by Amy Lapwing
“It doesn’t matter. I support him because he is innocent.”
“Because he’s her son, you mean.”
She could see a flicker of thought, then his eyes seemed to sink into his head as his anger burned through the fraying peace. “It is because you are jealous of her!” he growled. “That’s why you oppose him!”
“No!”
“This is so mean of you, you are so low!” He turned his back to her and pushed away the air, his hand falling to his side. “I am disgusted.”
She had never seen him so angry. She followed him fearfully, she had to see his face, see if it was as bad as it sounded.
He turned halfway to her. “I’m disgusted with you.”
She could not speak, she was terrified of him. He didn’t mean it, she told herself, he was only frustrated about the whole thing. He would apologize, any moment now. He would say he was sorry and he would hold her and kiss her.
“I’m going out,” he said and he left without looking at her. She watched him walk stiff-shouldered through the foyer and open the door and pull it to hard, as though she were not there, or no, as though he were an international star turned cynical from over-adulation and she were a pesky fan. A fact of his present circumstances that he must put up with, while he ached for his former, sweeter life.
She returned to the kitchen, her feet making scarcely any contact with the floor, as though all her cells moved upward to escape her miserable body. She gathered the asparagus spears and picked up the knife and cut them in half, her hands shaking, her eyes blurring with tears. She persevered through her task, letting the tears fall without stopping to wipe them, and started the steamer. She put the ham slice in the oven and poured water into a pot. The measuring cup tipped out of her fingers and the grains of rice spread all over the floor. She swept up the mess clumsily, her hands shook so as sobs convulsed her chest. A big part of the mess remained under the oven, out of reach.
Michael went in Teresa’s door without knocking. He said something to Derek and gave him some money and the boy left the house. As the car crunched down the gravel drive, Michael held Teresa in the kitchen. Insistent kisses. Quickly, quickly. She was receptive, compliant. He picked her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. Quickly, this first time, to get it done. She responded correctly, her moans were low, her actions were helpful, she held him tight when he had finished. He regarded her gravely: as ever, Teresa. One more time, before the boy got back. So good, so good. Grim Eros with a sputtering torch had finally poked his blunt arrow through the ambitious man’s heart. How difficult it had seemed, before he decided; how easy it was, now.
That one goes in the laundry, put this one on, the blue one with the flounced hem, nice and fresh. Sheets old and soft, need washing; tomorrow. Can’t read Queneau tonight, try some poetry, Ronsard, antique remote language, difficult-to-access feelings, lost immediacy.
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle.
He’s home.
He’s in the kitchen. He didn’t eat? T.V.’s on, he’s in the den.
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
He doesn’t want to come say hi to me.
Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.
A fresh line, once upon a time. Old, almost impotent now. But immortal. He’s coming, he’s coming up the steps. A creak at the end of the hall. He will be kind? He will be angry still? Steps. He’s going back down. The T.V. is back on, the jumpy baritone rumble.
Allez, on prend que’que-chose de plus moderne. Baudelaire. Does he scare me? He scares himself.
J’ai peur du sommeil comme on a peur d’un grand trou,
tout plein de vague horreur—
No. Vague horror. No. “L’Invitation au voyage.”
D’aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir!
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
...
Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
The country that resembles me, great and bright, the color of wheat. Or the country that resembles her? Small and dark with jungle, the garishly colored fruit deep in tangled strands. He must be waiting till I’ve gone to sleep. Turn off the light. Lie here in the dark and wait.
He was angry, he left. To blow off steam. Now he’s back. It’s okay.
He doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s never had to go away and blow off steam before. ‘¡Coño!,’ ‘¡ay, mierda!’ and railing, that’s all it’s ever taken before.
‘You disgust me.’
He went to see her. He ate with her. He had dinner with them and talked about the trial. It calmed him, and now he’s home. It’ll be over tomorrow. He’ll get tested. It’ll be over.
He doesn’t want to talk to me. He’ll come up here and he’ll get in bed and he’ll hug me and kiss me like he always does. He won’t say anything. We’ll just go to sleep. And tomorrow it’ll be over.
She heard his step creaking the stair boards.
Oh! Michael! I love you!
He peeked down the hall at the dark bedroom door. He went in and looked over at the bed. He could not tell if she slept. He opened the closet door and pulled on the light, pushed the door almost shut to keep it in, and hung up his suit jacket and trousers. The gray, for tomorrow. Tie? Not red, another blue. He took his tie out of the jacket pocket and hung it on its pin in the rack and turned off the closet light. He stuffed his shirt and socks in the hamper and went into the bathroom.
He pissed and thought about Teresa again. He had hardly taken the time to look at her, but she wanted him. He had a beautiful sound. He had a depth of experience. He flushed and went to the sink. He brushed his teeth, he looked like Quasimodo to himself. He felt ugly. This place. He needed a change. Test himself in the big world. “You are beeg feesh in small pond, Caruso Minor.” He had talent and ambition, he needed to find opportunity. He rinsed the toothbrush and turned off the light.
He slipped into bed and lay on his back. She lay still, her head turned to him. He rolled away onto his side.
Beautiful shoulders, still-trim waist, small flare of hips. A fine-looking man. I got over that, I overcame my trepidation at being in love with a handsome man. I got past it to the real man, the whole great tableau that every time I look I find something different. She didn’t say I’d always like what I saw. Love at first sight. Lifelong devotion. ‘Are you still crazy about me?’
There, all is only order and beauty,
Luxury, calm and voluptuousness.
‘You disgust me.’
Chapter Twelve
Cure for Love
Paul had missed all of yesterday. The morning had been filled with classes with tests to take or papers to give, and Howard had twisted his arm to get him to work packing mutsus for the store in the afternoon. He thought he had missed it, so he was glad it was not over yet.
The courtroom was packed. Word had gotten around, something was up for today. Paul found a seat in the last row. Across the aisle was Professor Trimble. Paul knew what everyone on campus was saying, that Derek was supposedly Mr. C’s son, and Professor Trimble wasn’t too happy about it, she was testifying against him.
“Defense calls Aaron Barber.”
Aaron stood up from the gallery and came forward, superior- and dependable-looking in his gray slacks and navy blue blazer, white shirt and striped tie. College man. Every mother’s dream.
“Mr. Barber.” No smarmy smile from the lawyer this time. “Please relate to the jury how you and Ms. Hardy first met.”
“Objection!” called the prosecutor. “Relevance!”
“Your Honor, the defense will show that Grace Hardy was in the habit of favoring Mr. Barber and many other young men freely, willingly, and predictably. My client asked her out anticipating a date no different from the many nights she had spent with gentlemen such as Mr. Barber and other witnesses I shall call.�
�
“Your Honor!” The prosecutor stood, up on the toes of one foot. “This brag fest the counselor is proposing has absolutely nothing to do with this case!” His voice rose with a whining note. ‘Brag fest?’ Not good, thought Paul, bag him.
The judge sighed. This was the most difficult decision he had had to make in this trial. “How many more witnesses?” he asked the defense lawyer.
“Six more, Your Honor.”
The judge shushed the tittering. “I’ll allow it, but use good sense, counselor. This is a young person’s reputation here.”
The lawyer repeated his question to Aaron regarding the first time he met Grace.
“She said, ‘Let’s find a room,’” said Aaron. “And we did it.”
“You mean, she had sex with you?”
“Yes.”
“And you had never met her before that night?”
“I’d never met her before that hour.”
“And did you go out with her again?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause she put out.”
“You mean, because she had sex with you?”
“Me, everybody,” said Aaron. “She was at the top of everybody’s To Do list, know what I mean?”
“Your witness.”
I should just leave, thought Paul. Everybody should leave, nobody should be listening to this. He tried to keep from feeling pity for Grace, he knew she would not want it. But it was pitiful, the way she lived. He would never treat her that way. He would be happy to never touch her, if she would let him be friends with her. He wanted to see her face, the world-weary expression that disappeared for an instant when her eyes looked brightly on something she loved before she remembered to hide it, to conceal joy. Oh, God, he wanted to talk to her, to know everything about her. He wanted her to look at him and see his pleasure at simply being in her company. He wanted to see a slow smile grow on her face and stay there while he talked to her. And when the mask clapped itself back on, he wanted to caress it away, just a touch on her cheek to bring back the brightness.
Paul let out a deep breath and glanced across the aisle. Professor Trimble sat forward, craning her neck to see, over on the defense’s side. Probably wondering what Mr. C’s reaction to all this is. He pretty much ignored Grace in chorus yesterday, but he doesn’t speak to everyone every time, sixty people in there. I’m surprised she even showed. Girl’s got guts.
The prosecutor stood up gravely, or perhaps reluctantly, the jury could not tell which. He walked over to where Aaron sat, swinging his legs and scraping his shoes— scruff-scruff— as he stopped. “Mr. Barber, what did you tell Derek Bartel about Grace Hardy?”
Aaron blinked.
“Did you hear the question, Mr. Barber?” asked the prosecutor.
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Bartel is a fraternity brother, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell your fraternity brother about Ms. Hardy?”
“I told him she was a sure thing.”
Ah, I was right, thought the relieved prosecutor. “You mean, that she would have sex with him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask her, ahead of time, whether she would have sex with Derek Bartel?”
“No,” he said, blowing out a breath of disgust: puh!
“So, you weren’t certain that she would have wanted sex with Mr. Bartel.”
“Pretty darn certain.”
“But that was only your opinion.”
“It was the opinion of anyone—”
“Mr. Barber.” The lawyer went round to Aaron’s right side, blocking his view of Derek. “When you were discussing with Mr. Bartel the possibility of him having sex with Ms. Hardy, a young lady whom you knew and had shared intimate moments with, by your own account, were you aware that Mr. Bartel, your own fraternity brother, has a prior arrest for rape?”
“Objection!” The defense lawyer stood and jabbed the table with his fingers. “Absolutely no relevance and tainting the jury!”
The room began a slow rumble as the judge banged his gavel, calling the lawyers up before him.
Michael looked at Derek with stupefaction, he could not understand why the boy did not deny it. Derek merely stared at the table a moment; he raised his head when he realized he might look ashamed to the jury; he affected a casual air that made him look callous. Michael realized he must act like he knew this would happen and that it was completely unjustified. He attempted to look neutral, and watched the lawyers confer with the judge. He reached for Teresa’s hand under the table and squeezed: you will tell me later.
His brows and nose and lips all drawn to a point of emphasis, the judge instructed the jury to disregard the prosecuting attorney’s last comment, it was not to be treated as evidence in the case.
The prosecutor had succeeded in thwarting his opponent’s plan to further vilify Grace. The other six frat boys were not called.
The defense rested. The judge instructed the jury in their duty. They would have their lunch brought in and they would deliberate. They were to give their verdict that afternoon, if possible.
Their lawyer assured them that the ending note of this trial did not portend a bad result, but Michael knew better. “It’s a no-brainer,” said the lawyer, confident of an acquittal, and he left them.
“Miguel, it was only an accusation. He was fully acquitted.”
“Tell me later,” said Michael, and he forced a smile for whoever might be looking.
Oh, look at him, he’s worried now. Justina stood in the back of the room watching the Tico family while people trudged out. His golden boy ain’t so golden after all. ‘He’s my son!’ Yeah, well, you can’t pick your family.
Michael started up the aisle with Teresa and Derek. Justina turned abruptly to go out, but the crowd was stopped. Someone blocking the doorway. Michael and Teresa stopped behind her.
“I’ll see you guys after lunch,” said Derek, and he trotted off after Aaron. “Yo!” he called to his frat brother.
God damn it! Justina turned to face the opposition. You see something new every time you look at it. At him.
Michael glanced at Justina only long enough to see her determination. He cast his eyes to the floor.
Justina stood straighter and looked at Teresa, remembering to breathe, to keep from trembling. The older woman looked calmly back at her.
“Hello,” said Justina, sticking out her hand, “I’m Justina Trimble.”
“Teresa Bartel.” She shook her hand.
The petite woman’s hand was so small, the bones of her wrist crackled as Justina shook it. Tinker toy, thought Justina. Tico toy. Tico boy toy.
Michael looked up, amazed.
“We didn’t know about the previous arrest,” said Justina to Teresa.
“No,” said Teresa. “It’s behind us, now.”
“If we had known,” continued Justina, “if my husband had known, I’m sure he would have wanted to talk to Derek about certain things.”
“‘Certain things?’” said Teresa, not afraid of a fight.
“A certain code of behavior,” Justina went on. “He might have started by quizzing your son on his knowledge of right and wrong, for instance.”
Teresa cocked her head.
Justina continued, “To get a feel for the scope of the problem. He might have wanted to change his approach, maybe he would’ve been more aggressive.”
“Yes?” said Teresa.
“He might have insisted, at the outset, that your son go for testing.”
“Quizzing, testing?”
“Your son’s got a big problem, it’s going to take a while to fix. My husband would want to be sure that the effort was worth it.”
“That’s enough, Justina.”
“Are you silencing me, Michael?”
“This is not the place and time,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Okay.” She turned and made her way out. Over her shoulder she said, “You let me know
when it is, sweetheart,” and went toward the stairs. “Will you be home for dinner,” she asked, walking backwards, “tonight?”
“Of course,” he said.
They did not know how long the deliberation would go on. They had lunch at a sub shop down the street from the courthouse. Michael was embarrassed that Teresa had to wipe the table herself before he could put down their plastic tray of food. She told him the particulars of Derek’s legal adventure in Atlanta. His girlfriend, they had been going together for months, just up and accused him of rape one day. It went to court and her case fell flat and Derek was acquitted. “I don’t know, Miguel. I have the feeling there’s something he doesn’t understand.”
Michael looked at the beer advertisement on the clock face over the soda cooler. “You think there was something to it?”
“I just mean,” she said, sitting back tiredly, “he needs to find some example, someone different. That’s why I’m so glad he has you, now, to look up to.”
“That’s why you finally contacted me? Because he got himself in trouble?”
She said, “Miguel, I kept hesitating, I didn’t know how you would react, and time passed until I just felt foolish contacting you. But then when this happened, I realized that my hesitating was only hurting Derek. He needed you, he always did. I just pray to God it’s not too late.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s not too late.”
He was so generous, so kind, so much bigger than most men. She smiled, not too deeply, trying to keep it pretty. “Thank you, Miguel.”
“When I think I am a father, ah! It’s very good.”
“Have you thought any more,” she said, “about your future?”
“I think about it all the time,” he said.
She felt a rush of pleasure, reeling in her line. This was a big one, talking trophy. Trophy husband.
“And what do you think about it?”