Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

Seven months into the pregnancy, Patricia had hemorrhaged and the baby was asphyxiated. Devastated, she’d sued John Richard for malpractice and AstuteCare, her HMO – otherwise known as ACHMO – for negligence. She said her lawyers were certain she would win. But Patricia, understandably, was depressed. She wanted more, and she didn’t like the idea of waiting for vindication. She wanted… Well, what? Money? To drive John Richard out of his practice? To force him into a public confession?

“Will he admit he made a mistake?” she’d demanded of me two weeks ago. “Will he apologize?

Will he confess he ruined my life?”

Next question. Naturally, I’d felt too sick to tell her the truth.

I spread a thick layer of tart chokecherry jelly on what remained of the toast. As the menu was set, the contract signed, and the first installment check written, I’d tried to warn Patricia gently. John Richard Korman was the most powerful, best-known ob-gyn doctor in town. The Jerk would not go down lightly. He never acknowledged making a mistake. And he’d certainly die before doing so publicly. But Patricia, whose fine-boned facial features and small, quivering nose above her plump body always put me in mind of a rabbit, had stiffened. She was having none of it. She had filed her suits. And she was out for blood.

I brushed crumbs off my hands. I hadn’t wanted to argue with her. I’d told her to sue away, we needed to talk about setting up her party. Sheesh. A headache loomed. I really needed coffee.

I greedily inhaled the luscious scent of ltalian-roast beans as they spilled between my fingers into the grinder. Tap water gushed into the well of my espresso machine. I had thought I wouldn’t talk to Patricia again until tonight, but she had called yesterday. The woman was so obsessed that she’d been frantic to share news. She’d informed me that John Richard wouldn’t be engaging in a prolonged legal battle with her. It seemed the Jerk was having severe financial problems.

Now I must confess, that news made my ears perk up. Being desperate for justice is a psychologically dangerous place to be. You hope that some lie, some transgression, some publicly witnessed crime will trip up your personal enemy. Nothing happens. Meanwhile, the desire for revenge can eat you up, give you insomnia, and – horrors – take away your appetite. You have to let go or die. So you need at least to say you’re starting over and getting on with your life. All of this I had done. But now: Was this really happening? Could I watch the sun rise, sip some espresso, and rejoice in my ex-husband finally facing the music?

The coffee grinder pulverized the beans with a satisfying growl. I didn’t want to be premature. I couldn’t imagine that there would finally be punishment for the man who had broken my left thumb in three places with a hammer. I reached for the coffee doser and touched my hand. The thumb still wouldn’t bend properly even now, seven years after the orthopedic surgeon who’d set it insisted I’d be throwing pizza dough in no time.

“He’s got to pay,” Patricia had insisted shrilly when she’d called yesterday. “I don’t understand why you could never get him to pay, Goldy.”

It hadn’t worked like that. I tamped the grounds into the doser and remembered how stupefied I’d been when John Richard had gone unscathed. This in spite of the fact that he’d repeatedly beaten me. Time after time I’d had to escape from the house clutching Arch tightly, trying to get to a safe house. But after he’d smashed up my body and our marriage, John Richard had gone on with his life, his practice, his girlfriends, and his lifestyle. He’d remarried, divorced again, and taken up right where he’d left off. Until now, it seemed as if the man had been able to get away with anything. The odds looked good that he’d survive Patricia’s legal threats, too.

I ran scalding water into a Limoges demitasse to heat it, then fitted the doser into place. I dumped the water out of the warmed cup, delicately placed it under the doser, and pressed the button. In the face of unrelenting curiosity from the town about the progress of her lawsuits, Patricia had spent most of the last two months at her condo in Keystone, a ski resort just over an hour away from Aspen Meadow. After booking the hockey party, she’d gone back to Keystone for two final weeks of peace, punctuated only by calls to me about her party. She’d discovered what I knew well: that it was nearly impossible to avoid the nosiness and gossip of Aspen Meadow.

Steaming twin strands of espresso spurted into my cup and I frowned. When John Richard and I were married and stories had come to me, of his flings with patients, nurses, and anyone else who fell under his gorgeous-guy spell, I’d confronted him, cried, yelled, threatened. And I’d paid for my protests with the usual pattern of black-and-blue marks: bruises on my upper arms from being grabbed and shaken, a black right eye. Sometimes worse.

“You must have tried to do something,” Patricia had protested. “Why couldn’t you do anything?”

I pushed the doser to stop the flow of coffee. Excuse me, Patricia, but I had done something. I’d stopped listening to the gossip. I’d planned a divorce as I taught myself to make golden-brown loaves of brioche, delicate poached Dover sole, creamy dark chocolate truffles. I’d fantasized about opening a restaurant or becoming a caterer. I’d dutifully kept close to a hundred of my newly developed recipes on our family computer. In one of the Jerk’s last acts before I kicked him out, he’d reformatted the computer’s hard drive. I’d lost every recipe.

I sipped the rich, dark espresso, blinked with caffeine-induced delight, and scowled at the next cupcake pan. Maybe Patricia couldn’t understand why I hadn’t done more. Let’s see: I’d sought help from the church. Our priest hadn’t wanted to hear about John Richard beating me up. Donations from the rich doctor might fall off. And then I’d tried to file criminal charges. But when divorce proceedings began, John Richard’s high-powered lawyer had assured me that pressing criminal charges against his client would threaten his ability to pay child support. Worse-it might even bring on a custody battle.

Faced with such consequences and the fear of losing Arch, I’d given up seeking punishment for John Richard Korman. But the law had changed, and now a bruise-covered spouse didn’t have to press charges. Back then, however, the legal system had failed me. Still, at age twenty-seven, I’d been glad enough to get out of the marriage with my life and my child.

“I can’t believe you couldn’t convince people how bad he was,” Patricia had contended. “I mean, between you and Marla? Come on.”

During the eight years of our marriage, and even in the six years since the divorce, the Jerk’s - behavior was unknown to many, dismissed or disbelieved by others. And yes, he’d dished out disdain and disloyalty to his second ex-wife, Marla Korman, who’d since become my best friend. I grinned, thinking of good old Marla. She’d kill the Jerk if she had the chance, but she’d had a heart attack last year and was trying to be careful.

I should have told Patricia I had tried to have the Jerk penalized in some way, any way. But I’d been determined not to go crazy. Patricia, though, was on the edge. A very dangerous edge. I set down my coffee and stirred another bowl of cake batter. The scent of chocolate cake perfumed the kitchen. Her malpractice suit would put him out of business, Patricia insisted. She apologized that this could mean a loss of child support for Arch. I told her not to worry about us. I’d manage, I always had. Patricia claimed that no matter what, she was going to make John Richard pay, and she was going to bring down ACHMO at the same time. Good for you, I thought now, with an involuntary shiver.