“Let’s just get you home first. And then I want to go down and see Ian.” He thought it would comfort her, but he had only excited her again.
“Me too. I want to see Ian too.”
“Not tonight, Jessica. We’re going home.” It was the right tone to take. She got to her feet, took his arm, and followed him out of the building. Walking with her was like walking a mechanical rag doll.
“Martin?”
“Yes?” They were out in the fresh air now, and she took a deep breath as he turned to her.
“Can we app—appeal?” She was calmer again. She seemed to be floating in and out of rationality, but she knew what was happening.
“We’ll talk about it.”
“Now. I want to talk about it now.” Standing on the steps of City Hall, frantic and hysterical, at six o’clock at night. It was hard to believe that this broken women was the confident, sophisticated Jessica Clarke.
“No, Jessica, not now. I want to talk to Ian first. And I want to get you home. Ian will be very upset if I don’t get you home.” Oh, Jesus. And she was going to make it difficult every inch of the way. Just getting her to the car was taking forever.
“I want to see Ian.” She stood at the top of the steps like a pouting child, irrational again. “I … I need Ian …” And the tears began to flow again. It made it easier to get her into the car. Until she remembered that she had to drive the Volvo home. It was Ian’s.
“I’ll have it brought to you tomorrow, Jessica. Just give me the garage stub.” She handed it to him, and he turned the ignition in the new chocolate brown Mercedes. He kept a close watch on her as he drove her home. She looked frighteningly vague and disheveled, and he wondered if he should call her doctor for her when he got her home. He asked her about it and she objected vehemently. “What about a friend? Is there someone you want me to call?” He hated to leave her alone, but she only shook her head, mute, with an odd look in her eyes. She was thinking of the jury … of Margaret Burton … of Inspector Houghton … she wanted to kill them all … they had stolen Ian …
“Jessica? Jessica?” She turned to look at him blankly. They were in front of the house on Vallejo.
“Oh.” She nodded silently again and opened the door carefully on her side. “I … will you see Ian now?”
“Yes. Is there anything you want me to tell him?” She nodded quickly and tried to speak normally.
“Just that … that …” But she couldn’t speak through her tears.
“I’ll give him your love.” She nodded gratefully, and looked into his eyes with an air of being almost herself again. The hysterical vagueness seemed to be fading. What he saw now was shock, and grief. “Jessica, I’m … I’m terribly sorry.”
“I know.” She turned away then, closed the door, and walked slowly toward her house. She moved like a very old woman, and the long brown Mercedes pulled slowly away. It felt wrong to watch her. It seemed kinder to let her grieve in private. But he would never forget the way she looked, walking slowly up the brick walk, her head bent, her hair tangled, with Ian’s things cradled in her hands. It was an unbearable sight.
She heard the car pull away and looked at their flower beds blankly as she approached the house. Was this the house where she had come for lunch with Ian that day? Was this the house where they lived? She looked up at it as though she had never seen it before, and stopped as though she couldn’t walk any further. She lifted one foot slowly then and mounted the small step. But the other foot was too heavy to lift. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to. She couldn’t go in that house. Not without Ian. Not alone … not … like this …
“Oh God, no!” She sank to her knees on the front step and sobbed with her head bowed and her hands full of what had been in Ian’s pockets. A voice called her name and she didn’t turn. It wasn’t Ian. Why bother to answer … it wasn’t Ian … he was gone now. Everyone was gone. She felt as though he had died in the courtroom—or maybe she had. She wasn’t quite sure. The voice called her name again, and she felt as if she was sinking through the brick. The contents of her handbag lay strewn on the step, the knit of her skirt had snagged on the brick, and her hair covered her face like a pale widow’s veil.
“Jessie! Jessica?”
She heard the rapid footsteps behind her, but couldn’t turn around. She didn’t have the strength. It was all over.
“Jessie … darling, what’s wrong?”
It was Astrid. Jessica turned to look into her face, and the tears continued to flow.
“What happened? Tell me! Everything will be all right. Just take it easy.” She smoothed Jessie’s hair like a child’s, and wiped the tears from her face as they continued to come. “Is it Ian? Tell me, darling, is it Ian?”
Jessie nodded with a distraught look of grief on her face, and Astrid felt her heart stop … oh no, not Ian … not like Tom. No!
“He was convicted of rape.” The words came out as though from someone else’s mouth, and Astrid looked as if she’d been slapped. “He’s in jail.”
“Good Lord, Jessica, no!” But it was true. She knew it as Jessica nodded and let her friend gently take her inside and put her to bed. The pills Astrid gave her put her out almost instantly. Astrid still carried them—ever since Tom.
It was three-thirty in the morning when Jessie woke up. The house was quiet. She could hear the clock tick. It was dark in the bedroom, but there were lights on in the living room. She listened for Ian’s sounds—the typewriter, his chair squeaking back on the studio floor. She sat up in bed, listening, hearing nothing, and her head swam. Then she remembered the pills. And Astrid. And how it had all begun. She sat up in bed and reached for her cigarettes with a trembling hand. She was still wearing her sweater and stockings and slip. Her jacket and skirt were neatly draped over a chair. She couldn’t remember getting into bed. All she could remember was the sound of Astrid’s voice, cooing gently, saying things she didn’t really understand as she drifted off to sleep. But there had been someone there … someone … now there was no one. She was alone.
She lay there smoking in the darkness of the bedroom, dry-eyed, faintly nauseated and still slowed from the pills, and suddenly she reached for the phone. She got the number from information and called.
“City Prison. Langdorf here.”
“I’d like to speak to Ian Clarke, please.”
“He work here?” The desk sergeant sounded surprised.
“No. He was taken into custody yesterday. After a trial.” She didn’t volunteer the nature of the conviction. And she was surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. She didn’t feel steady, but she knew that if she could make herself sound calm, they might give her what she wanted. All she had to do was sound terribly calm and put a little authority into her voice and …
“He’d be in the county jail, lady, not here. And you can’t talk to him anyway.”
“I see. Do you have the number there?” She thought of telling them it was an emergency, but decided not to. She was afraid to lie to them. The desk sergeant at the city prison gave her the number of the county jail in the Hall of Justice, and she dialed quickly. But it didn’t work. They told her that she could visit her husband the day after tomorrow, and he wasn’t allowed to get phone calls. Then they hung up on her.
She shrugged one shoulder and flicked on a lamp. It was cold in the room. Jessie pulled a bathrobe over her sweater and slip and padded out to the living room in stocking feet. She stood in the middle of the room and looked around. The room was faintly messy, but not very, just enough to remind her … impressions in the softness of the couch, a mark where the back of a head had pressed into a cushion, the book he’d been reading last weekend … his loafers under the chair … his … she felt a sob rise and stick in her throat and she turned and walked into the kitchen for something to drink … tea … coffee … Coke … something … her mouth was dry and her head felt fuzzy, but everything else was so clear. She found the plates from lunch in the sink, and the newspaper on the counter where
she had thrown it, the article on rape folded out. It was as though he had just been in the room, as though he had taken a walk around the block, as though … she sat down at the kitchen table, dropped her head, and cried.
The studio was as bad. Worse. Dark and empty and lonely. It looked as though it expected his presence but had been stood up. It needed him to come alive. Ian was the room’s living soul. And hers. Jessie’s soul. She needed him more than his studio did. She found herself moving from one foot to the other, like a disturbed child, standing in doorways, smoothing her hand over his books, or his shirts, holding his loafers close to her and jumping when a shadow cast an odd light. She was alone. In the house, in the night, in the world. With no one to help her, or take care of her, or give a damn about her, or … she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. She simply sank slowly to the floor, with the loafers in her arms, and waited. But no one came. She was alone.
Chapter 20
It was nine-thirty in the morning and she was sitting in the bathtub trying to fight a wave of hysteria when the doorbell rang. It was all right. All right. Everything was going to be all right. She’d stay in the bath for a little while and then she’d have a cup of tea, and some breakfast, and get dressed, and go to the boutique. Or maybe she’d stay in bed all day. Or … but it was all right. First the hot bath, and then … but she couldn’t call Ian. She couldn’t talk to him. She needed to talk to him. She took another deep breath and then listened. It sounded like the doorbell, or maybe that was just the running water playing games with her ears. But it wasn’t. The bell went on ringing. But she didn’t have to answer it. All she had to do was keep breathing and stay calm, and let the warm water relax her. Ian had shown her how to stay calm like that, and not get hysterical, when … when her mother … and Jake … but the doorbell. She jumped out of the tub suddenly, grabbed a towel, and ran for the door. What if it was Ian? She had his keys. What if … she ran to the front door, dripping water along the way, a half smile on her mouth, her eyes suddenly bright and large, the towel covering her torso inadequately. She pulled the door open without remembering to ask who was there, and then jumped back, startled. Too surprised to close the door again. She simply stood there, fear pounding in her heart.
“Good morning. I wouldn’t make a habit of opening the door like that if I were you.” She looked down quickly and tightened the towel. The caller was Inspector Houghton.
“I … how do you. What can I do for you?” She pulled herself to her full height and stood regally in the doorway in spite of the towel.
“Nothing. I just thought I’d see how you are.” He wore the ironical look of victory in his eyes, the look that she had missed the day before. It made her want to scratch his eyes out.
“I’m fine.” You filthy bastard. “Was there anything else?”
“Got any coffee ready, Mrs. Clarke?” From him the formalities were almost abusive.
“As a matter of fact, no, Inspector Houghton, I don’t. And I have to get to work shortly. If you have business to discuss with me, I suggest you go buy yourself a cup of coffee on Union Street, and see me in my office in an hour.”
“Feisty, aren’t you? You must have had a nasty shock yesterday, though.”
She closed her eyes, fighting the wave of nausea that rose to her throat. The man was sadistic. But she couldn’t faint now. Couldn’t. She heard Ian’s voice saying “Okay?” with that special way of his, and she nodded imperceptibly and thought “Okay.”
“Yes, it was a shock. Do you enjoy that, Inspector? Seeing other people unhappy, I mean.”
“I don’t see it that way.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered her one. She shook her head. He was enjoying this, all right.
“I guess not. Miss Burton must have been pleased.”
“Very.” He smiled at her through the cigarette smoke and she had to fight herself not to slap him or flail at him. That took more control than not getting sick.
“And what happens to you now?” So that’s what this was all about.
“What do you mean?”
“Any plans?”
“Yes, work. And seeing my husband tomorrow. And dinner with friends next week, and …”
He smiled again, but did not look amused.
“If he goes to prison, it could wreak havoc with your marriage, Mrs. Clarke.” His voice was almost gentle.
“Possibly. Almost anything can wreak havoc with a marriage, if you let it. Depends on how good your marriage is, and how hard you want to work at keeping it that way.”
“And how good is yours?”
“Excellent. And from the bottom of my heart, Inspector Houghton, I thank you for your concern. I’ll be sure to mention it to both my husband and our attorney. I know Mr. Clarke will be deeply touched. You know, you’re really a very sensitive man, Inspector—or is it just that you have a particular fondness for marriage counseling?”
His eyes blazed back into hers, but it was too late; he had walked right into it. He had come to her house, rung the bell, and made his own mistakes that morning.
“You know, as a matter of fact, I think I might even call your superior to tell him what a marvelously thoughtful man you are. Imagine caring about how my marriage is.”
He slipped the cigarette pack back in his pocket and his smile was long since gone.
“All right, I get the point.”
“Do you? My, how quick you are, Inspector.”
“Bitch.” He said it through clenched teeth.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said ‘bitch,’ and you can tell that to my superior too. But if I were you, baby, I wouldn’t bother to call. You’ve got enough problems, and you ain’t gonna see your old man around here for a long time. You’d better get used to it, sister. You and that little literary punk of yours are through. So when you get tired of sitting here by yourself in the dark, start looking around. There’s better out there than what you got stuck with.”
“Oh, really? And I suppose you’re a prime example?” She was trembling with fury now and her voice was rising to match his.
“Pick who you want, but you’ll be out looking. I give you two months to be down at Jerry’s with the rest of them.”
“Get out of here, Inspector. And if you ever set foot near this house again, with or without a search warrant, I’ll call the judge, the mayor, and the fire department. Or I may not call a goddam living soul. I may just take aim at you out of my window.”
“Have a gun, do you?” He raised an eyebrow with interest.
“Not yet, but I will. Apparently I need one.”
He opened his mouth to say something and she took one graceful step backward and slammed the door in his face. Tactically, it was a poor move, but it made her feel better. For a moment. When she walked back into the house, she threw up in the kitchen. It took her two hours to stop shaking.
Astrid arrived at eleven. She had flowers with her, and a roast chicken she’d bought for Jessie to pick on, and a bag full of fruit. And a small vial of yellow pills. But after twenty minutes of persistently ringing the doorbell there was still no answer; Astrid knew Jessie was there because she had called the boutique to make sure. Finally she began to worry seriously and knocked on the kitchen windows with her rings. Jessie peered cautiously between the curtains and then jumped half a foot when she saw Astrid. She had thought it was Houghton again.
“Good Lord, child, I thought something had happened. Why didn’t you answer the door? Worried about press?”
“No, there’s no problem with that. It’s … oh … I don’t know.” And then there were tears in her eyes again and she was standing there looking like an overgrown child and telling Astrid about the visit from Houghton. “I just can’t take it. He’s so … so evil, and so happy about what happened. And he said that our … our marriage …” She was crying too hard to go on and Astrid made her sit down.
“Why don’t you come and stay with me for a little while, Jessica? You could have the guest room and g
et away from here for a few days.”
“No!” Jessie sprang to her feet and started pacing the room, touching chairs as she sped past, or picking something up and then putting it down again. It was a series of odd little staccato gestures, but Astrid recognized them. She had reacted the same way when Tom had died.
“No. Thank you, Astrid, but I want to be here. With … with …” She faltered, not quite sure of what she wanted to say.
“With Ian’s things. I know. But maybe that’s not such a good idea. And is it worth the price of being heckled by people like that policeman? And what if there are others who show up the same way? Do you want to have to deal with that?”
“I won’t open the door.”
“You can’t live like that, Jessica. Ian won’t want you to.”
“Yes, he will. Honest. Really … I … oh, God, Astrid, I’m going crazy, I can’t … I don’t know how without Ian.”
“But you’re not without Ian. You’ll see him. I still don’t understand what happened, but maybe you can work it out. He’s not gone, Jessica. He’s not dead, for God’s sake. Stop acting like he is.”
“But he’s not here.” Her voice had a pitiful sound. “I need him here. I’ll go crazy without him, I’ll … I’ll …”
“No, you won’t. Not unless you want to go crazy, or make yourself do so. Take yourself in hand, Jessica, and sit down. Right now. Come on, sit down.” Jessica had been popping in and out of chairs like a jack-in-the-box for the past five minutes. Her voice was rising to a desperate pitch. “Have you had breakfast?” Jessica shook her head and started to say that she didn’t want any, but Astrid held up her hand and vanished into the kitchen. She emerged five minutes later with toast, jelly, the fresh fruit she had brought, and a cup of steaming tea. “Would you rather have coffee?” Jessie shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment.
“I just don’t believe this is happening, Astrid.”
“Don’t think about it yet. You can’t make sense of it, so don’t try. When can you see Ian?” Jessie’s eyes opened and she sighed at the question.
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