Young Wives

She shook her head. “But look at what they did to you, Frank. And the children. They—”

Frank’s hand tightened on her back. “Fuck those corrupt bastards.”

“They’ve ruined the furniture, Frank. My chairs. The sofa. They wrecked the carpet and … Pookie’s gone. He doesn’t come when I call him. And the neighbors …”

“He’ll come back, don’t you worry. And tomorrow you go out and buy new furniture,” Frank told her. “You hear me? Get what you want, what they can deliver immediately. Furniture doesn’t make a family. And keep that list, Mich. Write down everything that’s been spoiled. We’ll get it all back. We all stick together, nothing can hurt us.” He moved his hand to her cheek and cupped it gently. “You know I would never do anything like drug dealing, Michelle. You know that, don’t you?”

Michelle looked at his bruised face and nodded. “We stick together and nobody can hurt us,” Frank repeated. He leaned forward and kissed her. Then he put her head against his shoulder and gingerly leaned his cheek against her hair, as if its cool glow could comfort his throbbing cheek.

Michelle rested there, against his strength, until his breaths deepened and evened out. Then, much comforted, she went back downstairs to again deal with the wreckage.

“Oh my God!” Jada felt like bursting into tears, but looking at Mich’s face she knew she had to keep it light. “Have you been decorating again?” She asked and shook her head. “Um, um, um. Martha Stewart doesn’t live here, Cindy. How could they have done this to a white girl’s house?” Jada looked around the room. “Sweet Jesus, help us.”

Michelle was tugging out yet another bag of garbage. “If Jesus decides to help, tell him to bring more trash bags,” she said.

Jada shook her head at the irreverence and put down one of the dining room chairs she had carried in. “I’ll go get the others,” she said.

“Have you seen Pookie around your house?” Michelle asked, though she didn’t have much hope.

“He’s gone? I saw him running up the street the night the police were here.” Jada touched Michelle’s arm. “God, I’m sorry. The kids must be …” She shook her head. “Man, this does look like an accident scene.”

“Well, you know what I always say …” Michelle began to make a joke, but she couldn’t finish. She was moved that her girlfriend had crossed that horrible line of tattered yellow police tape and was here beside her, that she understood her. Michelle wasn’t stupid, even if she didn’t have a college education. She knew that on their quiet, deserted-looking block there were eyes from every house surveying hers. Everyone was constantly assessing and reassessing property values. Would the pocket park refurbishment upgrade the value of their lot? Would the rise in school tax lower the selling price of their house? What, she wondered, did a drug bust next door do? Probably it depressed house values almost as much as it depressed her.

Michelle didn’t know if she’d ever be able to stand in her yard again, waving at Mr. Shriber when he slowly jogged by or saluting passing neighbors’ cars. And for Jada, a woman who had worked so hard to find acceptance for her family here, to ignore all those invisible but watching eyes and step over the line, well … Michelle felt herself choke up. It was more than what she should expect, but she didn’t want to collapse and show Jada just how bad she felt, how bad it was. She supposed she didn’t have to. Jada’s eyes, open wide, showed that she knew.

“I’m so sorry to drag you into this,” Michelle began. “I know you have your own problems.”

“There’s sure enough to go around,” Jada agreed, beginning to pick up debris.

Michelle felt suddenly guilty. She hadn’t even asked Jada what was going on with Clinton. God. There were enough troubles to go around.

“Did you finally talk to Clinton?”

Jada nodded as she began to pick up torn paper. “I told him he had to make his mind up by the end of the week or I was going to get an attorney.”

“Oh, Jada. I can’t get over it. How could he?” Michelle tied a twist wire around her trash and shook her head. “He’s gone crazy on you.”

“Crazy? Forget Clinton! You should see Tonya. She thinks Clinton’s a catch! Is she going to support him? The ridiculous way she likes to dress up, she can’t support herself. She’s a fool from Martinique, who gets herself confused with the Empress Josephine.” Jada opened the last trash bag and began to throw stuff into it, including the box it had come in. Garbage made garbage. Kind of like Tonya having children.

“You mean she’s the one I met at your church pageant?” Michelle asked in disbelief. “The one with the hat, and the awful hennaed hair? No!”

“Uh huh.” Jada snorted again, bent over, and threw some sofa stuffing into her trash bag. “I want you to believe me when I tell you I’m not jealous. I don’t want to sleep with him. But he’s my husband and he is committed to the family or he’s out the door. I just can’t get over his bad taste. You’d think fifteen years with a man would improve that. I weaned him off Colt 45 and got him drinking Budweiser. I threw out that Peach Glow hair dressing and taught him Paul Mitchell gels. But the man’s heading right back to funky Yonkers.”

“Forget him. How did the kids seem to you?” Michelle asked.

“A little shaken up,” Jada admitted. “But who wouldn’t be? This wasn’t a search, it was a vendetta.” She surveyed the visible damage as she swiveled her head around.

“It was worse,” Michelle said. “You should have seen it before I picked up the first eleven bags of garbage.”

Jada shook her head. “These men were out to find something,” she said. “And you mean to tell me they didn’t? Hell, you tear my house apart like this, you’re gonna find a marijuana seed left over from the sixties.” She shook her head again and bit her lips. “Um-um,” she said. “I didn’t know police ever did a job like this on white people.”

“Frank says they were out to get him.”

“Looks like they did get him, from the picture,” Jada said.

“What picture?” Michelle asked.

Jada shook her head and held up both her hands. “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” she said. She got real close to Michelle and took her by the shoulders. “I know you’re not a church-goer, Michelle, but this is a time when everybody needs to fall back on God, because it’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”

“I fell back on Frank,” Michelle said. “And it can’t get worse than this,” she added, looking at the ransacked rooms.

Jada sighed. “Please God, I hope so. But people can be really, really cruel. And the courts can be worse than the cops. Believe me, I know plenty of people in White Plains who’ve been through it. Innocent people. And some guilty ones who still didn’t deserve to be treated like dog shit.” She let go of Michelle’s shoulders but patted her gently on the back for a moment. “Okay, honey, that was my version of a pep talk. Now let’s clean this place up the best we can before the kids have to get in here.”

Michelle looked at her friend. “Should I keep them home from school tomorrow?” she asked. “Let them recover for a day, or would it be worse to do that?”

Jada thought of Anne at the bank and her morbid curiosity, even pleasure, at Michelle’s bad luck. “Kids can be cruel,” Jada said. “Real mean. But you figure, if they have to face it, they might as well face it on Monday.”

14

In which Jada clears up and goes home to find Clinton’s cleared out

When Jada got back to her own house it was well past three A.M. She was dead beat. She and Michelle had filled more than twenty bags of trash, vacuumed the entire downstairs, put away the still-operational appliances, pots, and pans, thrown out all the broken china and other smashed bits from the kitchen, then swept and washed its floor. The house hadn’t looked really good, but it had lost some of its nightmare quality.

Jada, home at last, took her shoes off and put them on the mat by the door. The little area there was supposed to be a mud room, but Clinton had not finished the job. The floor was plywood and the slate for it lay where the bench and cabinet to hold boots and shoes should be. Jada, way too exhausted to be annoyed, took her coat off and put it across the back of a kitchen chair. Although she yelled at Clinton and the kids for doing the same thing, she was too tired to hang it up now. All she wanted was some sleep.

Cleaning up the wreckage next door had not only been physically exhausting but also emotionally draining. And it had frightened Jada. Somehow, despite her own massive problems, it had seemed that most other people’s lives were more secure. Ha! She knew that everything was in God’s hands, but to see Michelle’s home destroyed, her husband beaten, and her children paralyzed with fear frightened Jada, too.

She thought of Anne and the other girls at the bank. Two of them were single mothers and she knew that, like her, they lived from paycheck to paycheck She looked around her unfinished mud room and plywood kitchen floor. At one time she’d been proud of Clinton. She’d seen him as a builder, as a man who took action and made people and things come together. But now he was tearing them down and apart. Well, she had to try and be grateful. She said a short thanksgiving prayer. Things could always be so much worse.

She walked up the stairs as quietly as she could and passed the door of the baby’s room. That was one job Clinton had finished. He’d painted the room and built a changing table for Sherrilee. He’d even put her name on the door. Now Jada pushed it open and poked her head into the room for just a minute, only to check. But Sherrilee wasn’t there. She hoped that Clinton hadn’t let Jenna and Shavonne sleep with her. Walking more quickly to Shavonne’s door, she looked in. Jenna lay curled on one side of Shavonne’s double bed, but neither Shavonne nor Sherrilee was there.

That was strange, Jada thought, but perhaps they’d both crawled into bed with their daddy, though Shavonne didn’t do that much anymore. Of course, Shavonne could have had one of her frequent fights with Jenna and wanted to get away. Jada walked down the hall. Somehow this didn’t feel right. Not at all. But, she told herself, she was probably just spooked by the problems next door. Still, she couldn’t stop herself using unusual force.

She got to the door of their bedroom and threw it open. Nothing’s wrong, she told herself, but something was. No baby, no Shavonne, no Clinton. Only a note, lying in the middle of the unmade bed. Frightened, Jada strode over to it and snatched it up.

Jada,

I have made my decision. I have taken the children and I am leaving you. Your work schedule, your attitudes, and now your friendship with undesirables has led me to believe that you are not only a bad wife but also a bad mother. You will hear from my attorney, George Creskin and Associates. My children told me they didn’t want to stay with those drug kids.

Clinton

Jada’s eyes ran over the page a second time. Then a third. Clinton didn’t write like this. What was this? Was he insane? Her heart began to beat so fast that it felt like a thumping on the outside of her chest. She didn’t care. She didn’t matter. She ran to Kevon’s room and pulled the door ajar, but only Frankie was sleeping on the bottom bunk. She turned and ran back out into the hallway. She threw open the door of the linen closet where they kept their suitcases and backpacks. All the bags were gone. Like some kind of mad thing, she ran back into Shavonne’s room and slid open the closet door. Many empty hangers greeted her. She turned and pulled open the drawers of Shavonne’s bureau: underwear, socks, and T-shirts were gone. Gone. And her children gone, too.

Now, crazy with fear, she ran back down the hall to her own room. All of Clinton’s shoes were missing, along with his two good suits and his leather jacket. He was a madman! A madman! He had taken her children. Did he think that she would stand for this? Did he think that she had scrambled and worked the way she had so that he could take their family and walk out of the house? And what the hell would he do with them, with her children, now that he had them? He didn’t even take care of them here. Clinton had nowhere to go. How would he pay for a hotel, a baby-sitter? He had no job, no money, no help. He wasn’t even on good terms with his mother—hadn’t been since they married.

She began to run down the bedroom hall, but at the top of the stairs it all hit her. She stopped and stood statue-still. A fear deeper than any she had ever known hit Jada in the chest so hard that she had to sit down on the top step, one long leg tucked under her. Who should she call? What should she do? She put a hand up to her mouth so that she wouldn’t scream out loud. There were two children still sleeping in the house, though they weren’t hers.

She couldn’t call the police—this wasn’t a police matter, was it? She couldn’t call a lawyer at this time of night. Anyway, she didn’t know a lawyer. Her mother and father were in Barbados, and neither was young anymore. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, shock them with this.

Jada’s right hand clutched the railing of the banister as she sat at the top of the stairs, frozen. Clinton couldn’t do this to her. Surely he didn’t hate her this much. And the children: would they willingly leave her? Had he forced the kids to go? Had he lied to them? Jada shook her head back and forth as if trying to shake the reality out. But it wouldn’t go.

Her marriage was over. That was clear. Her family was broken, but Jada knew she would find her babies, bring them home, and save them. This house and those children were what she had sacrificed her life to and no one was going to take them away. She was still strong enough to make sure of that.

But now, in the darkness at the top of the staircase, Jada lowered her head to her knees and quietly began to sob.

15

Containing a visit to Marblehead by a marble-head

“You want, I’ll come with you,” Tony offered again as he dropped Angela at the shuttle. “You don’t have to do this. And you sure don’t have to do it alone. I can postpone my business trip, and I’d love to come.”

“I need to go alone, Daddy,” Angela told him, and patted his arm. “Mom offered to come with me, and I could have made a big deal out of it, but I’d rather just get in and get out. For my stuff. Reid can keep the stereo and the blender. I’m just getting some of my clothes, my pictures … you know.”

“He going to be there?” Tony growled. “Because that son-of-a—”

“He doesn’t even know I’m coming,” Angela assured her father. “I’m not going up there to see him. Don’t worry. He’s a sick puppy and he’s out of my life. I just want my own clothes.” She looked down at her cheap lawyer’s suit.

“Okay. So you got the movers all set up like I told you?”

“Yeah,” she said, and gathered up her purse and her scarf. “Just two guys with some boxes and a van. They go back and forth between Boston and New York all the time and they’ll bring the stuff down to your house next week.”

Anthony Romazzano nodded and bent awkwardly across the bucket seat to hug her. “Okay, baby,” he said. As Angie started to get out of the car, he added, “You sure you don’t want a limo to take you?” She shook her head. “Do you need any cash?”

Angela nodded. She hated accepting his offer, but she was really pretty strapped. Tony handed her a few hundred dollar bills and a credit card with her name on it.

“Just in case,” he said. Her eyes teared up. She bent her head to look into the front seat of the car. “Thanks a lot,” she said.

“No problem,” he answered. “And you’ll be home tonight?”

“Absolutely,” she told him. “I might see Lisa for a drink before I leave, but I’ll call your machine if I do.”

Angela was early, so when the plane started to board she got one of the bulkhead seats near the window. At eleven A.M., the shuttle wasn’t packed, though the flights at seven, eight, and nine must have been jammed. When the doors closed the seat beside her was still empty. She crossed her legs.

She wasn’t one hundred percent sure why she was going to do this thing—a sort of cat burglary cum/slash-and-burn operation. She hadn’t told Lisa, nor Reid. She didn’t have to tell him. She was determined not to touch his stuff. Anything that was his or theirs was repugnant to her, but she wanted to remove any trace of her that had existed there, to be sure he knew she was gone forever.

Angie had always felt that a space took on the attributes of the person or people who lived there—even if they didn’t want it to. Her father’s new house seemed as desolate and lost as he did. It was the house of a family man who’d lost his family. Her mother’s place seemed worse in a way. But Angela remembered the apartment they had all lived in back when they’d been a family. It had been crowded with warmth—well-used pots in the kitchen, throw pillows on all the stuffed furniture, family pictures and drawings and report cards and mementos everywhere. It had been a comfortable place. She’d begun to make a place like that for Reid. But now she’d never finish the job.

This was going to be harder than she’d realized. The more Angie thought about it, the more she was convinced she needed help. The only person she knew of who could help her was Lisa. Angie lifted up the handset in the seat and slid through her credit card, then punched in the number. She hoped Lisa wasn’t out of the office. Lisa’s voice mail picked up. Shit. Well, she’d just leave a message and hope that Lisa wasn’t spending the day at a deposition or something.

Angie guessed it was better than having a secretary answer the phone, though if one had, she could go looking for Lisa. But the secretaries were all gossips. God knows what they were saying about her disappearance. They had always eyed Reid when he picked her up at work, and she’d bet that they were talking about this now, if they knew. Did they take Lisa’s voice mail messages or did Lisa do it herself? Angie decided to be very discreet.

“Lisa,” Angie said to the machine. “I don’t know when you’ll get this, but I have a favor to ask of you for today. I’ll call you in about an hour.” She hung up, pressed END to finish the call, then wondered if Lisa would recognize her voice because she hadn’t mentioned her name. She slid the phone back into its casing and slumped against the wall of the plane, staring out the window at the clouds.

All at once her energy had deserted her. This was going to be harder than she’d expected. Going back there, seeing their home, their hopes, their bed. Well, she’d have two strong Irish lads to help her, she’d do it as quickly as she could, and maybe, maybe Lisa would be able to show up. But it occurred to her that if she could just see Reid one more time, she might have closure. If she could speak to him and tell him how he’d ruined a part of her forever, she might feel better. She might get the weight of this shock off her back, even if it wasn’t dignified.

Somehow the idea of seeing Reid gave her a nervous energy despite her exhaustion. She pulled the phone out of the handset again, fumbled for her credit card, and called him. God, she hoped it wouldn’t list this number when her dad got the bill. He’d wig out. Definitely.

Reid’s secretary, an older woman named Shirley, answered. When Angie asked for him, Shirley asked who was calling, please. Angie noticed, for the first time, how high-pitched her voice was. For a moment she wondered if Shirley was the Soprano. But she’d seen Shirley. Shirley was really old. Angie had to mouth the words ‘his wife’ as coldly as she could just to get through it.

“Oh,” Shirley said, obviously startled, but she was wise enough not to say anything else.

Angie heard the tiny click as she was put on hold, but she was only on hold for a moment. Then Reid’s voice was in her ear.

“Angie? Is it really you?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Oh God, Angela. I thought I’d never get to speak to you again. I thought that—where are you calling from?”

“I’m on a plane,” Angela said and, oddly, that made her feel a lot more confident. It sounded so glamorous, calling him from a plane in her busy life. For a moment she wished she could say she was on a plane on her way to Rio, or some place even more exotic.

“Angie,” he said. “Thank you for calling me.” He paused and she could actually hear him swallow. “I know what I did was inexcusable …”

What he did? How about what he was still doing? When Angie heard the past tense, she wondered about her calls to the Soprano. Was it possible that it was past tense? Angie, get a grip, she told herself. God, what was she thinking about? What did it matter? She looked across the aisle of the plane to see if anyone could overhear her. It was crazy to have this conversation in such a public place.

“Yes, it was,” she said. “It was inexcusable because it hurt me in a way nothing ever will again. I let myself be open to that and you never, ever should have taken advantage of my trust.”

“Angie,” he said again.

He said it in a way that nobody else did. His voice had the sound of his desire in it. He was the only one, the only man who had ever made her feel beautiful and loved. The idea that she would never feel that way again was unbearable, and Angela closed her eyes against it.

“Angie, listen. This may be the most important talk we’ll ever have. I see now how stupid I was, telling you what I did. How I did. But Angie, Ange …” He paused. “I did it to clean the slate. I did it to tell the truth and make things right between us for the rest of our lives. I promise, Angie.”

She was silent; her eyes were closed but a hot tear escaped from the corner of one of them.

“Are you still there?” he asked.

“Yes,” she managed to say.

“Thank God. Listen, I love you. I’ll always love you. And nothing like this will ever happen again. I give you my word.” He paused. “Don’t punish me for telling the truth.”

She told herself she should ask him about the Soprano. That she should curse him and hang up. That she should …

“Ange, don’t move out. Move back in. Please,” he said.

“The flight is landing now,” she told him. “I have to hang up.”

“Landing where?” he asked and she heard the desperation in his voice. She had hurt him by walking out, by not speaking to him until now, and she was glad. “Where are you?”

“I’ll be in Boston,” she admitted. “But just for a few hours. I am going to stop by and pick up a few of my things.”

“Boston! Angie, I—”

“I hope you have no objection,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Then she hung up.

In the taxi on the way to Marblehead, Angela put on her makeup. Her face looked good. Her round blue eyes, with just a little mascara, perked right up. The sleeping she’d done had actually improved her face and her excitement had given her color—she didn’t need any blusher. She took out a dark lipstick, then decided on a pinker color.

Her hair was a total loss. She should have made an appointment with Shear Madness before she’d left New York. She fluffed her hair as best she could, hoping it would do.

She had called the movers from Logan, confirmed they were on their way, and had left another message on Lisa’s voice mail telling her that she was going to the apartment. In a way, she hoped that Lisa didn’t show, because she was hoping that Reid would.

Angie nervously palmed the key to their condo. It had become hot in her damp hand. She looked out at the grim November landscape. What was she doing? This was insanity.

Was there still a chance, the smallest chance that Reid might somehow make it all right? She knew it was possible to live without him, hurt and empty, but going on. Was it still possible that there might yet be a way for her to live with him?

She wasn’t thinking anymore. She had her plan. Just get her stuff. If Reid appeared, she’d simply see what happened next.