“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I do work downtown.”
Genevieve Novak enjoyed nighttime Miami. The near tropical climate was quite conducive to roaming the city streets after hours; the daylight routines as assistant to the CEO of the Bernebau Company left behind (and above) in penthouse offices of the Espirito Santo building. Asked if she was afraid of running into the wrong person, on a dark street, she might have smiled. Genevieve was the wrong person. No more than a person, unable to feel the nascent cancer cell that spontaneously withers and dies, suddenly celebrates their health, those who crossed paths with Genevieve Novak almost always failed to take notice of their good fortune.
Deciding to accelerate the socialization process, she put a hint of ‘how-could-he-know-that’ in her voice. And, being impatient, she added a down-lilt of modesty to her answer to the young man’s question. She smiled at him from her seat at the bar of Miami’s hottest nightspot, the Blue Dolphin.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re an attorney in the M&A Department of one of the banks.” Xavier Lorenzo smiled at the woman he’d been playing eye contact tag with for the past hour.
Genevieve’s smile grew more intense as the handsome, predator-turned-prey, planted his elbow, on the bar next to her. The newest executive vice president of a successful hedge fund felt much the same un-justified confidence as the hapless explorer stumbling out of the jungle, in his right to claim whatever bounty the unexplored land possessed. His own feelings of impatience transformed the somewhat bored acquiescence on the part of the very attractive woman into validation and verification of his charm.
Genevieve swiveled slightly, hips turning towards Lorenzo, causing his pupils to instantly dilate (and other physiological responses). Her change in position was just enough to justify leaning on her right elbow on the polished wood of the bar, very much a mutual staking of a claim. It was a claim she expected to be vigorously contested, as the evening progressed.
She let the young man talk. Her occasional laughter every bit a love potion, a finger-tip touch to his forearm, a potent spell. Being a young, successful man, he had no idea that he was swimming in a river that hid currents far more powerful than he could imagine. His only wish, therefore the only thing that mattered, was simply to wash up on a friendly shore.
Xavier Lorenzo, executive vice president, (it said so on the door of his very new office), saw a passionate future in the eyes of the dark-haired woman. The two now sat, thigh to thigh, as they watched the other men and women in the bar disappear and leave, as bold a signal as a sign saying, “Make your move! She’s all yours if you make your move.”
Convinced that there was a connection happening at the bar in the Blue Dolphin at 12:39 on a work night, he made his move. And he felt the power grow as she appeared to submit. Later that early morning on a work night, Xavier Lorenzo would feel otherwise. In as intimate an activity as is available to young couples, it’s sometimes forgotten that both people have moves to make. It was later on in the evening that Genevieve made her move.
I woke from a very strange dream. That it was strange was not noteworthy, that I went from lying under my blankets to standing next to my bed in one motion, was. Worse, as my mind entered a fully alert state, I realized that I was standing in a crouched posture, staring at the bedroom door. The sound that woke me was fading in my memory; a simple, non-metallic thud from somewhere downstairs. In the way of dreams and sudden awakenings, the sound was shedding its fantastical associations, it’s ‘dream clothing’, as my mother used to say, when sitting on my bed, calming the fear that often broke my childhood sleep.
The ‘dream clothes’ that remained in my mind had something to do with computers, ancient ledgers and a man with hollow eyes. I remember running down a corridor lined with palm trees and penguins, who projected stern but friendly attitudes. (In the dream), I had a sense of a door opening behind me and the sound of it slamming shut was the spark into sudden wakefulness.
My body still tense, I moved to the door. My fingers found the silver cross around my neck, and felt a pang of sadness. I stopped. I heard Sister Clare breathing softly and then what could only be a repeat of the sound that woke me. It definitely came from the main floor, probably the living room. A taunt, growing from my feeling of regret passed whispered, ‘so much for faith and priority’.
I walked down the stairs towards the small pond of yellowish light spilling out of the living room.
Sister Catherine was sitting at the desk, in a small alcove to the side of the fireplace. A place for communal study, leaving notes, or for activities that involve the other nuns.
She turned and looked at me as I crossed the living room. Putting the black Cross pen down on a blank sheet of paper next to the open yellow pages, she said, “Sister Ryan. No, you’re not disturbing me.”
I smiled inwardly at the underlying assumption that shaped her greeting, then chided myself for being small-minded. I stood close enough to her to see the word ‘Attorney’ at the top right of the open phone book.
“You’re looking for an attorney?”
“Not for me,” She raised an eyebrow in a way that had the same effect that another woman might achieve by smiling, perhaps chuckling. Sister Catherine was capable of communicating very effectively employing a subtle angle and arch of her eyebrows, emphasis added by a pursing of her lips. I watched her, early in the semester, as she quieted an angry father who, in the middle of a parent teacher conference, loudly demanded to know how his son could fail gym. With nothing more than a slight down-turn at the corner of her mouth and an elevation of both eyebrows, Sister Catherine managed to stop his outburst long enough to explain the reason. Now, in a night-quiet living room of the convent, the angle of her head and the very slight curve of her lips made it clear that she was wryly amused at the image of a nun searching for an attorney.
I decided that if one were a painter and wanted to improve their technique, the best way was to learn from the artist they most admired, so I raised my right eyebrow. I hoped for a, ‘thoughtful interrogative’, but would settle for not ‘comically surprised’.
She smiled in return and said, “I’m trying to help Roanne Avila. She is in dire need of legal advice.” As she spoke, she reached up and touched the silver crucifix she wore, “I know that God hears my prayers, but in the meantime, I’m looking for a lawyer. Roanne is a good woman but has little experience in matters of probate and estates. If that weren’t enough, the bank is starting foreclosure on her home. And if that weren’t enough there’s a detective from Atlantic City asking questions about her late husband. Unfortunately I don’t have any more experience than she in matters involving lawyers. I dread the thought of her getting someone who doesn’t care, worse, someone interested only in how much money they can get from a grieving widow.”
I sat at the end of the sofa facing the fireplace. “If I could help, I would be more than happy to…”
A look of guarded hope grew in Sister Catherine’s eyes. It was an expression that seemed out-of-place. There was something in her upright posture, that even now, at 11:30 pm, spoke volumes about a woman who learned to be strong and resourceful out of necessity. It was not pride that made her reluctant to ask for help, rather it simply did not occur to her to wait for someone to come to her rescue. Despite her calling as a nun, a life of belonging to an Order, there would always be a part of her that knew she was alone in the world and could only rely on herself.
“Well, as you know, I had some dealings with attorneys in Chicago last summer. One in particular, was someone I would trust for advice. So…”
I saw a change, so unexpected that I almost missed it, in Sister Catherine’s face. It was what I could only describe as impish, as if she knew something funny, but was afraid I wouldn’t find her thought amusing. Suddenly it dawned on me what she was thinking. I repressed a grin and, lowering my voice, asked, “Sister is there something you’d like to ask me?”
With the facial expression of a woman for whom public humor is very much a novelty, Sister Catherine looked at me and said, “Have you got a guy?”
I nodded and with as stern a voice as I could manage, “Yes, Sister, I got a guy.”
We both laughed together in that special late at night laugh, unrestrained but not overly loud.
Finally we stopped laughing and I said, “I’ll call Stefan McGurn tomorrow and ask him for a referral to a local attorney. I know that Mrs. Avila will be in good and competent hands.”
“Thank you, Sister Margaret” Sister Catherine put the phone book back on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. “I knew that the Lord would provide. He always answers our prayers, if only we can quiet the voice of the devil long enough to hear Him.”