Martha spun around as the boy slid off the chair. “You sit down! Don’t you make me nervous now, do you hear?”
“I have to pee,” he whined, jamming his fist into his crotch.
“You wait! You just wait! I don’t know what to do here.”
The boy’s face puckered and he took a deep breath, which he held with widened eyes.
Brat. She looked away. He could hold his breath all he wanted, but she wasn’t going to fall for it. “Stop that!” she demanded.
“I didn’t do anything.” He paused. “I’m a good boy,” he said hesitantly, as if it were a theory he was testing on her.
“Then act like one! Good boys shut up and they don’t make people nervous.”
A sob tore through him. “Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t,” he cried.
She looked at him and shrugged with a helpless gesture. Hurt him? How had any of this come to be? All she had ever wanted was to be happy and to be loved, just to be like everyone else. She buried her face in her hands and leaned forward on the sagging old bed. “Now I’ve done it,” she whispered. “Oh brother, now I’ve done it.”
There were footsteps in the hallway, then the click of a key in the lock. The bedroom door opened slowly. Mr. Weilman looked in, his eyes rheumy and tired. “Are you okay, Zack?” he asked the child, who jumped up and ran to him. “C’mon, Martha,” the old man said wearily.
“It was an accident,” she said. “I was on the phone and I was sick and the boys all ran in.…”
“I know. I know.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“I know,” he said sadly.
She stood up then and set her chin and stared at him. “This is what you get for letting those kids run wild in here!”
“Martha, this is Detective Honing,” Mr. Weilman said as the short gray-haired man stepped into the room.
“Come on, Marthor, Martha,” he caught himself. “We have to see what happened here.” With his hand clamping her elbow in the stern manner of her father, he steered her down the stairs and out onto the front walk, toward the long blue unmarked police cruiser. One of her sneakers had come untied, and the lace flicked up and down along the pavement. People stood on the front lawn and on the sidewalk and in the road. Such silence, they didn’t laugh or say a word, but stared, squinting through the glare of the sun at the tall woman in her bloody blue cocktail dress. The bright eye of the television camera moved right along with her. Speaking in a hushed voice, the reporter said, “It appears that this afternoon’s sudden and terrifying hostage situation has come to an abrupt and quiet end. Police are taking the bloodstained woman to …”
“Move aside!”
A round-faced child in a ruffled sundress gripped her mother’s fingers and asked loudly, “Is that her? Is that Marthorgan?”
“Shh,” came the reply.
Twenty-four
The waiting camera crews whipped down their cigarettes the minute the cruiser was spotted coming along the tree-lined street to the courthouse. Down in the parking lot, a cluster of women marched in a silent circle. Each of the long black crosses they held over their heads bore the stenciled date on which a woman had been raped. One woman held up a white poster board on which had been printed in red ink MARTHA WASN’T CRAZY—JUST MAD AS HELL. Two women carried a black banner stitched with white satin letters that said EXCULPA: AN EYE FOR AN EYE.
Children straddled their bikes, hoping for a last glimpse. It was expected that from here she would be taken straight to the state mental hospital. The cruiser idled for a few moments at the curb, and then the doors opened and Sheriff Stoner guided her out of the back seat, solicitously, as tenderly as if she were his bride or mother. Ducking his head, a weary-eyed man in a rumpled suit climbed out after her. The door slammed and the children stiffened, some even backing up, as they stared at Marthorgan, theirs always to goad and manipulate, now this docile manacled creature, with her smashed, crooked glasses, groping past them, as if they were not even there. The real horror was not in Getso’s murder or their friend’s injury, for in torture and death they were as well versed as any child. No, it was her submission and that flatness, that emptiness that comes with the sudden end of power, them over her and her over them. They held their breath and did not move. Even after she had climbed the steps and gone inside, they remained very still.
The courtroom was so jammed that folding chairs had been set up along the back and side walls. Despite the crowd and the press and the sensational nature of the arraignment, the room remained strangely quiet. Martha was acutely conscious of every sound, the creaking chairs, the rumbling air conditioning, the humming fluorescent lights, the electric sputter from the judge’s microphone, and the squeak of one of Steve Bell’s scuffed shoes as he paced back and forth.
With his damp head slightly bowed and his hands clasped behind his back, Steve paused and looked up at the judge. He had been droning on for the last ten minutes. She couldn’t keep her thoughts straight, much less concentrate on what he was saying. He had stressed the importance of staying calm and attentive during the arraignment. No outbursts. No thumping. No muttering. Blinking, she held her glasses and tried to refocus her webbed gaze on his back. Frances had a new pair for her, right there in her purse, but Steve insisted she wear these. He had also instructed her to keep her thickly bandaged hand visible on the table.
Her back ached and her legs were starting to feel funny, so she tilted her chair back and rocked a little to get the cramps out. Suddenly conscious of Judge Hennessey’s scrutiny, she froze, and the chair dropped with a thud. She propped her chin on her hand and with her one clear eye stared intently at Steve. The arraignment wasn’t supposed to last this long. Last night in jail, and then on their way here in the cruiser, Steve had explained each step to her. The recitation of the charges had already taken place, and now they were discussing bail, which, Steve had warned, the judge might refuse, pending a psychiatric evaluation. Actually, she didn’t care what that fat man up there with his wild black eyebrows decided. Steve’s precise explanation of the court’s procedures and requirements had been like listening to the customs of a foreign country being described. Curiously interesting, but she couldn’t see what any of it had to do with her. They could do what they wanted, but she wasn’t going to have an abortion and she would never betray Mack. Never! And that’s what this was all boiling down to. She wanted Mack to know that it would be their secret for as long as necessary. She kept glancing back, hoping for some sign from him, some acknowledgment. He sat directly behind her with Frances. Deeply tanned, he wore a linen jacket of the same pale blue as his eyes. She turned again, and the muscle in his cheek clenched. She gave a little wave now, and Frances nodded, her sharp little smile intended, like jagged glass, to keep her in her place.
Across the aisle, Birdy was flanked by her plump sisters and the two former Mrs. Getsobiskis, a bitter wall of puffy-faced women. Birdy’s head trembled. It had taken all three sisters to maneuver her down the aisle and into her chair. No matter how hard Martha tried to make eye contact, Birdy stared past her. She hoped Birdy knew how sorry she was for all this pain and commotion, not to mention this entire morning she’d be losing from work. She wasn’t like Mercy and the rest of them, insensitive and inconsiderate.
She tapped the dark-suited arm of Steve’s law associate and gestured toward his pen. The young man looked confused. “The pen,” she said. “I have to write something.”
A hand closed over her shoulder. “Shh,” Frances reminded her with a deep squeeze. Steve was still talking.
With her face close to the paper, she wrote, DEAR BIRDY, I AM SORRY FOR EVERYTHING AND I WANT YOU TO KNOW IF THE FLOOR GOT RUINED, I WILL PAY FOR REGROUTING OR A WHOLE NEW FLOOR, LOVE MARTHA. She tore the sheet off the long yellow pad and folded it and folded it to the size of a matchbook cover, then printed Birdy’s name, drawing a tiny smiley face in the belly of the “D.” She turned and handed it, to Frances. “Pass it over,” she hissed.
Frances
glanced at it, then shook her head with wide, glistening eyes.
Steve’s voice filled the room. Everyone sat with heads hung. A few people nodded.
“Then give it back!” Martha demanded. She held out her hand until Frances returned the note. Turning the other way now, she reached out with it as far as she could. “Here,” she hissed, looking down the row of shocked faces. “Pass it!” But no one would take the note or even look at her.
Feet scraped. Heat and dust filmed the long narrow windows, casting the distant mountaintops with a somber purple haze. Steve looked up at the judge, then took a step closer, as if to share a confidence. “There have always been those among us for whom the wind’s a little too strong,” he was saying, “the sun just a little too bright. And in a community like ours, they are as much entitled to their place here as they are to our acceptance and our good will. And we expect their families to provide for them and to be as vigilant as possible for their safety and ours.”
People were glancing at her. She held her breath, and her lips quivered in a dry, fixed smile.
“This is not a family matter any longer. No, this is a matter that concerns us all. Each and every one of us.” He peered over his glasses at her. “Because this is more than a violated woman who in her outrage and confusion struck down her assailant. This is vastly different, and you know why this is vastly different. Because fifteen years ago, when we should have acted in Martha’s behalf, we not only looked the other way, but we made a choice. We chose the assailants over the victim. Because she was an emotionally unstable young woman, we declared her honor and her future to be of less value than her tormentors’. And our message was loud and clear: Martha Horgan didn’t count. She doesn’t matter. You can taunt her and chase her and you can poke her with sticks and you can use her and you can finish what you started to do to her fifteen years ago, because this court of law and this community don’t care about Martha Horgan.”
“If it please the court,” the young prosecutor protested. He stood up, shaking his head and sighing. “Your honor, we’ve all been very, very patient—under the circumstances,” he added, and at that Steve Bell’s head went back. “But Attorney Bell’s arguments, to be charitable, are grossly premature. He is attempting to try his case right now, right here, and that is wrong!”
Both the prosecutor and Steve Bell moved closer to Judge Hennessey, who covered the sputtering microphone with his hand while he whispered something.
Steve shook his head angrily. “No!” he said loudly. “Absolutely not. Your honor, Martha Horgan should be released on bail into the custody of her aunt, Frances Beecham, who this court surely knows will guarantee …”
Martha turned with a hopeful smile at Mack, who slumped in the chair, staring down at his folded arms. Behind him, Julia Prine nodded at Martha. At the end of the row sat Wesley Mount, erect and still in his crisp white collar, his eyes never wavering from the judge.
“Martha needs immediate medical attention, your honor, the very best her family can provide, because she is at risk, your honor, with a pregnancy. A pregnancy that must be terminated, because she has been raped. Raped by Jimmy Getsobiski, who tormented and abused her and …”
“No!” Martha cried, shaking her head, stunned that Steve would say such a thing, tell such a disgusting lie in front of all these people. “He never did that. He never …” She shuddered, repulsed by the words. “… raped me. That never happened!” She looked right at Birdy now, who was crying. “Never! I swear!”
They sat in the conference room adjacent to the judge’s chambers. The pictures on the dove-gray walls were the judge’s own pen-and-ink drawings of his favorite places in town, the bandstand in the park as well as the statue of the dog straining back from its invisible leash.
Bail had been denied, and the judge had ordered a ninety-day psychiatric evaluation. When Steve had continued to insist she needed the abortion, the judge reminded him sternly that no person, and certainly no court of law, could force Martha or any woman to terminate her pregnancy, no matter how troubling the circumstances.
They were awaiting the arrival of the psychiatric nurse Frances had hired to accompany Martha to the state hospital in Waterbury. The prosecutor had halfheartedly objected, calling a private nurse “preferential treatment,” but, his decision made, the judge seemed anxious to placate not only Steve but Frances, his two old friends.
Martha’s hand pressed against her stomach, too flat for anything to be growing in there. She tried to picture cells clustering, a fetal mass, a miniature child, anything, but nothing of clarity, no image came to mind. There was only the sensation of fullness, of a swelling tenderness that made her smile.
Frances fidgeted with the jet clasp on her purse. She seemed dazed. She looked at Martha and shook her head. “There’s no way she can have this,” she said. “There’s no way! What is Tom Hennessey thinking of? This is like a nightmare!” She turned to Mack, who hadn’t yet said a word. “Tell me when this is going to end,” she groaned.
“Frances!” Steve said sharply. He had barely acknowledged Mack’s presence. He reminded Frances that there were some vital things he wanted to tell Martha before it was time to leave. He pulled up a chair and sat so close their knees touched. “This is the time for absolute honesty,” he said. “You mustn’t hide anything from the psychiatrists, Martha. Their opinions are going to make or break this case. You’ve got to level with them. There’s no trying to protect my reputation or Frances’s or anyone else’s. From now on, it’s only you that matters here, do you understand?” He leaned in closer.
“Answer him!” Frances said through clenched teeth.
“I understand.”
“It may horrify you to tell them about what happened at Birdy Dusser’s, but you’ve got to! You’ve got to do it. If you don’t, if you try and pretty the thing up, then it’s going to look as if you murdered him in cold blood. Do you understand what I’m saying here, Martha? Do you?”
“Answer him!” Frances hit the table with her fist.
“Yes.” She could feel Mack’s eyes on her. It would be so much easier if he would only give her a sign, some gesture, acknowledging what they had shared, their secret she now carried.
“Martha, the brutal fact here is that, without an abortion, there’s not a judge or jury that will believe he raped you.”
“But he didn’t,” she said flatly. They wanted her to lie. Like everyone else, they didn’t care about the truth, only themselves. Their truth was whatever way they twisted and shaped the facts. And that was exactly why Getso was dead: because each lie demanded another lie, and another. She looked away.
“Martha! Listen to me! You can’t deny what happened. You have to end this pregnancy!”
She sat back and closed her eyes. The world moved farther and farther away. Muffled voices passed along the corridor. Telephones were ringing, clocks ticking, a heart beating. This, she could suddenly comprehend, a heart in time with hers. She gripped the edge of the table.
“… can’t expect Frances to burden herself raising a child now, at this point in her life,” Steve was saying.
“Oh my God,” Frances groaned, covering her face with “her hands at the prospect.
“Well, let’s be realistic,” Steve said, shrugging. “That’s what’ll happen with a murder conviction or any institutionalization.”
Frances looked at Mack. “Maybe she’ll listen to you,” she pleaded.
“Yes,” Steve said. “I bet she will.” He smiled at Mack. “I bet you’re the only one she will listen to right now.”
There was a tap on the door, and then it opened. “There’s a nurse here,” the white-haired court officer said to Steve, who told him they needed a few more minutes.
When the door closed and Mack began to speak, Frances nodded hopefully. “We got to be good friends, didn’t we, Martha?” He cleared his throat, then coughed into his hand.
She nodded, her crooked grin making them look uneasily away.
“And I reme
mber you telling me things about Getso. About how he repulsed you so much that if he just came into the same room you’d feel sick to your stomach.”
She nodded, pleased that he remembered.
“And about that night in high school. And how you couldn’t remember much of it because you’d blanked it out. You said you could make yourself do that. You said, if something was unpleasant enough, you’d either forget it or change it around in your head to make it seem nicer. Do you remember telling me that?”
“No.” Had she? No. No, she knew she hadn’t. Why did he say that? What was he trying to tell her?
“Well, this is the same thing, Martha. But now your life’s at stake. In a way, everyone’s life.” He looked at her. “Don’t you see what everyone here is telling you? Don’t you understand?”
She smiled. “Yes!” she said eagerly. Her breath caught. He wanted her to know he understood the pressure she was enduring for him.
“So don’t be afraid or ashamed. And I’ll help you. I’ll be right there every step of the way—with Frances and with Steve. I’ll explain what happened, just the way you tell me. And there’s no reason for you to go through with this pregnancy. Listen to me, Martha,” he said, staring now into her eyes. “It’s wrong. This isn’t what you want. Believe me, this is a mistake, a horrible mistake!” His face had twisted into something hateful and ugly. The knuckles on his fists were sharp and white.
“Not for me it isn’t!” she cried. “Maybe for …”
“It is for all of us,” Frances said. “Martha, Mack and I are getting married this winter. You can’t do this to me! Not now! Please!” She reached for Steve’s hand. All at once, he looked old and haggard. “Steve! This is not the way I planned on telling you,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes.
“I’ll back you to the hilt,” Mack said, the fierce rush of his words all that held up the ceiling, supported the walls and floor, so that if he stopped talking everything would be sucked into the silence. “Every step of the way. I can verify everything. I mean, there’s so much in your favor. Even this,” he said, taking a paper out of his pocket and unfolding it. “This letter you wrote Birdy. Even here it tells how he was always after you. Listen: ‘Dear Birdy, You have to believe the things I tell you about Getso. Ever since my first day at the Cleaners he has been after me because he knows I know the truth about him.” He looked up and held out a stack of envelopes. “And all these other letters. The motive’s so …”
A Dangerous Woman Page 36