Mrs. Daniels sighed, then stood up and walked to the living room and collapsed again onto the couch, pulled a brocade pillow over her head, and wailed like a lost child.
CHAPTER 12
Late morning limped into early afternoon, late afternoon crawled into early evening, but still Trisha sat planted in the living room where the day had started, except for a too-short walk to the pool where she had briefly sat in an elaborately designed lawn chair underneath a bougainvillea-covered trellis. Mostly, though, she stayed in the hated jungle living room where she fantasized she was in some disgusting Tarzan movie where she and Pie and her mother were all noble savages helping Tarzan and Jane work out their marital problems. Just as she predicted, Lady Bell had the effect of causing Mrs. Daniels to burst into tears with alarming frequency. Lady Bell cried right along because she truly cared for this woman and shared her anguish, though she had met the woman only six hours ago. Trisha had her own private anguish. One thing about being a virgin is you don’t end up pregnant. Did Jordan even ask Daphne if she was using something? Probably not. He just humped, blindly humped away, grateful to be getting some. As a result he could be the father of a married woman’s baby, a not one hundred percent sane married woman at that.
Then the thin-lipped, grim-faced Mr. Daniels arrived. Pie had terse words of consolation for him.
“God gave us children to torment us,” she said before introducing herself, Trisha, and Lady Bell.
After hearing about the situation from Mrs. Daniels, he headed to the bar, offering everyone a drink and pouring himself a tumbler of gin. He then walked out.
But what was the point of all this? Trisha asked herself. Daphne left with that husband of hers; she was rational enough. She could be married to whomever she chose. Daphne and the monster were married; even monsters had the right to spend time with their spouses.
“I’ve done my best to keep that man away from Daphne, but he hunts her down. He’s her weakness,” Mrs. Daniels said.
But Mrs. Daniels’ words were just noise to Trisha. She knew chances were that the baby, if Pie was right, had to be Jordan’s. Mostly, her hunch was based on how her luck had been running. Trisha thought she should call Jordan and invite him over to share the grim mood. Maybe he could find humor in what a mess his taste in women had made of everything.
Finally, it was time to leave. After seeing Mrs. Daniels to her bed, Pie and Lady Bell came downstairs, gesturing for Trisha to follow. They looked remarkably well for women who had been doing major consoling for hours. Mr. Daniels, looking more pallid, if that was possible, was smashed. They tried to stop him, but he escorted them to the door, stumbling and muttering.
“Thank you, ladies, for your help. Denise is much better,” he said with some gratitude. “I’m off to the pharmacy for something for her nerves.”
When he was still in earshot, Pie said in a loud voice, “She don’t need no tranquilizers. She needs to pray.”
Mr. Daniels smiled and shrugged like Pie was joking.
Trisha was to follow them home, the general idea being that Mr. Bell would have less to say about having to make his own dinner if they made an entrance together, but Trisha abandoned the plan, exited at Carrillo. and drove east to Milpas. The Old Spanish Days Parade had passed hours ago, but the street was still packed with revelers ready to drink the night away. It was the Fiesta, the day when Santa Barbara celebrated building the Mission or killing the Indians, or it had something to do with the founding of the city, she didn’t know which. Relieved to see Jordan’s Triumph in the driveway and the open back door, she parked and hurried inside. Jordan and Art sat at opposite ends of a couch watching a football game.
“Hi, Art, Jordan.”
Jordan looked pissed.
“I’ve been calling you all day. I thought we had plans to go to the Fiesta,” he said, drily. Art shifted nervously.
“We need to talk,” Trisha said.
Art took that as a clue to leave and hurried into the kitchen.
“What’s up?”
“It’s about Daphne.”
Jordan laughed.
“Daphne? What’s there to talk about?”
“Jordan, you need to know this . . . . Daphne might be pregnant.”
Jordan sat stone still, then he stood up, grinning.
“Well, good for her. I hope she’s happy.”
Jordan tried to sound nonchalant, but it was obvious he was stunned. He ran his hands together as though he was dry-washing them.
“How do you know it’s . . .” She didn’t have to finish.
Jordan sighed, then his eyes flashed.
“How the hell would you know she’s pregnant?”
“Pie told me.”
Jordan slumped forward, face in hands.
“And how would Pie know?”
“Pie used to be a midwife back in Florida. She’s seen enough pregnancies.”
“Has Pie ever been wrong about anything?”
“Not anything important.”
Jordan sighed and meandered to the bathroom. He returned a short time later, face glistening with water.
“It can’t be mine. I know . . .”
“Did you use something?”
“No, she did. Why wouldn’t she?”
“Maybe she wanted to get . . .”
“Pregnant?” Jordan said, almost choking on the word. “It’s Frank’s baby. That’s what he wanted.”
“But that’s not what she wanted. She doesn’t love him. He probably wants her to have a baby to try to keep her close. Maybe it’s money. He wants her for her money. You didn’t. She’s crazy, but she’s not stupid.”
“How do you know I didn’t want her for her money?”
“Because you’re too in love with her.”
“It wasn’t love. I was just being stupid,” Jordan said.
“You love her now, but you can’t admit it to yourself.”
“No. I wasn’t in love. Love isn’t like that.”
“She hurt you, but that doesn’t matter. You loved her and you still love her, and right now she might be pregnant with your baby.”
Trisha could see in Jordan’s eyes that he was on the edge of tears. She knew the truth about him. He didn’t want to think about his feelings for Daphne. Now, though, he had no choice. Daphne wasn’t ever going away if she was carrying his baby.
Jordan shrugged in disgust. He pushed by Trisha, muttering about needing to be alone.
Art came into the living room with a six-pack of Dos Equis.
“Where’s Jordan? I thought he wanted to watch the game.”
Trisha shrugged as she hurriedly pulled her keys from her purse and headed for the door.
“He’s somewhere trying to find out if he has a heart.”
Art nodded and turned the game on.
* * *
Jordan drove, trying to avoid the crowds milling about after the Fiesta Parade, where blondes dress up in Spanish regalia and march down State Street. Already the frat boys and sorority girls were drunk, wandering around looking for more brewskis. Jordan suppressed the desire to run them over and made it to Mission. He drove up the narrow hillside road to Daphne’s studio, thinking hard and fast about what he would say when he got there and what he would do if Frank was with her. The money, her money, abstract wealth, suddenly solidified. Isn’t that how the white boys do it, marry into a family with money? All that money. What if she wanted to raise the baby in Australia or England? What if she wanted to have nothing to do with him? Then there was the thought that made him almost deliriously sick: the idea of Frank raising his child. He never wanted to be one of those lowlifes that have a child and walk away like it’s somebody else’s problem. His parents raised him and loved him, and he damn sure would be there for his own kid, no matter what kind of craziness that would bring.
Daphne’s apartment was dark but her Volvo was there. The sock of quarters in his pocket felt ridiculous, but it was either that or a knife. A knife probably would provoke Frank to shoot h
im, but with a sock full of quarters, he’d either make him laugh or Jordan would brain him.
He knocked but got no response, then he noticed the cobwebs running across the door. Nobody had been there in days. Frank probably had spirited her back to New York.
* * *
He drove around the city frantically trying to think of where they could be. All Jordan could think to do was to cruise through parking lots of the hotels where he imagined Frank would stay, searching for his car, but he came across far too many late-model black BMWs.
Then he remembered his date with Daphne at the El Encanto and her mentioning how much she liked the bungalows. He did a U-turn on the narrow road above Mission, saw the city lights flash below him, and red-lined it to the El Encanto. He parked by the fountain, and noticed the valets eyeing him as though he might be up to something. He slowed, consciously trying to present a more amiable, acceptable black face. The valets lost interest and looked elsewhere, and Jordan continued on under the arbor trellises toward the cottages. More BMWs and Benzs and whatnots parked right up to the cottage doors; he finally found Frank’s BMW, remembering the license plate, “Carpe Diem!”. He put his ear to the door of the bungalow nearest to the car. He heard the sound of someone sobbing.
Jordan pounded on the door until Frank answered. “What?” he said, between sobs. Jordan pulled the sock of quarters out of his pocket, ready to brain Frank right then and there.
“Where’s Daphne?” Jordan demanded, pushing by him into the dark room. “Where’s the lights?”
Frank closed the door, and now they were in almost total darkness. Jordan could barely see, and Frank was behind him somewhere.
A whimper? At first Jordan thought it was Frank, but no; it was a woman. He heard Frank cursing behind him, and that chased the anger out of Jordan. He frantically searched until he found a wall and ran his hands along it until he found a switch, clicked it on, and saw the wreck of the cottage room. The kicked-over television, the couch on its side, the shattered lamps. On the bed was Daphne, naked, on her stomach, arms outstretched as though she had been trying to hold onto the edges of the bed. Red welts tattooed her back, crisscrossing like a lattice-crust pie.
“I’m sorry,” Frank said, almost choking on the words. “She wanted to leave me. She said she’d file the papers. . . . I never hit . . . hit her before.”
Frank stepped back, jerking his hands through thinning hair. It was the first time Jordan took a look at Frank, and he was an ugly sight, shirtless and sunburned, big gut hanging over ridiculously tight Speedos, but his arms were thickly muscled, and he was good at beating somebody down with them.
Jordan approached Daphne and took her wrist.
“Daphne?” he said, and reached to touch her. She gasped at the sound of his voice. He tried to lift her from the bed, but instead he was rocked, smashed against the wall of the bungalow.
“No! Stay away. Leave her alone,” Frank shouted.
Jordan found his feet and stood as Frank assumed a guard dog position above Daphne.
“She has to go to the hospital,” Jordan said. “What did you do, beat her with a belt or an extension cord?”
“No, you get out!”
Jordan could hear Daphne moaning. She lifted her head, revealing her battered face.
Jordan’s shock agitated Frank. His thick arms clapped repeatedly against his chest like a mountain gorilla.
“It’s your fault! You poisoned her mind against me. You forced my hand. Fucking nigger!”
“Fuck you!” Jordan shouted, and swung the sock of quarters.
The arcing black band distracted Frank enough so that he stopped to watch the fist-size ball of quarters strike against the side of his head.
He grunted and fell to one knee.
“Good one,” he said, and charged again. This time Jordan swung and caught Frank with a blow across the jaw. He sprawled backward, flipping over the upside-down couch.
He saw Daphne attempting to sit up; she hardly had the strength. Jordan wrapped her in a blanket and carried her to the door.
“Thank you,” she said, in a whisper.
Outside, his stomach sunk to see the flashing reds and blues rolling up the road.
“What’s going on here?” the first policeman asked, stepping from the car.
“Yes, Officer. I came to visit and . . .”
“I want you to put her down and put your hands above your head and kneel down, now!”
“But I’m the one . . .”
“Do it!”
Jordan squatted low and laid Daphne onto the grass as gently as he could manage. He knew without looking that she was unconscious.
“Now, step away from her, turn around, and kneel.”
Guns were aimed at him. Reluctantly, Jordan knelt.
The first cop rushed over and handcuffed him, and pulled him over to the patrol car. The cop pushed him inside the backseat and shut the door.
Finally, the ambulance arrived.
“Say, Mort! We’ve got another one, busted up pretty good.”
The two cops led Frank from the bungalow. He had lost the sway in his walk. He now looked calm, together, and most disturbing, he was not handcuffed.
“That’s the bastard!” he said, pointing to Jordan.
Jordan was so much in the shit he found it almost funny. Frank strained to get at him, then sobbing, fell into the arms of the cops. Frank was fucking Robert De Niro.
The paramedics went about the job of stabilizing Daphne and strapping her onto the gurney and were gone within minutes, sirens blaring as they drove to Cottage Hospital.
The first cop returned, opened the car door, pulled out a small card, and began reading Jordan his rights.
Jordan couldn’t bring himself to respond. Whatever had held his emotions back earlier was gone. Tears flowed from his eyes.
* * *
It took a weekend of sharing a tiny cell with a brain-damaged white Rasta busted for ganja possession who taught Jordan the words to “No Woman, No Cry” before Lady Bell, Pie, and Trisha finally sprung him early Monday morning. After the clerk finished the paperwork, Jordan stepped out of custody and approached Trisha sheepishly.
“I don’t deserve you, or your friendship,” he said, as sincerely as he had said anything in his life.
Trisha sighed and rolled her eyes. Next he hugged Lady Bell and thanked her from the bottom of his heart for bailing him out.
“It wasn’t very much,” she said, pushing stray bills back into her wallet.
Jordan didn’t want to think of how much the bail was. The idea of going to court, getting a lawyer—a lawyer he couldn’t afford, to prove his innocence—made him sick to his stomach.
Trisha waited for a quiet moment to speak to him.
“Don’t worry, Daphne will explain everything to the police.”
Jordan nodded, but he didn’t have any confidence she would. He had seen Frank’s magic. He could make Daphne sit up and beg.
“I left a message,” Trisha said, tentatively. She didn’t have to say, it but it was clear; the call wasn’t returned. He’d be in the dark until the arraignment.
The lawyer thing was even worse than he had imagined. He would have to go with a public defender, some idiot straight out of law school. But Mr. Bell knew an NAACP attorney who said he’d take the case pro bono. Even though Jordan was grateful, the phone conversation left him sinking lower than he thought he could sink.
“Oh, that’s a bit of a mess,” the lawyer had said, offhandedly.
Jordan’s stomach sunk to his knees.
Trisha tried cheering him up but it was hopeless.
“She needed your help. You didn’t know what that lunatic was going to do.”
“I don’t feel very heroic. I feel like I’m going to jail.”
“You’re not going to jail. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“You sure?” Jordan said, with a smile. “Because I’m not.”
“If I just knew what happened,” he added.
He looked pained.
“With the pregnancy?” Trisha asked.
“Yeah. Did she lose it?”
Trisha shrugged, and reached for his hand. He realized then that his relationship with Trisha was the only thing keeping him together.
“I’ve put you through so much shit.”
Trisha smiled.
“I like you a lot, most of the time.”
Jordan laughed.
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Stop being hard on yourself.”
“If I had given you what you asked for, none of this madness would be taking place.”
“Given me what?”
“A commitment.”
“You’ve got to want to commit.”
“I want to,” Jordan said.
“Talk to me when all of this is over. You’re so depressed even marriage looks like a good alternative.”
“I’m serious. I think we should get married.”
“You’ll always love Daphne more than me. You won’t say but you know I’m right,” Trisha said.
“You’ll see,” Jordan said.
* * *
Jordan found the ring at a fancy antique store on East Cota Street. The saleswoman, a former student of his, not only convinced him it was fourteen-karat gold but that the diamond was real and worth far more than it was priced.
“Oh, yeah. I want it for myself but my boyfriend has a problem with commitment.”
Jordan laughed.
“Tell him commitment isn’t jail time. Jail time is jail time.”
She looked a little confused at his remark, but just then the phone rang. Jordan looked at the ring again while she was away. He wanted to buy it, but he couldn’t afford fifteen hundred; that would take almost all of his savings.
All the Trouble You Need Page 16