"The shop must keep you busy."
"It does, but I love it. And I'm Jessica Clarke, by the way. I just realized that I haven't introduced myself. I'm sorry." They exchanged another smile, and the evening breeze rustled through Astrid Bonner's freshly done hair. "Would you like me to put the top up?"
"Of course not." She laughed suddenly and looked at Jessie. "I'm not that old and stuffy, for God's sake. And I must say, I envy you that shop. I used to work on a magazine in New York. That was ten years ago, and I still miss fashion, in any form."
"We came out from New York too. Six years ago. What brought you here?"
"My husband. Well, no actually it was a business trip. Then I met my husband out here--and never went back." She looked pleased at the memory.
"Never? Are they still expecting you back?" The two women laughed in the soft twilight.
"No, I returned for all of three weeks. Gave them notice and that was that. I was the career-woman sort, never going to marry, all of that ... and then I met Tom. And bingo, end of the career."
"Did you ever regret it?" It was an outrageously personal thing to ask, but she seemed to invite one to feel at ease with her. And Jessie did.
"No. Never. Tom changed everything." Jessica found herself wanting to say "how awful" and then wondering why. After all, Ian had changed things for her too, but not like that; he hadn't cost her a career, hadn't forced her to leave New York. She had wanted to move to San Francisco, but she couldn't conceive of giving up Lady J.
"No, I never regretted it for a moment. Tom was a remarkable man. He died last year."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Do you have children?"
Astrid laughed and shook her head. "No, Tom was fifty-eight when I married him. We had a splendid ten years--alone. It was like a honeymoon." Jessie was reminded of her life with Ian, and smiled.
"We feel sort of the same way. Children might interfere with so much."
"Not if that's what you want. But we both thought we were too old. I was thirty-two when I married him, and I just wasn't the motherly type. We never regretted it. Except that life is awfully quiet now."
So Astrid was forty-two. Jessie was surprised.
"Why don't you take a job?" she said.
"What could I possibly get a job doing? I worked for Vogue, but there's nothing like that out here. And even Vogue wouldn't want me anymore, not after ten years. You get rusty, and I've gotten about as rusty as you can get. And besides, I have no intention of moving back to New York. Ever.
"Get something in a field related to fashion."
"Like what?"
"A boutique."
"Which brings us back to where we started, my dear. I'm green with envy over yours."
"Don't be too envious. It has its problems."
"And its rewards, I'll bet. Do you go back to New York often?"
"I came back two days ago." And yesterday my husband got arrested for rape. It was on the tip of her tongue to say it, but Astrid would have been horrified. Anyone would have been. She sighed deeply, forgeting for a moment that she was not alone.
"Was the trip as bad as all that?" Astrid asked, smiling.
"What trip?"
"The trip to New York. You said you just got back from New York two days ago, and then you sighed as though your best friend had died."
"I'm sorry. It's been a long day." She tried to smile, but suddenly everything felt heavy again; the nightmare had rushed back to overwhelm her. There was a moment's pause, and then Astrid looked at her over the brown boxes on her lap.
"Is anything wrong?" It was a deep, searching look, and hard to meet it with a lie.
"Nothing that won't be smoothed out soon."
"Anything I can do to help?" What a nice woman, they were total strangers and she was asking Jessie about her problems. Jessie smiled and slowed at the corner.
"No, everything's okay really. And you already did help. You finished my day with a nice dollop of sunshine. Now, which house is it?"
Astrid smiled and pointed. "That one. And you were an angel to drive me home."
It was a somber brick mansion with black shutters and white trim and politely carved hedges around it. Jessie wanted to whistle. She and Ian had noticed the house often and had wondered who lived there. They had suspected the owners traveled a lot, because the house often looked closed.
"Mrs. Bonner, I'd like to return the compliment on the house. We've envied you this one for years."
"I'm flattered. And call me Astrid. But your house looks like so much more fun, Jessica. This one is awfully ... well ..." She giggled. "Grown-up, I suppose is the right word. Tom already had it when we married, and he had some beautiful things. You'll have to come over for coffee sometime. Or a drink."
"I'd love it."
"Then how about right now?"
"I ... I'd love to, but to tell you the truth, I'm just beat. It's been a very hectic couple of days since I got back, and I ran myself ragged for three weeks in New York. Would a rain check be possible?"
"With pleasure. Thanks again for the ride." She let herself out of the car, and waved as she climbed the steps to her house. Jessie waved back. That was some house! And she was pleased with having met Astrid Bonner. A delightful woman.
Jessica drove into her own driveway, thinking of Astrid and what she had said. It sounded as though she had given up a lot for her husband. And she looked happy about it.
Jessie walked into the dark house, kicked off her shoes, and sat down on the couch without turning on the lights. She was reviewing the day. It had been unbelievable. Everything from the meeting with Martin Schwartz, to emptying her savings into his pockets, to seeing Ian in jail, to the civilized exchanges with Astrid Bonner ... when would life become real again?
She thought about making herself a drink, but she couldn't get up the energy to move. Her mind raced, but her body had turned to stone. The machinery just wouldn't move anymore. But her mind ... her mind ... she kept thinking about the visit to Ian. She was home again now. Alone, where he had always waited for her at night. The house was so unbearably quiet ... the way Jake's apartment had been when she'd gone back to it ... after he died ... why did she keep thinking of Jake now? Why did she keep comparing him to Ian? Ian wasn't dead. And he would be home tomorrow--wouldn't he? He would. But what if ... she just couldn't stop. The doorbell rang and she didn't even hear it until finally the insistent buzzer yanked her attention off the merry-go-round of her thoughts. It required her last ounce of energy to get up and answer the door.
She stood in her stocking feet in the darkness of the front hall and spoke through the door. She was too tired even to try to guess who it was.
"Who is it?" Her voice barely penetrated through to the opposite side. But he heard her. He looked over his shoulder at his companion and nodded. The second man walked slowly back toward the green car.
"Police."
Jessie's heart flew into trip-hammer action at the sound of the word, and she leaned trembling against the wall. Now what?
"Yes?"
"It's Inspector Houghton. I want to speak to Mrs. Clarke." But he already knew it was she. And on the other side of the door, Jessica was tempted to tell him that Mrs. Clarke was not at home. But her car was plainly visible out front, and he'd just hang around waiting. There was no escaping them anymore. They owned her life, and Ian's.
Jessie slowly unlocked the door and stood silently in the dark hall. Even without shoes, she stood about an inch taller than the inspector. Their eyes held for a long moment. All the hatred she could not feel for Ian's betrayal she lavished on Inspector Houghton. He was easy to hate.
"Good evening. May I come in?" Jessie stood to one side, flicked on the lights, and then preceded him into the living room. She stood in the center of the room, facing him, and did not invite him to sit down.
"Well, Inspector? What now?" Her tone hid nothing.
"I thought we could have a little chat."
"Oh? Is that usual?" she was frightened, but she was even
more afraid to show it. What if he wanted to rape her? A real rape this time. What if ... oh God ... where was Ian?
"This is perfectly usual, Mrs. Clarke."
They seemed to circle each other with their eyes, enemies from birth. A python and his prey. She didn't like her role. She feared him, but would not show it. He found her beautiful, but he didn't let that show either. He hated Ian for a number of reasons. That showed.
"Mind if I sit down?" Yes. Very much.
"Not at all She waved him to the couch and sat down in her usual chair.
"Lovely house you have, Mrs. Clarke. Have you lived here long?" He glanced around, seeming to take in all the details, while she fantasized about telling him to go fuck himself and scratching his eyes out. But now she knew that wasn't real. You might hate cops, but you didn't let your hostilities show. She was innocent, Ian was innocent, but she was terrified.
"Inspector, is this a formal interrogation or a social call? Our attorney told me today that I don't have to speak to anyone unless he's present." She was watching the brown double-knit leg and the maroon sock, wondering if he was going to try to rape her. He was wearing a shiny mustard-colored tie. She was beginning to feel nauseated, and suddenly panicked, wondering if she had taken the pill that morning. And then suddenly she looked at him and knew she'd kill him if he tried. She'd have to.
"No, you don't have to speak to anyone unless your attorney is present, Mrs. Clarke, but I have a few questions, and I thought it would be more pleasant for you to answer them here." Big favor.
"I think I'd rather answer them in court." But they both knew she didn't have to answer anything in court. She was the defendant's wife. Legally, she didn't have to testify.
"Suit yourself." He stood up to leave and then stopped at the bar. "You a drinker, too?" The question infuriated her.
"No, and neither is my husband."
"Yeah, that's what I thought. He claims he was ripped when he took the victim to the hotel. I figured he was lying, though. He doesn't look like a drinker." Jessie's heart sank and her eyes filled with hatred. This sonofabitch was trying to trap her.
"Inspector, I'm asking you to leave. Now."
Houghton turned to her then and searched her eyes with a look of feigned kindness. But his own eyes returned the anger of Jessie's. His voice was barely audible as he stood a foot away from her.
"What are you doing with a weak-kneed punk like him?"
"Get out of my house!" Her voice was as low as his and her whole body was trembling.
"What'll you do when he goes to the joint? Find another gigolo sweetheart like him? Believe me, sister, don't sweat it. They're a dime a dozen."
"Get out!" The words were like two fists in his face, and he turned on his heel and walked to the door. He paused for a moment and looked back at her.
"See ya."
The door closed behind him, and for the first time in her life Jessica wanted to kill.
He was back at ten that night, with two plainclothesmen and a search warrant, to look for weapons and drugs.
This time Houghton was straight-faced and businesslike, and he avoided her eyes for the entire hour they were there, digging into closets and drawers, unfolding her underwear, dumping her handbags on the bed, pouring out soap flakes, and spreading Ian's clothes and papers all over the living room.
They found nothing, and Jessie said nothing about it to Ian. Ever. It took her four and a half hours to get everything put away, and another two hours to stop sobbing. Her fears had been justified. They had raped her. Not in the way she had feared, but in another way. Photographs of her mother lay strewn all over her desk, her birth-control pills lay dumped out in the kitchen, half of them gone, to be tested at the lab. Her whole life was spread all over the house. It was her war now too. And she was ready to fight. That night had changed everything. Now they were her enemy too, not just Ian's. And for the first time in seven years, Ian was not there to defend her. Not only that, but it was he who had put her face to face with this enemy. He had brought this down around her ears as well as his own. And she was helpless. It was Ian's fault. Now he was the enemy too.
Chapter 8
Jessica waited with Martin Schwartz in the back rows of the courtroom until after ten. The docket was heavily overscheduled, and the court was running late. The procedures Jessie watched looked very dull. Most of the charges were rattled off by number, bails were arbitrarily set, and new faces were brought in. Ian finally arrived through a door leading in from the jail, accompanied by a guard on each side.
Martin walked to the front of the room, and the charges were, mercifully, read off by number, not description. Ian was asked if he understood what he was accused of, and he answered, gravely, in the affirmative.
The bail was set at twenty-five thousand dollars. Martin asked to have it reduced and the judge pondered the question while a female assistant D.A. jumped to her feet and objected. She felt that the matter before the court warranted a heavier bail. But the judge didn't agree. He lowered it to fifteen thousand, smacked his gavel, and had another man brought in. The preliminary hearing had been set for two weeks hence.
"Now what do we do?" Jessica whispered to Martin as he came back to her seat. Ian had already left the court and was back in the jail.
"Now you scare up fifteen hundred bucks to pay to a bailbondsman, and give him something worth fifteen thousand in collateral."
"How do I do that?"
"Come on. I'll take you over myself."
But Jesus ... fifteen thousand? Now it suddenly hit her. Fifteen thousand. It was enormous. Could anything be worth that much money? Yes. Ian.
They went down to the lobby and across the street to one of a long row of neon-lit bail offices. They didn't look like nice places, and the one they walked into was no better than the rest. It reeked of cigar smoke, the ashtrays were full to overflowing, and two men were asleep on a couch, apparently waiting. A woman with teased yellow hair asked them their business and Martin explained. She called the jail and made a note of the charges while looking lengthily at Jessie. Jessie tried not to flinch.
"You'll have to put up the collateral. Do you own your own home?"
Jessie nodded, and explained the mortgage. "And I own my own business as well." She gave the woman the name and address of the boutique, the address of the house, and the name of the bank where they had their mortgage.
"What do you think your business is worth? What is it, anyway? A dress shop?" Jessie nodded, feeling degraded somehow, though she was not quite sure why. Maybe it was because the woman now knew what the charges were.
"Yes, it's a dress shop. And we have a fairly large inventory." Why did she want to impress this idiot woman? But then she knew that it was because the woman held the key to Ian's bail. Martin Schwartz was standing to one side, watching the proceedings.
"We'll have to call your bank. Come back at four o'clock."
"And then can you bail him?" Oh God, please, can you bail him? The panic was coming back in her throat again, thick and sweet and bitter, like bile.
"We'll bail him depending on what your bank says about the house and the shop," she said flatly. "Do you use the same bank for both?" Jessie nodded, looking gray. "Good. That'll save time. Bring the fifteen hundred with you when you come back. In cash."
"In cash?"
"Cash or a bank check. No personal checks."
"Thank you."
They went back to the street and Jessie took a long breath of fresh air. It felt like years since she'd had any. She breathed again and looked at Martin.
"What happens to people who don't have the money?"
"They don't bail."
"And then what?"
"They stay in custody till after the verdict."
"Even if they're innocent? They stay in jail all that time?"
"You don't know if they're innocent until after the trial."
"What the hell ever happened to 'innocent until proven guilty'?"
He shrugged and looked aw
ay, remaining silent. It had depressed him to be in the bail office. He rarely went to bailbondsmen with clients. But Ian had asked him to and he had promised. It seemed odd to treat such a tall, independent-looking woman as though she were frail and helpless. But he suspected that Ian was right: beneath the coat of armor, she hid a terrifying vulnerability. He wondered if that armor would crack before this was over. That was all they needed.
"What do poor people do about lawyers?" Jesus. He had enough headaches without playing social worker.
"They get public defenders, Jessica. And we have plenty to think about ourselves right now, without worrying about poor people, don't you think? Why don't you just get yourself to the bank and get this over with?"
"Okay. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. The system is lousy, and I know it. But it's not set up for the comfort of the poor. Just be grateful that you're not one of them right now, and let it go at that."
"That's hard to do, Martin."
He shook his head and gave her a small smile. "Are you going to the bank?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Do you want me to come with you?"
"Of course not. Is baby-sitting service always part of the deal, or did Ian strong-arm you into that?"
"I ... no ... oh, for Chrissake. Just go to the bank. And let me know when you get him out. Or before that, if there's anything I can do."
How about lending us fifteen thousand bucks, baby? She smiled, said good-bye, and walked slowly to her car. She still didn't have any idea of how she'd come up with the money. And what the hell would she tell the bank? The truth. And she'd beg them if she had to. Fifteen thousand ... it looked like the top of Mount Everest.
After six cigarettes and half an hour of agonizing conversation with the bank manager, Jessica took out a personal loan for fifteen hundred dollars against the car. And they assured her that all would be in order when the bail office called. There was a look of astonishment on the bank manager's face throughout the conversation, and he tried desperately to conceal it. Unsuccessfully. And Jessica had not even told him what the charges were, only that Ian was in jail. She prayed that the bail office wouldn't tell them the charges either, and that if they did he would keep his mouth shut. He had already sworn to her that he would see that everything remained confidential. And at least she had the fifteen hundred dollars ... she had it ... she had it! And her house and the business were worth ten times the collateral that she needed. But somehow she still didn't feel that it was enough. What if they still wouldn't let Ian out? And then she thought of it. The safe-deposit box.
Now and Forever (1978) Page 7