“As an officer of the court, I have a duty to report an ethics violation if I’m made aware of one.”
“Really? You can’t be serious.”
Her arms are folded now. She starts to speak, then stops. She turns back to the door and pushes it open. Before marching out, she looks at him again. Shaking her head, she says, “Nice suit.”
* * *
On the drive to his parents’ house, Clare’s voice runs through Chris’s head: “Nice suit.” What did she mean by that? Whatever. And who’s she to tell him how to practice law?
He pulls into the driveway of their modest home. Clint still hasn’t taken down the tire swing they’d hung together from the big tree in the front yard. He says it’s too much work, but Clint has never shied away from hard labor. Ms. May says he leaves it up because he likes it when the neighborhood kids sneak into their yard and play; it reminds him of Chris.
“Something smells great,” Chris says, stepping into the small kitchen. Ms. May is wearing an apron and removing baked ziti from the oven. On the lime-green refrigerator is a photo of Chris from his law school graduation. By outward appearances, that had been a good day. The sun shining. His parents beaming. An amazing girlfriend at his side. The world at his feet. But Chris mostly remembers the day for another reason: it’s when he finally decided to let his mother go.
He’d been so angry with her. She hadn’t only left without saying goodbye—she’d left Chris and Vince with Rusty. She of all people understood what that meant for them. Rusty said she’d run off with a no-good bastard who hung out at the bar; that if they ever spoke of her again it would be their last words. That she was a whore and they were better off without her. She’d abandoned them. Still, every birthday, Chris would check the mail for a card. On his high school, then college, graduation days, he’d stare out into the stands, searching. But nothing. He fantasized that Mom and Vince had reunited, that they’d appear when things were safe. But part of him always knew the truth: she’d escaped the prison known as Rusty Whitaker and never looked back. Thus, on that seemingly perfect day with his law school diploma tucked under his arm, Clint and Ms. May beaming with pride, he’d let Mary Whitaker go forever.
“I made your favorite,” Ms. May says.
“It won’t compete with the ramen I usually have, but it will do.” The smell brings him back to the first time he’d ever had a meal without the threat of violence. Clint and May lacing fingers, saying grace, a quiet calm making it clear that he was home. Vince had promised that their new life, nirvana, would smell different. Maybe this was the smell: Ms. May’s ziti.
Clint comes in from the back door. He’s sweating, his shirt damp over his ropey, muscled arms.
“The counselor is here.” He sticks out his hand. Clint isn’t a hugger. A firm shake is what makes a man, he’d once told Chris. And you’d better look ’em in the eye when you do it. Chris makes sure to do that whenever he greets Clint.
“I hear you’re building a shed,” says Chris.
“More like a guesthouse for when May kicks me out.”
“That’s gonna be sooner than you think if you don’t get upstairs and take a shower. Dinner’s in ten.”
Clint widens his eyes for Chris’s benefit, but he rushes out obediently. They all know who’s the boss.
Ten minutes later, on the dot, they sit at the small dining room table, joining hands.
Clint says, “Bless this family and thanks for this food and our health. Bless those less fortunate.” And that’s it. No scripture. No drawn-out version of grace. Straightforward, like Clint.
Ms. May scoops a giant portion of ziti onto Chris’s plate. And for the next few minutes, the only sound is silverware on china. Ms. May always brings out the good dishes for their weekly dinners.
“How’s work?” Clint asks. Standard Clint small-talk.
“I got assigned to a big case, actually,” Chris says. He decides it’s better if they hear it from him. Clint has never said so, but Chris surmises he’s not thrilled about Chris working on behalf of criminals.
“Good for you, dear,” Ms. May says. She doesn’t ask for elaboration, and normally that would be the end of the discussion. Dinnertime was for family talk, not work talk. But Chris needs to do this.
“I wanted to mention it, since you may see it on the news.” Chris forks at his plate.
Ms. May and Clint stop eating. Chris can feel their eyes on him. He keeps his eyes on his plate.