jg.thefirm-第18部分

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　　〃Who　is　it？〃
　　Nina　stuck　her　head　through。　〃I　hate　to　tell　you　this；　but　your　new　furniture　is　here。〃
　　He　rubbed　his　temples　and　mumbled　incoherently。
　　〃Perhaps　you　could　work　in　the　library　for　a　couple　of　hours。〃
　　〃Perhaps。〃
　　They　repacked　the　Capps　file　and　moved　the　fifteen　notebooks　into　the　hall；　where　two　large　black　men　waited　with　a　row　of　bulky　cardboard　boxes　and　an　oriental　rug。
　　Nina　followed　him　to　the　second…floor　library。
　　〃I'm　supposed　to　meet　with　Lamar　Quin　at　two…to　study　for　the　bar　exam。　Call　him　and　cancel。　Tell　him　I'll　explain　later。〃
　　〃You　have　a　two　o'clock　meeting　with　Gill　Vaughn；〃　she　said。
　　〃Cancel　that　one　too。〃
　　〃He's　a　partner。〃
　　〃Cancel　it。　I'll　make　it　up　later。〃
　　〃It's　not　wise。〃
　　〃Just　do　as　I　say。〃
　　〃You're　the　boss。〃
　　〃Thank　you。〃
　　The　paperhanger　was　a　short　muscle…bound　woman　advanced　in　years　but　conditioned　to　hard　work　and　superbly　trained。　For　almost　forty　years　now；　she　explained　to　Abby；　she　had　hung　expensive　paper　in　the　finest　homes　in　Memphis。　She　talked　constantly；　but　wasted　no　motion。　She　cut　precisely；　like　a　surgeon；　then　applied　glue　like　an　artist。　While　it　dried；　she　removed　her　tape　measure　from　her　leather　work　belt　and　analyzed　the　remaining　corner　of　the　dining　room。　She　mumbled　numbers　which　Abby　could　not　decipher。　She　gauged　the　length　and　height　in　four　different　places；　then　mitted　it　all　to　memory。　She　ascended　the　stepladder　and　instructed　Abby　to　hand　her　a　roll　of　paper。　It　fit　perfectly。　She　pressed　it　firmly　to　the　wall　and　mented　for　the　hundredth　time　on　how　nice　the　paper　was；　how　expensive；　how　long　it　would　look　good　and　last。　She　liked　the　color　too。　It　blended　wonderfully　with　the　curtains　and　the　rug。　Abby　had　long　since　grown　tired　of　saying　thanks。　She　nodded　and　looked　at　her　watch。　It　was　time　to　start　dinner。
　　When　the　wall　was　finished；　Abby　announced　it　was　quitting　time　and　asked　her　to　return　at　nine　the　next　morning。　The　lady　said　certainly；　and　began　cleaning　up　her　mess。　She　was　being　paid　twelve　dollars　an　hour；　cash；　and　was　agreeable　to　almost　anything。　Abby　admired　the　room。　They　would　finish　it　tomorrow；　and　the　wallpapering　would　be　plete　except　for　two　bathrooms　and　the　den。　The　painting　was　scheduled　to　begin　next　week。　The　glue　from　the　paper　and　the　wet　lacquer　from　the　mantel　and　the　newness　of　the　furniture　bined　for　a　wonderful　fresh　aroma。　Just　like　a　new　house。
　　Abby　said　goodbye　to　the　paperhanger　and　went　to　the　bedroom　where　she　undressed　and　lay　across　her　bed。　She　called　her　husband；　spoke　briefly　to　Nina　and　was　told　he　was　in　a　meeting　and　would　be　a　while。　Nina　said　he　would　call。　Abby　stretched　her　long；　sore　legs　and　rubbed　her　shoulders。　The　ceiling　fan　spun　slowly　above　her。　Mitch　would　be　home；　eventually。　He　would　work　a　hundred　hours　a　week　for　a　while；　then　cut　back　to　eighty。　She　could　wait。
　　She　awoke　an　hour　later　and　jumped　from　the　bed。　It　was　almost　six。　Veal　piccata。　Veal　piccata。　She　stepped　into　a　pair　of　khaki　walking　shorts　and　slipped　on　a　white　polo。　She　ran　to　the　kitchen；　which　was　finished　except　for　some　paint　and　a　set　of　curtains　due　in　next　week。　She　found　the　recipe　in　a　pasta　cookbook　and　arranged　the　ingredients　neatly　on　the　countertop。　There　had　been　little　red　meat　in　law　school；　maybe　an　occasional　hamburger　steak。　When　she　cooked；　it　had　been　chicken　this　or　chicken　that。　There　had　been　a　lot　of　sandwiches　and　hot　dogs。
　　But　now；　with　all　this　sudden　affluence；　it　was　time　to　learn　to　cook。　In　the　first　week　she　prepared　something　new　every　night；　and　they　ate　whenever　he　got　home。　She　planned　the　meals；　studied　the　cookbooks；　experimented　with　the　sauces。　For　no　apparent　reason；　Mitch　liked　Italian　food；　and　with　spaghetti　and　pork　cappellini　tried　and　perfected；　it　was　time　for　veal　piccata。　She　pounded　the　veal　scallops　with　a　mallet　until　they　were　thin　enough；　then　laid　them　in　flour　seasoned　with　salt　and　pepper。　She　put　a　pan　of　water　on　the　burner　for　the　linguine。　She　poured　a　glass　of　Chablis　and　turned　on　the　radio。　She　had　called　the　office　twice　since　lunch；　and　he　had　not　found　time　to　return　the　calls。　She　thought　of　calling　again；　but　said　no。　It　was　his　turn。　Dinner　would　be　fixed；　and　they　would　eat　whenever　he　got　home。
　　The　scallops　were　sauteed　in　hot　oil　for　three　minutes　until　the　veal　was　tender；　then　removed。　She　poured　the　oil　from　the　pan　and　added　wine　and　lemon　juice　until　it　was　boiling。　She　scraped　and　stirred　the　pan　to　thicken　the　sauce。　She　returned　the　veal　to　the　pan；　and　added　mushrooms　and　artichokes　and　butter。　She　covered　the　pan　and　let　it　simmer。
　　She　fried　bacon；　sliced　tomatoes；　cooked　linguine　and　poured　another　glass　of　wine。　By　seven；　dinner　was　ready；　bacon　and　tomato　salad　with　tubettini；　veal　piccata；　and　garlic　bread　in　the　oven。　He　had　not　called。　She　took　her　wine　to　the　patio　and　looked　around　the　backyard。　Hearsay　ran　from　under　the　shrubs。　Together　they　walked　the　length　of　the　yard；　surveying　the　Bermuda　and　stopping　under　the　two　large　oaks。　The　remains　of　a　long…abandoned　tree　house　were　scattered　among　the　middle　branches　of　the　largest　oak。　Initials　were　carved　on　its　trunk。　A　piece　of　rope　hung　from　the　other。　She　found　a　rubber　ball；　threw　it　and　watched　as　the　dog　chased　it。　She　listened　for　the　phone　through　the　kitchen　window。　It　did　not　ring。
　　Hearsay　froze；　then　growled　at　something　next　door。　Mr。　Rice　emerged　from　a　row　of　perfectly　trimmed　box　hedges　around　his　patio。　Sweat　dripped　from　his　nose　and　his　cotton　undershirt　was　soaked。　He　removed　his　green　gloves；　and　noticed　Abby　across　the　chain…link　fence；　under　her　tree。　He　smiled。　He　looked　at　her　brown　legs　and　smiled。　He　wiped　his　forehead　with　a　sweaty　forearm　and　headed　for　the　fence。
　　〃How　are　you？〃　he　asked；　breathing　heavy。　His　thick　gray　hair　dripped　and　clung　to　his　scalp。
　　〃Just　fine；　Mr。　Rice。　How　are　you？〃
　　〃Hot。　Must　be　a　hundred　degrees。〃
　　Abby　slowly　walked　to　the　fence　to　chat。　She　had　caught　his　stares　for　a　week　now；　but　did　not　mind。　He　was　at　least　seventy　and　probably　harmless。　Let　him　look。　Plus；　he　was　a　living；　breathing；　sweating　human　who　could　talk　and　maintain　a　conversation　to　some　degree。　The　paperhanger　had　been　her　only　source　of　dialogue　since　Mitch　left　before　dawn。
　　〃Your　lawn　looks　great；〃　she　said。
　　He　wiped　again　and　spat　on　the　ground。　〃Great？　You　call　this　great？　This　belongs　in　a　magazine。　I've　never　seen　a　puttin'　green　look　this　good。　I　deserve　garden　of　the　month；　but　they　won't　give　it　to　me。　Where's　your　husband？〃
　　〃At　the　office。　He's　working　late。〃
　　〃It's　almost　eight。　He　must've　left　before　sunup　this　morning。　I　take　my　walk　at　six…thirty；　and　he's　already　gone。　What's　with　him？〃
　　〃He　likes　to　work。〃
　　〃If　I　had　a　wife　like　you；　I'd　stay　at　home。　Couldn't　make　me　leave。〃
　　Abby　smiled　at　the　pliment。　〃How　is　Mrs。　Rice？〃
　　He　frowned；　then　yanked　a　weed　out　of　the　fence。　〃Not　too　good；　I'm　afraid。　Not　too　good。〃　He　looked　away　and　bit　his　lip。　Mrs。　Rice　was　almost　dead　with　cancer。　There　were　no　children。　She　had　a　year；　the　doctors　said。　A　year　at　the　most。　They　had　removed　most　of　her　stomach；　and　the　tumors　were　now　in　the　lungs。　She　weighed　ninety　pounds　and　seldom　left　the　bed。　During　their　first　visit　across　the　fence　his　eyes　watered　when　he　talked　of　her　and　of　how　he　would　be　alone　after　fifty…one　years。
　　〃Now；　they　won't　give　me　garden　of　the　month。　Wrong　part　of　town。　It　always　goes　to　those　rich　folks　who　hire　yard　boys　to　do　all　the　work　while　they　sit　by　the　pool　and　sip　daiquiris。　It　does　look　good；　doesn't　it？〃
　　〃It's　incredible。　How　many　times　a　week　do　you　mow？〃
　　〃Three　or　four。　Depends　on　the　rain。　You　want　me　to　mow　yours？〃
　　〃No。　I　want　Mitch　to　mow　it。〃
　　〃He　ain't　got　time；　seems　like。　I'll　watch　it；　and　if　it　needs　a　little　trim；　I'll　e　over。〃
　　Abby　turned　and　looked　at　the　kitchen　window。　〃Do　you　hear　the　phone？〃　she　asked；　walking　away。　Mr。　Rice　pointed　to　his　hearing　aid。
　　She　said　goodbye　and　ran　to　the　house。　The　phone　stopped　when　she　lifted　the　receiver。　It　was　eight…thirty；　almost　dark。　She　called　the　office；　but　no　one