Young Wives (49 page)

Jada would hold Sherrilee and rock her while Kevon held onto the back of her shirt and went on and on. Meanwhile, Shavonne wouldn’t meet Jada’s eye. Only Ms. Patel, who sat quietly, her face averted and shadowed by some personal sadness or the sadness of what she saw every day, reflected pain back to Jada.

But if the visits were painful, driving up to the house and dropping the children off was worse. Sherrilee began screaming even before they turned onto Elm Street. Kevon’s monologue became almost manic. That was when Jada was temporarily grateful for Ms. Patel, who gently but firmly pried the screaming baby from Jada’s arms and took Kevon by the hand and marched him up the walk. It was only then that Shavonne looked her mother in the eye. “Come back home,” she’d said the day before. “Come back home.”

And even though she swore she was never going to do it, never going to bad mouth Clinton to his own children, Jada had said, “Your daddy won’t let me. I can’t, Shavonne, because your daddy won’t let me.”

After Shavonne had gone into the house and Mrs. Patel had left, Jada had sobbed, alone in the empty Volvo. What she’d said hadn’t helped her daughter. And the visits were so disturbing, Kevon’s comments so upsetting, that she wondered about
everything
that was going on in her house.

A customer approached, a man with a full shopping cart. Distraction! But as Jada scanned in the groceries, she kept thinking. All three of them, poor Mich, frightened Angela, and Jada herself, had been bested, had been beaten—in Michelle’s case, literally—by men and institutions that were supposed to protect them. Jada hadn’t really believed such bad things could happen to white women, women with education and some money. One of the things she’d learned from this was how bad it was to be a woman—a woman of any color—at the mercy of any color man.

What had gone so wrong? Jada had always been strong, unafraid of hard work, and she’d followed the rules. But none of it had done her any good, nor had it helped Michelle or Angie. They were good girls, too, and look how they were living! The apartment was in chaos with all three women and Michelle’s two kids in it, not to mention the damned dog. They were like desperadoes in a hideout, but they didn’t even have the satisfaction of having committed some exciting, violent, successful crime.

Jada scanned in a wrapped head of lettuce and shook her own head. She could see what the others should do: Mich should divorce Frank and make a deal with the DA. Angela ought to figure out a way to punish that so-called “friend” of hers up there in Boston and get even with her husband instead of just slinking away. And she…

The register flashed a total, and the customer handed over two twenties. Jada had to input the amount so the register could automatically calculate the change to be given. As if she wasn’t even capable of making change! Jada accepted the forty dollars from the middle-aged man who seemed to have bought nothing but meat products—sausage, bacon, smoked ham, and canned meat—and counted out the three dollars and forty-six cents that was his change. Melody, the housewife who worked as a part-time bagger, began to fill a paper sack with the packages. “I want it double bagged,” he said. Melody nodded.

Jada turned her head to the next customer.
Keep busy
, she told herself. The shopper was a well-dressed woman with a bad face lift. Why didn’t men cut themselves up with face lifts? Jada wondered. What had Angie said about punishing the men? About getting their own back or evening the score? Jada sighed. It was hard for her to see what her own future actions should be. If the other two could act
for
her, and she could act for Angie or…

That was it! She held a can of olives up in the air for a moment, suspended. The face-lifted woman stared at her, but Jada thought only of her two girlfriends. She could see what they should do. They had to work
together
. Not the way they were at the apartment, where she was bringing home the groceries, Michelle was cleaning like a maniac, and Angie was paying the rent. They had to work together against the system that had beaten them. They had to work against the structure that had crushed them. They should help one another to
do
something that would even the score, that would give them back their pride, or even their freedom. Give them what they wanted, what they deserved. She knew she deserved to be with her kids, and they needed to be with her. Jada stared at the keys on her register until they blurred in front of her. She had joked with Michelle about kidnapping her children, but maybe it wasn’t a joke. Maybe with help from her friends, she could—

“Are the Kraft Deluxe dinners on special, or only the regular macaroni and cheese?” the face-lifted woman across the counter inquired with such intensity it seemed as if Jada’s answer meant the extinction of the race, or at least lasting world peace.

“Just the regular dinners,” Jada told her. “You still want these?” she asked, looking at the deluxe boxes. But the woman’s decision didn’t matter to her. Somewhere deep inside herself, Jada had come to her own decision.

It was time to try and even the score. By whatever means necessary.

“We’re coming. Now don’t try to change my mind. I said to your mother ‘now is the time’ and even she didn’t argue. So don’t you try.”

Jada listened to her father’s voice and wondered if the comfort he offered was worth the anxiety his plan would cost. She’d called him from Angela’s phone, sitting with the portable in the bathroom, the only quiet place in Angela’s apartment. “It’s just a temporary thing,” she lied. “At least I think so.” She still hadn’t told her parents anything close to the whole truth; if they thought it was an emergency at this point, what would they do when they found out that Clinton had the children and the house? On the other hand, what could be worse than things were now? And wouldn’t it be something of a comfort to have her mama and papa with her?

“Don’t tell me you don’t want me there, because I know you do,” her mother said.

“Of course I do, Mama.” Jada would have to ask Angie to petition the court so that her parents could visit their grandchildren. What else was there to do to prepare for their invasion? Find a motel room for them, because three adults, two children, and a dog were the absolute maximum in Angie’s apartment. And then what? Tell them that she was thinking of grabbing her own children and disappearing with them? Tell them she was so desperate that she was going to break the law? Maybe she’d better start preparing them for some of this.

“Mama, some things have changed since you were here,” she began.

In which Michelle reveals her bruises to Bruzeman

Michelle had showered and cleaned up the apartment, and now she finished dressing, ready to go in and face the first part of her own plan. She’d been thinking, and Jada and Angela had been pushing her to think even harder. She didn’t try and cover up the bruises on her face. Today she needed them to show.

She dressed and gathered her notes and papers, including the rewritten detailed list Frank had made her keep of all the things that had been broken or lost. Ha! She’d been more exacting, more precise, than a state comptroller, and all the time Frank had known he was guilty. She had always imagined a future very much like her recent past—the comfort of routine, of her beautiful home, the fun of watching the children grow, the love of her husband. It was what she had dreamed of and worked toward from the time she was six or seven, growing up with her drunken mother in those awful, cheap apartments. She’d wanted her own house, a steady husband, clean, smart children, good furniture, a new car. She’d had those things and loved them, and now she didn’t really have another dream to replace them with.

Sometimes Michelle thought that because of the way she’d grown up, she was tougher than Jada and Angie. She hadn’t had a real mother who took care of her, was concerned for her, or could help out now, so she had to do it all herself. But now, at a time like this, she saw she wasn’t tougher—she was more vulnerable than both of her friends. She didn’t have a plan B. And though she was trying, she couldn’t really think of one. At least not yet. But she could try and clean up the mess she was in.

She pulled into the parking lot at Swaine, Copple & Bruzeman. She was glad to see that Michael Rice immediately got out of his car and walked across the lot to meet her. She and Angie and Jada had discussed all this, and Michelle—stupid as it was—felt better with a man to confront Bruzeman, that little bully.

Michael smiled at her, and didn’t avert his eyes from the side of her face and the darkness of the bruises. “How are you?” he asked.

“Not as bad as I look,” she said. “But pretty nervous.”

“You did see a doctor?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m fine. I’m just worried about Frank and the children. About the whole situation.”

“I understand,” Michael said somberly. “Let’s go upstairs and see what we can do.”

This time Michelle wasn’t made to wait. When she thought about it, she realized it was the only time. Perhaps Michael Rice carried some weight. Or, more likely, Rick Bruzeman didn’t like battered women littering his reception area.

She and Michael were quickly escorted to Bruzeman’s office; he was waiting for them at the door. He had his right hand already out, and put his left on Michael’s elbow for that power handshake that scumbag politicians seemed to like to use. Then he turned to her, but she noticed, he didn’t shake her hand.

“Well, Michelle, you look well,” he said. Michelle didn’t bother to answer. She just walked over to the sofa and sat down. Michael sat beside her.

Bruzeman pulled up one of his straight-backed chairs, took it, and crossed his legs, his right ankle resting on his left knee, showing the pattern of his designer socks. Michelle averted her eyes.

“I won’t take up a lot of your time,” Michael began. “We have a few simple requests.”

Bruzeman smiled, as if there were no problem. “Of course,” he said. “I’m always willing to listen.”

“My client is not testifying on behalf of your client,” Michael said. “If she
is
subpoenaed, she will testify for the state. Because of the violence that she’s received at the hands of your client, she is suing for divorce and custody. If Mr. Russo agrees to grant her custody, we’ll wait to sue until after the outcome of his trial. In the meantime, he’s not to contact her or the children.”

Bruzeman laughed. “Is that all? Mr. Russo will never agree. Don’t you think that’s a little harsh? And he needs his family now. It’s not an easy time for Frank, as you must know, Michelle.”

Michelle swallowed, thinking of Frank alone. For a moment she felt…well, best not to name it. She had to forget that feeling for now.

“I don’t think it’s harsh at all, considering the violence Mr. Russo visited on his wife,” Michael said calmly.

Bruzeman stood up. “Oh, don’t give me that! Everybody’s tense. There are legal problems, money problems, who knows what problems? A little push, a little shove. Who knows who started it.” He looked down at Michael, his position frozen, his face hard. He frightened Michelle. “I’m afraid these terms are totally unacceptable, Mr. Rice.”

Michelle actually trembled at the tone of Bruzeman’s voice. There was something powerful in his smallness, something coiled like a snake or a rat about to jump.

But Michael stood up. “I don’t think
you
understand,” he said. “We’re not negotiating. We are explaining the new rules. If you’d like to know why these rules apply, you’ll have to discuss it with your client. Michelle Russo has no doubt in her mind that her husband is guilty of everything charged. Count yourself lucky she doesn’t go to the DA and explain why she holds that belief.”

Rick Bruzeman shook his head, then took a seat again, but this time he didn’t do the jaunty leg cross. He wrapped each of his small feet behind a front leg of the chair and leaned forward. He looked at Michelle. It was suddenly as if Michael had ceased to exist. She had to push herself not to avoid Bruzeman’s eyes.

“Michelle,” he said, “your husband loves you. You know that. And you know he loves the children. You can’t, in good conscience, abandon him at this crucial time. You can’t do it, Michelle.” He paused. “He’s on my private line now, patiently waiting, hoping to talk to you.”

Michael moved between the two of them, as if his body could protect Michelle’s mind. “That is totally inappropriate, counselor. My client will not speak to the man who beat her. We’ve made a complete statement to the police. We have a restraining order, photographs, a doctor’s report, and we could press charges. In fact, we will press charges, if you push Mrs. Russo in this inappropriate way.”

Michael turned to Michelle. “Forget about the phone,” he told her, then he turned back to Bruzeman. “It won’t be any easier to represent your client if he’s already in jail for battery and spousal abuse.”

Michelle stood up. She couldn’t stand it anymore. “I’ll talk to him,” she said to Rick. She looked at Michael.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“I’ll talk to him,” she repeated. “But everything you say is true.” She turned to Bruzeman. “We’re not negotiating,” she said. “We’re telling you where things stand. And now I’ll tell Frank.”

Bruzeman shook his head and then gestured toward the phone. “He’s holding on line two,” Bruzeman said. He raised his eyebrows to Michael. “Shall we give Mrs. Russo some privacy? I have a few things to discuss with you.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Michael asked.

“No. It’s really all right.” She would be an adult. She would tell Frank the score. Michelle couldn’t remember the last words that she’d said to her husband. He had been in such a rage when he discovered the money gone that…well, she didn’t remember it all.

She reached for the phone, but hesitated another minute. He was the father of her children, the love of her life, the man she had slept beside and taken inside her body for the last fourteen years. Yet he was a stranger. He’d been dealing drugs, he’d been lying to her, he’d been living a double life. He’d been putting her and his children at risk and then he’d struck out at her and beaten her. If she lifted up the phone, she would have to remember that the man speaking to her wasn’t the Frank Russo she had once known. She thought she could do that, although her hand was trembling as she reached for the receiver. She picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said.