David Erlewine
After repeatedly rejecting one another’s selections, Jen and I finally settle on Lanny. Like any good mediator, Lanny will be expected to determine, informally, whether Jen or I am more responsible. Our jointly written e-mail to Lanny is curt and dry, befitting the two lawyers writing it. It ends with, “We would like to pay no more than $3000 and will insist on a confidentiality agreement.”
Lanny’s reply comes an hour later: “I’m so sorry for your loss and will of course help in any way that I can.”
The next Saturday morning, Lanny shows up right at nine — impressive for a federal magistrate who never works weekends. True, he lives down the street, but still. We turn off the phones and huddle in the makeshift court room/living room.
Lanny nods when I hand him a black robe, sliding it over his collared shirt and patting Jen’s shoulder when she hands him the check. He eases himself onto the bar stool and looks down at us on the couch.
Jen stands, squinting at the piece of paper she’s holding. Her opening remarks are basically what I’ve been hearing the past few weeks: I kept promising to fix the loose gate latch; I had been working so many late nights; Robby’s ear infection kept the two of them up the night before it happened; she understandably fell asleep on the couch that morning with Robby watching cartoons; apparently, he crawled over to the loosely-locked gate and opened it before crawling up the stairs and tripping near the top.
For my opening remarks, I stumble and stutter over the facts, calling Jen “the accused” (earning myself a properly-sustained objection). My face hot, I point over at the stairwell and say I always wanted them carpeted. I finish with a flourish, stating that had Robby jimmied open the allegedly-loose gate latch on my watch I’d have taken the heat and never dragged anyone else down with me.
Jen blows her nose loudly. Lanny points at me. “My chambers, now.” Out on my deck, he grips my shoulder. “Carl, do me a favor and go talk to your wife.”
I survey the unmowed backyard. “You think she has the stronger case?”
He studies my face for a second and then shrugs.
“Just tell me off the record. I won’t say anything, I swear.”
He pulls out the check from his pocket. ”You can have this back if you just go give that poor woman a hug.”
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. I bend down and awkwardly wrap my arms around her. I stand that way for a few minutes.
At dinner, Jen and I speak to one another like human beings for the first time since the morning after the funeral, when she woke me to say she didn’t blame me for never fixing the gate and hoped I forgave myself.
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David Erlewine’s stories appear or are forthcoming in places like FRiGG, SmokeLong Quarterly, and PANK. He blogs at WHIZBYFICTION.
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