"What did you say?" my father asks.
"Just talking out loud."
His puzzlement shows. "How did you get on with Mr. Thomassy today?"
Thank heaven, a question I can field.
"He's tall," I said.
Ah, that look. My daughter is off on her irrelevances, the nonconsecutive thinking of an ex-student who bypassed Latin and logic. He loves me anyway.
"Does Thomassy think he can do anything for you?"
He can be prejudiced in my favor.
"I don't know. I see him again tomorrow."
He lights up. "Good," he says, having elicited a rational answer from his twenty-seven-year-old unmarried, slightly tarnished daughter.
Mama comes to the rescue. "Are you with us for dinner tonight?"
It depends whom you're eating. "Yes, I'll be around for dinner.
My mother, always on the side of sanity, says, "Why don't you give that nice young man Bill a ring. Perhaps he'd like to drive up and join us or take you to a movie afterwards."
"I don't think so."
"You're still upset."
"Mother, I'm not getting over a tummy ache or the flu. I was raped."
"I know," my mother muttered, both of them staring at me.
"You'd know if you'd been raped once. You're both more concerned that I'm raising my voice than what happened to me."
"That's not true," Mother said.
My father leaned forward as if he wanted to take my hands. "I'll give Thomassy a ring in the morning," he said, "and see if he can't speed things up."
"You keep out of it, Dad. I mean you set it up. That's enough."
There was a lot of silence during dinner.
I retired to my room and lay down on the bedspread and talked to my teddy bear as I had all the years I had lived at home. What a great audience he was, every question I asked reduced him to perfect speechlessness.
If I'd been married at the time of the rape, would I have felt different about it? Consoling my husband because his exclusive vessel had been used? Would a husband have quelled my rage by taking a club to Koslak? A good husband would have had my rape covered by insurance under some property damage clause.
I put my hands around the throat of my beloved teddy bear. He didn't change expression. He was just ready to hear more, like Dr. Koch, the listening machine. I need to see him, my rocker is rocking.
As I drove to my appointment with Thomassy the next day, the foliage streamed past, spring is coming, spring is coming. Thomassy is waiting for me, the ultimate temptation, a client with a brain. If the case is difficult, so much the better: a long involvement, leading to mutual triumph. Oh Miss Widmer, we've won our case, I'll miss you, come back soon on any pretext. Don't get raped again, do something else, commit a minor crime against property, I Thomassy will defend you to the Supreme Court if need be.
I expected to find Thomassy leaning against the door jamb of his inner office, as if that were his receiving station to welcome me.
What do you mean he isn't in?
There were two people waiting, a woman and a scruffy teen-age boy. I told his secretary I had an appointment for the same time as yesterday.
"He didn't tell me. He didn't put it in his book."
"I'll wait."
"He's still in court."
"I'll wait."
"Those people have an appointment." The secretary beckoned me closer. She put her mouth next to my ear. Secret coming up. "It's a manslaughter case. First visit after bail was set. Likely to take time."
"That kid?"
The secretary shrugged her shoulders, then looked past me at the outside door.
Enter Thomassy, harassed. Quick glance at mother and boy, then at me, "Good God, I forgot about you."
At fourteen, a high school sophomore stood me up. The agony of waiting was still remembered.
"Come in a minute," Thomassy said, and motioned me into his office, then said to the mother, "I'll be with you in two minutes, Mrs. Tankoos."
"Oh thank you, Mr. Thomassy." Mrs. Tankoos's head bobbed gratefully.
Doctors and lawyers, medicine men.
When he closed the door, he said, "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry I wasn't more memorable."
"It's not that, it's. " Truthfully, he looked at a loss for the reason. Lawyer's block. If he forgets the client, it means he doesn't want the case.
"I'll call your father."
"To say what?"
"I'll get someone else to take your case. I'm really jammed."
"You didn't seem jammed yesterday evening."
"I was distracted."
"By me?"
He went to the phone. "I'll get him at his office."
"I can call him. You take care of your manslaughter case."
I shouldn't have given away his secretary's indiscretion. But what did I have to lose? So I said, "If I kill Koslak, that'll make it manslaughter. Maybe you'll take my case, too, Mr. Thomassy?"
I put out my hand. There was a reluctance in his grasp.
"I feel like a fool," Thomassy said.
"Your witness," I said, and left.
Dear God, please grant me a thicker skin for Christmas. Except give it to me now, and you wont owe me anything for Christmas.
I decided to drive back to my own apartment. This is the age of self-defense. I double-locked the door and phoned my father.
"He's in conference, Francine dear," said Bette Davis (whose name I could never remember, with cause).
"Fuck his conference and put him on."
That'll give her something to sprinkle on her bran flakes.
"What is it, Francine?"
"Just give me the name of another lawyer I can see."
"I thought you saw Thomassy."
"He's busy."
"I don't understand."
"Who's second best?"
Long pause.
"I'd stick with Thomassy, however busy he may be."
"Thanks. Go back to your conference. And please apologize to Bette Davis for me. I know she's doing the right thing protecting you from me.
Billowing clouds drifting in from the west brought darkness early. The minute I saw Thomassy headed for the Mercedes surrounded by empty spaces in the deserted parking lot, I ducked down in the back seat. I heard him unlock the trunk, heard the clunk of his briefcase being thrown in, and I could feel him slam the lid closed. I held my breath as he slid into the driver's seat in front of me.
Lowering my voice and stretching out each syllable, I said, "Don't turn the key. It'll blow up."
His head didn't move.
"Now raise both hands," I said, losing control of my falsetto.
Thomassy's head whirled around. "What the fuck!" Then he saw me crouched foolishly behind his seat.
"It's you," he said.
"It's me. Sorry if I scared you."
"What a damn fool thing to do! Get up out of there! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I hadn't expected him to be this angry. It was only a practical joke.
"Don't ever do that to a man who's had his car wired!"
"What does that mean?"
"Don't do it to anybody. You could kill someone with a weak heart."
I could see the tremor in his hands. "I'm sorry," I said.
"Even after the police disconnected the bomb and removed it — it was from this car the first year I had it — it took all the resolution I could muster to turn the ignition that first time. It seemed an age before the engine caught and nothing happened. All that went through my head when I heard you back there."
"I'm sorry. I mean it. Who tried to blow you up?"
"You look ridiculous back there. At least sit up on the seat."
I did as instructed.
"I was defending a trucker who'd been into the loan sharks. He had good connections. When they sent an enforcer around, he'd been warned. The trucker had two of his teen-age sons, big fellows, with him, and they beat the daylights out of the enforcer. The loan shark couldn't go to the cops and charge them with assault, so they framed the man for a truck hijacking job he didn't do. When he hired me, I decided the easiest way to prove he didn't do it, was to prove who did. My mistake. Fortunately, my client's connections tipped him that my car was being wired right while we were in the courtroom." Thomassy looked at me. "Jesus, don't ever do that to anybody."