The massive oak door swung open and a diminutive old man with eyes like raisins and milk-coffee skin stood before me.   He wore a white waistcoat and a neat little bow tie.  He squinted and leaned forward, cocking his head in an inquiring manner.

"I'm Rebecca McMillan," I said.  "I'm here to see Mrs. Barbier."

The old man straightened up and frowned.  "You're early."

"Oh," I said, "I'm so sorry.  I understood that our appointment was at noon."

"Madam does not observe Daylight Savings Time." The old man ushered me into the foyer.

"Really?  May I ask why?"

"Madam says it's a convention of the working class.  Those of her stature need not . . . no, must not, observe it."

"And do you agree with her?"

"It's not my place to agree or disagree with Madam," he said sternly, and then added softly, "but I do wear two watches." He raised his sleeve slightly so that I could see that it was true.

"Of course," I replied.

"Please wait here while I advise Madam of your arrival."  He turned and walked through the foyer, stopping before a set of double doors, which he ceremoniously threw open.

"Madam, the lady lawyer has arrived."

"How many times must I tell you, Harold?  You're to call me Madame, not Madam.  I'm not the proprietor of a whorehouse, you know." 

"Yes, Madame.  Shall I show the lady in?"

"I don't know why they sent me a woman.  Why couldn't they send Mr. Martin Taylor Biggins?"

"Mr. Biggins has been dead for quite some time, Madam."

"Papa always said that the day they let women practice law was the day the firm would be ruined.  I distinctly remember him saying that."

Harold motioned to me to approach the doorway.  "Miss McMillan, Madam," he said.

Madam sat swallowed up in an enormous leather wingback chair, a blanket over her lap and a bright red suit jacket draped over her narrow shoulders.  "Women are more suited for endeavors of artistry," she was saying.  She wore a jet black page-boy style wig that made for a startling contrast to her pale make-up and bright red lips.  She wagged a finger at me.  "Women are naturally artistique.  They do not belong in the manly professions."

I stood silently in the doorway, my briefcase weighing heavy in my hand.

"Madam, Miss McMillan is here," Harold repeated loudly.

Madam's eyes narrowed.  "Ah," she said, "you have arrived, my dear.  Sit, sit." She gestured to an antique camelback sofa with ball and claw feet.  Its floral brocade upholstery was faded and threadbare.  I sat down and positioned myself directly in front of her.

"I understand I'm early, Mrs. Barbier," I said.  "I certainly apologize for that."

"Mr. Martin Taylor Biggins was never early.  He was never late either.  Are you acquainted with Mr. Biggins?"

"No, ma'am.  Mr. Biggins died before I began working for the firm."

"Mr. Biggins was Rex in nineteen fifty . . . ninteen fifty something or other.  Were you presented by the Krewe of Rex, Miss . . .?  What was your name again?"

"Rebecca McMillian.  No, I wasn't presented by the Krewe of Rex.  I'm from Nashville, actually."

"Not from New Orleans?  Fortier & Snodgrass has associated itself with an attorney who isn't from New Orleans?"

"Well, yes," I said.  "There are quite a few imports like me."

"Well, my word." Madam shook her head somberly.  She stared at me as though I had some horrible deformity, then turned her head away and closed her eyes.  "Mr. Martin Taylor Biggins always said that the first qualification to practice law at Fortier & Snodgrass was a birth certificate that read Parish of Orleans.  He always said that and Papa always laughed.  And the second qualification was a law degree from Tulane, none of that Yankee educating for our boys, he always said.  Mr. Martin Taylor Biggins . . . How Papa loved him."  She sighed deeply.

"Well, perhaps we should get down to business, Mrs. Barbier," I finally said.  "I believe you have some changes to your will."

Madam sighed again.  "He always came by on Sunday afternoons after mass.  He and Papa would sit out on the gallery for hours drinking their toddies and laughing.  Oh, it did Papa a world of good, especially in those last days.  Just seeing Mr. Biggins and laughing and talking.  They were second cousins, you know.   Of course, Papa was some twenty odd years older than Mr. Biggins.  'Martin,' he used to say, 'if I were a younger man, I'd go with you to the race track every Saturday morning and eat with you at Antoine's every Saturday night.'  And Mr. Biggins used to say, 'Cousin Henri, I'd surely like that because you could tell me what all those French words mean on the bill of fare.'  Mr. Biggins had a horrible French accent, even though his mother was of Creole descent.  They simply didn't speak it in their home like we did.  Papa always insisted that we speak French when we dined."   

"That sounds lovely," I said.  I settled back in the sofa and prepared to listen as long as was necessary.

"I never will forget when Papa died.  Mr. Biggins was right there at my side the whole time.   Of course, my ex-husband, Mr. Barbier, was off galavanting around the Gulf Coast with his secretary, some little bottle blonde from the Ninth Ward.  Mr. Biggins said right after the funeral that if he had any hope that the Catholic Church would marry us, he'd propose right then and there.  Mr. Biggins was a man of sensitivity when it came to matters of the heart.  He took me to Bay St. Louis and helped me recuperate from the shock of Papa's death.  We were there two weeks.  And we would have been there longer if it hadn't been for that atrocious woman he was married to.  She was an alcoholic, you know, and a diabetic.  She was as thin as a bird when he married her, and then five years later she blew up like a sow.  Oh, how she hounded him.  Edna needs me back home, he'd say.  And I'd say, Mr. Biggins, I need your assistance and counsel because Papa's death is about to kill me too.  And we'd stay a little longer.  But it finally got to the point where we didn't have a moment's peace with her phoning every hour, getting drunker and drunker."

Madam shifted in her chair and absently rubbed her temple with the tip of her thin index finger.

"It sounds as though you and Mr. Biggins were particularly close," I said.

"Oh, yes," Madam said, her eyes brightening.  "We were very close friends." She looked at me as if she was seeing me for the first time and then added, "Of course, we always behaved properly, not like you young people today."

"I'm sure you did," I replied.  Madam smiled coyly.  "Would you like to discuss the changes to your will now, Mrs. Barbier?"

"Oh, I suppose so.  A martini for you, Miss . . . What was the name again?"

"McMillian."

"So sorry, Miss McMillian.  Will you join me?"

"No, ma'am, it's a bit too early for me."

"Why, it's nearly the luncheon hour." Madam picked up a tiny bell from the small side table adjacent to her chair and vigorously rang it.  There was no response.  "Harold," she chirped, her voice rising sharply with the second syllable.

Harold trudged into the room with a butler's table on which stood an enormous silver martini shaker and two cut crystal martini glasses.  He placed the butler's table next to Madam, deftly poured the martini without spilling a drop and placed it in her hand.

"You may take the additional glass away, Harold.  This lady does not indulge."  Madam arched a cruel pencilled eyebrow and expertly pulled her thin red lips into a sneer.  "I suppose you're a Protestant, Miss McMillian."

"I try never to discuss religion or politics with clients," I replied.  "I'm sure you understand."

"What a shame," Madam said and then took her first sip, wrinkling her thin nose. 

"I'd much rather discuss your will if that's okay."

"I'm cutting them out," Madam said bluntly.

"Cutting who out?"

"My children.  Prissy and Paul.  And of course, my youngest, Penny.  I told her I'd cut her out when she married that bum from the Westbank.  The other two haven't any clue."

"Well, we'll need to discuss your reasons.  There's a law called forced heirship in this state.  Basically, it just means you have to have a reason to disinherit a child."

"I can tell you loads and loads of reasons." Madam shivered.  She placed the empty martini glass beside her on the butler's table and pulled her jacket close around her.

"Paul and Prissy," Madam continued, "were horribly spoiled by their father.  They went to live with him and his second wife - she was the bottle blonde - and I kept Penny.  The older two begged to live with their father. They knew he'd spoil them."   Madam's icy grey eyes flashed with anger.

"When they came to visit me in the summer, they were so overfed, so utterly fat, that I immediately called Mr. Biggins and got the name of a certified children's fat farm in Mississippi.  I sent them there the next morning.  Harold drove them.  He'd been with me only two weeks at the time and didn't know how slim the children were before.  He must have thought I was a mighty mean boss lady." Madam let out a cackle that turned into a case of the hiccups.  She poured herself another martini and took a large gulp, gasped for air, then took another gulp. 

"When Harold went to get them two months later, they were just as lean and fit as they could be.  And do you know what they did?"

"No, honestly, I don't," I said.  I wasn't sure I wanted to know.  I glanced at my watch.

"They went right back to their father and gained all that weight back.  When I saw them again at Christmas, they were as fat as the Christmas goose.  Positively obese.  And to this day, they're still fat.  Fat as pigs."

"So you want to disinherit them because they're fat?"

"No," Madam said, slapping her knee.  "Aren't you listening to me?"

"I thought I was."

"Well, listen harder.  I'm disinheriting them because of the mental cruelty they put me through.  You just don't know how I worried about them gaining all that weight.  I'd tell them every time I'd see them, 'Lose that weight.   Lose that weight.' They never would.  They'd never obey me.  Never listen to me.  I could have talked 'til I was blue in the face, and they still would have disregarded my instructions.  When I think of the worry I experienced on their behalf, and the embarrassment.  'There goes Martha Barbier with her fat children.' I could practically hear my friends snickering.  I tell you I've never gotten over it."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but I don't think that's grounds for disinherison."

"Well, if it's not, it should be.  I'm sure you'll find a way.  Mr. Martin Taylor Biggins always said, 'Where there is a will, there is a way.'" Madam narrowed her eyes and jabbed her index finger in the air like a maniacal politician.

"We can make the change you're requesting, Mrs. Barbier, but whether it stands up in court during probate . . ." Harold threw open the double doors again and cleared his throat.

"What is it now?" Madam asked sharply.

"Miss Priscilla is here, Madam."

"Tell her to wait in the kitchen," Madam replied.

"Mamma," a woman's voice called from the hallway,  "I'm just stopping by to check on you."

"I don't need you checking on me," Madam yelled back.

"Now Mother, don't be ugly." An angelic round face peeped from behind the door and upon seeing me, smiled broadly.  Priscilla stepped inside the room.  She wore a flattering blue pantsuit.  She was not fat. 

"Prissy, you run along now.  We're talking business."

"What kind of business, Mamma?" Priscilla asked.

"The kind that's mine and none of yours."

"Mamma!  Now you introduce me to this nice lady."

Madam performed the introductions and then crossed her arms tightly beneath the red jacket.

"You'll have to excuse my mother, Ms. McMillian.  She doesn't like me interfering in her life, but she and my brother and sister are all I have now, and I like to check in on her as often as possible."

"You are not needed," Madam croaked.

"I'm glad I'm not, Mamma," said Priscilla.  "You're always doing so well when I look in on you."

"You ought to lose that weight, Prissy.  You're too fat."

Priscilla cleared her throat and glanced sideways at me.

"What?  You think this lady can't see for herself how fat you are?"

"Mother!"

"You had better lose that weight or else."

"Or else what, Mother?  Don't be silly."

"Do you have any idea why that lady is here?  Any idea at all?" Madam demanded.

"No, Mother, I honestly don't.  Harold told me that Ms. McMillian is a lawyer, so I presume that you're meeting about your business affairs." Priscilla took a seat beside me.

"Just like your father!  'I presume, I presume.' Well, Miss Prissy, I'll tell you why this lady is here.  She's here to make sure you don't get one red cent of my money."

"Oh, Mother, please stop or you'll send me into hysterics." Priscilla laughed gently.

Madam turned from pale to a livid red.  "Did you understand me?" she screeched.  "I'm cutting you out.  You and Paul and Penny.  None of you are getting anything."

"You can't seriously think I want your money, Mother.  You know Daddy left me and the others plenty of money.   And besides, all you have is this old house and whatever Daddy gave you when you parted ways.  Oh, and I guess you have that old Cadillac Harold drives you to the doctor in."

"Harold!" Madam yelled.  "Come get me out of here!"

Harold slowly ambled in and helped Madam to her feet.  Gripping her cane with her left hand and Harold's arm with her right, she shuffled away.  "I need to rest, Harold," she said softly.

"I know, Madam," Harold replied.  "Your doctor says you should have a nap every day, remember?"

"Dr. Embry is such a good man.  You know, I knew his mother.  She and I were both maids in Rex."

"Yes, Madam, you were."

"We had such a grand time, back then."

"Yes, you did."

"Mr. Martin Taylor Biggins always said I positively glowed when I was presented at the Rex Ball."

Their voices trailed off in the hall.  Priscilla rose and I followed her out of the room and into the foyer.

"Will she be okay?" I asked.

"She'll be fine," Priscilla said curtly.  "Just make sure you screen your calls for a few days.  Once she gets her mind set on something, it's difficult to pry her away from it.  And just remember, as far as her children are concerned, she's incompetent.  We'll fight any changes she makes to her will." Priscilla smiled and I could see that her eyes were the same icy grey as her mother's.

"Don't you just love this old house?" she said, almost in a whisper.  "I have great plans for it - a complete restoration.  It was built in 1875, you know."

She opened the door and seemed almost absent-mindedly to usher me out.  The door slammed shut behind me and I was outside in the hot midday sun.

I returned to my office and tried to call Mrs. Barbier.  Harold answered and said she was indisposed but he would certainly tell her I rang.  I answered my office phone diligently, on the first ring, for two weeks.  Mrs. Barbier never called me back.  I later learned that she took ill not long after our visit and went to the hospital.  She never returned home. 

I often make a point of driving by the grand old house.  Renovations are coming along very well.