SE#4

The rest of the lawyers had left after dinner, but, as usual, Tom and Rachel stayed behind. The two always enjoyed the quiet of the steakhouse at the end of the night, their satiation and the surrounding candlelight bringing them much needed relaxation. Rachel had ordered her normal digestif, a brandy, but Tom had ordered a glass of scotch instead of his usual port. Rachel wasn’t surprised, because nothing surprised Rachel, but she did notice Tom’s unusual order. And she left him to it, knowing that once he had finished staring at the tablecloth for long enough, he would tell her what his client had asked of him this time.

She gave a brief look at the waiter, an indication that she and Tom were fine, then she watched Tom, his dark eyes squinting, his large brow furrowed, as if he were struggling to read the fine print on a contract. But she knew he was deciding on what he could and could not discuss with her. They were both young and full of energy and ambition, but they were also both careful, even with one another, with what they shared about their clients.

Rachel, her notoriously porcelain face reddened slightly, had finished her glass of brandy by the time Tom made his decision.

“So that client,” Tom said, his eyes still down, but his voice clear and strong as always. “He wants more litigation.”

“More?” asked Rachel. “Tangential I hope?”

“Not even close.”

“So it’s gotten worse.”

“Yep.”

“How much worse?”

“I’m not sure how much I can tell you.”

Rachel glanced at the waiter again, this time with an indication that she wanted another brandy. Tom looked up at Rachel, shaking his head about his own drink, one of his black hairs falling onto his forehead as he looked back down. She thought of reaching to fix it, but she spoke instead.

“I’m sure you can navigate it on your own, Tom. But this man—“

“Not again, Rachel.”

“Tom, you have to at least talk about it. This man is going too far.”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” Tom said, immediately changing his mind as the waiter placed Rachel’s drink on the table. But not completely, as he told the waiter he wanted his usual digestif, pacing himself.

“What cause is there for another lawsuit?” Rachel asked after the waiter left. “You can tell me that much.”

Tom sat looking at her, his eyes holding an odd combination of amusement and exhaustion. Rachel couldn’t tell if he was waiting for his drink or waiting for her to push him with further questions, so she simply waited herself. 

He was waiting for his drink.

“It turns out that she’s not dead,” Tom said between sips of his port.

“The wife?” 

“The wife.”

“That seems like a good thing, darling.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Tom said, finishing the little glass of port. “Except that’s what inspired his latest litigation.”

“Whom could he possibly be suing this time?” asked Rachel, laughing. “The undead wife?”

“The phone company.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I don’t know how serious I can be about it, but he is. Very.”

“What is he suing them for?” Rachel asked, in a tone of genuine curiosity, not astonishment.

“For helping the police find his wife.”

The tents and card tables littering the grassy field in front of Austin were a mystery to him, except for the fact that he knew it to be the job fair. He never stopped walking, not since he left home, and not now, his legs propelling him toward random tents for random businesses. This would be his first job, he was 16 years old, he had decided he should do something for himself—but he had no idea what he could do for work. The names of companies on name tags, on tables, on tents, meant nothing to him. Their logos meant even less, produced a sort of aversion within Austin, for he hated the seemingly meaningless symbols. Austin preferred facts, figures, numbers. Details, Austin thought, I need details.

It didn’t take him long to find a definite and somewhat fitting employer, their tent labeled with the word he had just thought of fondly: Frank’s Detail and Service. Maybe that’s a good one, Austin thought. Detail.

Frank liked Austin immediately, his above-average frame and quiet demeanor a contrast to many of the young men at the fair.  He also liked that the boy knew little of work in general; he could help the kid work the right way. Although, Frank thought, and said to Austin a few seconds later: “It’s just washing cars, kid.”

Austin liked the friendly, hairy man as much as he could like someone new. The offer of the job seemed to mean to him that the man liked him as well. This was going well. He began to fill out some paper in a lawn chair behind Frank’s card table, and he enjoyed filling out the blanks, seeing the simple facts appear in clear ink on the page—until he heard a familiar voice asking him if he remembered. He didn’t know what it meant, that voice, or where it had come from. But he had to finish his paperwork. 

But the voice, a sort of whining whisper, asked again, breaking Austin’s concentration. Austin looked up and saw a face that matched the voice, except that the face had aged, and the voice had not.

“You do remember,” the young man said. 

We used to ride the bus together, Austin thought, but my paperwork...

“It’s okay. I’ll handle him.”

Austin looked down at his pen, fearing that it wouldn’t write. He scribbled, the black scratch marks appeared, and he felt better for a brief moment. Until he saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the boy from his childhood was staring past Austin. He had to look. It wasn’t Frank. Frank was simply bringing the boy his own paperwork, and the boy said thank you, his eyes never moving, always staring straight past Austin, past Frank, past anything except another young man, slightly older, much fatter, much less timid and—

And Austin remembered.

Of the three boys Frank seemed to be hiring, two were friends from a special ed school bus years ago, while one was the school bus aide who had tormented them for months.

Austin stood up and walked home. He was vaguely aware of handing the paperwork to Frank. Vaguely aware of the piece of paper in his hand and Frank’s scrawled out schedule and address for work. Vaguely aware of memories coming back that he didn’t want to remember. And aware of something else, something he wished he could make vague, but couldn’t: Austin didn’t want the other boy to handle that young man; Austin wanted to handle that young man himself.