The First Law of Love

by Abbie Williams

  “If we can convince enough of the people around here to avoid selling out, it might be enough to drive Yancy’s interests in another direction. If only we could somehow reopen the power plant,” I said.

  Clark nodded agreement. He said, “That was a damn shame. I’ve lived here my entire life, as have most of the other locals. And now it seems that people are willing to pull up stakes and move on, without a fight.”

  “It’s hard to fight when you’re being offered a chunk of change,” Case said, reappearing from the house, and my heart kicked at just the sound of his voice. He walked in front of me to reclaim his seat while I concentrated on breathing normally. It seemed as though my hands wouldn’t obey me when he was near. I was afraid I might just reach and touch him, as I’d touched his back earlier. I shifted and slipped both hands beneath my thighs, one on either side.

  “You’re right,” Clark agreed. “But what’s the alternative? Moving to an unfamiliar place? Leaving behind land that’s been in your family for generations? Most of us have been here since the late 1800s.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Case said, settling in his lawn chair and leaning forward, forearms to thighs; it was such a masculine pose. He spoke with quiet confidence, the sound of someone who won’t be budged from a certain position.

  Though it had been at the back of my mind along with everything Clark told me last night, I suddenly thought of the story of Case hiding out in a cave, wanting to die so he could get to heaven and find his mother. I studied him silently, so powerful and capable-looking now, far removed from that devoted little boy with a broken heart. To my horror, tears abruptly sparked into my eyes, causing everything in sight to appear as a starburst.

  I stumbled to my feet and said, “Excuse me.”

  Inside the empty house I darted to the bathroom (I had walked as calmly as I could manage from the fire, praying that no one had noticed my tears) and barely managed to shut the door behind me before I began weeping.

  What in the hell is the matter with you?

  My period must be starting.

  I sat on the closed lid of the toilet and cried into my palms, smothering all sound, though I didn’t think anyone had followed me inside, demanding an explanation. I cried so hard that my shoulders shook, further stunning me; I was not a crier. Not ever. Camille and Ruthie were the emotional ones. Even Clint choked up more than I ever did; I could think of multiple times I had made fun of him for being too sensitive over the years. God, I was mean. And yet here I sat, bawling with my throat aching.

  You need to go back to your apartment and have a smoke.

  And then sleep.

  And you have to stop thinking about what Case said at Camille’s wedding. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s in the past…

  To my relief, I didn’t hear the sound of the screen door opening; I could claim to be tired and steal away. I tried not to think about how much I hated the thought of going home and no longer getting to sit beside Case at the fire. I liked being close to him so desperately much that it scared me. I wanted to stay close to him, and so that meant I had to go; letting anyone see that I had been crying this way was also out of the question.

  I splashed my face, thankful I wasn’t wearing any mascara. I shook my hair around my face as a sort of protective barrier and then gathered my nerves together. I clacked through the screen door, back outside, and called over to the fire, “Hey guys, I’m going to get going! I’m tired. Thanks for supper, Clark!”

  There were multiple sounds of protest at my words; I hadn’t heard Case’s voice and couldn’t bear to look that way. Clark, ever the gentleman, came walking from the fire to wish me good-night; I couldn’t tell if he was observant enough to see that my eyes were red and swollen, in the dark.

  “Give us a call tomorrow if you’re bored, honey,” Clark said quietly. I pretended again to be busy, this time digging for my keys so I wouldn’t have to exactly meet his eyes.

  Forcing a cheerful tone I said, “I will. And thanks again for everything.”

  Clark patted my arm and he knew something was wrong, I could tell, but he let it be, saying only, “You’re more than welcome.”

  And I drove home, with tears again washing over my face and blurring my vision.

  Chapter Eight

  I didn’t see Case or the Rawleys at all on either Sunday or Monday. My period did start on Sunday, to my relief, as now I had something upon which to blame my tears. I spent half the day lying in bed in a half-headachy funk, pressing a pillow to my belly in an effort to alleviate my cramps, too out-of-sorts to drive over to the grocery store to buy a bottle of ibuprofen. I stared alternately at the ceiling fan above the bed and out the window at the sky, which was quilted over with thick gray clouds until early afternoon, when I shuffled to the kitchen to make myself a pot of coffee and munch some banana bread.

  The sun peeked out even more as I was driving over for dinner at Al and Helen Anne’s, along with Mary and her husband Joe, who I quickly discerned let Mary do all the talking for the two of them. Al was all excited about Tuesday evening, getting himself worked up enough that both Helen Anne and Mary scolded him. I reassured Al that I would make the best argument I was able, using the evidence I had at hand, and that we would work together to convince people to stay in Jalesville.

  “I don’t know what I will do if we lose out to Yancy,” Al said, unbuttoning his collar as Helen Anne served coconut cream pie. I wondered at where my fiery feminist spirit had been misplaced; in college, I scoffed at traditional male/female roles, would have been unduly troubled by a wife serving her husband this way, along with their guests. And yet I didn’t get the sense that Helen Anne felt demeaned by these unspoken expectations; as I watched, she placed her hand lovingly on the back of Al’s neck as she refilled his coffee cup, and he winked at her in response.

  If you fucking start crying right now…I warned myself fiercely.

  “We won’t,” I said, forking a bite of pie into my mouth. I added, “I just wish there was a way to make up the jobs to people around here. Al, if I was wealthy I would just buy the plant and reopen the doors. According to what I’ve read last week, it’s still operational. It’s just sitting there empty and unused. Why?”

  “Coal mining is still a huge industry in these parts,” Helen Anne agreed. “The plant closing was terribly ill-timed. People didn’t know what to think.”

  “It’s not the first time Jalesville’s been out of work on a large scale,” Al said. “Back in the early eighties, times were just as tough.”

  “We’ve always pulled through somehow,” Mary said. “But the kids are getting seduced by the big cities these days. They aren’t settling around here anymore.”

  “My own included,” Al said. He tipped his chin at me, his faded-blue eyes serious as he said, “Tish, I know better than anyone that this isn’t your problem. You’re a trooper and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all your effort here.”

  “Thank you,” I told him, sincerely. “I really do want to help.”

  “Don’t think this means I’m not going to try to convince you to stay with everything I have,” Al said, going back to his pie.

  Mary nodded emphatically. She said to her husband, “Joseph, wouldn’t it be lovely if Harold wasn’t yet married?”

  Joe touched a finger to his hearing aid and asked, “What, dear?”

  “Our grandson, Harold! If he wasn’t married to that Denise, he could court Patty here!”

  Al hid a laugh behind a bite of pie and I giggled a little, unable to help myself; Harold had stopped into the law office to bring his grandmother something just last Wednesday. He was fair and sweet-looking, shorter than me by a good six inches, his nose basically at breast-level, and had flushed as pink as a slice of watermelon when I walked over to shake his hand. Undoubtedly Mary had informed him that she wished he was still single.

  To Al I said, “I appreciate your compliment, a great deal. I just can’t imagine living outside Chicago. I’ve been planning that s
ince I was eighteen and first attended the U of M. My dad is so proud of me…”

  “As he should be,” Al said. “I remember Jackson. Handsome devil. Not a bad sort though, unlike most lawyers.” As though offhandedly (but I was well-trained enough to spot a calculated question) he asked, “What do you think of Ron Turnbull?”

  “I consider him my future boss,” I said carefully, knowing that Al was his good friend. I said, “He wasn’t around much when I worked at Turnbull and Hinckley the past two summers. My father respects him a great deal.”

  Al pursed his lips as though in thought. He finally said, “You’ll think this is a ploy, but I promise it’s not. I’m not positioning here, just being truthful. He’s fairly despicable.”

  I was more than a little stunned, but I asked calmly, “What makes you say that?”

  “Just a feeling. Nothing that would hold water in court, I assure you. I can see that now – Judge, may I present the evidence? A gut feeling, sir, a gut feeling.”

  I was more troubled than I would show him, even though I was more than astute enough to understand that men didn’t ascend to Ron Turnbull’s level without a certain amount of ruthlessness. All justified, right? I finally said, “I know it won’t be easy. But I’m ready. Dad thinks I can climb the ladder relatively quickly.”

  Helen Anne said, “Just consider the toll it will take on you.”

  I had, and then some. I said, “I’m ready for that.”

  Al said, “You’ll be exhausted. You’ll be constantly jockeying for position. No one will support you there, because they’ll want the same thing you want.”

  I said, “I’ll just want it most, that’s all.”

  “I believe you,” Al said, watching me carefully.

  Mary said, “Albert, let the girl alone. Let her eat her dessert, for heaven’s sake.”

  That night I lay in bed, staring again between the window and the ceiling fan, which was motionless in the chilly room. I had the window open to the sounds of the night outside; I listened to crickets and the whisper of a breeze and thought about calling my sisters. But I didn’t know what I wanted to say to them. I didn’t know how to explain what I was feeling; I had put on a good show for Dad, who’d called shortly after I’d arrived home from Al and Helen Anne’s. I could be as false-cheerful as anyone; whereas Mom would have asked within five seconds what was wrong, Dad bought everything I fed him about feeling great.

  I rolled to my other side, brushing heavy, tangled hair from my face. I thought about what Al had alluded to, regarding Ron, who I thought was Al’s friend. I thought about the way Case’s hands looked as he played his instruments. I thought about the way Case touched his horses, with such unconscious love. The way his eyes looked in the glow of the sunset light, in the orange of the fire. The way his deep voice sounded and how I wished he would say my name. The way his lips curved into a half-grin when he subtly teased me. I thought of the story he’d told me, about learning to play on the old violin that his ancestor had carried to war, and then west. How he cared about his land, his town.

  I flopped to my back and crossed my forearms over my eyes, hard. And at some point, I must have finally fallen asleep.

  ***

  I was a little bit of a wreck by Tuesday, noon. I had spent the morning pouring over my notes, rewriting here and there. I chewed the end off two pencils, considering walking the few blocks to the grocery store for a pack of smokes. I was alone in the office when the bell above the door tingled and my heart absolutely detonated. I turned around as calmly as I could, but then my heart clanged for a completely different reason – in pure alarm. For there stood Derrick Yancy, dressed as though for a court appearance, dark hair glossy and teeth all showing.

  “Counselor Gordon,” he said in greeting, his eyes moving fast as a hand flicking aside a mosquito, down over my breasts and belly and then back to my face.

  I felt my eyes narrowing even as I asked with overt politeness in my tone, “How can I help you?”

  “Oh, there are numerous ways you could help me, I have no doubt,” he said, all innuendo, but then he changed tone briskly, coming at me with, “I know you think you’re doing these people a favor, but you’re mistaken. I offer them cash money for property that is essentially useless to them. Your little champion act isn’t going to serve them well when they can’t pay their property taxes.”

  I squared my shoulders and drew a subtle deep breath, not about to let him get me worked up. It was something I’d been cited for time and again, in school. Temper, Patricia, I heard Professor Torres saying. I said calmly, “I’d prefer to address the topic this evening, at the meeting. You’ll be there, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said, and for the second time since meeting him, I experienced the sensation that he was standing just slightly too close for comfort. Damned if I would step back or away. Then he surprised me by asking, “Would you care to join me for lunch? My treat, of course.”

  I blinked at this question. What was he playing at? Did he actually think he could change my mind with this none-too-subtle seduction act? Given his slick good looks, not to mention his real estate fortune, I was certain that this bit had gotten him laid numerous times. He was bored, I suddenly realized, bored in a place he considered the end of the earth. Second son, sent here by the elder Yancys to charm his way into easy sales for them while Daddy and older brother remained in the comfort of Chicago; major potential chip on his shoulder. I realized he was waiting for my response, and I said, “No, thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Good day,” I added pointedly, and then his toothy grin grew wider.

  “Until this evening,” he said, and took his leave.

  ***

  That evening I drove across town with my heart feeling like a bird in a painfully small cage. I had spent an hour getting ready and looked as lawyerly as I could possibly manage; I felt as though I was on the way to argue before the appellate court from first-year, green as spring leaves, wet behind the ears, all of that.

  Stop this, I told myself harshly. You’re a graduate. You’re smart. You’re prepared. You’re tough. You…you need a better mantra.

  I was dressed in my favorite silver-gray jacket-and-skirt combo, the skirt of the strictest pencil variety above nude silk hose and ultra-respectable nude heels, all chosen for me by Lanny’s personal shopper in Chicago. The jacket was fitted perfectly to my waist, latched with a single hook-and-eye just at my belly button. The blouse beneath it was a rich indigo blue; a man I’d dated for a few weeks second-year told me that it made my eyes glow. Tasteful diamond studs, quarter-carat each, my hair twisted high and neat at the back of my head. My make-up was appropriate for an evening appointment and I was wearing Dad’s graduation gift for the first time, a beautiful, understated Cartier pendant timepiece, pinned discreetly to my left lapel, just above the fullest part of my breast.

  I only fussed with a loose strand of hair for a second after I’d pulled into the parking lot of the city offices, noticing Case’s maroon truck immediately amongst dozens of others. Gotta Ride, Gotta Play. I hadn’t set eyes upon him since Saturday night, eating s’mores and hearing about his first kiss. When I’d left so abruptly. Since then I had seen him only in my very vivid and near-constant imaginings, in which he slowly licked melted marshmallow from my fingers, and then kissed it from my top lip…

  Stop! It’s unprofessional, and you can’t afford to lose focus right now!

  But he’s right in there! He’s right in there, so close.

  Quit wondering what he’ll think of what you’re wearing!

  Shut up, I told myself fiercely, entering the brick building where I had been many times now, with Al. There were people crowded in the wide foyer, talking excitedly, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, kids darting between elbows. I saw immediately that I was a tad overdressed and felt more than a few curious stares directed my way, though I was able to greet many people by name. I pasted on my most pleasant expression, the one tha
t people who knew me well realized masked complete self-consciousness, and threaded my way through the throng to room 105, where the meeting was scheduled to be held.

  It was stuffy and crowded here too, scented with a melee of brewing coffee, aftershave, cologne, perhaps a hint of sweat. I saw at once that Derrick Yancy had set up at a front table, briefcase and laptop and his shiny hair-and-teeth combo. As I emerged from the back of the room, he extricated himself from two men I didn’t recognize, surely his henchmen, and made his way directly to me, all the while offering the smile that I was sure had spread many pairs of legs for him in the past. Ick.

  “Counselor Gordon,” he said, offering a hand. I calmly transferred my black leather briefcase to the opposite hand so I could shake his, keeping my grip firm, trying to ignore the blatant uneasiness he caused in my gut. I had nothing to fear from him.

  “Derrick,” I returned, determined to openly take him down a notch or two. “Good evening.”

  His grin widened as he ascertained my obvious intent and he said, all manners on the surface, “You’re looking particularly well this evening. Breathtaking, really.”

  I withdrew my hand even as his fingers tightened around mine. If this bastard thought he could intimidate me in this fashion, he didn’t know who he was messing with. I returned lightly, “I wish I could return the compliment.”

  He laughed then, and I had the eerie sensation that had we been unobserved he would have done something way out of line to assert his assumption of power over me, like slide his hand around and cup my ass. He said, “As expected.”

  I stepped around him, feeling his eyes follow me, and set up at the front table to the right, where Al had clearly already arrived, though he was nowhere in sight. I saw a pamphlet placed beside Al’s briefcase, not something I recognized as belonging to him. I picked it up to realize that it was an informational brochure for Capital Overland; there was Derrick Yancy and his brother on the front, at a groundbreaking ceremony somewhere, smiling for the camera with their wingtips braced delicately on shovels. It was the kind of thing designed to encourage goodwill towards a bloodless business entity. I very nearly chucked it to the floor before realizing that this would be the ultimate display of immaturity. Instead I set it to the side, facedown.