The Burden of Proof

by Scott Turow

  The thought swung through him like the closing of a heavy door. Not a thing would actually occur. He had proved that convincingly when he sat inches from her, naked as Adam and Eve, and had been powerless, inert. Her troubled talk of leaving her husband was just that—angry idle talk. She was merely becoming accustomed to the fact that the pathways in her life were, finally, marked out, established. At the age of fifty-six, he had now managed to lead the emotional life of a seventeen-year-old, full of moonstruck fantasies that would never be fulfilled. The anguish sang through him for a short time with the perfect reverberations of a high note rung from crystal.

  And somehow, then, he thought of Clara. The association was not direct, for his thoughts were actually bittersweet, some admiration of the pure sentience of his present state. He had been immobile throughout, but now a new shock passed through him, for he recognized, with a precision that passed beyond the realm of any allowable doubt, what it was that Clara had been seeking when she turned away from him. Just this: the mercy of passion. And here in his chair he was equally certain—sure, if he had learned a thing about her in the decades—sure not merely that she had never found that grace but that she had discovered that for her—in her—it would never be attainable. Never. In this instant, there was not a grain of ill feeling, only comprehension, definite—complete. Eyes wide, he sat, somehow rebuked by the enormous silence of the large home and the harshness of these judgments which he made about himself and his entire life. His blood was coursing; the image of that young woman a hundred miles away still seemed so near, so compelling, that he remained half inclined to lift his hand in greeting. And yet he held that thought of Clara at her ultimate moment, grappling with desperation, as the biblical figures were portrayed in lush oil paintings wrestling God’s winged angels of death. Never, she had thought. Never, he thought now. Never.

  “I was engaged,” said Clara that night as they sat in the dark car over the river, with the sweet julep smell of the liquor around them. “We broke it off a year ago last June.” It was nearly December now. The street lamps and scattered light from the sky, vaguely refracted, cast deep shadows; he could see only the movement of her eyes as she looked ahead through the car window. Some spirit of bravery gripped her, though. There was a finer, noble look to her as she spoke; Stern was impressed, as he had been often lately, by her beauty. “His name was Hamilton Kreitzer. Do you remember him? From law school?”

  The name meant nothing to Stern. He had the vaguest image of a fellow with a callow, luminescent smile and half a head of wiry blondish hair.

  “He’s older. Than we are. Than I am. He had left Easton before I started. But, well, he was glamorous. You know, he came driving out on the weekends. He had that little English car, whatever it’s called. The roadster. He’d come flying onto campus with the top down in the middle of the winter and his scarf blowing behind him. He went out for some time with Betty Tabourney’s sister. He had a terrible reputation. But girls don’t ever know what they really like, do they? He’s very handsome. You have to give him that. He’s got a tiny little mustache like Errol Flynn. And, of course, he’s quite well-to-do. His father is one of Daddy’s clients. They make candy. You see it in all the five-and-dimes. Packaged stuff. It’s been stale whenever I’ve bought it. At any rate.” She stopped to adjust herself in the seat. She was probably not accustomed to speaking at such length. For a moment, even in the dark, Stern could discern some tentative reflex: she was not certain that she wanted to go on. Then she straightened somewhat and continued, looking again through the front window, raising that fine profile. “They call him Ham. Nice name for a Jewish boy.” She laughed. “Of course, my parents liked that. You know how they are. They don’t like anything to be ‘too Jewish,’ which means Jewish at all.”

  Stern made a sound of acknowledgment, assent. He knew what she was saying.

  “At any rate, I saw him one night at a dance, the Grover Hospital Cotillion. He was just out of the service, going to law school. I was with another boy, but we spoke, you know how that is, flirted, and he called me up the next week and asked me to be his date at another of these dances. I knew half a dozen girls who had gone out with him, and not one of them with a decent thing to say, but I was so thrilled. Oh.” She closed her eyes, she shook her head, overwhelmed. “I was so delighted to have all my friends, everyone I knew, see me with Ham Kreitzer.”

  She found her drink in her hands—she seemed to have forgotten it—and nipped at it briefly. He could see it was not much to her taste.

  “I was quite surprised when he called after that. But he honestly seemed to enjoy my company. He told me how I’d blossomed since college.” She threw a hand in the air for expression, then regained herself and made a sound that led Stem to believe that in the dark she might have blushed. “Well, I had grown up a good deal. I suppose he was attracted to the side of me that didn’t think he was all that important. Which was there, even though you wouldn’t know it to listen to me now. He enjoyed the challenge of winning me over. And, of course, I listened to him. He liked to talk about himself. So many men do.”

  Across the seat from her, Stern smiled, but she was too caught up to find any special meaning in her remark.

  “But when you got to know him, he was like everybody else. He had so many schemes. He hates his father, despises the poor man, and naturally, after he was dismissed from law school, he felt he had no other choice, and so he has to work beside his father every day. He wants to break away so desperately and of course he never will.” She turned to Stern. “I felt something for him. And I believe it was mutual. But he was also at the age at which it was expected that he would get married. He’d had his flings or wild oats, or whatever you call it. And I’m socially acceptable. My parents are, that is. So we were engaged. I loved to sit and hold his hand, just watch him. He is such a handsome man. I couldn’t believe he was mine. It all seemed so magnificent. My,” she said. For the first time in the dark, she touched her eyes, but she drew herself together. She had her own momentum now.

  “Of course, that’s not the end of the story. We were engaged for fourteen months. I had to have a June wedding. Two weeks before the ceremony, I got a phone call. I could tell he was far away. ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t go through with it.’ I wasn’t surprised. I’d realized by then that he was really quite a little boy. I knew he would be terrified. He didn’t say where he was. It turned out that he was on Catalina Island. And that one of the girls had disappeared from the packaging line—I’m sure she was on Catalina Island, too. I didn’t care about that. It was me he didn’t want. Whether he preferred someone else was beside the point. And then, of course, there was one more problem.” Across the seat, she turned in Stern’s direction, while the heat purred, pouring up thickly from beneath the dash. “I was pregnant,” she said.

  He realized she was watching him to see if she could catch some flicker of his reaction in the dark. And she had judged him correctly. Her news instilled not merely shock but something close to panic. But as a child in a home rife with torment he had learned to save all expression and he showed nothing now; not a ripple to the surface.

  “Are you shocked?” she asked.

  He drew his breath and reflected.

  “Yes,” he said at last. There was no avenue for diplomacy.

  “I was, too. Not at how it had happened, naturally. And I don’t want you to think that I was taken advantage of, or that I was left behind like some dirty conquest. We had carried on that way for many months. I think, frankly, that I liked the idea of it better than anything else. The secret. The romance. Wasn’t this what the world was supposed to be about?” She stopped. “Well, listen to me.” She seemed to consider looking over once more, but even she was not that courageous. Stern fought back the same cold panic. He regretted suddenly that she was telling him all this; but that, he realized, was the point. Somewhere down the bank, voices, a man’s and a woman’s, were raised, then passed.

  “Naturally, I cou
ldn’t believe I was in that state. It was only a month. I hoped for a while that something would happen. But it didn’t. Then I thought about killing myself. And I very nearly did. I actually got hold of some sleeping pills. I fell asleep one night holding the bottle in my hands, and I remember”—she laughed and tossed her head—“that after an hour or two I jolted awake and I thought I had done it, and I actually accepted it, the whole idea, for just that one second, and then was glad I had the chance to think better of it. I was sure that telling my parents would be the worst thing I’d ever done, but it was even more difficult than I’d imagined. Lord,” she said suddenly, “I never want to do anything like that again.” Again she touched her eyes. “My father was monstrously angry. Monstrously. And of course they wanted me to marry Ham, which was out of the question. We quarreled about that for another week. But finally my father took me to Mexico City. The flight was eleven hours each way. We had to fly through Chicago. And I was so sick coming back, I thought I would die. But it was taken care of.

  “And I really have very little now. I know how silly that sounds. I have so much compared to most people. And even compared to what I had before, there’s no real difference. But I feel as if the whole world’s changed. I gave up my job before the wedding. Because Ham wanted me to. That’s what brings me around the office. And naturally I’m ashamed. I really don’t know who’s heard about this. I imagine everyone. I go into a movie theater or a store or the concert hall and I assume that every person knows. That they’re whispering. You know how unkind people are.

  “So,” she said. “That’s the story. It’s terrible, don’t you think?”

  “Painful,” said Stern.

  A breath, almost a sob, rattled through her, and she nodded.

  “Do you know what humiliates me most? That I didn’t realize what I wanted. That I was almost twenty-five years old and had no idea. I should have known better than to care for the likes of Ham Kreitzer. I did know better. And I couldn’t help myself.” She lifted her arm in the dark to see her watch.

  They drove largely in silence. At her home, he began to get out of the car to open her door, then stopped.

  “This was a very fine evening.”

  “Oh, certainly.” She laughed. “You’ll be indentured to George Murray for the rest of your life and your date turns out to wear a scarlet letter.”

  Stern looked at her directly.

  “I heard the most wonderful music played on the piano.”

  She reverted to the gestures of the rich, and kissed him, French style, on each cheek. Then she left the car by herself and ran up the concrete stoop of her parents’ Georgian home. She waved to him from the doorway.

  Driving away, he still felt the liquor. But he knew he would never sleep. There was a briefcase full of work at home. And the problem of the car to be fully contemplated, waiting like some vexing puzzle he knew it was his responsibility to solve. But he could not make his mind work over those things. Even a few blocks away, he recognized his emotions. He was thrilled. Thrilled. The cool racing beat of high excitement was in his blood. He was thrilled—by her trust, her depth. There was wild, exciting news in her confession of a carnal side. But what thrilled him most, Mr. Alejandro Stern, immigrant American, refined rascal, placid scheming soul—what thrilled him most was that he knew now she was truly available to him.

  PART THREE

  31

  GREETING HELEN ON SUNDAY NIGHT, he was unprepared for his tender feelings. How welcome the scent of her perfume, her very form, as he lifted his hands to embrace her. Ah, Helen. In her doorway, he took her in his arms and lolled her about. They both laughed. Even now, though, the thought, the ache for Sonny was not far away.

  “Tell me of your journey,” Stern insisted.

  She described Texas, hot and desolate. You drive seventy-five on the highways and the city towers loom ahead through the shimmering heat and seem to come no closer.

  “You were bad while I was gone,” she said. They were in the kitchen; Helen was tossing a salad and Stern was making a faltering effort at assistance while he drank his wine.

  “Me?”

  “I called last night and got your machine. At eleven o’clock.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “I was working,” he said. “Dixon’s case,” he added to enhance his credibility. He had attempted to reach Dixon all day. He wanted the man back in town at once. He phoned the island house directly a number of times, and finally called Elise, Dixon’s secretary, at home—she could reach Dixon twenty-four hours a day, like the President. Today, however, Dixon was out of touch, lost under the Caribbean sun. Perhaps he had done the wise thing and decided never to return or, more realistically, wanted to enjoy, unencumbered, the last breath of freedom. Certainly, Dixon knew best how grave his problems were. There was a reason that he felt he had to get away.

  In the meantime, Stern stood in Helen’s kitchen, if not lying to her, then avoiding the truth. To what point? he wondered. He had no idea what to do. Go on? Long? Suffer? There was at all moments this intense sensation of heat. Sooner or later his resistance would erode; he would seek out Sonny and perform some lunatic act. Today at home, he had been utterly useless. He came to rest, and sat, mouth agape, eyes caught, replaying all the same images in a heart-bursting swoon. He was hopelessly smitten. But what about the present? The world? Here was Helen, decent, capable, and kind. How should he treat her? He had no plans, except a vague inclination to avoid sleeping with her tonight, for the sake of decency perhaps, or more likely because he could not stand further stimulation.

  Helen as usual had prepared a splendid meal, shrimp rémoulade, his favorite, with two warm vegetables and potatoes. She wanted this to be a glorious reunion. Just last week, in speaking about Miles, Helen had said in the mildest, most casual fashion that when she divorced she could not imagine marrying again. There was no emphasis, but she clearly intended to describe that state of mind in the past tense. Stern had not missed the point but had prudently allowed the observation to pass. Now, over time, he would have to maneuver gently for distance.

  They ate and chatted. He was grateful, even in his punished, overwrought state, for their constant amiability. Stern pushed the potatoes aside with his fork.

  “You like those,” Helen told him.

  A Stern face: a world of emotions too hard to express. “I am contemplating a diet,” he admitted.

  “Dieting?” Helen took a bite, chewed once, and eyed him acutely. The intelligence flashed in her eye. He felt his stomach sink. What in the world had led him to conceive of her over the years as not bright? “I was right,” she said. “You’re seeing someone younger, Sandy, aren’t you?”

  Now what? Why is lying so often the truth? Seeing? Oh yes, he was seeing. On the air, in the sky. A holographic projection. He was seeing someone younger, all the time.

  He had been still a few seconds.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Helen looked straight at him. She said, “Shit.”

  A moment passed.

  “Well,” said Helen.

  He could not think of a single comforting word.

  “I’ll live,” she told him.

  Tongue, speak. He merely watched.

  Helen got up from the table.

  He found her by the island cutting board in the fancy kitchen Miles had built her before he set himself free. Chin high, she watched the darkening sky through a broad window, her view partly obscured by an apple tree that had blossomed magnificently only a few weeks ago.

  He touched both her elbows as he came up behind her.

  “Helen.”

  She reached around herself to hold his hands.

  “I knew this was too soon. I should have let you get over all of it.”

  “Helen, please do not—” Overreact? “Helen, this is not—”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “You’re hooked.” She looked back at him. “Aren’t you?”

  He closed his eyes rather than respond.

  She turned away and cru
shed her fist squarely in the middle of her nose. She wanted desperately not to cry.

  “I’m really being miserable.”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  “You didn’t make any promises.” She eyed him. “How young?”

  He considered avoidance and gave up the thought.

  “Forty,” he said. “Forty-one.” Pregnant. One-breasted. Married to someone else. And not interested in me. The utter madness of it, for a moment, almost drove him to the floor with shame.

  Helen shrugged. “At least you’re sane.”

  He nearly groaned.

  Eventually, they returned to the table. He offered no details of this new interest—how could he?—and Helen courageously refused to ask. She told him that Maxine, after her day with Kate, had remarked on Kate’s drawn look; she did not have the glow of some pregnant women. Hearing the remark, he thought at The once of Sonny, then was pierced to see how quick he had been to skip beyond his concerns for his daughter.

  As soon as he had his coffee, he went to the closet for his hat. At the door, he took Helen in his arms, and she held him for a moment.

  “You’re not going to mind if I tell you I don’t want to see you, are you?” she asked. “Under the circumstances?”

  “Of course not.” He kissed her briefly and walked into the tender night air, toward his auto, full of the pangs of terrible regret. Truly now, he was losing his grip. He had given up the best part of his actual life to indulge a high-school fantasy. But through all this immediate anguish, his heart still rose. One tie that bound, now severed. There were a thousand others, but his intent was clear. He was going to surmount all obstacles, each of them. He felt as valiant as a knight. He walked down the suburban avenue with a determined step, full of momentary pain, and the winging feel of freedom, of wild, improbable dreams.

  32

  MONDAY WAS A DAY of unexpected communications.