When I come out to the living room, Judge has his nose pressed against the plate glass wall that makes upone whole side of the apartment. He whines at the drops that zigzag past him. “You can’t get them,” I say,patting him on the head. “You can’t get to the other side.”
I sit down on the rug beside him, knowing I need to get up and get dressed and go to court; knowing that Iought to be reviewing my closing argument again and not sitting here idle. But there is somethingmesmerizing about this weather. I used to sit in the front seat of my father’s Jag, watching the raindrops runtheir kamikaze suicide missions from one edge of the windshield to the wiper blade. He liked to leave thewipers on intermittent, so that the world went runny on my side of the glass for whole blocks of time. It mademe crazy. When you drive, my father used to say when I complained, you can do what you want.
“You want the shower first?”
Julia stands in the open doorway of the bedroom, wearing one of my T-shirts. It hits her at mid-thigh. Shecurls her toes into the carpet.
“You go ahead,” I tell her. “I could always just step out on the balcony instead.”
She notices the weather. “Awful out, isn’t it?”
“Good day to be stuck in court,” I answer, but without any great conviction. I don’t want to face JudgeDeSalvo’s decision today, and for once it has nothing to do with fear of losing this case. I’ve done the best Icould, given what Anna admitted on the stand. And I hope like hell that I’ve made her feel a little better aboutwhat she’s done, too. She doesn’t look like an indecisive kid anymore, that much is true. She doesn’t lookselfish. She just looks like the rest of us—trying to figure out exactly who she is, and what to make of it.
The truth is, as Anna once told me, nobody’s going to win. We are going to give our closing arguments andhear the judge’s opinion and even then, it won’t be over.
Instead of heading back to the bathroom, Julia approaches. She sits down cross-legged beside me and touchesher fingers to the plate of glass. “Campbell,” she says, “I don’t know how to tell you this.”
Everything inside me goes still. “Fast,” I suggest.
“I hate your apartment.”
I follow her eyes from the gray carpet to the black couch, to the mirrored wall and the lacquered bookshelves.
It is full of sharp edges and expensive art. It has the most advanced electronic gadgets and bells and whistles.
It is a dream residence, but it is nobody’s home.
“You know,” I say. “I hate it, too.
I sit down on the rug beside him, knowing I need to get up and get dressed and go to court; knowing that Iought to be reviewing my closing argument again and not sitting here idle. But there is somethingmesmerizing about this weather. I used to sit in the front seat of my father’s Jag, watching the raindrops runtheir kamikaze suicide missions from one edge of the windshield to the wiper blade. He liked to leave thewipers on intermittent, so that the world went runny on my side of the glass for whole blocks of time. It mademe crazy. When you drive, my father used to say when I complained, you can do what you want.
“You want the shower first?”
Julia stands in the open doorway of the bedroom, wearing one of my T-shirts. It hits her at mid-thigh. Shecurls her toes into the carpet.
“You go ahead,” I tell her. “I could always just step out on the balcony instead.”
She notices the weather. “Awful out, isn’t it?”
“Good day to be stuck in court,” I answer, but without any great conviction. I don’t want to face JudgeDeSalvo’s decision today, and for once it has nothing to do with fear of losing this case. I’ve done the best Icould, given what Anna admitted on the stand. And I hope like hell that I’ve made her feel a little better aboutwhat she’s done, too. She doesn’t look like an indecisive kid anymore, that much is true. She doesn’t lookselfish. She just looks like the rest of us—trying to figure out exactly who she is, and what to make of it.
The truth is, as Anna once told me, nobody’s going to win. We are going to give our closing arguments andhear the judge’s opinion and even then, it won’t be over.
Instead of heading back to the bathroom, Julia approaches. She sits down cross-legged beside me and touchesher fingers to the plate of glass. “Campbell,” she says, “I don’t know how to tell you this.”
Everything inside me goes still. “Fast,” I suggest.
“I hate your apartment.”
I follow her eyes from the gray carpet to the black couch, to the mirrored wall and the lacquered bookshelves.
It is full of sharp edges and expensive art. It has the most advanced electronic gadgets and bells and whistles.
It is a dream residence, but it is nobody’s home.
“You know,” I say. “I hate it, too.