by Joy Fielding
"Damn winter," Irving answered, grabbing his coat. "People forget how to drive as soon as they see a flake of snow. The client's been in some kind of a minor highway mishap. He's all right. But he won't be here till seven o'clock."
Jill grabbed her coat and allowed Irving to usher her into the hallway and then into the cold outside air.
"How's that step kid of yours doing?" he asked as they crossed the road, heading toward Maloney's.
"Laurie?" Jill asked, stopping at the door to the restaurant, feeling the wind slapping against her face, as if it had been told that she was suffering from a drug overdose and needed to be revived. 'She's doing fine," Jill told him. 'She still weighs as much as a green bean but she's seeing a doctor twice a week—her mother is actually going with her—and I think she'll be all right. I really do.''
''Sounds like it might make for an interesting show," Irving said slyly.
Jill laughed. ''Laurie said the same thing” she said, recalling Laurie in almost the same spot approximately a month ago, thinking simultaneously of the girl's father and how he would undoubtedly react to this fresh idea. "Listen," Jill said suddenly, ''would you mind if I begged off supper? I just feel like walking for a while."
"Walking? It'll get dark pretty soon, and it's freezing out!"
"It's not that cold," she protested good-naturedly. "And I’ll stick to the main streets."
"As long as I don't have to walk with you," he said. Jill moved to the restaurant door and held it open for him. "See you at seven," Irving added, disappearing into the inner warmth. "Be careful."
Jill stood for several seconds alone in the cold air. It was cold, she realized as she started to walk. Why had she been so oblivious to it before?
She crossed back across the street, not at all sure where she wanted to go. She felt the wind pushing against her cheeks, and moved her collar up to hug against her neck. She faced directly into the bitter onslaught of cold air, feeling her eyes sting and her nose automatically beginning to run. Naturally, she thought, wiping at her nose with the back of her gloved hand. Keep walking, she told herself, her hands now thrust deep inside her pockets. Keep moving.
What was she doing at this screening anyway? She had told David she would quit television. No, that wasn't entirely correct. She had agreed not to go back only if he agreed to give up Nicole. He had not agreed. She was still in limbo. Therefore, she was at the screening.
And if the clients, the sponsors, the people from the network liked the show? What then? If she was offered a regular position? What would her answer be—I can't tell you, I have to wait until my husband makes up his mind about his mistress?
And if he did make up his mind, if he walked in the front door that evening and announced that he had chosen her over Nicole, over all the fairest maidens in the land, what then? What would her answer be? God, could she really give everything up? Could she remain buried up to her neck in frustrations and recriminations, knowing the branch that could have saved her had been within her grasp, only to have been tossed carelessly aside? Could she really allow herself to be shut up in some ivory tower for one hundred years because she had allowed herself to be kissed by a Prince?
She turned onto shop-lined State Street and continued.
"Hour Chicago" was good. She knew it was good. Her segment was probably the best thing she had ever done. She had torn the issue of battered women who kill their husbands inside out and upside down, and while ultimately she was providing no easy answers, she would certainly be filling the airwaves with disturbing and thought-provoking questions. "This program is about fear," she heard her narrator's voice intone. "The fears of thousands of abused wives and the men who abuse them, who now see their women fighting back with often lethal results. And about the fears of many who feel that this latest trend will give new meaning to the old phrase that women get away with murder."
Jill drew a deep breath of satisfaction and felt something falling wet against her cheeks. Opening her eyes directly into the cold of the clear sky, she saw bits of snow falling. On a sudden childlike impulse, she opened her mouth and caught several snowflakes on her tongue, feeling them disappear instantly. She was looking forward to winter, she realized with no small amount of surprise, since it had always been her least favorite season. Maybe this winter she'd buy herself a pair of skates, a thought that alarmed her, as her only two previous excursions on skates (the last time twenty years ago) had resulted in two broken wrists. (“Someone should have told you not to skate on your hands," She remembered Beth Weatherby once telling her.)
She headed north on Michigan, thinking of Beth. She'd been so preoccupied of late, she'd neglected her good friend. Spotting a phone booth across the street, she ran, without looking, to the other side, aware of cars honking angrily behind her. She chose not to look back, preferring not to see how narrowly she might have missed death, knowing that in recent weeks she'd become almost purposely careless, as if she were leaving this aspect of her life (with all other aspects) to the will of others. She rummaged in her purse for the necessary change, fought with her memory for Beth's telephone number, and dialed. Beth's voice answered after two rings.
"Beth, how are you?"
“Jill”
Jill nodded, then realized Beth couldn't hear a nod. 'Yes," she answered, possibly too loudly. "I'm so sorry I haven't called lately. I've just had so much on my mind."
"I know," Beth said, tangibly warm. "How's the show going?"
"Good. Really good. There's a screening in about an hour for the people at the network, possible sponsors. My segment is the last of the three, right after welfare fraud and the Second City troupe."
Beth laughed. "You're pleased?"
"Yes," Jill said. "Your name is never mentioned. You're alluded to only as a 'recent event,” she explained with invisible quotes.
"How quickly we become recent events," Beth remarked with a smile, 'I’m sure that makes David rest easier” she added.
Jill said nothing. Beth said nothing further.
"How are you holding up?" Jill asked her.
"Well, I’ve held up this long. I don't intend to fall apart just as I'm entering the home stretch."
"Have the courts set a definite date?"
"Three weeks this Thursday," Beth announced, audibly exhaling.
"Are you nervous?"
"No," Beth answered. "Well, maybe a little. My lawyer's the one who's a nervous wreck. He's still trying to persuade me to change my plea. I'm still clinging to my right to self-defense. Actually, I've become quite a cause celebrity in the women's movement. All sorts of money has been coming in, offers of support, and letters from prominent people." She paused. "And Michael's come home."
"Oh?"
"I'm not sure if he's here to stay," Beth added quickly. "He's still wearing his robes and there are a lot of funny-looking people hanging around outside, but—^I was right, Jill. He did see something. Apparently, several times over the last few years, he'd seen Al attacking me. Of course, with my hands bound and my mouth gagged, he assumed it was some sort of kinky sex thing and was too embarrassed and ashamed to say anything about it. My mother the pervert, that sort of thing." She laughed nervously. "Poor baby, no wonder he prefers his chanting." She paused. "He's going to testify for me in court. The prosecution will undoubtedly claim I was a consenting adult, out for a little fun and games. Anyway, be prepared, I'm liable to be a hot topic of conversation for some time."
"Does that upset you?''
"No," Beth answered simply. "There's nothing anybody can say about me now that can hurt me. The worst time I had since all this started was that week I was trying to come to terms with myself and with what I'd done, with what I had to do, what I had to say, knowing how many people the truth would hurt, knowing I wouldn't be believed, that I might have to spend the rest of my life in prison. But it's funny," she continued, "Once you finally do make up your mind, the rest is relatively easy. When you finally make the decisions, and just get on with your life, well—you just get on with i
t." She paused dramatically. "It's when you don't know what to do that the panic sets in. The minute you make those decisions, it stops."
"It's that easy?" Jill asked, knowing Beth had intended the words for her.
"No," Beth laughed. "But it sounds good."
Jill joined in the laughter. "I better go," she smiled.
"Call me later."
"I will. Bye-bye." Jill replaced the receiver and headed toward the elegant shops of the "Magnificent Mile," glancing into the windows, crossing and re-crossing the street, continuing this random pattern for some while, aware of time's passage only by the increased presence of snow on her red coat and by the growing darkness around her. The sound of traffic seemed to be following her, and the farther she traveled the more impatient the drivers became, pushing against their horns, gunning their engines uselessly against the encroaching night. She had gone another two blocks before she realized that the persistent honking she was hearing was intended for her. She turned toward the shiny beige and brown Seville, failing at first to recognize either the car or its driver.
"It's me, you fitness freak," the driver yelled, lowering the tinted glass window as Jill approached and squinted inside. "I've been following you for blocks. Where the hell are you going? Don't you know it's dangerous out here at night?"
Jill recognized the voice of Ricki Elfer before she was able to make out the face. She smiled widely. "What are you doing downtown?"
"Put it this way," Ricki told her. "When Tm not at Rita Carrington's, Tm out exercising my wallet. Do you have time for a coffee?"
"What time is it?" Jill asked.
"Ten to seven," Ricki answered.
"Oh my God, no," Jill said. "I have to be at the studio at seven o'clock! I didn't realize I'd been walking for so long."
"Well, hop in, I'll give you a lift," Ricki offered.
"Great," Jill agreed, coming around to the other side of the car and giving Ricki directions, then briefly describing the show she was working on.
"Oh," Ricki smiled knowledgeably, "like that lawyer who got himself killed." Jill nodded silently. "How's your friend holding up?" Ricki asked, catching Jill by surprise.
Jill felt a slow grin spreading across her face. "She's fine," Jill said quietly.
"Wish her luck," Ricki offered.
"I will," Jill answered, looking around. "This is some car," she exclaimed, changing the subject.
"Like it?"
"It's gorgeous."
"Paul gave it to me."
"Wow! Birthday? Anniversary?"
"Guilt," answered Ricki with a smile. "I'd been complaining a lot lately. The usual wifely complaints. Finally, Paul got fed up and he said in that special tone they all get, you know the tone, 'What do you want?' And I said, 'I want you to be more affectionate, I want you to be more loving, I want you to spend more time with me.' And he said, 'Couldn't I just buy you something?” She laughed, indicating the car's plush interior with her hands. "How can you not love a guy like that?"
The car pulled to a halt in front of the studio. "That didn't take long," Jill commented, opening the car door. “Thanks a lot, Ricki."
"Listen," Ricki said, leaning over, "maybe you and your husband could come for dinner one night soon. Or the four of us could take in a movie some time—"
"Sounds good," Jill lied, slamming the door. "I'll see you at class soon."
Ricki honked her horn several times as she drove off. Jill watched until the new Seville disappeared from sight, and then she turned toward the building and went inside.
"This program is about fear," she heard the narrator begin, watching the photographs of bruised and beaten women fall one on top of the other like lifeless corpses. After that, the soundtrack became blurred, the images unfocused, and Jill wondered for a fleeting instant if something had gone wrong in the editing process, if another sound track had been improperly substituted for the correct one.
She hadn't interviewed Beth Weatherby; she hadn't questioned her mother or Ricki Elfer or Elaine. Or Laurie. And yet here were all these women up there on the large screen, exchanging profiles, their lips moving in unison, their voices superimposed on top of one another, blending into each other, speaking as if from one voice, speaking as if one. So what if he's good in bed, the voice asked, as all around her heads nodded eagerly.
Lots of men are good in bed. One couple's perfect marriage is something no one else would want. There are certain things in life that we just have to accept. Sarah Welles had drowned in her bathroom sink. Life is too short. The faces, blown up and expansive, registered shock, amusement and concern at the various remarks, moving easily from one emotion to the next. They separated, argued, and came together again, agreed. Suddenly, a shadowy figure approached, his image growing until he all but overwhelmed everything around him.
You're going to ask me why I didn't leave him, the women began as Jill felt her eyes drawn to the new presence. You have to remember that for a long time, I blamed myself. (I'm sorry, David, Jill heard herself plead under the other voices.) I kept thinking that it was my fault. (I didn't mean to say those things, David. Please, I'm so sorry.) Your pride goes first—then your common sense. (I'm so sorry, David. Please forgive me.) Soon, even your soul is dead. He killed my soul. (Jill saw the torn pieces of her soul floating, like leaves, up past David's head.) What is there to forgive? The voices asked angrily. "What the hell am I so sorry about?!" Jill demanded of herself.
Immediately, everyone disappeared, leaving a screen filled only with the powerful photographs of a more powerful hate. My God, what we do to one another, Jill thought, realizing that she was as bruised as any of the photographs. It was just that her bruises didn't show.
What do I want? She asked herself in silent annoyance. What is it that I want? She fidgeted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other and then returning it to the way it was before. I know what I don't want, she realized abruptly, sitting up very straight in her chair.
I don't want to be like Elaine, consumed by bitterness and an overriding need for revenge. I don't want to end up like Beth, driven beyond all endurance, forced ultimately to kill in order to survive. I do not want to destroy what good there was in my marriage, and thereby destroy both my husband and myself. I never want to hate my husband— or myself—as much as either of these women. I still believe in marriage, despite everything that's happened, but I can no longer just sit by and be a passive observer of my own life. I know what I want. I want to stop feeling guilty and unsure. I want my pride back. I want my soul.
Jill watched in silent confirmation as the episode ran to its conclusion, saw her name flash as the credits rolled quickly by, failing to note whether they had read Jill Listerwoll or Jill Plumley, discovering she didn't really care.
She accepted the congratulations of the people around her, recognized in the noncommittal smiles of the prospective sponsors that it would be several weeks before the final verdict was in, and realized that that was all right too. Everything in its own good time. She hugged Irving warmly and left the studio.
Nicole Clark lived in a relatively modem apartment in a nondescript part of the city. It took Jill only ten minutes to drive there and half that time to find a place to park. Then she pulled the two suitcases she had spent several hours packing from out of the back seat and carried them to Nicole's apartment. It was late. There was no doorman, only an elaborate buzzer system which Jill was in the process of deciphering when an elderly couple returned home and held the door open for her. She picked up the luggage and stumbled through the doorway. Apartment 815, she repeated to herself as they rode up together in the elevator, watching as the old couple departed at the fourth floor. The doors closed after them, taking her up to the eighth floor in silence before depositing her at her destination.
She promptly turned right, realizing after following several of the numbers on the apartment doors that she should have turned the other way, and doubled back. The suitcases were starting to feel heavy, as if for the first time she was
conscious of their weight. She released them, letting them fall gently to the floor, feeling a sudden twinge of panic. “It's when you don't know what to do," she heard Beth's voice repeat, "that the panic sets in. The minute you make those decisions, it stops." It wasn't that easy, she knew, projecting ahead to later that evening when she would reenter an empty apartment and know for certain that David would not be coming back—but it wasn't any easier now.
She grabbed the suitcases and proceeded with renewed determination to Apartment 815, stopping when she saw the appropriate number, lowering the bags once more, wondering what she was going to say to whoever opened the door. Perhaps she wouldn't have to say anything. The sight of the luggage would undoubtedly speak for itself.
She could try humor, she thought, feeling strangely lightheaded. Hi, everyone. Since all the fun seems to be happening over at your place, I've decided to move in.
What if David had already left to return home? Suppose he'd just broken it off with Nicole and he and Jill had crossed, unknown to each other, in traffic. Strangers in the night, she said to herself.
The door opened.
Nicole Clark stood in the doorway draped in a white velour bathrobe, her skin dotted with moisture, a towel wrapped around her neck. A Siamese cat hovered shyly around her legs. "David's in the shower," she said, after a pause, disengaging the cat with one foot and pushing it back inside.
Jill felt her throat constrict, her nose begin to twitch. ("Hi, I'm Nicole Clark. I'm going to marry your husband.")”These are most of David's clothes," she said softly, forcing back the itch. "He can come by for the rest of his things tomorrow. I'll be out all day. My lawyer will get in touch with him in a day or two," she continued, wondering who the hell her lawyer was. "I'd rather David didn't try to call me personally."
The two women exchanged long, probing glances.
She even looks good with no makeup on, Jill thought, allowing her glance to drop down to the other woman's bare legs. The cat had returned and was licking greedily at Nicole's damp feet. The second toe of each foot is longer than her big toe and she has a rather large com just below one nail, Jill realized, joyously. She has ugly feet! She looked back up into Nicole's puzzled face and smiled, noticing for the first time a slight blemish just beneath the younger woman's lower lip. Perhaps it had been there all along. Or maybe it had merely been biding its time, waiting for just the right moment to pop up and announce its host's morbidly.