all, he needs to be on medication. He’s crying alone in his room? That’s clinical and needs attention. And third of all: Fuck Jim.” Pam’s husband, Ted, did not like her to swear, and the word felt like a well-hit tennis ball as it left her mouth. “Just fuck Jim. Fuck. Him. I would say the Wally Packer trial spoiled him, but I thought he was an asshole before that.”
“You’re right.” There was no one else Bob would allow to say that about Jim. But Pam had standing. Pam was family, his oldest friend. “Did you just snap your fingers at that bartender?”
“I moved my fingers. Relax. So you’re going back up there for this demonstration?”
“I don’t know yet. Zach worries me. Susan said he was scared beyond reason in that holding cell and she doesn’t even know what a holding cell looks like. I think I’d die in a holding cell, and you take one look at Zach and realize he’s less equipped.” Bob put his head back as he drank from his whiskey glass.
Pam tapped her finger on the bar. “Wait. So could he go to jail for this?”
Bob opened his hand upward. “I don’t know. The problem could be with the civil rights woman in the state AG’s office. I did a little research today. Her name’s Diane Dodge. She joined the AG’s office a couple years ago after doing civil rights work in all the right places, and she’s probably gung ho. If she decides to go ahead with a civil rights violation and Zach’s found guilty of it, screws up on any of the conditions, then he could go to jail for up to a year. It’s not impossible, is what I’m saying. And who knows what the Feds will do. I mean, it’s nuts.”
“Won’t Jim know the woman in the AG’s office? He’d know someone there.”
“Well, he knows the AG, Dick Hartley. Diane Dodge sounds too young to have been there with him. I’ll find out when he gets home.”
“But Jim got along well in that office.”
“He was headed right to the top.” Bob shook his glass and the ice cubes rattled. “Then Mom died and he couldn’t leave the state fast enough.”
“I remember. It was weird.” Pam pushed her wineglass forward and the bartender filled it.
Bob said, “Jim can’t go barging in, pulling strings with Dick Hartley, though. That’s just not an option.”
Pam was rummaging around in her handbag. “Yeah. Still. If anyone can pull strings it’s Jim. They won’t even know their strings are being pulled.”
Bob drank the last of his whiskey and pushed the glass toward the bartender, who placed a new one before him. “How are the kids?”
Pam looked up, her eyes softened. “They’re great, Bob. I suppose in another year or so they’ll hate me and get pimples. But right now they’re the sweetest, funniest boys.”
He knew she was holding back. He and Pam had worn themselves down trying for kids, putting off going to a doctor for years (as though they had known it would be the end of them), agreeing in vague conversations that getting pregnant should happen naturally and would, until Pam—her anxiety increasing monthly—suddenly said that such thinking was provincial. “There’s a reason it’s not happening,” she cried. Adding, “And it’s probably me.” Not having his wife’s inclination toward science, Bob had silently agreed, only because this aspect of women seemed to him more complicated than issues for men, and in Bob’s imprecise imaginings he pictured Pam going in for a tune-up, tubes cleared, the rest cleaned, as though ovaries could be polished.
But it was Bob.
Immediately, this made—and still made—devastating sense to him. When he was small he had heard his mother say, “If a couple can’t conceive, then God knows what He’s doing. Look at crazy Annie Day, adopted by well-intentioned people”—raising her eyebrows—“but they sure weren’t made for parenthood.” Oh, that’s ludicrous! Pam had shouted this many times during those months they were trying to get used to it: Bob not being able
“You’re right.” There was no one else Bob would allow to say that about Jim. But Pam had standing. Pam was family, his oldest friend. “Did you just snap your fingers at that bartender?”
“I moved my fingers. Relax. So you’re going back up there for this demonstration?”
“I don’t know yet. Zach worries me. Susan said he was scared beyond reason in that holding cell and she doesn’t even know what a holding cell looks like. I think I’d die in a holding cell, and you take one look at Zach and realize he’s less equipped.” Bob put his head back as he drank from his whiskey glass.
Pam tapped her finger on the bar. “Wait. So could he go to jail for this?”
Bob opened his hand upward. “I don’t know. The problem could be with the civil rights woman in the state AG’s office. I did a little research today. Her name’s Diane Dodge. She joined the AG’s office a couple years ago after doing civil rights work in all the right places, and she’s probably gung ho. If she decides to go ahead with a civil rights violation and Zach’s found guilty of it, screws up on any of the conditions, then he could go to jail for up to a year. It’s not impossible, is what I’m saying. And who knows what the Feds will do. I mean, it’s nuts.”
“Won’t Jim know the woman in the AG’s office? He’d know someone there.”
“Well, he knows the AG, Dick Hartley. Diane Dodge sounds too young to have been there with him. I’ll find out when he gets home.”
“But Jim got along well in that office.”
“He was headed right to the top.” Bob shook his glass and the ice cubes rattled. “Then Mom died and he couldn’t leave the state fast enough.”
“I remember. It was weird.” Pam pushed her wineglass forward and the bartender filled it.
Bob said, “Jim can’t go barging in, pulling strings with Dick Hartley, though. That’s just not an option.”
Pam was rummaging around in her handbag. “Yeah. Still. If anyone can pull strings it’s Jim. They won’t even know their strings are being pulled.”
Bob drank the last of his whiskey and pushed the glass toward the bartender, who placed a new one before him. “How are the kids?”
Pam looked up, her eyes softened. “They’re great, Bob. I suppose in another year or so they’ll hate me and get pimples. But right now they’re the sweetest, funniest boys.”
He knew she was holding back. He and Pam had worn themselves down trying for kids, putting off going to a doctor for years (as though they had known it would be the end of them), agreeing in vague conversations that getting pregnant should happen naturally and would, until Pam—her anxiety increasing monthly—suddenly said that such thinking was provincial. “There’s a reason it’s not happening,” she cried. Adding, “And it’s probably me.” Not having his wife’s inclination toward science, Bob had silently agreed, only because this aspect of women seemed to him more complicated than issues for men, and in Bob’s imprecise imaginings he pictured Pam going in for a tune-up, tubes cleared, the rest cleaned, as though ovaries could be polished.
But it was Bob.
Immediately, this made—and still made—devastating sense to him. When he was small he had heard his mother say, “If a couple can’t conceive, then God knows what He’s doing. Look at crazy Annie Day, adopted by well-intentioned people”—raising her eyebrows—“but they sure weren’t made for parenthood.” Oh, that’s ludicrous! Pam had shouted this many times during those months they were trying to get used to it: Bob not being able
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