by Una Tiers
“Or you can call from your cell phone,” I laughed.
Chapter Fifteen
Monday was a bitter day, my divorce was scheduled in court. The judge reviewed my papers, I read some of the settlement into the court record and it was over.
I thought my face would catch on fire before I got outside. I had a little trouble with the revolving door, I couldn’t remember which way it was supposed to turn.
When I set it up in court, Jack asked me to change it to next week because his schedule was busy. I didn’t want to see him, so I left it as it was.
After court the cool air felt great. Funny thing though, my ears were ringing like church bells. I headed home to bed after debating over a cab when my bus was late.
A few times my aunt poked her head in the door to ask if I was okay. I pretended to be asleep. In the early evening the door bell rang and I went half way down the stairs because we don’t see too many Avon ladies. My nap from noon to six PM was over.
“Pizza Fiona?” she asked.
We had a quiet dinner with more wine than pizza.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Aunt Tess asked.
“I’m single that’s all.” The hot tears ran down my cheeks, surprising me. There isn’t anything wrong with being single. I wasn’t happy being married, why did getting out break my heart?
“You went to court? When?”
“This morning.”
“I would have gone with you.”
“I had to do this by myself.” Somehow I felt like I would always be alone now.
I didn’t go to the office for two days. I took a lot of showers when my aunt was out. I avoided her and pretended to be asleep when she was home. I never asked where she was most of the day.
In the meantime, Claude proved to be as resourceful as he was congenial. He paid the rent on the storage space and moved the boxes to my office. He left a note and said he could move them again if I wanted. My office was starting to look a little like a warehouse.
Before I had a chance to have my morning office tea, Paul sat down in one of my client chairs showing his displeasure at the piles of boxes with a quick glance and exaggerated frown.
“Fiona, we need to talk about your using the clerk’s time.”
“I paid him. Is that a problem?”
A roll of the eyes suggested it was a problem. Paul Cartofle wasn’t as friendly as he was when I first moved in. Then again he kind of ran hot and cold depending on what he wanted.
“He’s here to work for our firm, and not for you. I know that sounds indelicate but I don’t think that you can afford him.”
“I paid him,” I repeated.
He shook his head and our meeting ended at least disagreeably. What was his problem? I wouldn’t admit to him that Claude was particularly generous with his time charging me less than minimum wage.
Bob called about the boxes from his father’s office. I didn’t tell him, maybe Requin did. I moved up my inspection. Claude had opened the boxes for me. Inside were mementos, pictures and plaques. I repacked the boxes into three fairly equal shares and called the delivery service for a pick up to the three kids.
Chapter Sixteen
Late Friday afternoon almost two weeks later I was starting to feel human again, although part of the time I felt like I was walking on ice in gym shoes. I was getting ready to leave the office, running my sanctimonious back up tape, when I foolishly picked up one last call for the day.
“They broke into my father’s condominium,” Bob whined breathlessly.
“What?”
“It’s awful, the whole place is torn apart, clothes, sheets, shoes, everything is like a tornado here. Fiona I don’t know who could have done this. This is terrible, all his stuff is ruined.” Bob’s breathing was heaving and he was pulling in his nose in pretty hard.
“Are you at the condo now?” I asked, trying to slow him down.
“Yes and the police are too, how fast can you get here Fiona?”
From the corner of my eye I saw the rain/snow combo slamming against the window.
“I’m sorry to hear about this but Bob the police will make a report, get a copy.”
“You have to come over. I need your help. They want to know who’s in charge.” The family whine was now familiar. Blaming myself, I must learn not to pick up the phone when I am getting ready to flee the office.
That evening I had my first post divorce date.
“Well I could stop by for just a few minutes if I can get a cab. It’s really coming down out there. Since it’s rush hour, I don’t know how long it will take.” This should change his mind I opined.
It didn’t. Was I being punished for a date so soon after the big D?
Although I didn’t have a raincoat, I had a teeny umbrella for emergencies. The umbrella was cuter than it was useful. When I opened it, there was no question it was designed for a confetti parade not snow or sleet.
It took fifteen minutes to catch a cab, and the ride took longer than it should have because traffic was snarled. Why do drivers forget how to drive when it rains? Why does the weather get worse at rush hour?
The cab driver was complaining the whole way I wasn’t going very far. Every now and then he slammed on the brakes and yelled at no one in particular about the traffic and driving habits of his brethren. I considered demanding he stop the cab. It would be safer to walk between the moving cars than risk being a victim of his aggressive driving. However, I hate getting soaked in the rain. The rain is only romantic if you are inside watching it from a dry warm place with a nice glass of wine.
Gritting my teeth I held onto the overhead safety strap since I couldn’t find more than half of the seatbelt. There wasn’t a chance that I would dig between the seats for its partner.
By the time we pulled up in front of the judge’s building, the wind was blowing sideways and it drenched my legs, skirt and jacket before I made it into the lobby.
Inside it was quiet with only the sound of the rain pelting against the windows. The jasmine aroma welcomed me. With my set of keys I opened the security door. Maybe everyone was gone. I shook the rain from my jacket in the elevator, hoping that it wouldn’t reek some objectionable smell.
Just before I knocked, the door was opened by a gorgeous dark haired policeman. Did his eyes light up? I hoped my mouth was closed but I really couldn’t tell.
“Hello.”
“Fiona Gavelle,” I introduced myself. My vision cleared and looking past his shoulders, I saw a mess.
Everything that had been neatly packed into boxes just a few days before was scattered about. Oddly, nothing appeared to be broken. Old clothes and linens were strewn and scattered all over, including a few pairs of judicial shorts.
Stepping further into the room, the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen were open. Bob was sitting out on the balcony with an umbrella. He was wearing a large raincoat that probably belonged to his father. I didn’t want to disturb him hoping he wouldn’t jump off the balcony in such bad weather.
My attention returned to the man who opened the door.
He introduced himself, “Detective Giovanni.”
I took the opportunity to stare at him. He was tall, dark and handsome, and looked like he worked out every day. He had crinkles around his eyes and mouth with silver hairs near his temples. I gauged his age somewhere between thirty and forty. He had a hint of an accent and more importantly, wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I sure learned that trick fast. I didn’t think that he was holding his stomach in like I was.
What was I thinking? My “type” of guy is the brainy one that you have to trick to get to the gym. Maybe I should look for someone who was different. Like this guy.
I introduced myself again as we shook hands and I turned back to look at the door.
“The door wasn’t forced,” he volunteered. “The son thinks he’ll be blamed.”
Break-ins always seem likely in probate cases when the house is empty of people. Enterprising burglars need only t
o read the advertisements, otherwise known as the obituary, to know when the coast will be clear. I bet this burglar was disappointed.
“Can you tell if anything is missing, like art?”
Had Bob mentioned the statue of liberty heirloom?
He answered my unspoken question as I stood poised on the brink of sarcasm. “The son mentioned that his father was a judge, and I thought he would have things like art.”
Even dead judges have prestige.
He watched me carefully but his expression had shifted just a little. I tried very hard to look serious and concerned.
“No, no art, Detective." This was coming from someone who didn’t own much furniture, except for a really nice kitchen table.
Bob finally came back in, dripping wet. “Oh Fiona, why didn’t you tell me to move the boxes sooner? You know I was just so busy I didn’t have a chance to get the clothes over to the charity. My sisters are going to blame me. But it’s not my fault.”
I felt sorry for him although I suspected he wasn’t being entirely truthful.
“Maybe you could use a shot of vodka Bob.”
“There isn’t any liquor.”
I didn’t remember any liquor (except the vodka in the freezer) from my safety check. Should I mention it?
I wondered how the burglar got in. Who was the last one out? How would a burglar get into the lobby? Did they follow someone else in? Were they dressed as the cable guy? Was it Bob? An inside job by a burglar neighbor? Bernie Rhodenbarr? Did someone pick the lock like on television shows? I was glad that we changed the locks. Was it the locksmith?
“Let’s call the locksmith again Bob. Do you know which one your aunt called before?”
“My Aunt said it was too expensive.” He was doing something weird with the muscles on his nose, a little like Lassie, guilty Lassie.
“The locks weren’t changed,” I asked.
“My Dad wouldn’t give his keys to strangers.”
After an uncomfortable pause, the detective chimed in. "It’s important now, if the door wasn’t unlocked, someone came in with a key.”
It was nice that he backed me up especially since Bob seemed to accept his advice more readily than mine. There were four evidence guys taking pictures of the mess. Ah, Chicago the city that works.
"Thanks, um, Detective.”
"David,” he said while he looked directly into my eyes. I was catapulted from one altar to that of reality when my cell phone buzzed.
Chapter Seventeen
Although it seemed too early to start dating, I wanted to get out of the house and not to another bar group meeting. So, when my Aunt pushed me into a date with a neighbor’s nephew, I didn’t offer much resistance.
She found him at a birthday party for his Aunt down the street and brought him home to say hello and to carry a piece of birthday cake for me.
Peter is a tall, commercial pilot with a warm smile and easy laugh. Although he lives in Ohio, in his line of work, he could live next door. He was in town overnight and we were meeting at Pasta Pasta on LaSalle Street.
I imagined him in a crisp white shirt and uniform, freshly shaved, with the slightest hint of after-shave. Pilots seem rather vain which translates into meticulous grooming and that is good. Maybe it’s the uniform but they have a smoldering attraction that scares me like a parachute opening.
I tried to call the restaurant to leave a message I was running a little late, but locked my brand new cell phone when I was dialing. I was so absorbed digging for the instructions in my wallet that I didn’t notice that Bob was talking to me.
Interrupting to distract his attention, I summarized, “Bob, things are under control here and I have to get going.” When I unlocked the phone I listened to a message from my date and his speech was slurred. He had probably amused himself at the bar. Was he supposed to drink if he was flying thousands of pounds of steel the next day?
Peter didn’t answer his phone so I called the restaurant to ask if there was a tall good looking blonde man, maybe in uniform, waiting at the bar.
The bartender whispered that yes, there was a blonde man there waiting for a blind date and that he had three drinks already and was getting kind of loud.
Thanking him I didn’t mention that I was offended at the term blind date.
Bob was standing, pathetically, at my elbow, again.
“Did you find a locksmith?” he asked pulling in his nose.
“Weren’t you making that call Bob?” I tried to be pleasant but it was getting old.
He shrugged, “My cell phone was on the credit card that was cancelled.” Was there an accusation in that remark?
I closed myself into the powder room until the feeling to slap Bob silly passed. He was still outside the door a few minutes later, reminding me of a dog that we had when I was in grade school.
“I found a locksmith, I can take it from here,” Bob said.
Fighting back high level sarcasm, I dug out the emergency twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and decided to take a chance at free air travel for life. Picturing our living room with airline seats sewn together to make a sofa and a rolling cart of little airline bottles of liquor I entertained a few second thoughts.
“Bye everyone, and thanks,” I called out and bolted for the door. This was something I am often criticized for, leaving abruptly. But what was I supposed to do? Ask permission? Outside, I made a silent request to any deity on call for a cab. Although the rain had stopped, the temperature drop was moving like lightening through my damp clothes.
After twenty minutes without a cab, I was getting discouraged when a dark car pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down and the detective offered me a lift.
Did he say it was on his way, or did I imagine it was what he said? The interior of the car was exceptionally clean, certainly neater than my car. Probably a city car, I mused. There were no papers, water bottles, wrappers, baseball hats, out of season headwear or maps around. But why would a man have a map? It didn’t even have any visible police stuff in it.
When he pulled in front of the restaurant, I was only an hour late for my date.
Saying thanks and goodbye in my abrupt manner I stepped into a puddle of cold rainwater that was almost up to my ankle. As I walked, my shoe dispensed a little trail of water. The valet smiled at me as he held the restaurant door open. Why hadn’t he thrown his coat, or his body, over the puddle?
It wasn’t disappointing not to see my date. The maitre d asked if I was ready to be seated and before I made up my mind, David walked in and stood next to me. Did I leave my allure in the car?
“I’ve never had dinner here,” he commented.
Dinner was pleasant, David has nice table manners. He is familiar with the bread plate and that alone made me want to butter his bread and feed it to him, naked.
He never pried into my dinner plans. We talked about crime and ‘lawyering’ in an impersonal but agreeable way. He told me a funny story about his new microwave. Maybe it was to suggest his single state? By the time the waiter tempted us with dessert I was feeling no pain. Did he rescue women in distress? Was there a cape under his shirt?
Several times I reminded myself that this was not a date, except in the folds of my fantasy.
His voice was soft and low and he looked right at me with soft brown eyes when he talked. That was enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up as well as a few other places.
We split the check after I tried to pay. Waving goodnight I attracted a cab that screeched to the curb before my arm was even up. Before I got in I checked that it was a different driver than my afternoon trip. David didn’t run after me and he didn’t sweep me into his arms but waived goodnight.
My aunt wasn’t awake when I got home so I took my rosy thoughts to my dreams.
Chapter Eighteen
1991
A year after Laslo was appointed to the bench, he moved into a condominium, his condominium. This was monumental and humbling considering his often-expressed opinion,
condominiums were merely apartments with real estate taxes and neighbors who lived way too close. However, since the length of his commute drove him nuts, and his old neighborhood was changing, it was a necessary evil.
The judge bought the condominium for his daughters to live in while they attended Ed’s law school in downtown Chicago. It was just a hop, skip and a jump from the courthouse, although judges did none of those things.
The west loop condominiums grew out of vacant factories and office buildings that were transformed into “luxury” living accommodations with matching price tags.
The initial purchase included an investment in his sanity as well as the culmination of a stormy month in his life as a parent.
Everything started when his daughters graduated from college and moved in with him to save on housing costs. They planned on law school in downtown Chicago, starting with the fall semester. Their mother had moved to the suburbs with her new husband, and Laslo lived alone in the city, so it made sense, for a short time. Laslo was thrilled and saw it as an opportunity to get better acquainted with them as adults. He had plenty of room and looked forward to their company.
He daydreamed about the family of lawyers who would talk about the law. There would be weekly family dinners (with mashed potatoes and simmering roasts), going out for dinner occasionally, seeing movies, attending Sunday Mass, barbecues, a garden with tomatoes and sitting in the back yard on hot summer evenings.
There might even be a board game, a game of cards or a jigsaw puzzle. They would visit a few relatives (on his side) on Sunday after mass, and then stop at the cemetery to pay their respects. His children would bring a few friends over and their cousins would be around on weekends. The house would resemble his childhood, with lots of happy family noise and impromptu dinners. Bob would get to know his sisters. Yes, this would be grand.
However, as soon as Rosie and Lilly moved in, his daydream was set to ‘tilt.’ He took telephone messages for his daughters at all hours (waking or not) since he didn’t see a need for answering machines. He felt that people should call when you were home and if you were not, then they should call back.
