by Rona Jaffe
“Don’t dwell on it,” Kathryn said. “You don’t act like him, and that’s what matters. Don’t forget the cream.”
Kathryn realized that if she didn’t start looking for a lawyer for her mother on her own, the court would give her a public defender, and Kathryn was sure that meant a death sentence. You could not kill a cop and expect to get away lightly, even if you were his abused wife. Once a week she went to visit her mother in jail. Her mother was in the psychiatric ward now, and looked terrible.
“I’ll never forgive your father for not getting me a nurse when I was so sick,” her mother kept saying. “That was the worst thing he ever did to me. It was the Valium that made me shoot him. If he had gotten me a nurse, the way I wanted him to, I wouldn’t have been so sick, and I wouldn’t have needed a tranquilizer. I’ll never forgive him for the Valium. I wasn’t myself. It was just an accident. I took his gun because I was so afraid of him. I thought the safety was on. I wasn’t thinking right. It was the Valium.”
Kathryn had found out the whole story. Her mother had followed her father for eight hours, and finally had hidden in the backseat of his car, under his policeman’s heavy raincoat. She had taken the gun. She knew he was going to pick up his girlfriend, and she figured that way she would be able to find out who the woman was and where she lived. But Brendan picked up his girlfriend, Dorothy, at the coffee shop where she worked, and then he took her to the Avalon Ballroom, the scene of his long-ago romantic evenings with Sheila. Those evenings when he had been an attentive suitor seemed so long ago now that the Avalon Ballroom had no special meaning to his battered wife; it was simply one of the places one went on a date.
It had been very cold that night, and Dorothy was chilly. Brendan had told her there was a warm raincoat in the backseat and she should put it on, so she had reached back to get it and had discovered Sheila. Dorothy screamed. Brendan stopped the car with a screech of brakes. Dorothy jumped out of the car and ran away, still screaming. Brendan turned around and saw his wife. Sheila raised the gun with trembling hands and shot him, and because she was so close, she shot most of his head off, showering the inside of the car with brains and blood.
After the murder, Dorothy went into the Avalon Ballroom, where they called the police, but after that, the story became unclear. She was definitely the witness. She was probably the unidentified woman who called Kathryn to tell her that her mother was in trouble. Until the police came, Sheila apparently stayed beside the car with her husband’s body in it, in a state of shock. When the police and the ambulance came, she was so covered with blood that they thought at first she was another victim, until they saw the gun in her hand.
Sheila did not remember anything between the time of the shooting and the time she was taken to the police station, and given something else to wear because her clothes had become state’s evidence. It occurred to Kathryn that her mother’s mug shot, a staring, terrified face covered with blood, was not unlike the way her mother had sometimes looked during those long years of her marriage, but this time the blood was Brendan’s, not her own.
Fortunately Kathryn was not completely alone during this dismal time of waiting to see what her mother’s fate would be. Ted and his parents rallied around her and the two babies. They were there to help, to shop for food, to baby-sit, to be family. This was comforting since she no longer seemed to have much family of her own. Kathryn still wanted her divorce as much as ever, but she let it slide for now because everything was such a mess, and let them take care of her.
Then finally, five months after the murder, when her uncles had made up their minds what to do, or when they had decided their brother’s children had suffered enough, or when they had pulled the strings that had to be pulled—Kathryn didn’t know which and certainly wasn’t going to ask—her uncle Brian called and said he was coming over to see her.
Her three uncles arrived at the apartment together. They were handsome, dark-haired men, broad shouldered and fierce, intimidating in their policemen’s uniforms, and equally so in the civilian clothes they were wearing for their visit, and they seemed so large that their presence filled the entire living room.
“The problem of your mother is taken care of,” her uncle Brian said. “We have a lawyer for her and the trial will be a hearing in front of a judge, which is a lot easier and shorter than a jury trial. She’ll plead not guilty by reason of insanity. The judge is our man, Linwood Budgie. He’ll do what we told him to do. She’ll get some time in a mental hospital and that will be that. The trial is next month. We’ll tell you when.”
“Thank you,” Kathryn said. She breathed a sigh of relief. She had known they could fix it with just a word. The world of the powerful blue men was back in place. “Thank you so much,” she said again.
Her uncles nodded.
“How are the kids?” her uncle Patrick asked. He had always been the nicest and friendliest of her three uncles.
“Fine. They’re sleeping. How are yours?”
“Still hell-raisers,” he said proudly, and smiled.
“Mine, too,” Kathryn said.
“They take after you, then,” her uncle Michael said. “As I remember it, your mother had to send you off to boarding school to keep you under control.”
“I guess so,” Kathryn said.
“Yes, indeed, she did,” her uncle Brian said, but he looked pleased. Now they were all smiling at one another. “I guess we’ll be going now,” he said.
“Would you like a drink, or some coffee?”
“No, no. We’re off. I’ll call you.” And they were gone.
* * *
The trial was held on a gorgeous day in spring, the kind of day that makes you feel impatient and cheated to think of wasting a minute indoors, not to mention years in a mental hospital. Kathryn’s only previous experience with a murder trial had been what she saw in the movies, so she wore a demure black dress with a white collar. She thought for a moment that she looked more like the murderess than the bereaved in that outfit, because that was what the accused always wore to look like a good person, and she particularly thought so when she saw that her mother was wearing the same thing. But of course it was too late to change.
Even though she had been reassured by her uncle Brian that everything had been taken care of, Kathryn was a little nervous. Their lawyer’s name was Wilson. He looked innocuous when she had wanted someone fiery to really convince everyone that her mother was not guilty because she had no comprehension of what she had done. Kathryn wondered if he knew the trial was fixed. The prosecutor looked pompous because he probably thought he was going to win. She knew he was going to ask for the death penalty. The judge who would be on their side and save her mother, Linwood Budgie, was a jolly, little, old, white-haired man who looked, in his black robes, like an overage choirboy. Their choirboy . . .
Kathryn glanced around the courtroom. No one in the family was there except herself and her three brothers. Her father’s family had never liked her mother and now they liked her even less, and her mother’s family had been estranged from her for years. There were, however, some reporters and several rows of scandal-hungry strangers, because the murder had been given quite a run in the press. Her alcoholic father, who had only managed to stay on the force all those years because of political corruption, had been changed overnight into a hero cop. Her pathetic mother was now a cold-blooded killer. Kathryn could hardly wait for the whole thing to be over so they could disappear back into their anonymous lives which were far too dramatic to begin with.
Her father’s girlfriend, Dorothy, was there. Kathryn recognized her from her picture in the newspapers. She too was dressed in black, with a big picture hat and dark glasses, and she was sobbing. Kathryn wanted to shake her. It annoyed her that her father’s girlfriend was feeling so sorry for herself, when it was partly her fault that this had happened in the first place.
The hearing began. It took less than two h
ours. Unlike murder trials Kathryn had seen in the movies, there were no surprises, nor had she expected any. Everything had been well rehearsed, well planned. Dorothy was an important witness. Her mother, who had been tranquilized, was not allowed to testify. It was as if everyone but the prosecutor had already decided she was incompetent. She looked a little dazed. Once in a while, after her moment of glory on the stand, Dorothy continued to give a muffled sob and honked into her handkerchief. Colin was chewing his lip, and his eyes were big and round. He’d been through a lot for a kid, but at least this would be the end of it.
Behind the bench the judge was scribbling away, taking notes. He didn’t have to go away to deliberate. “I’m ready for sentencing,” he said. “Please rise.” Kathryn’s mother stood up and everybody looked at her with interest. The end was always the good part. “Sheila O’Mara,” he began. “The court finds—”
“I did it,” Sheila said. Everybody gasped. Kathryn’s heart nearly leaped out through her throat. “I killed him,” Sheila said, “and I want to die.”
My mother is going to die in the electric chair, Kathryn thought, stunned. The courtroom was in an uproar.
Judge Linwood Budgie was banging his gavel to try to get the courtroom back in order. He looked a little as if he would like to leave. Kathryn could clearly see the confusion on his face. He was supposed to pronounce her mother innocent, but the defendant herself had said she was guilty. How the hell was he going to deal with that?
The judge cleared his throat. The room had gone silent. There was a long pause, or at least it seemed long to Kathryn. “The court finds the defendant guilty,” he said, finally. “And I am putting her on probation for five years and remanding her to the custody of her daughter.”
The people in the courtroom exploded with astonished gabbling. Kathryn just sat there in shock. She couldn’t believe what had happened. Since the bewildered judge obviously hadn’t known what to do, this was what he had done. Nothing like this had ever occurred before.
She’s safe, Kathryn thought. It’s a miracle. Thank you, God, for this astonishing last-minute rescue.
But then she realized what it meant. I’m just a twenty-two-year-old kid with two babies to take care of, she thought, and now I have custody of a suicidal murderess. What am I going to do?
Chapter Twenty-three
FOR RUSSELL’S FORTY-EIGHTH BIRTHDAY Felicity cooked him a lavish dinner at home with all his favorite soul food and French wines, and invited his ten best friends. She knew he preferred it when she did everything herself instead of hiring a caterer, because it made him feel taken care of. She filled the apartment with delicately scented flowers, tiny pale roses and stephanotis, the kind of flowers that one often saw in a bridal bouquet. This was a hint, although he wouldn’t get it, and if he did he would probably be annoyed. She was having a hard time balancing her long hours at work with the attention he liked, but she enjoyed playing wife. This was as close as she was ever going to be to having the actual role, she was becoming sure of that.
Her relationship with her mother, which had its ups and downs, was fairly good at the moment. As long as she stayed away from home her mother couldn’t hit her. It was easier to hang up the phone than run away. Her mother wanted Felicity to marry Russell as much as she herself did. Carolee kept telling her never to give up, and for this birthday party she had mailed Felicity some special, secret recipes of her own for some of the food. At Carolee’s suggestion, for his birthday present Felicity had bought Russell a new, expensive video camera, so he could take movies of their next trip together. If we are together, Felicity thought. . . .
In two years he would be fifty. Wasn’t he afraid his life would pass him by? She would be thirty in two years, and she was afraid. She saw her dismal life ahead of her; waiting, waiting, waiting, no husband, no children, knowing Russell was still seeing other women because the two of them had no real commitment, putting up with it no matter how hurt and angry it made her, accepting his lies, too much in love to look for another man, and then finally dumped when she got too old. A man, she had discovered, could always find a younger woman to take care of him. A woman, no matter how intelligent and charming, still needed her looks and sex appeal. Her mother had taught her this, and even though she saw exceptions all the time, she knew it was the rule.
Russell’s friends were his age. They were all married and they brought their wives. Everybody was black; Russell didn’t really feel comfortable with white people although he dealt with them on various levels every day. Felicity looked around at the familiar faces. Some of the women were first wives, some were second, and one was the third. Some, she knew, were being cheated on. All of them were attractive, well dressed, trying. You couldn’t win, she thought.
The birthday party was a success. After it was over and everyone had left, raving and complimenting her, Felicity initiated sex with him, using all her considerable skills, and was thrilled when he responded and then took over as a way of rewarding her for having made him feel special. She knew him so well now. He knew her. They were family. She would do anything to get him, but she didn’t know what to do that she hadn’t already done, except get pregnant, and she knew that would only make him furious.
“I love you, Baby,” Russell said afterward. “Thank you for my party. It was wonderful.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I love you, too.”
“I know you do.” She sighed and put her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to Washington on business this weekend,” he said. “I’ll be at the Hay Adams. Do you want me to get you some theater tickets for Saturday night and you can take a girlfriend?”
“You mean, in New York?” she asked stupidly.
“Yes. I can’t take you with me. I have to meet some potential business partners. Investors.”
This time her sigh was not contentment but pure frustration. He gave and he took away. She gave and gave and gave. If she was his wife—or even his fiancée!—he would take her, she was sure of it. Then she would be an asset instead of just an ornament, a diversion. She would no longer be considered a trivial woman. But then she thought how generous he was to think of getting her theater tickets so she would have something fun to do, and she thought how hard it was that he never did anything to make her really angry. If she could get furious at him she might be able to get the courage to do something else with her life.
“That would be great,” she said. “I want to see a musical. I’d like to see The Tap Dance Kid.”
“No, I want to see that with you,” Russell said.
“Then how about La Cage Aux Folles?”
“Mmm,” he said doubtfully. “I wanted to see that, too.”
“Then what about My One and Only with Twiggy and Tommy Tune?” Felicity said, beginning to be annoyed. “You won’t like that.”
“I won’t?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll call my scalper first thing tomorrow.”
He telephoned her on Saturday morning as he always did when he went away for the weekend. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“It’s fine. How’s the hotel?”
“Beautiful. Baby, do you know what I forgot? That blue suit I wore at my birthday party, it needs to go to the cleaner’s. Would you take it?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you have a room overlooking the White House?” she asked.
“The what?” He sounded annoyed.
“One of the men in my office said the Hay Adams Hotel overlooks the White House. I thought maybe you’d see the President taking a walk or something.”
“Oh,” Russell said. “No, I don’t. I don’t care about my view, I’m just here to work.”
“Why are you mad at me?” Felicity asked, hurt.
“I’m not mad.”
“It seemed like it.”
“You go and have a nice day,” h
e said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Bye. . . .”
She found it hard to concentrate on the show, even though she enjoyed it and it didn’t take much brain power. Then when she got home that night after the show Felicity did something she had never done before. She wasn’t really sure why she did it, but an instinct pushed her, and she didn’t even know where that instinct had come from except that she knew Russell so well by now. She called the Hay Adams Hotel and asked to speak to him; and the operator said he was not registered there.
“Did he leave?” she asked.
“Just a moment.” There was a pause while she looked it up. “No, he was never here.”
“Are you certain?” She felt abandoned and deceived and tried not to cry. She had suspected something like this all evening while not wanting to admit it.
“Yes, there was no one by that name here. Are you sure you have the right hotel?”
“Maybe not,” Felicity said. “Thank you.” She hung up and burst into tears.
He had done it again; he was cheating. For all she knew he was right here in New York at some woman’s apartment, holed up for the weekend. Maybe he was in Boston with that white bimbo he’d said he had broken up with a few months ago. For a man who wasn’t comfortable with white people, Russell managed to make an exception when that person was female and young and pretty and stupid.
“Where are you?” she screamed, although there was no one in the lonely apartment to hear. His money and his generosity and his lies mocked her. How could he do this to her so soon after the loving birthday celebration she had gone to so much trouble to prepare for him? He had been planning to cheat while she had been planning his party.
She pulled his blue suit out of his closet and then she threw it on the floor. Was the bimbo sitting right there while Russell called her to tell her to take his suit to the cleaner as if she were the maid? Or as if she were the wife! Maybe she didn’t want to be his wife after all. Maybe she already was his wife. Felicity had left a man once for cheating and suddenly she knew she could do it again if she got pushed too far. She thought about Lincoln, her college boyfriend, and how all the warmth she had felt for him had gone cold when he hurt her. She could leave, she could. She had never loved Lincoln the way she loved Russell—she was older now, more mature, surer of what she wanted—but when Russell came back, if he didn’t have a good excuse for lying to her she would go.