by Amy Lapwing
“I don’t know.” They thought a moment. “You’ve seen him, he look like him to you?”
“Those Ticos all look alike to me.”
They laughed. “Yikes, Pascale!”
“Hey, that’s what tenure’s for.” She put her hand on Justina’s arm just as she turned to go out. “Does anyone else know, Justina?”
“I’ve only told you. I don’t know if he’s told anybody.”
“He didn’t tell me. Maybe he told Charles?”
“He would have mentioned it. You know Charles.”
“I’m going to tell them,” decided Pascale.
“No!”
“He needs to know that we know. He needs to know that we know he’s taking the kid for his son, without bothering to test him.”
Justina blinked at her.
“I’m going to tell them.” Pascale opened the door and followed Justina back into the living room.
People were sipping their coffee. Charles and Denis were having seconds on cake and trying to get Michael to, but he was full. The sight of Justina with baby Nicolas in her arms seemed not to register with Michael. He sat on the sofa laughing with Helena—
“Got your order in for Three Tenors tickets, Michael?”
“Who?”
“Don’t you like them?”
“Who?”
—while Charles made room for Justina on the arm of Michael’s plaid chair. She propped Nicolas up on her lap and he bobbed his enormous head about at everyone.
Pascale sat on the floor at Denis’ feet. “I have an announcement to make, everyone.” They turned their eyes to her, some of the mouths chewing, the others with pleasant, small smiles. “Michael,” she ended her speech looking at him, “believes he has a long-lost son.”
They all turned their heads and shone their high beams on Michael, their faces a little less smiling, expectant.
“He is a transfer student named Derek Bartel,” continued Pascale, “and he is here with his mother, who has told Michael he is his son.”
Michael felt Justina’s challenge, coming from the lips of Pascale. He smiled and said, “That’s right.”
Helena said, “He the guy who raped that girl?”
“He is accused of attempted rape,” answered Michael.
Everyone thought a moment what to say. Congratulations?
“Who’s the mother, Mitch?” asked Charles.
“Teresa Ramirez,” he said.
Charles mouthed, Ah.
“You knew about her?” Justina asked Charles.
“Mitch has mentioned her to me before.”
“When?” asked Pascale sharply.
“A long time ago. When he first came here, I guess.” Charles bobbed his head at Michael, his eyes round, looking for corroboration.
Michael sipped his coffee. “Probably,” he said.
“But you weren’t married to her, right?” asked Helena.
“No,” he said.
Helena peeked at Justina. “So, she says he’s your son?”
“Mm-hm,” said Michael.
“Was she married when she had him?” continued Helena.
“Mm-hm.”
“So, it could be the husband’s kid?”
“Possibly. But we don’t think so.”
Justina felt something cold in her gullet, like she had swallowed an ice cube. ‘We’ was only supposed to mean him and herself.
“Because?” prompted Helena.
“We’re sure he’s ours,” answered Michael with a note of condescension.
The guests exchanged glances, peeking at Michael. He sipped from his mug. “Anyone like more coffee?” he asked, standing. “Helena? Denis? Charles? More cake?” No, thank yous, all around. He went into the kitchen.
“On second thoughts,” said Charles and he followed Michael.
Michael poured coffee into Charles’ and his mugs.
“Mitch, are you supporting this boy?”
“What do you mean, ‘supporting?’”
“Are you going to take his side in the trial?”
“I believe he is innocent.”
“But, Mitch, don’t you want to be sure of paternity before you declare support for him publicly? Especially when it’s a criminal charge?”
“I am sure.”
“You’ve taken a test?”
“Yes,” he said with impatience, “I will take a test.”
“Good, good,” said Charles, “that’s all I want to hear.”
“Say, Charles,” said Michael, lowering his voice, “do you know, if a person leaves Kennemac, do you receive all of the university’s, eh, contribution to the four-oh-three-bee?”
“You leaving Kennemac?” asked Charles with surprise.
“I just think of other opportunities. I want to know what I lose if I leave.”
“You’re vested, Mitch, have been for years,” said Charles. “You take it all. You should roll it over to a similar plan, or open an IRA. If you go. What opportunities, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Nothing definite,” he said, sipping his coffee and looking out the kitchen window at the picnic table in the back yard. It had been there when they moved in. Sitting on the flat lawn in a clearing of three aged wide oaks, that table had plucked a nostalgic string in both of them; she dreamt of actual picnics as a child in Illinois, he remembered scenes from American movies of the fifties. The scene had led irresistibly to an image of them signing a Purchase and Sale Agreement. The fantasy had become reality and they owned that table. They tried to use it once, the first weekend they were in the house, in mid-June. They had discovered it was wobbly and full of splinters. Each spring since then, Justina had asked him to just chuck it. He smiled at Charles and went back into the living room and sat at the piano.
“You know this one, Helena,” he said, playing Cole Porter’s “Let’s Do It.”
“I really have to get going.” Helena stood and said Happy Birthday again to Justina. Michael stayed at the piano, so she called thanks for the party to him, and Justina went with her to the door. “I’m really sorry, Justina,” she said, putting on her jacket. “It’ll be negative, I’m sure of it. It’s always the husband.”
“I hope so,” said Justina.
“You’ll see,” said Helena and she hugged her.
None of the other guests was in the mood for a sing-along, either, to Michael’s apparent amazement, and they left, murmuring sympathy and encouragement to Justina at the door, casting glances at Michael at the piano.
Justina went around the room gathering up plates and cups while Michael played. His music sounded cold to her, mocking and ruthless, and repetitive, like dull jazz. She rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher. She found places for all of the cups, and she put in the forks and spoons and poured in the soap powder and started the machine. The hum of getting started, then the whoosh of fresh water over the dirty dishes, the force making suds with the soap and sloshing it all over everything. What a wonderful invention. When it was broken, earlier in the year, kitchen work was so arduous. Keeping things clean by hand was so much work, but people used to do it. They would don the rubber gloves and fill the sink with suds and a tub with clear water and wash everything, all the day’s dishes, after dinner. It was tedious work, but you did it together, you helped each other pass the time, and it got done. She drew a mental picture of a young couple, circa 1930, she in a dress and apron, he in shirtsleeves, working side-by-side at the sink, talking and joking, or just silently thinking, happy to be together. The petulant jazz played on in the living room.
She put away the rest of the birthday cake and finished wiping the counters. She washed the chicken, pulling out the neck and gizzard, the heart and liver. Too bad she and Michael did not like the giblets, they were so good for you. She put the red slimy things aside; she would simmer them and take them to Helena tomorrow for her cat. She rubbed the skin with thyme and paprika and salt and dabbed it with margarine and put it in the oven. Upstairs she sat at her computer and checked
her mail. Student questions and problems. The jazz had stopped. She did not want to read or do any work, really. She went into the bedroom and laid down; she would rest for a while, until time to finish making dinner. She slipped under just the old green bedspread and looked at the pretty leaves waving outside the window. Perhaps she would get up and go running, all that birthday cake. She lay still and dozed.
His step on the bare stairs woke her. He came into the room. “Were you sleeping?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said.
He came to sit on the bed. “Did you have a happy birthday?”
“Mm-hm.”
He kissed her. “I think I go for a drive,” he said.
“A drive?”
“Just a short one. You want to come?”
“Where you going?”
“Nowhere. Just to go out.”
“Okay.”
They drove up and down the country roads and observed people doing their Saturday errands. It was the last weekend for apple-picking and the orchards were packed with people. She looked for evidence of a change in him. Same handsome profile, brows a little longer and thicker, throat perhaps not so taut, ears a little bigger, hair a little grayer. When she took the time to look at him this way, usually she wanted to kiss him. Today he seemed not to notice she was looking at him, his thinking was so intense.
He can’t be thinking of her, he loves me. He loves me so completely. It used to put me off, how he loved me. Remember? And how I loved him. I love him. The prick.
“What are you thinking?” he asked. She was silent. “Justina?”
“Nada.” She looked out her window.
“Do you ever think about moving?” he asked.
“Moving? You mean if I don’t get tenure?”
“Or even if you do. You know, really, it’s easier to obtain a new position, once you have tenure.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean? What are you talking about? Don’t you like it here? Do you have another offer?”
“No, I just think about making a change.”
“What kind of change?”
She seemed to have an open expression. He announced, “I think maybe I’d like to try to sing again.”
“Sing? What do you mean, ‘sing?’”
“Sing, Justina, sing! ¡Ay!”
“What, like, opera?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes darted back and forth over the dashboard. “You mean, give up teaching, and sing, full-time?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?” He was sighing. “When’d you get this idea? You been thinking about this a long time?”
“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Ever since I was a teenager, I have wanted to sing on the stage.”
“But, Michael, if this is something you want so much, why haven’t you done any singing? I mean, you could sing now, at Kennemac, or, I don’t know, as a soloist for some of the choruses around here.” His face was beginning to look pinched as he concentrated on his driving. “Why don’t you start there?”
“That’s for amateurs. I wish to be a professional.” She was looking confused. “I have the ability to be a professional singer, I wish to use it.”
“Michael, I have never heard you say this.”
“You hear it now.”
“Okay.” You’re fifty and you want to change careers. Not just change careers, but abandon something you’re really good at for something you already tried once and failed at. She looked out the window at the familiar houses. They turned onto Thomas Road and went north into the woods.
“This is such a pretty road,” he said.
The trees grew very close to the shoulder, the branches of one side arching over and touching those of the other, forming a tunnel with skylights. The power lines crisscrossed the ceiling as the terrain dictated the hop-skotch placement of the utility poles. They passed under a length of suspended wires, a broken-off branch hanging by its crook upon the cable, the frazzled orange needles looking dead of electrocution.
“Mm.”
She looked at a red house on the left. It had trim the same red color, instead of the usual white, with no shutters, and the door was a dark wood stain. Not a barn red, more like the color of innards. Road kill red, yuck. Red is out, then. Dead grass and red, both out. Maybe blue? She looked at Michael who whipped his head back to the road from looking at the house. Singing!
They kept on north and turned west onto Sanderset Road just before the Dunster town line and came back down south on Longmeadow Road. Sunny Longmeadow Road, flanked by fields and orchards. Cultivated, put to use, wild vegetation pulled out, fruit-bearing plants nurtured. They passed the place where they had found Grace that night; the apple-picking public shuttled bags of fruit to take home. Michael turned the car into their driveway. She avoided looking at the dead grass clapboards. This spring, we’ll fix it then.
Chapter Eleven
Grim Eros
The courtroom was crowded. Male students had turned out to support their fraternity brother. There were a few female students; Justina guessed they were friends of the boys. Grace sat with her parents at a table at the front to the judge’s left. There were too many people standing around up front on the other side, she could not see Derek and her. She did not know when she would be called, but she imagined the testimony would not take long to give, there were so few individuals involved: Grace, Derek, herself, Michael. She looked behind her down the hall, she did not see her husband. She wanted to sit up front, but the rows were full, opposite to what she would expect if this was a lecture at the college. She found a seat close to the aisle three rows from the back.
The prosecuting attorney made a rambling opening statement. “The prosecution will show that Derek Bartel attempted to brutally rape Grace Hardy despite her repeated shouts of no and her struggling almost to the point of fighting him, to which struggle he retaliated with malice and violence.” The prosecutor was a short, square fellow, might have been a wrestler, once, with those shoulders. With his soft little paunch, he was probably more of an observer of contests, now. He swaggered about in the space before the judge and jury with a righteous air. ‘Attempted to brutally rape.’ Brutally attempted to rape? These guys make their living by words, you’d think they’d be better at stringing them together. Logically, at least, if not persuasively. She looked over at Derek’s table.
He had his mother with him, she guessed. Just to look at the back of her head sent a trill of dread into the base of her skull. The woman had short, dark brown hair prettily and neatly tossed in waves. Justina hoped she would not see her face. They had two attorneys sitting with them. Looking at the backs of their heads on graceful, white-collared necks, she could feel their competence. They would probably leave the wrestler in the dust.
She saw the profile of the other man when he turned his head to look at the defending attorney stand to make his statement. She whipped in a quick breath and held still. What is Michael doing up there? He’s with them, her brain hissed, he’s with her.
She ran her fingertip over and over her lower lip. The lawyer sat down and Michael looked at the woman with those eyes, his smile folded around them, his head bowed so his forehead almost touched hers. Justina breathed with her mouth open, her ears felt stuffed with cotton, her stomach overfull, though there was no ache. She would sit very still and time would advance and the session would end and he would come home. And he would never do it again.
Grace took the stand and answered her attorney’s questions. Justina kept her eyes on her husband; he would watch Grace for a moment, then dip his head. No one at his table said anything during Grace’s testimony. Their lawyer cross-examined Grace and she denied hitting Derek. Why was she denying it? Hadn’t she had to hit him? Did he mean just, hit, not in self-defense? Was he claiming she did that? Was he going to say she tried to rape him, next? Michael was whispering something to Derek, and noddi
ng with his eyelids lowered: don’t worry.
“Justina Trimble!”
Shush! They’ll see me!
The bailiff called her name again. She went up to the stand. Her back to the room, she was sworn in. She was asked to sit. She looked straight down the aisle at the door. She could tell he was looking at her. And she. The prosecutor came up and stood to her left so that she did not have to look in Michael’s direction. She told the jury what she heard and then what she saw. She answered his questions docilely, simply, like a child who has witnessed a schoolyard fight between two children she does not know. The prosecutor thanked her with a bow, his buttocks offered to the jury, his shoes in a vee, the toes creased too close to the instep, they were too big for him, and he sat back down. “Your witness.”
The water pitcher at the prosecution’s table looked slippery from sweat. It would be puddling in its coaster by the end of the session. If anyone lifted it to pour into their glass, it would drip on the nice wooden table. She did not see any napkins or paper towels next to it. Tut-tut.
The defense lawyer scraped his chair back and stood up. Justina’s eyes went over there by themselves, despite her order to keep away. Michael was looking at the court stenographer’s feet. He looked very good citizen in his tan suit. Justina stole a glance at the woman, who was looking straight at her. She was not ugly. She was a pretty little woman. Feminine, an archetype of femininity, with a neat tailored gray dress on her trim, soft-looking figure and high heels and coiffed hair and lipstick and mascara. Probably wore lacy black underwear and an underwire bra. Probably dashed eau de toilette on her pussy. Justina looked again at Michael; some papers in front of him absorbed his attention. Flee, Justina’s mind was advocating, fighting is futile.
“Ms. Trimble.”
The prosecutor had called her ‘Professor.’ Is this guy Ms’ing me for spite?
The lawyer smiled at her. Despicable. “Did Ms. Hardy give you her impressions of Mr. Bartel’s conduct earlier in their evening together?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Did she indicate how she liked Mr. Bartel, prior to their stopping in the orchard?”
