The First Time

by Joy Fielding

  It was just a matter of time before a wheelchair was exactly where she’d be. And then what? Professional caregivers were expensive. She’d only be able to afford one for so long. And the next step? A chronic care facility? A state hospital? A place where she could be abandoned and ultimately forgotten. No one wanted to be around a woman whose every gasp was a reminder of their own mortality. At least Jake had been willing to stick around. What difference did his motives make? Who was she to be so proud, so foolish?

  “Could you do that, Jake?” Mattie asked, her voice small but surprisingly stubborn. “Could you pretend to love me?”

  Jake stared at Mattie for what felt like an eternity, his normally expressive face impossible to decipher. He rose slowly to his feet and walked across the room, stopping just in front of her, extending his hand for her to take. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

  They didn’t make love.

  There’d been enough sex for one night, they both agreed.

  Mattie took off her robe, letting it fall to the floor, and climbed into bed as Jake walked to the window.

  “Please leave it closed,” Mattie said. “It’s so cold out there.”

  Jake hesitated, standing in front of the window for several seconds, as if paralyzed, his body swaying precariously.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Jake shook his head. Then he pushed himself away from the window and quickly stripped to his boxer shorts before climbing into bed beside her. Mattie felt the mattress sink beneath his unexpected weight. She watched him fall back against his pillow, his eyes open wide, staring blankly at the ceiling.

  He’s trying to figure out what he’s doing here, Mattie thought, watching him. He’s trying to understand how he ended up back in the middle of this mess, this mess he thought he was finally clear of, the mess he’s right back in the thick of, and he doesn’t understand what happened. Would it help you to know that I don’t understand it any better than you do? Mattie wanted to ask, suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. Can you really pretend, Jake? she wondered. Can you pretend to love me?

  As if he heard her thoughts, Jake rolled over on his side to face her. He kissed her softly on the lips. “Turn over,” he said gently. “I’ll hold you.”

  At first Mattie thought the sounds were part of her dream. She was being chased through the streets of Evanston by a young black man, his long serpent’s tongue stretching toward her, threatening to ensnare her. She struggled to outrun him, her breathing increasingly labored and painful, as loud as her footsteps on the hard pavement. “No!” she gasped, through lips that didn’t move. “No!”

  A crowd suddenly gathered, and Mattie realized she was naked. The black man chasing her was naked as well, his long muscular legs gaining on her, his hands reaching out to slap at her sides. She felt his fist connect with her back, knocking the wind right out of her. Mattie stumbled, fell forward. “Watch out for the gas main,” a bystander warned. “Watch out for the gas.”

  “No!” an onlooker shouted, slapping at her arm. “No!”

  Mattie forced her eyes open, suddenly aware of Jake moaning beside her. It took her a minute to realize what was happening, that Jake was beside her in bed, that their dreams were interlapping, that she’d incorporated parts of his nightmare into her own. “No gas,” he was saying over and over again, his arms flailing about in growing panic, so that Mattie had to jump back to avoid another blow. “No. No gas. Don’t. Don’t.”

  “Jake,” Mattie said gently, touching his shoulder, feeling him cold and clammy beneath her fingertips. “Jake, wake up. It’s all right.”

  Jake opened his eyes, stared at Mattie with no sign of recognition.

  “You were having a nightmare,” she explained, watching his face absorb the reality of his surroundings. He actually looks glad to be here, Mattie thought, smiling at her husband through the darkness. “It sounded like you were trying to stop someone from turning on the gas. Do you remember?”

  Jake nodded. “My mother,” he said simply, sitting up in bed, pushing his dark hair away from his forehead.

  “Your mother?”

  He looked toward the window. Mattie waited for him to brush her concern aside as perfunctorily as he had his hair, the way he usually did, to tell her to go back to sleep, that it was nothing. “When I was little,” he said instead, surprising her, “my mother would get drunk and threaten to turn on the gas oven so that we’d all die in our sleep.”

  “My God.”

  “It was a long time ago. You’d think I’d be over it by now.” He tried to laugh, but the laugh died in his throat. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  Mattie reached over to wipe the sweat from Jake’s forehead with the palm of her hand. There was so much about her husband she didn’t know, so much he’d never told her. “Is that why—” she began, then stopped, so many things suddenly clear. Slowly Mattie edged away from Jake’s side, climbing out of bed and walking to the bedroom window. In one sweeping motion, she brushed aside the heavy ivory curtains, and pushed open the window. The cold night air leaped into the room, like a hungry cat. Wordlessly, Mattie returned to the bed and crawled in beside her husband. “Turn over,” she whispered. “I’ll hold you.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  So, what did you think of the article in Chicago magazine?”

  Jake glanced briefly at the magazine on his desk, then back to the beautiful young woman sitting across from him. Her name was Alana Isbister—“Wasbister,” she joked when they were introduced. “I’m divorced.” Definitely a come-on, Jake recognized, smiling as he motioned for the reporter from Now magazine to sit down in one of two dark blue chairs in front of his desk. A year ago he would have come back with something equally witty and seductive, a casual throwaway line that would have literally charmed the pants right off her. Even six months ago, at the height of his relationship with Honey, he would have been tempted to respond. Today he didn’t have the energy, the strength, or even the desire to pursue anything more complicated than the preliminary interview she’d requested, so he simply smiled and answered her question.

  “I thought the article was highly complimentary,” Jake said.

  “The picture doesn’t do you justice.” Alana Isbister’s full coffee-colored lips settled into a provocative pout.

  Jake pushed the magazine out of his line of vision. He’d never been comfortable with photographs of himself. They were such a lie. Every time he looked at one, like this one of him all decked out in lawyerly gray flannel for the cover of Chicago magazine, every hair in place, including the few artfully arranged strays that spilled across his forehead, his engaging smile a careful study in modest confidence, the blue of his eyes highlighted by the blue of his tie, he felt a rush of utter and pure revulsion. “Jake Hart, the Great Defender,” the bold headline proclaimed. “The Great Pretender” was more like it.

  “Your editor said you had a different sort of piece in mind,” Jake prompted, sneaking a peek at the small digital clock on his large oak desk. Two-fifteen already. In less than an hour he was supposed to pick up Kim at school and drive her to her appointment with her therapist. Then he had to pick up Mattie at home, the two of them returning to get Kim at the end of her session, and then all of them were heading over to see Mattie’s mother, a visit Jake was dreading almost as much as Mattie. He knew the visit would upset her, and when Mattie was upset, her condition seemed to worsen. She’d need his support more than ever, and he needed some time alone to prepare for what would undoubtedly prove to be a very difficult afternoon. The last thing he needed to be doing was wasting precious time talking to a reporter from some silly avant-garde magazine, no matter how popular a magazine it might be or how beautiful the reporter in question unquestionably was.

  Jake had only agreed to a preliminary meeting with the woman from Now because the powers-that-be at the firm, the same powers who were considering him for a full partnership, had strongly indicated their desire that he continue to cooperate with the press. Money couldn’t buy this kind o
f publicity, they told him. It doesn’t matter what they say about you as long as they get the name of the firm right.

  “We think our readers would like to get to know you more personally,” Alana Isbister was saying, smoothing her long straight brown hair behind one ear, blinking mascara-kissed eyes. “So much has been written about Jake Hart, the attorney—congratulations, by the way, on winning the Butler case—but almost nothing has been written about Jake Hart, the man.”

  “Ms. Isbister—”

  “Wasbister.” She laughed, held up her empty ring finger.

  “Wasbister,” he repeated.

  “Why don’t we just make that Alana?”

  Jake nodded. Had flirting always been this exhausting? Maybe he just needed a good night’s sleep. In the six weeks since he’d moved back into Mattie’s bed, he’d rarely slept through the night without interruption. Mattie was always twitching or coughing, jumping up in bed gasping for air, occasionally falling down on her way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. He’d wake up and hold her, assure her he was up anyway. They’d talk for a few minutes, try to get comfortable again. At first, it had been difficult, pretending to be alert, pretending to be interested, pretending not to resent lying awake in the middle of the night for hours on end. But soon he’d found himself telling her about his day, discussing his growing frustration with office politics, occasionally regaling her with tales of former courtroom exploits. Occasionally some problem at work would disturb his sleep, and he’d find himself lying there, hoping Mattie would wake up so they could discuss it. Sometimes, when neither one of them could fall back to sleep, they’d end up making love. Afterward, he’d wonder about the other man she’d been involved with, whether she thought about him at all, whether she’d be with him if things were different. Was that the kind of personal information Now magazine had in mind? “I’m really not that interesting outside the courtroom,” Jake demurred. “It’s my caseload that’s fascinating, not me.”

  Alana Isbister cast a skeptical eye around the room. “Somehow I tend to doubt that. Any man who would hang a painting of a baked potato on the wall behind his desk is a man to be reckoned with.”

  “My wife chose all the art in this room.” Jake was surprised to note the trace of pride in his voice.

  “You’ve been married for how long?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  You married me because I was pregnant, he heard Mattie interrupt. You’ve served your time. You’re paroled for good behavior. You don’t have to be here anymore.

  “Amazing,” Alana Isbister said, fiddling with the small tape recorder in her lap. “You don’t mind if I put this on, do you?”

  Jake shrugged, tapped the top of the charcoal gray phone on his desk. He’d promised to call Honey before three o’clock.

  I don’t need a babysitter, Mattie continued, unprompted. What I need is to be with someone who loves me. What I don’t need is to be with someone who loves someone else.

  He knew Honey was trying to be understanding about his decision not to see her for the next couple of months, but she was finding their enforced separation difficult. As was he, he assured her, although he certainly didn’t miss those damn cats.

  If you can’t at least pretend to love me, then I don’t want you here, Mattie insisted. Could you do that, Jake? Could you pretend to love me?

  He hadn’t answered her. Instead he’d pushed his fears and doubts aside and silently accompanied Mattie up the stairs to their bedroom, allowing instinct to prevail over reason, refusing to think on it further. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?” Jake asked, watching Alana Isbister cross and uncross long shapely legs beneath her short black skirt.

  “I was asking if there were any more at home like you.”

  It took Jake a few seconds to understand the question. “My older brother is dead,” he replied flatly. What did his family history have to do with anything? This was even more intrusive than questions about his marriage. If this was what she’d meant by getting to know him more personally, he wanted no part of it. “I haven’t seen my younger brother in almost twenty years.”

  Alana Isbister hunched forward in her chair, displaying a formidable cleavage. “Now, you see, that’s very fascinating. Tell me more.”

  “Nothing to tell.” Jake tried his best not to look as uncomfortable as he was beginning to feel. As long as they get the name of the firm right, he reminded himself. “My older brother died in a boating accident when he was eighteen. My younger brother and I simply lost touch after I left home.”

  “And how old were you when you left home?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Even more fascinating.”

  “Not really.” Jake stood up, walked to the row of bookshelves beside his desk, pretended to be looking for something in particular.

  “Where did you go after you left home?”

  “I rented a basement apartment over on Carpenter Street for a couple of years. Horrible little room, but I loved it.”

  “How did you support yourself?”

  “Worked three jobs,” Jake explained, lifting a book on criminal law and procedure from the shelf. “Delivered newspapers in the morning, worked at a hardware store after school, did telemarketing on weekends.”

  “And your parents? How did they feel about all this?”

  “You’d have to ask them,” Jake said, bristling as he walked around to the front of his desk, the collar of his pale blue shirt digging into his Adam’s apple, threatening slow strangulation. “Ms. Isbister—”

  “Alana.”

  “Ms. Isbister,” he repeated, coughing into his hand, “I don’t think this interview is going to work out.” He motioned vaguely toward the door.

  Alana Isbister was instantly on her feet, trying to balance the tape recorder in her hand while simultaneously smoothing her short skirt across her slender thighs. “I don’t understand. Did I say something to offend you?”

  “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just not very comfortable discussing my personal life.”

  “Jake…,” she said.

  “Mr. Hart,” he corrected, watching her green eyes blink with amazement. “Really, I have to insist.” He walked to the door, opened it, stood waiting.

  “You’re kicking me out?”

  “I’m sure there are any number of other lawyers in the firm you’d find equally fascinating.”

  He waited as Alana Isbister returned her tape recorder to her large black floppy purse and gathered her long green tweed coat under her arm. She walked to the door, stopped in front of him, held out her card.

  “Why don’t you think about this some more and call me if you reconsider.”

  Jake took the card from her outstretched hand. As soon as she was out of sight, he dropped it into his secretary’s wastepaper basket.

  “That interview was almost as short as her skirt,” his secretary observed, eyes twinkling mischievously beneath a long fringe of strawberry blond bangs.

  “No more reporters, no more interviews,” Jake said flatly, walking back into his office, about to shut the door behind him when his hand was stopped by the instantly recognizable voice of Owen Harris, one of the firm’s more senior partners.

  “Jake. Good, you’re here. Hard man to find these days. Need to talk to you a minute. Like you to meet Thomas Maclean, his son Eddy.” Owen Harris was a compact little man in every respect. He was short, trim, as precise in his diction as he was in his made-to-measure navy blue suits, a man who used only as many words as were absolutely necessary. He routinely dropped vowels, discarded verbs, and seemed to disavow conjunctions altogether. Still, he was an expert at getting his point across.

  Jake. Good, you’re here. Hard man to find these days. Hard to miss the point of that little barb. Had he really been spending that much time away from the office?

  Jake shook hands with the imposing father-and-son duo, noting the father was by far the handsomer of the two men, although his son was easily the taller. He ushered the three me
n into his office, motioned them toward the green-and-blue sofa at the end of the small room. Only Eddy Maclean sat down, one long leg carelessly crossing over the other, his head lolling back against the top of the sofa as if he were bored with the whole proceedings before they’d even begun.

  “Interesting art,” the elder Maclean said, remaining on his feet even after Jake pulled over one of the chairs from in front of his desk.

  “Jake’s the maverick in the firm,” Owen Harris stated, equal measures of regard and dismay weaving through his clipped tone.

  “Every firm needs one.” Jake forced a smile onto his face, wondering what they’d make of the Raphael Goldchain photograph now hanging on the wall of his office at home. He cast a furtive glance at his watch. Almost two-thirty. He hoped this meeting wouldn’t take long. At this rate, he doubted he’d have time to call Honey.

  “You’re familiar with Mr. Maclean’s chain of discount drugstores,” Owen Harris began.

  “Shop there all the time,” Jake said. “Is there some problem?”

  “I’ll let Tom fill you in,” Owen Harris said, already in the doorway, nodding his nearly bald head up and down. “Don’t need me.” He closed the door after him.

  Once again Jake stole a quick glance at his watch.

  “Are we keeping you from something?” Thomas Maclean asked.

  Clearly a man who didn’t miss a thing, Jake realized, resolving to be more careful. “We have time,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  The senior Mclean looked from Jake to his son, who was the picture of studied nonchalance. “Sit up straight, for God’s sake,” Thomas Maclean snarled, and the young man’s well-toned body snapped to attention, although the look on his face remained bored, disinterested. “It seems my son was involved in a rather unfortunate incident last night.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “Involving a young woman.”