Rafael Yglesias - Fearless

“ I’ll tell her,” Max said. He straightened, a hand still resting on Jonah’s head.

Brillstein straightened with Max, unfazed by his responses. “I understand,” the lawyer said. “But I have a problem. Mrs. Gordon asked me to call as soon as I spoke with you, so when do you think you’ll tell her?”

There was nothing for it: Max had to dance to their choreography for at least a little longer. “All right, we’ll go together to see Nan,” he told Brillstein.

“What!” Debby’s body was rigid. There had been only a hint of anger from her until then. And even with this release she seemed to be trying exceptionally hard to hold back more. Max was surprised: he wasn’t used to her being shy about that emotion.

“I’m going to see Nan and tell her. I don’t think she should hear from a stranger.”

“You just got home.” Debby let this furious remark escape and then returned to a self-imposed silence: lips together, arms folded.

“I’m going to be home for a long time. Jeff isn’t.”

“You could call her,” Debby said in a furious mumble, still a miser with her annoyance.

“I should tell her in person,” Max said.

“You should be here with us,” Debby insisted, forcing herself to speak in an unnaturally slow and reasonable tone. “You nearly died. After something like that you should be with your family.”

“Don’t scold me.” Under the terms of their marriage he was supposed to give way when she invoked his duty to the family. Not anymore. “Don’t make me apologize for being a good person just because this time it isn’t being good to you,” he said and he could have sworn someone, probably his in-laws, had gasped.

“Good to me!” Debby could keep it in no more. “Good to me!” She clenched her fists together and appealed to the others: “You didn’t tell me you were alive for twenty-four hours!” She looked at Max and released him with contempt: “You want to go to Nan, then go.” Debby turned and walked out into the hallway leading to the bedrooms. They all waited together for the inevitable noise of a door slamming. It didn’t come.

Instead Brillstein spoke. “I’m willing to tell Mrs. Gordon myself provided I know what I’m talking about.”

“Could you give these people a break?” Debby’s father protested. His interruption surprised Max in two respects. Harold was usually a mild man, almost timid with strangers; and as a prominent professor of American literature, he rarely spoke a colloquialism such as “give these people a break.” The change of character lasted for only one sentence. “My son-in-law has just been restored to us,” Harry continued. “It’s a shock for all concerned. We need time to ourselves.”

“Thanks for trying, Dad,” Max told him. Harry wanted to smooth over the quarrel with Debby. He had no son and Max had no father. Years ago they had decided — it was a willful act — to fill in each other’s family gaps. As a consequence Harry seemed to have more invested in his daughter’s marriage than the typical father-in-law. The rare — indeed, Max could think of only two — occasions when Max and Debby fought in his presence, Harry had become agitated and tried to distract them by comparing their argument with marital disagreements in nineteenth-century novels.

“Debby is frightened,” Harry murmured to Max. “She needs reassurance.”

“But I owe it to Jeff to tell Nan myself,” Max explained to Harry, sorry that he wasn’t sufficiently well read to find an appropriate literary allusion. “The sooner I do it, the better.” Max turned to Brillstein. The lawyer had his chin lowered, his arms folded across his chest, waiting without any overt sign of impatience and yet radiating a desire for speed. “Let’s go,” Max said to Brillstein.

“No!” Jonah blurted out. He had retreated to the far end of the living room, by the hallway where his mother had stormed out. When everyone’s eyes went to him, he lowered his head shyly.

“You want to come with me?” Max offered.

“No,” Jonah mumbled and looked horrified.

So his friend’s loss was scary, something Jonah didn’t want to witness. Max was disappointed in his son. He has his mother’s stingy heart, he judged harshly. Yes, there was a lot wrong with these people — things that would have to be corrected.

“Goodbye,” Max said coolly to the roomful of his family, no longer applauding his survival; instead they either glowered resentfully or looked away in embarrassment. Only the neutral and impatient Brillstein wanted Max. He had immediately moved into the small foyer to unlock the front door and now held it open for Max’s exit.

“Let’s do our duty,” Max mumbled and followed the lawyer’s lead.

The lawyer had come in his own car, a blue Volvo station wagon, complete with an empty infant car seat, the trash of frequent trips to McDonald’s, and wrappers that indicated a boy’s interest in baseball cards. Brillstein hadn’t expected to chauffeur Max. He apologized for the condition of the interior with a hasty curse. “Shit,” he said, pushing stuff off the front seat. “I’m sorry. I’ll arrange for a car to take you home.”

“This is fine,” Max said, pleased to see someone else’s kingdom ravaged by familial occupation. “You have two kids?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Brillstein mumbled and pulled out of his parking spot with a cabdriver’s sudden, angry acceleration and violent steering. “Sure you want to tell Mrs. Gordon yourself?”

“I’m sure.”

Brillstein made a face: scrunching his chin and raising his eyebrows; at once impressed and doubtful. He nodded as they sped past Max’s block. “There were a lot of TV people when you got here?”

“Just one,” Max said. There had been none on their way out. “Got bored with me fast,” Max said. Brillstein drove madly, faster approaching yellow lights, running through the red if he didn’t make it in time, weaving around paused cars or tentative drivers. Max was relaxed; he even enjoyed the pace. The lawyer merged onto the West Side Highway at top speed. Brillstein was either unconcerned by whether there was conflicting traffic or gifted with extraordinary peripheral vision. Max asked, “You drive a cab to put yourself through college?”

Brillstein whistled. “Good guess. Yes. For two years. Don’t have any kidneys left. I think Mrs. Gordon is going to take it hard.” He added the non sequitur without any indication that it wasn’t a logical continuation.

“She must suspect.”

“I don’t think so. That’s why her father called my father to get me to find out. I’m not an aviation lawyer.”

“There are aviation lawyers?” Max asked, surprised.

“Oh sure,” Brillstein frowned, appalled at the prospect of there being such a lack. He rocketed over the West Side Highway’s bumps with pleasure, a happy cowboy riding his bronco. “In the New York area there are two law firms that specialize in crashes. Most of my practice is automobile accidents,” he explained as they took a pothole so hard that Max’s head grazed the car roof. “Or medical malpractice — wrongful death — but as I explained to Mrs. Gordon, I’m not, uh, I just don’t deal with this kind of thing. I would be happy to…” he added in a singsong, and even smiled at Max, “but as I say, there are two firms that pretty much have it covered in New York. Nevertheless, they wanted me to step in until we’ve at least confirmed Mr. Gordon’s death.”

“Well, you’ve done your job.”

“You actually saw him die?” Brillstein simply couldn’t resist. He fired the question across at Max.

“No.” Max sat pat, enjoying this role as witness.

“Did you see his body after the crash?”