The Judas Glass Read Free Page A

you so nervous? I’ve never known you to be nervous.” Despite my failure as a fledgling pianist, I had always hungered for music, high music, low music, everything from Bob Wills to Benjamin Britten. I think my lack of talent left a dry arroyo in me, a feeling of failure, a canyon I wished could sport poppies. I couldn’t listen to a driving drummer, or a sizzling bassist, without finding my hands twitching, playing air guitar.
    She made a gesture, annoyed humility, with just a hint of pride. “I’ll also record a few things of my own. Just a studio on Arch Street, nothing major.”
    â€œIt’s fantastic!”
    â€œI’d like you to be there.”
    Her success was mine. “I’d be delighted. Tell me when.”
    She hesitated. “You don’t have to.”
    I was tugging the black leather calendar from my jacket pocket. “I’ll have Matilda do major surgery on my schedule.”
    â€œYou think about cutting a lot,” she said. “Flaying, stabbing.”
    â€œFigures of speech,” I said.
    â€œYou don’t have to decide now,” she said.
    â€œI’ll be there,” I said, with some heat. “I want to be there. I feel honored—”
    â€œWe can go on like this for a while. But some day you’ll have to choose.”
    There was never a time when I forgot that she was blind. Everything about her house, the way she listened, the way she made love, was colored by this presence of a way of life very different than mine.
    From the first moment she asked if she could touch me I had never imagined her to be anything else. But I found myself looking into her eyes, wondering how long I could go on like this, impatient with my life. Rebecca was so unlike anything I knew that I was afraid of my love for her.
    â€œYou’ll do wonderfully,” I said. And yet I felt slightly strained, despite my sincere pleasure for her. I was a little bit jealous of the new possibilities that might open and distract her, take her away.
    â€œYou’re going to stop seeing me,” she said.
    She said seeing this way, just as sighted people do. “I wanted some time,” I said, forgetting the first thing you tell a witness—think before you answer.
    â€œNo, don’t lie to me, Richard.”
    I actually put my hands to my lips. It was body English that any criminal lawyer would have recognized as a confession. I had been about to mislead the court. How could I tell her that I loved her so much I felt threatened? I was used to my life having structure, logic, love providing a pleasant hedge of greenery, nothing more.
    â€œThursday afternoon,” she said, “two o’ clock. Just be there. I need you.”
    Unlocking the car, I nearly turned and went back to her. I had forgotten to tell her about the explosion, the missile, the bright scrawl in the sky.
    I drove the streets of Berkeley, taking Oxford Street after passing the stadium and the Greek Theater. As I drove, the phone trilled. I almost answered it, my hand falling to the receiver before I could stop myself.
    I let it ring. I didn’t feel like talking to Connie right now. But I didn’t turn off the ringer, taking some masochistic pleasure in letting her nag me.
    The phone stopped its bleating and then started right up again. This was pure Connie. She let it ring five times before she hung up and started again.
    Some people expect an attorney to be able to pick up planet Earth and drop it on someone’s head. I told new clients to make a list of what they want me to accomplish. I told them to sit down and put it in writing. But, I liked to add, don’t leave the paper lying around. For some reason women appreciated this approach more than men, especially the part about folding the list and hiding it. For all the respect and even adoration I sometimes received from happy clients, I had never been unfaithful to Connie—until now.
    The phone stopped. That