Free Blackbird Fly by Lise McClendon

well, she bought this apartment
from — someone I know. I have some papers for her.” Merle patted
her purse where nothing more official than her Metro card was
stashed. The room beyond them looked cozy and warm, strewn with
toys. The television trilled with the sounds of Sesame
Street.
    “ She’ll be back in a hour. If we’re
lucky. Can I take them for her?”
    “ Uh, it’s one of those legal
things.” Merle looked down at the little girl, dressed in pink
sweatpants and a t-shirt with spangles, and wondered why she’d
lied. She hadn’t planned on lying. She looked over the girl’s head,
focusing on the living room. There was Harry’s brown chair that
she’d made him replace in his office at home. And the red velvet
footstool, with gold fringe, from the family room. The little blue
rug from Tristan’s room. And the painting, that small one of
sailboats she’d never liked.
    Merle swallowed, her throat tight. Maybe Harry sold
the woman some things with the place. But it was only last year
when she'd gotten rid of the footstool, and Tristan's rug.
    “ What’s your name, sweetie?” she
asked the girl.
    The child hid behind the nanny’s leg. The woman
patted her head. “This is Sophie. She’s having a bad day.”
    Merle felt her heart clattering. She took a deep
breath then squatted down to the child’s level. “Hi, Sophie. My
name is Merle. Can you shake hands?”
    Sophie peeked out from behind the nanny’s leg, then
slapped Merle’s hand. “How old are you, Sophie?” She held up four
fingers. “Do you go to preschool?”
    The nanny said in bored voice, “Normally.”
    “ Sophie is a pretty name,” Merle
said. “Do you have more names?”
    The girl stepped forward, holding onto her nanny’s
jeans. “Sophie Lou — ” She took a breath. “Sophie Louisa
Duncan.”
    “ Nice to meet you.” Merle stood up.
"I’ll stop back later. Thanks.” She headed for the stairs. A woman
was making her way up, struggling with grocery sacks. A blonde, in
a dark suit with a black briefcase. Merle blinked. She held the
handrail and felt the cogs click into place.
    “ Courtney? Courtney
Duncan?”
    The woman looked up the stairs. Her mouth dropped
open as the grocery bags slipped from her hands, spilling oranges,
milk, bagels.
     
    The weather had turned mild and humid. Merle rushed
blindly down the sidewalk, late now to her meeting with Lillian
Wachowski. Her mind raced and her blood pressure was probably
through the roof.
    With a pointed glance at her watch Lillian ushered
her into the office. Spare as law offices go, it was sumptuous
compared to the windowless cave in Harlem. An exposed brick wall
gave it a downtown look, and the fern. Lillian was a small woman
with fine features, wearing a turquoise silk suit with a white
shell, her gray- blond hair cut severe and short. Her intense blue
eyes and dagger-like wit scared the crap out of everyone. Merle
found herself trembling.
    She sat without being asked, crossed her legs, and
leaned back. Techniques to calm herself and show outward assurance,
long-ingrained lawyer tricks. Never let ‘em see you sweat. Lillian
spoke about the weather and Merle admired her view of the
river.
    Something — black curls, pink sweatpants? — was
preventing her from concentrating on Lillian. The conversation with
the lawyer in France, Monsieur Rancard, last night, rattled in her
brain too. She couldn’t focus. Her life was no longer predictable.
Everything had been tossed into the air.
    Rancard was making some progress with the squatter.
It was cheaper to have him wrangle with the mayor and the old woman
even at 200 Euros per hour. A nun was helping the squatter now,
making matters worse. Maybe Merle and Tristan could go see the
house, just once, if it didn’t cost too much. The property lawyer
said it would help the situation if she was there, help press her
case for ownership. But now, there was a new job to contend
with.
    Courtney Duncan. Sophie. Their existence