Young Wives (30 page)

“But what did he witness?” Michelle asked. “What could he say he witnessed?” She could imagine a neighbor or a competitor of Frank’s making some kind of angry anonymous phone call or sending a note. She could easily imagine one of the carpenters or roofers who Frank routinely fired for incompetence turning on a dime, complaining to the state unemployment office or dropping hints to the IRS. They had been audited three times, but they’d been fine. No fines or taxes due. The thing was, Michelle knew that people like that didn’t convince a judge and grand jury that a man should be put up for trial. “Who’s the witness?” she asked.

“It’s my understanding it’s a sealed indictment,” Bruzeman said.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

Bruzeman raised his brows. He didn’t even look at her, but directed himself to Frank. “Frank, we have a lot to cover and I don’t think it’s time for a legal lesson for your wife right now. I have word that this is going to break to the press this morning, so…”

“This morning?” Frank asked. He looked at his watch. “We only have two more hours before it’s not this morning any more.”

“My point exactly,” Bruzeman agreed. He finally turned to Michelle. “
You’re
not in any jeopardy,” he told her, as if that were the only reason she’d asked. “Apparently the informant retracted any accusations against you, or whatever he said didn’t hold. So you’re completely out of this.” He smiled. “That means you’ll be able to testify on Frank’s behalf. We’ll prepare you for that. But right now I just wanted to prepare you for the indictment that’s about to be handed down. Frank and I will do what we have to here.”

Michelle realized she was being dismissed. The man’s arrogance was unbelievable. She felt sorry for his wife, if he had one. Jesus, she felt sorry for his dog.

“Here’s my point,” Bruzeman was saying. “If you’re approached by anyone, just give no interviews. Your only statement is that your husband is innocent of all charges and that you and the children stand behind him as a good father, a good husband, and an innocent man.” He got up and handed her a typed sheet that said those things, as if she needed them written down. She looked over at Frank. He was white, as pale as she had ever seen him. Michelle felt more questions bubbling up, as if her throat were filling with foam, but she rose as Bruzeman had.

“You want me to go now, Frank?” she asked her husband. Frank nodded and didn’t move from his chair. Michelle let go of the arm of her life raft and stepped away, out into the waves.

Driving to work she had a little bit of time to think about the children. If it got bad again, if there was newspaper coverage and a lot of talk, maybe she’d have to think about different schools for both of them. But where? There were a few private schools nearby, but they were expensive, and anyway, what good would that do Jenna? The children there would probably be more, not less, aware of gossip, and she’d be a new girl as well as visible because of her father’s upcoming trial. Jenna liked her current school and her classmates…well, as much as any twelve-year-old could.

Private school wouldn’t help. Kids there were even hipper, and more cruel. Plus, they’d moved here for the good public schools. And they didn’t have money now for tuition, along with all these extra expenses.

Michelle changed lanes, getting ready to take her right at the bank exit, and wondered how bad it would be for Jenna and Frankie if she just left them where they were. It wouldn’t be easy, she knew, not if the trial got the kind of publicity that Bruzeman predicted. Perhaps…The thought came to her mind, but Michelle pushed it away. Then it made its way back.

Boarding school. A really good boarding school might be the best choice for Jenna. It would separate her from the local media circus that might evolve, and have other benefits as well: a better sports program—she was really into soccer and the swim team—and more focus on academics. It would probably help get her into a better college, too. Of course, the idea of getting along without her daughter, or breaking up their home so early, was heartbreaking to Michelle. But boarding school might be a good choice for Jenna now. That still left Frankie, and she couldn’t let him go.

Michelle almost missed the turn into the parking lot of the bank, which was already busy. All the employee spots were, of course, filled. It had begun to rain, a cold misty dampness, and Michelle had to park in the farthest corner from the bank entrance and walk across the already puddled tarmac without an umbrella or boots. Her hair and her neck were wet by the time she reached the bank door.

Thank God she didn’t have to greet anybody—there were too many customers and everyone was busy. That was a small relief. So she just crossed the lobby and ducked into the employees’ break room, where she hung up her coat, grabbed a cup of coffee, and tried to do something about her miserable wet mop of hair. There wasn’t much she could do, but she put a barrette in it and decided to let it go for the day—along with everything else.

She’d have to take it easy, she told herself. Nothing was perfect, and nothing in
her
life was going to be perfect, or even acceptable, for quite a long time. She took one more sip of the coffee to fortify herself. She’d have to face whatever came.

It was eleven-forty when Michelle slipped into the alcove where her desk waited for her. Despite Jada’s warnings, she didn’t seem to have been missed. She figured she wouldn’t take a lunch break and make up for some of the time. She sorted through the phone message slips on her desk, had time to review one application, and then looked up to see a red-headed, bearded man in a windbreaker standing at her desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like to take out a loan.”

Michelle nodded. “You’ve come to the right place.”

“Yeah? I tried earlier but you weren’t here,” the bearded guy told her.

“Have you filled in any forms? Do you have an application?” Michelle asked. He shook his head. She pulled out several packets. “Are you talking home equity, mortgage, or personal?” she asked.

“Well, I’m not sure.” He sat down opposite her. “Maybe you could tell me the differences.” He smiled a pleasant smile—almost too pleasant. Was he flirting with her? Not likely, on this worst of bad hair days.

Michelle tried to smile back. Then the phone rang and Michelle nodded an unspoken apology to him and picked the receiver up. Jada’s voice came across the wires. Only a few dozen feet away, she sounded far away, almost ghostlike over the phone.

“Michelle. It’s hit the papers again,” Jada said without a preamble.

Michelle felt her breath leave her body. She immediately wanted one of the pills her doctor had prescribed, but couldn’t take one in front of this client, sitting before her and watching her very attentively.

“There’s been an indictment handed down. Did you know? And security tells me a news truck just pulled up outside.”

“Outside where?” Michelle asked Jada.

“Outside here. In the parking lot. And we should probably expect another few.”

“You’re kidding!” Michelle said and was more aware than ever of the red-headed man’s eyes on her.

“We can keep them out of the bank,” Jada told her, and Michelle had never been so grateful for the plural, “but they’ll swarm on you when you leave. Did you park, out in the back?”

“No. It was full,” Michelle said. Her client was leaning forward on his elbows, reading her memos upside down. She turned the papers over firmly.

“Well, you can take my car and I’ll take yours,” Jada suggested.

“You mean leave now?” Michelle asked. She looked over at Jada through the glass of her office.

“Better sooner than later,” Jada suggested. “You might get home before they get you.”

“They’ll be at my house by now, too,” Michelle said, and tried not to panic. “I’m going to have to face them eventually.”

“Yeah, but tomorrow there might be someone else in a lot bigger trouble. They can torture them instead of you.”

“I’ll be all right,” Michelle said, though she didn’t think she would be. Then she saw Mr. Marcus’s big shoulders and bald head moving among clients across the floor. “Marcus is here,” she whispered.

“Oh shit. He’s seen the reporters then. This isn’t good,” Jada said, and hung up.

Michelle kept the phone to her ear another ten seconds or so just to pull herself together. Then she smiled, said good-bye to the dial tone, and looked across her desk at the red-headed client. He had been scribbling on one of the forms she’d given him, but she had a feeling that he’d also been listening. Of course, she was paranoid and she knew it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Now, how can I help you?”

“My name’s Howard Mindel. You’re Michelle Russo?”

Since her name was on the little slide thing on the front of her desk, he didn’t have to be genius to figure that out. She smiled and nodded. He extended his hand and she shook it. “So what kind of loan, and approximately how much do you think you’re looking for?” she inquired, though what she was really thinking about was breathing—getting air in, getting air out.

“Have you worked here long?” Mr. Mindel asked. Michelle’s smile got stiffer. Was he trying to chat her up, or was he now questioning her abilities? She didn’t need a complaint to Marcus, now of all times.

“I’m sorry about the interruption,” she said. “I’ve been a loan officer for three years,” she said.

“Do you like it?” Mr. Mindel asked. Michelle narrowed her eyes. There was something off-balance about this guy, but he didn’t seem mentally disturbed or challenged. And this wasn’t a pick-up attempt, either.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

He leaned forward, way too far across the desk. “Give me an exclusive interview, Michelle. The rest of the press is going to cream you. You give me an interview and we’ll have it on page two and three of
The Sentinel
. If you make it an exclusive, I’ll give it the best slant I can.”

It took a moment for Michelle to react, to realize what was going on. That he was just the advance guard of journalists about to crucify her and her family. It took another moment for her to realize that her desk trapped her in the alcove, since he had pulled his chair to the side where she slid in and out. “You’re a reporter?” she asked, her voice low and breathless. She had to get some air.

“I’m Howard Mindel,” he repeated, as if that meant something to her. Maybe she had read his byline, but she couldn’t remember. She stood up, and in two big steps was past the desk by pushing hard against his chair. So hard he had to grab the desk corner not to topple over, but she was past him and already walking to the employee lounge.

But as she crossed the floor and got to Anne, the door to Jada’s office opened and Mr. Marcus stuck his bald head out. “Mrs. Russo?” he asked. “Would you step in here for a moment?”

Michelle could see Jada’s stricken face over Marcus’s big shoulder. And so she walked with as much dignity as she could, into Jada’s office, trying to get enough air into her lungs so she wouldn’t pass out.

“Sit down,” Jada said.

“Is that necessary?” Mr. Marcus asked.

“Yes,” Jada snapped at him. “And as you leave, would you close the door?”

Michelle, feeling sick to her stomach, still almost smiled, imagining his look of surprise. Jada was pushing him, but Michelle could see now Jada herself had been pushed. Her face looked gray. The door closed behind Michelle. She tried to take a deep breath.

“Look,” Jada began, “he wants you out, but I’ve pointed out to him we have no grounds. And if you make a fuss, threaten a lawyer, I’ll just back off and tell him—”

She was a good, good friend. Michelle had never thought too much about her job here, but realized now how much she’d miss it. “Forget it, Jada. I know this is B.O., not your choice,” she said. “I’m resigning.”

“Mich, you don’t have to—”

“It will make it easier for both of us,” Michelle said. “God knows we have enough on our plates. And you need this job. Don’t get Marcus really pissed.”

“He’s…expletive deleted.”

“Yeah, well, I’m deleted, too, as of now,” Michelle said.

Dealing with a social failure with the social worker

As Jada drove past Michelle’s house, she caught herself averting her eyes. She made herself pray for forgiveness. She couldn’t have prevented Michelle’s firing for long—Marcus and the board were adamant, and the newspaper and television coverage since then had been brutal—but she had accepted Michelle’s resignation with relief. She was going to continue being a loyal friend as long as Michelle would have her friendship. The irony that Michelle had gotten Jada her first job at the bank, and that then she had been asked to fire Michelle wasn’t lost on her. She sighed.

No good deed goes unpunished, she thought. Michelle was too good a person to resent her for what had happened, but if she did later, Jada wouldn’t blame her. Jada knew her own guilt was probably the more likely way to end the relationship. Her mother often said, “Just feel a pinch of guilt and add an ounce of procrastination and you got a recipe for failure.” Jada would
not
avert her eyes from Michelle’s house. She was calling Michelle twice a day and was making sure that they took their walk, despite some of the still unspoken awkwardness between them.

Jada had, of course, read the papers and seen the stuff on the news. The point was, even though Frank had only been indicted, the papers—and everyone else—were treating him as if he were guilty. Jada remembered that security guard who’d found a bomb at the Atlanta Olympics. When the police turned the hero into a suspect, his life had been ruined. But he’d been innocent. The nation owed him an apology.

And if there was one thing Jada was sure of, it was that Michelle was totally innocent. She couldn’t be sure about Frank, God forgive her, but if he’d been up to anything, Michelle certainly didn’t know. She shouldn’t have resigned. She’d done it to take the heat off Jada. It made Jada grateful, and she wondered again if the bank could legally fire Michelle because her husband was charged with a crime.

Jada pulled into her driveway and was annoyed to see that a car was already parked there. Damn it! That meant that the court-appointed social worker was already waiting. Jada looked at her watch. It wasn’t four o’clock yet, so she wasn’t late, but even the set of the shoulders of the woman inside the car seemed already affronted. Jada didn’t even have time to smooth her skirt or check out her lipstick, so she just threw open the Volvo’s door and stepped out to meet this woman. She hoped she wasn’t dealing with a bigot.