Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

The warden and the deputy exchange a glance. “Well, because of the toe-lickers,” says the deputy.

“You’re afraid that someone is going to suck our toes?”

“Yes,” the deputy says, deadpan. “Trust me, it’s for your own protection. It’s like a conjugal visit with your foot.”

For just a heartbeat I picture the life I could have had if I’d joined a sterile corporate law firm, on the partner track. I imagine meeting my clients in paneled wood conference rooms, instead of repurposed storage closets that smell like bleach and pee. I imagine shaking the hand of a client whose hand isn’t trembling-from meth withdrawal or abject terror at a justice system he doesn’t trust.

But there are always trade-offs. When I met Micah, he was a fellow in ophthalmology at Yale-New Haven. He examined me and said I had the most beautiful colobomas he’d ever seen. On our first date I told him I really did believe justice was blind, and he said that was only because he hadn’t had a chance to operate yet. If I hadn’t married Micah, I would have probably followed the rest of the law review staff to sleek chrome offices in big cities. Instead, he went into practice, and I stopped clerking to give birth to Violet. When I was ready to go back to work, Micah was the one who reminded me of the sort of law I used to champion. Thanks to his salary, I was able to practice it. I’ll make the money, Micah used to tell me. You make the difference. As a public defender I was never going to get rich, but I’d be able to look at myself in the mirror.

And since we live in a country where justice is supposed to be meted out equally, no matter how much money you have or what age you are or what your race or gender or ethnicity is, shouldn’t public defenders be just as smart and aggressive and creative as any attorney for hire?

So I flatten my hands on the table. “You know, Warden, I don’t play golf. But I do wear a bra. You know who else does? My friend Harriet Strong, who’s a staff attorney for the ACLU. We went to law school together, and we try to have lunch once a month. I think she’d be fascinated to hear about this meeting, considering Connecticut prohibits discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity, and given that only female lawyers or those lawyers identifying as female would even be wearing bras when visiting clients in this facility. Which means that your policy is infringing on attorneys’ rights and is preventing us from providing counsel. I’m also pretty sure Harriet would love to talk to the Women’s Bar Association of Connecticut to see how many other female lawyers have complained. In other words, this falls smack into the category of You are fucked if this gets out in the press . So the next time I come to see a client, I am going to take my thirty-four C Le Mystère demi-cup with me, and-pardon the metaphor-I am going to assume there will not be any fallout. Would I be assuming correctly?”

The warden’s mouth tightens. “I’m confident we can revisit the underwire ban.”

“Good,” I say, gathering my briefcase. “Thanks for your time, but I have to get to court.”

I sail out of the little room, Arthur at my heels. As soon as we are outside the prison, in the blinding sunlight, he grins. “Remind me not to wind up opposite you in court.”

I shake my head. “Do you really play golf?”

“I do when it means sucking up to a judge,” he says. “Are you really a thirty-four C?”

“You’ll never know, Arthur,” I laugh, and we head to our separate cars in the parking lot, off to minister to two very different worlds.

–

MY HUSBAND AND I do not sext. Instead our phone conversations consist of a roll call of nationalities: Vietnamese. Ethiopian. Mexican. Greek. As in “Where should we get takeout from tonight?” But when I get out of my meeting at the jail, there is a message waiting for me from Micah: Sorry I was an asshole this morning.

I grin, and text him back. No wonder our kid curses.

Date 2nite? Micah writes.

My thumbs fly over my phone. U had me at asshole, I type. Indian?

I vindalook forward to it, Micah responds.

See, this is why I can’t ever stay mad at him.

–

MY MOTHER, WHO grew up in North Carolina on the debutante circuit, believes there is nothing a little cuticle softener and eye cream can’t fix. To this end, she is always trying to get me to take care of myself, which is code for try to make an effort to look nice, which is completely ridiculous, given that I have a small child and about a hundred needy clients at any given moment, all of whom deserve my time more than the hairdresser who could put highlights in my hair.

Last year, for my birthday, my mother gave me a gift I have consciously avoided until today: a gift certificate to a day spa for a ninety-minute massage. I can do a lot in ninety minutes. File one or two briefs, argue a motion, make and feed Violet breakfast, even (if I’m going to be honest) squeeze in a rollicking romp in the sheets with Micah. If I have ninety minutes, the last thing I want to do is spend it naked on a table while some stranger rubs oil all over me.

But, as my mother points out, it’s expiring in a week, and I haven’t used it yet. So-because she knows I’m too busy to take care of details like this, she has taken the liberty of booking me into Spa-ht On, a day spa catering to the busy professional woman, or so it says on the logo. I sit in the waiting room until I am called, wondering if they really thought that name through. Spa-ht on? Or Spat on?

Either one sounds unpalatable to me.

I stress about whether or not I am supposed to wear panties under my robe, and then struggle to figure out how to open my locker and secure it. Maybe this is the grand plan-clients are so frustrated by the time they get to the massage that they cannot help but leave in a better state than they started. “I’m Clarice,” my therapist tells me, in a voice as soft as a Tibetan gong. “I’m just going to step out while you get comfortable.”

The room is dark, lit with candles. There is some insipid music playing. I shrug off my robe and slippers and climb under the sheet, fitting my face into the little hole in the massage table. A few moments later, there is a soft knock. “Are we ready?”

I don’t know. Are we?

“Now, you just relax,” Clarice says.

I try. I mean, I really do. I close my eyes for about thirty seconds. Then I blink them open and stare at her feet in their sensible sneakers through the face hole of the massage table. Her firm hands begin to run the length of my spine. “Have you worked here a long time?” I ask.

“Three years.”

“I bet there are some clients you walk in and see and wish you didn’t have to touch,” I muse. “I mean, like back hair? Ugh.”

She doesn’t answer. Her feet shift on the floor. I wonder if she’s thinking that I’m one of those clients, now.

Does she really see my body like a doctor would-a slab to be worked upon? Or is she seeing the cellulite in my ass and the roll of fat that I usually hide under my bra strap and thinking that the yoga mom she rubbed down last hour was in much better shape?

Clarice, wasn’t that the name of the girl from Silence of the Lambs ?

“Fava beans and a nice Chianti,” I murmur.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry,” I mutter, my chin mashed into the massage table. “Hard to talk in this contraption.” I can feel my nose getting stuffy. When I lie facedown like this too long, that happens. And then I have to mouth-breathe and I think that the therapist is listening and sometimes I even drool through the hole. More reasons I don’t like massages.