Page 89 of No Kind of Hero
Marjorie ignored him and told Beth, “Did you ever hear that the customer was always right? I’m the customer, and I want a white lawyer. I’m the one paying. That gives me the right.”
Beth didn’t smile, and she didn’t look at DeAndre. She couldn’t say anything. She didn’t trust what would come out. The elevator gave out the harsh complaint of a door held too long, and Marjorie hauled the dogs inside and said, “If you’re too scared to say it, I’ll tell that girl myself. And get moving on my dogs.”
That’s the worst part over.
She walked back into the conference room feeling drunk. When you placed your feet just right, formed your words with extra care, and knew you were still slurring.
Felicia was gathering up files, closing her laptop. “Told you,” she said when Beth came back inside. “Let me guess. She wants you, because you’re undiluted.”
“That’d be great,” Beth said, “if her idea of purity wasn’t a nasty little pug. I’m sorry. I feel like I should apologize on behalf of my . . . my ethnicity. My religion.”
“Your social status,” Felicia finished. “Nope. I’ve got a great-aunt who’s almost that nasty. Only difference is, she doesn’t have enough money to make anybody kiss her ass, so she’s alone, and that’s everybody’s fault too. Besides, this means I’m done. From here on out? Mrs. Marjorie Sinclair is all yours, and her little dogs, too. Welcome back.”
Beth was straightening papers automatically. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Never mind,” Felicia said. “You’ve got the weekend, at least part of it. Only you would come back to work a day and a half before Labor Day. That’s what the flu’s for, sister. Except that then I’d have had Marjorie to myself. Want to go for a drink tonight? Say, six?”
“No, thanks,” Beth said. “Too much to catch up on.” She hadn’t even thought about Labor Day. But then, Labor Day didn’t matter. Except for the “labor” part.
“Hey,” Felicia said, putting a hand on Beth’s arm. “You OK? It gets better. One more year. My husband’s a doctor, you know? He’s not sleeping on gurneys anymore, catching a couple hours’ sleep in the middle of a forty-four hour shift. He works, and then he comes home. It’s boot camp, but boot camp doesn’t last forever.”
“I know,” Beth said. “Thanks.” She picked up her things, walked back to her office, set them down, sat in her wheeled chair again, and lined up her files on the desk like always. Some people used vertical files. Beth liked to deal with each project, then file it away, watching the overlapping pile diminish and disappear every day. Until the next morning, when she got them out again.
She sat and looked at them some more. Her head still hurt, a hammer hitting her in that one spot.Taptaptaptaptap.And she was standing up like she was on somebody else’s string, her feet carrying her to Simon’s office. Her brain shrieked at her, tried to pull her back, but her feet were stronger.
She knocked, and Simon looked up over his glasses from the file he was studying and said, “What.”
She didn’t ask. She came in, sat down, and said, “Marjorie Sinclair is a horrible person.”
“So’s my ex-mother-in-law. And to hear her tell it, so am I. Your point?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can. She’s a client. She has many, many dollars. She wants to spend them on us. Correction—she doesn’twantto spend them, but she will. She’ll call me and screech when she gets the next bill, just like she did when she got the last one. And I’ll put my phone on speaker, because I don’t care. She’s a client. She’s not my mother, and she’s not, all appearances to the contrary, my mother-in-law. But let me guess. She told you she wants you instead of Felicia, because you have no melanin.”
“Yes.”
“And you feel bad. Felicia doesn’t feel bad. I don’t feel bad. We both feel happy. She’s a horrible client, and now, she’syourhorrible client. Welcome back.”
“I need to leave.”
He sighed and set down the file he still held. “We don’t have tantrums because our clients are unpleasant. Felicia’s not having one, is she? Felicia’s letting it roll off her back. And you’re wasting my time again.”
She stood up. “Then I’ll stop. I need to leave. I shouldn’t have come back. I only did it because it’s what I always do. But it’s time for me to do something else.”
“Beth.” She had his full attention for once. “You are a good attorney. You’ll be averygood attorney. This job takes a lot, and that’s all right, because you have a lot. Whatever existential crisis this whole thing is—get over it.”
“I can’t. I miss the mountains.”
“Oh, for— Look. It’s a holiday weekend. Go for a walk in the forest park. Breathe nature. Whatever. You’re a lawyer. This is what you do.”
“I don’t have to do it here.”
“News for you.” Simon never got angry, and he wasn’t angry now. “Every single law practice, everywhere you go, has horrible clients. Horrible clients ye shall always have with ye. You could make that in needlepoint, if you need a stress-relieving hobby. Being poor is no picnic either. What are you going to do other than this? Make lattes?”
“I’m going to decide,” she said. “When I’m home.”
“Good. Decide. Come in on Tuesday and tell me you’ve forgotten it, please. Neither of us has time for this.”
