by Susan Rieger
Then personally appeared the above-named Maria M. Durkheim, a.k.a. Maria M. Meiklejohn, and acknowledged the foregoing to be her free act and deed before me.
_______________________________
Geraldine Morris, Notary Public
My commission expires: 10-18-02
TRAYNOR, HAND, WYZANSKI
222 CHURCH STREET
NEW SALEM, NARRAGANSETT 06555
(393) 876-5678
MEMORANDUM
Attorney Work Product
From: David Greaves
To: Sophie Diehl
RE: Meiklejohn/Durkheim Separation Agreement
Date: October 27, 1999
Attachments:
You should be very proud of the work you did in this case. It was a first-rate job. Well done. I know you never want to do a divorce case again, but what about other civil litigation? What about employment law, say, sex discrimination or harassment? What about a right-to-die case? Those sides of our practice are growing, and I bet you’d be terrific at it. Give it a thought. You wouldn’t have to give up the criminal work. And you could work with me or Felix. It’s one of the great benefits of working in a small firm in a midsized city. You don’t have to specialize if you don’t want to. Civil, criminal, plaintiffs, defendants. The right kind of stew for someone like you. It’s always worked for me. I’ve never been bored.
MARIA MATHER MEIKLEJOHN
404 ST. CLOUD STREET
NEW SALEM, NA 06556
Department of Pediatric Oncology
MATHER UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
110 MAPLE AVENUE
NEW SALEM, NA 06556
Will Jacobsen!
* * *
From: Sophie Diehl
To: Maggie Pfeiffer
Date: Fri, 5 Nov 1999 21:42:11
Subject: Will Jacobsen! 11/5/99 9:42 PM
Darling Mags,
Life is picking up. Papa wrote me the best letter. You won’t believe it. I don’t believe it. I’ll show it to you when we have supper tomorrow. He was his old wonderful self. I don’t like to think about why he’s so changed, so I don’t. I also got my annual postcard from him reminding me it was Guy Fawkes Day, the 394th anniversary. Is there a better holiday for an English Catholic Marxist? Made for him.
But there’s other good news too. I’m finished with the Meiklejohn/Durkheims. They signed the agreement. I’m sort of proud of the work I did, but I daren’t tell anyone at the office because they’ll draft me to divorce duty. Too much business in that line of work.
And then there’s Will Jacobsen. I ran into him again this morning in court (another one of my hopeless Trilling motions), and we went out for coffee. He is, as Papa would say, plausible. We had a lively conversation about the Clintons. I’m more of a fan, probably because I’m more forgiving of bad behavior. He was disapproving of the Monica shenanigans. He’s probably not neurotic enough to go for me, but I’d like it if he did. We’ve got things in common, including—sound the trumpets!—European parents. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Probably bad. No Russian Jews lurking in his background per Maman’s instructions. His dad, Anders Jacobsen, is mixed Danish-Norwegian, and teaches Northern European history at Rutgers; he is not a Marxist, only your garden-variety Scandinavian socialist. His mother, an Italian Jew (Giulia Levi), teaches Con Law at Penn. Distant relation of Primo. Will (who is a Willem) said all Italian Jews were related. He wants to go into state politics. Maybe he’s my route to the Court of Appeals. His favorite book is Infinite Jest. His favorite writer, David Foster Wallace. I can’t hold that against him. He’s a guy after all. He’s only been to the Mather Rep once the whole time he’s lived in New Salem. That I can hold against him. He’s a movie person. Loves the first two Godfathers. Another guy thing. Did I mention that he’s gotten much better-looking since you last saw him, with his very dark hair, blue eyes, good strong nose, like an axe, which of course is a pre-req, un grand beau nez as Maman used to say of Papa’s honker. I think he’s got a sense of humor—at least he laughed at my snappers—and he seems to like my looks too. He broke off at one point, when we were talking about our bullyingly intellectual fathers, and said, “You have yellow eyes. I’ve never seen that before.” And then he smiled at me, a kind of Gatsby smile that made my toes curl. Am I to be loved not for my yellow hair, but my yellow eyes?
I guess you could say I’ve won this week’s lottery. I’ve got to know my luck better, like little Jane Durkheim, whose parents worship at the shrine of “knowing your luck.” I don’t know. Is that a better family motto than “pulling up your socks”?
I know you have rehearsal tomorrow afternoon, so you and Matt should come at 8. I’ve laid in four bottles of wine. And they each cost more than $10.
Love,
Sophie
The Rivals
* * *
From: Maggie Pfeiffer
To: Sophie Diehl
Date: Sun, 7 Nov 1999 17:07:04
Subject: The Rivals 11/7/99 5:07 PM
Dearest Sophie—
Dinner was wonderful; you’re getting to be a very good French cook; your bourguignon was meltingly delicious. Have you cooked for your mother? Better, have you ever cooked for Grandmere? That would put her in a proper quandary. In my hearing, she’s never praised anyone’s cooking, not even Bocuse’s. I remember her saying she couldn’t understand how he’d gotten three Michelin stars, one maybe, two a stretch, three an outrage, another sign of the decline of France, since de Gaulle died. Yet she is always telling you everything you do is the best (especially if your mother is in the vicinity). I wonder if your sturdy ego is in part owing to her and her adoration of you along with your sibs. She never veers, even when your mother isn’t around.
The wine was velvety. I suspect it was seriously more than $10. Were we the beneficiaries of your father’s largess as well as yours? We walked home very slowly, practicing walking the crack on the sidewalk. I figured out a trick. Don’t look down, look straight ahead. You have a much better chance of keeping on the crack. I do love good wine, good food, and good company, in ascending order. A perfect evening.
Congratulations on finishing the divorce. I know it’s been hard on you (and on all of us who love you). Don’t do another. I can’t see David asking you again. He saw the toll it took, however good a job you did.
Your father’s letter was wonderful. Dear old John Diehl. When he’s good, he’s very, very good…
As for Willem Jacobsen, he sounds more than plausible. Maybe I’ll run down to the courthouse next week to scope him out.
Still boning up on The Rivals. They still haven’t picked the cast. What are they waiting for?
Love,
Maggie
MARIA MATHER MEIKLEJOHN
404 ST. CLOUD STREET
NEW SALEM, NA 06556
HELEN MAXWELL FINCHER | 1010 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, NY 10028
ELISABETH DREYFUS | 480 RIVERSIDE DRIVE, NEW YORK, NY 10027
Will
* * *
From: Sophie Diehl
To: Maggie Pfeiffer
Date: Mon, 22 Nov 1999 21:45:19
Subject: Will 11/22/99 9:45 PM
Magster,
I have a date! With a lawyer! Will called and invited me to a movie on Sunday. I said I’d like to see the new Almodovar, All About My Mother. (The choice, of course, of the badly behaved.) He was listing toward American Beauty. He said that Denby had been luke on Mother but high on Beauty. I said Denby was very good but sometimes just plain wrong. “Are you always this definite?” he asked. I said I was afraid so. “Good,” he said. Imagine that.
I do like him. He has the look and feel of a decent human being. I just hope I won’t be tired (i.e., cranky). I’ll be coming off Thanksgiving with the family, which is always a test of my character no matter that I love them all madly. There’s always one to-the-death argument per visit. I can see us all getting hot under the collar over who’s worse: Bush or McC
ain? Or: why is Al Gore such a jerk about Clinton? Doesn’t he want to win? You know what it’s like. We throw ourselves into these debates, as if they mattered. And we all want to win, except of course Jake, who privately roots for Maman (for sentimental reasons, d’accord) but publicly assumes a dignified position of analytic neutrality.
Love,
Sophie
P.S. Maman sent me a poem by Louise Glück, “Telemachus’ Detachment.” Do you know it? I’ll show it to you. I think she’s giving me advice. Or maybe permission.
From the desk of Sophie Diehl
TRAYNOR, HAND, WYZANSKI
222 CHURCH STREET, NEW SALEM, NARRAGANSETT 06555 (393) 876-5678
* * *
Shrinkage
* * *
From: Sophie Diehl
To: Maggie Pfeiffer
Date: Wed, 24 Nov 1999 12:17:53
Subject: Shrinkage 11/24/99 12:17 PM
Dear Maggie,
I’ve taken a big step. I’ve decided to grow up, now that I’m 30. This morning I called Rachel Fischer, a professor at the Child Study Center at Mather, and asked her if she could recommend a shrink. I apologized for calling her—conflict of interest (?): she was a Durkheim shrink—but she couldn’t have been nicer. I told her who my stepdad was and asked if she could find someone who didn’t know him, or at least hadn’t trained with him or under him. And no NY Psychoanalytic. I said it didn’t have to be a psychiatrist, and it couldn’t be Isabel Stokes, another Durkheim shrink. She gave me a name, a psychiatric social worker who was trained at New Salem Psychoanalytic, Antonia Phelps. I called her and have an appointment next Tuesday. I had to do it. I sent some confessional emails to David Greaves that were inappropriate (to put it most generously to myself) as communications between boss and underling. It’s time I paid someone to spill to, like a proper grown-up, and stopped leaking all over the place. You must be weary of my spilling. I am. And I’m worried that I’ll never have a decent relationship (with Will or anyone) unless I talk through my bad boyfriend jones.
My plan is to keep this venture to myself (and you, of course) for now. Jake would want to vet her. And of course, Papa will think she’s a quack. He always says he doesn’t “believe” in therapy (and has said it increasingly since Maman married Jake), in exactly the way he says he doesn’t “believe” in creationism.
Have a great Thanksgiving. I’m going for the good-enough.
What would I do without you?
xoxoxo
Sophie
P.S. I forgot to tell you. A headhunter for Farrow Allerton called me yesterday and asked whether I might be interested in talking to them about their new criminal practice. Apparently, one of their partners heard me arguing my latest Trilling motion. I wonder if Fiona knows, if she’s behind this. It’s too soon for me to move, even if I wanted to move (no?), but it certainly was an ego booster. I said I would seriously consider the offer. I suppose the manly thing to do is to tell David and see what he has to offer. I think I’m a very good negotiator when it comes to my clients, but I hate hate hate doing it for myself. WWFWD? Talk to Joe first and have him do the negotiating for me!
* * *
Thanksgiving and Therapy
* * *
From: Maggie Pfeiffer
To: Sophie Diehl
Date: Tue, 30 Nov 1999 11:03:55
Subject: Thanksgiving and Therapy 11/30/99 11:03 AM
Dear Sophie—
I’m so glad Thanksgiving was an unmitigated success. It was lovely of all of you to call and sing “La Marseillaise.” I don’t know what my in-laws thought. They seemed dumbfounded. They don’t understand my relationship with the Diehl clan. They don’t socialize outside the family. Matt and his sisters always found it confining growing up but thought, until they went to college, that everyone’s family spent every weekend with family. I told Howard and Linda that from the time I was 8 until I went to college, I spent every weekend at your place. “But didn’t your parents mind?” “Nope, they thought it good for me,” I said. Did they notice I was gone? “And your grandparents, didn’t you want to see them?” That I could answer safely, they all being dead. At the wedding, I could see they were perplexed that your parents, and not my parents, gave toasts, but I decided I wouldn’t explain if they didn’t ask. And they didn’t ask. My parents had cleaned up for the wedding pretty well, but toasting was not something they could do, unless it was “down the hatch,” or “Cheers.” When my mother took my father home immediately after dinner so he couldn’t get falling-down drunk there, the Davidoffs didn’t think it odd; they thought it was Catholic. Theirs is an insular world, but there’s no malice in them and they’re kind to their children and to me.
I think therapy is a good step. And I agree that you shouldn’t say anything to your parents now. You’re right to think Jake would want to vet the therapist, and your mother would probably be skeptical. She wouldn’t be hostile, like your dad, but she’s too French to think it useful, unless, of course, it was Lacanian. She can’t help herself. The French regard psychoanalysis as acceptable as a kind of graduate school experience, good for one’s intellectual growth, but “therapy” they think infra dig, only for the weak-minded or undisciplined, a.k.a. Les Americains.
Saving the best for last, I’m so glad you had a good time on Sunday with Will. I think, like your mother, you’re happiest when you have a man you can argue with. Did you really think he would be as liberal as you? No one’s as liberal as you and still aspires to political office. You’re unelectable in every state, even Massachusetts.
Love,
Maggie
P.S. I got the part in The Rivals. At the rep. I just got the email. Oh bliss, oh rapture.
MARIA MATHER MEIKLEJOHN
90 Germyn Street
NEW SALEM, NA 06556
You Won’t Believe This, Part II
* * *
From: Sophie Diehl
To: Maggie Pfeiffer
Date: Thu, 9 Dec 1999 19:44:20
Subject: You Won’t Believe This, Part II 12/9/99 7:44 PM
Dear Mags,
I just tried calling you. Where are you? I had a jaw-dropping moment this evening, in Good Foods. I still can’t wrap my mind around it. You won’t believe it. I don’t believe it. But, of course, I do. I was there.
As I was standing in front of the ice cream freezer, trying to decide between Narragansett Dairy’s Compton Salted Caramel or New Salem Nougatine, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I wheeled around, almost expecting Harry. But no. It was Daniel Durkheim, the almost ex-husband of my divorce client. “Hello,” he said. “I thought it was you.” “Oh,” I said. “Hello.” I started to turn back to the freezer. He spoke again: “I was hoping I’d run into you.” He paused, smiling slightly. “Oh,” I said, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to think. How would Emily Post handle this situation? He went on. “I was wondering if you’d like to have a drink sometime?” I must have looked as astonished as I felt. “Are you serious?” I asked. “Of course,” he said, “why wouldn’t I be?” “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “you’re the man who forever ruined Golightly’s for me. Why would I want to have a drink with you?” He flushed scarlet, then turned and walked away.
I will never ever understand men, not as long as I live. I bought both ice creams and am now, as I sit in front of the computer, eating alternately out of the two cartons. Next up, I’m going to make myself a stiff gin and tonic and watch at least three episodes of Tinker Tailor. I worship Alec Guinness.
Love,
Sophie
P.S. Yesterday Will and I went to see Mansfield Park. When I told him earlier in the day I wanted to see it, he had no idea what it was. I was so taken aback. “Haven’t you read Jane Austen?” I asked. Shamefacedly (well, sort of, he doesn’t shame easily), he admitted he hadn’t. “Not even Pride and Prejudice?” I asked. He shook his head. “How can that be?” His response: “I wasn’t an English major.” I was
aghast. “What has that to do with it? Didn’t they make you read any novels at Penn? Didn’t they have gen ed courses?” He went on the offensive. “You haven’t read any David Foster Wallace,” he said. “He’s the greatest writer of his, our generation.” I told him I had tried but came a cropper. “He’s like Bellow,” I said. “So many words.” He gave me a kiss. “I’ll give the old girl a try,” he said. And he’s doing that. He just called to say he picked up a copy of P&P. In a spirit of reciprocal good sportsmanship, I am reading one of DFW’s essays, “Neither Adult Nor Entertainment,” about the porn Oscars. It’s very good, funny too. All the women are called “starlets” and the men “woodmen.” Who else would think to write about this, besides, of course, Hunter Thompson?
P.P.S. Joe came through. David gave me a $25,000 raise (not a bonus!) for turning down Farrow Allerton. Joe said David was at first stunned. Who goes recruiting raw associates? Then he got alarmed. Good. He first offered to raise me $10,000. Joe told him to get serious. The negotiations went two more rounds. Joe is the best. The next day, David asked me why I didn’t come to him myself. I’d prepared for that, not wanting to look craven. I quoted the old saying that any person who represents herself has a fool for a client. David raised an eyebrow, then congratulated me. He’s the next best.
TRAYNOR, HAND, WYZANSKI
222 CHURCH STREET
NEW SALEM, NARRAGANSETT 06555
(393) 876-5678
TIME SHEET
Attorney Work Product
Client: Maria Mather Meiklejohn
