White Man's Problems Part 8

Carole Lee showed up at Stevens' office unannounced on a Tuesday. She brought chocolate-chip cookies, a sign of domesticity Stevens did not remember in the years she had worked for him. As much as he wished she would unburden herself with her mother or her girlfriends, he showed only that he was happy to console her. He did not have his usual clarity on the relationship between his motives and his actions. While she ate one of her own cookies, he realized he had not told Maribeth about Carole Lee's mess because he could not articulate how he was approaching the matter-whether it was as a friend or father or dutifully or responsibly or just because, at bottom, it was a real juicy case against an exposed set of sons of b.i.t.c.hes.

"You're not going to believe the latest," Carole Lee said, rolling her eyes. "He called me last night to tell me he's had a change of heart and wants to be with me and raise the baby. He said he just can't take it from Vera anymore. She's torturing him day and night-insulting him in front of the kids and stuff like that."

"What did you say?"

"I tried to be calm about it. I told him he needs to be absolutely certain. I can't go through this again-this seesawing up and down and never knowing."

"Carole Lee, this is not a guy who seems to be in control of his own life. You need to be careful."

"I know." She fingered the sleeve of her sweater. "We sure as h.e.l.l have learned that, haven't we?" She looked down at the carpet. "The only thing he said that makes me hopeful is he is going to dinner with his grandfather tomorrow night. I swear to G.o.d, I think that man is the most important thing in the world to Tim. He admires him so much. You know, he does seem like such an amazing guy. I wish I could just meet him. Just get a chance to talk to him is all. I mean, good lord, I am going to have his great-grandson."

Stevens' eyes widened. "You found out?"

"Oh G.o.d, I forgot to tell you," she said. She was smiling now-beaming. She moved toward him with her arms outstretched. "Eliot, it's a boy."

What Stevens didn't have the heart to tell Carole Lee in his office on chocolate-chip day was that it would be a miracle if Tim did not let her down again before the weekend. And he did so like clockwork, via an email in which he reversed course. Carole Lee let Stevens know with a quick, embarra.s.sed e-mail of her own. Stevens urged her not to get down and to that she was going to be a wonderful mother.

With the clock ticking increasingly loudly, the Brownings' firm relieved Dandridge and brought in its litigators. The tone of the e-mails and communications directed at Stevens became tauter and more threatening. The presence of the court lawyers on the file meant that Stevens really should turn the case over to a litigation firm for Carole Lee, but he dragged his feet because he knew she could not afford it. On the day he decided he could not put it off any longer, he returned from one of his walks uptown to a message: "Robert Browning Sr.'s office called. Wants to have lunch at the Knickerbocker Club tomorrow."

IV.

George Dandridge tells me you don't usually deal with things like this," the old man said as they sat. Browning was taller than Stevens had expected and wore gray slacks, a blue blazer, and deep-brown wing tips. His collar and the skin around his neck were looser than they might once have been, but otherwise he was dapper-well appointed, like a ship in a bottle on the desk of a seasoned man.

"He's right," said Stevens. "Forgive me, but I want to be sure: are you ok with the two of us speaking directly? Without George here?"

Browning waved him off. "Of course, of course." He handed the menu to Stevens, not needing one for himself. "We're the only club in New York still making an oyster stew, I believe."

"Yes, I've been here a few times," Stevens said. They were in the men's dining room on the second floor overlooking the east side of the park from Sixty-Second Street.

"At eighty-nine, Mr. Stevens, I am granting myself the liberty to speak without my lawyers. No offense, but it is faster this way."

Stevens nodded. "None taken."

The waiter appeared with gla.s.ses of water and bread and b.u.t.ter. In his white jacket and black bowtie, the short man had obviously been at the club for many years. Browning said, "How is it today, O'Hara? Are we keeping this place straight?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Browning," he said.

The old man ordered the dover sole, peas, and shoestring potatoes. Stevens said he would have the same.

Browning got right to the point. "How long have you known the woman?"

"Quite some time," said Stevens. "She was my secretary for seven years, actually."

"You have your own shop?" Browning asked. His eyes were full of fluid and sharp like the blue yolks of runny eggs. "You worked with George?"

"Yes. But I left the firm twenty years ago."

"This sort of case is not really up your alley, is it? You usually handle commercial matters, I suspect?"

"Well, that's right. But I do a lot of things. Corporate and real estate, mostly. George and I run into each other quite often."

"Yes, he's told me all about you. I take it, then, you are handling this as a favor?"

"Are you asking me whether Carole Lee is paying me, Mr. Browning?"

"Certainly not." The old man spread his napkin, elegantly refusing to be gainsaid. "I am asking you if you are representing this girl-who is claiming to be pregnant with my grandson's child-as a personal friend." He paused. "And, I suppose, I am asking if the letters you've sent George Dandridge regarding the pregnancy were sent as a favor for a friend or whether they have been sent at an arm's length. I'd like to know this, Stevens-that's all. I wouldn't expect it to be a controversial question."

"Mr. Browning, with all due respect, your grandson is the father of the child. George Dandridge is a very good lawyer, and he and-by extension-your family have put my client through quite a bit of strife. She has taken blood tests and ultrasounds. Carole Lee gave a sworn statement and produced hotel receipts. She had complied with everything-done everything your people asked-before she even contacted me." He looked at Browning and, like a doctor bearing bad news, said, "There is no question of paternity, Mr. Browning, and I think you know that."

"What do you want?" asked the old man.

"What are you offering?"

"No, I asked you what you want."

"Sir?"

"Stevens," said Browning, "don't toy with me and don't threaten me. You are not in a position to threaten me."

"You have that wrong, Mr. Browning. You're not in a position to tell me not to threaten you."

Browning stared back at him for a long moment as though he were thinking through an equation. Then he relaxed his face. O'Hara interrupted with their food, and they did not speak until he had gone away. "Eliot..." he said and then stopped. "May I call you Eliot?"

"Of course."

"Eliot, I have a question for you: did you take this situation on for some kind of reason? Something inside of you?"

Stevens kept his hands folded on the table. "I don't follow."

"Listen," said Browning, "I don't know what you know about me, but I a.s.sume you have done your research. You should consider that I've done mine as well."

"I think you are missing the point, Mr. Browning."

"Oh no, I don't think I am at all." The old man sat back but at the same time reached for his water gla.s.s, which he continued to hold throughout the conversation without drinking, as though he needed it to anchor him. His voice turned fatherly. "Look, I know what happened with you at the Mason firm, not making partner. Do you carry that around? All that weight of expectation for years and then all of a sudden having to grab your boots and set your sights more realistically? To move on from it to earn a living for your family? It is a h.e.l.l of a thing to carry, you know. I admire a man who can do that."

"That was a long time ago," said Stevens. "I hardly think about it."

"That's not what I see." Browning hunched in. "Listen, are we talking like grown men? If your experience in life has been marked with a disappointment like that, take an old man's word for it that it's better to look at the other side. If not making partner at the firm is even partly responsible for your success, well, you should be grateful to it."

"I don't know how we got off on this. This is not about me. This is about your son's obliga-"

Browning made a dismissive sound. "Please stop it, Eliot. This girl worked for you for seven years. You did not get to where you are by not being able to recognize a goldiggger when you see one."

In the rear of the room, a busboy dropped a plate on the black-and-white marbled floor, sending a smash through the club. Neither man flinched.

Browning shook his head. "No, I am not willing to believe that...that you cannot see through her." He looked down at his water gla.s.s and kept his eyes there. "What I am inclined to believe, though, is that once this came into your sights, you did not take it on for the money." Stevens listened. "I think you took it on because you saw my name. And you saw-you see now-a chance to strike justice. I think you are out for something." He tilted his head down and cut his fish. As he took a bite, he said, "Am I right?" The question stayed in the air for a beat before the old man made a swatting motion with his hand. "Never mind. You don't have to answer. But it is not justice, Eliot. I want you to know that." Browning put a lifetime of practice with persuasion into what he was saying now. "It's not just. Not right. And in the end that will not benefit you. Or your client. Or the child."

Stevens said, "Believe what you want."

Browning put down his fork and wiped his mouth. "Look, my grandson made a mistake. A terrible mistake that has created a terrible problem that we now have to face and do our best to solve consistently with our consciences and the good Lord." Stevens thought he saw Browning's hand shake-an almost-imperceptible tremor. "Now, I am quite certain that this young woman will trust and follow your advice. So, really, you, Eliot, are the princ.i.p.al in this discussion, and you will make a decision based upon your own personal prejudices." Browning let go of the drinking gla.s.s and returned his arm to his lap. "When there is a mistake, I move swiftly to correct it. I am not interested in fighting with you or with this girl. What should come as no surprise is that I do not want any damage done to my family or to its name. You and I need to come to an understanding. There is a child involved-a human life. A life that will last, G.o.d willing, for many years after you and I are gone. There is nothing to argue about here. From this point on, I am personally guaranteeing you things will be looked after."

Stevens felt the opening Browning was giving him click like a door unlocking. The waiter interrupted again to check on their food, and the men nodded him away. When he was out of earshot, Stevens outlined a financial arrangement, beginning with a large sum of money to be transferred to Carole Lee. It would ostensibly be for medical expenses but well in excess of any realistic estimate of such needs, a point that Stevens artfully avoided making directly to the old man, who nodded quietly. After covering the payment to Carole Lee, Stevens proposed that a trust be established for the child and enumerated another healthy-this time monthly-sum the family would be required to pay. Browning swiftly agreed to the child-support payment and added that, in fact, the financial settlement as a whole was acceptable. He even went so far as to give Stevens a compliment on the deal, like an experienced carpenter judging a well-made table. Browning said his only request in return was that Carole Lee sign a confidentiality agreement. Stevens expected as much. "Mr. Browning," he said, "Carole Lee has no intention of embarra.s.sing your grandson or your family."

Browning nodded, satisfied. He called for the waiter and asked Stevens, "Do you have time for a cup of coffee?"

Stevens, aware he had just leveraged a very wealthy man, was experienced enough in the denouements of negotiations to maintain his composure throughout moments like this. Sometimes it was ironing out paperwork; other times it was discussing the timing of payments. He had taught himself to exit gracefully and not rub it in. "Sure," he said.

"Do you take anything with it?"

"Just a little milk."

To O'Hara, Browning said, "Two cups of old-fashioned coffee, one black and one with cream. And bring us a piece of that cheesecake."

"Your cordial, as well?" said the waiter.

Browning smiled at Stevens, who was happy to once again play the role of the lunch guest. "A habit adopted from my father when he was alive, I'm afraid." The old man seemed tired.

"Do you spend much time in the city anymore?" Stevens asked.

"A few times a month I come in. These days I only get in for my work on the board at Saint Matthew's."

"You've done so much there."

"Why, thank you, Elliot. That's quite kind of you. Do you know the church?"

"Of course," said Stevens. "We are at Old First, but I've been many times. Many weddings."

"That's better than many funerals."

"Yes, to be sure."

The coffee and dessert arrived along with Browning's little drink. Stevens figured it was probably cognac. Browning swirled it and sipped. Stevens thought about the style with which he did it-it was an efficient and brief motion. In the hands of another man, another type, it would be an affectation, an air. But it fit the old man perfectly. Stevens could see all the generations of Brownings sipping cognac after lunch at polished tables under painted ceilings. It was a touch off-center in the stuffy club, a touch Scotch-Irish, giving a hint of their individuality within their elite world, like all families in such circ.u.mstances: their clan being utterly unique to their own minds, while the rest of the population wouldn't see a whit of difference in any of the room's denizens at any point in the last fifty years. The drinking of the cordial showed-more than any kind of conformity-Browning's complete comfort.

"You have to try this," he said, dipping his fork into the cheesecake. Stevens did so, made a suitably surprised face, and told Browning that it was, in fact, delicious. "Speaking of Saint Matthew's," Browning said, "I must tell you that the annex is a tremendous resource. It is entirely your business, of course, but I am happy to a.s.sist."

Stevens nodded, pretending to know what Browning was talking about. He a.s.sumed the old man was weary and, with the cognac, trailing off a bit. He thought suddenly and inexplicably of his own father. "I know the church covers many things."

"Yes, the social services staff handles sensitive matters like these terribly well. You know, I can remember when the annex got started forty years ago."

"These matters?"

"Yes. The adoptions. They find wonderful homes-reputable families who have not been blessed with children."

Stevens closed his eyes and sought the same reservoir of control that allowed him to stay calm in victory. "Mr. Browning, you don't seem to understand. Carole Lee is going to keep the child-the boy. That is what the trust is for."

"Oh no, no," said Browning, his eyebrows arched. "I thought it was understood...She has to give the baby up. We are not having her raise my grandson's child. I'm surprised you even..."

The blood ran out of Stevens' face. The room, the club, and the occasional fully male sound of wood chairs jerking across marble all conspired to add to his disbelief. He had an impulse to backhand the drinking gla.s.s off the table and envisioned ice and water spraying the old man's suit. He got hold of himself. "You are not going to be able to do that, Mr. Browning," he said. "If you go down that road, you will only cause yourself and your family embarra.s.sment. I can't tell you what to do-you can listen to me or not listen to me-I don't really care. I'm just her lawyer. But you can't fix this one. Not even you. There is a child. Your grandson is that child's father. She will keep the baby, and he is responsible for helping her. The law is the law." Stevens folded his napkin, set it on the table, and stood. "I'm happy to let a judge decide all of this from here. Thank you for lunch." Stevens walked downstairs and out of the club. It was the last he ever saw of Robert Browning Sr.

V.

Maribeth made a habit of collecting the Christmas and holiday cards in a large Mexican ceramic bowl. That way Stevens did not have to peck away at three or four sets of matching sweaters with smiling faces in the daily mail or pay attention to the ma.s.s preprinted corporate throwaways, which seemed like soon-to-be remnants of a distant age, like the well-written letters opened by Lord Grantham on Downton Abbey. Stevens liked to wait for Christmas Eve, and then, as Maribeth was cooking and Alex and Jen sat in the kitchen with wine gla.s.ses, he would pour himself his one scotch of the winter, put Nicholas on his lap, and go through the cards, sifting slowly through the whole acc.u.mulation, showing his grandson the colors and pictures while he cataloged the growing offspring of neighbors and clients and relatives. He and Maribeth had a private contest in which they each tried to discover the craziest card, so he kept his eyes peeled for the one-there was always one-that signaled a card maker for whom the st.i.tching had come off the ball. The winner usually came from an overstressed woman with teenagers who was chucking in the towel by sending something reckless, the housewife version of not showing up in court. It might be a black card with red block letters reading Merry Christmas and nothing else-not even signatures. Or, in the other direction, it might be a themeless, t.i.tleless, multiphoto, rococo monstrosity so blazed up with braces, soccer uniforms, and formless-faced infants that one could almost see its author drunk with the power of new corner-cutting software.

He had come to look forward to this annual half hour now that Nicholas was five. It had settled the way quirky family customs do, with Maribeth and Alex and Jen bending toward its occurrence at the appointed time. It was becoming, all in all, a nice time of life for Stevens. "A grandson on your lap will do that," he thought to himself. Nicholas fished in the bowl and handed Stevens a dark-red card. The front cover said Happy Holidays!

"What do we have here, buddy boy?" Stevens opened it. Under the lettering was a large photo of a little girl, probably three years old, with a giant smile that reached out and s.n.a.t.c.hed the heart. She was in a puffy red dress with a blue belt and black-and-white saddle shoes. The composition of the card-its background, the letters, and the dress-was confident and happy. "Adorable," Stevens said out loud, which was not like him-perhaps he was feeling the scotch a little. He lingered on the child's face and found he was taken in by something: a sparkle or maybe just the color and the openness of the eyes. He had a remote feeling of recognition, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. His gaze trailed over to the message, which read, Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above. James 1:17. Much Love This Christmas from Carole Lee and Scarlett Lee.

Beneath the printing was a handwritten note: Eliot and Family-sending you warm wishes and lots and lots of love. May all your dreams come true. x.x.x.

"Maribeth, come look at this," he said in a voice loud enough to reach the kitchen.

Stevens thought back to Robert Browning Sr.'s death notice. He remembered something about great-grandchildren, and he wondered now how the issue had been treated by the people who submitted it to the Times, what their thoughts and calculations must have been. Nicholas reached for the card to put it in the pile of ones that had already been reviewed, but Stevens held it back gently. "Wait a second, kiddo," he said. "Let me show this one to Nana."

White Man's Problems.

The battlefield at Fredericksburg was smaller than Doug Hansall expected, encroached by real-estate development below The Sunken Road, the high ground from which the Confederates blew away a good chunk of the Union Army. "Just drop me off here," Hansall said to the limo driver. He handed the guy a twenty and wheeled his bag toward a busman overwhelming the driver's seat of a tour bus in the Visitor's Center parking lot.

"Do you have a bunch of California kids?" Hansall asked.

The fat man jerked a finger backward, toward the battlefield. "Out there." Sensing the driver was acting as the group member and treating Hansall as the outsider, Hansall thought he should explain, "I'm catching up with them. You with us all week?"

"Yup."

"Great. You can put my bag in with the others."

Uphill on the gra.s.sy incline, he saw a schoolteacher standing next to a tour guide who was dressed like a state trooper. Hansall's son, Will, was seated Indian-style with the rest of the Webster Elementary fifth grade, listening to the trooper's talk. "Unlike the Union Army, who couldn't seem to keep a general," said the guide, "the South was blessed with leadership..." Hansall circled the semicircle of kids to give Will a hug. The weight of connection and filial duty not yet outbalanced by embarra.s.sment at what the world might see, the eleven-year-old boy greeted him with a quick kiss.

Hansall stood back among the other chaperones, parents he knew vaguely from drop-offs on Thursday mornings and every-other-weekend stints in the bleachers at Little League and soccer. A woman he recognized from the school approached. It was Will's teacher, a girl in her midtwenties.

"Hey, you made it," she said.

"Yes, hi. I hope my office got you the message that I had to go to New York."

"Oh sure." She gave him a slap on the arm. "We all know you didn't want to fly in coach." A woman standing nearby gave a sideways smile.

"No, no," he said. "Just couldn't get out of it. How was the flight?"

"Will was fine," she said. "I think they are all tired. We had to be at the airport at four, you know." She waved at the other adults. "I know we're all tired." The mom gave another smile; she had a sweeter face than the botoxed women he normally saw at the school. A little horsey, but with kind eyes. The teacher said, "Will you please just check in with your guys?"

He looked at the sea of kids. "Remind me, which ones are mine?"

She pointed to four boys for whom he had prea.s.signed responsibility. "You have Will, Jobie, Declan, and Harry." Declan and Harry he knew for years, but Jobie was new to him. He was an Asian, maybe Vietnamese.