Young Wives

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Private school wouldn’t help. Kids there were even hipper, and more cruel. Plus, they’d moved here for the good public schools. And they didn’t have money now for tuition, along with all these extra expenses.

  Michelle changed lanes, getting ready to take her right at the bank exit, and wondered how bad it would be for Jenna and Frankie if she just left them where they were. It wouldn’t be easy, she knew, not if the trial got the kind of publicity that Bruzeman predicted. Perhaps … The thought came to her mind, but Michelle pushed it away. Then it made its way back.

  Boarding school. A really good boarding school might be the best choice for Jenna. It would separate her from the local media circus that might evolve, and have other benefits as well: a better sports program—she was really into soccer and the swim team—and more focus on academics. It would probably help get her into a better college, too. Of course, the idea of getting along without her daughter, or breaking up their home so early, was heartbreaking to Michelle. But boarding school might be a good choice for Jenna now. That still left Frankie, and she couldn’t let him go.

  Michelle almost missed the turn into the parking lot of the bank, which was already busy. All the employee spots were, of course, filled. It had begun to rain, a cold misty dampness, and Michelle had to park in the farthest corner from the bank entrance and walk across the already puddled tarmac without an umbrella or boots. Her hair and her neck were wet by the time she reached the bank door.

  Thank God she didn’t have to greet anybody—there were too many customers and everyone was busy. That was a small relief. So she just crossed the lobby and ducked into the employees’ break room, where she hung up her coat, grabbed a cup of coffee, and tried to do something about her miserable wet mop of hair. There wasn’t much she could do, but she put a barrette in it and decided to let it go for the day—along with everything else.

  She’d have to take it easy, she told herself. Nothing was perfect, and nothing in her life was going to be perfect, or even acceptable, for quite a long time. She took one more sip of the coffee to fortify herself. She’d have to face whatever came.

  It was eleven-forty when Michelle slipped into the alcove where her desk waited for her. Despite Jada’s warnings, she didn’t seem to have been missed. She figured she wouldn’t take a lunch break and make up for some of the time. She sorted through the phone message slips on her desk, had time to review one application, and then looked up to see a red-headed, bearded man in a windbreaker standing at her desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like to take out a loan.”

  Michelle nodded. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  “Yeah? I tried earlier but you weren’t here,” the bearded guy told her.

  “Have you filled in any forms? Do you have an application?” Michelle asked. He shook his head. She pulled out several packets. “Are you talking home equity, mortgage, or personal?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure.” He sat down opposite her. “Maybe you could tell me the differences.” He smiled a pleasant smile—almost too pleasant. Was he flirting with her? Not likely, on this worst of bad hair days.

  Michelle tried to smile back Then the phone rang and Michelle nodded an unspoken apology to him and picked the receiver up. Jada’s voice came across the wires. Only a few dozen feet away, she sounded far away, almost ghostlike over the phone.

  “Michelle. It’s hit the papers again,” Jada said without a preamble.

  Michelle felt her breath leave her body. She immediately wanted one of the pills her doctor had prescribed, but couldn’t take one in front of this client, sitting before her and watching her very attentively.

  “There’s been an indictment handed down. Did you know? And security tells me a news truck just pulled up outside.”

  “Outside where?” Michelle asked Jada.

  “Outside here. In the parking lot. And we should probably expect another few.”

  “You’re kidding!” Michelle said and was more aware than ever of the red-headed man’s eyes on her.

  “We can keep them out of the bank,” Jada told her, and Michelle had never been so grateful for the plural, “but they’ll swarm on you when you leave. Did you park out in the back?”

  “No. It was full,” Michelle said. Her client was leaning forward on his elbows, reading her memos upside down. She turned the papers over firmly.

  “Well, you can take my car and I’ll take yours,” Jada suggested.

  “You mean leave now?” Michelle asked. She looked over at Jada through the glass of her office.

  “Better sooner than later,” Jada suggested. “You might get home before they get you.”

  “They’ll be at my house by now, too,” Michelle said, and tried not to panic. “I’m going to have to face them eventually.”

  “Yeah, but tomorrow there might be someone else in a lot bigger trouble. They can torture them instead of you.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Michelle said, though she didn’t think she would be. Then she saw Mr. Marcus’s big shoulders and bald head moving among clients across the floor. “Marcus is here,” she whispered.

  “Oh shit. He’s seen the reporters then. This isn’t good,” Jada said, and hung up.

  Michelle kept the phone to her ear another ten seconds or so just to pull herself together. Then she smiled, said good-bye to the dial tone, and looked across her desk at the red-headed client. He had been scribbling on one of the forms she’d given him, but she had a feeling that he’d also been listening. Of course, she was paranoid and she knew it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “My name’s Howard Mindel. You’re Michelle Russo?”

  Since her name was on the little slide thing on the front of her desk, he didn’t have to be a genius to figure that out. She smiled and nodded. He extended his hand and she shook it. “So what kind of loan, and approximately how much do you think you’re looking for?” she inquired, though what she was really thinking about was breathing—getting air in, getting air out.

  “Have you worked here long?” Mr. Mindel asked. Michelle’s smile got stiffer. Was he trying to chat her up, or was he now questioning her abilities? She didn’t need a complaint to Marcus, now of all times.

  “I’m sorry about the interruption,” she said. “I’ve been a loan officer for three years,” she said.

  “Do you like it?” Mr. Mindel asked. Michelle narrowed her eyes. There was something off-balance about this guy, but he didn’t seem mentally disturbed or challenged. And this wasn’t a pick-up attempt, either.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  He leaned forward, way too far across the desk. “Give me an exclusive interview, Michelle. The rest of the press is going to cream you. You give me an interview and we’ll have it on page two and three of The Sentinel. If you make it an exclusive, I’ll give it the best slant I can.”

  It took a moment for Michelle to react, to realize what was going on. That he was just the advance guard of journalists about to crucify her and her family. It took another moment for her to realize that her desk trapped her in the alcove, since he had pulled his chair to the side where she slid in and out. “You’re a reporter?” she asked, her voice low and breathless. She had to get some air.

  “I’m Howard Mindel,” he repeated, as if that meant something to her. Maybe she had read his byline, but she couldn’t remember. She stood up, and in two big steps was past the desk by pushing hard against his chair. So hard he had to grab the desk corner not to topple over, but she was past him and already walking to the employee lounge.

  But as she crossed the floor and got to Anne, the door to Jada’s office opened and Mr. Marcus stuck his bald head out. “Mrs. Russo?” he asked. “Would you step in here for a moment?”

  Michelle could see Jada’s stricken face over Marcus’s big shoulder. And so she walked with as much dignity as she could, into Jada’s office, trying to get enough air into her lungs so she wouldn�
�t pass out.

  “Sit down,” Jada said.

  “Is that necessary?” Mr. Marcus asked.

  “Yes,” Jada snapped at him. “And as you leave, would you close the door?”

  Michelle, feeling sick to her stomach, still almost smiled, imagining his look of surprise. Jada was pushing him, but Michelle could see now Jada herself had been pushed. Her face looked gray. The door closed behind Michelle. She tried to take a deep breath.

  “Look,” Jada began, “he wants you out, but I’ve pointed out to him we have no grounds. And if you make a fuss, threaten a lawyer, I’ll just back off and tell him—”

  She was a good, good friend. Michelle had never thought too much about her job here, but realized now how much she’d miss it. “Forget it, Jada. I know this is B.O., not your choice,” she said. “I’m resigning.”

  “Mich, you don’t have to—”

  “It will make it easier for both of us,” Michelle said. “God knows we have enough on our plates. And you need this job. Don’t get Marcus really pissed.”

  “He’s … expletive deleted.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m deleted, too, as of now,” Michelle said.

  27

  Dealing with a social failure with the social worker

  As Jada drove past Michelle’s house, she caught herself averting her eyes. She made herself pray for forgiveness. She couldn’t have prevented Michelle’s firing for long—Marcus and the board were adamant, and the newspaper and television coverage since then had been brutal—but she had accepted Michelle’s resignation with relief. She was going to continue being a loyal friend as long as Michelle would have her friendship. The irony that Michelle had gotten Jada her first job at the bank, and that then she had been asked to fire Michelle wasn’t lost on her. She sighed.

  No good deed goes unpunished, she thought. Michelle was too good a person to resent her for what had happened, but if she did later, Jada wouldn’t blame her. Jada knew her own guilt was probably the more likely way to end the relationship. Her mother often said, “Just feel a pinch of guilt and add an ounce of procrastination and you got a recipe for failure.” Jada would not avert her eyes from Michelle’s house. She was calling Michelle twice a day and was making sure that they took their walk, despite some of the still unspoken awkwardness between them.

  Jada had, of course, read the papers and seen the stuff on the news. The point was, even though Frank had only been indicted, the papers—and everyone else—were treating him as if he were guilty. Jada remembered that security guard who’d found a bomb at the Atlanta Olympics. When the police turned the hero into a suspect, his life had been ruined. But he’d been innocent. The nation owed him an apology.

  And if there was one thing Jada was sure of, it was that Michelle was totally innocent. She couldn’t be sure about Frank, God forgive her, but if he’d been up to anything, Michelle certainly didn’t know. She shouldn’t have resigned. She’d done it to take the heat off Jada. It made Jada grateful, and she wondered again if the bank could legally fire Michelle because her husband was charged with a crime.

  Jada pulled into her driveway and was annoyed to see that a car was already parked there. Damn it! That meant that the court-appointed social worker was already waiting. Jada looked at her watch. It wasn’t four o’clock yet, so she wasn’t late, but even the set of the shoulders of the woman inside the car seemed already affronted. Jada didn’t even have time to smooth her skirt or check out her lipstick, so she just threw open the Volvo’s door and stepped out to meet this woman. She hoped she wasn’t dealing with a bigot.

  Jada had to bend to look into the car. A light-skinned black woman, her hair pulled back tightly and hanging behind her in braids, looked through the glass at her, eyes already narrowed in assessment. Jada decided not to smile. Angie Romazzano had explained how important this meeting was, not that Jada needed that reminder, but Jada felt that kissing-up would only make things worse. Neither of them moved. Finally Jada raised her brows and, reluctantly it seemed, the woman got out of the car. She was short and dumpy.

  She looked up at Jada and held her hand out. “I’m Mrs. Elroy,” she announced in a voice that made it clear she was from the islands, but which ones? “Department of Social Services,” the woman continued. “You must be Jada Jackson.”

  Jada nodded, placing the light accent and disturbed to hear the woman’s Jamaican lilt. It was funny about islanders. You would think that people from the Caribbean would feel they had something in common, but they usually didn’t. Jada decided immediately it was best to keep her background as quiet as she could.

  “It’s raw out here,” she said. “Shall we go into the house?”

  “Well, you’d have to invite me in, raw or not,” Mrs. Elroy said. “I’m state-appointed to inspect the house.”

  As if she didn’t know, Jada thought bitterly. It was going to be one of those. Jada knew she would have to stand it, but she almost couldn’t bear the idea. “Well, let’s go in the kitchen door,” she said as brightly as she could manage. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee or tea.”

  “I don’t drink while I’m on duty,” Mrs. Elroy said, as if she were some kind of police officer and Jada had offered her a double malt whiskey. They entered the kitchen and Jada took off her coat, hanging it on one of the hooks beside the door. She held out her hand for Mrs. Elroy’s coat, but the woman shook her head until her braids wiggle-waggled. She didn’t put her bag down, nor her briefcase.

  “Why don’t we start with an examination of the house,” she said. “Then we can move on to the interview.”

  Jada just nodded. She’d been up half the night straightening, dusting, and vacuuming, but she knew already that it was most unlikely her housekeeping would measure up.

  Mrs. Elroy took copious notes as she toured the house. Jada was very tempted to look over the short woman’s shoulder at the clipboard she held, but knew it was best not to try. She wanted to explain about the plywood floor in the kitchen, the boarded window in the hall, and the tiles left stacked but not installed in both bathrooms. See how lazy he is? she wanted to ask. See how he never put up my bookshelves or finished my kitchen floor? But Jada kept her mouth shut. Mrs. Elroy—in between note taking—asked only a few questions about the house and the children’s rooms, then led Jada back downstairs as if it were her house and Jada was an unwelcome guest. Jada silently took a deep breath and decided that she simply had to turn this thing around.

  She excused herself for a moment and took another half of the little orange pills that Michelle had given her. She could do it, she told herself, and returned to ask Mrs. Elroy if she would like to sit in the living room; she almost repeated her offer of a drink, but stopped in time. Mrs. Elroy merely shook her head again and moved to one of the dining room chairs—the one at the head of the table.

  “We’ll sit here,” she said, making it clear who was, and was going to stay, the boss.

  Jada took the seat beside her. She noticed her hands had started fluttering again, so she pulled the chair as close to the table as she could and tried her best to smile at the social worker. Mrs. Elroy, however, didn’t look up. She was busy sorting through some papers and finally pulled a printed sheet out of a file and placed it on top of her note-taking clipboard.

  “I have some basic questions I need you to answer,” she said, as if Jada didn’t know that either. The woman must have been a first-grade teacher at some time in her life. That, or a passive-aggressive sadist in a house of pain. Madame Elroy, Queen of Discipline. “After that, I will have some more specific ones, ones relating both to the current situation of the children and to your fitness in the past.”

  Fitness? Jada said a silent prayer for strength and merely nodded. With a woman like this, it was best to be as submissive as she could manage. Jada wasn’t good at submissive, but to save her children she’d do whatever it took.

  They went fairly speedily through a lot of the basic information—full names, birth dates, school and grades, as well as informati
on about Jada herself: her education, her work history, her salary. Mrs. Elroy raised her brows when Jada named her annual compensation. Instead of being proud of what she had achieved, for some reason Jada felt like hanging her head. She also wondered what Mrs. Elroy made, and knew it was significantly less. How angry was she about that?

  “So, Mrs. Jackson, you began your career as a teller when the children were how old?” Mrs. Elroy asked.

  Jada told her. “And of course, I wasn’t even pregnant yet with Sherrilee,” she added.

  “And what hours were you working on your business career while your older two were at school and home without you?”

  Jada didn’t like the way the question was phrased. “Mrs. Elroy, I had to work. It wasn’t a career. It was a minimum-paying job. I didn’t want it. But my husband wasn’t bringing in a dime. We were in debt. We had maxed out our MasterCard on groceries. I was afraid we might lose the house. It wasn’t that I wanted to work. I just had to work.”

  Mrs. Elroy didn’t take a single note. “And you had to move up from teller to branch manager?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Let’s just stick to the questions, to my key questions, shall we?”

  Jada wanted to do more than talk back. She wanted to slap the woman up-side her head. She was sure her hands would stop shaking if she did that. But this was too important to mess up.

  “I only worked until three o’clock when I was a teller,” Jada said. “After my promotion to head teller, I had to work a little later, but Clinton was always home.” Jada paused for a moment. She didn’t want to make it sound as if Clinton had been a house-husband. “He never did much with them, but at least the children were being supervised. And I took the promotion because the extra money was so important. Our tax returns would prove that.”

  “So when did you get your next promotion?” the woman asked, but to Jada it sounded more like “When did you get your next conviction?”