Young Wives

by Olivia Goldsmith

  The register flashed a total, and the customer handed over two twenties. Jada had to input the amount so the register could automatically calculate the change to be given. As if she wasn’t even capable of making change! Jada accepted the forty dollars from the middle-aged man who seemed to have bought nothing but meat products—sausage, bacon, smoked ham, and canned meat—and counted out the three dollars and forty-six cents that was his change. Melody, the housewife who worked as a part-time bagger, began to fill a paper sack with the packages. “I want it double bagged,” he said. Melody nodded.

  Jada turned her head to the next customer. Keep busy, she told herself. The shopper was a well-dressed woman with a bad face lift. Why didn’t men cut themselves up with face lifts? Jada wondered. What had Angie said about punishing the men? About getting their own back or evening the score? Jada sighed. It was hard for her to see what her own future actions should be. If the other two could act for her, and she could act for Angie or …

  That was it! She held a can of olives up in the air for a moment, suspended. The face-lifted woman stared at her, but Jada thought only of her two girlfriends. She could see what they should do. They had to work together. Not the way they were at the apartment, where she was bringing home the groceries, Michelle was cleaning like a maniac, and Angie was paying the rent. They had to work together against the system that had beaten them. They had to work against the structure that had crushed them. They should help one another to do something that would even the score, that would give them back their pride, or even their freedom. Give them what they wanted, what they deserved. She knew she deserved to be with her kids, and they needed to be with her. Jada stared at the keys on her register until they blurred in front of her. She had joked with Michelle about kidnapping her children, but maybe it wasn’t a joke. Maybe with help from her friends, she could—

  “Are the Kraft Deluxe dinners on special, or only the regular macaroni and cheese?” the face-lifted woman across the counter inquired with such intensity it seemed as if Jada’s answer meant the extinction of the race, or at least lasting world peace.

  “Just the regular dinners,” Jada told her. “You still want these?” she asked, looking at the deluxe boxes. But the woman’s decision didn’t matter to her. Somewhere deep inside herself, Jada had come to her own decision.

  It was time to try and even the score. By whatever means necessary.

  “We’re coming. Now don’t try to change my mind. I said to your mother ‘now is the time’ and even she didn’t argue. So don’t you try.”

  Jada listened to her father’s voice and wondered if the comfort he offered was worth the anxiety his plan would cost. She’d called him from Angela’s phone, sitting with the portable in the bathroom, the only quiet place in Angela’s apartment. “It’s just a temporary thing,” she lied. “At least I think so.” She still hadn’t told her parents anything close to the whole truth; if they thought it was an emergency at this point, what would they do when they found out that Clinton had the children and the house? On the other hand, what could be worse than things were now? And wouldn’t it be something of a comfort to have her mama and papa with her?

  “Don’t tell me you don’t want me there, because I know you do,” her mother said.

  “Of course I do, Mama.” Jada would have to ask Angie to petition the court so that her parents could visit their grandchildren. What else was there to do to prepare for their invasion? Find a motel room for them, because three adults, two children, and a dog were the absolute maximum in Angie’s apartment. And then what? Tell them that she was thinking of grabbing her own children and disappearing with them? Tell them she was so desperate that she was going to break the law? Maybe she’d better start preparing them for some of this.

  “Mama, some things have changed since you were here,” she began.

  44

  In which Michelle reveals her bruises to Bruzeman

  Michelle had showered and cleaned up the apartment, and now she finished dressing, ready to go in and face the first part of her own plan. She’d been thinking, and Jada and Angela had been pushing her to think even harder. She didn’t try and cover up the bruises on her face. Today she needed them to show.

  She dressed and gathered her notes and papers, including the rewritten detailed list Frank had made her keep of all the things that had been broken or lost. Ha! She’d been more exacting, more precise, than a state comptroller, and all the time Frank had known he was guilty. She had always imagined a future very much like her recent past—the comfort of routine, of her beautiful home, the fun of watching the children grow, the love of her husband. It was what she had dreamed of and worked toward from the time she was six or seven, growing up with her drunken mother in those awful, cheap apartments. She’d wanted her own house, a steady husband, clean, smart children, good furniture, a new car. She’d had those things and loved them, and now she didn’t really have another dream to replace them with.

  Sometimes Michelle thought that because of the way she’d grown up, she was tougher than Jada and Angie. She hadn’t had a real mother who took care of her, was concerned for her, or could help out now, so she had to do it all herself. But now, at a time like this, she saw she wasn’t tougher—she was more vulnerable than both of her friends. She didn’t have a plan B. And though she was trying, she couldn’t really think of one. At least not yet. But she could try and clean up the mess she was in.

  She pulled into the parking lot at Swaine, Copple & Bruzeman. She was glad to see that Michael Rice immediately got out of his car and walked across the lot to meet her. She and Angie and Jada had discussed all this, and Michelle—stupid as it was—felt better with a man to confront Bruzeman, that little bully.

  Michael smiled at her, and didn’t avert his eyes from the side of her face and the darkness of the bruises. “How are you?” he asked.

  “Not as bad as I look,” she said. “But pretty nervous.”

  “You did see a doctor?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m fine. I’m just worried about Frank and the children. About the whole situation.”

  “I understand,” Michael said somberly. “Let’s go upstairs and see what we can do.”

  This time Michelle wasn’t made to wait. When she thought about it, she realized it was the only time. Perhaps Michael Rice carried some weight. Or, more likely, Rick Bruzeman didn’t like battered women littering his reception area.

  She and Michael were quickly escorted to Bruzeman’s office; he was waiting for them at the door. He had his right hand already out, and put his left on Michael’s elbow for that power handshake that scumbag politicians seemed to like to use. Then he turned to her, but she noticed, he didn’t shake her hand.

  “Well, Michelle, you look well,” he said. Michelle didn’t bother to answer. She just walked over to the sofa and sat down. Michael sat beside her.

  Bruzeman pulled up one of his straight-backed chairs, took it, and crossed his legs, his right ankle resting on his left knee, showing the pattern of his designer socks. Michelle averted her eyes.

  “I won’t take up a lot of your time,” Michael began. “We have a few simple requests.”

  Bruzeman smiled, as if there were no problem. “Of course,” he said. “I’m always willing to listen.”

  “My client is not testifying on behalf of your client,” Michael said. “If she is subpoenaed, she will testify for the state. Because of the violence that she’s received at the hands of your client, she is suing for divorce and custody. If Mr. Russo agrees to grant her custody, we’ll wait to sue until after the outcome of his trial. In the meantime, he’s not to contact her or the children.”

  Bruzeman laughed. “Is that all? Mr. Russo will never agree. Don’t you think that’s a little harsh? And he needs his family now. It’s not an easy time for Frank, as you must know, Michelle.”

  Michelle swallowed, thinking of Frank alone. For a moment she felt … well, best not to name it. She had to forget that feeling for now.


  “I don’t think it’s harsh at all, considering the violence Mr. Russo visited on his wife,” Michael said calmly.

  Bruzeman stood up. Oh, don’t give me that! Everybody’s tense. There are legal problems, money problems, who knows what problems? A little push, a little shove. Who knows who started it.” He looked down at Michael, his position frozen, his face hard. He frightened Michelle. “I’m afraid these terms are totally unacceptable, Mr. Rice.”

  Michelle actually trembled at the tone of Bruzeman’s voice. There was something powerful in his smallness, something coiled like a snake or a rat about to jump.

  But Michael stood up. “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “We’re not negotiating. We are explaining the new rules. If you’d like to know why these rules apply, you’ll have to discuss it with your client. Michelle Russo has no doubt in her mind that her husband is guilty of everything charged. Count yourself lucky she doesn’t go to the DA and explain why she holds that belief.”

  Rick Bruzeman shook his head, then took a seat again, but this time he didn’t do the jaunty leg cross. He wrapped each of his small feet behind a front leg of the chair and leaned forward. He looked at Michelle. It was suddenly as if Michael had ceased to exist. She had to push herself not to avoid Bruzeman’s eyes.

  “Michelle,” he said, “your husband loves you. You know that. And you know he loves the children. You can’t, in good conscience, abandon him at this crucial time. You can’t do it, Michelle.” He paused. “He’s on my private line now, patiently waiting, hoping to talk to you.”

  Michael moved between the two of them, as if his body could protect Michelle’s mind. “That is totally inappropriate, counselor. My client will not speak to the man who beat her. We’ve made a complete statement to the police. We have a restraining order, photographs, a doctor’s report, and we could press charges. In fact, we will press charges, if you push Mrs. Russo in this inappropriate way.”

  Michael turned to Michelle. “Forget about the phone,” he told her, then he turned back to Bruzeman. “It won’t be any easier to represent your client if he’s already in jail for battery and spousal abuse.”

  Michelle stood up. She couldn’t stand it anymore. “I’ll talk to him,” she said to Rick. She looked at Michael.

  “You don’t have to,” he said.

  “I’ll talk to him,” she repeated. “But everything you say is true.” She turned to Bruzeman. “We’re not negotiating,” she said. “We’re telling you where things stand. And now I’ll tell Frank.”

  Bruzeman shook his head and then gestured toward the phone. “He’s holding on line two,” Bruzeman said. He raised his eyebrows to Michael. “Shall we give Mrs. Russo some privacy? I have a few things to discuss with you.”

  “Do you want me to stay?” Michael asked.

  “No. It’s really all right.” She would be an adult. She would tell Frank the score. Michelle couldn’t remember the last words that she’d said to her husband. He had been in such a rage when he discovered the money gone that … well, she didn’t remember it all.

  She reached for the phone, but hesitated another minute. He was the father of her children, the love of her life, the man she had slept beside and taken inside her body for the last fourteen years. Yet he was a stranger. He’d been dealing drugs, he’d been lying to her, he’d been living a double life. He’d been putting her and his children at risk and then he’d struck out at her and beaten her. If she lifted up the phone, she would have to remember that the man speaking to her wasn’t the Frank Russo she had once known. She thought she could do that, although her hand was trembling as she reached for the receiver. She picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said.

  “Michelle? Michelle, is that you?”

  Even hearing his voice was difficult. She took a deep breath. “Yes, it’s me. What do you want?”

  “I want you to stop this, Michelle. I want you to come home. You know I didn’t mean it. I was desperate. I was crazy. I need you to come home, Michelle, I need the children, and I need you to bring back the money.”

  Oh yes, she thought. The money. There was always the money. He’d sacrificed everything for the money. It made her sick. She would never touch a dime of it. She’d rather starve first. She wondered what she had to say to this man. Should she tell him how he had destroyed her dream, how he’d ruined her past and erased her future? Should she tell him that the pain in her jaw was nothing—it was the pain in her mind and heart that mattered. She didn’t think so. “Talk to my lawyer, Frank,” she said.

  “Please, Michelle. At least let me see you. Here, in front of Bruzeman, if you want.”

  “No,” she said quickly.

  “Then come home. Just to talk.”

  “Not yet.”

  As Michelle drove farther away from her morning ordeal, she began to feel a little bit better. She’d eventually see Frank if she had to, but it would change nothing. She still wouldn’t testify and she wouldn’t give him the drug money.

  But meanwhile she needed some money of her own to live on. Some money and a plan.

  Angie and Jada were trying to restructure their lives, but what about her? She’d thought for a little while about her own plan. So far what she had was a simple one. She was simple and she needed her life to be simple. She knew that now about herself. She wanted only to work and make enough money to support her kids and herself. She’d had the custom-upholstered-matching-love-seat-and-sofa stage of her life. She’d had expensive window treatments and two sets of china. She’d had more throw pillows than she could count, and wall-to-wall wool Berber carpet. She’d had more clothes than she knew what to do with, more jewelry than she could wear at once, and her kids had had more toys, shoes, and outfits than were good for them. All of that would have to change.

  Michelle’s childhood had been one of such deprivation that she had confused affluence with love and safety. She might be excused for doing that once, but not for doing it twice. More than anything she wanted a simple life where the work she did—not pushing papers across a desk in a bank or anyplace else—but the physical work she did, would give her enough to put food on the table and a few dollars in a savings. And she also wanted to help some other women be able to achieve that goal.

  The main thing was, she had to do something she was good at, something she was proud of. And, at last, she’d figured out what that was. She wanted her life to be clean, and balanced. She wanted to have a sense of accomplishment at the end of a day, at the end of a job. How proud could filling in forms or pressing a button and sending something to the print queue make her? That life wasn’t for her.

  Suddenly, she knew now what life might work. The idea must have been lurking there, in the edges of her mind for some time. She’d have to go to the newspapers.

  She stopped at a Starbuck’s and spent over an hour nursing a cappuccino grande while she worked out the wording she needed for the two ads. Then she headed for two newspaper offices and placed the ads, charging them to Frank’s Visa card. Lastly, she stopped in White Plains, in a seedy part of town. She was careful to lock the car and made sure she parked it close to the door of the Gold Miner, a jewelry and pawn shop.

  She walked across the wide sidewalk and entered. She’d never been in a pawn shop in her life, but she knew her mother used to make monthly trips to the Provident Loan Society, and sometimes to a guy on Third Avenue. But she wasn’t like her mother, she reminded herself. She wasn’t doing this to avoid life or buy booze. She was taking care of herself and her children. She wasn’t a drunk. And if she’d been living in a dream world, if she’d been keeping her eyes closed to the facts of life, at least she wasn’t doing it anymore. Most importantly, she knew that she had to do this, and most of her other plan, on her own. Jada and Angie were helping her, but this … this she had to do alone, because she’d done so very little on her own before. Frank had been her good parent, until he’d turned into a bad one. Now Michelle had to be independent.

  An older woman, a surpr
isingly pretty blonde, came over to the counter. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Oh, I’m not buying,” Michelle said. “I’m selling.” She pulled off her engagement ring, her wedding band, her solitaire earrings, and opened her purse. She took out the emerald ring that Frank had given her when they were in St. Thomas and the necklace with the two-carat diamond that hung from it. She’d managed to get into the house when Frank was gone to get her jewelry and stuff for the kids. “I’d like to sell all of these,” she said. Then she took off her gold watch; a thirtieth birthday present, it had thirty tiny diamonds around the face.

  The woman looked at the array on the counter. “Do you have sales receipts for these?” she asked.

  Michelle looked her in the eye and shook her head. “They were gifts given to me by my husband.”

  The blond woman seemed to heave a big sigh. “Divorce, huh?” she asked.

  Michelle wasn’t in the mood to explain. She just nodded. “We see it all the time,” the saleswoman told her kindly, took out a loupe, and began to look at first the ring, then the stone on Michelle’s necklace. Next she took out a little calculator and began to add up numbers. Michelle stood there and waited as patiently as she could. She knew she would take whatever this woman offered, and she felt that money was hers. It represented her wages for keeping house, for doing all she had done during her years of marriage. And it would be the money that would start her in her own business, in her own career. Whatever the amount was, she had come by it honestly. It was clean money. She’d taken the gifts when she loved Frank, when they represented his love for her, but she didn’t want them anymore. She would take the money and she would begin again.

  The blonde looked at her apologetically. She offered a number that seemed ridiculously low to Michelle. It was less than Frank had paid for her ring, much less all the other stuff, but it would be enough to get her started.

  But should she accept their first offer? It never would have occurred to Michelle not to—at least not before. She looked at her jewelry. It was amazing to think how attached to it she had once been, and to know that now the only thing it represented was some comfort and security for her children. She wished she had more to add to the pile. Then it occurred to her to take off the earrings she was wearing. She placed them with the rest. “I want more,” she said, and looked the woman straight in the eye.