“…and in the case of Jones v. Jones, Adrie Wolfe will represent Mrs. Jones,” the judge ruled, tapping his gavel. “We reconvene at the appropriate location. Is this acceptable, Miss Wolfe?”
“Quite, Your Honor,” I said politely. My second settlement this week, and it has to be a nasty divorce. “If my learned friend would care to do the honors?”
“Tomorrow morning at eight, Miss Wolfe. Think you can make it?” my opponent asked, cocking his head slightly in a fashion calculated to irritate me.
“I believe I can, Mr. Johnston.”
Ah, yes, the peerless William Johnston, a lean man with a permanent sardonic grin, sandy hair, and blue eyes that were supposedly quite popular with the ladies. I wouldn’t know, as I was never a fan of them myself.
He and I were classmates at the Yale College of Litigation, and his reputation was formidable–that being one of the rare understatements I allow myself. This case would prove more difficult than I had originally anticipated. And it was a pity, too. My shoulder still had yet to heal from my last court appearance.
The ten minute walk back to my offices was a pleasant affair, a crisp autumn breeze heavy with the scent of rain sending leaves skittering around the pavement on either side of my lanky frame. People tell me that I’m too tall, standing a good three inches above six feet. Even so, the extra bit of reach that serves me well in my current profession.
The weight of the old fashioned brass key in my left hand seems negligible compared to the item that I most often hold–yet another thing that sets me apart from Johnston and the others. I’m a southpaw. It forces them into four and counter-four, rather than six and counter-six like they’re used to, whereas I get to use the same ones every time.
“How’d it go?” my junior partner asked, looking up at the sound of our heavy office door swinging shut.
“About as well as could be expected for a truly unpleasant one,” I answered. “Did you get coffee?”
“On your desk. Am I your second?” Rick asked, enthusiasm glowing outward like light from a miniature sun.
“If you really must be. Will you start getting everything ready?”
“Of course.”
“Number two sounds about right. Johnston is all about power, and it would give me just the right amount of speed.”
“I might have to switch the guards so it’s balanced.”
“Use steel instead of a titanium one, then,” I said mildly, sipping from the Starbucks mocha. “Eight o’clock a.m., on the dot. Can you be ready by then?”
“Of course! Besides, it’s you that really has to be ready. How’s the shoulder?”
“Painful but of little consequence. I won the last one with it injured, and I can do it again,” I said, gnawing my lower lip in thought. “Be sure you put a good edge on it if you’re going to touch it up. We don’t want a repeat of March.”
His face fell as he thought of the incident, and I instantly regretted having brought it up. “I am sorry, Adrie.”
“It’s okay,” I said lightly. “Let’s just make this the sort of mistake that only happens once. I’m going to go home. I’ll meet you in court.”
He nodded absentmindedly, turning to the rack in the back of my office. I left the windbreaker I had been wearing on the cluttered walnut surface of my desk and took a heavier coat off the brass stand in the corner of the break room on my way out the door.
Humming a jaunty tune of some childish song conjured up from days of yore, I started my journey homeward through the back allies of Portland. Occasionally I would pause and look up at the blue sky undimmed by clouds through the gleaming towers of skyscrapers, squinting a little in the bright sun. The pavement was still dark and wet from the morning’s rain, air mercifully clear of the golden pollen that tormented the sinuses of the populace.
It was a beautiful afternoon. Perhaps that was why the duel was set for the 10th instead. Why sully a perfectly lovely day with bloodshed?
The next morning was a dreary day, the drizzle of rain heavy enough to be miserable, but not enough to warrant postponing the fight. The celestial weather department, as I have always fancied, has a twisted sense of humor.
I beat Rick to the court, a smooth ellipse of grit the rain had effectively turned into a very shallow swamp. I sighed in irritation, shaking the delicate beads of water off the canvas of my coat. My wonderful second turned up not only with my sword and gloves, but also with a big cup of black coffee. The man is heaven-sent, I swear to you.
Johnston had wasted no time in getting to his spot. He and I were thinking along the same lines when we dressed this morning–a sure sign of two experienced duelists. We were both dressed in nylon track pants, close fitting, long sleeved white T-shirts, leather gloves, and tennis shoes. I had stretched earlier and jogged the whole way here.
A point: the phrase warmed-up is idiotic in October Oregon weather at its best, especially in the rain. The chill had seeped almost all the way to my bones, staved off only by the scalding hot caffeinated liquid that seems to form the staple of my existence. And yet, I had set the mug aside and moved out to the center of the muck to face Johnston.
Water dripped from the tip of my small sword as I took my en guarde position. There’s nothing quite like a fight to the death to bring all of one’s senses into focus. We began.
I make it sound so mundane, but it really isn’t. Excuse me while I try and describe it on paper. Your hands tremble with adrenaline, the guards ring dully when they are struck, and every whipped cut from your opponent stings like the blazes. People say that before death, your life flashes before your eyes. It’s true. That’s called “living”.
I began to retreat through the slop, relying on my superior footwork to save my skin. Prime, circu, octave, tierce…and then there it was. Light seemed to stream down and pinpoint the movement like some God-sent beacon of hope. He was trying to envelope my blade and disarm me, but in doing so he had to bring the point across his body. Damning for him, but that move was my saving grace.
It was a textbook lunge, executed at blurring speed without a thought. I knew it had to be fatal. The world seemed to stop, my misty breath hanging suspended in mid air for a moment. Out of the surreal state that had consumed my mind, these words appeared: Shrimp for dinner tonight. An omen? I sincerely doubt that.
Was that wrong? Was the way I grinned like a maniac as I walked away evil? Such questions often trouble me.
The answer I have found is perhaps. But in fair Portland where we lay our scene, civil blood makes civil hands unclean.