Young Wives Page 19

  Jada sat in the waiting room beside a tiny Asian woman in a Chinese jacket who was rubbing one of her hands against the other, over and over and over again. On the other side of Michelle was an older woman with a black eye. Fine, Jada thought. I’m here with the obsessives and the battered wives.

  O Lord, forgive me and grant me compassion for them, she thought. I guess I don’t deserve to be anywhere else. Despite how hard she had tried to keep her family together, and her marriage going on some level, she’d failed. She’d made all the wrong decisions and she was as pathetic as these other miserable, frightened women. My pride was false pride, she admitted to God. Me, a church-goer all these years.

  She sat slumped on the bench and let Michelle deal with the receptionist. Twice Michelle was called to the front and twice she came back with other questions. Then, after both of the other women had disappeared down the dark hallway, Jada’s name was called and Michelle patted her on the shoulder. Jada thought for a moment about leaving Michelle behind. She didn’t want her friend to see her collapsed into the defeated pool of misery she was about to turn into, but somehow she needed Michelle to stay with her, to comfort her, and to testify to this attorney so that whoever she met with now wouldn’t give her the condescending looks she’d received from Rick Bruzeman. Or, worse, believe that any of these disgusting allegations could be true.

  As Jada stood up, she gently circled Michelle’s pale wrist with her dark index finger and thumb and led her down the hall. She didn’t ask. She only raised her brows. Michelle smiled and actually seemed pleased.

  The receptionist opened a door and the two of them found themselves in a tiny, maximally cluttered office. There were two empty chairs surrounded by files and there was a young woman—younger than either Jada or Michelle, it seemed—sitting in a chair behind the small, messy desk.

  The woman stood up. She had dark, wildly curly hair, small but bright eyes with long lashes, and a wide mouth painted an odd salmon color. “Hi, I’m Angie Romazzano-Wakefield,” she said, then extended her hand to shake Jada’s. Jada didn’t need to have her hand shaken or to be sociable. She just put the white tarantula into this little girl’s palm. Then she collapsed into one of the seats, only to find the back was sprung and hit her unevenly in the shoulders.

  Michelle began to speak. Jada noticed her voice was high-pitched, almost breathy. “This is the most unfair thing in the world,” she said. “My girlfriend has spent the last five years keeping her family together and then her husband, who hasn’t earned a dime in all that time, has an affair, disappears with their children, and wants alimony and child support. He can’t do that, can he?”

  The hyphenated girl was looking through the paper tarantula. “It seems he has done it,” she said, and shook her head. She looked through the papers, awkwardly turning them as she read. Finally she looked up. “He’s done worse. He’s requested temporary custody, and there are more than hints at unfitness as a mother, while he presents himself as a stable and domestic influence in the home. Is that so?” she asked Jada.

  Jada’s eyes filled with tears of rage. Before she could choke out any answer, Mich spoke for her. “Look, my girlfriend took a job as a teller, making no bucks, so that she could put milk and eggs on the table. They ate macaroni for months. And in the last five years, she worked her way up to branch manager.” Michelle looked at Jada, who looked away. “Nobody helped her. Nobody wanted her in that job. She was just too good to ignore. But she was also home every night. I saw her. She defrosted chicken, she made Spanish rice, she made sure that the kids ate broccoli, for God’s sake. Mine won’t. Jada even took them to church, all dressed up and scrubbed.” Michelle stopped and the small room was silent. Jada looked at her friend with gratitude; someone was sticking up for her. “Meanwhile that jerk of a husband of hers, he sat on his hands all day long, except when he was playing around with somebody. Then he grabs the kids and is gone. And she hasn’t seen them since. It would kill me. She’s stronger, so she’s just going crazy. Wouldn’t it kill you?”

  “I can’t even imagine it.”

  It was her tone of voice, the real compassion that Jada heard in it, that started her falling apart. She took a deep shuddering breath, let it out, but her next one rattled and disintegrated like a junker car on a race track. Then she was wailing, gurgling, and coughing. She never cried, so she wasn’t any good at it. She put her hands up to cover her face so that neither of them could see her anger, her terror, and her shame.

  The lawyer girl reached out, and didn’t pat but actually grabbed Jada’s hand. Her own hand was surprisingly strong and hard. “Listen,” she said, “you didn’t do anything wrong. He’s behaved dishonestly and then he found a smart, remorseless lawyer first. This can all be corrected. I can’t save your marriage, but the clinic can save your children and better settle your divorce.”

  Jada looked up and wiped her eyes with her knuckles, realizing as she did that it was exactly the gesture Kevon used. “But right now I can’t see the children, right?” she asked. “Right now I have to give them up.” She reached over to the tarantula papers. “And all that money. Almost everything I make. And he can be with his girlfriend, an unemployed slut, while I have to work to support my family, which he’s stolen.”

  The lawyer—Angela Something-Something—moved her hand to Jada’s wrist and squeezed it even harder. To Jada it felt good, as if she were pulling Jada back to a world she could live in. “Look, he’s making allegations here that simply are not true,” she said. “It’s nasty, but it’s not serious. In fact, it’s typical. And we have allegations of our own. The only problem is that he moved first. So, for the moment, he has a leg up. But, of course, that makes his crotch a little more vulnerable,” she assured them. “Meanwhile, I’ll immediately get visitation for you. Maybe for as soon as tomorrow. We’ve got some very good friends at family court and I’ll speak to the judge and have a discussion with your husband’s lawyer.”

  “I’d like Frank to go over there and have a discussion with Clinton. Wearing a pair of brass knuckles,” Mich said. “I just never imagined—”

  As the lawyer shook her head, her long curls flopped around. “No, no, no,” she interrupted. “We have a lot to do here that’s effective. And legal. It’s just going to take some work. The clinic staff will petition for custody, we’ll have testimony and fiscal proof about your forced employment, your competence. We’ll have witnesses to confirm your involved motherhood status. We may have to get psychologists to talk to the children, and we may also have to find someone to testify about your husband’s relationship with”—she looked over the papers—“Tonya Green.”

  She paused, glanced across the desk, and Jada no longer felt that the woman was weak and incompetent. She trusted her, even if perhaps she shouldn’t yet, since talk was cheap.

  “Each one is a small step,” the woman was saying, “but pulled together, they will make a compelling case.” Jada looked up. This girl sounded calm and trustworthy. Oh, Lord, Jada thought, maybe this woman is the way out of this nightmare.

  “I’ll petition for visitation today,” the lawyer said. She looked up at Jada. “I promise I’ll get you your children back”

  “So you’ll take the case? You’ll take care of everything?” Jada asked and was shocked to hear how childlike she sounded.

  “Well, the clinic has to present each incoming case to the board to decide about its disposition, but I think a custody and support case as extreme as this would certainly be the kind of thing we want to help with.”

  “I don’t want someone else to do it,” Jada said. “If the clinic will take me, I want you.”

  “Well, I’m not the most experienced—”

  “I don’t care. You’re the most caring,” Jada said.

  Then Michelle knocked Jada gently with her foot. Jada looked over to her friend, who was mouthing something, but Jada didn’t get it. Michelle kicked her gently again. When Jada still didn’t respond, Michelle raised her voice. “Fees?” she asked. �
��How much will this cost?”

  “Yeah, what about fees?” Jada asked, remembering Bruzeman’s retainer. God, she couldn’t … “I know this place is called a clinic, but it’s not free, is it?”

  “We have a sliding scale. But outside expert testimony, filing fees, and court charges are usually the client’s responsibility. Though we do have a fund … for special situations.” Angie paused and tried to smile. “Look, you have a lot on your mind right now,” she said. “You pay what you can afford and if you can’t afford anything, we’ll still represent you. The clinic is underwritten in its work. That’s why we can afford to be here at all.” Angie smiled and stood up. “Look, can I get you two a cup of coffee?”

  Jada took her other hand and wrapped it around Angie’s so that Angie’s fingers were trapped around Jada’s wrist. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Standing, Angie looked even younger—she must have been five years younger than Jada, but now Jada didn’t wonder if she was any good as a lawyer or whether she could get a judge to listen to her. She was a little dynamo, and she had compassion. Suddenly Jada was grateful to Michelle for bringing her here, and ashamed of her earlier thoughts about “white girls.”

  “Come on,” Angie was saying. “We have fresh danish. I love to talk war strategies over pastries. There’s almost no situation that can’t be improved by carbohydrates.”

  Jada saw Michelle smile.

  But at the door, Angie paused. “No joke, Mrs. Jackson. You’ll see your kids in the next forty-eight hours.”

  As she left the room, Jada herself managed, for a moment, to get some of the grimness out of her expression.

  22

  In which Angela decides how much square feet one girl needs

  Angie had decided she better find her own place to live. After her lunch with JoAnn Metzger and her own client load had grown, she felt pretty confident that she’d be able to live on the modest salary they promised. The question was where should she live. And how.

  Angie had never really lived alone. She’d spent her college years, and then her time in law school, bunking with roommates. After graduation she shared another woman’s apartment for only a few months before she moved in with Reid. But she knew it wasn’t right for her to continue living at her father’s, she knew nobody here to share a place with, and there was no room for her at her mother’s. She wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it—where she wanted to live or exactly what she could afford. But she knew she didn’t want a roommate and she knew she missed her things. She had a bunch of stuff in storage she was paying for—well, her dad had been paying for—and it was time for her to pull herself together. She certainly wasn’t going back to Marblehead.

  At the office, she asked Bill.

  “Well, where exactly do you want to live?” he asked. “I mean, there’s a h-u-u-g-g-e difference between White Plains and Scarsdale and it ain’t the nine miles between them.” He told her about the garden apartment he and his boyfriend had and gave her the name of his broker. “He’s an evil queen, but he knows his real estate.”

  He also told her which paper had the best listings, and that day at lunchtime Angela bought one and sat alone in the corner at the counter of the Blue Bird Coffee Shop, the real estate section spread out in front of her.

  CUTE AND SUNNY, read one headline, COZY ONE-BEDROOM, UTILITIES INCLUDED IN RENT, GREAT VIEWS, GREAT CLSTS. A DEAL AT $1200. Angie opened her eyes wide. Twelve hundred dollars was a deal for a one-bedroom apartment around here? She looked farther down the long column, COZY GROUND FLOOR STUDIO, QUIET, FACING BACK, SMALL PATIO. $600. NO DOGS. She was just circling it when she heard a voice behind her.

  “Forget it,” he said, and Angie turned to see Michael Rice, the attorney from the clinic, there.

  “Looking for an apartment?” he asked.

  She nodded, not sure whether she welcomed his interest or not.

  “That first one you marked is way overpriced and the second one is gonna be the black hole of Calcutta.” He indicated the stool next to her and raised his brows in a mind-if-I-join-you? expression.

  Angie reached over and gave the stool a little spin. Michael sat down and leaned in toward the paper. “I just got finished doing this,” he said. “And I know the language of real estate ads.” He looked at the second one she’d circled. “Let me translate,” he said. “‘Cozy’ means way too small. ‘Quiet’ and ‘ground floor’ together mean very, very dark. Sometimes ground floor isn’t dark, but only if it says ‘south facing’ or ‘light flooded’ or both. Plus, if the rent’s that cheap, you’re not going to like the neighborhood. Got it?”

  Angie looked up at him and smiled, partly amused and partly bemused. “I’m not sure I’ve gotten the whole language down yet,” she said. “What about this one? ‘Fabulous four. Sunny, cheerful. Great views. Laundry room, gym. Dining room could be used as extra bedroom.’”

  Michael shook his head. “That means transient high-rise. Near the train, ’cause that’s where the majority of the big buildings are. Lots of commuters to New York. Plus, they didn’t list the rent, and when they don’t include the price, it’s always way expensive.”

  Angie nodded. “Did you write real estate ads in your previous job?”

  “Maybe in one of my previous lives,” Michael joked. “Riverside penthouse, just steps from the Nile. Great view of pyramids, won’t last long.”

  Angie laughed. “Doing this is hard,” she said.

  “No, reading the ads is hard,” he told her. “It makes choices seem so confusing. Once you get out there and look, you know right away what’s out of the question because it’s too grim, and what’s out of the question because it’s too expensive. So then you see what’s possible, and you find a broker who actually listens to you, and then … something comes up.”

  Angie smiled and just then her grilled cheese arrived. “You make it sound easy,” she said as she folded the paper and put it away.

  “Oh yeah,” Michael laughed. “Life is easy.” Then he got up and went to stand at the take-out counter. “I’ve got a hot case back at the office,” he said, “or else I’d join you. But you might want to call the broker I used. She’s a chatty old thing, but she knows her business. Esther Anderson. She’s listed. Give her a ring.” He picked up his food and waved as he left.

  To her own surprise, Angie felt a little tug of disappointment. Hey, he’s probably married, one part of her brain told the other part. So what? the other part said. I was just thinking of a lunch. At a counter. Yeah, the first part of her brain answered. That’s what Lisa probably said. Angie was about to reach for her grilled cheese and side of cole slaw when she suddenly felt sick to her stomach. So sick that, after a minute, she had to get up, get to the ladies room, and throw up into the sink because she couldn’t make it all the way to a stall.

  So, Angie began a new social life: at the end of her business day, she would meet or be met by one of a variety of brokers and drive to apartments all over the area. Instead of letting it feel like work, or the desperate scramblings of a woman newly alone, Angie decided to make it fun. It was a theater event—the cast was the broker, and sometimes the co-broker, the set was the apartment or the condo or occasionally the little house she went to look at.

  Sometimes the cast was a little flat, a little boring, but every now and then she’d hit someone like Mrs. Louise D’Orio, a woman who believed that lip lines had nothing to do with lipstick application and that hats were always appropriate. Mrs. D’Orio—“Call me Lou-Lou. All my friends do”—would go through a space commenting on everything, from the window treatments to the shelf paper. Mrs. D’Orio also explained how everything should be, where Angie should put cup hooks for her mugs and which outlet would be the best one to plug the coffeemaker into.

  But Michael’s suggestion was the best. Esther Anderson was terrific. Angie knew that she was too chatty and would bug the shit out of her mother, but underneath the compulsive talking and judgments, Angie liked the woma
n’s basic honesty. “You could do better than this, dear,” she would say. Or, “This one’s definitely not for you. It wouldn’t have worked for Mr. Rice, either.” Or, “This would work if only it had more closet space. You have to be able to put your stuff someplace and don’t start with those armoires. I tell you, they don’t work.”

  It was in the apartment without enough closet space that Angie became suddenly dizzy and then very, very nauseated. What was it with her? Her emotional instability had gone to her stomach. She gestured to Mrs. Anderson and then rushed to the bathroom, where her retching noise had to be clearly audible. She flushed the toilet a few times, washed her mouth at the sink, and then had to wipe it on her sleeve since there wasn’t even a sheet of toilet paper left in the abandoned bathroom.

  Angie tried to think about why she felt so sick. She had really been taking the apartment hunting gently; her father didn’t want her to move out and her mother was willing to help in any way she could. But it still felt scary and lonely. Was she so frightened to live alone that it made her puke? She shook her head, patted a little water on her face, and wiped it with her other sleeve. She didn’t feel flu-ish and she had no other symptoms. But maybe she should go to a doctor.

  When she came out and joined Mrs. Anderson, the woman was looking through a kitchen cabinet below a bookshelf. “You couldn’t put wine here,” she said. “Heat rises from the steam pipes. You’d have vinegar in a month.” She stood up and turned to Angie. “Was it something you ate, dear?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it’s nerves,” Mrs. Anderson told her. She put her hand on Angie’s shoulder. “At least you know it’s not morning sickness. It’s not morning.”

  In the car driving back to her father’s, Angie felt sick again, but not sick enough to throw up. What she felt was sick about the possibility that she might be pregnant. She tried to work backward, tried to figure out the last time she and Reid had made love. It was painful to think about, but she remembered the night before their anniversary, or was it the night before that? As she drove through the darkness she tried to count forward on her fingers, and tried to remember the last time she’d gotten her period. She hadn’t come to her dad’s with anything, not even a toothbrush, much less a tampon, and he certainly didn’t have any at his house. So, Angie thought with anxiety tightening her neck and chest and even her throat, since I haven’t bought or borrowed any Tampax, I haven’t had my period since … She tried to count backward, but simply couldn’t.