“Yeah,” Michelle agreed. “And you pay for dinner.”
49
In which children are taken by surprise
Jada had already received a call from Clinton and a letter from his lawyer about the late payments. She’d lied and told him she could make them up if only she could bring the children to her place. Reluctantly Clinton had agreed. “But otherwise I go to court,” he’d said. “I got the law on my side!”
Jada couldn’t describe what the last visit with her children had been like. She had gotten permission to bring the children to Angie’s apartment, just so they would have a place to go that wasn’t public. Of course, she still had to have Ms. Patel along with her. Jada, like the fool she was, had looked forward to having them indoors, to making them grilled cheese sandwiches or just sitting on the sofa and watching TV. She’d gotten two videos just in case. But when Shavonne, Kevon, and the baby had come into Angie’s place, they’d sniffed around the sparsely furnished white living room like hostile cats. “Whose house is this?” Kevon wanted to know.
“It’s not a house, baby, it’s an apartment. And I’m sharing it with a friend.”
“You like her more than us?” Kevon asked, and Jada had knelt beside him and held his shoulders.
“I love you,” she said. “I couldn’t love anybody more than I love you.”
“So come back and be with us,” Kevon said.
“I want to be with you more than anything,” Jada had explained. “But your daddy went to the court and the judge decided it this way.” She knew it wouldn’t make sense to a six-year-old, but what more could she say? It didn’t make sense to her. Ms. Patel sat quietly at the very edge of the sofa.
“I don’t like this place,” Shavonne said. “It’s so small.”
“I know. But it’s bigger than the Volvo. And I can cook a little here. How about grilled cheese?” Jada asked.
“Okay,” Kevon said reasonably, though Shavonne just shrugged her shoulders. Her son scrambled to a place at the table and Jada set Sherrilee down in one of the other chairs. She realized she should have a high chair, so she took off her scarf and tied it around Sherrilee’s stomach, securing her to the seat.
“Grilled cheese, coming right up,” she’d said. “And who wants a Barney glass?”
Sherrilee waved her hand and said, “Bah-ney.”
“Who wants a Pocahontas glass?” Jada said, teasing.
“Not me,” Kevon said.
“Oh, so I guess you don’t want a Lion King one.”
“Yes, I would,” he said.
Out of the corner of her eye Jada saw Shavonne floating toward the table as if she were just a bit of dandelion fluff moving without will. No matter what Michelle said about fats, they comforted kids and adults. Jada decided she’d have a grilled cheese, too.
She cut the crusts off and made squares and triangles out of the bread. It was only after the sandwiches, the milk, and the Mallomars that things fell apart. Sherrilee had gotten the scarf unknotted, scrambled down from the chair, out of the room, and into the little hallway leading to the two bedrooms. Jada was just putting in a video when she realized it and followed her a second too late. But Sherrilee had already gotten into the guest bedroom and scooped up Pinkie and a Beanie Baby from Jenna’s pile. She came out carrying both of them. “Oh, look. It’s the bunny,” said Shavonne, and reached out for it.
“Mine,” said Sherrilee, and pulled it and the other one into her chest.
“Are they both for her?” Shavonne asked, as if they were gifts.
“Mine,” Sherrilee said again, and Jada tried to think quickly while she gently tried to pry the soft toys out of the baby’s grip. But Kevon had jumped up, run down the hall, and was now standing in the doorway.
“Look!” he called out. “Shavonne! Come look!” Kevon ran into the room and moved immediately to Frankie’s trucks. He sat down on the floor. Shavonne just stood in the doorway for a moment. Jada, holding the baby and the bloody, damaged rabbit, came up behind her. “Is this for us?” Kevon asked. “Is this our playroom?”
For a moment Jada felt paralyzed. Then Shavonne grabbed a closet door handle and pulled the door open. She started to examine Jenna’s dresses and shoes, hanging there neatly beside her mother’s familiar clothes. “You’re living here with some other children,” Shavonne said, and walked out of the room.
“No! No other kids! I want this truck!” Kevon yelled, sitting on it with his knees almost up to his shoulders. He pushed with his feet. “Tonka, Tonka,” he said.
It had taken Jada the next forty-five minutes to pry the toys away, get the kids together, and then try to explain that these were Jenna and Frankie’s things. That Michelle and her husband were having a big fight and she and the children were staying here. “Then why can’t we stay here?” Kevon asked.
Shavonne looked at him as if he were stupid. “Because she doesn’t want us to,” Shavonne said, and Kevon began to cry. Sherrilee picked up his wail, and in the end Jada had only gotten one of the Beanie Babies away.
She had tried the best she could to explain everything all over again, but she knew it was only words. Ms. Patel, who might have helped, sat silently, neither assisting nor being detrimental. But it was a humiliation to have anyone witness this. A humiliation, as well as a heartbreak. Jada had to herd the kids out to the car, and as they got into the Volvo to drive back to the house, Shavonne said, “I hate Tonya. She’s a lazy slob. She doesn’t fool me. And you don’t fool me, either. I hate you, too.”
Jada had been thinking seriously about just driving off into the sunset with the kids, but with the way the visits were going, the longer she put it off, the less likely she felt the kids would want to come with her. It wasn’t that they preferred Clinton, or Tonya. It was just that they were so angry at her for abandoning them. But each time she thought of the hazards of trying to disappear with her kids, she became frightened. She saw what Michelle was up against with the criminal court system, and she wanted nothing to do with that trouble. Perhaps Barbados was the best idea. She decided that she would call the lawyer her mother and father had recommended. It took her a little while to find his name and number—she had jotted it down on the back of a receipt and stuffed it in the side pocket of her purse—but at last she found it and called him.
He took her call right away, though there were two secretaries who ran interference for him. “It’s lucky you got me here,” he said in a clipped accent. “I’m leaving Bridgetown this afternoon. But I’ll be in the States next week. I wasn’t planning to be in New York,” he added. “Would it be possible for you to meet me in Boston? I think this is the kind of thing we need to cover in person, not over the phone.”
Jada had to believe that it was some kind of a coincidence. She had never been in Boston in her life, yet she was going for Angie’s caper. She didn’t want to act as if she were a superstitious idiot, but perhaps God really did help those who helped themselves. They made a plan to meet and she thanked him.
“Oh, no thanks necessary, Mrs. Jackson. Let’s just see if there’s some way I can help.”
“But it’s kidnapping,” Michelle said, her voice raised so that Jada had to shush her. Jenna and Frankie were sleeping in the other bedroom. Now the three women were sitting on Angie’s bed.
“Don’t tell me it’s illegal to be with my own kids,” Jada said, and now her voice was raised, but Michelle didn’t have the heart to shush her. She tried to imagine what Jada must be going through, separated from her children but forced to watch Jenna and Frankie come home from school each day, filled with the same kind of news that Shavonne and Kevon used to bring home.
“I thought the plan was to appeal,” Angie said. “Michael has really gone through a few channels to see what—”
“Forget about him and forget about it,” Jada said. “It takes too long and we might not win at the end anyway. Meanwhile my babies are being hurt every single day.”
“But I’m an officer of the court,” said Angela. “I do
n’t want to be a pussy, but a crime—”
“A crime is better than ruined children. When I picked up Sherrilee today, her whole body stiffened and she pulled away from me. That’s how a baby lets you know how angry she is with you.” Jada paused. “She may never forget this. She may never forgive this abandonment.” She got up off the bed and walked to the other side of the crowded room. She had worked and worked on this plan. It wasn’t without risk, but it seemed as if it would work as long as the Volvo would.
She couldn’t wait for another run at the court, so what else was there to do? “You don’t have to help,” Jada said calmly to Angie. “Neither do you,” she said to Michelle. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”
“You can’t do something like this alone,” Angie said.
“If you won’t help me, I’ll have to,” Jada said coldly. “And I … there are organizations that assist women in my situation.”
“Jada, they’re strictly outside the law. You’d have to be underground for years. Maybe forever. And if you’re caught—and you probably would be—you’d be criminally prosecuted. You’d go to prison,” Angie said.
“Not if I leave the country,” Jada said. “I’m drinking of going to Barbados with the kids.”
Michelle took Jada’s hand. “I’ll help,” she said. “I’ll do whatever it takes. You need those kids back, and they need you. Whatever the risk.”
Jada looked at her friend. And she realized just how far her friend would go for her.
“What if you fail?” Angie asked.
“It couldn’t be worse than this,” Jada said.
“Even if you fail, at least they’ll know that you love them. That you wanted them,” Michelle said. “Isn’t that the most important thing?”
“Yes,” Jada said.
Angie sighed. “I’m in,” she said. She looked down at herself. “Do prison stripes run vertical or horizontal? What’s the first step?”
“Calling my mother again,” Jada told them.
50
Lights, camera, blackmail
“Do I look fat?” Angie asked, and both Michelle and Jada nodded. “Good,” Angie said. She wanted to look fat rather than pregnant. She was starting to show, and she had put on weight even before she’d started showing. But as the costume designer as well as the script writer and director, she thought it was best for her to look as unattractive and non-threatening as possible in this scene.
She’d called Lisa to confirm meeting her. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and aside from lipstick, hadn’t put on any makeup at all. Okay. What had she forgotten? She’d made reservations at a restaurant for dinner. She almost wished she hadn’t gone to Michelle’s dentist to get her tooth fixed, that way she’d be guaranteed not to overeat in front of Lisa. “Oh, wait,” she said. “I can’t forget this,” and walked to the side of her bed and picked up the empty Shreve, Crump & Lowe box.
“I’ve got the ring,” Michelle said. She was wearing enough makeup for both of them, Angie thought, and the Chanel-like suit she’d bought, which was tiny. But the part she had to play almost required one of those tiny versions—one where the knit skirt was very short and the jacket clung in all the right places. Two of the brass buttons were actually lined up over her nipples. But Michelle didn’t look cheap and available—she looked expensive and available.
Michelle opened her little purse and took out a small Macy’s bag. “Here we have it,” Michelle said. “An heirloom hot off the jewelry counter. The best cubic zirconium money could buy.” She showed it to Jada. “Does it look too new?” she asked.
“Nah,” Jada said. “Tasteful. Very tasteful. Not too big for those old money people and not too small to be untempting. Just don’t take it out in daylight,” she advised Angie as she handed her the ring. “They shine like crystal then, and don’t fool anybody.”
Jada was wearing the low-cut orange sweater and tight black leather pants they’d bought for the occasion. She’d had her hair done and it was pulled back into a smooth chignon, anchored with what looked like a hundred small braids. She had orange lipstick on and had done something to her eyes, something with a lot of mascara. Whatever it was, she looked great.
“You should dress like that all the time,” Angie said.
“I used to,” Jada told her, “but I didn’t think the bank would appreciate it. Of course, at Price Chopper it might make me employee of the week.”
“What shoes are you wearing?” Michelle asked.
“I don’t know. What do you think, girlfriend? The black boots or the stilettos?”
Michelle stopped and regarded her seriously. “Well, I’m going with stilettos—real killers—so just for a change, I think maybe the boots. Mr. Wakefield might like a smorgasbord.”
“I don’t want to look like a dyke.”
Angie laughed. “Yes, you do,” she said, and looked at her watch. “The kids are with Michael, we’re looking good, so let’s go. We’ve got to catch the shuttle.”
Michelle sashayed into Reid Wakefield’s office at Andover Putnam. She knew she looked good because the receptionist and four or five secretaries had really given her the once-over. She felt like Cinderella—after the fairy godmother’s makeover. She was much more comfortable in jeans and a white shirt, but she could do this for her friend, and it was almost fun, in a Lana Turner sort of way.
She walked into Angie’s ex-husband’s office and smiled. He stood up and he was very tall, and very good-looking. He wasn’t her type—she’d always liked small, dark men—but she could recognize this guy’s good looks. His charms were certainly external, but she could see what Angie had found attractive. “Mr. Wakefield,” she said, and extended her hand.
He leaned across the desk, a lot farther than he had to, and took her hand. Unless she was wrong, he also held it just a moment too long. Oh, this boy was trouble, no doubt about it. For a moment Michelle almost felt sorry for his fiancée, but then she remembered that she was getting exactly what she deserved. “Shall I sit down here?” she asked in her littlest voice.
“No, please, make yourself comfortable on the sofa.” He came from around the desk and sat down in the chair across from her. Not, she noticed, in the more comfortable easy chair beside the sofa, but the one where he could see her better. She crossed her legs to give him something to look at and then glanced toward the open door.
“I think we’re going to need some privacy,” she said, and he jumped up, crossed the office in just a few strides, and was back, the door safely closed.
“Mr. Wakefield,” she said, “I have to confess that I’ve already told you a lie.”
His smile wavered for a moment and one golden eyebrow rose, as if on its own. “Really?” he asked. “What was the lie? And why did you tell it?”
“I gave you a false name. I’m not really Anthea Carstairs. I only did it because I’m married to a very prominent man. I didn’t want that to influence you before I reached you and got a chance to speak with you face-to-face.”
Reid adjusted his own face. “Well, I don’t specialize in matrimonial law, I do contract work mostly, and though I feel I wouldn’t be easily swayed, I—”
Michelle leaned forward and said three words. “Charles Henderson Moyers.”
Now both of Reid’s eyebrows moved together up his forehead. Everybody knew about the Moyers family—the enormous wealth that came down from the long-dead father and the feud among his three sons. Their wealth was matched only by the tragedies they’d experienced. “The reclusive brother?” Reid asked.
Michelle nodded. “The richest. And the oldest,” she said. “But I didn’t mind that. We’ve been married for eleven years, Mr. Wakefield. And they were my best years. When a man is his age, it takes young flesh to move him.” She lowered her eyes, just for a moment, as if it had been hard to say that. Surprisingly, none of it had been hard. Maybe she should have been an actress, Michelle thought, and then looked right back at Reid.
“Well,” the lawyer said, and cleared his throa
t. “What exactly seems to be the difficulty now?” he asked.
“I signed a pre-nup and agreed that I wouldn’t get a penny if I slept with another man. I’ve never broken my promise, Mr. Wakefield. Do you believe me?”
He nodded slowly as she kept her eyes on him, as if she were a snake and he was a mesmerized bit of prey. This was fun! Playing with this jerk was better than cleaning.
Michelle stuck the tip of her tongue out, just a quarter of an inch, and dampened her lips. She thought that maybe she’d gone too far, it was too much, but when he crossed his leg quickly, as if to hide himself, she decided it had been just the right thing to do.
“Charles wants a divorce,” she said. “He’s found another woman. That’s all right with me, but not on his terms. He’s accusing me of adultery and he wants to give me virtually nothing. After more than a decade.”
Reid frowned. “But the man has billions,” he said.
“And I’m innocent,” she pointed out. “But the Moyers are notoriously strange about money. Remember when his daughter was kidnapped about fifteen years or so ago and he wouldn’t pay ransom? They had to send him—gee, I think it was three of Meredith’s fingers. And they came three different weeks. And she had been a violinist.” Michelle shook her head. “Poor Meredith.” She sighed.
Reid nodded his head. “I remember reading about that,” he told her.
“Well, the Moyers have a way of forgetting their pasts. Meredith was his second wife’s child. I’m his fifth wife. No children. And I think he’s lining up this new one to be his sixth. Can you imagine? Not even divorced, and lining up your next wife?” Michelle asked, but Reid Wakefield III didn’t notice her sarcasm.
“Wasn’t it Fitzgerald who said the rich are different than you and I?” he asked.
Michelle didn’t know who Fitzgerald was, but she smiled. “He was wrong,” she said. “They’re very, very different. Anyway, it’s time for another change, and I honestly don’t mind that, but I’ve played by the rules. I need help to make sure he does.” She stared across at him again. She tried to use the look she’d used on Frank when she wanted to go upstairs. Reid nodded.
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