Nothing Is Quite Forgotten in Brooklyn by Alice Mattison Page B

million miles of the Earth. Barbara called.
    â€œAre you at work?” Con tried to figure out what time it would be in London.
    â€œI don’t have that job anymore. But it’s all right. Have you heard from Joanna?”
    Con was appalled at herself. She hadn’t let her sister know Joanna was all right. She told the story. “I’m leaving Jerry.”
    â€œJust over this?”
    â€œNo, of course not.” It was hard to explain. “It’s because this was so clearly Jerry. It’s his defining act, taking Joanna and not telling me.”
    â€œWhat’s my defining act?” said Barbara. “Does everyone have a defining act?”
    â€œI don’t know but Jerry does.”
    â€œQuitting that job,” said Barbara, “was my defining act. Anybody wants to know anything about me, they could see a two-minute clip of me walking out of that office.”
    â€œWell, I guess so.” Con couldn’t recall when they’d begun discussing Barbara’s personality instead of Con’s marriage.
    â€œI really called to ask you about Mom,” said Barbara. “I talked to her yesterday. What’s this stuff about a doctor? Was this your idea?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œIt seemed like your kind of thing.”
    â€œMy defining act?”
    â€œMaybe. Worrying.”
    â€œMom sounded strange on the phone the other day,” said Con. “She didn’t remember what I’d told her. She’d forgotten about the burglary. Marlene’s worried. She wants power of attorney.”
    â€œMarlene’s overreacting,” said Barbara. “Be careful of Marlene.”
    â€œOh, I’m used to her,” Con said. “She’s bossy, but you have to admit she’s helpful. I don’t let her bother me.”
    â€œYou didn’t tell her she could have Mom’s power of attorney, did you?” Barbara said. She spoke differently—maybe more slowly—as if Con were a child or someone who might not understand.
    â€œNo, of course not,” said Con. “I’m a lawyer. But she’d probably handle it all right if she did it.”
    â€œMaybe,” said Barbara, “but don’t.”
    â€œWhat?”
    In London, Barbara sighed. “You idealize Marlene,” she said, “but Connie, you have to see…well, Marlene’s risky.”
    Con found a reason to hang up. Too much was going on; she had no time for Barbara’s theories.
    Â 
    On Monday evening Con left the office with a sheaf of papers stuffed into her tote bag to read at home, because she’d had no time for them during the day. A meeting that should havelasted an hour had been twice that long, slowed by quarrels between one lawyer so abstract she dismissed practical difficulties and another so practical that the first lawyer drove her wild. Con had said little. She’d intended to stop on the way home for groceries—would she actually have all three visitors at once?—but she left the office late, having accomplished little, and went straight home. The warm November weather was starting to annoy her. At home she e-mailed Peggy, suggesting dinner on Wednesday. The bathroom door was still leaning on the wall. Con looked at it with some nervousness, then went for her tools. Finishing the project was easier than she had expected.
    In the evening she read fitfully, feeling herself slide into gloom, trying to remember any single case she’d worked on in her entire career about which she was sure she was right. She was good at what she did—reading and thinking, then persuading others to see things as she did—but at times what she could do felt like no skill at all; anyone could do it. Fixing the bathroom door had pleased, then depressed her. Why couldn’t her real work have such clear results? The cases she worked on lingered and lingered. Nothing was obvious. Newspaper stories made justice and injustice