by Joy Fielding
"I don't care if the damn thing is ripped to kingdom come, I am not paying for a new sleeping bag. It's a thousand dollars a month at this camp you're sending him to— don't they have any beds?"
Jill selected a hot pink oversized shirt and threw it over her head, poking her arms through the wide sleeves.
"Look, Elaine, I'm not going to discuss it further. You think the kid needs a new sleeping bag, you buy him one— with the seventy-five hundred dollars a month I'm already paying you!"
Jill looked in the mirror. She looked pregnant, she thought, feeling suddenly lightheaded at the prospect. Maybe, she hoped, silently calculating the number of days till her next period. She looked over at David, a shiver running through her.
He shook his head, covering the receiver with his hand. "You look pregnant," he whispered, obviously displeased by the notion. Of late, she had noticed his increasing reluctance to start a new family or even to discuss the possibility. Quickly she removed the pink shirt and returned it to the closet. David's voice brought her running back.
"What?" he yelled, raising his voice for the first time in the conversation, "You're crazy, Elaine. Do what you want! You want to go back to court? Fine. We'll go back to court!" He slammed the receiver.
"She's going back to court?"
"She's making threatening noises."
"What for this time?-My God, don't tell me she heard I saved enough money to buy a new sweater?!" Jill was only half-joking. Alimony, child support and taxes depleted the lion's share of David's income, making her job at the university not only one of convenience, but one of necessity.
You're a kept man, she would sometimes tease her husband, trying to mitigate her hostility by laughing at what was eating at her, namely that all David's money seemed to go to his ex-wife and kids while all her money went to support the two of them. She'd been paying the rent on their downtown apartment since their marriage four years ago, despite the fact that the arrangement had supposedly been temporary. Not quite the life-style she'd envisioned.
'She says that she's thinking of asking for a cost-of-living clause because, well, you know, inflation." Jill stared at her husband with blank eyes. She couldn't speak without risking anger, and what was the point of getting angry at David? It certainly wouldn't help matters. 'Is that what you're going to wear?" he asked. She looked down at her naked breasts and white slacks. "Why the hell doesn't she get married again?" he asked, throwing up his hands.
Jill found herself back at the closet. "Are you kidding?" she asked scornfully. "That woman will never get married again. She's having much too good a time pulling the strings—purse and otherwise."
David laughed ruefully. "It would have to be a pretty special kind of guy—one who only likes to screw twice a year."
Jill ran a hasty hand through her blouses, seeing prominent stains on the few she would have considered, wondering why she had ever bought the others to begin with. They were awful. "Wear the green halter," David said, squeezing past her to get at his own clothes. "It looked cute."
Jill grabbed the skimpy top, her thoughts immediately back on Nicole. She lowered it and turned to David. "What do you think," she asked, "do we have time to finish what we started before?"
He checked his watch. "We're due at the Weatherby’s' in exactly thirty-five minutes and Lake Forest isn't exactly around the comer."
She dragged the green halter top down over her hair— what difference did it make?—and firmly closed the closet door.
"We'll finish when we get home," he called after her. She nodded though she knew he wasn't looking. What made people live in the suburbs? Jill wondered, feeling frustrated and annoyed as she plopped on the bed and waited for David to finish dressing. She looked over at the phone. She always knows just when to call, Jill thought. Somehow, she knows.
Chapter 3
''One no trump,"
“Pass."
"Two hearts."
"Pass."
"Pass."
"Pass."
"Two hearts it is and my beautiful partner is playing," said Al Weatherby, looking across the table at his wife of twenty-seven years. David led the king of spades and Al Weatherby laid down his hand as dummy. "Eighteen beautiful points. Too bad you don't have anything to go with it, honey," he said, walking around the table to see what Beth had in her hand.
"Oh, Al, I'm so sorry," Beth said, paling noticeably. "I don't know where my mind was." She laid her cards against her chest, hoping Al would choose not to look, and when he chose otherwise, she reluctantly brought her hand forward for him to see. "I forgot everything!" she moaned.
"My God, look at what you've got here," he said, his voice registering more shock than anger.
"I know. I know." Beth's voice was barely audible.
"We've got at least a small slam between us and we're playing two hearts! Where are you tonight, honey?" Beth's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, please don't cry, sweetie," he said quickly. "It's only a card game! I'm not angry. In fact, now that I see your cards better, I can see that two hearts is the perfect bid. I would have said exactly the same thing."
Both David and Jill laughed and Beth tried to laugh too, but couldn't. Jill felt so sorry for Beth—she'd been playing very badly all night despite her years of experience at the game. At least Al was the kind of partner who never lost his temper. It was, as he had said, just a game.
"Just play it, honey," Al said, returning to his seat. "You can't go wrong."
Beth played out the hand in silence, missing only one trick and easily making the small slam she should have bid. She smiled over at Al sheepishly at the hand's conclusion.
"You should have finessed the king at trick three," he said patiently, gathering up the cards. "That way you would have had them all—you had nothing to lose."
"Let's have some coffee," Beth said, getting up from the table and bumping into Jill's chair. She let out a short, involuntary gasp.
"Are you okay?" Jill asked, concerned.
Beth nodded. "Just that I keep hitting the same spot all the time. You know what they say about open wounds." She stopped. "Do they say anything about open wounds?" she asked and everybody laughed. Jill's offer of assistance in the kitchen was turned down as they moved from the card room to the large and comfortable living area, filled to overflowing with expensive antiques.
"I'll help Beth," Al volunteered, making sure his guests were comfortable first. "That was a real cute chain letter Beth sent out, wasn't it? God, I had such a good laugh about it. By the way, Jill," he said suddenly, a mysterious glint creeping into his eyes, "who were the three women who starred in A Letter to Three Wives?"
"Jeanne Grain, Ann Sothem, and Linda Darnell," Jill answered without a moment's hesitation. "You want the men's names, too?"
"Are you kidding? A good lawyer always knows when to quit. Isn't that right, David?"
David nodded. "She's the champ."
"Thought it might be before her time."
"I watch a lot of old movies," Jill said, remembering the days when it had not been uncommon for her to watch a whole string of late-night features only to stumble in to work on an hour's sleep, fresh images of Joan Crawford rolling around in her brain.
She didn't stay up all night watching old movies anymore. David started his day at six-fifteen in the morning. He liked to be in bed early, and he claimed he couldn't get to sleep if she wasn't in bed beside him.
"Let's see, David, you like cream, no sugar, right?" Al Weatherby asked, already heading toward the large hallway. Jill thought that you could pick up their whole apartment and plop it right in the middle of that hallway and still have lots of room to move around.
David nodded. "And Jill, you like yours black." It was a statement, not a question.
"Please."
"I think Beth made an extraordinary blueberry flan," he said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go help her and be right back."
Jill watched Al Weatherby leave the room. He was only minimally taller than herself, an elf-like ma
n of seemingly boundless energy and patience, his thin body made surprisingly muscular because of an early and deep interest in lifting weights. It was said he could survive on virtually two hours' sleep a night, and David had once commented that in the fifteen years he had been with the firm (the last eight as a senior partner) he had never seen Al Weatherby lose his temper.
Al also made a point of ferreting out as much information as he could about the spouses of the lawyers in his corporation. When he'd learned that Jill was as addicted to trivia and the Classified Ads section of the morning paper as he was, she'd become his special favorite. His acceptance of her had made her acceptance by the other lawyers and their spouses (especially those who had known and liked Elaine) infinitely easier.
''What letter is he talking about?" David asked, settling back comfortably into the soft velvet of the old Victorian sofa. For an instant, Jill thought he must be talking to someone else.
''Oh, the chain letter—about the husbands. You know— didn't I show it to you?" He shook his head. "Oh, well, I still have it—somewhere. Beth gave it to me at the picnic." Her voice faded away.
"The picnic," David repeated ominously. "Are you going to tell me what happened at the picnic?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Something happened at that picnic that you won't tell me about, and every time I mention it, your face goes kind of funny and your eyes get this curious kind of dazed look about them—there, they've got it right now." Jill blushed. "And you're blushing! You never blush."
"I'm not blushing," Jill said, trying to laugh away the truth of his words. "You're crazy." She looked around. "Such a huge house for just the two of them."
"A not very subtle attempt at trying to change the subject," he winked.
"They have such gorgeous kids," she continued, ignoring him and concentrating on a beautifully framed portrait of the three Weatherby offspring which hung above the large marble fireplace.
"Not exactly kids anymore," David reminded her. "The youngest is seventeen." David shook his head in obvious dismay, his mouth opening again to speak.
"I know," Jill interrupted. "If Jason ever starts reciting the Moonie alphabet, I have your permission to shoot him."
"Is that what they recite?" he asked. Jill shrugged playfully. "Smart-ass," David said, pulling her closer beside him, about to kiss her.
The scream from the kitchen sent them scrambling to their feet. Jill made it to the kitchen door only seconds before her husband, and both rushed immediately to Beth Weatherby's side when they saw the blood.
If anything, Al Weatherby was even whiter than his wife. "What the hell happened, Beth?" he was saying, his voice almost icily calm. "Christ, I turn my back for two seconds and you almost kill yourself—” He turned on the cold water tap and grabbed Beth's arm, thrusting her blood-covered hand under the flow. She screamed again at the sudden impact of water on flesh, the force of the spray quickly washing the blood away to reveal a deep cut that ran almost like a second lifeline across the width of her hand, just below the base of her fingers.
"I don't know how I did it," Beth was saying, holding back the tears. "I was cutting the flan and I must have made the crust too hard because—ow!—the knife kind of caught, and so I jiggled it, and the next thing I knew, wham, right across my hand. Jesus, that hurts!"
"Hold still," Al Weatherby said calmly, the color returning to his face. "There's a lot of blood. I don't know. Maybe we should take you to the hospital."
"Ni3," his wife insisted. "Please, I'll be all right. There's some gauze upstairs—"
"I'll get it," David offered, already out of the room.
"First bathroom on the right," Al called after him. "It's that damn phone call from Lisa, isn't it?" he stated more than asked. Then he turned to Jill. "Having a bit of trouble with our daughter," he explained, still keeping his eye on his wife's bleeding hand. "Seems she's gotten herself involved with some musician—married, naturally."
Naturally, Jill thought.
"Little children, little problems," David said in the car on the long drive home. "Big children, big problems. It's not worth it, Jill, believe me. It's just not worth it."
They'd been driving for some twenty minutes.
"It's just around the comer—there, that house on the left, number 90."
David pulled the car into the first available space. The street was narrow and dark, lined on both sides with semidetached homes which had probably been quite elegant in their day but which were now showing definite signs of neglect and the decay wrought by the onslaught of the Chicago weather. "It doesn't look very safe," he said, bringing the car to a halt.
Jill smiled. "Oh, it's safe. I'm on the second floor and my landlady lives down below with her two pets—a Doberman and a shotgun."
"The American way," David laughed.
Jill was about to open the car door when she hesitated, realizing how reluctant she was to leave this man. "I want to thank you," she began.
"Don't thank me," he interrupted. "It was a purely selfish gesture on my part. I'm only sorry you don't live farther away; then I'd get to enjoy your company a little longer."
Jill smiled, thinking back over the afternoon in his office. She had finally stopped acting so belligerent, and had listened to what David Plumley was saying, allowing his humor and his personality to temper her hostility, a hostility which she knew had only developed when she felt herself so instantly attracted to him, when she realized he knew exactly what she was feeling, and she was embarrassed and afraid. She'd accepted his offer of a cup of coffee, and listened to him hold court on everything she could hope to know about the legal profession and the people who practiced it. One hour quickly became another, as all calls and other appointments were put on hold or canceled. It was close to 6 P.M. when she realized with some disappointment that any further questions she might ask would have absolutely nothing to do with law and everything to do with his wife and family and the obvious possibility of other women. He, in turn, offered to drive her home, and she readily accepted, despite the fact that her car was parked in the underground parking lot. What the hell, she'd go back for it the next day.
She pushed open the heavy car door. "Well—thanks again—for everything." She stopped, once more turning in his direction. "I feel kind of guilty about having taken up so much of your time," she lied, deciding that having come so far, she might as well push ahead all the way. "If you weren't married, Td invite you inside for dinner."
His answer was simple. "I'm separated," he said, neglecting only to mention that by separated, he meant his wife was at home with his children while he was here in his car with Jill.
"I'm sorry," he said, abruptly sitting up in bed. "I know I'm keeping you up. I just can't seem to get comfortable." Jill sat up beside her husband and peered over at the clock. It was almost three-thirty in the morning. "We shouldn't have had all that coffee," she said, thinking back to the large pot they brewed and drunk as soon as they walked through the door of their apartment. They had left the Weatherby house when Beth's bleeding had stopped and her hand was safely bandaged up. Al had suggested his wife go right up to bed, and though Beth protested, Jill and David had thought it best that they leave. The blood had made Jill vaguely queasy herself, and David's vehemence in the car about not fathering any more children had upset her further. Coffee seemed the only viable solution. They had finished the pot, gotten undressed and into bed, and drifted into a restless and unsatisfying sleep, forgetful of their earlier desires, wanting only to disappear into their pillows until morning.
"Do you want anything to eat?" she offered.
''What is there?" he asked, straightening his shoulders.
"Some cheesecake—" He shook his head. "Some of that rice pudding I made from the other night—"
"No."
"Do you want to call in for a pizza?"
He laughed quietly. "No—food's not the answer."
"Ginger ale? Juice?"
"No." He peered into the darkness
. "Shit," he muttered with frustration.
"You want me to rub your back?"
He tilted his head. "Yeah, that's what I want," he smiled, flipping over. Jill immediately climbed on top of him, her hands working on his shoulders.
"How's that?" she asked after several minutes, her hands tiring.
"Awful," he said gently. "You always did give the world's worst backrubs."
"Oh, is that so?" she asked, suddenly pounding on his back. "Well, how's this?"
"Better," he laughed, flipping her over and crawling on top of her, quickly entering her and starting to thrust. "Much better."
Later they lay very still, side by side, their breathing even, and their eyes open, relaxed but still not sleepy.
"So," he said suddenly, "are you going to tell me what happened at the picnic?"
"What do you mean?" she asked, startled.
"Jill," he said, patiently, "you haven't been yourself the last few days. You're as bad as Beth Weatherby—walking into walls, changing your clothes fifty times a day—"
"I am not. I haven't been—"
"How many times did you change tonight?"
"I don't know what you're getting at. The picnic was fine. Nothing unusual happened." She felt herself beginning to blush. "Why do I feel like if I tell one more lie my nose will fall off?"
David laughed. "Because you're as transparent as Pinocchio, that's why. Now, tell me what happened."
Jill sat up, bringing her knees to her chest and leaning her head against them. "I don't understand how you always know what I'm thinking."
"I don't know what you're thinking—only that you are thinking. Come on, you know you can never keep anything from me. Are you going to tell me?" He waited, saying nothing.
Jill tried to choose her words carefully. What could she say? How could she tell him without maximizing the inherent appeal her words would carry? Listen, David, you know that brilliant and beautiful law student that's working for the summer in your office—the one with the big tits and the flawless complexion—well, she wants to marry you. She tossed the words around in her head a few more times, trying to make them sound funny, casual, non-threatening. Guess what? She tried silently, there's another woman in love with you—