Invasion of Privacy

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  "I can take care of myself."

  "I want to take care of you too," Nina said. "If anything ever happened to you, Bobby—"

  "I was safe. I sat on the bench close to adults, you know, so the waiters thought I was with my father." He said the word father so formally.

  Nina bought herself a few seconds by biting into her cold burger and sipping her milk shake.

  "Of course, I don’t have a father, right?"

  "Stop that. You have a father just like anyone else. You were born at Community Hospital in Monterey—"

  "I’m a bastard, aren’t I? Just like Taylor Nordholm and everybody says."

  "What? He doesn’t know a thing about it. And neither do you. Plenty of the kids at your school have different kinds of families, just like us. Let’s leave it at that. Now why don’t you finish that burger so we can go home."

  "We don’t have a home."

  "Matt’s is your home."

  "That’s not the same, Mom, and you know it."

  She felt the life she had built crumbling. "I can’t do anything about that right now, Bobby. It’s a good place to live and most of the time we both like it there, don’t we?"

  "Is my dad dead?" Bobby moved back into radioactive territory. "Where is he, anyway? Why don’t you want to talk about him? You always get mad whenever I ask anything."

  "It’s just..." Words failed her.

  "When are you going to tell me?"

  "Someday I will."

  "I want to know now."

  "I know you do."

  "When will you tell me?"

  "I don’t know when!" She tried to keep her voice loving but firm, but heard it shifting into anger.

  "Promise."

  "I’ll think about it. Now you promise me you’ll never do that again—cutting school. School’s important. But most of all, you are important. I need to know you’re safe, and where you are supposed to be."

  "Okay." The word came too easily; she doubted his sincerity.

  "Shake?" She held out her hand and he took it, automatically, as he used to when he was little. She would dangle an open hand by her side, and his hand would rise to clasp it, as if drawn up by a magnet. But now his hand took up more space in hers, and could break free easily. This larger hand was strong and wiry, and didn’t settle for long in hers.

  He was growing up and away, and she would have to find a way to accept it.

  Her morning appointment the next day didn’t show.

  It was impossible to concentrate. Milne’s Minute Order in the London case would be coming in today or tomorrow. She would be through with the troubles of Terry London.

  "What’s the afternoon look like?" she asked, strolling into the outer office. Sandy was proofing some forms that had to be filed by the end of the day.

  "You’re due at the DMV to try to save Mrs. Audray’s driver’s license," Sandy said.

  "I better read the file, then."

  "This is one you won’t win," Sandy said. "She’s had too many speeding tickets in the past year. Why do you bother?"

  "Ah, Sandy, Sandy. It’s all in the wrist. You have to approach the DMV the right way."

  "Which is?"

  "To grovel. Cries, complaints, explanations, sincere protestations, promises to reform: worthless, all worthless. You have to get down on your knees."

  "She can do that without you."

  "She’s an amateur. She needs an expert. A lawyer must grovel. It’s DMV policy."

  Sandy, who never laughed, almost cracked a smile.

  The DMV hearing went well. Nina begged for mercy, and her client got it. Feeling pleased with this small victory, she returned to the office and dug into the endless pile of trouble on her desk.

  The phone buzzed. Sandy said, "Bella called from the county clerk’s office. They just finished filing the Minute Order in the London case."

  "That was quick. What’s it say?"

  "She said you can come get it or they’ll put it in the mail."

  "Could you go, Sandy?"

  "Hmph," Sandy said, but she put on her coat.

  At three-fifteen Bobby showed up, homework-laden, dropped off by Matt after a little disagreement with Troy. Nina set him up in the conference room with a short lecture, sharp pencils, and strict orders to stay out of the reception area.

  A half hour later Nina had a new client in the office when Sandy came in with the court’s order in the London case.

  She had won. Milne had declined to issue a preliminary injunction, on grounds that the plaintiffs were unlikely to win when the issue was finally litigated on the merits. The argument about consent had carried the day—not the argument about the Constitution, but they had prevailed.

  "Terry London’s here to see you," Sandy said. A few minutes later Nina finished with her client and poked her head into the conference room.

  Bobby, whose books lay scattered and disregarded on the oak table in front of him, looked out the window, his expression unreadable. His black hair had gone too long without a barber’s attention. The line of his jaw, the most remarkable physical change in a boy just eleven years old, had firmed into a triangular suggestion of the impending adolescent. Shaking herself out of a stare, Nina noticed Terry at the other end of the long table, her eyes moving back and forth between the two of them.

  "Terry, have you met my son?" Nina asked.

  "I can see the resemblance," she said, opening her lips into a wide, toothy smile. "Though he doesn’t look much like you, does he? We’ve had such a good chat. He tells me he just turned eleven."

  Everything she said felt wrong somehow, as if the words she spoke had nothing to do with the meaning she intended. All Nina’s uneasiness flooded back.

  After Terry left and Matt picked up Bobby, Nina realized she had forgotten to give her client a copy of the Minute Order, something Terry had specifically requested. She decided to drop it off on the way home to keep Terry happy until Nina could gracefully bow out of the rest of the case.

  "Do me a favor, Sandy."

  "What?"

  "Please don’t put Bobby into the conference room with clients anymore. It makes me nervous."

  "Now that you mention it, he did look a little upset coming out of there," said Sandy. "Guess it makes him nervous too. I wonder why?"

  4

  TERRY LONDON LIVED IN A MID-SIZE A-FRAME IN A boulder-strewn neighborhood off Pioneer, at the end of a road called Coyote Trail. The house sat right at the top of a hill that was almost entirely enclosed with crisscrossed ranch fencing, protected street-side by a locked gate.

  Through the gate, deep in the pines on the left, Nina could barely see a small stucco bungalow, half-buried in old snow, that must be the studio where Terry worked. A steep, narrow trail connected this building to the house above. Even though the curtains to the studio were closed, a light from inside faintly illuminated the windows. She parked at the gate, looking for an intercom or some other way to signal either building.

  When she got out of the car, a black dog almost as large as a St. Bernard appeared out of nowhere, drooling silently from a mouth fixed into a permanent grin. He gave her a little thrill, licking her cold hand with his warm, wet tongue.

  A small sign nailed to the gatepost said DON’T WORRY ABOUT THE DOG. BEWARE OF OWNER. The outline of a handgun had been scratched next to this welcome. Nina could locate no bell or intercom.

  Nina had changed her mind anyway. She didn’t like the place and she didn’t want to see Terry. The wind blew at the envelope in her hand. She couldn’t just spear it on a twig and stick it on the fence, to flap away at the next gust. She would hop back in the truck, and Sandy could mail it out tomorrow—

  "Looking for Terry?" a bass voice said behind her, and she whirled around.

  A man stood about three feet away with a rifle in his hand. He had white hair, a white beard, a red face and white eyelashes, and wore a wool shirt and a dirty down vest. His pants hung low under a puff of belly. As Nina turned to answer, the wind gusted and his hair
flew around his head.

  "Hope you’re not selling anything," he said. He held the rifle negligently by the stock, barrel pointed toward the ground.

  "I’m just leaving."

  "That envelope for her?"

  She hesitated, and he went on. "She’s here. She just locks the gate when she’s not expecting anyone. She expecting you?"

  "No."

  "I’ll make sure she gets it, if you want. I’m her neighbor. Jerry." Noticing that her eyes stayed stuck on the rifle, he said, "Rabbits are bad this year. The hunters don’t pay no attention to the ’no trespassing’ warnings. They take down anything that moves. Don’t wander around in the woods. Bunch of bad shots out here. The hill’s private property, hers and mine. They got no right."

  "Thanks. But—"

  "Jerry! Get outta here!" a woman’s voice said loudly from the studio, at a moment between the bursts of wind. The silhouette of a head had appeared behind a drawn-back curtain.

  "She doesn’t like me," Jerry said.

  "I guess she doesn’t like me either," Nina said.

  "She don’t like nobody," the man said. Without another word he turned and walked down the hill, giving the Bronco an appraising glance as he passed.

  "It’s me, Terry. Nina Reilly," Nina called after he made his hasty exit. Several minutes later the door opened. An uncombed mop of chestnut hair covered most of the face that looked out.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Wondering more each second that very thing, Nina opened her briefcase. "Just the Minute Order," she called. "You forgot to take your copy."

  "Why didn’t you call first?"

  "You know, I’m getting frostbite standing out here in this wind. If you don’t want to let me in, fine. I’ll leave the envelope here with a rock on it."

  Terry came out, pushing her arms through a down parka. "Hang on, hang on," she said. She strode down the path, unlocking the gate while Nina waited.

  "Come in," Terry ordered, pushing her hair back. She led the way, her long legs pumping quickly up the studio path. Inside, she threw off the parka. She wore a bulky, rust-colored sweater that reached halfway down her thighs over black tights. Without makeup her face was older, paler, and more masculine.

  She gestured Nina toward a couch with mussed pillows that still bore the imprint of her head, tossing a chenille throw to the floor. "Have a seat."

  "I really don’t have much time, Terry," said Nina, sitting primly on a corner of the couch. Terry watched her from a swivel chair in the middle of the room, a tiny glimmer of amusement in her eyes telling Nina that she knew Nina was squeamish about sitting where Terry had lain. "I’m running late." Nina rummaged in her case and found the papers. She laid them neatly on a small glass table in front of her.

  "Coffee?" said Terry.

  "No, really—"

  "No trouble." Terry’s peremptory tone made it clear it would be rude to leave. She was already moving as she spoke, crossing to a counter near the doorway where a small refrigerator and coffeemaker sat, giving Nina a chance to look around the studio.

  The single, long room had white walls and picture windows covering one long side, interrupted only by the doorway and counter. On the other side a long counter held a clutter of built-in tape decks, a laser disc player, a double cassette deck, a CD player, a computer, a video player and large monitor, and, among other machinery, some film editing equipment Nina couldn’t name. Wires, neatly labeled, were plugged into rows of surge protectors built along the back edge of the counter.

  "What is all this equipment here? Do you really need so many speakers?" Nina said, seeking a neutral topic until she could make her escape.

  "Well, let’s see," Terry said, slapping the coffeepot in place and punching the on button. "Two custom VIFA speakers, two custom subwoofers, two custom UIFA speakers," she said. "All necessary if you want to keep your slander audible. Then there’s the three-quarter-inch video equipment for making easy rough cuts from film I’ve dubbed to video.

  "The tape decks I use for sound editing and creating a track. Some smaller format, to play rental movies and help me plan shots in advance. Oh, and things like dubbing the Tamara Sweet film down to VHS so that her folks can have a nervous breakdown watching on home equipment.

  "That’s a bad way to see a film. Video’s a poor cousin to film, even if you’ve got an eighty-inch screen and the best possible quality dub. Two hundred watt per channel power amp for the subwoofer. The Steenbeck, of course-"

  Nina put up a hand. "Enough. I’m assuming you have a decent alarm system."

  "I don’t worry too much. I have a solid storage closet to lock cameras in when I’m gone. I leave only the big equipment out. The portable stuff goes in there if it’s valuable. So Jerry and his bonehead son, Ralph, don’t get any ideas."

  "Quite a setup."

  "I’ve been doing this for a long time. You accumulate equipment, and you always need more. And you always need something newer. Naturally, that takes cash." She took a chamois cloth and polished the lens on a video camera. "You know I went into debt to make this thing. I just couldn’t resist. What a topic. It spoke to me. Plus, of course, I plan to make my money back, and more."

  "Listen, Terry—"

  "Bob should come see it sometime. He likes movies. He wishes you had a video camera. He told me when we talked in the conference room."

  "I wanted to ask you about that...." Nina started, and then changed her mind. She would talk to Bobby.

  Enough coffee had dripped into the pot. Terry poured two cups, and Nina drank hers swiftly, intending to leave at her first opportunity. She didn’t like the feeling being on Terry’s territory gave her, of being ensnared, trapped and out of control of the situation. She gave a series of uninformative answers to what eventually became a heavy barrage of questions about her and about Bobby. What a strange mix the woman was, with her expensive equipment and her notions and her nosiness!

  Then Terry picked up a camcorder and pointed it at Nina.

  "Don’t do that!"

  "You’re very photogenic," Terry remarked from behind the black box. "Small people look bigger onscreen. The camera gives them presence they lack in real life."

  "I don’t like this," said Nina. "Please, turn it off."

  "Where’s his father?" Terry asked, the camera in front of her implacably humming. "He doesn’t seem to know."

  "What?" Nina, struck by the question, forgot the camera.

  "He said he doesn’t even know who his father is. How about it? Tell Terry. Was his daddy a bad man? Did he leave you or did you leave him?" Her voice had a cajoling, teasing tone.

  "You talked with my son about his father?"

  "He brought it up, I think."

  "What did he say?"

  "I don’t really remember."

  "What did you say?"

  "I forget. Maybe I told him it was high time he found out."

  Nina stood up, putting her hand in front of the camera lens. "Keep out of my business," she said.

  Terry jumped to one side, continuing to shoot. "Talk to me," she said. "I won’t tell."

  "You don’t have my permission to film me." Nina walked to the door, the camera in pursuit.

  "I don’t need permission to film, just to show it in public. I’m going to watch this film later, in private, Nina, and learn all about you. I’m going to figure out a few things. And then I’m going to shake your world."

  "Don’t you ever talk to my son again. And I can’t represent you any longer. If you need further legal work, call my office and we’ll refer you," Nina said. Why wait? This woman was impossible. Walking rapidly down the path, she half-turned so that she could see the camera and the dark figure behind it, blown by the wind, backdropped by the dark forest and the small, half-buried building.

  "You fought for me in court, my right to plant myself in other people’s lives," Terry called loudly from the doorway, putting the camera down far enough that Nina could see her white face back there, but keeping it pointed her
way. "What’s the matter, Nina? Why should your precious privacy be so different?"

  Nina hurried to the car and drove away, heedless of the joyously slavering dog that chased her all the way down the hill.

  Bob lay in his bed Wednesday night long after his mother left the room. He waited until everyone had fallen asleep, listening to the forest sounds. His thoughts traveled to where they usually did lately, circling around his father. When he tried to picture him, television characters came to mind. He knew that wasn’t right. He’d give anything just to know who he was and what he really looked like. And maybe where he was now, where he lived.

  He held his breath for a minute, deciding. Okay, he’d break the rules. He’d go to hell if he had to, like Huck Finn. This was worth it.

  On Thursday morning Nina rose early to grab the first precious moments with her hot steaming coffee and newspaper. Within a few minutes the rest of the household erupted. Andrea came in with her kids, helping them arrange cereal, running to dress herself, answering the phone, snatching coffee. Matt presided over breakfast, his usual angelic look replaced by a haggard stranger until he’d drunk a few cups.

  Nina finished two sections of the paper before she realized she hadn’t seen her son. He had overslept. That’s what happened when you read comics late into the night.

  "Bobby awake?" she asked Troy.

  "I didn’t see him. He got up before me. He’s probably in the bathroom."

  She went to track him down. She looked first in both bathrooms, but saw no sign of him. Then she looked in his bedroom.

  "Where’s Bobby?" she asked next, in the kitchen, to Matt’s assembled family, who looked up, momentarily diverted from their breakfasts. "I can’t find him."

  "Did you check the pantry? Maybe he went down there to get cereal or something," Andrea suggested, taking Nina by the arm and leading her toward the pantry door. "How about the garage?"

  When Nina gave up and sat down at the kitchen table, unable to move or think, Andrea called the police.

  5

  BY MIDMORNING THE POLICE HAD ISSUED A STATE-WIDE alert with Bobby’s description. They didn’t hold back on missing children’s cases anymore; they hit the tarmac running. Andrea got in touch with missing children organizations. Matt hounded neighbors and friends. Sandy told everyone Nina had been called away on some important business.