Young Wives (36 page)

She had knocked on Jenna’s door, walked in, and sat on the corner of her daughter’s canopied bed. She put her hand on her daughter’s back, in the place between her shoulder blades where, from the time she was tiny, she always liked to be rubbed. But Jenna jerked herself away from under Michelle’s hand as if it were a branding iron. So Michelle just sat at the foot of the bed.

Since the indictment had hit, and all of them had been pictured in the newspapers and Frank had been on all of the local news programs (looking as much like a criminal as the media made most indicted people look) the children had fallen apart badly. Jenna came home from school either pale and silent or hysterical. And Frankie…Michelle took a deep breath and tried not to audibly sigh. Her son was too young to understand most of what was going on, but not too young to be hurt by name-calling and the fact that no one would play with him at school recess or after school. Plus, there was the loss of Kevon, who—as far as her son was concerned—had abandoned him personally.

Only Pookie could comfort Frankie, but apparently not well enough. Frankie had begun wetting his bed and woke up crying, cold and shamed when he discovered what he had done. She had thought that poor Jada was worse off than she was; her life was destroyed and her children, at least for the time being, had been stolen from her. But Jada at least had a chance to get it all back.

Poor Angie, on the other hand, had lost a man she loved, and to her friend who betrayed her. Worst of all was her pregnancy.
That poor, poor girl
, Michelle thought, and despite it all, she was using her time to help others. She had even helped Michelle. She pushed the thought from her mind. She didn’t want to think about what she was going to have to do about Frank.

Michelle knew she had to think positively. She was going to the custody hearing and would get to see Jada and Angie triumph. But for her, for Michelle, there could be no triumph. Being with her children and watching them in pain was unbearable. Being with Frank and knowing he was guilty was unbearable. The thought of being without Frank, on her own, stigmatized and jobless, was unbearable.

Now Michelle reached out and touched her daughter’s ankle. Jenna pulled her foot away but she did, at least, flip over on her back, push up on her elbows, and look at her mother. “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” she asked. Michelle nodded. “Well, that’s what I would like right now,” Jenna told her. Then she burst into tears again and reached out and hugged Michelle to her. “I’m sorry,” Jenna wept. “I’m just…”

“I know, sweetie. I know,” Michelle said and stroked her daughter’s long hair. “I know.”

They were really falling apart, all of them, Michelle thought as she cleaned up after dinner. Frank had been out all day and had called to say he’d be late. The kids had eaten—not that either of them were eating much. She had had to throw away most of their macaroni, and almost all of the meatloaf she’d served with it. Now there was order and some quiet. No phone calls with Frank screaming obscenities

She went upstairs to check on Frankie, who only seemed to find comfort in his bath and his pajamas—at least when they were dry. He was playing in his room, some kind of game with action figures which took place mostly under his bed. His head was pushed into the low dark space there while his little rump in his blue and green flannel pajamas was up in the air. “Bedtime soon,” she said, and he wiggled his butt and kept playing.

Downstairs, Jenna was sitting in front of the television screen playing one of the nastier Mortal Kombat games. She performed like an automaton, barely blinking at the screen as her character kicked and punched mayhem. Perhaps Michelle shouldn’t worry as much about the hour or two Jenna did this every night. Maybe it was a healthy way to express anger, but what did she know? She trusted a man who had not only betrayed her but his children, a man who had bought their past by making a deal with a devil on the future. And the future was now.

Jenna hadn’t even looked up. “I think it’s about time to walk Pookie,” Michelle said.

“Walk him yourself,” Jenna said, and her tone of voice was eerie, like what Frank had used on the phone in Bruzeman’s office. Michelle actually took a step back out of the room. She knew she should say something to Jenna, but she couldn’t. Jenna abruptly got up and stomped up the stairs. Michelle picked up the remote and clicked the TV off. Then she turned and walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. She jumped when she realized Frank was sitting there at the table silent and staring. She would have to talk to him now.

With the overhead light on, the kitchen gleamed almost painfully white, Frank’s bent head the only blot of darkness. In her cleaning mania, Michelle had gotten rid of every bit of clutter from the counters and windowsills; the starkness made the bottle of Dewars next to the sink and the glass in front of her husband on the table jump out at her like a warning sign. Frank rarely drank anything stronger than a glass of Chianti. Michelle, because of her mother, rarely drank at all. The bottle of Dewars and a couple of bottles of Peppermint Schnapps they’d received as Christmas gifts stood on a shelf over the refrigerator, rarely opened.

She pulled out the chair beside him, a chair she had scrupulously scrubbed with bleach just a few days ago, and sat down. “Frank,” she said.

“What?” his voice was flat and dead.

“I…” She didn’t know how to tell him about the money she’d found. She didn’t know how to tell him that she didn’t believe he was innocent anymore—that she knew he was guilty of
something
. She didn’t know how to tell him that he’d broken her heart, that he’d ruined his family, that he’d destroyed her trust. She looked at him, her beautiful, dark, good, strong Frank and saw how weak he was. He had taken a risk, a terrible risk, and he had lost.

But he had taken the risk without telling her. Without her knowledge, though the risk was her risk, too, and one she would never have agreed to.

“We’re gonna beat this, Michelle,” Frank said, and Michelle looked at him. He’d said it before. She hadn’t always believed him, but most often she had. Now, for the first time, she realized that she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Proof of his guilt was now hidden in the spare tire well of the Lexus. For all she knew, Frank might have more evidence in the house, though she’d gone over every single bit of it again trying to see if she could find it.

She remembered what Angie had told her about getting the search warrant. Frank had known that there was plenty of evidence against him. He knew, even as she and the children were dragged out of the house, that he had endangered them, that something as dangerous as a ticking bomb was under the floorboards. But as she looked at him, despite her feelings, she couldn’t just accuse him. She simply couldn’t get the words out of her mouth:
Frank, I found the money. I know you’re guilty, at least of something. How could you do this to us?

“I spent the whole goddamn day over at Bruzeman’s. I didn’t see him. Not for a minute. Two associates made me watch a videotape—goddamn it, a videotape—on giving testimony. And then they asked me every question they’ve already asked before, and then they wanted me to watch the goddamn videotape again. I kept asking for Bruzeman and they kept telling me he was taking a deposition or some shit. He was probably on the golf course. He used to play golf with me sometimes on Wednesdays.” Frank shook his head. “They want you down there tomorrow afternoon.” He sighed, picked up the glass of scotch, swallowed a mouthful, and shivered. Frank didn’t like liquor, either.

“I’m not going to testify, Frank.” Michelle said.

“What?” Frank looked at her, really looked at her for the first time since she’d come into the kitchen.

“I’m not going to testify. I can’t.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Frank asked, his voice low. “Michelle, please. I have had a hard fucking day. A hard fucking week. At the end of a hard fucking month. Don’t start with me.”

Michelle thought of her day, of the children upstairs, of her feelings of panic and despair. But she couldn’t talk to Frank. She also knew she couldn’t testify. “I’m not going to testify, Frank.”

He stood up abruptly, almost tipping his chair over. Michelle caught it, but Frank used his other arm to swing his sleeve across the table, past the blot on the Formica, against the now-empty glass that had held his scotch, which his arm flung across the kitchen into a bright whirling arc. It shattered with a pop against an upper cabinet and shards of glass showered the countertop and tile floor. Michelle gasped in surprise and more than a little fear. Frank paid no attention to the wreckage or her reaction. He was standing up, holding onto the edge of the table now and staring at her as if she were the one who had just done something crazy and out of control.

“Are you stupid?” he asked. “Is that it? Have you gone stupid on me? Is everyone I deal with stupid? Is that it?”

“I can’t testify, Frank” was all Michelle could say. She expected him to ask why. She expected him to try to find out if it was because she was too upset or too frightened. She expected him to beg her to reassure him that she believed he was innocent. She even expected him to cry and try to hold her, to nuzzle her neck or to stroke her hair, and beg her to look at him and tell him that she still loved him. Well, she was ashamed to admit that she still did love him, but she wasn’t prepared to tell him that now. She also wasn’t prepared for what he actually did.

“What are you talking about?” he said with a snarl that she had never heard before. “Don’t give me shit now, Michelle. No nerves, no headaches. You’re going to testify, goddamnit.”

And then he pushed her, hard against her shoulder. The force was so great that she lost her balance and was thrown from her chair. As she fell, it seemed that the corner of the table rushed up to meet her cheek, but it didn’t stop her from winding up sprawled across the floor, her already injured cheek coming down hard on the immaculate tile. For a moment she didn’t move. She felt nothing. Not for a moment, at least. Then she felt everything—fear, pain, shame, outrage. Her cheek and her temple began to burn. Then her eye began to throb.

In all their years together, Frank had never touched her except with affection or longing, tenderness or lust. She had seen him angry, but she didn’t think he was capable of ever physically hurting her. Never. Now she lay stunned on the floor and knew she was wrong about that, as well as all the other things she’d been wrong about.

She felt something wet drip down her cheek past her nose. She sat up. Her right eye was already swelling and blurry, but she could see the blood on the floor. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was very, very red. She put her hand up to her face and brought it away, looking down at it. It was slick with her blood, the palm and fingers and even the fingernail wells covered.

Frank took two steps toward her. She wasn’t sure if he was going to shove her or kick her or help her up. But she didn’t move. He could shoot her and it wouldn’t make a difference. Instead, though, he hunkered down beside her sprawled figure. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Michelle. You’re cut. The table cut you,” Frank said as if his hand, his arm, his shoulder and brain had nothing to do with it. “Mich, I…I’m sorry. I think you need some stitches or something.”

Michelle wasn’t sure if he was sorry that he’d pushed or that she needed a doctor. She felt more blood drip from her chin and looked down at the floor. How often had she washed this floor, she wondered, as if it were the most sensible question at that moment.

Frank had moved away toward the sink. She heard the water running and he came back with a stack of paper towels, bunched and wet. He tried to daub at her cheek but she flinched and he handed her the towels. She sat up to put their coolness against her face. After a moment, she pulled the towels away and revealed a gorier mess than she had expected to see. She let the bloody clump of papers fall to the kitchen floor.

Frank handed her another and peered at her cheek though he avoided looking into her eyes. “It’s not a big cut, Michelle. But it’s deep. Come on. We better go to the emergency room.” He went back to the sink and made another cold compress and brought it to her. Michelle took it and pressed it hard against her cheekbone, but let it rest only softly against her swollen eye.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said and turned her back on him. Dizzy as she was, she walked out of the kitchen, leaving the bloody mess behind her.

A trial—and bank—run

Jada and Angie had been at it for what seemed like hours. Well, actually it
was
hours, because Jada had arrived a little after eight in the morning and Bill had just come in with sandwiches for lunch.

Jada looked at her watch. Ten to twelve. Jada had had to skip work today and bow out of her morning walk with Michelle to do this. She didn’t like to do either one, and of all mornings, she’d needed a walk today the most. She’d been surprised that Michelle seemed eager to cancel. “I was going to call you anyway,” she’d said. “I’m just not up to it.” It worried Jada, but she had a lot of other things to worry about.

Now, sitting across from poor Angie, Jada had realized that rehearsing for a court appearance was just like rehearsing for a play. Well, she supposed in a way it
was
a play. It wasn’t about reality, but about a stranger—in this case, Judge Arnold D. Sneed—and his opinion of reality.

In the last few hours, Angie had been totally focused on the work in front of them. Jada had occasionally been reminded of Angie’s own situation and wondered how she could do it.
I guess work can get you through some tough times, if you like your job
, Jada thought. Looking at Angie, she’d said a silent prayer for her, a woman alone with a sad past and a big decision in her future.

They had spent a long time carefully going through dozens of prepared questions. Angie cautioned Jada, who kept wanting to add things, to be sure not to offer any extra information. “You can be cross-examined on
anything
that we introduce, and by we, I mean both of us,” Angie warned. “I’ll protect you from unfair questions, but you can’t make give-away answers. The judge is going to award custody and make a division of assets at the trial. We don’t have much time for discovery. I already tried to get an extension, but this guy Creskin is a real operator. He’s forcing an emergency hearing.”