closings that Nicholas suggested they hire his gifted nephew for the work. Young Harold cut school when needed and did a fine job for three years, until he left for college. Then they worked out a deal with a large Atlanta studio. The relationship was still in force.
The story of Leonardâs life played out in those thousands of pictures. Over the years they told a graceful tale. The years had transformed this vigorous, handsome, fit young lawyer into a broader, more imposing figure, paunchier to be sure, but never more commanding, never projecting more life and assurance.
Now everything in his life belonged to before or after .
And there were only a handful of after shots, because Leonard soon gave up going to closings. The few pictures that were there were hard to look at. They showed a fat and slovenly man; an unfortunate man who belonged in some other picture. His inner disturbance transformed, disfigured his face. And his weight had ballooned to the point where his suits no longer fit and he could not button his shirts at the top.
Once, trying to make the button work, trying to put himself together for a closing, Leonard thought he heard Scott whisper that grandpaâs belly was fat. He looked around the room and then trembled for several minutes, sitting on the edge of his bed and holding his stomach.
He came by the office once a week, not to work, or socializeânot, it seemed, for any reason that anyone could see. Otherwise, he stayed home and kept the blinds closed. On some hot Georgia days he left the air conditioning off. He told the cleaning people not to come back, and handed each of them three one-hundred-dollar bills. Leonard ate and drank and fell asleep on the couch in the den in front of the TV. Carter came by two or three times a week to reassure himself that Lenny was sane. Heâd stay for an hour, tell Lenny to hang in there, go home, and call Nick Stevenson with his report.
The partners were profoundly distressed, as were the associates, paralegals, and office staff whose affection Leonardâs consistent kindness had earned over the years. One afternoon, Nicholas Stevenson, with Harvey Daniels in tow, strode into Leonardâs office overlooking I-285. He had been there for over an hour, quietly stinking of alcohol.
âTimeâs up, Lenny.â Nicholas said. âGet yourself professional help. Go every day of the week if thatâs what it takes. Take a leave of absence. Take as much time as you need. Harvey and I talked it over. Your share goes in the bank every month, whatever you decide. Spend some time in Paris or Rome. Hilton Head maybe, or Mississippi. Go sit in a cafe in Amsterdam. Fuck your brains out. But donât keep doing what youâre doing. Itâs killing you and itâs killing us, my friend.â
Leonard Martin took his leave of absence.
But he didnât go to Biloxi, to the beach, or to Europe. And he didnât go for help. He stayed in his house and kept drinking and eating. He screened his calls and returned very few. Barbara called him. She left messages. As quickly as he recognized her voice, he stopped the tape. He erased them all without listening. If not for her where would he be? The answer made him sick. Still, she called. And after the last few messages from Dahlonaga, he got Carter to buy him a phone without an answering machine. Eventually it stopped ringing.
One weekday morning in February, eight months after the death of his family, Leonard awoke on the couch in the den after a fitful night of sleep. He turned off the TV and stumbled into the kitchen to find there was nothing there. No soda or beer, no coffee, no crumbs or even sour milk. Eating was now his vocation, and Leonard favored junk: doughnuts, cookies, chocolate cake, greasy take-out chicken, ribs, cheeseburgers, fries, blizzard shakes, pizza. Heâd been strikingly fat when he made his last closing. Now he was seriously obese. He got into his car and drove to a
The story of Leonardâs life played out in those thousands of pictures. Over the years they told a graceful tale. The years had transformed this vigorous, handsome, fit young lawyer into a broader, more imposing figure, paunchier to be sure, but never more commanding, never projecting more life and assurance.
Now everything in his life belonged to before or after .
And there were only a handful of after shots, because Leonard soon gave up going to closings. The few pictures that were there were hard to look at. They showed a fat and slovenly man; an unfortunate man who belonged in some other picture. His inner disturbance transformed, disfigured his face. And his weight had ballooned to the point where his suits no longer fit and he could not button his shirts at the top.
Once, trying to make the button work, trying to put himself together for a closing, Leonard thought he heard Scott whisper that grandpaâs belly was fat. He looked around the room and then trembled for several minutes, sitting on the edge of his bed and holding his stomach.
He came by the office once a week, not to work, or socializeânot, it seemed, for any reason that anyone could see. Otherwise, he stayed home and kept the blinds closed. On some hot Georgia days he left the air conditioning off. He told the cleaning people not to come back, and handed each of them three one-hundred-dollar bills. Leonard ate and drank and fell asleep on the couch in the den in front of the TV. Carter came by two or three times a week to reassure himself that Lenny was sane. Heâd stay for an hour, tell Lenny to hang in there, go home, and call Nick Stevenson with his report.
The partners were profoundly distressed, as were the associates, paralegals, and office staff whose affection Leonardâs consistent kindness had earned over the years. One afternoon, Nicholas Stevenson, with Harvey Daniels in tow, strode into Leonardâs office overlooking I-285. He had been there for over an hour, quietly stinking of alcohol.
âTimeâs up, Lenny.â Nicholas said. âGet yourself professional help. Go every day of the week if thatâs what it takes. Take a leave of absence. Take as much time as you need. Harvey and I talked it over. Your share goes in the bank every month, whatever you decide. Spend some time in Paris or Rome. Hilton Head maybe, or Mississippi. Go sit in a cafe in Amsterdam. Fuck your brains out. But donât keep doing what youâre doing. Itâs killing you and itâs killing us, my friend.â
Leonard Martin took his leave of absence.
But he didnât go to Biloxi, to the beach, or to Europe. And he didnât go for help. He stayed in his house and kept drinking and eating. He screened his calls and returned very few. Barbara called him. She left messages. As quickly as he recognized her voice, he stopped the tape. He erased them all without listening. If not for her where would he be? The answer made him sick. Still, she called. And after the last few messages from Dahlonaga, he got Carter to buy him a phone without an answering machine. Eventually it stopped ringing.
One weekday morning in February, eight months after the death of his family, Leonard awoke on the couch in the den after a fitful night of sleep. He turned off the TV and stumbled into the kitchen to find there was nothing there. No soda or beer, no coffee, no crumbs or even sour milk. Eating was now his vocation, and Leonard favored junk: doughnuts, cookies, chocolate cake, greasy take-out chicken, ribs, cheeseburgers, fries, blizzard shakes, pizza. Heâd been strikingly fat when he made his last closing. Now he was seriously obese. He got into his car and drove to a
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