“If he’d been your husband, he’d be an ex-husband.”
“No shit.” She grinned. “Extend thy balls to another woman and I reserve the right to cut them off.”
“I was chopping onions, your honor, and I was crying, and I just couldn’t see clearly! I had no idea he was resting them on the chopping block!”
“He fell on my knife, fourteen times!”
“But really, he looks fine without them.”
“I never even knew he had ’em in the first place!”
Naomi was red-faced, sputtering glee. “Judith, you are evil.”
“Yeah,” she said happily. “That’s why the boys all love me so …”
“Fuck the boys. I love you. I think you’re swell,” Naomi said.
Judith shook her head modestly.
“No, seriously. I thought you were brilliant with Martina yesterday. Did I tell you?”
“Sure.” She nodded. “But don’t let that stop you from saying it again.”
So Naomi said it again, because Judith had indeed been brilliant. Martina Graves had testified about Heather’s first months at the sports center: her own acts of friendship and neighborliness toward the new employee, then her gradual alarm at what was developing between Heather and Ashley, and her outright revulsion at the illegitimate pregnancy Heather flaunted. Christian values, Martina said, wringing her hands in her lap, rendered her incapable of continuing the friendship with Heather. She had been shocked to discover how vastly different a person her friend had turned out to be—profligate, prideful, wanton. Martina shook her hay-blond head. It was sad, she told the jury, but the fault was her own for not seeing sooner the true measure of Heather’s character. She, like Sue Deacon before her, did not personally know Christopher Flynn, but Martina volunteered to the district attorney that she was praying for him nonetheless.
Charter, murmuring gratitude, then turned the witness over to Judith.
And so followed an hour’s discourse on the essence of Christian values. Had Martina, Judith asked, ever offered counsel to her misguided young friend? No? What about support during her pregnancy? Solace during her bereavement? Succor during her imprisonment? Perhaps Martina would have preferred, under the circumstances, that Heather procure an abortion?
Judith downed the last of her coffee and crumpled the cup.
“I’m worried about Heather,” Naomi said, understating the obvious. “She isn’t strong.”
“No,” Judith agreed.
“I didn’t think she was going to make it through Ashley’s testimony,” Naomi said, looking up at the prison wing of the courthouse. “I thought she was going to fall apart.”
“She did fall apart,” Judith said dryly.
“No, I mean … I thought she was going to start screaming, or have a fit or something.”
“And that would have been worse than just moaning and groaning like a zombie? I don’t think so. She made herself seem absolutely demented to the jury. I mean, here I am, building her up, resilient girl abandoned by spineless bastard, mother of the year, right? And instead of sitting there and attempting to look the part, she behaves like a wet noodle. I could use the support, you know. I mean, I’m only trying to save her life here.”
“Well, of course,” Naomi soothed. “I’m sure she knows that.”
“Are you?” Judith said grimly. “You see, I’m not. I’m not sure she knows that at all. She just glowers at me any time I say anything bad about Ashley, that’s all she cares about. You know, what is this about, anyway? I mean, what does she think we’re all doing here? Does she think she did nothing to contribute to this mess?”
Naomi could not seem to say anything. Judith’s voice never rose above a whisper, but the whisper grew harsh and her face tight with aversion.
“You know, you ask any criminal defense attorney and they’ll tell you: the worst thing isn’t your generic evil guy—the one who wreaks havoc and then says he was somewhere else at the time. I mean, when that guy gets convicted he just shrugs, like, Oh well, I gave it my best shot. Nope! The worst thing is your basic sociopath. You know, it’s not just that he’s been falsely accused and he’s innocent, but actually, he’s the victim here! Can you believe it? It’s all twisted around, it’s a horrible perversion of justice that he should be in the defendant’s seat, because the truth is that the real injustice has been done to him!”
“I don’t—” Naomi began.
“Oh”—she held up her hand—“don’t listen to me. I’m just tired. And she’s pissing me off.”
But Naomi’s thoughts were coursing on ahead, even as the two women sat motionless and Naomi’s coffee went stone cold between her palms. She was testing the notion, trying to dull it before having to speak it aloud, but it wouldn’t dull. It was so obvious, and so totally impossible. She took a breath.
“You hate her.”
Judith frowned at the broad gray wall of the courthouse. “Yes.” Slowly, she nodded once. The wet breeze picked up and then dropped a stray tight curl. “I believe I do.”
“But why?” Naomi wailed, unable to temper her voice. Judith looked at her sharply; then her face softened.
“I would have thought that was obvious, Naomi. I hate her because she killed her baby.”
Naomi stared, numb and lost. She did not know how to look, or how to answer. Judith shrugged.
“She had a beautiful, healthy baby. And she killed it.”
“But”—Naomi found her voice—“my God, Judith, there’s no evidence for that at all!”
“Keep your voice down,” Judith said. She put an oddly comforting hand on Naomi’s arm. “Listen, Naomi. Heather hardly did anything for her baby, did she? Did she run up to the house? Or call the doctor? Or even slap it like they do in the movies? No. Which is amazing. I mean, everyone knows you’re supposed to slap the kid, right? Isn’t there some instinct that tells you you have to make sure the baby is all right? But not Heather. She never wanted that baby, so she just sat there and waited for it to be as dead as she wanted it to be.” She paused and looked hard at Naomi. “Even if she didn’t do anything to it. Even if there was no overt act to harm the baby … even if she didn’t shoot it or … stab it. She killed it. She let it die. So yes. I hate her. You can feel what you like. You have some history with this person, but I don’t. All I know about her is that she ran around with a married man and she killed her baby.” She smiled softly, disconcertingly. “Please don’t look so upset about it!”
“But you’re defending her,” Naomi said wonderingly. “I mean, if you think—”
“No. I’m defending a woman wrongly accused of stabbing her infant to death. I’m defending a woman who came to the attention of police solely because her fellow citizens condemned her moral character, and her sexuality, and her decision to have an illegitimate child, all of which I find reprehensible, as I’ve said before. I don’t need to like Heather in order to defend her. Which, as it turns out, is no bad thing.” She stopped and shifted on the bench. She was looking at Naomi, not unkindly, but with some amusement. “Actually, I doubt you like her much, either.”
Naomi roused herself to object, but found herself strangely mute on the subject. She could only shake her head. “I just … It seems strange to me that you’re so judgmental, that’s all.”
And Judith, to her surprise, laughed openly at this and shook her head. “Oh please! Judgmental. I can’t stand this sanctimonious shit about being judgmental. I mean, come on—every single person is judgmental, especially the ones who whine about how it’s wrong. We’re just using our minds, that’s all. Our characters. This is who we are, this is what we think. It’s our moral code. Isn’t that what separates us from the monkeys? You know? That ability to be judgmental?”
“But still,” Naomi said, flailing a bit, still utterly thrown. Still what, she didn’t quite know. “It isn’t … I mean, it’s not your place to judge Heather, no matter what you think of her privately.”
Judith frowned, but affectionately. “Because someb
ody else is going to? Ultimately? Like, on the Day of Judgment when all sins are revealed? Goats to the left, sheep to the right? And we take our leave of Heather the murderess and go frolic in the land of milk and honey?” She shook her head. “Oh, Naomi, you of all people.”
Naomi stared at her. “Did I say that?” It came out sounding not accusatory but stunned.
And Judith, to her further amazement, had covered her face with her hands. Naomi instinctively put an arm over Judith’s shoulder and was instantly able to feel it shake, even through the buffer of their two heavy coats, but having moved her arm, was not able to move it again. She did not understand, in the first place, why she had abruptly assumed this posture, why it was called for, and above all what was happening to Judith. That their talk had turned the corner to this inexplicable barrier at all was surprising, but the suddenness of the turn left her lost. Now, the incongruity of their posture—two women in winter coats on a bench beside an ugly municipal building, one sobbing, the other sheltering the first with a useless arm—rendered Naomi inert. She had never felt so stupid, so ineffectual, so undecided about what to say next.
Then, as sharply as it had begun, it ended. Judith pulled herself together, and Naomi found her voice.
“Are you—”
“I’m fine.” Judith put up her head. Her eyes, incredibly, held only the faintest aftermath of tears. “It gets me sometimes. This whole mishegaas. You’d think people wouldn’t fuck up their lives like this, you know?”
“I know,” said Naomi, who wasn’t sure she did but thought it best to say so. She kissed her friend. “It’s all right.”
“You think so?”
“Of course,” Naomi said heartily, glad that whatever had just passed between them appeared to have passed. “I’m sorry we quarreled,” she said after a minute. “Did we quarrel?”
Judith looked surprised. “No. Not at all.” Then she smiled. “I mean, I don’t think we did.”
“Friends can quarrel,” Naomi said, offhand. “Not that we did.”
“Sure.” She looked at her watch. Ten minutes to court.
“Did you fix it so I could bring Polly to see her mom today?”
Judith nodded. “Yeah. They’re expecting you around six.”
“Good. That’ll give me time to get up to Mrs. Horgan and back.”
“Have you told Polly?”
Naomi bit her lip. “Well no. I don’t think she’d get it, actually. So I didn’t.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re right.”
“It’s the only thing I could think of yesterday,” said Naomi. “I mean Heather was so …” She trailed off. She was not willing to open this subject again. “Anyway, I think it’ll be good for them both. Get Heather back on track a bit, you know? Give her something to focus on.”
“Hope so,” Judith said briefly. She was looking past Naomi now, to the front steps of the courthouse with its little thicket of people and microphones. Naomi saw her concentrate, her lips pursed.
“What?” Naomi turned her head, too.
Judith was beginning to smile. “I spy …”
“What?”
“With my little eye … Well, well.” She nodded. “So they actually made it.”
Abruptly she grinned, and Naomi could only look blankly at her, struck speechless by the quicksilver of this transition.
“What?”
“Not a what. It’s a who.”
A who, Naomi thought, quickly turning to follow the line of Judith’s gaze. Or indeed a what, for though two of the three people walking toward them were decidedly female, the figure at the forefront of their triangle was not immediately classifiable. It was tall, with slender hips and light hair close-shaved to a delicate skull. It wore a silver stud in one ear, a pair of corduroys the color of rust, and a dark green sweatshirt that said, bewilderingly, WAD. Or was it W.A.D.? Naomi peered. One of the women was carrying a knapsack over the crook of her elbow, unzipped and crammed with lavender paper.
“I’m Ella,” said the one in front. A woman? Naomi frowned. She had a deep voice.
“Hello, Ella.” Judith got up. Naomi got up, too.
“We spoke last night.”
“So we did. I’m so pleased you could make it.”
They shook hands all around. One of the others was called Simone. The third woman just said hi and ducked her head.
“We had a meeting last night,” Ella said. She stood with her hands on her narrow hips. “I’m not the only one who’d seen the magazine. A bunch of us felt that we needed to get together and speak about it.”
Judith nodded, reserved but open. “I’m glad.”
“It was when we read that she’d been at Dartmouth that we more or less felt compelled to be here. You know?”
Naomi, who didn’t, looked at Judith. Judith smiled and nodded.
“I mean, bad enough this should happen at all. Even worse that it should happen where we live ourselves. But the fact that she was a member of our own academic community—that’s what sort of put us over the edge. So we started calling, and Simone set up a table at Thayer this morning with a sign-up sheet. We’ll have a convoy here sometime around midday. After morning classes,” she said, a touch apologetically.
Naomi, who was taking this in, looked in alarm at Judith. Judith wanted this?
But Judith seemed pleased. “And may I see the flyer?”
The as-yet-nameless woman handed Judith one of her lavender pages. WHY IS HEATHER PRATT ON TRIAL? Naomi read over her shoulder. BECAUSE A PATRIARCHAL JUSTICE SYSTEM WOULD RATHER FIND A WITCH TO BURN THAN EXAMINE ITS OWN CONSCIENCE.
“This is good,” Judith said. She passed the flyer to Naomi. “How are you going to do this?”
“Loud and long,” Simone said affably. “As loud we can and as long as it takes.”
“Ah,” Judith said. “Well, that might, in the end, be the less effective course.
Simone looked suddenly fierce, but Ella appeared to listen.
“The thing is, we all want the same thing here. We want to help Heather. Yes?”
A tentative nod from the nameless one. Ella still held her counsel.
“So we need you to make your points on her behalf without calling undue attention to other elements of your platform, regardless of how we ourselves are in solidarity with them. This is a very conservative community, as you know. This isn’t Hanover.”
The rolling of eyes. Hanover wasn’t, evidently, Hanover either.
“I hope you’re not expecting us to ‘dress appropriately,’” Simone sneered.
“Not at all. By all means, be here and be yourselves. But you’ll be doing Heather no good at all if you appear aggressive. Try not to give the impression that you feel bitterness toward the members of this community, or by extension the television or radio community. If you’re asked to speak to the press, do it calmly, even though you’re angry. You support Heather. You’re here for Heather, because you think her treatment has been unfair, and you’re ready to say why. But if you yell and scream, you’ll alienate people who’d otherwise agree with you. Do you see?”
They looked uncomfortably at one another. “Thank you,” Ella said finally. “We respect your opinion.”
“And I yours,” Judith said evenly. Naomi handed back the flyer. “I appreciate your being here, and I know Heather will, too.”
“Tell her Dartmouth women support her!” the nameless one chirped, and Judith nodded and said she would. Then they turned in a single, formless group and went back to the courthouse to take up their assigned positions.
Chapter 34
There Is No Group Here
“DARTMOUTH WOMEN SUPPORT YOU,” JUDITH SAID archly, as Heather was seated next to her.
“What?” said Heather. She looked, if possible, even more wan than the day before. The trial was acting as a kind of parasite, sucking her strength from within. There was, Naomi mused, some manner of race going on, to see whether it would finish its work before the proceedings were completed.
“Yo
ur sisters. Your fellow women of Dartmouth. They’re turning out to support you in their covens. They’re visualizing victory.”
“I don’t understand,” Heather said fearfully. “I don’t know anyone at Dartmouth. I only met a few people.”
“Judith,” Naomi whispered disapprovingly. “Come on.”
Without turning around, Judith nodded consent. She went back to her notes for Ann Chase. She was looking forward to this. Heather, for her part, twisted around to give Naomi a querying look, and Naomi tried to hustle up an expression of warm encouragement.
“I’m bringing Polly tonight. It’s all set.”
Heather closed her eyes, briefly animated. Then that passed, too, and she turned around again.
Ann arrived, early and as bright as Naomi had ever seen her. She was dressed in something Naomi had never seen her wear—a magenta woolen dress with a lace collar—and she had had something done to her hair, Naomi thought: a kind of hardening rinse that lacquered it into place. She walked down the central aisle of the courtroom, passing the table where Judith and Heather sat, and somehow managing to convey her contempt for them without ever glancing in their direction. After being sworn in, a ritual she enacted with gravity and no small self-importance, she gave her name as Mrs. Whit Chase and took her seat. She did not seem to suffer on the witness stand, as Naomi had done. She spoke with confidence, if not perceivable glee.
Heather—the gist of her testimony went—was a slut.
Heather flaunted her affair, and then her pregnancy, and later her child.
Heather dressed provocatively. She even disrobed in public. In fact: on the deck of Tom and Whit’s general store, Ann’s own family business. This, as it happened, created such a horrendous situation that the police had to come to persuade her to cover herself.
That Heather had found herself in this situation was not remotely surprising. Heather had never shown the slightest regard for any but her own needs, wishes, and, above all, urges.
The Sabbathday River Page 39
