In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  “Who’d have thought,” Terry remarked.

  She gave him a wry sideways look and opened the window to admit an ocean breeze.

  They had each brought novels—Terry’s was by Ward Just, Meg’s by Geraldine Brooks. Both choices surprised the other person. But then they were barely acquainted except as lawyers and, to a lesser extent, in bed.

  That evening, as they watched the ocean from the deck with a bottle of sauvignon blanc between them, Terry said as much to her. “Not true,” she said. “I feel like you’ve strip-mined my entire life. But I know next to nothing about yours.”

  She found this unsettling, he knew. “Mine is utterly irrelevant,” he answered. “Whereas representing Brian required some appreciation of your family.”

  Meg turned to him, her deep blue eyes lit by curiosity. “Even now?” she asked with a touch of humor. “You’ve got a whole weekend to keep me amused, and some of it’s going to be spent outdoors. It’s time for your oral history.”

  “Too boring,” Terry objected. “No heroes, no medals. A tale of middle-class life in Lake City, Ohio, somewhere in the twilight zone between suburb and small town. Shortly after I was born, a teenage girl named Alison Taylor got murdered. They’re still theorizing about it at the supermarket. In Lake City, you never outrun what people choose to believe, or the boredom that makes them care.”

  Meg looked at him askance. “Did you face this void alone? Or were there brothers and sisters?”

  “None.” Terry sipped his wine, and decided to go along with her for a while. “My mother struggled just to have me. I’m the first and only of my species.”

  “What about your folks?”

  “My dad’s no longer living. He kept the books for a small insurance company, and Mom worked as a secretary at my parochial school. Every day she drove me back and forth; every evening the car pool dropped Dad off at the door. Their lives seemed predictable, and very safe.”

  “But they were good parents, right?”

  Terry felt the old familiar sadness. “Being parents pretty much defined them. Early on, the mother superior advised them that I could grow up to accomplish something special. I think they felt as though God had granted them a sacred trust. Suddenly they wanted to give me a life they’d never imagined for themselves.”

  “You were special,” Meg rejoined. “Look at what you’ve done.”

  “I was different, I suppose. Where both Dad and Mom were shy, other kids saw me as a leader. I started aiming for straight A’s—school came easily enough, and my parents always seemed so pleased.” He turned to her. “Your brother had a tradition to live up to. In my parents’ eyes, I had their mediocrity to transcend. I wish they’d thought better of themselves.”

  Meg gave him a puzzled look. “Maybe they thought well of you. Isn’t that how parents want to feel?”

  Terry felt a brief irritation at her confidence in speaking for two people she had never known. Then he realized that, compared to Meg’s mother, his parents must sound benign. “The problem,” he told her, “is that my success became a source of pressure. If I kept doing well, my folks felt they needed to gin up the money for schools they’d barely heard of—like Groton or Yale—where the eastern elite they saw in magazines sent kids less deserving than I. The one caveat was that I’d remain devout.”

  “Were you?”

  Terry laughed. “Lord, no. I liked church best when no one else was there—nothing but light and shadow and stained glass and maybe the hollow footsteps of some other solitary soul. Then I could feel the presence of God. But at Mass the words got in the way, and the parishioners reminded me of Dad waiting for the car pool—dutiful and resigned.” Terry sat back, gazing at the ocean. “I might have felt more if they hadn’t junked the Latin Mass—comprehension erased the sense of mystery, a timeless connection of past and future. I feel closer to God in a place like this.”

  “Do you ever miss it?”

  Terry pondered how much to say. “Now and then. But as I understand people like your father, religion provides a cosmic reason for the unreasonable. Not for me.” Still he did not look at her. “When my father died, I wanted to box with God. Eventually I realized that God is only an idea.

  “Some people have it; others don’t. I take no position—to fight over the unknowable strikes me as a waste of time. All that matters is what we do on earth, and therefore whether the believers’ God is compassionate or a bigot. That part’s very real.”

  At the corner of his vision, he saw Meg gazing at the blue-gray waters. “In your heart,” she asked, “what do you think happens when you die? Or choose to die.”

  For an instant, Terry thought of his father. “Ever see a dead squirrel in the road? I don’t envision transcendence. It’s pretty much the same thing for us, I suspect. No matter how you go.”

  For a moment, Meg shut her eyes. “That’s pretty grim, Paul.”

  “But useful,” he responded. “It reminds us that life is precious, and it places a premium on how we use the years we’re got. At the end, I hope, I’ll have kids and grandkids who feel good enough about me to say a few nice things.”

  Turning, she looked at him in mild surprise. “You plan on having a family?”

  Terry smiled at this. “I do, actually. So far I’ve been too busy getting to New York. But I’ve begun to wonder what I have to show for that besides a destination. In the fullness of time, albeit on my schedule, I want to be some kid’s dad.”

  For a time, Meg studied him. “When did your dad die, Paul?”

  “Years ago. When I was thirteen.”

  Terry could read her thoughts—he had been barely older than Meg when her mother committed suicide. Quietly, she said, “I’m sure that was hard.”

  “Financially, it was ruinous. Dad didn’t leave us with anything.” Facing Meg, he said baldly, “My character wasn’t defined by abstractions, like military honor or the family name. It was defined by money—the money I didn’t have, or the money I needed to pay for school.

  “Scarcity taught me well. Time was a precious commodity I reserved for part-time jobs, or to stay at the top of my class. I became hyperorganized, a planner who left nothing to chance. The biggest sin, I concluded, was to be surprised by your own life.”

  Meg gave him a rueful smile. “You sound like me. Even without a watch, I always know what time it is.”

  Briefly, Terry laughed at this. “Remember the woman I told you about?”

  Meg raised her eyebrows. “The undefined relationship with undefined complexities? I probably remember her as well as you do.”

  “Not true. I’m actually very fond of her. But even though I was off that weekend, I’d lay out my clothes for the next day, and put my keys and wallet beside them.” Terry winced in mock embarrassment. “It was habit—in law school, the next day was like a grid in my head. I still can’t shake it.”

  Meg gave him a once-over. “You look carefree enough. At least at the moment.”

  Terry grinned. “Oh, that’s because I planned it.”

  Meg smiled at this. “Then what have we planned for dinner?” she asked.

  NEITHER, IT TURNED OUT, had planned anything at all.

  They wound up taking a picnic to the beach, sitting at the water’s edge as the setting sun turned the white-capped blue to indigo. Finishing the first bottle of wine, they cracked open some chardonnay. “It’s strange,” she mused. “Before this happened to Brian, I couldn’t envision ever being a defense lawyer.”

  “Why not?”

  Her brow knit. “Maybe I’ve constructed a black-and-white world. But to me, protecting moms and their kids is a cause. I can’t see only caring about whether I win or lose.”

  Terry felt the glow of wine eroding his caution. Bluntly, he asked, “And you think that’s all I care about?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “What I’m certain of,” she said gently, “is that you want to get ahead, and that no one’s going to stop you.”

  Terry met her eyes. “Then I’ve left
something out,” he told her. “My world comes in shades of gray. Moral judgments can be too simple and too harsh; legal judgments can, too. I still don’t know why Brian shot D’Abruzzo. He’s given me little to go on, and less reason to trust him. But he’s said one thing I believe: that he’s not the guy Flynn thinks he is.

  “The world of people like Flynn is a simple place to live. But I don’t believe that the worth of a human being can be defined by the worst moment in his life, or sliced and diced into which facts are admissible and which are not, or captured by some tidy narrative that masquerades as ‘truth.’ ” His voice gained passion. “Granted, I don’t see the men you prosecute as very attractive clients. But they were kids once, too—how else did they get that way? When it comes to someone like your brother, there’s a whole lot Flynn is missing. Maybe it’s not his job to care. But it sure as hell is mine.”

  Meg turned away for a moment. “I’ve never met Flynn,” she said at last, “but I know him. Joe D’Abruzzo is his client, like those battered women are mine. When it comes to the trial, he won’t be driven by emotion, and he won’t leave anything to chance. Because, like me, he owes the victims the best lawyer he can be.”

  “Those people need you,” Terry answered. “I’m sorry you had to leave.”

  For a long time, Meg watched the ocean, pensive. “Once Brian’s charged,” she said at last, “I’ll have to resign my job for good. It’s like I’ve lost a piece of myself. Too big a piece, I think. But there’s no help for that now.”

  Watching her profile, Terry grasped how adrift she was, how completely she had sacrificed her own identity for Brian and her father. Silent, Terry took her hand.

  They said little more. Returning to the house, she caught his eye, then angled her head toward the bedroom. This time, their lovemaking was sweeter, slower. She let him hold her until she drifted off to sleep.

  ten

  IN THE MORNING, MEG PREPARED TWO CREDIBLE OMELETS. After breakfast they walked toward the old stone lighthouse at Cape Henry—Terry in swim trunks, Meg in a bikini. Soft ripples lapped at their feet, and the ocean was pleasantly cool. Unable to resist its lure, Meg ran through an oncoming wave and dived into the calmer sea beyond, swimming parallel to Terry with strong, steady strokes. After a few minutes she returned, grinning like a kid, wet red-auburn hair clinging to her face and shoulders. Grabbing his hand, she said, “Come on.”

  They waded into the surf until the water was chest-high, glistening with mica tints of reflected sunlight. “When I was a kid,” she said, “I always thought of this place as carefree. So was I.”

  “What did you think you’d become?” Terry asked.

  Pausing, she gazed out at the Atlantic, a half smile on her face, perhaps thinking of herself before Mary’s problems had enveloped them all. “An aviator—Amelia Earhart without the plane crash. I imagined flying above the world where no one could catch me.” She gave her head a shake, shedding droplets of water. “My mother saw herself as a glorified camp follower, captive to other people. I knew I needed something of my own.”

  For Terry, this brought back something Rose had said. “You remember thinking that?” he asked.

  Meg headed for the shore with brisk, determined strides. “I’m not sure when. Memory is funny—you have these images of a childhood that you constantly reinterpret. But I remember very clearly the first day I felt responsible for her.” She shot him a sideways look. “Does any of this really interest you? I feel like I’m being sorry for myself out loud.”

  They resumed walking along the shoreline. “Self-pity isn’t your deal,” Terry said. “And yes, I’m interested.”

  Her gaze refocused on the white spumes of surf. “When I was nine,” she told him, “I found her passed out on the bed. For a moment I thought she was dead. Even when I felt her breathing, all I could think of was to call my dad.

  “He came home right away. The first thing he did was throw out all the liquor in the house—and I never saw him drink another drop. Then he explained that Mom had a type of sickness some people were unkind about. If anything like this happened again, and he was away, I shouldn’t go to anyone but Aunt Rose.” She paused, sifting through her memories. “I heard him saying something more: that she was an embarrassment to him—and worse. So when she missed a teacher conference or broke a lunch date, I knew to cover up. I became the misguided adult’s idea of what a child should be—so responsible, so caring. When all I wanted was a mother.”

  Meg still held his hand. “Were you angry at her?” Terry asked.

  “I must have been. But I was leading a secret life, even from myself.” She seemed to look inward, as though passing judgment on her childhood. “Then she killed herself and left the note—the biggest secret of all. I promised myself never to be like her.”

  “Then who did you model yourself after?”

  She gave him a sardonic smile. “I guess I’m my own creation,” she said, then added softly, “I know I should admire Rose. But I saw her as a saner version of my mother, still in orbit around Dad. And now both of them are alone.”

  “Why didn’t they marry, do you think?”

  To his surprise, Meg looked pained by the question. “Because I showed Dad the note. After that, he couldn’t marry Rose. For my sake.”

  A shaft of sadness struck Terry—for Rose Gallagher and for the girl she had tried to help, tangled in her own misperceptions about the nature of Rose’s sacrifice. But it was not his place to tell Meg the truth. Instead, he inquired, “Did that affect your relationship with Rose?”

  In profile, Meg appeared thoughtful. “Whatever happened with Dad, Rose was always good to me. He could take Brian hunting or fishing or to a ball game—the stuff guys do instead of talking. But he knew zero about adolescent girls. So Rose and Kate advised me about boys, and helped me buy a prom dress. They were all I had.”

  It surprised Terry that Meg was willing to say this much. But perhaps, from her perspective, he was an ideal listener: he had unearthed enough to understand her, and yet would vanish in a week. “So you were also close to Kate?” he asked.

  “Yes and no.” Meg kept gazing ahead, as though not facing him made it easier to talk. “Dad never had enough for me. Yet I still had to share him with Kate. I’m sure part of that was his debt to Rose—whatever that involved. But I remember him giving Kate away when she married Joe, how proud he looked when the two of them danced together.” She sounded both angry and abashed. “I know Kate never had a father of her own. But I imagined that she, not me, was the daughter he’d really wanted.”

  Terry had a vision of three women—Rose, Kate, and Meg—competing for a man with too little to give. “And Brian and Kate?” he asked.

  Meg’s face closed. “If Kate weren’t so damned needy,” she said, “this wouldn’t have happened to us. As you know, I’m finding that hard to live with.” She turned to him, saying in a softer voice, “Enough, Paul. We were getting away, remember?”

  THEY SPENT THE DAY pedaling along the bike path, and twilight strolling on the boardwalk, watching families and inventing imaginary lives for the couples they passed. Activity allowed Meg to escape herself, Terry saw, and perhaps forget that she had said so much. He was content to go along.

  They ate dinner at a Turkish restaurant, incongruously named the Mayflower Café, which offered generous shanks of lamb and savory home-cooked vegetables. Over their second bottle of wine, they fell back into talk of religion. “If I’m an agnostic,” Terry asked, “what are you?”

  Meg cocked her head, as though considering the question. “Dad dismisses me as a ‘cafeteria Catholic.’ I take the bits I like, such as a concern for social justice, and skip the rest. If two guys are happier married, why is that a problem for me? I just worry that they’re headed for disappointment.”

  “You’re against straight marriage?” Terry joked.

  “That’s where I’m agnostic.” She took a sip of cabernet. “I’m sure my parents married in a fog of mutual incomprehension. But people a
s ‘enlightened’ as we are can end up just as lost.”

  Terry heard something beneath the words. “Have you come close to marrying?”

  “Once, when I got pregnant. I chose abortion instead.” Spoken aloud, the memory seemed to embarrass her. “God knows why I’m confessing over dinner.”

  “Maybe because—whatever else—we’re becoming friends.”

  That seemed to give her pause. “Whatever else, Paul, I was too afraid of marriage. When I ended the pregnancy, it ended the relationship.” She looked up, her eyes meeting Terry’s. “Chris said I was selfish. I couldn’t really argue with him. On my more lucid days, I’m not a complete mystery to myself.”

  Terry sat back. “Really?” he said in mock exasperation. “Just when I think we’re actually getting somewhere, you say something completely Martian.” He stopped there, then spoke evenly and kindly. “Self-protection is different than being selfish. In some ways, you’re the least selfish person I know. But you gave up way too much, too soon, to the idea of the McCarrans. And now you’re doing it again.”

  For an instant she looked defensive, then summoned a belated smile. “Meg the Martian,” she said. “You’re quick to catch it so soon.”

  “That’s not hard,” he said. “But sometimes, when you let go, you’re also lovely.”

  Her eyes widened in a pantomime of bewilderment. “ ‘Lovely’?”

  “It’s a compliment,” Terry assured her with a smile. “Not that I’d believe for one moment that you’re not hell in court.”

  Meg’s smile became more genuine. “ ‘Lovely,’ ” she repeated. “I wonder if I could ever live with that.”

  THAT NIGHT, NEITHER NEEDED to signal their desire to make love.

  Lying across him, Meg felt warm, her breasts full and womanly. The smell of her skin, familiar now, enhanced Terry’s desire. Kissing his neck, and then his stomach, Meg made him wait. Only when she was done did he slip inside her, his guide her whispered words.