JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 136 из 425Some of it was due to the pine just behind it—thatbare branch jutting off to the north like a bony pointing arm—but not all of it. From back here the birch’s white limbs and narrow leaves still made a woman’s shape, and when the wind shook the lower levels of the tree, the green and silver swirled like long skirts.
I had said no to Harold’s well-meant offer to come up almost before it was fully articulated, and as I looked at the tree-woman, rather ghostly in her own right, I knew why: Harold was loud, Harold was insensitive to nuance, Harold might frighten off whatever was here. I didn’t want that.
I was scared, yes—standing on those dark cellar stairs and listening to the thumps from just below me, I had been fucking terrified—but I had also felt fully alive for the first time in years. I was touching something in Sara that was entirely beyond my experience, and it fascinated me.
The cordless phone rang in my lap, making me jump. I grabbed it, expecting Max Devore or perhaps Footman, his overgolded minion. It turned out to be a lawyer named John Storrow, who sounded as if he might have graduated from law school fairly recently—like last week. Still, he worked for the firm of Avery, Mclain, and Bernstein on Park Avenue, and Park Avenue is a pretty good address for a lawyer, even one who still has a few of his milk-teeth. If Henry Goldacre said Storrow was good, he probably was. And his specialty was custody law.
“Now tell me what’s happening up there,” he said when the introductions were over and the background had been sketched in.
I did my best, feeling my spirits rise a little as the tale wound on.
There’s something oddly comforting about talking to a legal guy once the billable-hours clock has started running; you have passed the magical point at which a lawyer becomes your lawyer. Your lawyer is warm, your lawyer is sympathetic, your lawyer makes notes on a yellow pad and nods in all the right places. Most of the questions your lawyer asks are questions you can answer. And if you can’t, your lawyer will help you find a way to do so, by God. Your lawyer is always on your side. Your enemies are his enemies. To him you are never shit but always Shinola.
When I had finished, John Storrow said: “Wow. I’m surprised the papers haven’t gotten hold of this.”
“That never occurred to me.” But I could see his point.
I had said no to Harold’s well-meant offer to come up almost before it was fully articulated, and as I looked at the tree-woman, rather ghostly in her own right, I knew why: Harold was loud, Harold was insensitive to nuance, Harold might frighten off whatever was here. I didn’t want that.
I was scared, yes—standing on those dark cellar stairs and listening to the thumps from just below me, I had been fucking terrified—but I had also felt fully alive for the first time in years. I was touching something in Sara that was entirely beyond my experience, and it fascinated me.
The cordless phone rang in my lap, making me jump. I grabbed it, expecting Max Devore or perhaps Footman, his overgolded minion. It turned out to be a lawyer named John Storrow, who sounded as if he might have graduated from law school fairly recently—like last week. Still, he worked for the firm of Avery, Mclain, and Bernstein on Park Avenue, and Park Avenue is a pretty good address for a lawyer, even one who still has a few of his milk-teeth. If Henry Goldacre said Storrow was good, he probably was. And his specialty was custody law.
“Now tell me what’s happening up there,” he said when the introductions were over and the background had been sketched in.
I did my best, feeling my spirits rise a little as the tale wound on.
There’s something oddly comforting about talking to a legal guy once the billable-hours clock has started running; you have passed the magical point at which a lawyer becomes your lawyer. Your lawyer is warm, your lawyer is sympathetic, your lawyer makes notes on a yellow pad and nods in all the right places. Most of the questions your lawyer asks are questions you can answer. And if you can’t, your lawyer will help you find a way to do so, by God. Your lawyer is always on your side. Your enemies are his enemies. To him you are never shit but always Shinola.
When I had finished, John Storrow said: “Wow. I’m surprised the papers haven’t gotten hold of this.”
“That never occurred to me.” But I could see his point.