Rafael Yglesias - Fearless

Brillstein had stopped his car under a huge sign that read: STOP HERE. A sleepy man approached filling out a claim ticket. Max looked around at the family mess of the Volvo and the lawyer’s nervous curious eyes, darting from him to the parking attendant, as if they were both potential threats. “Can you represent me and Nan in this?” Max asked. “Or do we have to get an airline lawyer?”

“Look — if Nan Gordon weren’t a family friend — I mean, I’d love to — but it’s not my expertise — I’m sure I could do it, truth is, compared to malpractice it’s taking candy from niños ,” Brillstein accepted the ticket from the attendant. “Probably about an hour,” he mumbled to him. “But Stoppard and Gray have got aviation liability down to a clean quick formula. They’ll package you all together, get reasonable settlements — I mean, they may not pay enough attention to each individual case—”

“Shut up for a second,” Max said. Brillstein immediately made a great show of stilling himself. He put his hands together, pressed his lips tight, inclined his head a notch forward, disappearing what little there was of his chin into his neck — an attentive bird waiting to see if food would be offered him. They were in front of the elevator in the parking garage, only a minute away from the widow of Max’s best friend. Yes, Max had to admit, after all Jeff was his closest friend; a man he had spent at least forty hours a week with for over a decade; a true intimate, a man who trusted Max not to mind when he stole from him. “If I’m going to lie my head off, I don’t care for how noble a reason, I want my lawyer to know I’m lying—”

Brillstein was again a dog shaking off his swim in the pond. “No, no, no, no,” he waved a hand at Max. “This is very bad talk. I haven’t heard this. A Range Rover roared past us just now and I didn’t hear what you said. You want me to handle your case? Great. I can do the job. We understand each other. We’re grown-ups. We know this is a game. We don’t have to sit side by side and read the instruction manual aloud together. Right?”

“No.” The elevator arrived. Max blocked the inner rubber safety door to hold it open. “I don’t need you for that bullshit. I can get the fancy guys for that kind of advice. I don’t trust my abilities here. Okay? I’m not saying I’m too moral to lie, I’m saying I may not be good enough at it. If I hire you it’ll be because you will read the instruction manual out loud.” The elevator doors tried to close. They bumped Max’s hand and withdrew in horror.

Brillstein let out a lot of air. He inflated first, cheeks puffing out like a blowfish, before releasing it all in a huge sigh of resignation. “You don’t work for ‘60 Minutes’ or the DA, do you?” Brillstein entered the elevator laughing at himself. “Just kidding. Just kidding. Come on,” he urged Max in. Max followed. The familiar interior — fake paneled wood, mirrored ceiling — brought Nan vividly to life as a dreaded obstacle. Brillstein spoke into an intercom to the lobby to announce where they were going. The doorman verified they were expected and then allowed the elevator up. They waited in silence until they were moving. “We’ll have to have all our conversations after rowing out into the middle of the Atlantic,” Brillstein said, “but that’s okay. Just kidding.” He put his hand out to Max, an offer. “It’s a deal.”

Max shook the little hand. It fled quickly from his grasp. The lawyer had manipulated him, of course Max knew that, but he was a willing dupe. A man he could see through was always more reliable than a man he couldn’t.

Max didn’t care for Nan’s looks. Her yellow hair, pleading blue eyes and tender pink skin, her puffy cheeks and rounded face resembled an old-fashioned doll’s, a vision of helplessness, stupidity and easy sexual prey. Actually, from what he knew about her through their limited social contact and from Jeff’s complicated explanations of their marital dissensions Max believed Nan to be sexually inaccessible, nervously smart, and helpless only in the sense of wanting help. Up until the birth of their second child Nan had worked as a writer for Newstime magazine. In the last two years she occasionally did free-lance pieces for women’s magazines but had basically become a talker: she talked about writing a book; she talked about organizing workshops, called Stopping Short, for nonworking mothers who used to have high-powered careers; and she talked about returning to full-time journalism.

Her lack of income combined with the costs of raising their two boys in New York City had made Jeff hungrier and more frantic about money than ever. During the elevator ride, trying to make sense of Jeff’s petty theft, Max harkened back to his dead partner’s complaints. Jeff said, “We’re so in debt,” at least twice in any conversation on any subject. He worked it into any topic. Subject: The Berlin Wall is torn down. Jeff’s response: Remember how cheap things were in 1961?

“You were eleven,” Max protested.

“That’s why things were so cheap. All I needed to be happy was twenty five cents for a new Pinky if Fat Joey hit a home run.”

Nan didn’t look helpless that day. She was distraught. She stood waiting at the elevator doors for them. Her straw hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her skin didn’t look pink. It was pale, almost translucent. She had pimples on her forehead, nose and cheeks that she hadn’t bothered to cover with makeup. She wasn’t made-up at all. That was also unusual. Her lips weren’t painted red. They looked thin. Her eyes were less prominent and she had a more authentic American look than ever, a rural woman abandoned to poverty and backbreaking labor. Only Nan was from New Jersey, had gone to Yale, didn’t know how to plant a flower and was lazy. Even though she claimed to be anxious all the time and insisted daily life was too much for her, she had a frantic competence and strength.

Both were gone. Instead, she was eager and brave. Her pupils looked odd, big and uncertain. Max decided she was tranquilized. She stood right at the elevator doors when they opened, eagerly waiting, and yet she backed away as Max appeared and moved toward her. He realized Nan — the actual physical presence of Nan — was strange to him and that in the past he had often been cool to her, not because he truly believed Jeff’s version of their marriage, but because he couldn’t help but feel that as his wife she ought to make him more diligent, rather than provide excuses for his lassitude about work. Max avoided chatting with her on the phone or any friendly overtures she made at their rare social encounters. But this was not the time to withhold himself from her.

Max opened his arms and said, “Nan, I’m sorry.”

Beside him, Brillstein shrank away, hiding near the apartment door. The lawyer spoke in a whisper to someone inside and then Max heard Jeff’s mother’s voice say, “Oh my God!” followed by weeping.

Max reached Nan and embraced her. She was tall. About an inch taller than Max. She didn’t cry. He peeked at her profile and her eye was still clear. She wasn’t breathing. At least he couldn’t feel any inhalations. She was motionless in his arms. She had gained weight after the second child and her back felt soft and loose.

“Breathe,” he whispered.

She did and exhaled words: “I knew it,” she said quietly but in a steady tone. “I just knew it right away. Isn’t that crazy?”

“He loved you,” Max said.

“God, we’re stupid.”

Max leaned away to look at her full in the face. Her big pupils swallowed Max’s reflection. “What do you mean?”

“We lived like jerks, always nagging. We wasted it,” she said. That judgment broke her down. She sobbed and covered up. She bent over quickly, so fast that by the time Max hugged her he was hugging a human bundle, a falling human bundle. They sagged against the hallway and slid down together.