Young Wives (46 page)

Jada stopped herself at that. Anyway, the color wouldn’t work. It was more than enough to take Angie’s generosity and stay in her apartment. It was too much to take her intimate apparel also. Plus, Angie was probably five inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than she was, and Jada wasn’t going to spend the day hobbled by the waistband of a pair pantyhose stretched between her kneecaps. Pantyhose, she decided, had definitely been invented by the devil, or by men. Actually, she thought, they added up to pretty much the same thing. Men
were
devils.

She knew she could depend on women, though. Her mother, and her two friends, even though they were white. They’d stuck by her through some grim testimony. Black women who were close to one another used special words that they would almost never use with white girls. “Sisterfriend” was one of those words. It was someone not blood related but as close—or closer—than a sister. Back in high school, Jada had felt that she and Simone LaClerk were sisterfriends, but she couldn’t remember if they had used the term. She was certainly closer to Michelle than she had ever been to Simone (who had dissed her when she started dating Clinton because apparently Simone had secretly been hot for him). For a long time Jada had known Michelle was a sisterfriend, but hadn’t thought she could ever get that close with Angie. Now she felt she was.

But that still didn’t mean she’d wear her pantyhose. Finally, after ten more minutes of looking, she grabbed the only pantyhose she could—and they were the old pair she’d worn in court and had a run right up the back, from the ankle to the knee. But she was stuck with them. She slipped into her pumps and ran out the door, the keys to the Volvo jingling in her hand.

The car was her home now. She was going to get to see the children this afternoon after work, but the idea of sitting with them in the Volvo or driving to yet another mall or restaurant made her feel sick. How would she explain to them what had happened in court last? She didn’t want to poison them against Clinton, but if she didn’t make it clear that
she
wanted them and had to fight with Daddy to see them, they would be poisoned against her. Sometimes life was just too hard to bear. She felt as if the best solution—the only solution that would work for her—was to kill Clinton, or to get him killed.

As she drove through the morning traffic, she played with the murderous thought. If she killed him, she’d go to prison and then the children would have no one to raise them. But if someone
else
killed him…She thought of an old Hitchcock movie where a psychotic idly proposes to a stranger that each kills the other’s wife. Neither would be suspect, because they’d have no motive, no connection to the victims. Maybe she could make a deal with Angie and go up to Boston to kill her bastard, while Angie could pull the trigger on Clinton. Of course, now that they lived together, they were too obviously connected for that to look like a coincidence…

Jada realized how crazy her thoughts were getting, stopped them, and prayed instead. But for almost the first time in her life, the prayer felt flat. She thought of the Bible’s injunction to turn the other cheek, but she felt as if her cheeks—all four of them—had been lashed as badly as she could take. She tried to think of another comforting thought. Vengeance is mine, the Lord had said. Okay. But what was she to do? Be meek? The meek might inherit the earth, but her children were inheriting the dirt: Clinton and his lackadaisical supervision, Tonya Green and her feigned interest in them, which wouldn’t last long, not to mention their Jackson grandmother’s habitual lying and drinking.
Lord, protect my children
, Jada prayed.
Give me the strength to help them and love them
.

When she walked into the bank, she was in no mood for any of it.
How foolishly we spend our lives
, she thought. Not that she had ever been particularly interested in the work—it was only the paycheck she wanted. Now it was almost beyond her abilities to even pretend an interest.

She walked past Anne, picking up her messages as she did, and walked into her office. She returned calls to Mr. Marcus, two important clients with problems, and one of the consultants, who peppered her with a series of staffing questions that he’d already asked but apparently wanted to ask again. As she sat there, impatiently giving him the data, she tapped her foot. That caused the run in her stocking to creep up her thigh. It felt disturbingly like an insect moving cautiously under her clothes.

This was all unbearable. Pointless. Following these rules, playing by them, was absolutely ridiculous, she thought. “Look, Ben,” she said brusquely. “I have a meeting now and I already gave you all this information once. I’m afraid you’re going to have to search your records for it.” She hung up, wondering as she did if he was asking the questions twice to see if she would change her answers. She shook her head, pulled out a sheet of blank paper, and began to write down a column of numbers. But this wasn’t for the bank. This was for her.

If she paid the child support and alimony directed by the court, she would be left with less than three hundred dollars a week to live on. Out of that she’d also have to help Angie pay rent and gas money. And what about Clinton’s legal fees? Apparently she was going to be expected to pay those, too, and she had a feeling that George Creskin didn’t come cheap. Nor would he allow an installment plan. Jada tried to project and add in the raise that she was expecting and see where it left her, but it didn’t leave her anywhere.

Then Anne buzzed her and told her that the afternoon meeting had been rescheduled from two o’clock to four. “Who rescheduled that?” she asked. She had the children to pick up at four-thirty. There was no way she was going to be late for them.

“Mr. Marcus,” Anne said, and Jada wondered if there was a sneer in her voice. “He called at five to nine. I was here, but you weren’t in yet. I didn’t see anything on your calendar.”

“Call his office,” Jada snapped. “I tried him earlier but he wasn’t in. Leave word that the meeting is at two o’clock today or four o’clock tomorrow, but it can’t be four o’clock today.”

Jada stood up, went to the window, and looked out at the desolate back parking area, the drive-through window, and the Dumpster. Her life was sort of like that—certainly desolate, she had been a drive-through for Clinton, who was going to make withdrawals from her for the rest of his life. She would be consigned to live in a dump, with nothing but garbage.

There had to be a better plan. When she’d spoken to her mother, Mama had first suggested prayer, and then that she get a really big knife and threaten to kill him. And Jada hadn’t even told her mother the whole truth—only that they were thinking of separating and that he had another woman. Her father had offered to come up and “straighten the boy out.”

Then both of her parents had suggested their other panacea for all problems—that she should come for a visit. As if her life were so flexible, she could take vacations whenever she needed some mental health.

Jada couldn’t kill Clinton. God forgive her for even thinking of murder, but she also couldn’t begin this kind of life.

Maybe she should do as her mother had suggested in their last phone call—pack up and go “home” to Barbados for a little while.

Except she couldn’t go without her children. Like a trapped animal, she walked from the window back to the phone, picked it up, and punched in Michelle’s number. “How are you, babe?” she asked when Michelle answered.

“Maybe not as bad as you,” Michelle said. “Do you think drinking might help?”

“Oh yeah,” Jada answered, her voice edged by sarcasm. “A nice Bloody Mary at eleven
A.M
. and one of your pills would be the perfect pick-me-up. You’d probably be out cold when the kids come home from school.”

“I’m not worried about the kids coming home. I’m worried about
Frank
coming home.”

On her end of the phone, Jada shook her head. When was Michelle going to give up on that lying bastard? “Listen, sisterfriend,” Jada said, moving on to her own agenda. “I have a question to ask you. Honestly, how do you feel about kidnapping?”

“Who are we kidnapping? Clinton? Tonya? Judge Sneed?”

“No, who cares about any of them? I was thinking of my children.”

There was a moment of silence. “Isn’t that a federal offense?” Michelle asked. “Not that
I
would think it was wrong…especially if you got away with it.”

There was another silence while Jada thought. “I’m only joking,” she admitted. “How would I live? Where would I go? If I stayed here, I’d be arrested for contempt of court and kidnapping. If I joined my parents, Clinton would find me in a minute.” She sighed. “It’s just that I’ve tried to figure it out, and I can’t see any way to comply with the judge and live any kind of life. It’s not just the money. I’ll have to watch my children suffer every day and slowly turn against me.”

“I’m waiting for my husband to do that,” Michelle admitted.

“Turn against you? Hey,
you
should be turning against
him
.” But then Jada stopped and thought of the bruise on Michelle’s face. “Are you afraid of him, Michelle?”

Before Michelle answered, there was a buzz from Anne. “Mr. Marcus on two,” Anne announced.

When she hit the button for the other line, Marcus lit into her before she even had a chance to begin. About how she wasn’t there when he called earlier, about how uncooperative she’d been with the consultant, and then about the meeting and its rescheduling. On and on. Jada listened as long as she could stand it. Finally she interrupted. “Mr. Marcus, if you schedule the meeting for four o’clock, you’re welcome to have it without me. If you want me here, it’s two o’clock today or any time tomorrow afternoon.”

“Mrs. Jackson—Jada—I’m sorry, but I think you don’t understand. This isn’t a choice. In fact, you haven’t been making the right choices for a while now.” He cleared his throat. “I think it’s time for you to consider resignation.”

Jada froze. “Excuse me?” she said, but she’d heard him.

“Resignation, Mrs. Jackson. All that personal time you take. And Anne Cherril has kept a record of—”

“Of what?”

“Listen. It’s best to make this a simple resignation on your part. Less embarrassing for you and the bank.”

Jada couldn’t believe it. “And if not, are you firing me?” she asked.

“Well, let’s say I’d prefer your resignation.”

“Let’s say I’d prefer to tell you to go to hell. I’m not rolling over for you the way Michelle Russo did. I worked hard to get this job. I’ve done well. It’s been demonstrated. And if you think—”

“I think you got an uncollateralized ten thousand-dollar loan that was rushed through improperly.”

Jada felt her stomach sink, then the taste of bile in her throat. “I stopped the loan,” she protested.

“Not the point, Mrs. Jackson. Not the point at all. You improperly used a subordinate to procure a loan you couldn’t and shouldn’t have received. And did so conspiratorially. In sworn testimony, wouldn’t Mrs. Russo have to agree?”

“This has nothing to do with that, but you already know that,” Jada said. Just one more example of an uppity black woman reaping what her portion was.

Mr. Marcus began to say something, but Jada wasn’t waiting. She hung up. Then, without thinking anymore about it, she turned to the keyboard of her PC, typed, and then printed her resignation letter.

She’d give the people what they wanted. She wasn’t even that surprised. Doing this job was insane if all it did was pay Clinton and Tonya’s living expenses. What the hell. She signed the page and laid it on top of her desk. She said a quick good-bye to Michelle, then called Angie at work “You,” she said when she heard Angie’s voice, “are a
very
lucky girl.”

“Why is that?” Angie asked cautiously, not knowing if this was a joke or not.

“Because you have the perfect roommate,” Jada said. “I’m depressed, single, and now I’m unemployed.”

In which Michelle is both dazed and confused

Michelle was folding laundry, smoothing it on top of the warm dryer, when she heard Pookie begin barking. The barking was followed by impatient whining at the back hallway door. Then Michelle heard the sound of Frank’s truck as it pulled in and she froze. For some reason—well, for a good reason—she was afraid of Frank. As he spent day after day with Rick Bruzeman or one of the other lawyers on the team, as his situation became graver, engulfing him, he’d become more and more short-tempered and unpredictable.

But his attitude wasn’t really what she feared. Michelle knew that eventually Frank would notice her discovery of his secret cache of money. She didn’t dare imagine the confrontation. The Xanax kept her from thinking about it too much. But so far, days had passed with nothing at all between them. Now, when the door outside the laundry room slammed open, Michelle froze without greeting Frank as he strode by in the hallway. Pookie didn’t greet him, either. The dog sat down hard, then actually backed behind her.

Frank didn’t call her name out, perhaps expecting to find her as he moved through the house. Or maybe he didn’t expect to find her. She stopped and listened intently. Then she heard his feet on the stairs. Pookie didn’t follow him; instead, the dog stayed with her, his dark eyes questioning her, his head tilted at an angle. Both of them were listening. Michelle wondered if the dog was scared, too.

Michelle still stood there, one of Frankie’s T-shirts held against her chest. She didn’t know why she was so silent, nor why she wasn’t breathing, until she heard Frank’s bellow. This was it, then.

“Michelle!”
he yelled, and he was clearly upstairs in one of the bedrooms—she could guess which one. His voice was so loud that Pookie actually jumped and ran into the small space between the cabinet and the wall.
“Michelle!”
Frank yelled again, and she heard him pounding down the stairs.

For a horrible moment, she thought about whether she could run out the door into the garage before he made it across the kitchen to her. But his truck was probably blocking her car, and the thought was insane. She had to stand up for herself and the children. She had to. She shouldn’t have put this off so long anyway. It put her a little on the defensive, when it was he who had done wrong. Michelle realized she should have told him about finding the money immediately. She should have confronted him instead of waiting for this. Why did she make such stupid mistakes? Now it would be worse. Why did she do everything wrong?