The Holdout

by Laurel Osterkamp

  The expert witness answers in concise little bullet points. I gaze at the defense lawyer’s hand to see if there’s a ring. There isn’t one, and he isn’t my type anyway, but I can’t help but be curious

  I sigh and look at the clock again.

  Finally lunch comes. I stall and check my phone and go to the bathroom so I won’t have to eat lunch with Four. She usually engineers the outing, so not eating with her most likely means eating alone. Honestly, that would be better.

  Maybe I am actually stuck up.

  When it’s safe I take the elevator down. Outside I see Ten sitting in the courtyard. He’s reading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People again but he looks up and sees me, so I go over to say hi.

  “How’s the book?”

  He scrunches up his face and jabs the page he’s on with his index finger. “There’s this guy, and he’s trying to chop down a tree. But he’s tired and he doesn’t have a good saw.”

  “Okay,” I reply, as if we just reached the end of a long conversation. I start to walk away but Ten continues so I stay put.

  “The point of the story is you need to take care of yourself and be prepared if you want to get things done. But here’s my question: why is he cutting down the tree in the first place?”

  This is most I’ve ever heard Ten say all at once.

  “Umm, does he need firewood?”

  “It doesn’t say!” Ten snaps his book shut. “It ought to say! Does he need firewood, or wood to build a house, or is he just an environmental terrorist? I can’t understand why Stephen Covey would have someone be so destructive without an explanation.” His jaw shifts and hardens in exasperation. “If a real estate agent needs to chop down a tree for any reason, he has hoops to jump through and papers to fill out.” Ten shakes his head in disgust, and suddenly switches gears without loosing his intensity. “I’m hungry. Are you eating lunch?”

  The sun is shining today, a rarity for November in Iowa, and I’m warm enough with just my cardigan sweater. “I was going to Subway to pick up a sandwich and then go for a walk.”

  Ten stands up. His eyes don’t reach mine. I’d guess he’s an inch or two shorter than me. “Do you mind if I tag along?”

  I think of Grant. He was always finding me alone, wanting my time, invading my space. But I was a willing party.

  The wind gusts suddenly, and it reminds me that winter is rapidly approaching, no matter how deceptive today’s weather might be. I button up my cardigan and pull its long sleeves down so my hands are covered.

  “Umm…” I stall. I shouldn’t say no. “Maybe I’ll actually sit there and eat. It’s funny how quickly the weather can change.”

  Ten’s eyes crease as his mouth shifts into a crooked smile. “Well, you know what they say. If you don’t like the weather in Iowa, just wait five minutes.”

  One of the oldest, stupidest jokes in the world. Is there anywhere that “they” don’t say that about? When I don’t laugh or even smile in appreciation, Ten’s face drops. “I don’t have to come, if you don’t want me to. I understand needing time to clear your head. Listening to that trial is enough to drive anyone crazy.”

  Then he grins at me again and lopsided dimples appear.

  “No, no,” I answer. “Of course you should come along. I’d love the company.”

  We walk together companionably down the sidewalk. Cars are chugging along on the street beside us and the wind is still strong. Neither is conducive for talking. But I try anyway.

  “So this is your third jury duty in two years? How is that even possible?”

  “Because I was called by different branches of the court.” We start to cross the street, but he raises his arm without quite touching me, holding me back as a car speeds by. After it’s safe, we continue walking. “For example,” he says, “you won’t get called by federal court for a while after you’re done with this jury. But state or county court could summon you any time.”

  “And you’ve been called by all three?” I ask.

  He nods his head. “The first one was just for a DUI, so it didn’t take long.” Ten puts his hands in his pockets, his book now tucked underneath his arm. “The second was for state court. That was a bigger deal.”

  “Was it a criminal case?”

  “Yeah. It was crazy, actually.” We reach the Subway and Ten holds the door open for me. We walk in and I’m hit with the smell of baking bread and the closeness of the space. Every extra inch is taken up with booths, counters, and the pop machine. There’s barely any line.

  “Can you tell me the details?”

  Ten is studying the menu above the counter but he answers while he reads the choices. “A guy was accused of identity theft. He paid off a nurse when he was staying at a hospital and she gave him patient social security numbers.”

  “Wow, so was he guilty?”

  “Oh yeah. We found him guilty on all counts.”

  We’ve inched up in line and I order a turkey sandwich with cheese, cucumbers, and mayonnaise. Ten orders a BLT with chipotle sauce.

  After we’ve paid, gotten our drinks, and found a table, I resume the conversation.

  “Okay, so did the guy go to prison?”

  Ten has already taken a bite, so he sort of nods and shrugs simultaneously rather than speaking his answer. After a sip of Coke he talks. “I’m pretty sure that’s what the judge sentenced him too. All we did was decide whether or not he was guilty.

  My brain slips into a Theta state as I contemplate this. “Doesn’t that weigh on you though? I mean, a guy’s fate was in your hands. What if you were wrong?”

  “We weren’t wrong. He was definitely guilty.” Ten takes another bite of his sandwich and the corners of his mouth turn up as he chews. I notice his cheeks are slightly flushed, just a little bit of pink underneath his tan skin. I’ll bet he was really cute when he was little.

  “Okay,” I say. “Sure. But there have been cases where someone has been sentenced to life in prison, or even death, and it turns out he’s innocent.” I open my bag of Cheetos for emphasis. “And what about our case? I keep thinking they’ll settle, because why would they leave a 14 million dollar decision to a bunch of schmos like us? I just don’t get the jury system.”

  With that I dive into my own sandwich. I try smiling while I chew like Ten did but I don’t think I’m as effective at it.

  Ten wipes his mouth with the one thin paper napkin that was included in his sandwich bag. “I suppose it is sort of screwed up.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I say as I fiddle with my straw. “I think it’s an ingenious system and the foundation of our democracy and all that good stuff. But people are flawed, right? Everyone is flawed.”

  Ten blinks like I might be asking him a trick question. “Sure,” he concedes.

  “So the jury system has to be flawed too. For that matter, everything is flawed.”

  “No,” he says. Ten pushes a chip into his mouth, chews it quickly and swallows. “That’s a huge leap. Perfection is everywhere and some of it is created by flawed people.”

  I push my shoulders down and cock my head to the side. “Like what? Give me an example.”

  “My baby nephew. He’s a product of my very flawed big-sister and her flawed husband, but when I held him for the first time, I thought, ‘this is perfection.’”

  How sweet. He likes babies. Does he also keep a dream journal? I bet his iPod is full of songs by Snow Patrol.

  “How old is your nephew?”

  Ten grins and the shape of his face changes yet again. “Two weeks. I didn’t think a fleshy blob could be so adorable.” He gets out his phone to show me a picture. “Here,” he says, handing me the phone. “I know all babies are beautiful, but you have to admit that this one is particularly amazing.”

  I look at the picture and see generic baby. But I nod my head and agree. “He’s gorgeous.”

  Ten laughs. “I can’t wait until he’s a little older. I’m going to be the fun uncle who teaches him to play golf.”

/>   “Golf?”

  “Yeah. I love golf.”

  I nod and look down. Then I take a bite of my sandwich so I don’t have to say anything. But Ten sees right through me.

  “What’s wrong with golf?” he demands.

  “Nothing,” I murmur through chews.

  He raises his eyebrows. It’s a challenge.

  I swallow my bite and take a sip of my drink. “Fine. I’ve just always thought of golf as something that old, white guys do while their wives are home making bologna sandwiches with Miracle Whip and Wonder Bread. Meanwhile, their kids are playing Frisbee in the backyard.”

  “I love Frisbee too!” Ten laughs. “But when I play golf I only speak Portuguese, and if I hear anyone playing NPR I take a swig of my Colt 45 and spit on them.”

  I burst out laughing. Maybe I underestimated this guy. “Really?” I wrinkle my brows together. “Portuguese?”

  He laughs some more. “Hell, yeah.” He becomes more serious. “My mom was Portuguese. She taught me some.”

  “Okay,” I say, unsure how to respond. I’m about to ask him more about his mother but my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and see that my dad is calling.

  “Hold on,” I tell Ten. “I have to take this.”

  I press the answer button. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Dad always starts his phone conversations this way.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just eating lunch with…I’m just eating lunch.”

  “Okay, well I’ll make this quick. Aunt Natalie called. She’s having everyone over tonight so we can watch your show together. Won’t that be fun?”

  At the mention of “my show” I bolt up from my seat. Ten stopped giving me his don’t I know you from somewhere look days ago, but if he can overhear any of this conversation, I’m done. Ten’s eyes widen when I stand up so quickly, so I just mouth “sorry” and walk over to the corner of the tiny restaurant.

  “What do you mean by ‘everyone’?”

  “You, me, Jack, and Ian. Eddie is going to stay home with the kids since the show is on after their bedtime.”

  My heart suddenly feels like it’s gained a couple of pounds and its pants are too tight. I have to focus on my breathing to make sure I do it correctly. Tonight is when Grant and I make out in the bushes. Tonight is where I make so many stupid, embarrassing decisions. Tonight is what I want to erase not just from my mind, but from its very existence.

  “Robin, honey. Are you there?”

  “Yeah,” I peep.

  “Great. So seven o’clock? I can’t believe you’re in the final five! It’s so exciting. I wish I could just speed up time and watch it right now.”

  I rub my forehead with the palm of my hand. I can’t remember ever doing anything that has made my dad this proud: not when I made honor roll, not when I won my high school swim meets, not when I played Laura in a college production of Glass Menagerie. Certainly there hasn’t been much to make him proud in the nine years since I’ve been out of school. I can’t disappoint him now. He’ll be plenty disappointed in several hours anyway, but maybe my presence will dissipate his inevitable distress.

  “Sounds good, Dad. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Bye, Honey.”

  I hang up and go back to the table where Ten has resumed reading. When I sit he closes his book and I pick up my sandwich, but I put it back down without taking a bite.

  “Are you okay?” Ten asks. “You look kind of pale.”

  I look at my lunch. The grayish-brownish turkey was enticing just moments ago, as were the neon orange Cheetos. Now they’re the last thing I want. “That was my dad. He wants me to go to my aunt’s tonight for a family get-together. And I hate family get-togethers. But…” I look at Ten’s face. His eyes are kind. I bet he’s the sort of guy who has a lot of female friends; he’s the buddy but never the boyfriend.

  I won’t bother this guy I barely know with my stupid problems.

  “…but I’ll be fine. It’s just one evening, right?”

  “Sure,” he says. “If I can get through three jury duties in two years, you can get through one family dinner.”

  “But you’re not through the third jury duty yet.” I look at the clock on my phone. “We should probably get back.” I put my sandwich and Cheetos into their plastic bag. “I’ll take these and save them for later.”

  Ten has finished his lunch. He takes a final, loud sip of his soda. “Shall we?”

  “We shall.” I get up and so does he. When we’re back outside the sun is out and the wind has died down. Ten looks at his watch. In the age of cell phones, what kind of a guy still wears a watch? It looks expensive, probably gold plated. Maybe it was a present, perhaps from a girlfriend.

  “You know,” he says. “We still have twenty minutes. Do you want to walk a little before we head back?”

  We’re standing face to face, me a little bit taller, him a little more mysterious than he was an hour before. I don’t think, I just answer. “Sure. It would be nice to get some fresh air and exercise before we sit in a box all afternoon.”

  He smiles. Those dimples are kind of nice. Maybe he isn’t the buddy type. Maybe a girlfriend did give him that watch.

  We turn the corner, away from the traffic, and we walk.

  §

  Several hours later I’m sitting in my Aunt Natalie’s dining room, the same place where our Christmas meal is consumed every year. Tonight dinner is lasagna instead of turkey, and we are a much smaller group than we are over the holidays. Since Ted and Monty live out of town, and no kids or in-laws are here, it’s just the five of us.

  That’s more than enough.

  “…and then she told me I had to leave by October 28th. After all I had done for her, taking care of the kids, cleaning and shopping. A thank you would have nice. But no, instead I get kicked out. Honestly, if Monty hadn’t been so sick when he got back I would have just left right away, before the new daycare had even started.”

  Natalie has been going on for a while. She spent several weeks this autumn in Seattle, taking care of Monty’s kids while he was in Ghana for work and Lucy was without daycare. But Lucy and Natalie didn’t exactly get along during her stay and Natalie is still pissed. She scratches her splotchy, red neck with the hand that isn’t holding her fork.

  Jack is sitting across from me and I catch his eye. His face is neutral, like it’s written in Swiss and I can’t read it. “Well I’m glad Monty started to recover before you left,” he says to his mother.

  “Before I had to leave,” she huffs.

  “What was wrong with him?” Ian asks.

  “The anti-malarial drugs he was on weakened his system. Then he caught a very bad case of flu on the plane ride home, which turned into bronchitis.” Natalie’s jaw looks like it’s about to snap, “It was scary, and he shouldn’t be travelling like that anymore, and I let him and Lucy know I think so.”

  “But he’s okay now,” says Jack.

  My dad pushes his empty plate away. “Natalie, that was delicious, but I don’t think I can eat another bite.” He looks at the watch he’s owned since long before cell phones were available. “Robin’s show is about to start. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

  “I’m recording it.” Natalie smiles gently. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to miss any of it either. In fact, this fall the one thing Lucy and I could agree on was watching Robin’s show together. We never missed an episode.”

  “And you guys would call me afterwards,” I say. “It was great. Neither of you ever said anything judgmental. You were the only ones I can say that about.” I give Ian an accusatory stare. He knows he’s guilty of grilling me after every episode about all the “stupid” decisions I made.

  “I just want to know where you learned such bad judgment, Robbie.” says Ian.

  “Hey!” Dad says. “Robin’s in the top five. That’s pretty damn good.”

  “I think so too,” says Natalie.

  I grin at Natalie in grati
tude. I really did enjoy the calls from her and Lucy, but mostly because of Lucy. She would always ask me questions about what it was like to try and get along and survive with a group of people I barely knew. What was it like to vote someone out? She was genuinely interested. Everyone else just wanted to know the dirt about Grant, but Lucy never brought him up.

  “You know,” says my dad. “Recordings sometimes fail. I think we should move to the living room and start watching.”

  “Dad,” I reprimand him. “Ian and Jack and I are still eating.”

  Ian shoves a bite of his food in his mouth. Then he talks with mouth full, deliberately being disgusting. “Done!” he says.

  “I can take my plate with me,” Jack tells me.

  My shoulders sag as I release a puff of air. Better to get this over with, I guess. “Fine.”

  We get up and move downstairs into the rec room. There’s a pool table behind us, a wood paneled bar to our side, and a newish flat screen TV mounted to the wall that we face. We sit on one of those wrap-around couches. Its body is like a C-shaped, overstuffed snake, and without arms there’s no good place to lean my weight against.

  I sit between Ian and my dad. Jack is at one end of the couch, and Natalie is at the other. Natalie turns on the TV.

  Chapter 8

  After they play reminder scenes from the week’s previous episode, the tribal theme music comes on. There’s a slow-motion shot of each cast member, and we’re doing things like running on the beach, grimacing while lifting heavy things, or in Grant’s case, emerging from the water like a sexy Poseidon. My shot starts with a close-up. I’m smiling and looking over my shoulder while my hair blows in the wind. I have to say I don’t look half bad. But then it switches to me doing the crawl stroke during a swimming challenge. I’m panting and the water dripping from my face makes me resemble a drooling dog. Still, my family cheers when my name is scrolled at the bottom of the screen.

  “Uhg,” I say. “I hate the look I have on my face. It makes me never want to go swimming again.”

  “Are you crazy?” Ian hits me in the shoulder. “If it wasn’t for your swimming skills you would have been kicked off a long time ago.”