“Barry York. You know. Yorktowne Bonding.”
“What?” She sat up as though someone had slapped her.
“I said …”
“I know what you said. And you’re calling me to play tennis?”
“Yeah. You don’t play?” He sounded surprised, like a small boy who’s just been severely disappointed.
“Mr. York, do I understand you correctly? You want to play tennis with me?”
“Yeah. So?” He belched softly into the phone.
“Are you drunk?”
“Of course not. Are you?”
“No, I’m not. And I don’t understand why you called me.” Her voice was straight out of the Arctic Circle, long-distance.
“Well, you’re a good-looking woman, I was going to play tennis, and I figured maybe you’d want to play. No big deal. You don’t dig tennis, we can go have dinner somewhere.”
“Are you out of your mind? What in God’s name makes you think I have any desire whatsoever to play tennis, play hopscotch, have dinner, or do anything else with you?”
“Well, listen to the red-hot mama. Sing it, sweetheart. What’s to get so excited about?”
“I happen to be a married woman.” She was shouting and Zina and Kat could hear her tone from the other side of the door. They wondered who had called. Kat raised an eyebrow, and Zina went to help a client. Inside, the conversation continued.
“Yeah, so you happen to be a married woman. And your old man happens to be sitting on his ass in the joint. Which is too bad, but which leaves you out here with the rest of us human beings who like to play tennis, play hopscotch, eat dinner, and get laid.” Now she felt genuinely nauseated. She was remembering his thick black hair and the smell of him, and the ugly ring with the pink stone in it. It was incredible. That man, that hideous pig of a man, that absolute total stranger was calling her and talking about “getting laid.” She sat there pale and trembling with tears starting to sting her eyelids again. It was funny. She knew that somewhere in all this it was funny. But it didn’t make her want to laugh. It made her want to cry, want to go home, want to … this was what Ian had left her. The Barry Yorks of the world, and people calling about the checks she had “forgotten” to send and that she would continue to forget for at least another six or seven or nine or ten weeks or maybe even years. To the point that she was afraid to walk into the florist now for so much as a bunch of daisies, because she probably owed him money too. She owed everyone money. And now this animal on the phone wanted to get laid.
“I … Mr…. I’m …” She fought the tears out of her voice and swallowed hard.
“Whatsa matter, sweetheart, married women in Pacific Heights don’t get horny, or you already got a boyfriend?”
Jessica sat looking at the phone, her chin trembling, her hand shaking, tears streaming down her face, and her lower lip pouting as if she were a child whose best doll has just been smashed to bits. It had finally all hit her. This was what had happened to her life. She shook her head slowly, and gently hung up the phone.
Chapter 24
“See you later, ladies.” She picked up her bag, and started out of the shop. It was early April, and a beautiful warm Friday morning. Spring seemed to be everywhere.
“Where are you going, Jessie?” Zina and Kat looked up surprised.
“To see Ian. I have some other things to do tomorrow, so I thought I’d go up today.”
“Give him our love.” She smiled at the two girls and left the shop quietly. She had been very quiet again lately. Oddly so. The irritability seemed to be passing, ever since the call from Barry York. That had been three weeks ago. She had never told Ian. But the degradation showed in her face.
York, Houghton, people calling for bills, it didn’t really matter. It was her own fault. She had done it all to herself. The great Jessica Clarke. The all-powerful, all-knowing, all-paying Mrs. Jessica Clarke, and her wonderful husband Mr. Jessica Clarke. She saw it all now. The sleepless nights were beginning to pay off. She couldn’t run away from it anymore. She was beginning to think, to remember, to understand. She heard it now like old tapes played back in the dark of night. She had nothing else to do but remember … incidents, moments, trivia, voices. Not her mother’s voice now. Not Jake’s. But her own, and Ian’s. “Fables, darling? Do they sell?” As though that were the only thing that mattered. He had blurted out half a dozen reasons, explanations—as though he owed her any—and the fables had been beautiful. But it didn’t matter, she had killed them before they’d been born. With one line. “Do they sell?” Who cared if they sold? It was probably why he had bought her the Morgan with his publisher’s advance. It was the loudest way he could think of to answer.
And other times.
“The opera, sweetheart? Why the opera? It’s so expensive.”
“But we enjoy it. Don’t you, Jessie? I thought you did.”
“Yeah, but—oh, what the hell. I’ll take it out of the house money.”
“Oh, is that it?” There had been a long pause. “I already bought the tickets, Jess. With ‘my’ money.” But he had decided not to go in the end. He had decided to work at the last minute. He hadn’t gone all that season.
Tiny moments, minute phrases that slashed into hearts with the blow of a machete, leaving scars on a life, on a marriage, on a man. Why? When she needed him so much? Or was that it? That she needed him, and she knew he didn’t need her in the same way?
“But he needed me too.” Her voice sounded loud in the solitude of the car. She couldn’t allow Astrid to chauffeur her three times a week, so she now rented a compact to go up and see him. Another expense she could ill afford. But as she drove along, she wondered. Why the barbs? The small digs over the years? To cup his wings so he never flew away? Because if he had flown away, she couldn’t have survived. And the joke of it was that he had flown anyway. For one afternoon, and maybe a thousand afternoons before that, but for one afternoon that had cost them everything. He had needed a woman who didn’t shoot off her mouth, didn’t cut him down. Someone who didn’t need him, didn’t love him, didn’t hurt him.
It was crazy, really. Whatever she had done, she had done out of the fear of losing him. And now look at where they were. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost missed the turnoff, and she was still pensive as she waited for him to appear at the window.
Even after Ian arrived, she seemed to have her mind more on the past than the present. And he seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts too. She looked up at him and tried to smile. She had a splitting headache and she was tired. She kept seeing her own reflection in the glass window that stood between them. It made her feel as if she were talking to herself.
“You’re not very chatty today, Mr. Clarke. Anything wrong?”
“No, just thinking about the book, I guess. I’m getting to the point where it’s hard to relate to much else. I’m all wrapped up in it.” He noticed an odd flash in her eyes as he finished speaking, and started to tell her about the book. She let him ramble on for a few minutes and then interrupted.
“You know something? You’re amazing. I come all the way up here to find out how you are, and to talk to you about what’s happening in my life. And you talk to me about the book.”
“What’s wrong with that?” He looked puzzled as he watched her from the other side of the glass. “You tell me about Lady J.”
“That’s different, Ian. That’s real, for Chrissake.” She was sounding shrill, and it irritated him.
“Well, the book is real to me.”
“So real that you can’t even take an hour of your precious time to talk to me? Hell, you’ve been sitting there like a zombie for the last hour, telling me about the goddam book. And every time I start to tell you about me, you fade out.”
“That’s not true, Jess.” He looked upset and reached for a cigarette. “The book is just going really well and I wanted to tell you about it. I don’t think I’ve ever hit such a good writing spell, that’s all.” He knew he’d said th
e wrong thing as soon as the words were out of his mouth. The look on her face was incredible. “Jessie, what the hell is wrong with you? You look like someone just shoved a hot poker up your ass.”
“Yeah, or slapped my face, maybe. Jesus Christ, you sit there and you tell me how brilliantly your writing is going, how you’ve never ‘hit such a good writing spell,’ like you’re on some kind of fucking vacation in there. Do you know what’s happening in my life?” She took a deep breath and he felt as if poison were pouring at him through the phone. She had lost control and she wasn’t about to stop now.
“You really want to know what’s happening to me while you’re having such a ‘good writing spell’? Well, I’ll tell you, darling. Lady J is going broke, people are calling me up day and night telling me to pay our bills and threatening to sue me. Your car fell apart, my nerves have had it, I have nightmares about Inspector Houghton every night, and the bailbondsman called me up for a date three weeks ago. He figured I needed to get laid. And maybe the sonofabitch is right, but not by him. I haven’t so much as touched your hand in I don’t know how many months, and I’m going goddam crazy. My whole stinking life is on the rocks, and you’re having a good writing spell! And you know what else is terrific, darling—” She dripped venom in his ear, and others in the room watched as he sat there incredulous. She wasn’t keeping any secrets from anyone.
“What’s absolutely marvelous, Ian my love, is that I drove all the way up here today blaming myself for the nine-thousandth time for everything I’ve done wrong in our marriage, about the pressures I’ve put on you, about the rotten things I’ve said. Do you realize that by now I’ve replayed every lousy scene in our marriage, everything I’ve ever done wrong that made you even want to go to bed with a piece of shit like Margaret Burton? I’ve been blaming myself ever since it happened. I’ve even blamed myself for supporting your writing career, thinking that I stole your manhood. And while I’m crucifying myself, you know what you’re doing? Having the best writing spell in your life. Well, you know what? You make me sick. While you sit up here in this glorified writers’ colony they call a prison, my whole life is coming apart and you’re not doing a goddam thing about it, sweetheart. Nothing. And I’ll tell you something else, I’m sick to death of that puking window, of having to twist around like a pretzel just to see you and not a reflection of myself. I’m sick of getting sweaty hands and sweaty ears and a sweaty brain just talking to you on the goddam phone here … I’m sick to death of the whole goddam mess!” She was shouting so loudly that the whole room was watching now, but neither of them noticed. It had been building for months.
“And I suppose you think I enjoy it here?”
“Yes, I think you enjoy it here. A colony for gigolo writers.”
“That’s right, sweetheart. That’s what this is. And that’s all I do here, is write. I never think about my wife, and how I got here, and why, and of that damn woman, or of the trial. I never have to shove my way out of getting laid by some guy with the hots for me.
“Listen, lady, if you think this is my idea of living, you can shove it right up your ass. But I’ll tell you something else. If you think our marriage is my idea of living you can put that in the same place. I thought we had a marriage. I thought we had something. Well, guess what, Mrs. Clarke? We didn’t have a fucking thing. Nothing. No kids, no honesty, and two half-assed careers. Two half-assed people, the way I see it now. And you’ve spent most of the last six years trying not to grow up and playing cripple after you lost your parents. Not only that, but making me feel guilty for God knows what, so I’d stick around and hold your hand. And I was dumb enough to swallow all that because I was stupid enough to love you and I wanted to have my writing career too. Well, the combo, such as it was, was a lousy one, Lady Bountiful. And you can have it. I happen to need a wife, not a banker or a neurotic child. Maybe that’s why I’m happy right now, believe it or not, as stinking as this place happens to be. I’m writing and you’re not supporting me. How’s that for a shocker, baby? You’re not picking up the tab and I don’t owe you one thing except for the fact that you held my hand every inch of the way during the trial and you were marvelous. But I’m going to pay you back for the bills on that eventually. And if your idea now is to make me suffer as much as possible, to make me feel as guilty as possible over how fucked up you can get, how bad the bills are, and how fast my car can fall apart, then fuck you. I can’t do anything about anything in here. All I can do is give a damn about you, be grateful you come to see me, and finish my fucking book. And if you don’t dig seeing me, do me a big favor and don’t come anymore. I can live without it.”
Jessica felt the all-too-familiar surge of panic clutch at her chest as she watched his face. But this time it was worse. They had never said things like this to each other. And she couldn’t stop now. She could still feel the bile frothing up in her soul.
“Why don’t you want me to come see you, darling? Did you find another sweetheart in here? Is that it, angel? Does the big he-man have another he-man to love?” Ian stood up and looked as if he were going to hit her, right through the glass window, much to the fascination of the now silent crowd on both sides of the glass.
“Is that it, darling? Have you gone gay!”
“You make me sick.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You don’t like ‘infamous crimes against nature.’ Or do you?” She looked intolerably sweet as she raised her eyebrows, and her heart pounded violently in her chest. “Maybe you did rape that woman after all.”
“Lady, if I weren’t in here I’d put my fist right through your face.” He towered over her, with the veil of glass between them, the phones still in their hands, and slowly Jessica rose to face him. She knew that the moment had come and she couldn’t believe it. She still couldn’t stop.
“Put your fist through my face?” Their voices were soft now. He had spoken to her with the measured tone of a man who is almost finished, and she was speaking in the silvery whisper of a viper about to strike the last blow. “Put your fist through my face?” She repeated the words again with a smile. “But why now, darling? You never had the balls to before. Did you, love?”
He answered her in less than a whisper, and her heart almost stopped when she saw the look in his eyes.
“No, Jess, I didn’t. But I don’t have anything to lose now. I’ve already lost it. And that makes everything a lot easier.” He smiled a small, strange smile that chilled her, looked at her thoughtfully for a brief moment, put down the phone, and walked out. He never looked back once, and she felt her mouth open in astonishment. What had he just said? She wanted him to come back, so she could ask him again, so that … what did he mean, “that makes everything a lot easier”? What did … the sonofabitch … he was walking out on her, he had no right to, he couldn’t, he … and what had she done? What had she said? She sank into her seat as though she were in shock, and slowly the babble of voices around her returned to normal. Ian had long since disappeared through the far door, was no longer visible. She had been wrong. He did have the balls. And he had done just what she had always feared most. He had walked out on her.
The front bumper of the rented car brushed the hedges in front of the house as she pulled into the driveway. She put her head down on the wheel and felt the breath catch in her throat. There was a sob lodged there somewhere, but it was stuck, it wouldn’t come out. The weight of her head set off the horn, and the sound felt like it was blowing off the top of her head. It felt good. She wouldn’t take her head off the steering wheel. She just stayed there until two men passing by came rushing into the driveway on foot. They knocked on the window and she turned her face slowly to one side, looked at them, and laughed, a high-pitched hysterical giggle. The men looked at each other questioningly, opened the car door, and gently eased Jessie’s body back on the seat. She looked from one to the other, laughed hysterically again, and then the laughter snagged on a sob. It wrenched itself from her throat and became a long, sad, lonely wail. She
shook her head slowly and said one word over and over between sobs: “Ian.”
“Lady, are you drunk?” The older man of the two looked hot and uncomfortable. He had thought she was hurt, or sick, with her head down on the steering wheel like that, and making such a racket with the horn. But here she was, drunk, or crazy, or stoned. He hadn’t bargained on that. The younger man looked at her, shrugged his shoulders, and grinned.
Jessie shook her head slowly from side to side and said the only word she could focus on: “Ian.”
“Sister, you stoned?” She didn’t answer and the younger man shrugged again and grinned. “Must be good stuff.”
“Ian.”
“Who’s Ian? Your boyfriend?”
Another blind shake of the head.
The two men looked at each other again and closed the door of the car. At least the horn wasn’t blaring anymore, and she wouldn’t sober up for hours. They walked away, the younger one amused, the older one less so.
“You sure she’s stoned? She looks kind of mixed up to me. I mean like mixed-up sick. Kinda crazy.”
“Stoned crazy.” The younger man laughed, slapped his belly, and put his arm around his friend just as Astrid drove by and noticed them walking out of the driveway, laughing and looking pleased with themselves. She stopped the car and frowned as a ripple of fear ran up her spine. They didn’t look like police, but … they noticed her watching them and the younger man waved while the older one smiled. Astrid couldn’t understand what was happening, but they slid into a red sedan and seemed to be taking their time. There was nothing furtive or rapid about their movements, and Astrid noticed Jessie in her rented car now. Everything was all right. Astrid honked. But Jessie didn’t turn around. She honked again, and once more, and the two men broke into raucous laughter.
“Not you too, sister. The woman in that car is so loaded we had to peel her off the steering wheel just to get her off the horn.” They waved vaguely toward Jessie’s driveway, started their car, and pulled out of the parking space as Astrid hopped out of her car and ran into the driveway.
Now and Forever Page 26
