Final Option

spared. I had been visited by a witty young woman from BusinessWeek who was putting together a story on Azor’s legal defense. Which is how I found myself lying on the floor of my office one Wednesday afternoon while a bedraggled photographer and his assistant of dubious gender arranged tombstones on the carpet around my head.
    In my world, tombstones are announcements of completed transactions, printed with black borders on the business pages, in a sparse style reminiscent of headstones. At the end of a deal, small copies are often made, encased in Lucite cubes and distributed to the participants. The photographer, no doubt confronted with an endless parade of lawyers posing with their briefcases, thought that the stunt with the tombstones would make an interesting shot. It did, but I still can’t see the photo (Stephen has a copy in his office) without remembering how ridiculous I felt lying on my own office floor.
    I hate the “light,” as Stephen so eloquently put it, but what was making me more uncomfortable were all the assumptions that would be made explicit if I agreed to do the magazine article. But, as ever, I found it impossible to give speech to my emotions. If you can’t ask, How do you feel about me?, the question of whether or not you are actually a couple becomes equally unbroachable. For Stephen and me there had always been these unspoken chasms. We had been through so much together—through Russell’s illness, the assault on his company, his niece’s death. And yet saying things, simple things, like ‘I feel lonely’ or ‘Will you come home with me tonight?’ seemed surrounded by layers of insurmountable silence.
    “I have to run it by the firm’s management committee, see if they think it’ll be good coverage for the firm,” I said finally. “Why don’t I let you know in a day or two?”
    “Good enough,” said Stephen, patting my hand in farewell. “Thanks for coming tonight. I know you’re swamped with this Hexter thing.”
    “Good night,” I said, “and thanks for the bracelet.”
     
    I knew from my gut that I didn’t want to do the Chicago Magazine interview. But was it because I didn’t want to answer questions that assumed an intimacy that did not exist between us? Or because I was afraid of developing that intimacy? Did Stephen want to do the article because it would be good publicity for Azor or because he thought that publicly declaring ourselves to be a couple would help to make us one? I had no idea. I had been Stephen’s friend for more than a decade and still knew little more about him than what was readily displayed on the surface.
    I was glad to find my roommate home when I finally got there.
    “Great dress,” Claudia said as I walked in. “But you sure don’t look like you had a good time.”
    “Stephen bought me a diamond and sapphire bracelet at the silent auction,” I said, holding it out to show her.
    “Oh, well, that explains it. Whenever someone I’m seeing gives me an expensive piece of jewelry it ruins my evening, too.”
    I dropped into my favorite armchair and kicked off my shoes. “But what does it mean?” I asked.
    “You’re just a little slow,” replied Claudia, whose day had probably gone no better than mine. “In fifth grade, when the boy punched you it meant that he liked you, remember? But now that the boys are older, they do things like give you jewelry.”
    “You know that it’s not like that with Stephen and me. At least I think it’s not.”
    “Oh gee, you could have fooled me,” quipped Claudia. ‘This morning I lost a contact lens, and when I got down on my hands and knees to look for it, I found a pair of Stephen’s underwear underneath the chair you’re sitting on. However did it get there? Were you discussing each other’s bottom line?”
    “Enough, enough!” I cried. “I’ve just been in a bad mood since Hexter’s been shot. Murdered clients always do that to me.”
    “So, are you still suspect de jour?”
    “I don’t know. Am I? I think the suspect’s always the last to know.”
    “Gwen, a friend of mine who’s doing a fellowship in plastic surgery, got her hands on a head—you know—a head from a cadaver, for practice. I thought maybe she’d lend it to us for a while. We could keep it in our freezer in case the police come back.”
    The doorbell rang, and we both looked at each other. “Expecting company?” asked Claudia.
    “No. You?”
    “No.”
    I got up and pushed the button on the