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  "I don't want this in the newspapers."

  Thomassy's forefinger circled the rim of his martini glass.

  "Cunham's looking for corruption or multiple murder these days. He thinks rape is petty cash."

  "Could you talk to one of the assistant D.A.s, perhaps one of the younger ones who might be sympathetic to a woman's point of view? I've really had no contact with those people."

  Thomassy looked at me with what I thought was sadness. To him, I suppose, those of us who didn't know the D.A.s were businessmen, not lawyers. He had settled back in his seat, and so I leaned forward as if to bridge the chasm.

  "Will you try to help her?"

  "If I believe your daughter's story."

  I could never say anything resembling that to a client to his face.

  Thomassy went on, "Why doesn't she just move out of the building and be careful from now on."

  "Not Francine."

  "Tell me about her."

  "She's part of the new generation, George."

  "What does that mean?"

  "She doesn't live by our rules. George, you know what Wasp families are like. We read people's expressions, but we don't comment on them. Francine does."

  Thomassy smiled.

  "Saying what you think all the time," I told him, "is very like high treason in our world. I've accommodated myself to her rebelliousness because it's temporary. Her children will revert to type."

  "She might end up with a Sicilian."

  It was my turn to be amused. "I can't believe she'd carry things that far," I said. "Although I must say she tried to quit Radcliffe in her last semester as a protest against the degree. I made her go back on grounds I was ashamed of. I told her how much I had already invested in that degree. She mocked me, but finished up. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have gotten her job."

  "Where?"

  "The U.N."

  It made me nervous that Thomassy hadn't taken a single note. When a client first briefed me about a situation, I always had my long yellow pad in front of me, getting the details down. It gives them security, and me as well. Was Thomassy expecting to remember all this? Or did it not matter?

  "Boy friend?" he asked.

  "From time to time."

  Thomassy laughed. "Surprised you haven't got her married off already."

  "Young women don't get married off today, George. Judging by her friends, most of them don't get married even on their own initiative. No contracts."

  "Tough for lawyers. Like you, I mean."

  I wanted to respond to him, but I didn't want to get embroiled in a side issue. I had promised her a lawyer who could advise her how to go about getting the rapist convicted. But I abhorred the idea of being trapped in the middle. I wanted Thomassy to see Francine, not to question me.

  The food came. Thomassy was tolerant. He let us eat. Then he said, "Tell me about the rape."

  "George, I'd really prefer that you asked her."

  "I'm asking you."

  "She just said she was by the man who lived upstairs."

  "No details?"

  "I'm her father."

  "If she doesn't have a current boy friend, who else would she tell the details to?"

  "No one. Not even her sisters. She's like that."

  "The details are important."

  "Yes, I know."

  "She'll have to tell me."

  I nodded.

  "Will she lie?"

  "Francine tells the truth even when she should give other people the comfort of white lies. The original wild duck." It occurred to me that Thomassy might not know Ibsen.

  "The Wild Duck…" I started to explain.

  "I know," said Thomassy, cutting me ofiF. "Who's going to pay?"

  "I said she works at the U.N."

  "This could cost a lot more than a young secretary can spare."

  I was pleased to have caught him in a prejudice. "Francine," I said, "is the research assistant on the staff of the American Ambassador. Her compensation is quite adequate. She's very bright," I added. "I'll stand behind her bill, of course. Just in case."

  Thomassy waved the offer away. Which meant he accepted it. It was a great relief to me to pass the ball to him. In over twenty years of practice, I've never had a client's wife or daughter involved in an incident of this sort. Statistically, it would seem that some must have been. Is it the subject that makes it impossible for them to broach? Or is it me?

  ~~~

  Comment by Priscilla Graves Widmer, Smith college, '40

  His full nomenclature was Archibald Edward Widmer III. No one was about to call him Archie or Eddie, and Edward sounded like the Duke of Windsor so everyone in our crowd called him Ned.

  What was the chemistry? He looked good in white suits. He was clean. His forearms were muscular. He blew into my ear on our first date. From the start, I trusted him to look out for my interests. He made me feel safe. Men weren't adversaries in those days. We didn't put excessive weight on orgasmic response or subject our feelings to psychoanalysis. We aimed for wedlock.

  My friends thought Ned prissy. Edith's Brock concealed something behind his facade of shyness I didn't want to get in bed with. And Alison's Peter — what ambisexual lusts were camouflaged by his toothsome flash of condescension at every man, woman, and pet that came into view. My Ned was not prissy once our bedroom door was shut.

  Most men say they want sons. Ned wanted daughters and got them, Joan, then Margaret. He turned into a talented coddler of little girls, a fanny patter, body hugger, all in the guise of warm fatherhood. Then Ned went through that brief berserk period, announcing he was ready to resign his partnership and shoot off to Tahiti or somewhere with or without me. He'd make love everywhere except in bed. And during that wild time, Francine was conceived. What a beautiful thing she turned out to be. Blond hair that would never turn dark like her sisters' and mine, and two Indian touches, high burnished cheekbones, and eyes that were almost almonds in shape. Her pupils were a strange blue, as if Wedgwood could glisten. She never had to experiment with make-up, as her sisters had. She shot up there at a very young age, taller than any of us except Ned. Joan and Margaret went through the same gawky period I had, but Francine could have been a ballerina the way she moved. I found it difficult to connect her graces to our genes.

  I remember when I first discovered Francine got the curse. It was time to tell her the facts of life just as I had Joan and Margaret, but when I did, Francine led me on a bit, pretending she didn't know what I was talking about, and then I learned she'd had it a year earlier without so much as a word to me. The older girls were so dependent on me for things like that. I told Francine she made me feel useless, and she said "No, no" and assured me she did want to hear about the private things from me, so I thought what the hell, and started bravely to explain about intercourse. Francine listened as if she were mesmerized. Or was she putting me on? "You know all about this," I said, and she said, "Please, Mom, tell me about fellatio and cunnilingus." Would you believe that in a thirteen-year-old? Where did she — from the others? Joan? Margaret? I was in a panic until Ned came home. When I told him, he just grinned, and I lost my temper at him.

  "Priscilla," he said, "there is absolutely nothing we can do about something she already knows."

  Children were discovering our secrets much too soon. I didn't want to give up at least trying to be a mother to Francine. Once, when she was fourteen, still growing taller too fast, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of desertion and panic and told her, "You are my last baby," and she said, "Mother, I am not a baby."

  Bereft of my motherhood, I fled upstairs to my bedroom and smothered my face in the pillow to muffle my desperate sobbing at the prospect of being dutyless, jobless, useless, marking time till I would die. I wasn't ready yet for change of life or death, why did I feel pushed, what was the hurry?

  I don't remember if I fell asleep for a moment or not. I do remember the stroking of my hair. I turned. Francine was bending over me. With her fingertips she touched the tea
rs in the comers of my eyes, then took my hands in hers, squeezing them, saying, "Mama" — she hadn't called me that in the longest time — "Mama, you are not old."

  In truth, I had been childishly tormenting myself and she, at fourteen, was comforting me with reality. Joan and Margaret had grown up without looking back, but Francine was constantly glancing over her shoulder, as it were, to see where I was, where Ned was. No wonder he loved her so. I truly don't think I was jealous of the way Ned treated her as a woman when she was still a girl. I never had doubts about Joan and Margaret finding their places, marriage, children, the right men. But would Francine find someone she could have regard for? At twenty she said she didn't have time to be serious about anyone. At twenty-five she said to me that men were boys. I worried about her. About something happening to her. I didn't think about rape. Though Ned must have, mustn't he?

  ~~~

  Comment by Francine Widmer

  You've got to fix an image in your mind to visualize a person you haven't met. When I asked my father what Mr. Thomassy looked like, he said he was a very good lawyer! I pictured him dark-skinned and beak-nosed because of his name, not an American look, more like some of the not-quite-Caucasians I see at the U.N., flat cheeks, the kind that don't look slick shaven even in the morning. I imagined him leaning forward a bit, on the balls of his feet, ready to point. At me! Accusingly!

  Driving to his office the first time, I got to the address without one wrong move. The place surprised me. It was a two-story professional building, new, in a good section of Ossining, near Briarcliff; from the way Dad had talked about Mr. Thomassy I had expected it to be a kind of nondescript store-front, walk-in sort of building. The directory in the lobby listed two doctors, a dentist, a real estate agent, and George Thomassy, attorney-at-law, by appointment only.

  My appointment was for four o'clock and I turned the knob of the door to the outer office seconds before four. The reception room made you feel you were passing from a contemporary building into another world of paneled walls, subdued lighting, and heavy carpeting that had been put down a long time ago. At the left rear corner was the secretary's desk — I guessed she was his secretary — and she said, "Good afternoon, you must be Miss Widmer," and I thought Do I look like my father?

  "I have an appointment," I said, which was a ridiculous thing to say since she knew who I was and there wasn't anybody else waiting.

  "He'll be with you in a minute," said the secretary, glancing at her phone, "he's just finishing up a call."

  I sat down on one of the brown leather chairs with brass upholstery nails. On the table in front of me lay an old National Geographic, a copy of The New Yorker that was falling apart, and some comic books. Who brought children along to waiting rooms like this?

  When I looked up Thomassy was standing framed in the inner office door, watching me thumb through the comic books, Jesus! I felt like I'd been caught playing with myself. I stood up, put out a dumb hand to shake his outstretched hand, blushing. He didn't look at all like my conjuration of him; he was tall, lean, relaxed-limbed, loose, clean shaven, straight-nosed — no Arab, Greek, Turk, Armenian, whatever — firm, warm hand, and his grey eyes aimed straight at my eyes as he said, "Come in, Miss Widmer."

  Those were the first words I ever heard from him and dozens of times since they have skimmed through my head, the mind-cutting bass rumbles of Come in, Miss Widmer, echoing again and again.

  He stood aside to let me enter the inner office first. I was careful not to brush against him.

  His desk near the window was cluttered with books, file folders, loose papers. In front of it was a brown leather armchair facing a matching couch. The rest was all bookshelves, closing the walls in around the cramped space.

  He gestured me into the armchair, dropped into the couch opposite me, our knees almost touching. I was glad he didn't sit behind that desk. I can't stand it when men sit behind desks for the phoney authority it gives them. But I was unprepared to be so close physically to a man I didn't know.

  "What do you do when you have a crowd?" I said.

  He smiled. "I like to see people one or two at a time. There are folding chairs in the closet for emergencies."

  "Do you have emergencies often?" I asked, glad to keep the real conversation from starting.

  "My clients have emergencies."

  He was examining me with those grey eyes. Was he thinking I looked like my father? Right now he's noticing I don't wear a bra.

  The sun from the window was in my eyes. He got up, avoiding my knees, drew the blind just enough to block the offending rays.

  "Thank you," I said.

  "You seem," he said, "less…" His voice trailed off.

  "Less?"

  "Less upset than I thought you might be. You seem…"

  I waited.

  "Calm."

  You expect me to be shrill.

  "Have you seen the police?"

  "Yes."

  "Were they helpful?"

  "No." They were impossible.

  "You're seeing an analyst, a Dr. Koch?"

  "Yes."

  "What does he say?"

  "He says hmmmmm to most things."

  Thomassy laughed, a sharp, short, clear laugh. He was taking another look at me, as if something was contradicting the first impression he had formed.

  "He said most women feel guilty about being raped."

  "Do you?"

  "No, I feel wronged. I want that son of a bitch in jail!"

  I felt the heat in my cheeks, my whole body's instant rage. Control yourself was the one piece of childhood admonition that stuck like a flypaper echo I couldn't shake off. I took a lungful of air, watching him watching me.

  "Did you say that to Dr. Koch?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said he doesn't put people in jail, I should see a lawyer."

  "Lawyers don't put people in jail. Why do you want the man in jail?"

  "For what he did." To me.

  "Miss Widmer, revenge is not one of the services I provide."

  "Did my father tell you the man lives on the floor above me?"

  "Yes."

  "How am I supposed to go on living in that place, worrying about what he's going to try next? I can just see myself in bed, trying to fall asleep, knowing his bed is right in the bedroom above. When I hear sounds up there, is it supposed to mean that weirdo is banging his wife or that he's getting out of bed to come downstairs and have a go at me again?"

  "Please, Miss Widmer."

  "Please what, it's my house, what's the use if I can't feel safe in it?"

  "Try to calm down."

  "My body is not a public urinal for some loonie to go shoving his thing in!"

  "Please calm down."

  "I'll calm down when I feel safe. When he's in jail. Why are you looking at me that way?"

  "What way?"

  "You're staring at me."

  "I didn't mean to stare. Please take it easy."

  "I will when he's in jail."

  Please help me put him there. If I knew how, I wouldn't ask for help. I closed my eyes, took a long, slow, deep breath. He thinks I'm hysterical. I have to somehow control myself. My father used to say we all have feelings — dismay, anger, rage — the difference is how we control those feelings. Letting go is weakness. Shrillness is foreign to us. Oh God, are we disciplined!

  I opened my eyes, determined. This man is trying to help me. I need to help him help me.

  "That's better," he said.

  "I m sorry."

  "Understandable. Can we go on? There are facts I need to know."

  I nodded.

  "How many apartments in that house?"

  "Six." Control the voice. "Two per floor."

  "I gather you like it a lot."

  "I've got a river view. The rooms are large. It's not expensive. It's convenient for commuting." It doesn't belong to my parents.

  "Do you have a lease?"

  "I don't want to move."<
br />
  "How long is your lease?"

  "Another two years. Is rape grounds for getting out of a lease?"

  "I doubt it. Does the man — do you know his name?"

  "Koslak." My image of him was the moment he opened his pants. I could kill him.

  "You said something about a wife."

  I don't see how anyone can live with him. "A wife and two kids that I've seen. At least two kids. You haven't answered my question. Will you help?"

  The intercom buzzed. Without turning in its direction he said, "No calls."

  "Thank you," I said.

  Thomassy looked as if no one had ever thanked him for holding calls before.

  "I won't require a retainer in your case," he said, "but I'd like you to settle once a month."

  I nodded.

  "It could get expensive. And I can't promise results."

  What a wonderful line of work to be in, I thought. Heads you win, tails you win.

  "How expensive?"

  "Perhaps two thousand a month in the exploratory stages. If there's a trial, it might go to another five or ten."

  That kind of money I can't afford.

  "I'm sure your father will advance the monies if it becomes necessary."

  I don't want to depend on anyone for money.

  "Look," I said, "my father charges so much per hour. Don't you work that way?"

  "Not really. I can't get involved in keeping track of phone calls and time sheets. If the client is a defendant, I usually get most of my fee in front."

  "I'm not a defendant."

  "I'm not asking for anything now. I'll bill you later. All right?"

  What alternative do I have?

  "You can trust me to be fair," he said. "I can't tell what'll be involved just yet. This isn't like a lawsuit. I can't file papers, that's something only the D.A.'s office can initiate. I know Cunham pretty well. The odds are he'll balk like hell. He'll decline to take it before a Grand Jury."

  "On what grounds?" Again, an edge of shrillness in my voice. I have to keep calm.

  "Truthfully? He'll see it as a threat to his work load. And other things."

  What other things?

  "You can leave those to me."

  "I want to know."

  "Cunham's a politician."

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  "Please hear me out. The way a fellow like Cunham thinks is: men have half the votes. Most men of voting age have come close to applying a little pressure in a sex situation. Cunham will figure that if he lets this come to trial, a lot of men, while they won't identify with the rapist, will be — consciously or not — protecting themselves. Some of the women will sympathize with you, more today than a couple of years ago, but middle-aged housewives think a young woman of today who, I'm sorry, doesn't wear a brassiere, is looking for trouble. That adds up to a majority of voters on the other side, that's what Cunham'll be thinking."