embarrassment as she retraced.
I held the door for her. She entered as if she knew the place, chose the precise spot on the leather couch occupied by her sister, and pressed her knees together.
No facial movement, no giveaway tics, the brown eyes remained as still as taxidermy. But as I delayed by shuffling papers, she began wringing her hands just as Ree had. Reached for her hair like Ree. No braid to play with; an arched thumb stroked the bottom of a particularly dramatic wave.
“That,” she said, “was unfortunate. The little contretemps with Medea. I’d like to believe you won’t hold her assertiveness against me.”
“No problem.”
“No problem for you, but for me, it could be a big problem if shemucks things up. I’ve already paid her a fortune and she refuses to guarantee anything close to results. Some racket, this law business, no? We caregivers operate on a higher level.”
If that was a play for common ground it wasn’t backed up by anything close to warmth. She had an odd mechanical way of phrasing her words. Clipped, precise, uniform spacing between words that evoked digital processing.
When I didn’t comment, she tried something that might have ended up as a smile if her lips had gone along with the plan. “Think I should fire her?”
“Not my place to say one way or the other.”
“Of course not,” she said. “You’re just Solomon with a Ph.D., trying to figure out how to divide the baby with a minimum of bloodshed.”
I said, “Tell me why you brought the lawsuit, Dr. Sykes.”
“Why?” As if the question was absurd. “Because I had to. In good faith.”
“Faith in what?”
“Faith in optimal child rearing. Dedication to the child. You’ve met my sister.”
I said nothing.
“Soul of discretion, and all that, eh?” Connie Sykes unclasped her briefcase but left it on the floor. “You ask the questions, I give the answers. Fine. But there’s no reason to be cryptic. I know that you’ve met my sister because Medea told me you have. Then again, she was certain you’d talked to that courtroom hack, Ballister. But no matter, even if you haven’t met my sister, you’ve surely read some of the material we’ve sent you. So you understand what I’m dealing with.”
“Which is …”
“Ah, there it is,” she said, “the classic psychiatric riposte, parrying questions with questions. I learned all about that when I rotated through psychiatry in med school. What was it called—patient-directeddialogue?” She crossed her legs. “Not my cup of tea, psychiatry. Too ambiguous. More shamanism than science. I’ve heard that psychologists operate at a more data-based level.”
I said, “What aspect of your sister are you dealing with?”
“Total irrationality. Part and parcel of her psycho-emotional makeup, I’ll leave the specific diagnoses up to you. What may
not
be evident to you, yet, is that she’s also what used to be called of low moral character. Back when morality counted and every bad act didn’t elicit a disease label. Shall I be specific? She has little or no impulse control. Coupled with a relatively low IQ, the result has not been salutary. In sum, she’s incapable of supporting herself financially and psychologically, let alone of raising a child.”
She removed her glasses, twiddled them by one sidepiece. “Then, there’s the coup de grâce: years of chronic drug addiction and concomitant criminal history.”
“What drug is she addicted to?”
“I don’t know what currently amuses her. But I can tell you that over the years she’s admitted to sampling opiates, cocaine, amphetamines, hallucinogens, you name it. Plus far too much alcohol. Of course she denies all that, now.” She twirled a curl. “If I were you, I’d call for a hair follicle analysis. Clear up that nonsense, once and for all.”
I said, “Does she have any criminal convictions beyond three misdemeanors?”
“Ah,” she said. “So you know about those. Aren’t three
I held the door for her. She entered as if she knew the place, chose the precise spot on the leather couch occupied by her sister, and pressed her knees together.
No facial movement, no giveaway tics, the brown eyes remained as still as taxidermy. But as I delayed by shuffling papers, she began wringing her hands just as Ree had. Reached for her hair like Ree. No braid to play with; an arched thumb stroked the bottom of a particularly dramatic wave.
“That,” she said, “was unfortunate. The little contretemps with Medea. I’d like to believe you won’t hold her assertiveness against me.”
“No problem.”
“No problem for you, but for me, it could be a big problem if shemucks things up. I’ve already paid her a fortune and she refuses to guarantee anything close to results. Some racket, this law business, no? We caregivers operate on a higher level.”
If that was a play for common ground it wasn’t backed up by anything close to warmth. She had an odd mechanical way of phrasing her words. Clipped, precise, uniform spacing between words that evoked digital processing.
When I didn’t comment, she tried something that might have ended up as a smile if her lips had gone along with the plan. “Think I should fire her?”
“Not my place to say one way or the other.”
“Of course not,” she said. “You’re just Solomon with a Ph.D., trying to figure out how to divide the baby with a minimum of bloodshed.”
I said, “Tell me why you brought the lawsuit, Dr. Sykes.”
“Why?” As if the question was absurd. “Because I had to. In good faith.”
“Faith in what?”
“Faith in optimal child rearing. Dedication to the child. You’ve met my sister.”
I said nothing.
“Soul of discretion, and all that, eh?” Connie Sykes unclasped her briefcase but left it on the floor. “You ask the questions, I give the answers. Fine. But there’s no reason to be cryptic. I know that you’ve met my sister because Medea told me you have. Then again, she was certain you’d talked to that courtroom hack, Ballister. But no matter, even if you haven’t met my sister, you’ve surely read some of the material we’ve sent you. So you understand what I’m dealing with.”
“Which is …”
“Ah, there it is,” she said, “the classic psychiatric riposte, parrying questions with questions. I learned all about that when I rotated through psychiatry in med school. What was it called—patient-directeddialogue?” She crossed her legs. “Not my cup of tea, psychiatry. Too ambiguous. More shamanism than science. I’ve heard that psychologists operate at a more data-based level.”
I said, “What aspect of your sister are you dealing with?”
“Total irrationality. Part and parcel of her psycho-emotional makeup, I’ll leave the specific diagnoses up to you. What may
not
be evident to you, yet, is that she’s also what used to be called of low moral character. Back when morality counted and every bad act didn’t elicit a disease label. Shall I be specific? She has little or no impulse control. Coupled with a relatively low IQ, the result has not been salutary. In sum, she’s incapable of supporting herself financially and psychologically, let alone of raising a child.”
She removed her glasses, twiddled them by one sidepiece. “Then, there’s the coup de grâce: years of chronic drug addiction and concomitant criminal history.”
“What drug is she addicted to?”
“I don’t know what currently amuses her. But I can tell you that over the years she’s admitted to sampling opiates, cocaine, amphetamines, hallucinogens, you name it. Plus far too much alcohol. Of course she denies all that, now.” She twirled a curl. “If I were you, I’d call for a hair follicle analysis. Clear up that nonsense, once and for all.”
I said, “Does she have any criminal convictions beyond three misdemeanors?”
“Ah,” she said. “So you know about those. Aren’t three
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