Young Wives

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Now, crazy with fear, she ran back down the hall to her own room. All of Clinton’s shoes were missing, along with his two good suits and his leather jacket. He was a madman! A madman! He had taken her children. Did he think that she would stand for this? Did he think that she had scrambled and worked the way she had so that he could take their family and walk out of the house? And what the hell would he do with them, with her children, now that he had them? He didn’t even take care of them here. Clinton had nowhere to go. How would he pay for a hotel, a baby-sitter? He had no job, no money, no help. He wasn’t even on good terms with his mother—hadn’t been since they married.

  She began to run down the bedroom hall, but at the top of the stairs it all hit her. She stopped and stood statue-still. A fear deeper than any she had ever known hit Jada in the chest so hard that she had to sit down on the top step, one long leg tucked under her. Who should she call? What should she do? She put a hand up to her mouth so that she wouldn’t scream out loud. There were two children still sleeping in the house, though they weren’t hers.

  She couldn’t call the police—this wasn’t a police matter, was it? She couldn’t call a lawyer at this time of night. Anyway, she didn’t know a lawyer. Her mother and father were in Barbados, and neither was young anymore. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, shock them with this.

  Jada’s right hand clutched the railing of the banister as she sat at the top of the stairs, frozen. Clinton couldn’t do this to her. Surely he didn’t hate her this much. And the children: would they willingly leave her? Had he forced the kids to go? Had he lied to them? Jada shook her head back and forth as if trying to shake the reality out. But it wouldn’t go.

  Her marriage was over. That was clear. Her family was broken, but Jada knew she would find her babies, bring them home, and save them. This house and those children were what she had sacrificed her life to and no one was going to take them away. She was still strong enough to make sure of that.

  But now, in the darkness at the top of the staircase, Jada lowered her head to her knees and quietly began to sob.

  15

  Containing a visit to Marblehead by a marble-head

  “You want, I’ll come with you,” Tony offered again as he dropped Angela at the shuttle. “You don’t have to do this. And you sure don’t have to do it alone. I can postpone my business trip, and I’d love to come.”

  “I need to go alone, Daddy,” Angela told him, and patted his arm. “Mom offered to come with me, and I could have made a big deal out of it, but I’d rather just get in and get out. For my stuff. Reid can keep the stereo and the blender. I’m just getting some of my clothes, my pictures … you know.”

  “He going to be there?” Tony growled. “Because that son-of-a—”

  “He doesn’t even know I’m coming,” Angela assured her father. “I’m not going up there to see him. Don’t worry. He’s a sick puppy and he’s out of my life. I just want my own clothes.” She looked down at her cheap lawyer’s suit.

  “Okay. So you got the movers all set up like I told you?”

  “Yeah,” she said, and gathered up her purse and her scarf. “Just two guys with some boxes and a van. They go back and forth between Boston and New York all the time and they’ll bring the stuff down to your house next week.”

  Anthony Romazzano nodded and bent awkwardly across the bucket seat to hug her. “Okay, baby,” he said. As Angie started to get out of the car, he added, “You sure you don’t want a limo to take you?” She shook her head. “Do you need any cash?”

  Angela nodded. She hated accepting his offer, but she was really pretty strapped. Tony handed her a few hundred dollar bills and a credit card with her name on it.

  “Just in case,” he said. Her eyes teared up. She bent her head to look into the front seat of the car. “Thanks a lot,” she said.

  “No problem,” he answered. “And you’ll be home tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” she told him. “I might see Lisa for a drink before I leave, but I’ll call your machine if I do.”

  Angela was early, so when the plane started to board she got one of the bulkhead seats near the window. At eleven A.M., the shuttle wasn’t packed, though the flights at seven, eight, and nine must have been jammed. When the doors closed the seat beside her was still empty. She crossed her legs.

  She wasn’t one hundred percent sure why she was going to do this thing—a sort of cat burglary cum/slash-and-burn operation. She hadn’t told Lisa, nor Reid. She didn’t have to tell him. She was determined not to touch his stuff. Anything that was his or theirs was repugnant to her, but she wanted to remove any trace of her that had existed there, to be sure he knew she was gone forever.

  Angie had always felt that a space took on the attributes of the person or people who lived there—even if they didn’t want it to. Her father’s new house seemed as desolate and lost as he did. It was the house of a family man who’d lost his family. Her mother’s place seemed worse in a way. But Angela remembered the apartment they had all lived in back when they’d been a family. It had been crowded with warmth—well-used pots in the kitchen, throw pillows on all the stuffed furniture, family pictures and drawings and report cards and mementos everywhere. It had been a comfortable place. She’d begun to make a place like that for Reid. But now she’d never finish the job.

  This was going to be harder than she’d realized. The more Angie thought about it, the more she was convinced she needed help. The only person she knew of who could help her was Lisa. Angie lifted up the handset in the seat and slid through her credit card, then punched in the number. She hoped Lisa wasn’t out of the office. Lisa’s voice mail picked up. Shit. Well, she’d just leave a message and hope that Lisa wasn’t spending the day at a deposition or something.

  Angie guessed it was better than having a secretary answer the phone, though if one had, she could go looking for Lisa. But the secretaries were all gossips. God knows what they were saying about her disappearance. They had always eyed Reid when he picked her up at work, and she’d bet that they were talking about this now, if they knew. Did they take Lisa’s voice mail messages or did Lisa do it herself? Angie decided to be very discreet.

  “Lisa,” Angie said to the machine. “I don’t know when you’ll get this, but I have a favor to ask of you for today. I’ll call you in about an hour.” She hung up, pressed END to finish the call, then wondered if Lisa would recognize her voice because she hadn’t mentioned her name. She slid the phone back into its casing and slumped against the wall of the plane, staring out the window at the clouds.

  All at once her energy had deserted her. This was going to be harder than she’d expected. Going back there, seeing their home, their hopes, their bed. Well, she’d have two strong Irish lads to help her, she’d do it as quickly as she could, and maybe, maybe Lisa would be able to show up. But it occurred to her that if she could just see Reid one more time, she might have closure. If she could speak to him and tell him how he’d ruined a part of her forever, she might feel better. She might get the weight of this shock off her back, even if it wasn’t dignified.

  Somehow the idea of seeing Reid gave her a nervous energy despite her exhaustion. She pulled the phone out of the handset again, fumbled for her credit card, and called him. God, she hoped it wouldn’t list this number when her dad got the bill. He’d wig out. Definitely.

  Reid’s secretary, an older woman named Shirley, answered. When Angie asked for him, Shirley asked who was calling, please. Angie noticed, for the first time, how high-pitched her voice was. For a moment she wondered if Shirley was the Soprano. But she’d seen Shirley. Shirley was really old. Angie had to mouth the words ‘his wife’ as coldly as she could just to get through it.

  “Oh,” Shirley said, obviously startled, but she was wise enough not to say anything else.

  Angie heard the tiny click as she was put on hold, but she was only on hold for a moment. Then Reid’s voice was in her ear.

  “Angie? Is it really you?”

  �
��Yes,” she said.

  “Oh God, Angela. I thought I’d never get to speak to you again. I thought that—where are you calling from?”

  “I’m on a plane,” Angela said and, oddly, that made her feel a lot more confident. It sounded so glamorous, calling him from a plane in her busy life. For a moment she wished she could say she was on a plane on her way to Rio, or some place even more exotic.

  “Angie,” he said. “Thank you for calling me.” He paused and she could actually hear him swallow. “I know what I did was inexcusable …”

  What he did? How about what he was still doing? When Angie heard the past tense, she wondered about her calls to the Soprano. Was it possible that it was past tense? Angie, get a grip, she told herself. God, what was she thinking about? What did it matter? She looked across the aisle of the plane to see if anyone could overhear her. It was crazy to have this conversation in such a public place.

  “Yes, it was,” she said. “It was inexcusable because it hurt me in a way nothing ever will again. I let myself be open to that and you never, ever should have taken advantage of my trust.”

  “Angie,” he said again.

  He said it in a way that nobody else did. His voice had the sound of his desire in it. He was the only one, the only man who had ever made her feel beautiful and loved. The idea that she would never feel that way again was unbearable, and Angela closed her eyes against it.

  “Angie, listen. This may be the most important talk we’ll ever have. I see now how stupid I was, telling you what I did. How I did. But Angie, Ange …” He paused. “I did it to clean the slate. I did it to tell the truth and make things right between us for the rest of our lives. I promise, Angie.”

  She was silent; her eyes were closed but a hot tear escaped from the corner of one of them.

  “Are you still there?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she managed to say.

  “Thank God. Listen, I love you. I’ll always love you. And nothing like this will ever happen again. I give you my word.” He paused. “Don’t punish me for telling the truth.”

  She told herself she should ask him about the Soprano. That she should curse him and hang up. That she should …

  “Ange, don’t move out. Move back in. Please,” he said.

  “The flight is landing now,” she told him. “I have to hang up.”

  “Landing where?” he asked and she heard the desperation in his voice. She had hurt him by walking out, by not speaking to him until now, and she was glad. “Where are you?”

  “I’ll be in Boston,” she admitted. “But just for a few hours. I am going to stop by and pick up a few of my things.”

  “Boston! Angie, I—”

  “I hope you have no objection,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Then she hung up.

  In the taxi on the way to Marblehead, Angela put on her makeup. Her face looked good. Her round blue eyes, with just a little mascara, perked right up. The sleeping she’d done had actually improved her face and her excitement had given her color—she didn’t need any blusher. She took out a dark lipstick, then decided on a pinker color.

  Her hair was a total loss. She should have made an appointment with Shear Madness before she’d left New York. She fluffed her hair as best she could, hoping it would do.

  She had called the movers from Logan, confirmed they were on their way, and had left another message on Lisa’s voice mail telling her that she was going to the apartment. In a way, she hoped that Lisa didn’t show, because she was hoping that Reid would.

  Angie nervously palmed the key to their condo. It had become hot in her damp hand. She looked out at the grim November landscape. What was she doing? This was insanity.

  Was there still a chance, the smallest chance that Reid might somehow make it all right? She knew it was possible to live without him, hurt and empty, but going on. Was it still possible that there might yet be a way for her to live with him?

  She wasn’t thinking anymore. She had her plan. Just get her stuff. If Reid appeared, she’d simply see what happened next.

  “Wait a minute,” Angie said as she pushed at the door. “I think I accidentally double-locked it.” The key was slick with her sweat. She turned to Sean and Thomas, the two handsome, young Irish immigrants who were helping with the move.

  “Want some help?” Sean asked, his eyes open wide with the question, his lilt delightful.

  Angle’s fingers slipped again on the key. It had occurred to her that Reid might have changed the locks, but she didn’t like to think about that. And he hadn’t said anything over the phone. She tried the door again.

  Her heart pounded. She was an attorney, she reminded herself. What she was doing was not illegal. Until the divorce action was filed and a settlement was drawn up, this place and its contents were as much hers as Reid’s. She told herself that, but her hands and now her armpits were sweating. Her stomach flip-flopped. Suddenly she felt so sick that she thought she might vomit. She tried to take some deep breaths but the nausea didn’t go away.

  Why wasn’t the door opening? At last she remembered that the door was a little warped and had to be pulled in as the lock was disengaged. She did it, and the welcome sound of the spring opening allowed her to push the door in. “Here we are,” she said and hoped that the panic she’d felt wasn’t showing on her face.

  She stepped into her own living room as a stranger, but very little had changed. Well, she’d only been gone a week. She looked at the denim sofa they’d bought at Pottery Barn, the long table near the window that she’d ordered through a Crate & Barrel catalog sale. She’d leave all of that, even if she’d paid for part of it. Don’t think about Reid, she told herself. All she was interested in were her really personal possessions.

  “Open some of the book boxes,” she told the movers. She went over to the shelves, pointing. “All of these and all of these,” she told them. “I’ll come back and look at that shelf later. And if one of you could make a couple of wardrobe boxes up, I’ll need them in the bedroom.”

  Sean nodded and passed a glance to Thomas. Were they realizing now what kind of an operation this was? Did they have a lot of divorced-women break-up scenes as a part of their ongoing business? Without wondering anymore, Angie left them and went into her bedroom.

  It surprised her that the bed was unmade. Of course, she had always been the one to make it, but she thought that Reid needed things neat. The whole room, in fact, looked disheveled. Not dirty, but messy, with clothes on the floor, newspapers and piles of magazines strewn randomly.

  Then something about the room hit Angie almost like a force field. For a moment she felt as if she were trying to move underwater, or as if the air had solidified and was heavy on her shoulders, her arms, her chest. Her stomach tightened and she felt her nausea return. This room, where she had been so happy, felt very, very threatening. It made her somehow feel deeply sorrowful—sorry in a way that sapped her anger. She knew that both of them had been happy here. How wasteful that that happiness had been destroyed.

  Angie did a quick visual inventory; she would only take the things around the room that were hers. She began to collect them, cradling them in her arms like groceries off the shelf in a convenience store. Her perfume, the two stone turtles Reid had bought her in Mexico, the Rosenthal bud vase she kept by the side of the bed. She didn’t like to actually touch the bedclothes, but as she snatched up the throw pillow she’d had since college—the one with the beaded flowers—she nearly dropped everything else.

  She called for Sean to bring in a box. He did, and she filled it with the knickknacks. Then she went into the bathroom and filled another box with her deodorant, makeup, hair dryer, brushes, and her other nonsense. She didn’t want any of the stuff, but she certainly wasn’t going to leave her tampons or spray gel for the Soprano—or any other strange woman Reid might march through here.

  She stopped for a moment and looked at herself in the mirror. Her mascara had smudged on one side of her lashes, and she stopped
to fix it and brush her hair. While she was at it, she might as well put on fresh lipstick. She studied herself in the mirror. “You’re hoping he’ll come,” she said, and the face there nodded at her. “You’re disgusting,” she said aloud, just as Sean came back into the bedroom. He heard her.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  Embarrassed, she told him it was nothing. He smiled, and gave her an appreciative once-over. She must look better than she thought. “I need that wardrobe box over here,” she added, and slid open the closet. She began stuffing dresses, suits, and jackets into the wardrobe box, pushing them against each other to pack them tightly. But it seemed that there were more clothes than she remembered. She noticed a blue silk dress because it stood out from the usual brown and beige and red that she wore. She took it out and held it away from her, her other arm weighted down with a load of clothes on hangers. Angie looked it over and dropped her own clothes on the floor.

  “Here, let me help,” Sean said, thinking her action had been accidental and picking up the dumped outfits.

  Angie, as if from a long distance away, murmured her thanks. Then, with the blue dress over her arm, she walked back into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her, locked it, and hung the dress on the hook beside the tub. She sat down on the closed toilet seat and stared at the dress. It wasn’t hers. It had never been hers. And even if Reid was a transvestite, the dress wasn’t his, either. It must have been a size four. Angie stared at the evil little dress.