Young Wives (26 page)

“What does this all mean?” she asked.

“Nothing. It means nothing.”

“Don’t tell me that, Frank. Don’t say it means nothing. An indictment—it must mean something.” Her wide mouth trembled. “I’m not a child, Frank. Don’t treat me like one. Don’t protect me. Were you trying to pay someone off to get the thing to go away? Are you trying to find out what the DA thinks he’s got?”

“We tried both,” Frank admitted.

“So what happened? You told me they had nothing. You told me there would be no indictment. But there is. So what’s going on?”

There was silence between them for a little while. Michelle could feel the blood surging in her head and hear it inside her ears. She didn’t think she took a breath until he answered.

“The indictment will be handed down soon, maybe Monday,” he said. “I’m going to be accused of being some kind of mastermind of a cocaine and amphetamine distribution ring.”

Michelle gasped then, so loudly Frank heard her and looked away.

“Bruzeman found out about it just in time to warn us, but not in time to prevent it.” Frank shook his head. He looked at her again. “I’m innocent, Michelle. You know that.”

“But—” She stopped. It was best to say nothing, but she couldn’t in the end. “But Frank, you promised me this wouldn’t go any further. It’s been a mistake, hasn’t it?”

He swiveled the chair toward her. “Of course, it’s been a mistake,” he said. “Do you think I’m some kind of a drug dealer?” he asked. “Would I be spending my days freezing my ass off on roofs with bozos working for me?” He stuck his arms out in the room between them. “Would my goddamn hands be chapped and cracked and bleeding if I was dealing drugs instead of fixing shingles?” He dropped his arms and turned away, lowering his voice. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that,” he almost moaned. “Did they find anything here? Am I driving a new Mercedes, or an eight-year-old Chevy van? Do we have a million dollars in a bank account you haven’t told me about? I can’t believe you’d ask me,” he repeated, his voice low.

Tears rose in Michelle’s eyes. She couldn’t believe
any
of this. It was
all
a mistake,
all
wrong, and yet it could ruin them. How could she—how could
they
—be picked out of the universe and be tortured in this way?

“How can all this be happening?” she said out loud. “How could they have a secret grand jury? I never heard of that. How could…” She wanted to ask how he could turn so ugly on her, but it was stupid to even bring it up. He was beside himself, and she was…well, she wasn’t even sure what she was, except suddenly very sick to her stomach. The vitamins and the skim milk were churning.

It took another ten seconds for her to know that she wouldn’t be able to keep them down. She ran to the door, out into the tiny hall, and managed to get into Frank’s shop where she heaved painfully once or twice before she vomited onto the cement floor, as close to the drain as she could get. She gasped and heaved again, and then yet again, holding her long hair up, away from what she was spewing. She felt Frank’s hand on her back. She couldn’t move or speak, even to acknowledge his presence. Instead she stayed crouched in her position, ready for a dry heave. But none came.

Slowly she straightened herself, wiped her wide mouth with one hand and her watery eyes with the other. She hoped the children hadn’t heard. She turned to look at her husband. “My God, Frank, what are we going to do?” she asked, and she knew her voice sounded younger, more childish than Jenna’s.

He put a hand on each of her shoulders. This time he looked at her directly, his deep brown eyes melting with pain and sorrow. “I’m not guilty, Michelle. You know that, don’t you?” She nodded, trying to pull some air into her sensitive nostrils. “So we just fight it,” he said. “We stick together, we try to protect each other and the kids, and we fight it. An indictment isn’t a conviction. I don’t know why they’re out to get me. But I swear to you, they won’t.”

He put his arms around her. She averted her head so he wouldn’t smell her sour breath. “What will it cost?” she whispered. She thought of the ten thousand dollars that Bruzeman had asked for from Jada. How much had Frank already had to give that slimy little…? “What will it cost, Frank?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I can take care of that end. You just take care of the children.” He pulled himself away from her enough so he could look her in the face again. “You just take care of Frankie and Jenna and me, baby. Can you do that?”

Although she wasn’t sure if she could, Michelle nodded. He grabbed her and held her tight against his chest. Michelle stretched her long arms around his back and tried to hold him as she nodded, her sharp chin on his shoulder. They stood there, in the slight chill of the shop, while the sour smell from the drain slowly filled the room.

“We’ll beat this,” he said. “I promise you we will. And I’ll protect you.” His voice broke a little, and more than anything else, that felt heartbreaking to Michelle. “Just stick with me now,” he begged. “Please, Mich, stick with me now.”

Wherein Jada’s body is cleansed but her spirit is broken

Jada sat in the full bath, the hot water still trickling in. She was a shower kind of girl, in and out quickly, but in what now seemed like the only safe spot in the whole, empty house, the only solace she could find was in this ceramic corner of the bathroom. It was only here, in the tub, that her hands stopped trembling, though her mind continued to race.

She supposed her behavior was bizarre; she’d probably taken four—or was it five?—baths today. But she felt drawn to the tub; she would sit in it, keeping the water as hot as she could bear, until her lethargy lightened when anxiety descended and wouldn’t let her sit still any longer. So she’d get up, towel off, dress again, and attempt some minor household task—which she’d leave unfinished—or flip on the TV, only to find herself, an hour or so later, drawn back up to the bathroom, once again turning on the taps and filling the tub.

Luckily, she hadn’t been in the tub when her mother called last night for their ritual once-a-week long-distance call. Hearing her mother’s warm voice, Jada found comfort, but she had spared both her parents any of the details of what was going on. When Mama had asked to speak to the children, Jada had said they were playing at the neighbors. Lying felt low, but she knew Jesus would forgive her. The one thing Jada
didn’t
have to worry about was her mother asking about Clinton—the story with him never changed.

Jada loved her mother but didn’t want to worry her. She also didn’t want to admit just how very right her mother had been. Yet, hanging up, she was swept by regret that she hadn’t been able to be honest with her. Her mama only wanted the best for her, Jada knew. How could she be so proud, so pig-headed, as to not confide in her blood family? Pride was her downfall.

Her only rationale was that once the lawyer got this into family court, once she’d seen her kids, she would have issues she could face and share. Once she had the children back, she’d truly be delighted to change the locks, to get Clinton out forever, to mentally adjust and go on as a single mom. And her mother
wouldn’t
judge her harshly, though none of the islanders or any member of their church approved of divorce. Jada knew her mother wouldn’t even mention that she’d always known exactly how trashy and low Clinton was. Though last night Jada had been grateful that she’d had some human contact, someone to talk to while she waited for her chance with the children, the call had had a very painful backlash.

The water felt good. She was, after all, an Aquarius; it was an air sign, but she always felt it should have been a water sign. She raised her knees a little bit so she could settle the back of her neck against the tub. Exposed above the water, her knees looked like two dark islands in a sea of foam. They reminded her of the Caribbean, where Nevis and a few other places rose straight and dark out of the aqua sea. Jada suddenly wished she could be with her parents, home again. Not this place, but their home in Barbados, where she actually had never lived but had only visited. Home there, safe with her mama and her babies.

Last night had been the longest in her life. She’d walked from room to empty room, turning lights on, shutting them off, and moving on. The empty children’s rooms frightened her, the kitchen seemed abandoned, and the living and dining rooms too big to sit in alone. Her bedroom was worst of all. She could never get back into the bed she’d shared with Clinton. She’d slept fitfully on the sofa, woke up at five, and then this morning had stretched out endlessly. But at noon today, she reminded herself, she would see her children.

The Romazzano-Wakefield woman over at the legal clinic had managed somehow to get through to the family court judge and had set up temporary visitation. Jada had stopped the check to Bruzeman and closed the loan file. It seemed that a free lawyer was as effective—and certainly more comforting—than a cold, expensive one. It was hard to say with an attorney, but Jada felt that Angie’s NUP was a good one. When she’d gotten the call that she could see Shavonne, Kevon, and Sherrilee—if only for two hours today and another two on Sunday—she had been so grateful. Angie Romazzano had done it speedily, and although Jada didn’t like the limits—two hours was an extra insult and ridiculous—it had been heaven to know for certain she’d see her babies.

She soaked in the hot water and it occurred to her that she still hadn’t cried all of her pain out. She wasn’t a weeper. But then she wondered whether her need for the constant drip of hot water into the tub was some externalized form of tears. She’d been dry-eyed and awake all last night and this morning—except for the brief catnap she’d managed on the sofa. The only sounds all that time had been the drip of hot water.

Well, that and the phone; once the lawyer with the news, and then two calls from Michelle to check up on her. Michelle, bless her heart, had called twice, inviting her over for dinner and then later, past eleven, just to check in on her. Michelle had sounded more upset than Jada was, but then she was more emotional. She’d even suggested she stay with Jada in her place for the night.

“Frank can watch the kids. Just so the silence doesn’t get to you. You know me, I’m never silent,” Michelle had tried to joke.

But though Jada had truly, deeply, appreciated the invitations, she didn’t have the strength for company. She had to get through this part alone. After all, alone might be the state she was in for her entire future.

She glanced now at her wristwatch, languidly curled over the side of the tub, and realized she’d better get ready. She rose from the water with a shiver and wrapped herself in the still-damp towel she’d used from her last bath. Jada walked into the bedroom, avoided looking at her bed, and opened her closet door.
What do you wear when you get to visit your legally abducted children
? she wondered. She pulled down a pair of Gap khakis and went for one of her Ecuadorian sweaters. Both were easy to shrug into but looked cheerful, as if she’d made an effort. She was about to try and tame her hair when the phone rang for the first time that morning.

She rushed to it, with every unspeakable horror running through her head: Clinton refusing to let her see the kids; her lawyer calling to say the judge had changed his mind; one of the babies sick and in the hospital. Her hands started to tremble again, but she managed to lift the phone off the hook, then fumbled to get it to her ear.

“Hello,” she said, and her voice was raspy. She realized she hadn’t spoken aloud in hours and hours.

“Jada?” Michelle’s voice asked. “Are you sick?”

“Only mentally,” Jada told her.

“Do you want me to drive you over?”

“No. I can make it to my mother-in-law’s on my own,” Jada said. “But if you want to, you could follow to make sure that I don’t shoot Clinton or his mother.”

“Have you got a gun?” Michelle asked.

Even in her pain, Jada felt her heart expand toward Michelle, sometimes so gullible, but always so kind. She thought of the bitches who had sent back Michelle’s brownies and decided that if she
was
going to go postal, Jada would take them out, as well. “No, I don’t have a gun. How many female suburban bank branch managers do you know who pack a weapon?” She didn’t even get a giggle from Michelle, but she knew Michelle was taking this almost as hard as she was. “So while I’m asking questions, what do I say to the kids? I don’t know what Clinton’s told them. And what do I
do
with them? I don’t even have time to bring them back here if I have to return them to Yonkers. I mean, the round trip would use up my two hours.”

“Jada, what you do is you tell them you love them. That this will be over soon,” Michelle said. “Just like I told my kids. You tell them that this fight that Daddy and you are having will be over soon. And it wouldn’t hurt to find out about their daily routine. Has he taken them to a new school? Who’s cooking? You know.”

“Right,” Jada agreed.

“Did you pack some extra things for them for the meantime?” Michelle asked. “You know, favorite T-shirts or slippers or like that?” Jada nodded, then cleared her throat and managed to tell Michelle she already had done that during her night wanderings.

“But I hate to take even one more of their things out of here,” Jada admitted. “It makes this even less their home and that place—wherever they are—more.”

“Oh, Jada, that place must be so empty for them without you. And your house must be…hell. You must be so scared.”

“You have no idea,” Jada said. “To be in danger of—”

“I do, Jada. I really do.”

“Oh, Lord, it’s almost noon. I gotta go.” Jada hung up, put on her Reeboks, and checked in her purse for the car keys, the house keys, Kleenex, her lipstick, change for parking meters, money for lunch, gloves, and lip balm. She picked up the bag of things she’d packed for the children, then, armed with everything but an actual revolver in her old Coach bag, she went out to the garage and got in the car.

Clinton made her wait almost twenty minutes before he came out into the cold, ushering Shavonne and Kevon, and holding Sherrilee. For some reason Jada was unwilling to get out of the car and stand beside him, perhaps because she might do him violence if she did. Instead she leaned across the passenger seat in the front, threw open that door, and twisted to unlock and open the door behind her. She was unrolling her window an inch as Shavonne rushed into the front seat, slamming the door behind her, while Kevon scrambled into the back over the baby’s carseat.