The First Time

by Joy Fielding

  The old Jake, maybe. The Jake who was cold and distant and withholding, who valued work above family, work above everything. That Jake would have thought nothing of canceling their plans at the last minute. The old Jake wouldn’t have given a second thought to hurting her feelings or spoiling her holiday. But that Jake had checked out months ago. The Jake who’d taken his place was thoughtful and kind and sensitive, a man who listened to her and confided in her, who talked to her and laughed with her. Jake Hart had become a man Mattie could trust with her feelings, a man she could depend on to be there when she needed him. A man she could love.

  A man she thought might be capable of loving her in return.

  “This can’t be,” Mattie said, picking up the phone, using both hands to press in the numbers for Jake’s private line.

  “Mattie, what’s up?” Jake answered, without saying hello. She heard a trace of the old impatience in his voice, wondered whether she was imagining it. Probably she’d interrupted him in the middle of something important.

  “I had a disturbing phone call,” she said, deciding to plunge right in.

  “What kind of phone call? From Lisa?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Something about Kim? A crank? What?”

  “It was from Ruth Kertzer.”

  There was silence.

  “Ruth Kertzer from Tony Graham’s office,” Mattie clarified, although his continuing silence made it clear he knew exactly who she was. The silence was so heavy Mattie felt she could hold it in her hands.

  “What did she want?” he asked finally.

  “She wanted to clear a few dates with me.”

  “Dates? For what?”

  He sounded genuinely confused. Was it possible he didn’t know after all? That the whole thing was indeed a misunderstanding? That Ruth Kertzer had gotten her dates, or her lawyers, confused?

  “Apparently, there’s some big convention coming to town in April,” Mattie began, preparing to laugh with her husband over the secretary’s incompetence. But even as she spoke the words, Mattie could feel the color draining from her husband’s face, and she knew Ruth Kertzer had confused neither her lawyers nor her dates. “I understand we’re hosting one of the dinners,” she said softly, holding her breath.

  “None of that has been decided,” came the unsatisfactory response.

  “Ruth Kertzer seems to think it has. Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Jake?”

  “Look, Mattie, it’s a little complicated. Can we talk about it when I get home?”

  “She said you’re speaking at one of the seminars.”

  Silence. Then, “I’ve been approached.”

  “And you’ve accepted?”

  Jake cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t mean canceling our trip, only putting it on hold for a couple of weeks. Mattie, please, I’m already late for a meeting. Can we talk about this when I get home? I promise I’ll straighten everything out.”

  Mattie bit down hard on her bottom lip. “Sure,” she said. “We’ll talk when you get home.” She waited until the line went dead in her hands before slamming the phone against its carriage, then watched in horror as the plastic shattered and the receiver came apart, falling to the floor in jagged chunks. “Goddamn you, you miserable son of a bitch! I’m not postponing our trip. Not for a few weeks. Not even for a few days. I’m going to Paris, as scheduled, with you or without you. Do you understand?” Mattie burst into a flood of bitter, angry tears. “How can you do this?” she wailed, her breathing growing tight, emerging from her chest in a series of short, painful spasms. She gripped the counter, tried to steady herself. It’s not that you can’t breathe, she reminded herself. It’s just that your chest muscles are getting weaker, resulting in breathing that’s shallower, which leads to a shortness of breath, which results in panic. But you’re fine. You’re fine. “Stay calm,” she gasped, her eyes darting about the kitchen, bouncing frantically off the various surfaces like balls in a pinball machine.

  Mattie thought of the small bottle of morphine in the upstairs bathroom. One little five-milligram tablet was all that was necessary to remove the anxiety, control the panic, restore calm.

  Twenty tablets would be enough to stop her breathing altogether.

  What was she waiting for? Paris? That was a joke. “Who am I kidding?” she asked out loud, her breathing returning to normal, her face moist with sweat. How could she go anywhere by herself? It had all been a stupid fantasy, a game of let’s-pretend that had gone too far. Jake had no doubt gone along with the pretense because he’d assumed she’d be too weak or incapacitated by now to even think of following through. How could she have fooled herself into thinking he ever had any intention of keeping his promise? He had his own life to worry about, his girlfriend, his career, his fucking dinner parties and seminars to look forward to.

  And what did Mattie have to look forward to? A life of wheelchairs and feeding tubes and slow strangulation.

  What was she waiting for? Could she really rely on her mother to end her suffering when the time was right? Maybe the right time was right now. She’d leave a note for Kim, in case she got home before Jake, telling her she was taking a nap and instructing her not to disturb her. She wouldn’t leave a note for Jake. What was the point? The time for hesitating’s through, Mattie hummed, slowly propelling herself toward the stairs. Come on, baby, light my fire.

  Light my fire. Light my fire. Light my fire.

  Mattie was still humming when she reached her bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, still humming when she lifted the small bottle of morphine into her trembling hands. She poured herself a glass of water, emptied the contents of the bottle into her open palm, counted out twenty pills, then pushed all twenty into her mouth at once.

  “Good day, gentlemen, Ms. Fontana,” Jake said, acknowledging the three young men, their fathers, and their attorneys, gathered around the impressive oblong conference table that filled most of the large boardroom. On either side of the table sat twelve high-backed armchairs in rust-colored leather. Jake scanned the occupants of the seats on one side of the table: rapist, father, lawyer, he enumerated silently. Then again, on the other side: lawyer, father, rapist. There was a certain symmetry to that, Jake thought, noting that only the Macleans distanced themselves from the others present, the younger Maclean sitting off by himself at the far end of the long table, his father standing in front of the impressive expanse of windows overlooking Michigan Avenue. It was a beautiful day—sunny and clear. Too nice a day to waste indoors, Jake thought restlessly, wondering what the weather was like in Paris. He assumed his seat at the head of the table, motioning for Thomas Maclean to join them.

  “You’re late,” the senior Maclean stated, declining the invitation.

  “Sorry. I had a last-minute phone call. It couldn’t be helped.” Jake faked a smile. Why was he apologizing? He didn’t owe this man any explanations. He was here, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that enough? “Did I miss anything?”

  “Party doesn’t really start until you show up, Jake,” Angela Fontana said. She was an impeccably groomed woman with dark hair that was pulled into a French roll at the back of her head, and a wide mouth that seemed to stretch from one side of her narrow face to the other, even in repose. Jake estimated her as in her late forties, as was Keith Peacock, the other attorney present. Despite his surname, Keith Peacock was as bland in appearance as he was humorless in temperament, although he always seemed to be smiling. Both attorneys came from large firms and had stellar reputations. Normally Jake would have considered it interesting, even fun, to be working with them, but today he found himself more than mildly irritated by their presence. How could three of the best legal minds in the city be the mouthpieces for such callow and despicable young men?

  Jake shifted his attention from the attorneys to their clients. Mike Hansen was a good-looking boy, as tall and thin as his lawyer, although his face, unlike Keith Peacock’s, seemed frozen in a perpetual scowl. His dark brown hair was neatly trimm
ed, and he wore a shirt and tie underneath his red-and-white leather jacket. The jacket clashed with the chairs, Jake thought, eyes wandering to Neil Pilcher, who was shorter and heavier set, although he too would probably have been considered handsome under more pleasant circumstances. He sat nervously biting his nails, every so often glancing toward Eddy Maclean, who stared lazily off into space, an unlit cigarette dangling between bored fingers.

  “Put that damn thing away,” Thomas Maclean told his son, and Jake watched as the boy casually crushed the cigarette inside the palm of his hand, the tobacco filtering through his fingers and falling to the oak tabletop like dried flecks of manure.

  “This is Neil Pilcher,” Angela Fontana said, introducing Jake to her client. “And this is his father, Larry Pilcher.”

  Jake nodded at the pale man, whose eyes seemed to sag with the weight of the heavy bags pulling at them. Were the bags there before his son raped and sodomized a fifteen-year-old girl? Jake wondered, trying not to think of Kim, of how he would feel if she were ever the victim of scum like these, of how scornful she would be at his taking this case.

  “My job isn’t to do justice,” he’d told her the day she’d come to watch him in court. “My job is to play the game according to the rules.” Except there were times lately when Jake was no longer sure what the rules were.

  “Jake—” Keith Peacock was saying.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I was introducing you to Mike’s father, Lyle Hansen.”

  “Sorry,” Jake said, nodding toward the balding bulldog of a man leaning forward in his seat, muscular arms crossed one over the other. “I guess we should get started.” All eyes turned to him. Show us how brilliant you are, their eyes shouted collectively. Show us how to get three guilty, unrepentant rapists off the hook. Give us a strategy and show us the way. It doesn’t matter that the girl they raped is the same age as your daughter, or that your daughter will hate you for defending them. She’ll hate you anyway after you disappoint her mother. After you break your promise and Mattie’s heart. Hell, what difference will it make? Jake thought with a small chuckle. She hates you now.

  “Something you find amusing, counselor?” Tom Maclean demanded.

  Jake cleared his throat. “Sorry. I was just thinking about something.”

  “Care to share your thoughts?”

  “Not really, no.” Jake turned to Angela Fontana. “Angela, how do you see this case progressing?”

  “I think it’s pretty straightforward—the word of a girl with a questionable past against the word of three upstanding young men whose roots go as far back as the Mayflower. I thought you could give the opening and closing statements to the jury, I could handle the testimony of the police detectives and the doctors, Keith could cross-examine the forensic expert, and we could all take turns with the girl.”

  “Sort of like the boys did,” Jake said.

  “What did you say?” Thomas Maclean demanded.

  “Just a little jailhouse humor.” Jake watched Angela’s eyes widen with astonishment and the smile disappear abruptly from Keith Peacock’s face.

  “I’m afraid I see nothing humorous in either the remark or the situation.”

  What a pompous, self-righteous son of a bitch, Jake thought. Thomas Maclean didn’t give a shit about that poor girl. He didn’t even give a shit about his son, except insofar as how the boy’s behavior impacted on his precious reputation. No, the only person Thomas Maclean really cared about was himself. Sound like anyone you know, Jake?

  “I wondered if we could set aside a few dates,” Keith Peacock said.

  Ruth Kertzer called, Jake heard Mattie say. She wanted to clear a few dates with me.

  Dates for what?

  “I have next Monday and Wednesday afternoon free,” Angela Fontana said, checking her appointment calendar.

  “I’m not available Monday,” Lyle Hansen said.

  Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Jake? Mattie asked.

  It’s a little complicated. Can we talk about it when I get home?

  Except what was there to talk about? He’d made his decision. He couldn’t go to Paris. Not now. Not when Frank Richardson had made it perfectly clear that by going on this trip he’d be putting his partnership on the line, not to mention his entire career. He couldn’t do it. Mattie had no right to ask it of him.

  Except she hadn’t asked him. He’d volunteered, practically begged to come along. She’d agreed against her better judgment, and he’d had to work hard to win her trust. He knew how much Mattie was looking forward to the trip, how the mere mention of it kept her spirits up and her hopes high. He also knew how much she’d come to rely on him these last few months, and he understood that any postponement, however brief, would be too long. He knew if they didn’t go in April, they wouldn’t go at all, that even if Mattie agreed to a postponement, she’d never trust him to keep his word again, that he would never trust himself. Something had come up this time; something would come up again. Something always did for men who put their own interests ahead of everyone else’s. For men like Thomas Maclean. For men like Jason Hart.

  Bad boy, Jason. Bad boy, Jason. Bad boy, Jason.

  Badboyjason, badboyjason, badboyjason.

  Except things were different now. He was no longer the man his mother had programmed him to be. His priorities had changed. By pretending to be a good husband and father, he’d actually become one, and Jake was surprised to discover he liked the man he’d been pretending to be. He felt comfortable in his skin, secure in his decency. In the end, Jake realized, the face we show the outside world is often truer than the one we see in the mirror every day.

  We are who we pretend to be.

  And damn it, he’d been looking forward to accompanying Mattie to Paris. Sometime over the last few months, in the middle of all the planning and guide books, false pretense had given way to genuine enthusiasm. So was he really preparing to abandon his plans, abandon all he’d become, for the dubious pleasure of being made partner in some stuffy downtown law firm? Was he really planning on skipping Paris so he could attend some mind-numbing legal convention in Chicago? Was he willing to lose the respect of his wife and daughter so that he could win an undeserved acquittal in court? Was he willing to risk losing everything, including himself?

  “Jake—?” Angela Fontana was regarding him expectantly. Obviously, she’d asked for his opinion. Clearly, she was waiting for a response.

  “I’m sorry,” Jake said again. How many times had he said that since walking in the room?

  “Are we boring you?” Eddy Maclean asked.

  Jake looked from Eddy Maclean to his father, to the other boys, to their fathers, to their respective lawyers, then back to Eddy Maclean. “As a matter of fact, you are,” Jake said, rising from his chair and heading for the door.

  “What?” he heard Keith Peacock gasp above the shocked laughter of Angela Fontana.

  “What the devil is going on here?” Thomas Maclean demanded, racing around the desk to confront Jake at the door. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m going to Paris,” Jake said, opening the door and stepping out into the corridor. “And you, sir,” he said with a smile, “can take that miserable kid of yours and go to hell.”

  “Mattie?” Jake called from the front hall. “Mattie? Mattie, where are you? Mattie!”

  Mattie heard the voice as if it were part of a dream. She tried to block it out, to will the voice away. She’d been sleeping so peacefully. She didn’t want to be disturbed by dreams, by reminders, by ghosts and false images. Go away, she muttered to herself, a slight murmur the only sound escaping her lips.

  “Mattie,” she heard again, as the bedroom door opened. “Mattie?”

  Mattie pictured herself standing over her bathroom sink, sprinkling twenty deadly tablets into the palm of her hand, like so much salt. She peeked through half-closed eyes, saw Jake’s handsome face looming above her. “Jake? What are you doing home so early?”

  �
�I’m through for the day.” He laughed. “Actually, there’s a good chance I’m through for good.” He laughed again, a short manic burst of sound.

  She tasted the bitter pills that had crowded against the sides of her mouth, spilling across her tongue, ferreting beneath it, as she’d raised the glass of water to her lips. “Jake, are you all right?” Mattie forced herself into a sitting position.

  “Never better,” came the immediate response. He leaned over, kissed her gently on the forehead.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, let me see. About an hour ago I told a client to stuff it, told Jan Stephens I wouldn’t be able to serve on the Associate Development Committee after all, and informed Ruth Kertzer I wouldn’t be speaking at any seminars or hosting any dinner parties because I was going to Paris with my wife.”

  Mattie was momentarily speechless. She saw herself standing in the bathroom with her mouth full of pills. Jake wouldn’t let her down, she’d told the frightened face in the mirror. He wouldn’t disappoint her. And even if he did, she’d realized in that moment, her shoulders stiffening in quiet resolve, she wasn’t going to lie down and die. At least not yet. Mattie watched her image spit the pills into the sink, following their path as they snaked their way across the porcelain basin and disappeared down the drain. “What will they do about the seminar, the dinner party?” she asked. “Can they get someone else?”

  “There’s always someone else, Mattie.”

  “No one like you,” Mattie whispered, touching his cheek.

  He took her in his arms, leaned back against the headboard, closed his eyes. “Tell me about Paris,” he said.

  Mattie snuggled in against her husband’s side. “Well, did you know that most Parisians are great animal lovers?” she asked, as Jake began kissing away the happy tears that were falling freely down her cheeks. “That they allow dogs and cats into their restaurants, sometimes even giving them seats at the table? Can you imagine sitting next to a cat in a fancy restaurant?” She laughed and cried simultaneously, the words colliding with her tears. “But much as they love animals, they aren’t so crazy about tourists, especially ones who can’t speak French. Which isn’t going to stop us from doing all the touristy things,” she stressed. “I want to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. I want to walk the streets of Pigalle, take a boat ride on the Seine, all that stuff, Jake. And the Louvre and the Quai d’Orsay. And the Luxembourg Gardens. And Notre Dame and Napoleon’s Tomb. I want to see it all.” Mattie pulled away, enough so that she could look directly into her husband’s eyes. “And I was so scared before, when you said you couldn’t go, because I realized that, as much as I wanted to see Paris, I didn’t want to see it without you.” She paused, wondering if she’d said too much, unable to stop herself from saying more. “I couldn’t imagine seeing it without you.”