a fire and enjoying the process entirely too much. She should hurry before he burned the cabin down.

She would find the key tomorrow. Tonight she couldn’t go back in there. She fished out the plastic key and turned it in the ignition, hoping the flimsy white plastic wouldn’t break.

The Bronco started up with a mighty roar.

She crept down Pioneer Trail in four-wheel drive, sending up fin-shaped, watery plumes and jouncing over the forest trash. A few stalled cars surprised her in the middle of the road, one with the driver’s-side door hanging wide open, its driver too concerned about getting home to care about water damage.

A branch from the sugar pine next to the porch sprawled across her downsloping driveway. She crunched over it, ran up the steps to the wooden porch, and unlocked the front door, noticing a pair of mountain bikes pushed together under the eaves. Two bikes, not one.

In the entryway, stripping off her boots and socks, she could see just a corner of the orange Swedish fireplace, and all she could think about was dinner.

A muffled commotion in the living room and scrabbling paws over the wood floors gave her warning of Hitchcock just before the big black dog rushed her. “You’re supposed to hear me before I come in the house, you silly animal.” She kissed the dog’s head and pulled gently on his ears. “Bob!”

In the living room, the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the backyard was inky-no one had pulled the curtains-and the wood stove was cold. She groped for the lights, and when that didn’t work, she reached above the refrigerator for matches and lit the big candle on the coffee table.

“Right here,” Bob said from the couch a few feet away. In the flickering light, another tangle of jeans and hair emerged next to him. Nina recognized Nikki, Bob’s bandmate, three years older and three centuries wiser, she of the sly brown eyes. Nina knew Nikki well, well enough to distrust her. An ex-client, sixteen years old, she had the anarchy-of-spirit thing down pat. Nina did not like her sitting there on the couch, feigning innocence, or the skinny hand clasping Bob’s.

“Hi,” Nikki said, then, as if cued, disengaged her hand from Bob’s. She picked up a can of cola and drank deeply. Bob watched her drink.

To cover a spasm of alarm, Nina turned her back on them, went to the fridge, and uncorked the half bottle of Clos du Bois, forcing herself to pour a glass instead of taking the swig she so fervently desired at that moment.

“We were trying to do homework, but the lights went out,” Bob said.

“I see,” Nina said. She took two sips and two deep breaths, walked back into the living room, and drew the curtains shut. While Bob and Nikki sat primly on the couch, she crumpled newspapers, tossed them on the grate, and dug out some kindling from the basket.

“I’ll do that, Mom,” Bob offered. He got up.

“Good idea. Nikki, there are more candles in the kitchen above the dryer. Would you mind getting a few? It’s still too dark to see.” And unwelcoming, to say the least, she thought.

“Cold, too,” said Bob, who had apparently not previously noticed. He took the poker from Nina, jabbing the burning sticks in the wood stove. Nina sat down on the carpet, held her glass, and waited for the fire to flare up and send warmth her way. The sleeves of her blouse were wet, her very soul was wet, but she was damned if she was going to go into her bedroom to change and leave these two alone.

Nikki’s bony knee came and went through a gaping hole in her jeans as she set candles around the room. The forlorn face and familiar defiant, ready-for-rejection expression inspired Nina’s pity, exasperation, and righteous motherly fear.

“We were just going to practice a new song I wrote,” Nikki said. “I brought my guitar. It was all very structured. But you can’t play without electricity.”

“Uh huh,” said Nina.

“Well. I’m outta here,” Nikki said, heading for the door, reading Nina’s mind. “Have a good night.”

“It’s pouring out there. Does your mother-?” Nina started.

“I left a note, but she’s not home anyway.” Nikki found her parka on the floor. With the hood pulled tight around her face, she looked like an orphan boy.

Bob said, “I’ll ride you home.” He got up.

“Not necessary,” Nikki said.

“Back in half an hour,” Bob told Nina.

“I can take care of myself,” Nikki said.

“Don’t be stupid. When are you gonna get a good offer like that again?”

“Then I’m stupid.”

“Wait. I’ll drive you,” Nina said.

“No. It’s not that far. Stay here and enjoy your supper.”

Nina almost invited Nikki to supper right then, she looked so much like a starving hound dog who hasn’t eaten for a week, but there were limits. She wanted Nikki to go home, Nikki was heading out the door, and Nina wasn’t going to stop her.

“Later,” Nikki said, strapping her guitar on her back. She flipped a hand at Bob and went out the door.

Bob went to the window and looked out. “We should have made her stay,” he said.

“Haven’t you got homework? You’re not supposed to-to-”

“To what?”

“Never mind. Do me a favor, honey. Just let me sit here for a second and drink my glass of wine in peace.”

Bob shrugged, went into the kitchen, and came out with a turkey sandwich and a Gatorade. “Supper is served,” he said, then went into his room and shut the door, not too loudly.

On an ordinary night, at this point in the course of events, she would cook, then tackle the files she had brought home, but the fire continued to burn, Bob had his sandwich, and the rocking-chair pillow lured her with its softness. She sat down to stare into the orange and red, listening to the whine and howl of wind outside. The briefcase was in her car. She was in no mood to stuff her warm feet into stone-cold boots and throw a coat on so that she could fight her way back through the damp, freezing night. She could allow herself to spend an hour this Thursday evening dozing here, stroking her dog.

She yawned and flashed to a memory of Bob as a toddler. They were still living on the Monterey Peninsula, where she worked as a law clerk during the day and studied law at night. His preschool teacher called her in the middle of a meeting. “Bobby won’t lie down for naps,” she said. “We’ve tried everything, Ms. Reilly, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come and get him and take him home. He’s a disruptive influence on the other chil-dren.”

She hadn’t known what to do with him then, and she didn’t know what to do with him now. But for now he was safe and warm, and she didn’t have to worry.

She woke from a doze and checked her watch. Already nine o’clock! Down the hall, holding a candle like a Victorian to light her way, she opened the door and saw Bob retired safely under his covers, flashlight glowing, his French textbook open beside him.

Hungry, she made herself a grilled-cheese sandwich and poured herself another glass of wine, telling herself that up to twelve ounces actually helps your heart. Scanning the newspaper by the last of the firelight, she yawned again and pushed it into the brown recycling bag in the kitchen. A hundred small tasks in that room drew some spotty attention. She wiped, closed cupboards, listed groceries needed. It was late and too dark to work, but she still should go get her papers out of the truck.