Separate Beds

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Mother, don't you think I've thought the same things all day long?”

  “Yet you don't propose to do anything about it?” Angela asked.

  “I don't know what to do, I'm just mixed up . . . I . . . oh, hell.” His shoulders slumped further.

  “What your mother is trying to make you see is that your responsibility is to make sure the child is provided for, and that its future is made secure. She speaks for both of us. It's our grandchild. We'd like to know its life will be the best possible, under the circumstances.”

  “Are you saying you want me to ask that girl to marry me?”

  “What we want, Clay, has been superseded by your thoughtless actions. What we want is what we've always wanted for you, an education, a career, a happy life—”

  “And you think I'd have those things married to a woman I don't love?” Suddenly Clay rose and walked to a window, glanced absently at the gathering dusk outside, then turned to confront them again. “I've never said it before, not in so many words, but I want the kind of relationship you two have. I want a wife I can be proud of, someone of my own class, if it comes down to that, whose ambitions match mine, who is bright and . . . and loving, and who wants what I want out of life. Someone like Jill.”

  “Ah . . . Jill,” Angela said with an arched eyebrow, then leaned forward intently, her petite elbow on her gracefully crossed knees. “Yes, I think it's time you considered Jill. Where was Jill when all of this happened?”

  “We'd had a fight, that's all.”

  “Oh, you had a fight.” Angela settled back again, her casualness belying the seriousness of the subject. “And so you took out Catherine to—to get even with Jill, or for whatever reason, and by doing so, wronged not one woman, but two. Clay, how could you!”

  “Mother, you've always liked Jill far better than any of the other girls I've gone with.”

  “Yes, I have; both your father and I admire her immensely. But at the moment I feel your responsibility to Catherine Anderson is far greater than that to Jill. Besides, I haven't the slightest doubt that if you'd wanted to marry Jill you'd have asked her years ago.”

  “We've talked about it more than once, but the timing just wasn't right. I wanted to get school behind me and pass my bar exam first.”

  “Speaking of which, I should like to point out a few facts you may have overlooked,” Claiborne said, rising from the loveseat and taking what Clay knew was his “counsel for the plaintiff” stance: both feet flat on the floor, jaw and one shoulder jutting toward the accused. “That father of hers could make more trouble for you than you might think. You are aware that your bar examinations are less than a year off, and that the State Board of Law Examiners goes to some lengths to establish that any person making application be of good moral character. Up to this point I've never given it a second thought regarding you, but I've done nothing but consider it today. Clay, something like this could be enough for them to deny you the right to take your boards! When you apply, you'll be asked for affidavits respecting your habits and general reputation, and they are fully within their rights to demand you to furnish a character investigation report to the National Bar Examiners. Do you realize that?”

  The expression on Clay's face made an answer unnecessary.

  “Clay, it only takes one dyed-in-the-wool conservative who still sees abortion as immoral, regardless of its legal ramifications, or who believes that siring a bastard is cause enough to doubt your moral character, and it could be the death knell to your legal career. You have less than a year left. Do you want it all to go for nothing?” Claiborne moved to his desk, touched a pen distractedly, then sought Clay's eyes. “There is a minor concern which I cannot help but inject here. As an alumnus at the university, I'm a member of the Partnership in Excellence and The Board of Visitors. I enjoy those positions and they speak well for me. They are prestigious and would undoubtedly be an asset, if I decide to run for county attorney. I should like no slur on the Forrester name, whether it be on yours or mine. And if I do run, I am counting on you to continue my established practice during my term. Of course, we all realize what is at stake here.” Claiborne dropped the pen on the desk for effect. It was implicit: he was threatening to exclude Clay from the family firm, upon which Clay had always built his plans for the future. Claiborne steepled his fingertips, looked over them at his son and finished, with further innuendo, “Your decision, Clay, will affect all of us.”

  At that moment Herbert Anderson was stalking back and forth across Catherine's deserted bedroom like a caged cat.

  “Goddam that girl; I'll break every bone in her body if she ain't with Forrester talking money right this minute! Talk about gratitude, that's gratitude for you!” He landed a vicious kick on a drawer that gaped at him with nothing but newspaper lining its bottom. The kick left a black scuff mark beside those he'd already put there.

  From the doorway Ada stammered in a quaking voice, “Wh—where do you sup—suppose she'd of gone, Herb?”

  “Well, how the hell am I supposed to know!” he yelled. “She don't tell me one damn thing about her comings and goings. If she did, she wouldn't of got herself knocked up in the first place 'cause I'd of made goddam sure she'd of known something about that lover boy of hers before she went out and got herself diddled by him!”

  “Maybe—maybe he took her in after all.”

  “He took her in all right, and she's got a belly full of his brat to prove it!” Stalking to the telephone, he elbowed Ada rudely aside, continuing his tirade as he dialed. “Damn girl ain't got the sense God gave a cluck hen if she's not with Forrester. Wouldn't know what her ship looked like if it run her down and sliced her in half! Them Forresters was my ticket, goddammit! My ticket! Damn her hide if she run off on me and . . .”

  Just then Clay picked up his ringing phone, and Anderson bawled into the mouthpiece, “Where the hell is my daughter, lover boy!” The three Forresters were still in the study discussing the situation. Claiborne and Angela didn't need to hear the far end of the conversation to know what was being said.

  “She's not here.” There were long pauses between Clay's responses. “I don't know . . . I haven't seen her since I dropped her off at home last night . . . Now listen to me, Anderson! I told her then that if she wanted money, I'd be happy to give it to her, but she refused. I don't know what more you expect of me . . . That's harassment, Anderson, and it's punishable by law! . . . I'm willing to talk to your daughter but I have no intention of dealing with a small-time con artist like you. I'll say it one more time, Anderson, leave us alone! It will take no more than a call from your daughter, and financial aid will be in her hand before the day is out, but as for you, I wouldn't give you the directions to a soup line if you were dying of starvation! Do I make myself clear! . . . Fine! Bring them! She's nowhere in this house. If she were, I'd be happy to put her on the phone right now . . . Yes, your concern is very touching . . . I have no idea . . .” There followed a longer pause during which Clay pulled the receiver away from his ear while the muffled anger of Herb Anderson crackled through the wire. When Clay hung up, it was with equal portions of anger and worry.

  “Well, it seems she's disappeared,” he said, dropping down into his father's desk chair.

  “So I gathered,” Claiborne replied.

  “The man is a lunatic.”

  “I agree. And he's not going to stop with one abusive phone call. Do you concur?”

  “How should I know?” Clay jumped up again, paced across the room and stopped to sigh at the ceiling. “He threatened at least four various felonies during the course of the conversation.”

  “Have you any idea where the girl might have gone?” his father asked.

  “None. All she would say was that she had plans. I had no idea she intended to disappear this fast.”

  “Do you know any of her friends?”

  “Only her cousin Bobbi, the girl Stu's been dating.”

  “My suggestion is, you see if she knows where Catherine is, and the soo
ner the better. I have an idea we haven't heard the last from Anderson. I want him stopped before any word of this leaks out.”

  Meanwhile, in Omaha, Nebraska, the sister of a student in Bobbi Schumaker's Psych I class dropped a letter in a U.S. mail depository. It was written in Catherine Anderson's clean, distinctive hand and addressed to Ada, telling her not to worry.

  The following evening the Forresters were at dinner, the table set tastefully with white damask linens, bronze-colored mums and burning tapers. Inella, the maid, had just served the chicken Kiev and returned to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. With a sigh she went to answer it. She had no more than turned the handle when the door was smacked back against the wall with a violent shove, flying out of Inella's surprised fingers.

  A guttural voice rasped, “Where the hell is he!”

  Too shocked to attempt forestalling him, she only gaped while the man used an elbow to thrust her aside. She landed against the side of the stairs, overturning the brass pitcher of eucalyptus. Before she could right herself, the words Warpo's Bar were disappearing into the living room, trailed by a string of filth that made Inella's ears ring worse than the thud her head had just suffered.

  “I told you I'd get you, lover boy, and I'm here to do it!” Herb Anderson shouted, surprising the trio at the dining room table.

  Angela's hand was poised halfway to her mouth. Claiborne dropped his napkin and Clay began getting to his feet. But halfway there he was caught in the chin by a set of crusty knuckles whistling through the candlelit room without warning. His head snapped back and the sickening sound of the fist landing on her son's face made Angela scream and grope for her husband's help. Clay reeled backward, taking his chair with him to the floor while the red nylon jacket dove after him. Before Claiborne could reach Anderson's poised arm, it cracked downward again in a second punishing blow. From the doorway Inella screamed, then covered her mouth with her hands.

  “My God, call the police!” cried Angela. “Hurry!”

  Inella spun from the room.

  Claiborne got Anderson's arm, avoiding the swings which continued falling seemingly in every direction at once. He managed to catch the crook of Anderson's elbow, spinning the heavy man in a circle. Anderson's backside struck the edge of the table, sending crystal wine goblets, water glasses and candleholders teetering. The tablecloth caught on fire as candle wax sprayed across it, but Angela was embroiled in attempting to subdue the madman along with her husband. Clay got to his feet, bleeding, stunned, but not too stunned to throw his weight into a fist that settled satisfyingly into Anderson's paunch. The air whoofed from Anderson, and he doubled over, clutching himself, while Angela grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked as hard as she could. She was crying, even as she held the detestable hair in a painful tug. Clay stood like a crazed man himself, the look on his face pure fury as he pinned one of Anderson's arms behind his back and leaned a knee across the words on the back of the red nylon jacket. The fire on the tabletop grew, but just then a sobbing Inella ran back into the room, tipped the bouquet of chrysanthemums over to douse the flames, then stood clutching her knuckles against her lips while tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “The police are coming.”

  “Oh, God, make them hurry,” Angela prayed.

  The shock of the attack was sinking in as the three Forresters looked at each other across the subdued man. Angela saw the cut on Clay's jaw, another above his right eye.

  “Clay, are you all right?”

  “I'm okay . . . Dad, how about you?”

  “I'll get you rich sons-a-bitches!” Anderson was still vowing, his face now pressed into the yellow carpet. “Goddammit! Let go o' my hair!”

  Angela only pulled harder.

  Outside, sirens grew closer and Inella fled from the room to the front door, which was still yawning open. Blue uniforms sped through the house behind the maid, who was shaking uncontrollably now.

  Anderson was cuffed quickly and forced to remain on the dining room floor, all the while spewing threats and oaths at the Forrester family in general. The smell of burned linens permeated the room. The officers saw the charred tablecloth, the overturned dishes and the flowers strewn across the table and onto the floor.

  “Is anybody hurt?”

  Everyone turned to look at Angela first, as at last she flung herself into her husband's arms, crying.

  “Angie, are you hurt?” he asked concernedly, but she only shook her head, leaving it buried in his chest.

  “Do you know this man?” an officer asked.

  “We've only met him once, day before yesterday.”

  “What happened here tonight?”

  “He forced his way in and accosted my son while we were having dinner.”

  “What's your name, Bud?” This to Anderson, who was now kneeling on the floor.

  “You ask them what my name is, so they'll never forget it!” He jerked his head viciously in Clay's direction. “Ask lover boy there who I am. I'm the father of the girl he knocked up, that's who!”

  “Do you want to press charges, sir?” an officer asked Claiborne.

  “What about me?” Anderson whined. “I got some charges need pressin' here if anybody does. That son-of-a-bitch—”

  “Take him to the squad car, Larry. You'll get your chance to answer later, Anderson, after we read you your rights.”

  He was pulled to his feet and pushed ahead of the officer to the front door. Outside the flashing scarlet light was still circling, the radio crackling a dispatcher's voice. Anderson was locked in the caged backseat to rain accusations on the entire Forrester family only to be ignored by the officer who calmly sat up front, writing on his clipboard.

  Shortly before supper the following day, the hall phone at Horizons rang. Someone shouted through the house, “Phone call . . . Anderson!”

  Running downstairs, Catherine knew it could only be Bobbi, and she was anxious for word about her mother.

  “Hello?”

  “Cath, have you read the paper today?”

  “No, I had classes. I didn't have time.”

  “Well, you'd better.”

  Catherine had a sudden, horrible premonition that her fears had become reality, that Herb Anderson had taken it all out on his wife.

  “Is Mom—”

  “No, no . . . she's all right. It's Clay. Your old man busted into his house last night and laid one on him.”

  “What!”

  “I'm not kidding, Cath. He pushed his way in there and popped him. The police came and hauled sweet old Uncle Herb off to jail.”

  “Oh, no.” Catherine's fingertips covered her lips.

  “Just thought you'd want to know.”

  There was a hesitation, then, “Is—is Clay hurt?”

  “I don't know. The article didn't say. You can read it for yourself. It's on page eight-B of the morning Trib.”

  “Have you talked to my mother?”

  “Yeah, she's okay. I talked to her last night, must have been while your dad was in Edina beating up Clay. She almost sounded happy that you were gone. I told her not to worry because you were safe and that she'd be hearing from you.”

  “Is she—”

  “She's okay, Cat, I said she's okay. Just stay where you are and don't let this change your mind, huh? Clay can take care of himself, and a night in jail might even mellow out your old man.”

  Before she ended the conversation, Bobbi added a fact that she'd earlier decided not to tell Catherine, then had decided to tell after all.

  “Clay called me and asked if I knew where you are. I lied.”

  The line buzzed voicelessly for a moment, then Catherine said quietly, “Thanks, kiddo.”

  Catherine found the article in the Minneapolis Tribune and read it several times, trying to picture the scene her father had created. Although she hadn't seen the dining room of the Forrester house, she could well imagine a luxurious setting there and what it must have been like when her father burst in. Clay Forrester's face welled up before he
r, his gray eyes, handsome jawline, and then her old man's fist ramming into it. Guilt welled up unwanted. She heard Clay's voice as he'd asked her to accept his money, and somehow knew that if she'd accepted it he would not have been assaulted by her old man. She knew, too, that her running away had thwarted Herb Anderson's plans for getting rich quick and had been further cause for him to turn his rage on Clay. At least Herb's volatile anger had been diverted away from Ada, but Catherine's conscience plagued her mercilessly until she assuaged it with the thought that, after all, the elder Mr. Forrester was an attorney and could easily prosecute his son's assailant, which would be no more than Herb deserved. The thought brought a short smile to Catherine's lips.

  Bobbi wasn't surprised to answer the door the next day and find Clay Forrester there.

  He said without preamble, “I've got to talk to you. Can we take a ride?”

  “Sure, but it won't do any good.”

  “You know where she is, don't you?”

  “Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Who wants to know, her old man?”

  “I do.”

  “You're a day late and a dollar short, Clay.”

  “Listen, could we go somewhere and have a cup of coffee?”

  She studied him a moment, shrugged, and answered, “Let me get my sweater.”

  The Corvette was at the curb. She eyed it appreciatively and wondered again at Catherine's foolishness in not exploiting the situation, if only financially. Watching Clay round the front fender, Bobbi couldn't help thinking that if she were in Catherine's shoes she herself might not mind exploiting Clay Forrester in more ways than one.

  They drove to a small restaurant called Green's where they ordered coffee, then sat avoiding each other's eyes until it came. Clay hunched over his cup, looking totally distraught. His jawline had been altered and a bandage rode his right eyebrow.

  “That's a nice little shiner you've got there, Clay.” She eyed it and he scowled.

  “This thing is getting out of hand, Bobbi.”

  “Her old man's always been out of hand. How do you like him?”