“For Nan it’s a strong case,” Max said. “Jeff’s dead. He can’t work. But let me ask you something. Unless you prove I’m unable to work, isn’t my case weak?”
Brillstein put his notebook away. “Not necessarily. Just because you’re able to work doesn’t mean you can earn the same kind of money as you did with Mr. Gordon. And it doesn’t address the issue of the loss of the Nutty Nick stores contract.”
Max nodded solemnly. Brillstein now paced back and forth in a pattern that took him closer to the door with each pass. Max gestured for him to return to his bedside. Brillstein stopped. He paused and looked curious. Max repeated the gesture. Finally, Brillstein walked to the side of the bed. He held himself stiffly, though, his shoulders back and his head leaning away, as if ready to run. Max said quietly, “You get a third of the settlements, right?”
Brillstein pursed his lips gravely and nodded vigorously. The expression suggested that he disapproved of this fact.
“You’re going to make a big score with Nan’s case and Carla’s case. Do you need money so badly that you’re willing to have me declared insane just to make more money out of me?”
For a moment Brillstein did nothing but blink his eyes. Abruptly he sat down in the plastic chair Max’s mother had moved beside his bed. Brillstein rubbed his forehead with his index finger and studied Max. He seemed to come to a conclusion. He exhaled with a rush of words: “I told you these kinds of cases are almost always settled. And that’s true. But sometimes one side or the other decides not to compromise, to go the whole route. Not necessarily because of the merits of the argument. It’s for the future, for credibility. If you get a reputation for always settling, of being afraid to go to trial, then you can be taken advantage of. I’m up against heavy hitters. Their case stinks. We still don’t have the official final judgment of the NTSB but that isn’t legally binding anyway. All the data is in and it shows that it was negligent maintenance that caused the engine to come apart and wipe out the hydraulics. So TransCon is going to be on the hook for this. They should settle. They know it. They’ve already settled seventy-five percent of the suits — got them cheap if you ask me. They did it in a bunch with the two big firms, like a discount sale, using three formulas depending on age. Most anyone got was six hundred thousand. They paid a hundred thousand for the children.” Brillstein shook his head with disgust. “They may—”
Max was impatient with his tedious logic and cut him off—“They may go to trial with you to prove a point, since they’re safe on the other cases if they lose.”
Brillstein snapped his fingers and then pointed at Max. “You got it. Also, I’m working on new law here. Well, not new. There’s been two rulings so far, but not for airplanes. Have you ever heard of posttraumatic stress syndrome?” Max shook his head no. “You’re suffering from it!” Brillstein said eagerly and with a hint of delight, as though it was clever of Max. “We can sue them for compensation for the syndrome’s effects. It’s a gamble for them but they may decide to take it to trial and beat it.”
“ But if they lose on that point they’re screwed in the future, no?”
Brillstein folded his arms. He smiled without showing teeth. “They’re screwed either way. If they settle on this issue, even if we agree to keep the numbers and the argument confidential, other lawyers will find out and use it again.”
“You know,” Max said. He shifted in the bed, to get on his side and face Brillstein. The sheets and all its plastic undercoverings rustled and swished. He let their surf noise the down before continuing. “I’ve never done anything really good or useful in the world.”
Brillstein nodded eagerly, almost encouragingly.
“But at least I’ve never actually added to what’s bad.”
Brillstein’s mouth pursed. His eyes were offended. “Maybe you don’t understand,” Brillstein said softly, but with menace. “If you contradict me on Nutty Nick or Mr. Gordon’s ‘key man’ status you’ll only be hurting Mrs. Gordon.”
Max said nothing.
“You’ll leave me no choice but to take the line that you’re not in your right mind.” Brillstein stood up. His mouth had gotten very tight and severe. He looked too small to achieve the threatening effect he wanted. “Your wife and I have talked about this. There’s a lot of evidence you’re unwell.” Brillstein became nervous again. He grinned and said, “We’re both tired and tired talk is no good. Let me know when you want the psychologist to bring you the questionnaire. Get some rest.” Brillstein scurried out in his brown suit, a small, even cute creature. But the lawyer had meant what he said. And Max knew that sometimes the littlest animals were the most determined and the most vicious.
21
Carla decided to call a cease-fire with Manny. But only after she asked if he was still seeing “that bitch.”
Manny said no with his head down, ashamed. He mumbled to the floor, “I ain’t seen her since the day in Jersey.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said dispassionately.
“It’s the truth!” His head came up; his black eyes shined. “I called her that night and told her I couldn’t see her no more.”
“I believe you,” she said and let go of the subject. So they were talking again. Nevertheless, she moved her things into Bubble’s old room and slept there. The next morning she bought cans of white paint. Using Manny’s brushes and ladder she began to cover the pale blue color of the nursery.
A few days later Manny came home with a dozen roses. They must have cost half his take-home pay for the week. She told him he was crazy. He took off his coat and revealed he was wearing a clean white shirt, a blue tie and his best slacks. She hadn’t seen him in a tie since their wedding. For one delighted moment she thought he was going to take her out to dinner and dancing. What he wanted was sex.
She let him — in their old room. The lovemaking didn’t bother her although she felt nothing, like always since the accident. But it did bother Manny that she wasn’t ecstatic no matter what he tried. He was a skilled lover. Carla assumed he had been taught by experts — probably his mother’s colleagues — but even his fanciest stimulations were of no use. Afterwards he said softly, “You didn’t like it.”
She told him as gently as she could, “Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me. I feel fine.”
“I can’t.” Manny pushed at his hair with the flat of his palm, agonized. “If you don’t like it, I can’t.”
But he had enjoyed himself. He had arched to the ceiling and moaned, like always. “That’s your pride,” she said. “We’re married. You don’t have to show off with me.”
Manny put his other palm to his hair and pressed with both hands. “Did you do it with him?” he said in a choked voice.
“No,” she said and was disgusted. “I’m not you.”
Finally Manny relaxed, stopped asking questions, and began to brag about his triumphs at work. They talked for a while in a friendly way before she went to Bubble’s room to sleep. To her room really. She felt no trace of her dead boy in the real world anymore. Bubble did live on in her dreams. There he was always happy and pleased with her.
She visited Max three times. She made sure each time (once with Brillstein; the others with Manny) that he would be alone when she came. She worried about his health. They said he was healing okay but she thought something in his brain wasn’t working right. When she made jokes he sometimes looked bewildered instead of laughing or smiling; and he didn’t say smart things, the kind of things that he used to, that changed the way she thought about the world. On her third visit she found out why. A kid came in a white coat — he was an intern Max told her later, but he looked like a child to her — and said in a cheerful way, “How’s the vision, Mr. Klein? Still seeing double?”