The Testimony

by Laura London

  “Does throwing a paperweight through your editor’s window qualify as doing no wrong?” she asked.

  “Is that what Phil told you? For God’s sake, I was gesturing. It slipped. Wouldn’t you know it, the thing sailed out the open window and landed on Estlund’s Oldsmobile.”

  “Estlund! You mean your publisher’s car?”

  “His wife’s. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life. It left a dent the size of a basketball. Now Jackson’s convinced I’m a hothead. Did he tell you what they’ve decided to do with me?”

  “No. I want to hear it from you.”

  He took a deep drag on his cigarette. A cherry glow from the brightening ash lit his strained features. “Chris, they’ve reassigned my court beat.”

  She halted. “What?”

  The green eyes looked down into hers as if they were searching for something there to hold on to. “They’ve given my beat to someone else. Just like that. Fini. The DA who sent me up was promoted to head of the Felony Unit, and they’ve decided at the paper that if I cover any cases my credibility will be open to question.” The bleak irony of it showed in his voice. He had gone to prison to defend his public voice in the courts. And in the end, it was to be silenced anyway.

  She stood without moving, letting him find comfort in her eyes as long as he needed it. Then she said, “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “Whatever there was to do I did this afternoon. They’re not going to change their minds. If I did a column with even a hint of criticism about the DA’s office, all the DA would have to do is hold a press conference and say, ‘Hey, bull, Ludan’s got a grudge.’ The public wouldn’t know who to believe.”

  With her heart pouring out to him, she released one hand from his fingers and slid it around his waist, holding the taut flesh in a hard embrace.

  “What will you do now?”

  “The opinion column, I guess. They want to step it up to a daily and move it from the features section to the editorial page, and the front page on Sundays. Phil was making noises about working it into syndication, but I don’t know if anything will come of that.”

  “What? But Jesse, that’s wonderful.”

  His cheek came to rest wearily on her hair. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll see that. Today it feels like a payoff, babe. If I was going to move along to something else, I didn’t want it to happen like this.”

  “I know.”

  She twisted in his arms, stretching on tiptoe to reach his face, touching her lips to his mouth. At first he could not seem to respond, but in a minute she felt his lips grow warmer and begin to move. She dragged her tongue along the tip of his lower lip and gently teased his mouth open.

  “If you’re trying to console me,” he whispered, “it’s working.” And he took her by the shoulders and propelled her lightly backward against the red brick wall they were passing. “Try this one for size.” The kiss he gave her was a sudden deep one, and at first she was unable to acquit him of indulging in comedic excesses. But something about the way he pressed his hard thigh into her, and the way his hand in her hair forced her head back and her mouth up to his turned her laughing protest into an unexpected moan of pleasure.

  While they kissed, she ran her hands over his back and shoulders and nape, entranced suddenly with this new untamed behavior in him. She was no longer afraid of this short-fused and highly charged side, because it was only the energy he had always had, burning ever brighter. And this kiss—it was very exciting, and she knew her lips would be sore afterward, but she also remembered the long, languorous kisses they used to indulge in at odd moments like this. It was as though he were on a high-speed treadmill, trying to make up for time lost over the past six months. And there was his anger—that was it. It was anger that transformed him, real anger with real objects that couldn’t be attacked. The judge, his editor, the iron bars that had held him trapped away from her, and the no-less-real bars of his own idealism, which had driven him into jail—these were the sources of his anger, all of them unreachable. She broke the kiss.

  “Jesse,” she breathed. “I know just what you need.”

  “Yeah, so do I,” he said, and began to kiss her again.

  She pressed her hand on his chest and pulled his wrist. “Come to the car,” she said, smiling.

  “If I do, will you engage in outlawed sexual practices with me under the hatchback?”

  She was laughing as she unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for him. “Don’t get your hopes up, tiger, I have something else in mind.” She pulled the car out into the empty dark street, zooming through a traffic light as it turned yellow.

  “I hope you’re taking me someplace to molest me,” he crooned, running a fingertip down her bare arm.

  “Stop it; you’ll make me have an accident. How can I properly brake and shift with weak knees? You’ll get what you need.”

  He watched her turn the car onto the freeway ramp under the Life Saver-orange glow of streetlights. “Where to?”

  “I found this neat little amusement park last month when I was out shopping…”

  “Isn’t it kind of late for miniature golf?”

  “What’s the matter?” She gave him a hooker’s wink. “Don’t you want to make a hole in one?”

  “You poor fallen preppie,” he said, beginning to catch the jumpy, playful quality of her mood, beginning to awaken to the night, to the sight and nearness of her. “You married a guy from the ethnic ghetto and got earthy. Are we going to drive go-carts?”

  “Stop guessing. We’ll be there soon enough.” She rolled her window down, letting the velvet night wind toss her hair. The sounds of crickets rose and fell as they passed the increasingly open spaces between houses and shopping centers, and she remembered her father saying once that this part of town had been considered country about the time she was born. After a minor traffic tangle caused by the ending of a drive-in movie, she turned the car into the parking lot of the amusement park.

  “Bozo’s Amusements,” he read aloud. “Open All Night. You’re taking me to meet Bozo.”

  She parked the car, went to the passenger side, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him out with all the forcefulness she could muster. Then, firmly gripping his arm, she led him to the change counter and handed the bald yawning man in a Hawaiian shirt a five-dollar bill. “Quarters please.” Then she led her husband past the miniature golf, where a small group of teenagers played, past the idle shadowed go-carts to a net-shrouded paved area about the size of a tennis court.

  “The batting machine!” he said, comprehension dawning.

  She laughed at the interest in his eyes, tickled to have surprised him. “Whale away for a while and see what that does for you,” she suggested.

  It was eleven o’clock at night, and he had been through a long, difficult day. But he was so high-wired from it that he was relieved to shed his jacket into her arms and head for the fast-ball cage, rolling up his sleeves.

  “This might not be as therapeutic as you think,” he said. “I never shone in baseball.”

  She rested her back against a metal support and said encouragingly, “Go on. Pound that horsehide.” She grinned, watching him assume a professional-looking stance that belied his disclaimers, and fed three quarters into the metal box that hung outside the cage. She wondered who he was facing with that bat as the mechanical arm at the end of the cage began to turn slowly. Whom did he see right now? The judge? Phil Jackson? The mechanical arm scooped a ball from the rain gutter–like trough and shot it like a cannonball at Jesse. It came so fast that Christine cried out involuntarily. Before the words left her mouth, Jesse’s bat connected with the ball and sent it rocketing back into the net, which bellied and whipped.

  “There you go,” she called. “Hungarians can play baseball too.”

  But when the next ball came whizzing by six inches from his face, he grinned back at her and said, “Somewhat.”

  Twenty minutes later, beginning to hit his stride, ready for more quarters,
he looked around for Christine and saw her in the medium cage, flailing away with occasional success. She had taken off her heels, and her feet in their light stockings were braced apart on the concrete. Her black silky dress had a halter neckline and no back down to her freckled waist, which meant she had little enough on underneath to show him the clear outline of her body as she moved. Fascinated, he watched her small, delicate breasts bounce a half beat behind her swing, and all thoughts of extra quarters went out of his head.

  He put his shoulder against the metal-pipe door frame of her cage and gave her a soft version of a street-corner wolf whistle.

  She turned, treating him to the smile in her Hayley Mills eyes. “Isn’t this great?” She sounded winded.

  He pushed himself off the frame and came toward her.

  “Hello, there, young lady,” he said. “We haven’t been introduced”—he put his arm around her naked back—“but I’m a talent scout for the Milwaukee Brewers, and with an arm like yours”—his fingers explored it—“I think we could use you as a designated hitter.” He began walking with her toward the car, past the man in the Hawaiian shirt, who was dozing behind his counter. A cloud of moths fluttered in a spotlight. “Someone with your batting eye is wasted on a two-bit batting machine, you know what I mean?”

  He slid her into the car beside him and drew her willing sweetness into his arms. Between a set of electric twining kisses he murmured, “Let this be a lesson to you, my little Mickey Mantle. Never listen to the promises of a talent agent.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, coach,” she whispered back. “I’ve already made it to first base.”

  Chapter Ten

  She fell heavily asleep on the way home, nodding against his shoulder. Gazing down at her tenderly when he stopped at a red light, he tucked back a hair that had strayed to cling to the softly shining moisture on her lips. She’s worn out, he thought. I’ve been running her around in circles. Have I always been this intense? What tricks have I forgotten that I used to know to get rid of tension? Peace of mind—it was a delicate balance that seemed so simple until it faltered, and then it became an intricate maze of interwoven parts, a philosophical journey through any number of locked doors. Forget a few keys and you can be in real trouble. We’re finding our way back, Christine.

  He carried her up to the house for the simple pleasure of feeling the weight of her press into his arms. They moved from the balmy night into the quiet house, her head against his chest, her swirling curls tickling his chin. The dim ivory light from the street lamp on the corner reached through the window and fell over his shoulder, illuminating the powdering of freckles on her nose, and he brushed the spot with his lips.

  Her lips parted. Her lashes fluttered. “I love it when you heft me around like Tarzan,” she murmured. “Are you still going to do this when you’re sixty?”

  “From vine to vine, with you over my shoulder,” he promised, and softly pushed open the bedroom door with his foot, spiriting her to the bed, trying to lay her down like a magic carpet landing.

  Her lips opened just enough to say, “Am I pretty?”

  Pulling off her shoes, he answered, “You’re beautiful.”

  “Most beautiful woman in America?”

  Searching lightly, he found and retrieved the gold ornament from her hair and her French earrings.

  “In the world,” he told her softly.

  He pulled the summer cover up and tucked it around her neck. “I love you, Chris.” He kissed her lips and left.

  She rolled on her side, curling up, with a light wisp of regret. She’d wanted to seduce him, but she’d simply been too sleepy. It was wonderful to be taken care of like this. No, she thought drowsily, he can’t go back to sleeping in the other room. Then she remembered. He literally couldn’t go back to sleeping in the other room. This afternoon, which seemed like a lifetime ago, she had sewn his bed into one piece. The memory shocked her awake like a pitcher of cold water. Vaulting up, running across the hall, she arrived in his doorway to find him staring in a very peculiar way at the bed.

  He tugged at the pillow. It was solid. He tugged at the base of the spread. Solid. A smile hovered. “What did you do to it?”

  “I sewed it together with an upholstery needle.”

  His arms folded around her. “Christine… the dreams are less vivid now, but I’m still restless. I wake up a lot. Do you think you’ll be able to—”

  The phone rang.

  “I’m going to break that thing into a thousand little pieces,” Jesse said pleasantly.

  Giving him a big sleepy squeeze, she thought, It doesn’t matter. This is marriage. We’ll both be here later.

  She picked up the phone in their bedroom, answering it with the noncommittal hello she’d learned to use while Jesse was gone.

  The voice on the phone said, “Hello? Uh… is Jesse Ludan there?” It was a young male voice afflicted with a startled hesitation. “I mean—is this the right number for him?”

  She tried to pull up an identity: nervous young male, indifferent telephone manners. No, she didn’t recognize the voice. Cautiously, because Jesse could get some strange calls, she said, “This is the right number. May I tell him who’s calling, please?”

  “Oh… uh, sure. This is… er, a friend of his. Well, not a friend, exactly. He used to know me. Listen, is he sleeping or something? I mean, I’m really sorry. I can call back later. Like when the sun comes up, I mean. Look, never mind.” Then the hesitant voice changed, as though he’d seen a vision. “Say, you must be his wife, Christine.” He said her name with reverent awe, as if she were Joan of Arc. She couldn’t resist the inadvertent homage. Jesse was in the doorway making a thumbs-down hang-up motion, but the voice on the phone sounded like someone who needed pity.

  “No, you didn’t disturb anything. Hold on. I’ll get him for you,” she said, stimulating Jesse into another exasperated dismissive motion. She covered the receiver and said in a stage whisper, “It’s, uh, someone who’s your friend… er, well, not exactly your friend, but, uh, you knew him once.”

  That didn’t seem to identify the caller to Jesse. He rolled his eyes and took the phone with a terse, “Yeah.”

  She watched him curiously as he listened to thirty seconds of what she strongly suspected was apologies from the caller. Finally Jesse seemed to home in on the caller’s identity.

  “No, it’s all right, Max. I’m glad you called.” His voice was perfectly polite, but his face was a comic mask of annoyance, the look she knew was always an equal mixture of playacting and real irritation. He listened again.

  “I’m really sorry to hear that. What a tough break,” Jesse said finally. More listening. “Sure we can talk. What about tomorrow?” His look of comic exasperation deepened. “You’re where?” Jesse sank to the bed, covering the receiver and emitting a long sigh, a smile quirking his lip. “No, no,” he said, obviously interrupting further apologies. “Why don’t you come on over now? Now, it’s fine, really. She’ll be delighted to meet you. She loves late-night company. No, really, we were just sitting around watching the Late Late Show. Right, fine, five minutes. See you then.” He hung up and flopped back on the bed.

  “Who’s this company I’m supposed to meet at a time when most decent people are fast asleep?” she demanded.

  “Ohh, he’s this”—he waved his hand aimlessly—“this kid… who was in my cell block. I told him—unwisely, I guess—that he could call me when he got out if he needed somebody to talk to. He’s coming over.”

  “Here?” she squeaked. “Now?”

  “Here now.”

  “Damn it, Jess!”

  He threw up his hand in a gesture of resignation. “He took the bus in all the way from Wauwatosa this afternoon. He’s been trying to call me from Joe’s Tap down on the corner since five o’clock, but of course we haven’t been home. He’s been sitting there all night hoping to get a chance to talk to me, and he was phoning me one last time before they closed.”

  She was pacing. “Oh, this
is great, this is just great. What is he, a dope pusher? I’ll bet he’s a dope pusher. A purse snatcher. He’s probably a hit man for the Mob. A car thief.” She faced him, disbelief and a soft anger in her voice.

  “None of the above. He wrote some bad checks.”

  “Oh, great. We’ll have a jailbird in the house.”

  Jesse raised himself to a sitting position with a broad grin, flapped invisible wings, and said, “Tweet tweet.”

  Pink began to border the freckles on her cheekbones. In spite of herself she had to grin back at him. “It’s not the same. This guy’s a criminal.”

  Adoration for her came to him in a surge of energy; that after everything she could still cling to the remnants of her country club innocence. His hands dug into her waist, and he pulled her down to the bed and rolled on top of her, covering her face with kisses. “You’re right,” he growled, his hands running slowly over her ribs. “You never know what a jailbird might do. Just how safe are you?” He assaulted her throat with gentle strokes of his mouth. “Locked up behind bars, all a man can think of is: woman, woman, woman!… Like a ravening animal! But don’t worry, I’ll protect you. Unless you displease me. Then I’ll turn you over to him.”

  With the blood quickening all through her, moving to accommodate the path of his hands, she said, “Better stop making fun of me.”

  “All right. Because I’d rather make love to you.” He kissed her probingly, arousingly, his breath falling in unsettled heating patterns on her skin. “But I can’t.” He sighed. “Max is about to arrive.”