by Tara Conklin
“When I saw that article in the paper about Lu Anne Bell, I recognized the style of the pictures they’d printed. I’ve got three that look just the same—one of a white woman sitting on a porch, one of an African American man, and the last of a man and a woman together, slaves or sharecroppers, at least that’s what I always thought. Some real old-timers.”
“I’d be interested in looking at them,” Lina said, thinking of the Bell portraits she had seen—most were in oil. Were there any drawings? “I’d also like to do some genealogical research on your dad. Where was he from?”
“Arkansas. Real rural. I don’t think he had the greatest childhood there.” Jasper spoke slowly, his voice hard to hear. “He fought in Vietnam too, he lived through a lot. I wish I had asked him more.” Jasper’s elbows were propped on the bar, his back curved slightly. He had taken off his jacket and Lina could see the knobby bones of his spine through his thin T-shirt, and this sight struck her hard somewhere in the middle of her chest. She put her pen down.
“I’m sorry,” Lina said. “About your father.”
Jasper glanced at her and nodded once, an acknowledgment that gave away nothing of himself. “And why are you so interested in all this?” he asked, straightening on the stool and turning to face her. “You’re a lawyer, Marie said?”
“Yes, with the corporate firm Clifton & Harp.” She briefly described the reparations suit, her ongoing research, her search for a lead plaintiff. “We have some other candidates,” Lina said, “but our client would like us to pursue the Josephine Bell angle. The artistic controversy will help with publicity for the case, and there’s a strong … symbolism there.” Lina took a long swallow of orange juice, ice cubes clattering in the glass. “But we need to find a descendant.”
There was silence. Then a throat clearing. “I’m not really sure about any lawsuit,” Jasper said. “I didn’t realize that’s what this was about.”
“Well, it’s not a lawsuit lawsuit. It’s reparations, for slavery. It’s historic.” Lina heard Dan’s voice echoing in her ears.
“But me? The plaintiff? I don’t think … And my mom—she doesn’t even know I’m looking into all this.”
“I’d be happy to meet with her. This is a groundbreaking case, Jasper. Generations who just disappeared, who have never been memorialized. No one knows their names.” Lina was leaning toward Jasper, their knees almost touching. She heard the earnestness in her voice, the utter absence of dignified remove, but she did not tone it down as she would have for Dan or Dresser or any of her clients. “This case will help tell their story.”
“But, I’m not—I mean, I’m not even black. At least I don’t think I am …” Jasper’s voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in any lawsuit.”
Lina realized she was losing him, and this—the looming possibility of failure—made it seem urgently and improbably true that here was Josephine Bell’s descendant, discovered with a luck so pure Lina did not even question it, and she had only to persuade him to help her. Did the color of his skin matter? No, Lina decided, wouldn’t his racial ambiguity be a strength? Wasn’t this a history from which they had all emerged, every American, black and white and every shade in between? Porter Scales’s essay came back to her: Who is slave and who is free? Jasper’s uncertainty about his family roots would only serve to strengthen Dresser’s point about the need to remember. She thought of Children No. 2, the closed eyes of that mysterious boy.
“Ready for another beer?” Lina said, smiling. “On the firm.” She ordered one for herself as well and folded away the notebook. “So, tell me more about yourself.”
Jasper hesitated and then he shrugged his shoulders and began to talk. He was a musician, he told her. His band, The Wisdom, played in and around New York City. All five of them were high school friends from Queens, the most underrated of the New York boroughs in Jasper’s purely objective opinion. His parents had moved to Poughkeepsie after Jasper went away to college, but he still thought of Queens as home. Jasper was excited about the band’s development; they were getting serious, getting better. They’d had some small successes, songs played on certain radio stations that Lina didn’t know, gigs played at clubs to which Lina had never been.
They finished their beers and Jasper nodded at the tattooed blonde behind the bar. “This round’s on me,” Jasper said. Lina glanced at her watch, thinking she really should leave, but there seemed a tenuous connection between them now, their stools close, their heads bowed together over the bar. As people, they could not be more different, Lina decided, and this made it easier for her to focus. She wasn’t looking to manipulate the situation, not exactly, but she knew what she needed to accomplish. Wasn’t this part of her professional acumen, the ability to persuade, to convince the unconvinceable? The new beer arrived and Lina tilted back the bottle.
“So do you do this a lot, this reparations stuff?” Jasper asked.
“No. Usually I represent corporate clients. Contract disputes, that sort of thing.”
Jasper’s eyebrows lifted and fell. “You know, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really seem like a lawyer.”
“I don’t?” Lina wasn’t sure if she felt insulted or flattered. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Depends on how you feel about being a lawyer, I guess,” Jasper said.
“I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer,” Lina answered quickly, disliking this shift of focus from Jasper to her. Reflexively she told him the story she always recited when asked why she had chosen the law, a story that Oscar often told too as part of their family lore. “When I was ten, I decided that I didn’t need any more babysitters. I knew the subway, I had my can of mace. I didn’t see why we needed to pay some teenager ten bucks an hour to read a magazine while I did my homework. So I convinced my father that I could take care of myself. And he agreed. He said, ‘Lina, you’d make a great lawyer. You could argue the pants off any judge.’ And I guess that just stuck in my head. It seemed to make sense for me. I could support myself, support my dad too if he needed it. It’s a good, stable career, not too many surprises. You know, reliable. My dad’s an artist, and I knew I didn’t have what it took for that kind of life.”
“How’d you know?” Jasper’s gaze weighed heavily on Lina. She shifted on the stool and took a quick sip of her drink.
“Well, I was never very good at drawing or painting. Even photography, I don’t have a good eye.”
“So you didn’t have what it took to be your father’s kind of artist.”
“If you mean successful, then yes, I guess so.”
“No, I mean that anything can be art. Don’t you think? If you do it well enough, if you love it.”
Lina paused, trying to think of a suitable response, funny or sarcastic, but she felt unexpectedly stilled by him—his unabashed sincerity, this talk of love and art—and the feeling both terrified and thrilled her. That old story about her dad always elicited a smile from the listener, and for that reason Lina enjoyed telling it, but the anecdotal flipness now seemed ridiculous, dishonest.
“I do, I do … love it,” Lina stammered. “Being a lawyer, I mean.”
Lina remembered suddenly, vividly the immigration law clinic she had taken her last year at law school, a complete departure from the other, more practical classes in which she usually enrolled (Litigation Techniques, Trial Advocacy, Evidence). The professor, a harried, gray-haired mother of two, assigned Lina to represent an asylum seeker in Manhattan’s immigration court. Lina’s client was a young woman from the Sudan, and this woman—was she even twenty?—had looked at her hands and tapped one small, slippered foot as she told Lina her story.
Ange. Her client’s name had been Ange.
But Lina did not tell Jasper this story. An abrupt, paralyzing shyness overcame her, a fear that speaking Ange’s name would reveal something about herself that she was not ready to show.
“I’m sorry, it’s late. I need to get home,” Lina said, pulling some bills f
rom her wallet and placing them on the bar. She stood and slipped into her suit jacket.
“Here’s my card,” she said. “I hope you’ll reconsider about the reparations case.”
“I’ll … think about it.” Jasper moved to stand beside her. “Carolina,” he said, looking down at the card. “That’s a pretty name.”
“Um, thanks.” Lina gazed at the floor and then up again at him, his eyes looking almost gold in the refracted light from the long glimmering row of liquor bottles. A spinning sensation overcame Lina then, perhaps from blood rushing to her head, or those two beers, or Jasper’s smooth gaze, or the fractured feeling she’d had ever since reading those notes left by her mother. She felt herself tilt, the bar tending away from her, slanting toward the scuffed, dusty floor.
Jasper reached out and grabbed Lina’s elbow. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Fine. Head rush, I think.” She steadied herself on his arm. “Long day.” The tattoo around his right wrist, she saw now, was a bird.
JASPER PUT HER IN A cab, closing the door behind her, waving good-bye as the cab left the curb. Lina leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. This evening had not gone as she had hoped—Jasper remained unconvinced, she had no definitive information about Josephine Bell. Even Porter Scales’s lecture had been inconclusive as to authorship of the Bell works. And yet this tattooed, pierced stranger who played in a rock band, who had lectured her about art, offered the barest whisper of a chance in the reparations case. And Lina was unsure if it was this possibility or the memory of his arm steadying her, holding her up, that made her want to see him again.
MONDAY
Lina left the house early. Today she would again ask Dan to send her to Richmond. This time Lina was prepared, her arguments fleshed out, her reasons clear. Every press article dealing with the Bell exhibit was clipped and filed in a three-ring binder. A spreadsheet displayed the (shockingly minimal) cost of a one-to-two-day trip to Richmond. A bullet-point list described the reasons that Josephine’s descendant would best represent the harm suffered by the class. They were nearing the deadline; Lina would work fast. Mr. Dresser fully supported the idea. And most important, she now had a lead: Jasper Battle, who might (or might not) possess some Bell works, who might (or might not) be a Bell descendant. This last she would not share with Dan, not yet. Too uncertain. But the information gave her an extra impetus, a little fire in her belly.
As she approached the office, Lina called good morning to Mary.
“He’s in there with Garrison.” Mary’s tone was curt, as though this were information Lina should have known. “Is he expecting you?”
“Not really. But I can wait.”
Mary tilted her chin down, her lips parted as if to speak again, and for a moment she looked at Lina with what seemed like pity. But Mary said nothing. She turned away from Lina and noisily retrieved a coffee mug from her top drawer, then disappeared in the direction of the break room. Lina watched her go, puzzled, and stood outside Dan’s door, listening to the rise and fall of Garrison’s voice. Animated, it seemed to Lina, as though he were arguing with Dan. The hallway was quiet; only a few of the secretaries and even fewer associates were in this early. Lina did not intend to eavesdrop but Garrison’s voice rose, coming cleanly through the door.
“This case is just begging for some publicity, right? We need those cameras at the courthouse and the plaintiffs are an opportunity to hook them, early and fast. Am I right?” Garrison was saying.
Silence. Dan must have nodded, because Garrison continued.
“So, what if we found a plaintiff who already came with a bagful of built-in publicity. A story that’s already being covered in the kinds of markets, read about by the kinds of people, who are—and might be in the future—clients of this firm. Josephine Bell is that story. I went to this amazing exhibit over the weekend, Dan. Amazing. I’m a big art fan. I love art. And this was something that grabbed me, from the moment I heard about it. An African American artist, never recognized in her time. I know it sounds silly, but looking at those pictures, I felt a kinship with her. I did. I felt her.”
Lina knew she should pull away but was rooted in place by the elemental shock of hearing these words spoken by Garrison. She listened as he told the story of Lu Anne and Josephine, the white mistress, the black house girl, the canonization of Lu Anne by modern art circles, feminists, art historians. And now, behold, it had all been a lie.
Then Dan’s voice: “I like it, I see where you’re going with this. This sounds fantastic, a really great hook. Good work, Garrison.” She could picture Dan, leaning forward in his chair, scratching his red wiry head, his cheeks flushed pink.
Lina knocked. She did not wait for an answer. She opened the door.
“Lina,” Garrison said, turning around, surprise but no shame stamped on his face.
“Lina, good morning, you’re in early,” said Dan, good-natured and oblivious. “Come, join us. Garrison is just filling me in on this exhibit he saw over the weekend. This artist angle, it sounds like just the ticket.”
Lina sat down. She did not look at Garrison.
“And I know, Lina, you mentioned something about this last week—and I know I said hold off. But now, hearing about it from Garrison, he’s done all this extra research—the art exhibit, potential new client base. I think it’s an exciting idea. There’s a lot to recommend it. A lot.” He turned to Garrison.
“So,” Dan said. “Where are her relatives? When can I meet them?”
“Well, umm … we don’t know yet.” Now Garrison paused. Lina noted the return of the welcoming “we.” She did not respond. Garrison cleared his throat. One breath. Two. Part of her wanted him to flounder. Hadn’t she done enough to help the amiable Garrison Hall? But in Dan’s face lived a chance that he would approve a trip to Richmond, that she could advance the search for Josephine. And Lina focused now on this prospect, on what she had come here to accomplish. Garrison, she decided, was peripheral.
Lina said, “Dan, as you can see, Garrison is excited about my idea to locate a Josephine Bell descendant to serve as lead plaintiff. But there’s one hurdle—we still have to find one. There are resources out there that I just can’t access from my desk. I need to go to Virginia.”
Dan looked at her with eyebrows raised. Lina held his gaze.
“Okay, okay. Let’s give this a try,” Dan said. “But we are tight on time, team. Tight. So, who’s going to Richmond tomorrow?” Dan tilted his head first toward Garrison, who shifted in his chair. Lina’s cheeks stung as though she’d been slapped.
“Um, I really can’t leave the city,” Garrison said.
“Okay, then.” Dan turned toward Lina. “Lina? How about it?”
“Of course I can go,” she said steadily.
“Great. But listen—here’s the deal. Fly coach, leave first thing tomorrow. Work one day, two max. Be back here Thursday at the latest. I’ll ask Dresser for a few more days to work on the brief. He’ll have a kitten but, hey, it is what it is. And keep expenses to a minimum, Lina. We’re talking the Super 8, not the Four Seasons. Understood?”
Lina nodded and rose from her chair. She felt a sudden pressing need to be far from the company of Garrison Hall and Daniel Oliphant.
“Great work, team!” Dan called after her as she left the office. Lina turned down the hallway, toward the elevator bank, and heard the rustle of Garrison hurrying behind.
“Lina,” Garrison said. She did not turn around. They arrived at the elevator together and she pushed the down button. Garrison eased up beside her.
“Lina, I know what you’re thinking,” he said quietly. “And you’re wrong.”
“What am I thinking?” Lina kept her eyes on the glowing arrow. “That you stole my idea to look good in front of Dan? How could you have done that?”
“I just thought it was a great idea, and that we should run with it, and I thought that maybe if he heard about it from someone else … I mean you already tried to explain it to him, didn’t you?�
� Garrison’s voice was level, reasonable, which served only to enrage Lina further. She felt something within her fly loose, the demise not only of her burgeoning friendship with Garrison but of something essential within herself as well, a vision of success here at Clifton and how she would undoubtedly achieve it.
“Garrison, I trusted you.” Her voice rose too loud for the small space around them. A young paralegal waiting nearby glanced up and then quickly down when Lina met her eyes.
“And Dresser seemed so taken with the idea,” Garrison continued in the same quiet tone. “I just wanted to redeem myself, show him and Dan that I’m committed to this case. But I should have talked to you first. I’m sorry.”
The elevator opened with a cheerful electronic ping. Lina stepped inside. She turned and looked at Garrison, at his wide, intelligent eyes and articulate mouth as it opened to say something more, but his words were lost as the doors closed and Lina faced only a hazy image of herself reflected off the steel.
As the elevator descended, she began to cry with an angry frustration. She had let down her guard and forgotten the math: law firms presented a zero-sum game. How many associates would eventually make partner? Five percent? Two? Dan must have dangled the partner track promise in front of Garrison too. Every case mattered, every client meeting, every hour billed represented a chance for you to shine and your colleagues to stumble.
Lina dried her eyes on the sleeve of her button-down, straightened her back, and stepped forward to examine herself in the door’s dim reflection. Lowering her chin, she wiped away the dark shadows of smudged mascara, tucked her hair behind each ear. She was going to Richmond, Virginia, where she would locate evidence of Josephine Bell’s descendant. And this goal crystallized now within her in a new, harder way. Maybe she wasn’t as cutthroat as Garrison, or as powerful as Dan, but she had what it took to excel here. Wasn’t the law what she did? And she did it very, very well.
Josephine
The afternoon reached toward night and Mister did not return. As the sun burned low in an orange-blue sky, Missus wanted to walk and so Josephine took her down the front path to the gate, and back again to the house, and again, and again. Missus wore her everyday slippers; she did not ask again for the boots. Heavier with each pass, Missus leaned on Josephine’s arm, but still she insisted they stay out. “I like to feel the sun on my face,” Missus said. “Motion in my limbs.” A trickle of sweat ran down the valley of Josephine’s spine, where the cloth of her dress pulled away; she felt it like an insect on her skin.
