Young Wives

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Michelle’s heart felt as if it were fluttering in her chest, while at the same time there seemed to be a cue ball in her throat. She couldn’t swallow her own spit. She also couldn’t help but check the rearview mirror (for the twentieth time) to see if there was anybody following them. She tried to swallow again. If she got Jada involved in all this, what if Jada got arrested and accused of being part of Frank’s crime? What if she did, just because she was here sending Jada in? Both of them would surely lose their children forever.

  Maybe, Michelle thought, she should just abandon the idea. Maybe she should leave all that cursed money just where it was, away from Frank and unable to hurt anybody. That was probably the best idea—to tell Jada to put the car in reverse and get them out of there. She sat very still for a moment, considering the option. It wasn’t as if she wanted anything to do with the money in there, sitting neatly stacked in its box inside the bank vault walls. But to make the deal with the DA, she had to have something to show him. This bad money could be turned to good. And maybe in more ways than one.

  She glanced into the rearview mirror again. Hadn’t that white Chevrolet across the lot been sitting there a long time? There was a man alone in the driver’s seat. The car looked exactly like a plainclothes cop’s car—stripped down, no special features. Was it a Cavalier? Wasn’t that what Frank once told her that most Westchester undercover cops drove? Then an older woman with a really bad perm crossed the lot and got into the passenger seat. Michelle took a deep breath. She was getting crazy, paranoid.

  “Michelle, are you all right?” Jada asked.

  Michelle couldn’t speak. She was that shook up. She just nodded. If anything happened, if one of Frank’s people grabbed the money, it would just be gone. As long as they didn’t hurt Jada. And if the DA’s people did anything, Michelle would just tell them the truth—that she was getting the money to take to them.

  “Make it quick, Jada,” Michelle finally managed to say. “Don’t bother to close the box out. You know how much time it used to take Anne to do that. Just pack up the bag and come back as quick as you can. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Jada told her. “But are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just a little dehydrated or something.”

  “Well, I’ll be right back,” Jada said cheerfully, opening her door and sliding her long legs out. She walked onto the sidewalk and Michelle watched her, counting every step. She looked down at her—well, Jenna’s—Swatch. It was seven minutes after ten when Jada disappeared into the double doors of the bank. How long could it possibly take? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Michelle tried to swallow the cue ball in her throat and began to wait.

  But not two minutes later, a police car pulled into the parking lot from Post Road and right up to the door of the bank. Michelle panicked—she didn’t know what to do. Her mind raced. There was no point in running, and she supposed she shouldn’t go into the bank, because if they were looking for her it would only make their job easier. Not that they wouldn’t find her here. She remembered the icy feel of the handcuffs when they had taken her away.

  She rubbed her wrists and slid farther down in her seat, shivering. She watched and waited. The cop on the driver’s side stayed in his seat, but on the other side of the car, the door opened, a policeman got out, and walked to the sidewalk in front of the bank entrance. Then he made a left and walked past the dry cleaner’s and into the deli. Michelle could hardly believe it, but in two or three minutes, he walked out again holding two coffees in one hand and eating a danish that he held in the other. Michelle could see crumbs all over the front of his uniform. He got back into the cruiser and Michelle watched, feeling as if her body had turned into liquid, while the police car pulled out of the parking lot.

  After a few minutes she could breathe again, and even move and think. She looked down at her watch—it was almost a quarter after. Jada should be in a booth by now. That is, if she hadn’t been stopped inside the bank. Michelle found that she had been tapping her foot and stopped herself. She turned her head around and scanned the parking lot again. Surely, if there had been people inside the bank waiting for Jada to show up, they would have already come to get Michelle.

  She glanced again down at her watch. Eighteen minutes past ten. Jada had been in the bank for eleven minutes. Well, eleven minutes wasn’t long. Michelle was tapping her foot again, but this time she didn’t even try to stop it. She would just wait, tapping as much as she had to.

  She managed to wait until ten-thirty, but by then it seemed unbearable. If Jada was being detained in the bank, if Michelle had gotten her involved, she’d never forgive herself. And Jada would probably never forgive her. Michelle decided she had better go in to see what was happening, but as she put her hand on the door handle, she thought better of it. She might be the one they were looking for. Despite the cold of the handle, her hand was sweating. What good would it do if she went into the bank? If people were searching for her, she’d be spotted and that would get Jada in trouble. Meanwhile, if they had caught Jada, they would certainly be out any minute looking for her car.

  Michelle, who hadn’t had a cigarette since she was in eleventh grade (when Frank had made her quit) wished desperately for the comfort of a drag on a Marlboro. For a moment she even considered going into the deli and getting a pack. Instead she looked down at her watch—it was 10:34. Jada had been in the bank for twenty-seven minutes—almost half an hour.

  Michelle was freezing, but even though Jada had left the keys in the ignition, she wouldn’t turn on the motor and the heat. The fact was, aside from her foot tapping, she couldn’t move. If Jada never came out of the bank, the headline in the papers tomorrow would read: DRUG KINGPIN’S WIFE FOUND FROZEN IN FOREIGN CAR, FOOT FALLEN OFF. The funny thing was that even though she was so cold, Michelle was sweating under her arms. It was that nasty, clammy sweat that ruined her clothes. This sweater would be in the garbage by the end of the day, if she lived through the end of the day.

  A woman came out of the bank holding a little girl by the hand. In fact, it was the first person who had come out in the last half hour. Maybe there was a problem in the bank. Maybe the bank was being held up and everyone was a hostage. But then why would this woman be walking out? Michelle, she said to herself, you’re going crazy. Stark raving bonkerinos. The bank doors opened again. Michelle held her breath, but this time it was only an old lady, one who took tiny steps down the slate stairs, holding the railing and avoiding anything that might look like ice or dampness.

  Then, at last, at precisely six minutes to eleven, the doors opened again and Jada walked out. She was swinging the black bag, and it looked appropriately heavy. She walked down the steps, got up to the Volvo, opened the door, and stuck her head in. “Mission accomplished,” she said cheerfully, and placed the black bag on Michelle’s lap before settling herself into the driver’s seat. The bag felt solid and heavy against Michelle’s thighs. Jada reached for the ignition and had the car started just before Michelle burst into loud, wet sobs.

  60

  A boyfriend, a brunch, a broadcast

  Michelle had cleaned Angie’s apartment until everything gleamed—Cinderella had struck again. Jada had brought her some flowers from Price Chopper—two mixed bouquets of carnations, gerbera daisies, gladioli, and a lot of leaves. They looked cheery. Angie had just finished putting the quiche in the oven. Then she mixed the salad and added the dressing. She couldn’t eat, so she had set the little table for two. Her nausea had passed, but she was now ravenously hungry, so she’d eaten once already. Later she’d eat the leftovers.

  The apartment was unusually quiet. Her roommates and the kids had cleared out early; Jada had gone to a church service, and Michelle was killing time with her kids until she could take them to the first show at the movies. That ought to give Angie more than enough time, more than enough privacy, but she wondered whether she’d done the right thing at all.

  There was a knock on the door. It was early—her mother was usually late and her
father was a nut about getting to places exactly on time, so Angie was surprised. She went to the door and Michael was standing on the other side of it. He was carrying the Sunday papers and a big bakery bag. “I thought I had extrasensory perception,” he said. “It emanated from here. Is there somebody craving both newsprint and empty carbohydrates?” he asked.

  He looked cute. He was wearing a red sweater and one of those puffy sleeveless vests that Angie could never understand, because she needed seven layers and lots of long sleeves to keep warm. “Come on in,” she said, but though she tried to keep the warmth in her voice, she felt the reluctance of her invitation. Her plate was full with the news she was going to have to drop on her parents in the next hour. She couldn’t expect both of them to take it as well as Michael had.

  Michael, she’d discovered, was attractive in a way she had never appreciated before. He was very sure of himself and very competent—at least in the things he was sure of.

  He came in and his eyes briefly swept around the room. “Where’s Coxie’s Army?” he asked. “I brought enough for all of them. Are all your varied guests and roomies still sleeping?”

  “No,” she admitted. “They’ve gone out.”

  Michael looked over at the set table, took in the flowers and the guest-readiness of the place. “I think my ESP has just kicked in again,” he said. His shoulders drooped. “You’re about to entertain someone else for brunch.” He handed her the bag and looked, for a moment, flushed and embarrassed. “Well, he’s welcome to my crullers.”

  Angie smiled. He was jealous. It was so cute. It gave her a little frisson of pleasure, but not at his expense. “Michael, the table is set for two,” she said, “because there are two guests, aside from me—my mother and my father.”

  “Do they break bread—or crullers—together?” he asked.

  She could see that under the joke he was relieved. “No, not usually,” she admitted. “This is what you might call experimental in nature. But since they’re going to be grandparents together, I figured now was the time for them to hear the news. And hear it together.”

  “Whew. You know, two strikes and I’m out. First I think you’re here with the gang. Then I think you’re here with a lover. I don’t think I’m going to set up that part-time business as a reader-slash-adviser, after all,” Michael told her. “I might not have been attuned to all the music of the spheres. In fact, now that I am, I think I’ll take a powder.”

  She walked him to the door, then she held on to one of the red sleeves of his sweater, stood on tiptoe, and gave him a kiss. “Thank you for the attention,” she said. “But I’m afraid this morning is going to be fraught with difficulties.”

  “Well, it’s the fraught that counts,” he said. They both winced. “Give me a call if you survive,” he said, and started to leave. Halfway down the walk, he turned back. “Hey, Angie?” he asked. “You told me about, you know, the pregnancy, before you told your mom and dad?” She nodded. He smiled. “Good,” he said, and walked away with a jaunty step.

  Some things were so predictable, they were ridiculous. Her father had arrived exactly on time with a big and ridiculous house gift—one of those ice cream makers which would take up at least half of her kitchen counter space and be used only once, if ever. “It took you long enough to invite me to the housewarming,” he said, as if this were a black-tie party for fifty and she’d been holding out on him.

  He walked through the whole place suspiciously, as if she might be hiding a poster of Fidel Castro on a closet door somewhere. Then he sat down on the sofa and wanted to know about the rent, whether utilities were included, how long the lease lasted, and every other useless financial detail about the place. She answered while she made raspberry ice tea. She knew he’d go on and on with his inquisition as long as she let him. Then the doorbell rang. Angie put the salad on the table and opened the door.

  Natalie bustled in with two shopping bags filled with more delicatessen and prepared gourmet take-out than any normal family could eat in a week. “Hi, darling,” she said, and Angie had time to kiss her before Natalie heard Anthony’s grunt and looked over her daughter’s shoulder to see her ex-husband. “What is this?” she asked, putting down her bags.

  “This is my apartment,” Angie said. “He is my father.”

  Anthony stood up. “You didn’t tell me about this,” he said.

  Natalie got nasty and Anthony grew defensive. It took her ten minutes to calm them both down, get them to their seats at the table, and place food in front of them. She could get mules to brunch, but she couldn’t get them to graze. They sat across from each other, ridiculously hostile, her mother glaring at her father, her father glaring at her. This was something important to remember about marriage: once you had children together, it was never over. There were kids’ graduations, there were weddings and funerals and birthdays. There were all the events that brought families together, where you had to stare across a table at a person you never wanted to see again. Ah yes, Angie thought. She was glad Reid wasn’t going to know about the baby.

  Finally Natalie turned to Angie, about to remove the untouched salad. “This is totally inappropriate,” Natalie said. “If I need to see him, which I don’t, I can see him without your intervention.”

  “Yeah? Since when? I don’t need to see you. Just because you need to see me sometimes doesn’t mean you get to see me,” said Anthony. “What am I? An exhibition in a museum?”

  Angie couldn’t stand it. They were like Jenna and Frankie fighting. No wonder she was immature. She got it from both sides of her family. “Look, this isn’t about what you need. Either of you,” she told them. “What you needed to do was break up our family, so you did it. Maybe that wasn’t what I needed, but I understand. And even though you’ve both been there for me, you haven’t been there for me together.”

  The two of them looked at her as if she were ranting. Then both of them assumed guilty looks. Well, let them. Angie unpacked the bag her mother had brought, putting the artichoke hearts and the beet root salad on the counter, banging the little plastic containers one on top of the other.

  “Look,” she said. “I am grateful to both of you because you helped me through a really bad time.” She put her arms around her father and kissed his cheek. “You gave me courage to walk out, Daddy,” she said. “And a place to stay.” She turned to her mother. “And you got me motivated, and gave me a job. And introduced me to new friends.” She thought of Michael and smiled. “I want you to know that I am really grateful. But I’m really sad because we don’t have a family left. America, I don’t know, everything just … American family life is dissolved. There are no more family holidays, dinners all together at night, just a person alone in front of a TV eating take-out food. That’s how you guys live, and it’s how I was going to live, except for my friends.”

  “Look,” Natalie began, “I don’t think I have to apologize for your father’s behavior—”

  “Don’t say it was me who broke up our marriage,” Anthony interrupted.

  “Oh, shut up. Both of you,” Angie said. “I’m trying to say something new. I’m going to have a baby. I am having a baby, and Reid doesn’t know it. Anyway, he’s getting remarried. I don’t have a husband, but I will have a baby. And I want the baby to have a family. You’re it.”

  This was so weird, so not as she imagined it. Angie had thought this would be a session where her parents yelled at her, and instead she was yelling at them. Why did that make her feel bad? Perhaps because she felt like the adult, and she wanted the comfort of being their child. Ah, she thought, get used to being the parent, she said to herself, it’s going to start in about four and a half months and not quit till you’re dead.

  Natalie stood up. “You’re having a baby?” she asked. “Oh my God!” Anthony didn’t say anything, but he stood up also and came over to hug her. The hug felt good. No yelling? No screaming? No cries that she was ruining her life, or throwing away all her education, or being unfair to an unborn child? />
  “When’s the baby due?” Natalie asked. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before! What’s the due date? Who’s your obstetrician?”

  Her father just kissed her and then hugged her again. “So now I guess I can’t have anyone kill your ex?” he asked.

  “Sure you can,” Angie said. ‘“Cause he’s not going to have anything to do with this. But you two are. I’m going to need help, and honestly, I think you need a little family connection yourselves.” Angie looked from one to the other. “I know how impossible this seems, but I want you to try to be mature,” she said. “Get along. Be grandparents. Is that too much to ask?”

  Natalie walked over to her daughter, put one arm around her shoulder, and stretched the other one out to her belly, ready to feel it. “May I?” she asked. And Angie nodded her head. This wasn’t the family she’d imagined, but it was one that she’d make work.

  61

  During which DA Douglas gets the dirt and the dough

  Michelle did not want to go back to Douglas, that nasty district attorney, but she didn’t really have a choice and she supposed that what he had said was more right than not. All of the insulting things he had ranted about women in her situation had applied to her. She had kept her eyes closed to a lot of what Frank must have been up to. So as the next part of her plan, she and Angie met with Michael Rice and made another appointment to see Douglas.

  “You know, Michelle,” Michael had said, “I feel that I didn’t really prepare you for him. He was tough, and he’s not going to be willing to see you again unless you’ve got some hard evidence. And it’s going to have to be pretty compelling evidence.”