The Exchange: After The Firm

Abby said, “And you’re gone for a week?”

“Something like that. There’s no clear agenda because we can’t predict what might happen. Lannak has a skeleton crew still at the bridge, and we’re told that one of their top engineers will be available.”

“What do you know about bridge construction?” she asked with a chuckle.

“Nothing, but I’m learning. Every case is a new adventure. Right now I’m the envy of almost every lawyer at Scully.”

“That’s a lot of lawyers.”

“It is, and while I’m dashing across the desert in a jeep looking for a magnificent bridge to nowhere, which just happened to cost over a billion dollars, the rest of my colleagues will be stuck behind their desks, worrying about their hourly billing.”

“I’ve heard this before.”

“And you’ll probably hear it again.”

“Well, your timing is good. My mother called today and they’re coming for the weekend.”

No, my timing is perfect, Mitch thought. In years past he would have blurted it out and stuck another pin into his wife’s skin, but he was in the often uncomfortable process of reconciling with his in-laws. He had come a long way, but back at the beginning there had been so much territory to cover.

“Anything planned?” he asked, to be polite.

“Not really. I may have dinner with the girls Saturday and let my parents babysit.”

“Do that. You need a night out.”

The war had begun almost twenty years earlier when her parents insisted that she break off the engagement and ditch the McDeere guy. Both families were from Danesboro, a town so small that everyone knew everyone else. Her father ran a bank and the family had status. The McDeeres had nothing.

“Dad said he might take the boys to see the Yankees.”

“He should take them to see the Mets.”

“Carter would agree. And because of that, Clark is becoming a Yankee fan.”

Mitch laughed and said, “I have a brother. I remember.”

“How is Ray?”

“Fine. We talked two days ago, nothing has changed.”

A week before they finished college, Mitch and Abby were married in a small chapel on campus, in front of twenty friends and no family. Her parents were so irate they boycotted the wedding, a slap so terrible it was years before she could discuss it with a therapist. Mitch would never truly forgive them. Ray would have attended the wedding had he not been serving time in prison. These days he was working as a charter boat captain in Key West.

Mitch’s in-law rehab had now brought him to the point of being civil to them, dining with them, and allowing them to babysit their grandchildren. When they entered the room, though, walls went up around him and everything else was off-limits. They could not stay in the apartment. Mitch argued it wasn’t large enough anyway. They could not inquire about his work, though it was evident that his partnership was providing a lifestyle far above anything in Danesboro. They could not and did not expect the McDeere family to visit them in Kentucky. Mitch wasn’t going back anyway.

The law degree from Harvard had somewhat tempered their disapproval of their son-in-law, but only for a moment. The move to Memphis had been puzzling, and when things blew up there and Abby disappeared for months, they of course blamed Mitch and despised him all over again.

With time, some of the issues faded as maturity settled in. A therapist helped Abby begin the process of forgiving her parents. The same therapist realized Mitch was another story, but managed a slight breakthrough when he reluctantly agreed to at least be civil when they were in the same room. More progress was slowly made, driven more by Mitch’s love for his wife than by the manipulations of the therapist. As so often happens in complicated families, the arrival of grandchildren softened the edges and shoved even more history aside.

“And your mom?” she asked softly.

He took a sip of tea and shook his head. “Still the same, I guess. Ray checks on her once a week, or so he says. I have my doubts.” His mother was spending her final years in an assisted living facility in Florida. With dementia, she moved closer to the end each day.

“And what does one do in Tripoli?”

“I don’t know. Ride camels. Play shoot-’em-up with terrorists.”

“That’s not funny. I went to the State Department website. According to our government, Libya is a terrorist state and they evidently hate Americans.”

“Who doesn’t hate Americans?”

“The State Department says it’s sort of okay to go but take precautions.”

“Luca knows more about Libya than the bureaucrats in Washington.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go.”

“I have to go, and I’ll be fine. Our bodyguards are quicker than the terrorists.”

“Ha, ha.”

Not too many years earlier, he would have blurted something like: Well, I’d rather hang out with a bunch of Revolutionary Guards than see your parents.

He smiled at the thought, then let it pass. After several thousand bucks in therapy, he had learned to bite his tongue.

Often, it was almost bleeding.

Chapter 8