by Joy Fielding
His hand moved in soothing strokes down her arm. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was wrong. I was very stupid. I can’t explain it any other way.” He moved up to sit beside her. “I guess I’m not used to making mistakes, and when I do, I don’t like to talk about them.”
She looked into his eyes, his tears seeming to mimic the path of her own. “But why? Mistakes only make you more human.”
“Don’t you think I’m human?” he asked. “Oh God, I love you so much.”
They collapsed sobbing into each other’s arms, Donna’s mind such a jumble of confusing thoughts and instincts, she barely knew where she was anymore, or who she was.
“Please tell me you love me,” she heard him say.
She shook her head. “I love you,” she acknowledged tearfully. “I love you.” She extracted herself. “I just don’t know if we should—”
“Should what?”
“Maybe we should postpone things for a while,” Donna said.
“What for? Either you love me or you don’t.”
“Maybe love just isn’t enough.”
“What else is there?”
“Trust,” she said simply.
Instantly, she felt him withdraw. Where were his arms? She wanted them back around her. Where were the soft, soothing words of apology? She wanted to hear them. The words of reassurance, telling her he loved her, that he would make everything all right again. He opened his mouth to speak; she waited to hear the soft, soothing assurances.
His voice was cold, distant. “There’s nothing I can do about that,” he told her. “I’ve explained everything as best I can. I’ve apologized. All I can. All I’m going to. You can accept my apology or not. I love you. I want to marry you. But if you feel you can no longer trust me, well, then, there’s nothing I can do. Trust takes time. More than that, it takes a certain amount of blind faith. You either have it or you don’t. I can tell you that I love you, that from now on I’ll answer all your questions as honestly, as openly, as I can. I can promise you I’ll never lay a hand on you in anger, that I’ll never cheat on you. Ever. I can swear it. But I can’t prove it. You have to trust me. You have to be prepared to give one hundred percent all the time.”
“I thought marriage was a fifty-fifty affair,” she said quietly.
“Who told you that?” he asked, trying to smile. His voice was gentle again. “Certainly no one with any brains.” He touched her face. “You try meeting someone halfway and see where it gets you. It gets you halfway.” She laughed quietly through her tears. “And if the other person doesn’t come out his half of the way,” he continued, “you have a choice. You can either stay where you are—halfway—which is nowhere, and fail, or you can go the other quarter distance or thirty percent, or maybe even, God forbid, the whole rest of the way over to his corner and put your arms around him and tell him you love him. Even if he’s still insisting he’s right and you’re wrong, even when you know he’s full of shit, because chances are he knows he’s full of shit as much as you do, even if he’s not prepared to face it just at that moment.” He paused. “Come out the extra percentage, Donna,” he pleaded. “Trust me. I know I’m full of shit. But I love you. Please don’t postpone our wedding. Go forward, not back.” He took her head between both his hands. “Marry me,” he said.
The photographers arrived at fifteen minutes after four. Donna had been dressed and waiting for more than three quarters of an hour. Despite the air conditioning, she was beginning to feel exactly the way Victor had predicted—wilted. She kept checking her image in the mirror, adjusting and readjusting several stray strands of hair that refused to cooperate. Victor kept telling her to leave her hair alone, she was only making it worse, he said, and greasy as well. When she finally got the hairs in place he stared at her and said, “What’d you do that for? I liked it better the other way.” She took guarded, though frequent, glances at her underarms until Victor told her that the more she worried about perspiration, the more likely she was to perspire, and then her glances became more guarded though no less frequent. The tops of her hands began to itch; Victor told her not to scratch. It was just her nerves, he said. She wanted to tell him that the only thing wrong with her nerves was the fact that he was getting on them. She wanted to tell him to shut up and go back to Connecticut. She wanted four, maybe five, good stiff drinks. She wanted to wreak chaos through the flower-filled room which, despite its sunny festivity, was beginning to feel like a funeral parlor with herself the freshly laid-out sweat-stained corpse. She wanted to kick off her shoes, tear off her dress, destroy her veil, burn her bouquet, and run like hell.
How did Victor feel? she wondered. Then the doorbell rang. It was four-fifteen and the photographers appeared, full of apologies, making excuses, setting up equipment, snapping pictures, the bride alone, the bride and groom, a formal sitting, a candid shot, some guests arriving early, the caterers and their crew arriving late, full of the same apologies, the same excuses, setting up equipment, setting the tables, more guests arriving, much mingling, congratulations, the telegram arriving from Donna’s sister once again apologizing for not being able to attend, making excuses (make-up exam and all), wishing her the best of luck, the justice of the peace arriving with his clerk, on time, no excuses, no apologies. Just smiles, hellos, introductions, best wishes. Being moved into appropriate places, sudden bursts of silence as loud as the noise they interrupted, the justice of the peace talking, saying something about the solemnity of the occasion, the joyousness of what they were about to undertake. Undertakers, she thought, watching his lips move, not hearing what he was saying through the buzz in her ears, feeling the perspiration starting to stain her dress, the rash on her hands beginning to itch again, hearing familiar voices saying “I will,” wondering why they hadn’t said “I do,” feeling Victor’s lips brushing gently against her own, hearing the happy squeals all around her and knowing it was all over. Over. What precisely, she wondered, was over? What precisely was beginning?
She looked over at Victor, beaming at her with proud satisfaction. How did Victor feel? she wondered.
“I was just wondering,” she asked him later between mouthfuls of food and the persistent congratulations of their inebriated guests, “about, you know, about how you just packed up and left everything and everybody back in Connecticut …” She’d had those four, maybe five drinks.
“What about it?” he asked without a trace of rancor, having himself imbibed a similar quantity.
“Well, I was just wondering what would happen to me if we didn’t work out. I mean, would you just pack up and leave the great state of Florida? Would you simply declare me dead and depart for parts unknown?”
He smiled at her, his face a mask of love, his voice soft and caressing, sending familiar tingles through her body. “I’d obliterate you,” he said tenderly. Then he kissed her. The new Mrs. Victor Cressy spent the better part of her wedding night in the bathroom throwing up.
FIVE
Donna watched the man as he rose from his seat near the back of the courtroom and walked past her—an uneven, unsteady sort of jaunt which never quite coordinated with itself—to take his place in the witness stand. She stared at him hard, this man who was about to testify against her. He was of medium height and middle age. In fact, everything about him shouted middle—middle age, middle class, middle America, middle of the road. Middle. Donna smiled at the silent sound of it. Middle. When you kept repeating it, it began to sound somewhat absurd, like a child’s nonsense word. Middle … middle.
He had brown hair, which was neatly combed over to one side to cover a budding bald spot. Again she smiled at her choice of words. How could anything that was balding be described as budding? Why not? she asked herself. She could do anything—she was crazy. At least she was sure that was the way she was about to hear herself described. Donna Cressy, occupation: crazy lady. Unfit to raise her two small children. All smiles vanished. Damn this man, she found herself thinking. Whoever he was.
The sudden r
ealization that she didn’t know who he was, this man who was about to lend credence and support to Victor’s portrait of her, made her very nervous. She turned quickly to Mel, who now sat just a few rows behind her in easy view, and raised her eyebrows, asking him silently if he was familiar with this man. Mel responded with a subtle shrug of his shoulders—two secret bidders at an art auction at Sotheby’s. He, too, had no idea.
Donna returned her gaze to the witness stand. The man about to be sworn in had no distinguishing features other than that his skin seemed almost too loose for him, as if he had put on someone else’s overcoat. While it was the right color and suitably healthy looking, it just seemed to hang on him. Other than that, the man was neither good-looking nor bad, neither kind nor menacing. Neither. Nor. The type of man often passed over for key promotions because one simply forgot he was there. In the middle.
His voice was quiet. Pleasant. Donna edged forward in her seat. It was important that she hear what this man had to say. The clerk instructed him to state his name, address and occupation.
“Danny Vogel,” the man said, trying hard not to look in Donna’s direction. “114 Tenth Avenue, Lake Worth. I’m an insurance salesman.”
The judge instructed Danny Vogel to speak up and Danny Vogel nodded without speaking.
She recognized the name. Danny Vogel. Gradually, the rest of him came clearer and clearer into focus, rather like a Polaroid picture in the process of self-developing. His address felt familiar. She had been there. Had driven there. She shuddered. She was remembering. He worked with Victor. Of course she knew this man, although he’d lost a considerable amount of weight since she’d last seen him. That would explain why his flesh seemed so rootless, why she had failed to recognize him.
What it didn’t explain was what he was doing here, why he had been called. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in her home; she had no recollection of him ever being around her children. How could he testify as to what kind of mother she’d been?
“How long have you known Mr. Victor Cressy?” Victor’s lawyer, Mr. Ed Gerber, was asking him.
In a loud, even voice which showed he had listened to the judge’s instructions, Danny Vogel responded, “About eight years. We work in the same office.”
“Would you consider yourself a good friend of Victor Cressy?”
“Yes, sir,” he nodded, looking at Victor for confirmation. If Victor moved at all, Donna was unaware of it.
“And Mrs. Cressy?”
“I knew her less well,” he stated, still looking at Victor. Less well, Donna thought, he didn’t know me at all. We were acquainted. At various social functions, we maybe said hello, goodbye, yes, I’ll have another drink. Less well! The presumption inherent in those words! You weren’t even present at our wedding, her eyes screamed at him, trying to force his gaze in her direction. And why weren’t you there? Ask him that, Mr. Gerber, Florida’s finest, ask Mr. Danny Vogel why he wasn’t at his good friend’s wedding even though the woman his good friend married, this woman he knows “less well,” had asked that he be included.
“What is your impression of Victor Cressy?” Ed Gerber asked.
“In what respect?” the witness asked. Donna found herself smiling in spite of herself. Not an easy question to answer, Mr. Gerber, she thought, understanding Danny Vogel’s need for a qualification.
“In general,” the lawyer elaborated. “As a man, a friend, a coworker.”
Donna could see Danny Vogel making an invisible list inside his head. He was a man obviously well used to listening and carrying out his clients’ instructions. “As a man,” he began somewhat slowly, “Victor Cressy is strong, forceful, even dynamic. He’s intelligent, grasps things easily, knows all the details. He’s demanding, I would say, but no more so of anyone else than he is of himself. To me, he has always come across as fair, disciplined and in control.” He stopped. Donna helped him draw the imaginary line through Victor Cressy, man in control. “As a friend, he’s loyal, honest—if he has a beef with you, believe me, you know it. He tells you exactly what he thinks, which obviously leads to some ups and downs.” Obviously, Donna concurred, but does Victor ever really tell you exactly what he thinks, or do you just think he does? “He’s very private, isn’t usually the type to confide his problems to anyone, so when he does, you know they’re pretty serious. But he’s always there to help you with any problems you might be having.” Cross a line through Good-Old-Always-There Victor Cressy, friend. “As a coworker, no question about it, he’s the best insurance salesman in the office. He works hard, he’s a real perfectionist, and,” Danny Vogel looked around the courtroom as if he expected a suitable adjective to come forward and loudly proclaim itself, “he’s just the best.” On that suitable superlative, cross out Victor Cressy, coworker. Well done, Mr. Vogel.
You weren’t at the wedding because Victor Cressy still hadn’t gotten around to forgiving you, valued coworker, for allegedly interfering with one of his prospective clients, a slight you weren’t even aware you’d committed and for which you spent almost a year apologizing before Victor, intelligent, fair man that he is, felt you had been punished enough, and deigned to speak to you again. You have ever after felt you were entirely in the wrong and that Victor was not only right in his initial assertions but in his subsequent treatment of you. Your “good friend” is a master manipulator. His genius lies in not only convincing others that he is right all the time, but in having long ago convinced himself, thereby giving credence to even the most ludicrous of his actions. He’s the one who’s wrong, and yet everyone else feels guilty! Donna looked from the witness over to Victor Cressy. Such talent had to be a gift from God.
“And your impressions of Mrs. Cressy?”
“The first few times I met her, I was very impressed,” he allowed. “She was lovely, seemed to have a nice sense of humor …”
Why is he talking about me in the past tense? Donna wondered. Had she passed away suddenly? Was her hell to be this courtroom and not a sink full of dirty dishes, after all? Listening to an endless litany of witnesses denounce her every move and motivation—Sisyphus pushing the giant boulder—until she collapsed under the weight of it all, shouting, “Yes, you’re right. It’s all my fault.”
“… she seemed to change,” Danny Vogel was explaining.
“When was that?”
“It’s hard to pinpoint exactly because I only saw her on rare social occasions and they got rarer all the time.” He paused, collecting his saliva and then swallowing it. “But when I first met Donna she seemed fairly outgoing, and through the years she just seemed to get more withdrawn. She stopped having company over to her home—”
“Objection,” Donna’s lawyer said, rising. “This witness is not in a position to state who did or who did not come into the Cressys’ home.”
“Sustained.”
Danny Vogel looked confused.
“Mr. Vogel,” Ed Gerber continued, picking up the dangling thread, “how many times were you, yourself, invited to the Cressy house for either dinner or any type of social gathering?”
Danny paused to reflect. “In those first few years of their marriage, I’d say several times a year. After Adam was born, maybe once. After Sharon, not at all. Once,” he began, looking toward Ed Gerber, who, obviously knowing what the witness intended to say, indicated that he was to go on, “she came by to pick Victor up from work, and Victor and I were waiting on the street—she was late—and I leaned in the car to say hello, and Victor suggested that Renee and I come over for a barbeque dinner at their place one night the next week and she said no, it was absolutely out of the question. Victor looked very embarrassed. Needless to say, I was embarrassed.”
“Did she offer an explanation?”
“No. That was all she said. It was very strange.”
“Did you notice anything else that was ‘strange’?” Ed Gerber asked, repeating and emphasizing the final word.
Danny Vogel shook his head. “Not really. Oh, except her hai
r. It was a bright carrot red. I’d just seen her the previous week at a party and it had been blonde.”
“So you did have occasion to see Donna Cressy at various social functions?”
“Oh yes. We moved in roughly the same circles. Our office was a friendly one. Someone was always having a party.”
“Over the years, was there any discernible change in Mrs. Cressy’s behavior at those functions?”
“Well, like I said, she was becoming more withdrawn. It seemed each party, she said less and less. She hardly ever smiled. She had a lot of colds. There always seemed to be something wrong with her—”
“Objection.” Mr. Stamler sounded ineffably disgruntled.
“Sustained,” the judge said. “The court will draw its own conclusions, Mr. Vogel.”
Danny Vogel seemed genuinely upset he had caused the court any problem. “I’m sorry, your honor,” he said quietly, then, mindful of his previous admonition, repeated it in a louder voice.
“Did you ever have one of those parties in your own home, Mr. Vogel?” Ed Gerber asked, knowing he had.
“Yes, sir.”
“To which the Cressys were invited?”
Again, a positive reply.
“When was that?”
“A little more than two years ago,” Danny Vogel answered. “My fortieth birthday.”
Donna knew the date precisely. It was twenty-five months ago. Nine months exactly before Sharon was born. The night Sharon was conceived.
“Could you describe precisely what happened from the time the Cressys arrived at your party?”
Donna thought back to the party. What could he possibly have to say?
“Well, they were late. The last ones to arrive. But Victor was very friendly, cordial. Donna kind of hung back. She didn’t smile when she came in; she seemed distracted. I just figured she was in another of her moods—”
“Objection.”