by Joy Fielding
“And then, of course, I thought it was all my fault. I saw this wonderful man whom everybody liked and who was terrific with everybody else but me, and so I naturally assumed I had to be to blame. God knows I tried to improve. I became a wonderful cook. I waited on Al hand and foot. But things were never done right—^Al couldn't tell me often enough how unfit a mother I was. He threatened to take them away from me if I ever tried to leave him. He said I wouldn't have a chance in court against him, that no one would believe my story." She looked around the room though her eyes settled on nothing. “And, of course, he was right. No one does believe it."
Jill swallowed hard. "I believe it," she said softly.
There was a long moment of silence.
"So do I" whispered Lisa, moving immediately to her mother's side and collapsing into her arms. Beth Weatherby's eyes filled instantly with tears and she hugged her daughter closely to her, rocking her silently back and forth like a baby. Without shifting her position, she moved her free arm toward Jill. Jill's hand reached out and grabbed it tightly. The three women sat without words for several minutes. When Beth finally began to speak again, her voice was stronger, more assured. The desperation that had been clinging to each word had disappeared. "The night that I killed Al," she began again, "wasn't any different really from any of the other nights, except that Al had had a few drinks, something he didn't usually do. God knows he didn't need liquor to make him mean.
"It was a Friday night; I was getting dinner ready. He phoned from a bar and started yelling at me that I was a useless drain on his existence, a rotten mother, a terrible bridge player. Anything you can think of. That's what I was. Then he said he was coming home. I knew he was going to beat me. He'd been getting bolder since Michael had left; the abuse was becoming more exotic. He was becoming careless, telling lies that could easily trip him up. Like when he told you that I was upset because Lisa had a married a lover. He didn't seem to care as much if anyone were to find out. It was like he was almost daring people to discover his secret. I was terrified he was going to kill me!
"I phoned you."
Again, Jill lowered her head in shame. Beth gently disengaged her daughter and turned to face Jill.
"No, please. Don't blame yourself. How could you know? That was my mistake for years. I blamed myself! Instead of the man responsible. That's what abuse does to you. And why I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive Al. Why I killed him that night.
"Not for the years of being physically abused. But for what he did to my soul. For the sheer terror I lived in all those years. For the degradation. For almost destroying the human being inside the flesh—for making me feel guilty and of no more worth than yesterday's newspaper. I had no value to anyone—especially to myself. I actually felt I deserved whatever he dished out. And I'm not talking about just in the beginning now. I'm talking about later, after I became more aware, knew that things were not as they were supposed to be, that it wasn’t my fault, that something was wrong with Al, not me— By that time, it was too late. It didn't matter anymore, which is why I never left—not even after Michael was gone. It wasn't just that I was terrified, that I knew Al would find me and kill me. It's more that there just wasn't anything left of me to go anywhere. Can you understand that? My soul was dead.
"When Al did come home that night, I was just sitting there waiting for him. He didn't waste any time. Started right in hitting me. Only this time was worse than the others. I know he was going to kill me. He had his hands around my throat and he was choking me. He obviously didn't care who saw his handiwork this time. I panicked. And for the first time, I started fighting back. Well, he thought that was the biggest joke of all. He said I was ridiculous. That's when he started scratching at me. I finally collapsed on the floor. He was kicking at my sides like I was so much dirty laundry. Then suddenly, he just stopped—he said he was tired; he was going to bed and he'd finish me off when he got up.
"He went upstairs. I lay on the floor for a long time. My whole body was sore. Finally, I decided to go upstairs and try to get some sleep. Maybe I already knew I was going to kill him. At the time, I remember thinking he probably wouldn't wake up until the morning, and by then he'd forget about it, at least for a while. So, I went upstairs, got undressed, put on my nightgown. Actually got in bed beside Al, ready to die if that's what he wanted.
''But a strange thing started to happen to me as I lay there. I realized that I didn't want to die after all. And that I didn't have to take his beatings anymore. That I didn't care whether or not anyone would believe the truth. I knew that if I left him, he'd make good his threat to find me and kill me. Accidents happen, he used to say. I knew that the only way I could survive was to get out of bed I’d kill him first. In self-defense.
"That's what I did.
'I don't remember too many of the details from that point on. I got the hammer. I hit him with it. I remember looking down at my nightgown, seeing Al's blood, knowing he was dead. I remember feeling—relief. I don't remember stuffing the hammer into the central vacuuming system, but I guess I did. Or going outside, where the police found me. I just remember being there."
Beth Weatherby shook her head. "The lawyers want me to plead temporary insanity. They say I was crazy the night I killed my husband. Maybe I was." She paused, looking from Jill to Lisa and then back at Jill again. "But I really don't think so. To tell you the truth, Jill," she said earnestly, "and please forgive me, my darling Lisa, but I really believe that the night I murdered Al was the sanest I've been in twenty-seven years."
Chapter 22
The phone rang just as Jill was leaving her apartment for the university.
"Naturally," she muttered, returning to the kitchen and picking up the phone, sneaking a look at the clock. It was already ten-thirty. Her first class was in half an hour and unless she left the apartment in the next five minutes, she would be late. Since it was only the second day of regular classes, Jill didn't think such tardiness would be appreciated, and she had resolved to start this year right—with the proper enthusiasm and dedication. "Hello?" she asked, rather than stated. Probably a survey or somebody trying to sell her a magazine subscription.
"Jill?"
"Yes. Who's this?"
"It's Irving. Irving Saunders. I hardly recognized your voice. You sounded so tentative."
"I'm always tentative on Tuesdays. How are you? How was Africa?"
"Fraught with its customary turmoil and hot as hell. I have some great news for you."
"Oh?" Jill found herself clutching the telephone as tightly as if she had just been told the floor was about to disappear from underneath her feet.
"Aren't you going to ask me what it is?"
"What is it?" Jill repeated numbly.
"We're doing a new show” he began. Jill took a deep intake of breath and held it. "It's a sixty-minute show," he continued, "kind of like 'Sixty Minutes,' in fact. A bit of muckraking and exposes, along with some issues that are concerning the people of this city. We're calling it “Hour Chicago” Hour with an H, which I think is a great title, because it sounds like Our Chicago, without the H—which, of course, is what it's supposed to do. Anyway, are you still with me?"
"Right here.''
"Good. We want you."
"What?!"
"Well, there's a slight hitch. A couple, in fact.''
"You want me?"
"Yes."
"You've got me."
Irving Saunders laughed loudly. "I like you, Jill. You're so easy!"
"When do I start?"
There was a pause. "Hold on a minute. We have to discuss the slight hitches I was talking about. They're important."
Jill felt the beginnings of unease curling around her toes. She felt her heart thumping, and wanted only to seize the happiness of the previous moment and fly with it. He wanted her! He was offering her a job! She swallowed. With several slight hitches. Important ones.
"What are they?" she asked.
"Well, first, it's only a pilot. S
o, we shoot one show, we see how the network likes it, how it goes over with the public. I don't have to tell you. If everything clicks, we start mid-season. So, at the moment, what I'm offering you is a one-shot deal with the potential for more, but no promises."
“I understand."
"We go into pre-production in two weeks, which means I need a definite answer soon."
"You've got your answer already," Jill told him, decisively.
"What about the university?''
"They'll consider it invaluable practical experience. I can't see why they'd object. We're only talking about a few weeks. But that's my problem, and I'll deal with it." She took a breath, her eyes returning warily to the clock. "Why do I get the uncomfortable feeling there's more?"
"Probably because there is."
"And you've been saving the best for last?"
"As always. You ready?"
'They can't pay my usual rates?''
"No, that's not it. The money I'm sure can be negotiated."
"As always," Jill said, parroting his earlier expression. “Okay, what?"
"It's the subject matter."
"The subject matter?"
“Of the segment you'd be producing."
"Which is?"
There was a pause. "Wife-beating," Irving answered.
Jill felt her voice fall several octaves. "Wife-beating?"
"The state of the art in Chicago," he said dryly. "Statistics. Reasons. The legal ramifications." Another pause. "Examples." Another silence. "Jill, it's no coincidence that I want you for this particular assignment. In fact, it's the raison d'etre for this whole conversation. I'll be frank. The network wasn't interested in free-lancers. Things are tight here, as everywhere. But I went a bit out on a limb. I know how much you want to come back. I know how much I want you back. So, when the idea for this show came up, I thought about you right away. And then when this Weatherby murder thing happened and the guy's wife started yelling foul, well, it's a natural. It's your husband's firm! You knew the man! I assume you've met his wife. Now, that might get you in places an outsider couldn't; it might not. But it was an interesting hook to sell to the network. I convinced them that with your inside connections both to the Weatherby’s and to the legal profession, you were the only person who could do this job. And they've agreed."
There was another silence. “Beth Weatherby is my friend," Jill whispered.
"Don't get me wrong, Jill," Irving said quickly. "The episode doesn't have to be just about Beth Weatherby. I'm more interested in the legal ramifications. But there's no question that the Weatherby’s would have to be mentioned, either as a jumping-off point, or possibly as a frame for the whole segment. That could be worked out during story conferences. But it's the Weatherby’s that give this story its relevance—Beth Weatherby's claim of self-defense, not temporary insanity. Is self-defense a legitimate argument for what she did? For that matter, is temporary insanity any more legitimate? Would freeing Beth Weatherby be granting all women in her position a license to kill?"
"Is a marriage certificate a man's license to kill?" Jill asked in response.
There was a satisfied pause. "I knew you were the right person for this job," Irving smiled. "Think you can handle it?"
"I don't know," Jill said quietly. "David wouldn't be very happy under the circumstances."
"I realize that. That's why I'm giving you a few days to think it over." Jill said nothing. "I don't know when I'd be able to call you again, Jill, if your answer is no," he added, unnecessarily.
"I understand."
"Call me Thursday afternoon."
"I will." "'Bye."
"Goodbye." Jill replaced the receiver and stood staring at the tile on the kitchen floor. How did she get in messes like this? It was almost as if they deliberately sought her out. (There's Jill Plumley and, my God, it looks like she's had two peaceful days in a row! General alert! Messes— attack!) David wouldn't like it at all. He would want her miles away from any public involvement in the Weatherby case and any of its attendant legal ramifications! And Beth herself? How would she feel?
And if she said no? Irving had made the outcome of her refusal pretty clear. There'd be no further offers, at least for some time. This was her chance, her opportunity knocking. She could take it and run, or she could run and hide. She hadn't spoken to Beth Weatherby since that extraordinary night the week before. She hadn't had time to discuss with David what Beth had told her. He'd been working late every night—the earliest evening being the Friday night he'd returned from taking Nicole Clark out for her celebration dinner—and the weekend had been lost to his work as well.
She'd needed the first few days to simply sort out all that she had heard, to come to terms with what Beth had confided. Only when it was clear in her own mind exactly how she felt would she feel free to discuss it with David. If they ever had the opportunity to really sit down and talk.
She needed to talk to both David and Beth, she realized. Irving had given her till Thursday afternoon, which meant she had to speak to both of them as soon as possible.
Jill looked up at the clock with a sudden shock. It was twenty minutes after eleven! How long had she been on the phone? How long had she been staring down at the floor?
She quickly headed for the door. If she was lucky, and the traffic was with her, she'd make it to the campus just in time for the end of her first class.
She was surprised as he was by the way she looked.
"What did you do to your face?" he asked, getting up from behind his desk.
''I went to Saks. They were having a special today on makeup. Mr. Claridge himself was there. He told me personally what makeup was right for me," Jill laughed, finding herself embarrassed in front of her husband, "and well, they do it for you right there in the store. What do you think? Too much?"
David walked around his wife, examining her face as if it were a rare object. "No, not too much. You know I like you with makeup. I'm just not used to seeing you with so much of it on."
"You do think it's too much?"
"No," he laughed, "I think it's just right. I think Mr.—"
"Claridge."
"Mr. Claridge did a first-rate job. But it's a shock, that's all, considering that you never usually wear any. But I like it."
"He showed me how to put it on."
"Good." He leaned forward and kissed her. "So, is that why you dropped by the office?"
"Well," Jill hesitated, "it was one of the reasons. I finished classes at four o'clock and I dropped by Saks, and then I thought, well, I'm in the neighborhood, why don't I come up and show you how glamorous I've become while you've been so busy working and see if I can't persuade my always-gorgeous husband to take his newly renovated wife to dinner."
"Oh, Jill—"
"Please don't say no, David. We could go across the street to Winston's. It wouldn't take long."
"Look at my desk, Jill. Can you see over that pile of paperwork?"
"Your desk was always a mess," she reminded him.
"I can't, honey. I'm sorry."
"David, it's important. I need to talk to you."
There was a tap on the door and then it opened. Nicole Clark stood, regal and beautiful, in the doorway. "Oh, sorry," she said quickly to David. "I didn't realize anyone was with you. How are you, Jill?"
Jill felt the makeup burning acid-like holes into her skin, feeling like the clown in a circus when his time has been usurped to make way for the main attraction. Mr. Claridge, Jill decided in the second between Nicole's greeting and her own response, could take a few lessons from her husband's newest junior associate.
"I'm fine," Jill answered with pleasant briskness. "I want to congratulate you on your being called to the bar, and on becoming a member of the firm."
"Oh, thank you very much," Nicole said graciously. "It was very exciting. And wonderful having your husband at the ceremony. I needed the support."
"We all like support," Jill said, smiling at David.
Davi
d's voice caught her slightly off guard. "I'm taking my wife out for a quick dinner," he explained to the younger woman. "No more than an hour. Is there something you needed to discuss now or can it wait until tomorrow? Unless you'll be around later—"
Jill waited for Nicole's inevitable "I'll be around," but instead she heard, "No, I'm going home now. I'm tired and this can wait. Nice to see you again, Jill. Good night."
So, David had spoken to her as promised. And this was the result. I should have let him talk to her in the beginning, Jill thought, as David took her by the elbow and led her out of his office. It would have saved months of worry.
They sat across from each other and nibbled at their salads. "So," David said firmly, "we have exhausted the weather and Mr. Claridge and your new crop of students. Are you going to tell me now why we're here? I mean, your day was interesting, I'll give you that," he continued, smiling.
"But so far, I haven't heard anything I would describe as important." He reached over the table and grabbed her hand. "Not that seeing you isn't important. It is. And I'm glad I was coerced into this dinner."
Jill smiled widely. The makeup had been a good idea. Even if it did feel like she was wearing someone else's face. It was obviously a face that David liked.
"Irving called," she said, swallowing the last of her lettuce.
"Oh?" Definite interest.
"The network is producing a new show. Just a pilot. If everyone likes it, it would get its own time slot mid-season."
"What kind of show?"
"Chicago's answer to 'Sixty Minutes.' They're calling it 'Hour Chicago.' Hour with an H."
"Very clever."
"Yes," Jill agreed. "It would be based entirely in Chicago, I think. At least that's the impression I got, since it's supposed to be a show about Chicago and what's concerning the citizens and everything. And—"
"And what are you so nervous about telling me?" he asked, almost laughing. "It sounds wonderful! You'd be doing exactly what you want without a lot of traveling. I think it's fantastic!" He looked at her worried expression. "Did I jump the gun? They do want you, don't they?"