about all this,” he said.
Miranda bit down harder on her lip, but this didn’t stop the tears. He reached for the tissues and set them down in front of her. She tore one free and daubed at her eyes.
“Sorry,” she said, referring not to his question but to her own crying. “It’s been . . . um, she’s . . . well, she’s in the hospital.” Miranda choked a little on a sob. “She’s had a stroke. We thought, well, I thought, that she was depressed. She’s been so depressed. For so long.” Miranda tore the tissue into little pieces and crumpled them into a damp ball. “The doctors think she might have had a few strokes. A bunch of small ones. Kind of masked by her depression. And her drinking. Which of course contributed. And then this last one. Bigger. Impossible not to notice this time.”
Warren had to look away. He was not turning from her tears, but to calm his own anger. Anger at the unfairness of life, the inability of money and class to protect someone from hurt, the many evils brought on by alcohol, the selfishness and arrogance of men like Miranda’s father. Miranda began talking again, her words tumbling along.
“I should have known. I didn’t know. I should have known. I should have done more. Gotten help. Should have made her get help. Right after my brother died. Shouldn’t have waited so long. Shouldn’t have waited until I found her on the train tracks. She’s down in Albany. Have to wait and see what the doctor says. So far, he won’t say much. Which makes me think it’s bad. Real bad.” She swallowed hard and wiped her cheeks. “So, no,” she said, attempting to strengthen her voice. “We won’t be able to get help from my mother. I’ll need to deal with everything myself.” Now she looked firmly at him, her eyes glistening. “I’m ready. I have to be,” she said.
“Miranda, I am very sorry. You have had too much to deal with this past year or so. It doesn’t seem fair.”
Miranda shrugged again.
False bravado. As if there’s any other kind, Warren thought.
“Sometimes, I’m afraid, life is like that,” he continued. “One bad thing seems to lead to, to even cause, another bad thing.”
Miranda looked away, out the window.
“I want you to know something right now and before we go on,” Warren said. “I will help you. I will be here for you every step of the way.”
Miranda nodded slowly, whispered, “Thank you,” and started crying again, more quietly this time.
“Let me give you a minute,” he said, standing up and stepping toward the door.
He left her alone so she had some space to collect herself, but also to ask his secretary to make a call for him. Miranda seemed more composed when he returned with a glass of water for her.
“OK,” he said as he resettled himself behind his desk. “Let’s get to work. Are you ready?”
Miranda took a deep breath, blew out her cheeks, and said she was.
“It all seems to have started,” Warren began, “with the logs for your house.”
Warren began telling her a long, convoluted story, which he had pieced together from documents Miranda had provided and conversations he’d initiated with various men around town. Warren had also had a long talk with Richard Stone over the phone one evening. Warren had noted the not-so-faint slur in the other man’s voice, had heard the sound of ice cubes hitting a glass, had registered the unusual volubility as Stone warmed to the more sordid details of Chick Steward’s story. So he was unsurprised that he received much more information than he would have expected to from a more discreet lawyer. Or one discussing the affairs of a living man. Or one who had not drunk quite so much.
Chick Steward had wanted a certain kind of look for his mountain home, and that took a certain kind of logs—the kind of logs that couldn’t readily be bought around the Adirondacks anymore, the kind of logs that reputable contractors didn’t have easy access to. He had found what he
Miranda bit down harder on her lip, but this didn’t stop the tears. He reached for the tissues and set them down in front of her. She tore one free and daubed at her eyes.
“Sorry,” she said, referring not to his question but to her own crying. “It’s been . . . um, she’s . . . well, she’s in the hospital.” Miranda choked a little on a sob. “She’s had a stroke. We thought, well, I thought, that she was depressed. She’s been so depressed. For so long.” Miranda tore the tissue into little pieces and crumpled them into a damp ball. “The doctors think she might have had a few strokes. A bunch of small ones. Kind of masked by her depression. And her drinking. Which of course contributed. And then this last one. Bigger. Impossible not to notice this time.”
Warren had to look away. He was not turning from her tears, but to calm his own anger. Anger at the unfairness of life, the inability of money and class to protect someone from hurt, the many evils brought on by alcohol, the selfishness and arrogance of men like Miranda’s father. Miranda began talking again, her words tumbling along.
“I should have known. I didn’t know. I should have known. I should have done more. Gotten help. Should have made her get help. Right after my brother died. Shouldn’t have waited so long. Shouldn’t have waited until I found her on the train tracks. She’s down in Albany. Have to wait and see what the doctor says. So far, he won’t say much. Which makes me think it’s bad. Real bad.” She swallowed hard and wiped her cheeks. “So, no,” she said, attempting to strengthen her voice. “We won’t be able to get help from my mother. I’ll need to deal with everything myself.” Now she looked firmly at him, her eyes glistening. “I’m ready. I have to be,” she said.
“Miranda, I am very sorry. You have had too much to deal with this past year or so. It doesn’t seem fair.”
Miranda shrugged again.
False bravado. As if there’s any other kind, Warren thought.
“Sometimes, I’m afraid, life is like that,” he continued. “One bad thing seems to lead to, to even cause, another bad thing.”
Miranda looked away, out the window.
“I want you to know something right now and before we go on,” Warren said. “I will help you. I will be here for you every step of the way.”
Miranda nodded slowly, whispered, “Thank you,” and started crying again, more quietly this time.
“Let me give you a minute,” he said, standing up and stepping toward the door.
He left her alone so she had some space to collect herself, but also to ask his secretary to make a call for him. Miranda seemed more composed when he returned with a glass of water for her.
“OK,” he said as he resettled himself behind his desk. “Let’s get to work. Are you ready?”
Miranda took a deep breath, blew out her cheeks, and said she was.
“It all seems to have started,” Warren began, “with the logs for your house.”
Warren began telling her a long, convoluted story, which he had pieced together from documents Miranda had provided and conversations he’d initiated with various men around town. Warren had also had a long talk with Richard Stone over the phone one evening. Warren had noted the not-so-faint slur in the other man’s voice, had heard the sound of ice cubes hitting a glass, had registered the unusual volubility as Stone warmed to the more sordid details of Chick Steward’s story. So he was unsurprised that he received much more information than he would have expected to from a more discreet lawyer. Or one discussing the affairs of a living man. Or one who had not drunk quite so much.
Chick Steward had wanted a certain kind of look for his mountain home, and that took a certain kind of logs—the kind of logs that couldn’t readily be bought around the Adirondacks anymore, the kind of logs that reputable contractors didn’t have easy access to. He had found what he
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