by Joy Fielding
"You won't admit to even a tiny speck of doubt?"
"Not one speck! Al was a kind and decent man. There is simply no question in my mind about that. But even if there was some doubt, even if I was willing to accept these ridiculous lies as truth, it would all be strictly beside the point."
"The point being?"
"The point being that Beth Weatherby murdered her husband in cold blood!"
"Not if it was self-defense!"
David looked back out the window, then without looking at Jill, turned and walked past her to the door. Jill's eyes followed him silently. He stopped. "I'm going out for a while."
"Oh, David, please don't—"
"I'm sorry, Jill, I can't stay here. My head is reeling. I'm tired and angry—very angry—and I need some time to myself. Actually," he said, suddenly laughing, "what I really need are a few stiff drinks."
Jill tried to keep her voice from betraying her inner hysteria. "Please don't go out, David. Just get into bed. I won't bother you."
"I can't, Jill. I can't lie down. I have to get out. Walk around or something."
"Where will you go? You can't walk around the streets of Chicago after midnight."
"Then I'll drive," he said simply, heading for the door.
"Can I come?"
"No."
"David, please, you can't keep walking out on me every time we have an argument! Can't we just agree to disagree?"
He opened the door. "Tell your good friend the next time you're talking to her that she'll stand a much better chance in court pleading temporary insanity."
Without turning back, he shut the door behind him.
Jill felt the urge to cry and forced the tears down into her throat, returning to the dining room and righting the overturned chair, then sinking into it. Why did everything lately have to end in a fight? Why couldn't she just learn to keep her big mouth shut? Absently, she reached over and finished off the remainder of David's piece of cake. Then she walked into the kitchen and polished off the rest.
Chapter 25
Jill rolled over in bed, determined to find a comfortable position. It was useless. She'd never get comfortable. She sat up and turned on the light, looking at the clock. It was after 2 a.m. David still wasn't home.
She felt small tingling’s of panic begin to spread across her body, the start of what she recognized as an anxiety attack. Calm down, she told herself, wishing she had one of Beth's chalky white tablets. Lie back. It'll be all right.
She did as her inner voice demanded, laying her head against her pillow and taking several deep breaths, telling her body to relax. Relax. David would surely come home, probably quite drunk, very apologetic. He wouldn't stay out all night. Oh please, don't let him stay out all night.
Her body immediately tensed, the tingling in the tips of her fingers and in the pit of her stomach returning. Relax, she repeated. He'll be home. He wouldn't be so obvious; he wouldn't hurt her in this way. He was just going through a very difficult time and she wasn't making things any easier for him. But he'd get over it. They'd both get over it. He wouldn't stay out all night. He had to know she'd be thinking of a night so long ago when he'd left another house after another fight and turned up drunk and searching at another door. Her door.
She opened her eyes wide, feeling her breathing becoming short and choppy. There was no point in trying to relax—she knew she'd never sleep.
Jill got out of bed and marched into the den, flipping on the television with the remote control unit. Gary Grant's youthful face filled the large screen. She recognized the movie immediately— I Was a Male War Bride. A wonderful, funny movie. Running quickly back to her room, she seized her heavy sweater and returned, plopping herself down inside the big leather chair and giving the TV her undivided attention, losing herself in a world where even armies were filled with innocents, and the colors of reality were not permitted to disturb the simple blacks and whites of the land of make-believe.
She tried hard to concentrate on Gary Grant and Ann Sheridan, struggled against the image of the shadowy figure who was emerging in the background, getting clearer, until she came strongly into focus, throwing everything else into the background, as if the cameraman had readjusted his lens, superimposing her face over all the others. Jill watched the image become real, powerless to move or change the channel.
She saw Nicole Clark in bed, asleep. Watched her turn over, earlier smells of David still lingering against her pillow. Felt her dreaming, as she herself had been dreaming on that distant night, dreaming about a parade, a marching band. The drummers banging loudly on their drums. So loudly that she had felt her eyes open against the noise in protest. Aware now that she was awake and yet the drumming was continuing.
Now the image shifted again. Nicole getting out of bed, moving to the door, became Jill stumbling toward the window. What was going on? Who was out there on the street? It was cold. It was the middle of the night!
And now, not only banging but other sounds as well. Angry, barking noises. The great Doberman awake and alarmed, his owner's voice shrill and demanding—^"What's going on here? Get away or I'll call the police!"
David was shouting her name. "Where's Jill?" he was demanding.
"Get out of here or I'm calling the cops, do you hear me?!" her landlady shouted through the door.
"No, wait, please!" Jill called, running down the steps. "It's for me."
"Not at three o'clock in the morning, it isn't."
"Please, Mrs. Everly, he's obviously drunk. We can't let him go anywhere in that condition."
"He got here, didn't he?"
"Yes, he did," Jill said with surprising strength. "And he's staying here. In my apartment. Now I'm sorry he woke you up. It won't happen again. But he is coming inside."
The landlady had retreated, with her dog still snarling. Only as she closed the door behind her did Jill notice that Mrs. Everly's right hand firmly clutched a large, unfriendly shotgun.
"She could have killed you," Jill exclaimed, ushering David quickly inside and closing the door, only now thinking how she must look to him, her hair greasy, her skin sweaty with a newly broken fever, her body wrapped in flannel. Why, of all nights, did he have to pick this one?
"I came to see how you are feeling," he said as his arms reached out for her. She let herself be surrounded by his body, smelled the liquor that permeated his skin, felt his blond hair softly whip against her damp forehead. He's in my arms, she thought.
"I look such a mess," she whispered.
"You look so pretty," he said simultaneously.
It was cold in the hallway despite the warmth of his body. "Can you make it up the stairs?" she asked, reluctant to loosen her grip. He said nothing and she realized she was holding him up. "Can you walk?" she asked. Again he said nothing, allowing her to lead him. They walked slowly, stumbling against the walls, clutching at the railing, finally reaching the top of the stairs and getting inside Jill's apartment. David collapsed onto the floor. "David?"
He looked up at her. Jill felt like a giant. "You're so pretty," he said.
"Let me get you a cup of coffee," she pleaded. He nodded. "I'll go put the kettle on. I only have instant. Is that all right?" He smiled. She ran into the kitchen and poured cold water in the kettle, setting it down on the electric burner. Then she measured some coffee into a mug and put it on the counter. He was here; David was really here. And it didn't matter that she hadn't seen him all week or that she'd been sick with a cold and he hadn't come over; that they'd been trying to cool things and she'd been miserable; he was here now. It didn't matter that it was the middle of the night and her landlady would probably throw her out in the street come morning or that his wife was probably frantic with worry, wondering where he was so late.
All that mattered was that he was here, that this wasn't a dream. He probably doesn't know where he is, she thought, hurrying back into the main room. "David, are you awake?" she asked, kneeling in front of him. His eyes were closed. He opened them.
<
br /> "Yes," he said.
"Do you know where you are," she asked.
"In your apartment," he said simply.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked, holding her breath.
"You're the prettiest girl I've even seen," he answered.
She smiled, running a hand through her hair. Why did she have to look so awful? "Do you know my name?"
His smile grew very wide. "I may be drunk," he said, "but I'm not an idiot! You're the woman I love! You're Jill," he said softly.
"Well, I had to make sure," she cried happily. "You keep telling me how pretty I am. I thought you might not be seeing too straight!"
"I’m not, but you're still pretty."
"You shouldn't be sitting on the floor," she said, suddenly. 'You'll get a chill. Come on, let me move you over to the bed."
She put her hands under his armpits, trying to lift him up. It was like trying to move a cement statue. "David, do you think you could help me a bit—"
He smiled at her innocently. "What would you like me to do?" he asked.
"Just lift your butt a little," she said. "Try and get up on your feet."
"I'm very good at lifting my butt," he said. Jill laughed.
"That's right," she told him as he tried to follow her instructions. She managed to get him to his feet and together they stumbled toward the bed. "Okay," she said, "let go."
"Not a chance," he said, pulling them both down.
Jill lay breathless in David's arms. This isn't a dream, she kept repeating. Please don't let this be another dream. They lay completely still, David too drunk to move, Jill too afraid he might.
It was a few minutes before she realized that she couldn't breathe. Her nasal passages were completely blocked; her head was swimming. They made a fine pair, she thought, and the thought made her laugh. He opened his eyes and rolled over, his hand moving without plan to cover her mouth. Oh great, she thought, he's covered the only breathing apparatus I have that still works.
Gently, with great care, she tried to remove his arm. She touched his fingers, felt the soft hairs on the back of his hand, and very slowly pushed the hand aside. He took no notice. Jill sat up slowly in bed, careful not to make any sudden movements that might disturb him. Why had he come here now? She wondered. And why so drunk?
Possibly a fight with Elaine, she decided. Over what? She grabbed a Kleenex from the side of the bed and blew her nose as quietly as she could manage. It didn't seem to help. Her nose remained as stubbornly plugged as ever. And probably fire engine red, she thought, and flaky. Why did you have to come tonight? She demanded of him without asking. Maybe it’s better that you're so drunk, she decided. But what had happened that made him that way? Was it all over with Elaine? The thought made her feel lightheaded. She stood up too quickly and he sat up abruptly. Oh no, she thought. Please don't get up; please don't go home.
"Where are you going?" he asked. It was obvious from his tone that he wasn't planning on going anywhere.
"The water's boiling," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. "I'm so mixed up I can't remember if you take cream or sugar."
"Beats me," he said, smiling.
"I think black would be best," she told him, shuffling toward the kitchen, looking back in his direction to make sure he was still there. She poured his coffee and made herself a cup of tea, slowly adding the boiling water, feeling the steam reach up into her nose, momentarily clearing her sinuses, allowing her the luxury of breathing again, if only for the moment.
She heard him moving, the sound of his feet on the floor. Grabbing a mug in each hand she hurried into the other room.
"Where are you going?" she asked. He was almost at the front door, although he'd left his jacket in a crumpled heap on the bed.
"The bathroom," he muttered.
"The bathroom is over there!" Both hands being full, she used her chin to indicate direction. He smiled and came toward her, kissing her full on the lips. She felt a sinking sensation in her legs, knew that if she didn't put down the mugs, her hands would simply drop them. He pulled away from her as if in slow motion.
"God, you're sweet," he said, then looked totally confused. "The bathroom?" he asked again.
"Over there," she told him, following behind and lowering both mugs to the floor by the bed. ''Are you all right? Can you make it by yourself?"
"I've been going to the bathroom by myself since I was three years old," he said.
"Drunk?" she asked.
He laughed and lurched forward, out of her sight. She heard the light switch on and the door close behind him. He's going to stay, she thought. He's really going to stay. Jill reached down and brought the mug of tea to her lips, sipping slowly, allowing the steam to seep into her pores. It made her perspire more, and soon she felt trickles of sweat running across her face. She finished her tea and decided on another cup, returning quickly to the kitchen. This was crazy, she thought. It was almost three-thirty in the morning and she should be asleep in bed, not walking around her apartment, not contemplating the things her mind couldn't stop thinking about. About the possibility that he had left his wife for good. Elaine had to know he was with another woman. How could she live with that knowledge and not confront him? Staying all night meant more than just a casual affair. It meant that he no longer put Elaine's feelings ahead of hers, that he could no longer hide her existence from his wife. That he no longer cared to try.
She looked toward the bathroom. David had been there a long time. She hoped he wasn't being sick but imagined he probably was. She poured herself another cup of tea, catching her reflection in the toaster. My God, she looked absolutely awful. She ran for her purse in the front closet, searching through it and pulling out her brush. Taking another fast glance at the bathroom, she ran back into the kitchen and tried to brush her hair. The frenzied brushes only made it look greasier, and her eyes were all puffy and as swollen as her nose. There was nothing she could do that would make her look any better short of cutting off her head. She looked down, saw the sweaty flannel nightgown and heavy wool socks and winced almost audibly. Thank God he's so drunk, she told herself, wondering if perhaps she shouldn't see if he was okay.
"David?" she called quietly, knocking gently on the bathroom door. "David, are you okay?" There was no response. "David? Can you hear me?" She put her hand on the doorknob and felt it turn. It wasn't locked. "David, can I come in?" There was nothing, no sound at all. "I'm opening the door, David," she called, her voice as loud and strong as she could manage. She tried to push the door open but nothing happened; it wouldn't budge. There was something blocking it. Jill felt herself becoming frightened. She pushed frantically at the door, felt it give a few inches, saw David's blond hair on the floor on the other side. "My God," she cried. "David, are you all right?" Had he fallen? She wondered, or simply lain down? Had he hurt himself? Had he passed out? "David, please, can you sit up?" She pushed the door farther open, saw his eyes closed with sleep. She couldn't see any bruises or bumps; there didn't seem to be any blood. She reached her hands inside the door and awkwardly tried to pry his body loose from the other side. She succeeded in getting enough of her own body inside to give the door the extra push it needed. David rolled over lifelessly as the bathroom door opened against him.
Jill crouched down, turning him onto his back, looking over his face and head for signs of a bad fall. There weren't any. She lifted his head, examining the back of his skull. It didn't look like he'd fallen.
Jill looked hopelessly around the small room, trying to decide on a course of action. She could throw him in the bathtub, try to sober him up. No, he could drown that way, she decided, choosing instead to stick him under the shower. She couldn't just leave him on the bathroom floor all night.
She stood up, having laid his head gently back on the floor, and turned on the shower. Just warm enough to wake him up a little. To be able to get some coffee into him. The first problem, of course, was getting him in the shower.
She looked at him, asleep on the floor,
the most glorious-looking man she'd ever seen. Pale and blond and perfect. This is all I will ever want, she thought. She kissed him, felt his body instinctively stir. Her eyes traveled the length of his body. She'd have to undress him.
The room was starting to get warm. The noise of the water was echoing in her ears. She started to unbutton his pale blue shirt, the fair hairs of his chest coming immediately into view. She couldn't believe she was doing this, couldn't believe the excitement she was starting to feel, despite how sick she was. She finished undoing the last of the buttons and pushed the shirt aside, bending down without thinking and kissing his exposed chest. Again he stirred, his hands moving automatically to her back and then falling to the floor again, lifeless. She undid the buttons at his cuffs and pulled one arm slowly free of his sleeve and then the other. The combination of the water and her effort brought a further onslaught of perspiration. She felt tired and weak and positively elated.
She moved down to his feet and quickly discarded his shoes and socks. See Mom, she thought, his feet don't even smell. There isn't a thing about this man that isn't beautiful. She heard her mother's voice—except his wedding ring, it said. Jill found herself looking at the thin gold band. It doesn't look very substantial, she told herself, moving on to the belt buckle of his trousers and undoing it before she could persuade herself otherwise. Then she unzipped the front zipper and yanked the pants down past his knees. Underneath he wore regular Fruit-of-the-Looms.
He groaned and opened his eyes though they were still mere slits.
"You have to take a shower," Jill told him. “Do you understand?"
He grunted but made no move to get up.
"I'm trying to get you undressed. Can you help me? Try to stand up." Once again, she grabbed him under his arms. He took hold of her with one hand and the door handle with the other, and pulled himself up. His shirt remained on the floor; his slacks bunched up at his feet. He stepped out of them.
Jill looked at his body, clad only in his shorts. He looked even better than she remembered, his man's body youthful but yet not boyish. Slim, tight, sensual. She wanted him so badly she could barely move. "Can you get out of your shorts?" she asked, not trusting herself to touch him further. He looked sleepily down at his torso and pulled down his shorts in one surprisingly smooth motion, stepping out and away from them, kicking his clothing aside. Jill tried not to look at him, coming around him instead to lead him toward the shower's spray. "Step up," she said, as they reached the bathtub. He did, though not far enough, and hit his leg, causing him to cry out. "Try again," she advised, guiding his legs with her hands, feeling the water hitting the side of her shoulder. Once inside, she pushed him toward the wall and directly under the water. He gasped, opening his mouth, at first hugging the wall with his back, then moving back toward the spray, tossing his head back, opening his eyes wide.