Finding Isadora(59)

“Yeah. Good meeting.”

“You’re going to launch a class action suit?”

“Looks that way. It’s a disgrace what the government’s doing to those people. Endangering their health and robbing them of their pride.”

He was right. Even in the cases where health wasn’t at risk, people with disabilities shouldn’t be forced to live a sub-standard existence, to be treated as if they were second class. “Sounds like it’s going to be a lot of work.”

“Yeah.” He shot a quick glance in my direction then grinned. “But it’s a change. A challenge.”

“You like the work, don’t you? I mean, you don’t just do it because…”

“Because I’m a do-gooder? Hell, no. If a person’s going to spend most of their life doing something, they’d better like it. I’m lucky. Found a job that suits me, working for causes I believe in.”

I nodded.

“Like you,” he said, surprising me.

“Me?”

“You love animals, you care about animal rights, and you love your job. Yes?”

“Yes, but…”

We’d stopped at an intersection and, when he turned toward me, I saw his eyes shine in the light from the streetlights. He, too, was still wide awake and alert.

“You know what you said about corporate law?” I said. “How you’d rather Richard had chosen something you consider more worthwhile? Well, I keep thinking I should be doing something more worthwhile. Not necessarily with my career, because I can’t imagine not being a vet, but in my spare time. More volunteer work. With people, not animals.”

He stared at me, then threw back his head and laughed. Someone behind us honked. The light had turned green and Gabriel pulled away, still laughing. “That’s why you sounded apologetic about being a vet, at that fundraiser dinner. Isadora Dean Wheeler believes animals aren’t as important as people.”

“I … guess that’s true. I love them, they enrich my life, but…”

“And they enrich other people’s lives. Remember what I said about art? How it’s so important? Well, so are animals. They provide comfort to old people, friendship to kids.” He paused. “They’re the only source of love some people have.”

And what was the source of love in his life, since he’d rejected Diane and Richard? Girlfriends? But hot sex was something very different from love. Was Gabriel such a macho guy that he was happy without love?

“Well?” he said.

“I agree with everything you said.”

Perhaps he heard some reservation in my voice because he said, “What kind of volunteer work would you do, that would make you feel you were really making a contribution?”

“I guess the kind of things Grace and Jimmy Lee do. Soup kitchens, needle exchanges, programs for sex trade workers and other street people. The disability rights work.”

“Then do something like that.”

“So you are saying you don’t think I do enough.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Hell, Isadora, you’re the one who’s saying it. I’m not judging you. Grace and Jimmy Lee aren’t either. But you are. So, if you’re unhappy with yourself, fix the problem.”

He made it sound so easy. And yet, he was right. Why not stop fussing about the issue and do something? As Richard was. As I’d told Gabriel to do, with respect to his son.

Wasn’t it interesting that Gabriel could give me such easy “just fix it” advice when he couldn’t come to terms with his own problems? It was another thing we had in common.

We’d reached the West End and I noted he remembered the way to my apartment. For once there was a parking spot near the building and Gabriel pulled the car in, then turned off the ignition.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, glancing toward him.

His expression was enigmatic. “You’re not an easy person to be with.”

I snorted. “Gee, thanks. And do you like people who are easy to be with?”

“Not much,” he said cheerfully.

He opened the driver’s door and, as I clambered out of the car, he walked around to join me. “You’re a strange woman. You can be downright stupid, like about this contribution garbage. But more often, you’re wise and insightful.”

He snapped his fingers. “Just figured it out. You’re wise about other people’s lives. Stupid when it comes to your own.”

“Thanks very much,” I said tartly. “Should I point out that the pot just called the kettle black?”

My answer was a hoot of surprised laughter. “Damn, woman.” Gabriel gave me a considering look. “Most women in their twenties are boring as hell.” That almost sounded like a compliment. The second, in the space of a minute.

He walked with me to the door of the building and I fumbled in my bag, finally pulling out my keys. Did he expect me to invite him in? For a moment, under the sickly glow of artificial lights, we stared at each other. Did I want to invite him in?

Gabriel broke away first, turning on heel. Over his shoulder he said, “Night, Isadora,” as he strode toward his car.

“Night, Gabriel,” I called, softly so as not to wake the people sleeping behind the curtained windows. So softly I wasn’t sure if he heard me.