Justice. Faye Kellerman

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      “Hello, my name is Christopher Whitman, and I’m a friend of your granddaughter, Teresa McLaugh—Hello?”

      “She hung up?” I whispered.

      Chris waved me off. Into the phone, he said, “Yes, I’m still here … you can ask her yourself. She’s standing right next to me. Would you like to speak with her?”

      Chris held the receiver out to me.

      “She’d like to speak with you.”

      Slowly, I took the handset. My hand was cold and clammy and I almost dropped the phone. I leaned against the counter for support and cleared my throat. “Hi.”

      “Teresa?”

      The voice on the other end was frail and choked with emotion.

      “How are you, Grandma?”

      “Oh, my God!” She paused. “You sound just like … excuse me … I think I’m going to cry.”

      I beat her to it. Tears started streaming down my face. My past had been closed for so many years. And suddenly, without warning, the door had swung wide open. We both started talking at the same time, then we both started laughing, then crying.

      I heard a beeper go off. I looked up. I hadn’t realized that Chris carried a pager. He put on a leather jacket.

      “I’ll be back.”

      “What?” I suddenly started shaking uncontrollably. “Wait. Don’t leave.”

      “Teresa, are you all right?” my grandmother asked.

      I spoke into the phone. “Grandma, can you hold for a moment?” I covered the receiver and said, “Chris, don’t leave me alone.”

      Chris walked up to me and held my face, wiped my tears with his thumbs. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back. Talk as long as you like. Good-bye.”

      He was out the door.

      I put the receiver back to my ear. Actually, it was good that he did leave because the conversation became very emotional. We laughed, we cried; I asked questions and so did she. Then my grandfather got on the extension and soon we were all talking so fast, it was hard to understand anyone. But it didn’t matter. Because within minutes, I was talking to family. Eleven years of emptiness vanquished in a single stroke, all because someone had cared enough to make a phone call.

      I gleaned a history of what had happened to them. They had faded into the breeze at my father’s request. He had felt that as long as my mother’s memory was kept fresh in my mind, I would never develop a close relationship with my new stepmother, Jean. They had wanted only what was best for me, so they had pulled away. They related my history, defending my father at every twist and turn. But I could feel only anger and resentment.

      Did I ever receive the Christmas cards and presents they had sent me?

      I told them I hadn’t.

      How about the birthday cards and presents?

      Not them, either.

      I told them I would write. I told them I would send pictures. I told them I would call whenever I got the chance. If they wanted to send anything or write back, I told them to address the letters in care of Chris, then gave them his address. After forty-five minutes of nonstop dialogue, I finally relinquished the line to a dial tone.

      I was so exhausted, I sprawled out on Chris’s leather couch and closed my eyes. He came back ten minutes later. His face looked drawn, his eyes looked dead.

      I stood up. “Are you okay?”

      “I’m fine.” He brushed hair out of his eyes. “How’d it go?”

      I smiled. “Great … it went …” The tears came back. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you.” I moved toward him, then stopped.

      He laughed. “Come here.”

      I ran to him and hugged him tightly. It was like embracing granite. His arms wrapped around me, his fingers in my hair. He kissed my forehead. “I’m glad it went well.”

      I burrowed myself deeper into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. After a few moments, I became aware of something hard pressing into my hipbone. I adjusted my position in his arms, then went warm with embarrassment when I realized what it was. I giggled out of nervousness.

      Chris whispered, “Yes, I have an erection.”

      “At least I know you like me.”

      “I like you very much.”

      My eyes found his. “Then why—”

      “Not now, Terry. Please.” He broke away and took off his jacket. Poured himself a shot of Scotch and drank it in a single gulp. “We’re going to have to forgo the lesson. I have a gig lined up. I have to pack.”

      His voice was calm but his posture was tense.

      I clapped my hands once. “If you need help, I’m a really good packer. I do all of my stepmom’s packing whenever she goes out of town.”

      He smiled but it lacked warmth. “I’m fine.”

      “Okay.” I shrugged. “Thanks again. I’m going to owe you money for a very long phone conver—”

      “Forget it.”

      “I also told them to write to me in care of you. I gave them your address. I hope that’s okay—”

      “It’s fine, Terry.”

      He was very anxious for me to leave. But I couldn’t get my feet to move. “When will you be back?”

      “Don’t know. Maybe Thursday or Friday.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “Back east.”

      The room turned quiet. I said, “Are you going to be seeing your fiancée?”

      Chris raised his brow. “You really like to torture yourself, don’t you?”

      “I feel very comfortable on a cross.”

      “Yes, I’ll probably be seeing her.”

      “You’ll be seeing Lorraine?”

      “Probably. It’s getting late.”

      Actually, it wasn’t, but he wanted me out. I said, “I’ll leave now. Thanks again.”

      “Take my books.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I’m going to fall behind and you’ll need to prepare lessons to catch me up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out three fifties. Showed them to me. “For the week СКАЧАТЬ