Look Closely - Laura Caldwell [100]
I called Amy next and told her I would be out of the office for at least another day. I didn’t know what I would find in New Orleans, but even if I could get a flight back to Manhattan that night, I couldn’t imagine going to work in the morning. The thought of ever working on the McKnight case again was repugnant. I kept seeing Sean McKnight’s face. I kept hearing his words—This is yours to figure out, Hailey Belle.
“Oh, no,” Amy said. “You’ve got to be back tomorrow.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. The partnership committee wants to interview you.”
“What? When did this happen?” But really, what did it matter?
“They started today. Everyone else was here, so they said they would take yours tomorrow. I already told them you’d be back.”
“Tell them I can’t.” Two women walked by me, pulling black bags on wheels. They were both laughing. I felt a stab of envy for them, for an uncomplicated and benign moment.
“Hailey, I really think you need to get here tomorrow.” Amy had a knowing tone to her voice, which meant she had heard something through the secretary gossip pool.
“Why?” I said, although again I found it hard to muster up any alarm or even interest.
“Werner’s secretary said you’re on shaky ground, and if you don’t get in here and dazzle them, you’re definitely not going to make it this year.”
Dazzle them. It sounded as if they were expecting showy parlor tricks. “I guess this isn’t the year for me to be partner,” I said.
I shut off my cell phone.
Another cab ride, this one from the New Orleans airport to the address on Magazine Street. I felt exhaustion sweep over me with a few light brushstrokes, something I could put away for a while, but something that would claim me eventually. My cell phone remained turned off inside my bag. I was sure that if I switched it on, I would find a message from Amy and at least a few from attorneys at the firm. But there was no one I wanted to talk to right now. Except my father.
Twenty-five minutes later, the driver turned onto Magazine Street, an eclectic mix of run-down homes, upscale restaurants and kitschy antique stores. I noticed a cab in front of us, one that had been there for most of our trip. A tingling sensation went through my body. The back of the passenger’s head in the cab. Why hadn’t I looked closer before? The thin gray hair, the ramrod posture, the perfect navy suit collar. The passenger turned his head to watch something on the street, and I knew for sure. There was no mistaking the profile of my father’s high, proud forehead, his strong chin.
“Can you slow down?” I said to the cabdriver.
“We’re just about there.”
“Then stop, please.”
And as I said this, I saw my father’s cab halt in front of a tiny white house with a flat roof and a minuscule front porch. There were a few emaciated bushes out front, and the house paint was peeling, revealing that it had once been gray.
My cab pulled to the curb about forty feet behind my father’s. “Here?” the driver said. At least I think that’s what he said. I could barely tell because of the blood hammering in my ears and my head, giving everything a fuzzy, reddish fun-house slant.
I watched my father get out of the cab in his navy suit, with only his brown leather briefcase in his hand. He looked calm, maybe even a little tired, as if he was stepping out of a taxi in front of the court building in Manhattan. Should I get out now and call to him? Or should I follow him? No choice was right. They were both odd, false; I could almost convince myself this wasn’t happening.
I paid my cabdriver, and he got out to take my luggage from the trunk. I stayed in the car, watching my father trot up the front steps of the little house.