by Joy Fielding
“Of course not.”
“Are you saying that Emily has never lied? Because if you are, I can remind you of a few occasions—”
“I know she can tell lies.”
“But you’re sure she isn’t lying now.”
“I’m sure.”
“How? How can you be so damn sure?”
How could she? Jane faltered for a moment. Then she saw Emily, the look of anguish that had distorted her sweet features when she whispered her father’s name. “Because Emily loves you. Because it tore her heart out to break her promise to you, her promise to keep what you were doing a secret, damn you! Because I know when my child is lying to me.”
“Just like you know everything else, right? Just like you know you’re always right and everyone else is always wrong. Like when you taunt some jerk on the street so that he almost runs you down, when you scream obscenities at some poor sucker who’s only doing his job until he almost punches you out, when you slug some old guy in the subway with your purse because he was rude enough to think he might have the right of way.”
“You’re twisting everything.”
“Am I? I don’t think so. I think you’ve been getting worse over the years. At first it was cute. We all thought it was cute. Jane and her temper. Something to laugh about at dinner parties. And then suddenly it wasn’t so cute anymore. It was worrisome, almost scary. What would Jane do next? Would she live to tell the tale? I tried to talk to you. I tried to warn you. But nobody tells Jane what to do. Jane Whittaker is a law unto herself. Except that nobody knows who Jane Whittaker is anymore. I’ve been married to the woman for eleven years and even I don’t recognize her these days. Who are you, lady?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This has nothing to do with anything.”
“Doesn’t it? Just who do you think is going to believe this ridiculous story you’ve concocted? You think that I’ll be the only one hurt by these crazy accusations? You think I’m going to sit around and let you ruin my career, my reputation?”
“I don’t care about your precious reputation. I care about my daughter.”
“Do I have to remind you that she’s my daughter too.”
“I’m the one who should be reminding you. How dare you!”
“Oh, don’t start with that crap again, Jane. If you want to believe an impressionable child who’s probably been coached by her neurotic teacher, then there’s nothing I can do to stop you. But I warn you, don’t try to make these accusations public because I’ll bury you. By the time I’m through with you, they’ll be waiting at the courtroom steps with straitjackets.”
Jane fought to keep herself under control, understanding the truth of what Michael was saying. If she did make her accusations public, she would be pitting her seven-year-old child against the father she loved, asking people to believe the word of a little girl over that of her renowned and respected father. Who was more likely to be believed?
What chance did she have? What chance did Emily have?
“All right, listen,” Jane began, hearing her thoughts only as they emerged as words. “I won’t go public with this. I won’t go to the police. I won’t say a word to anyone. You get to hold on to your career and your precious reputation. And in return—”
“In return?” His voice was sly, self-satisfied.
“In return, you’ll move out. Now. Right away.”
“And Emily?”
“Emily? Emily stays with me, of course. I get full custody.”
“You think I’d give up custody of the only child I’ll ever have?”
“I don’t think you have much choice.”
“Is that so? Well, maybe that’s not the way I see it.”
“If you fight me for custody in a court of law, I’ll charge you with child molestation. You’ll lose everything.”
“I don’t think so. I think the courts understand how vindictive some women can be when it comes to divorce, how they’ll use anything they can, invent all sorts of disgusting, outrageous claims. From all I’ve read, courts don’t look very favorably on hysterical women making unfounded accusations of sexual abuse.”
“They’re not unfounded.”
“Says who? Has a doctor examined Emily? Has anyone found any physical evidence of sexual molestation? Do you have anything other than your daughter’s imaginings and the concerns of some unmarried, overwrought schoolteacher?” He paused, allowing time for his words to register. “Are you going to subject Emily to repeated doctor’s examinations, to the manipulative, never-ending questions of well-meaning social workers, to some undoubtedly nasty cross-examination by an expert defense attorney? For what? So that some judge can find that, on the basis of the evidence, he has no grounds to convict me of anything other than being an overly indulgent husband to a dangerously unbalanced wife? Trust me, Jane, I think I’ll have an easier time proving you’re unfit than you will proving me a pervert.”
“You’re despicable.”
“No. Just right, and I think you know it.” He looked to the ceiling. “I’ll tell you what I will agree to.”
Jane felt her voice break, wondering at what point she had lost control of the conversation. “What will you agree to?”
“A divorce, if that’s what you really want, although it’s the last thing I want. I love you, Jane. I’ve always loved you.”
“Then why? How could you? …”
“How could I what?”
“For God’s sake, Michael,” Jane wailed. “You ejaculated in her hand. Can you really deny it?”
“To my dying breath.” He smiled. “Or yours.”
Jane forced her eyes to his. Surely none of this was actually happening. They weren’t really having this discussion. “Is that a threat?”
“I don’t make threats, Jane. I’m trying to make peace.”
“Oh, I see. Something else I’ve misunderstood.”
“Apparently.”
“All right, then, so what exactly are you saying? So I don’t misunderstand.”
“I’m saying that I want joint custody of my daughter.”
“What? How can you think for a moment that I’d agree to anything like that?”
“Even if the courts awarded you custody, you wouldn’t be able to keep me from seeing her. You know that. I have my rights as a father.”
“You forfeited any rights you might have.”
“I don’t think you’ll get many people to agree with you. I think even Emily would tell the court she wants to see her daddy.”
Jane looked frantically about the room, desperately searching for answers, for one single shred of evidence she could offer as conclusive proof. There was none. “Would you agree to supervised visits?”
“No chance. That’s as good as an admission of guilt. I didn’t do anything.”
Jane felt a scream of frustration rising in her throat. “I can’t believe what’s happened to us. You’re a stranger to me.”
Michael took a step toward her, his arms outstretched. “I love you, Jane.”
“No!”
“I love you. Even now, even after all the awful things you’ve been saying, I still love you. You’re so beautiful. I just want to take you in my arms and hold you.”
“Is that the sort of line you used on our daughter, Michael? Is it? Is it, you bastard? Is it?” And then she was screaming, sounds without words, and she was running from the room, leaving the suitcases behind, racing down the stairs, Michael right behind her. He ran around in front of her and blocked her way to the front door. Jane spun around without pause, running to the back door, Michael already there, refusing to let her leave. She found herself in the sunroom, this room she had always loved, that Michael had built for her. Her sanctuary. Her prison, she thought now, tempted to hurl herself through one of the large windows.
And then he was moving toward her, and she was backing up, stumbling against the sofa-swing, feeling it break away from her, her hand fumbling into the air for support, smacking against a brass va
se they had brought home from the Orient, raising it over her head as she steadied her feet.
“You really are crazy, aren’t you?” he laughed. “I just might go for full custody myself.”
And then her arm shot forward, propelled by her full fury, and she slammed the vase against the side of Michael’s head even as he tried to turn away. A daggerlike protuberance tore into his flesh, threatening to lift off the top of his head.
Jane let go of the vase, watching it fall to the floor, her eyes widening in growing horror as blood poured from Michael’s head. He staggered toward her, his deathly white face a mask of disbelief and pain. “My God, Jane, you’ve killed me.”
He collapsed against her, his head seeking the refuge of her breasts. Jane pulled away, felt Michael’s feet sliding out from under him, watched him fall to the floor, saw the front of her dress covered in blood.
“No!” she cried, pulling her trench coat tightly around her, doing up the buttons with trembling hands. “None of this is really happening.” She moved to the door. “None of this has happened.” She walked out of the room to the front of the house, refusing to look back. “It’s a beautiful day. I have to get out. Go for a walk. Get some milk and some eggs because I promised Emily a chocolate cake. Yes, that’s a very good idea.” She opened the front door and ran out of the house, not bothering to close the door behind her. “Yes, it’s a beautiful day,” she repeated as she headed down the street toward the nearest MBTA station. It was a beautiful day. It would be a shame to waste it indoors.
TWENTY-NINE
JANE lowered the glass vase she was holding, returning it to the coffee table in front of her, as Paula sank to the sofa and Carole stared at her with open disbelief.
“That’s quite a story,” Carole said after a lengthy pause.
Jane said nothing, overwhelmed for the moment by the person she had once been. It was as if she had believed herself an orphan all her life, only to be suddenly introduced to the parents she never knew she had, and surrounded by a multitude of siblings. Everything she had ever been, every cause she had ever believed in, everybody she had ever loved, were suddenly all present and accounted for inside her head, fighting among themselves for prominence. Her mother was there, even her father. Her brother, Tommy. Gargamella. Their children. Her friends. The histories they shared. The schools she had attended. Her first date with Michael, much as he had described it to her. Their wedding. The years they had spent together. Her pregnancy. Their daughter’s birth. Emily’s first birthday. Her first day of school. The last, when she told Emily she’d be back to pick her up at the end of the day.
Michael would have picked her up, Jane realized, not wanting to picture how Emily must have felt when she saw her father, and not her mother, arrive at the end of the school day. Jane forced herself to confront the unpleasant thought. To deny reality was to risk losing it. Surely she had learned that much.
Her head was spinning, whether from the shock of her memory having returned or the drugs still in her system, she couldn’t be sure. She gripped the side of the wing chair for support, ignoring Paula, who remained motionless on the sofa, to concentrate on Carole. “I need you to drive me to Woods Hole,” she said.
Carole shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“You still don’t believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Carole, we’ve been neighbors for a long time, and I thought we’d become pretty good friends.”
“I thought so too.”
“But you still choose to believe Michael.”
“It’s just that I find it hard to accept the things you’ve just told me.”
“That he molested his daughter?”
“He’s a pediatric surgeon, for God’s sake. His life is helping children, not hurting them.”
“I know it’s difficult to believe….”
“Not difficult. Impossible,” Carole stated simply.
“So you’d rather believe that I’m crazy.”
“Frankly, yes. It keeps it a much nicer world that way.” Carole ran her hand through her uncombed curls. “And face it, Jane. Forgetting who you are is not exactly the act of a rational human being.”
Jane smiled, almost laughed. “I guess I can’t argue with that. But I know who I am now. I know what happened that day. I know how much Emily needs me. Now, I can remember how to get to the Whittakers’ cottage. I’m just not sure I can make it there on my own. I’m begging you to help me.”
Again, Carole shook her head. “I can’t.”
Jane felt a wave of dizziness wash over her, try to knock her down. She fought to keep her balance. “Then let me have your car.”
“What did you do with Paula’s car?” Carole asked, though Paula herself said nothing, her eyes glued to the floor, as if the force of Jane’s story had rendered her immobile.
“It died a few blocks from here. Please, give me your car keys?”
“Why don’t you call the police?” Carole asked in response. “If what you say is true, they’re the ones you should be asking for help.”
“I will go to the police—after I find Emily. But if I call them now, they’ll only want to talk to Michael. He’s managed to convince you that I’m crazy. How much trouble do you think he’ll have with the police? At the very least, they’d waste hours questioning me, hours that Michael can use to spirit Emily away where I might never find her. I can’t risk that. I have to find my little girl. I have to know she’s safe. Please, Carole. Let me have the keys to your car.”
“Is this what you’re looking for?” the old voice asked from the doorway.
Jane looked to where Carole’s father stood at the entrance to the living room, holding Carole’s open purse in one hand, the keys to her car in the other.
“My God, Dad, give me those.” Carole vaulted toward her father. As her hands reached out for the keys, Fred Cobb looped them high into the air over her head toward Jane’s outstretched fingers.
“Monkey in the middle,” he cried gleefully. “Monkey in the middle.”
Jane pulled the keys out of the air and raced toward the front door as Carole’s father kept his frustrated daughter prisoner with his antics. She reached the plum-colored Chrysler, opened it and got inside, twisting the key in the lock and pulling out of the driveway just as Carole reached the front door.
Jane glanced into the rearview mirror as she pulled away, mindful that Carole had already gone back inside the house. She’ll call Michael, Jane thought, checking her watch, knowing that he was still in surgery, that he couldn’t be disturbed. Would they disturb him for an urgent message? she wondered, stepping on the gas, automatically checking the gas gauge and noting gratefully that the tank was full. Would Carole call the police to report her car stolen? Would the police be waiting to head her off at the nearest intersection?
She almost laughed, then felt herself dangerously close to tears. No, she wouldn’t cry. Not now. She’d cried enough. She had more important things to do, she thought, as fatigue wrestled with her eyelids. “Like staying awake,” she said out loud. “Goddamnit, I will not fall asleep. Not now.”
She switched on the radio. It was tuned to the local country-and-western station. Jane listened for several seconds to a deep-voiced crooner soothingly proclaim that he’d been loved by the best, then pressed the button to change the station. There was such a thing as too soothing. Any more of the man’s rich velvet voice and she’d be sound asleep before she hit the highway. What she needed was some hard rock, something to jangle her nerves and keep her on the edge of her seat.
The announcer, a young man who could only be described as “testerical,” announced the latest release by the hard rock group, Rush, and Jane breathed a sigh of relief. She’d have a hard time falling asleep with that music blaring. She turned up the volume, taking no chances, slowing down as she moved through Newton Center on her way to Highway 30, not wishing to risk being stopped for speeding.
That would be great, she thought, h
eading north on Walnut Street. Not only did she not have her driver’s license with her, but she was driving a stolen car. That would make for an interesting police report, to say the least. More fodder for Michael, she realized, in a less light vein. More evidence that she was an unfit parent.
She turned east on Highway 30, headed toward Boston. After that it would get a little tricky. She’d have to transfer to Highway 3, eventually get on Highway 28. Michael usually drove whenever they visited his parents’ cottage. While she was familiar with the route, she was unfamiliar with the actual driving, and didn’t know how long she could keep functioning. Hopefully, instinct and adrenaline would be enough to get her there in one piece.
The drive, once she reached Boston, would take approximately an hour and a half, maybe slightly longer, depending on the traffic. It was only ten o’clock now. She would get there in time for lunch. Would Michael’s parents offer her a hot meal? She giggled, then cautioned herself against getting giddy.
What kind of reception would she get? What had Michael told them? How much did they know?
Good old Dr. and Mrs. Whittaker, Jane thought, picturing them standing side by side, though not touching, never touching. You saved that for your son, didn’t you, Mrs. W.? All those cozy little baths together long past the age where it was still appropriate. Not that she suspected Mrs. Whittaker of molesting her son. No, Jane was confident that her mother-in-law would be properly horrified at the very idea. But however innocent those communal baths may have seemed, however innocent they undoubtedly were, Michael’s mother had failed to define her boundaries, making it difficult, if not impossible, for her son to understand his.
The senior Dr. Whittaker, a Ph.D. in science, had always been friendly enough on the surface, but essentially he was a cold and distant man who had been a largely absent father, although he was more accessible as far as his only grandchild was concerned. Jane called him Bert, but she’d always had the distinct impression he would have preferred the more formal title of Doctor. As for his wife, Jane thought of her only as Mrs. Whittaker, but the woman, tall, meaty, overbearing, had insisted on Mom. Jane had opted for Doris, and from that time on, the relationship between the two women had been as stiff as Doris’s hair, although the woman was never less than polite.