6 Juror

by Parnell Hall

  ’Cause that’s the way it worked. That’s the way it went. It was always her fault. It was always something she wanted to do. But whenever you did it, she never got caught and you always did.

  And on those few rare occasions when she did get caught, when you had the secret satisfaction of knowing, well, I did get caught but at least this time she’s getting her comeuppance too, when you showed up for Friday night detention study hall, she wouldn’t be there. She’d have gotten out of it.

  And as you sat there, too upset to do your homework, as you were supposed to do, all you could think of the whole night was, she must have gone to the headmaster’s office and shown him her tits so he’d excuse her. Shown him her tits was the extent of it. You couldn’t believe she’d fucked him. That was beyond comprehension, beyond your wildest imagination. Even showing him her tits was a fantasy you couldn’t really believe. Still, it was a thought you could not get out of your head. It seemed the only explanation.

  Because you never got any other explanation. If you asked her about it later, she’d just say, “Oh, the headmaster excused me,” as if that were a perfectly logical thing. But it wasn’t, and she’d never explain why. Which, of course, only added fuel to the fantasy. And how were you ever gonna find out why? God knows, you couldn’t ask him.

  Which, of course, only served to make her more intriguing. And the next time she asked you to do something you knew was stupid, damned if you didn’t wind up doing it again.

  And there was a name for girls like her. And you knew it, and you knew it fit her. But even knowing that didn’t help. And all the firm resolves you made when you were alone evaporated when you were with her, and you would find yourself a poor helpless fool, dancing to her tune, playing her game, doing yet another thing you didn’t want to do, while in your heart of hearts you knew it was hopeless, you knew you were never going to get anywhere, and you knew exactly what she was.

  She was Trouble.

  11.

  WHEN I GOT HOME Tommie was in the living room watching “Square One” on PBS and Alice was in the kitchen talking on the phone, so I was treated to living stereo as I plunked my briefcase down in the foyer. Usually when Alice gets on the phone it takes a natural disaster or an Act of Congress to get her off, but this time I heard her say, “Oh, my husband’s home, I gotta go,” and she came marching out of the kitchen to meet me.

  “You’re home early,” she said. “Didn’t you get a case?”

  “No.”

  She looked at me. “What’s wrong?”

  I sighed. “They put me on a jury.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding? Oh, no. In your second week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “No.”

  “What’s the case?”

  “You wouldn’t believe. Listen, I gotta get out of these clothes.”

  She followed me into the bedroom. I hung up my suit, pulled on a pair of jeans, and told her about the case.

  I told her everything, about Peter, Paul and Mary, and the Silver Fox, and the eight-year-old fire damage, and how nobody expected them to take me but they did, and now I was totally fucked and god knows how long this thing was gonna last.

  Alice was predictably sympathetic, understanding and supportive. She regretted it had happened, but it had, so I should just accept it and go along with it and do it and get it over with. And if it meant longer hours and I couldn’t do evening signups, I shouldn’t worry about it, it was just for a little while, and besides she was pulling in money now to make up for it.

  Which was true. Alice was making money on our computer now. After a few unsuccessful fits and starts at printing resumes and letterheads for people, and designing and selling computer programs, neither of which had brought in a dime, Alice had finally found a practical use for the damn thing. By using it simply as a word processor, Alice was now selling her services to people who had essays, term papers, book reports, screenplays, manuscripts and dissertations they needed typed. And it turned out to be an amazingly lucrative business. Alice was charging up to five bucks a page, depending on the length of the manuscript. And the reason people were willing to pay it was because, not only did they get a beautifully typed, letter-quality printout of their work, they also got a floppy disk with the manuscript on it. Which meant any time they needed to edit, revise or rewrite their work, all they’d have to do was find an IBM compatible computer, stick the disk in and call up their manuscript. This was an appealing proposition to people, particularly people too lazy to type their own stuff, and Alice was doing fine.

  I knew all that, of course, but somehow it didn’t make me feel any better. The whole time I was talking to Alice, I just felt more frustrated, helpless and uncomfortable.

  Because, you see, I was preoccupied with something. As Alice and I were talking about the day and what had happened and how I felt about it, the only thing I wasn’t talking about was about driving Sherry Fontaine home.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t want to keep it from Alice. Driving Sherry Fontaine home wasn’t some dark, ugly secret I didn’t want her to know about. No, it was simply that it was a minor thing, it wasn’t important. Not in the face of my getting put on a jury, which was what the day was all about. And I didn’t want to make it seem important by talking about it. I mean, “What happened today?” “Well, I drove a woman home.” “You got put on a jury and all you can talk about is you drove a woman home?”

  So I didn’t want to talk about Sherry Fontaine. On the other hand, I didn’t want to not talk about Sherry Fontaine. That would be awful. To be driving this woman, and have Alice not know about it. Then I would feel bad about it, even though it didn’t mean anything. So I was preoccupied with the thought of, how can I bring up driving Sherry Fontaine home without making it seem more than it actually was?

  I realized I couldn’t, that it was a no-win situation, that anyway I played it would simply be wrong. Which just made me more frustrated and angry. I mean, Jesus Christ, this is not adultery you’re confessing to. This is just giving a ride to a juror who happens to make you uncomfortable.

  At any rate, I continued my conversation about my day of jury duty, looking for a convenient opening to casually slip in the bit about driving Sherry Fontaine home, and the opening never came, and the conversation finally ground to a halt.

  Alice said, “What’s the matter?”

  “What?”

  “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

  Which of course made it ten times worse. Shit. Now I had to tell her about driving Sherry Fontaine as if it was a big deal that was bothering me. Why didn’t I get it into the conversation sooner? Why am I such a schmuck? Do all husbands have these problems? Damn.

  Still, I was glad she’d asked. Now we could talk about Sherry Fontaine and get it over with, and then I could stop worrying about it. Christ, was I right about her—Trouble. I mean, I didn’t agree to any of her schemes, I didn’t do anything she wanted, and I’m still in trouble.

  Asshole. Alice is a smart, intelligent woman. And Alice knows you. You have a good relationship, and this is not threatening it. It is, if anything, amusing. You’re a good man, you didn’t do anything wrong, and Alice will understand.

  I sighed. “Well,” I said. “I drove one of the jurors home.”

  Alice understood.

  “Who is she?”

  12.

  I TOLD ALICE the whole shmear. I told her everything—about Sherry trying to con me into faking a trip-and-fall, and trying to get me to get Richard to get court called off so she could go to an audition, and how I felt about all that.

  Not exactly how I felt about all that. I didn’t go into the whole parallel about the girl in high school. That was kind of abstract and personal and hard to explain, and it was a male observation anyway, that Alice probably wouldn’t relate to. But even without that analogy, I think I covered the situation pretty well.

  Alice shook her head. “If the woman’s so ob
noxious, why are you driving her?”

  “She’s not obnoxious.”

  “She sounds obnoxious to me.”

  “She just has wild ideas. I don’t have to go along with them.”

  “Go along with them? You wouldn’t even consider them.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you make that clear?”

  Damn. I hadn’t made it clear. I’d just harrumphed and pointed out the flaws in her plan.

  “Well, I. . .”

  “You didn’t make it clear? You didn’t tell her no?”

  “Not in so many words. I just told her she was way off base, and pointed out why it was a stupid idea.”

  Alice shook her head. “Men.”

  I don’t know why, when women feel their husband’s being stupid, they take it as a reflection on the entire male sex. But on the other hand, when Alice is confounding me with some irrefutable logic that makes sense only to her, but which I am at a loss to combat, I often think, women. Viva la difference.

  Alice said, “You’re driving her tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have a case first?”

  “I got a case in the morning and one at night.”

  “Where?”

  “Harlem.”

  “Both of ’em?”

  “Yeah.”

  Alice frowned, pursed her lips. “You know, you could take the subway.”

  “Huh?”

  “If they’re only Harlem, you could take the subway. In rush hour, it’s probably faster than the car.”

  “I don’t want to take the subway.”

  “And if you took the subway, you’d be off the hook. You wouldn’t have to drive her.”

  “I already said I’d drive her.”

  “So you change your mind. You call her up and tell her the car’s too much trouble, you’re talking the subway down.”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  I took a breath. “Look. I don’t want to do signups in Harlem on foot. I don’t like it, I don’t feel comfortable. If court runs late, by the time I finish my evening signup it’s gonna be getting dark. I don’t like walking around Harlem alone after dark. I don’t want to walk ten blocks to the subway. I wanna park right in front of the client’s house, zip in and zip right out.”

  Which was true. I also didn’t want to renege on my promise to Sherry Fontaine. And it pissed me off to have to defend my right to keep that promise. And it also made me feel defensive and stupid as hell.

  It didn’t help any when Alice said, “And what you gonna do with your car, now? If you’re court, how you gonna get out and put money in the meter?”

  I winced.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I sighed. “I got a parking ticket.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon. I was in court. I couldn’t get out at four o’clock to put money in the meter, and—”

  “How much?

  “Thirty-five bucks.”

  “So,” Alice. “You can’t take the car. It’s ridiculous. You keep getting tickets and what’s the point of doing the work?”

  “I’ll work it out.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, I have to figure it out.”

  Alice shook her head. “This is really stupid. All you have to do is call the woman and tell her you can’t drive her to court.”

  “She’s got nothing to do with it.”

  God, what a miserable situation. I mean, here I was being forced to defend my right to drive to court. The thing was, what I said about driving to Harlem was perfectly true. I didn’t like walking the streets in a suit and tie. I’d hate it like hell trying to do signups there on the subway. If Sherry Fontaine didn’t exist, I’d still be holding out for the car. But if Sherry Fontaine didn’t exist, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I would have said, “I got a parking ticket, I gotta figure out something about the car,” Alice would have said, “Why don’t you take the subway?” I would have said, “I don’t want to take the subway to Harlem, I’ll work something out,” and that would have been the end of it.

  But because Sherry Fontaine did exist, here I was, embroiled in an argument, which from Alice’s point of view was nothing more than me defending my right to drive the woman to court. Which really wasn’t fair.

  But which didn’t help me from having self-doubts. I mean, if Sherry Fontaine didn’t exist, would I really not have considered the possibility of taking the subway to Harlem? I mean, I didn’t think so, but how could I be sure? I couldn’t say to myself, “Consider Sherry Fontaine doesn’t exist, now what do you do?” That’s like saying, “Don’t think of an elephant.” The premise is self-defeating. Can’t be done. So even though I knew I was in the right, I couldn’t prove it. Even to myself.

  It was not a good evening. The argument finally ended, resolved in that I had determined to take the car in the morning, and unresolved in that we could not agree on it. It hung in the air like a cloud, putting a damper on everything from dinner to putting Tommie to bed to watching TV to going to bed ourselves. And, surprise, surprise, guess who wasn’t gettin’ nothing tonight?

  We turned out the lights and I lay in the dark, replaying the fight in my mind. I do that a lot because I’m slow on my feet, and I can never best Alice in mortal argument. Even when I know I’m right, Alice can turn my brain to Jell-O. It’s only later, when she isn’t in front of me, that I can think of what I should have said. The perfect answer, the snappy comeback, the devastatingly logical crushing argument.

  I replayed the whole thing in my mind and came to the conclusion in this instance I was entirely in the right. As far as I could see, I’d been totally fair, open and honest concerning the whole business of Sherry Fontaine. The only thing I could think of that I’d neglected to mention was the fact that in my opinion Sherry Fontaine was wearing no bra. But that was surely irrelevant to the conversation. Alice certainly had enough material to deal with. No need to bog her down with too many details.

  13.

  SHERRY FONTAINE WAS LATE.

  That figured. I just knew she’d be late.

  I did my signup in Harlem—which went smooth as silk, even with having to run down in the subway and take pictures of the platform where the client fell—got in my car, drove down to the eighties, pulled up in front of Sherry Fontaine’s building at 9:15, the time we’d agreed to meet, and sure enough, Sherry wasn’t there.

  I was in no mood for waiting. I double parked the car, hopped out and went in.

  Sherry Fontaine’s building was one of the smaller ones on West End Avenue, the kind that doesn’t have a doorman, just a buzzer system in the foyer. She hadn’t told me what apartment, but the bell for 4A said “Fontaine.” I pressed it, and seconds later a voice saying, “Be right down,” squawked over the intercom.

  I went out and sat in my car with the flashers on.

  She was out ten minutes later. She came tripping out the door with a big smile and a wave, as if nothing was wrong.

  I unlocked the passenger door and she hopped in.

  She was obviously just out of the shower. Her hair was wet, and she had not bothered to dry it. On some women, that would be a holy horror, but it just made her look fresh and clean. She was wearing a light blue cotton sleeveless pullover, again with no trace of a bra. In fact, her nipples were poking out quite conspicuously.

  Which somehow made me angry. Or maybe I was just angry to begin with.

  “You’re late,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said, without a trace of remorse. “Isn’t it awful? Rehearsal went till one o’clock. I didn’t get home till two. The clock rang this morning, I simply couldn’t believe it.”

  I started the car and pulled out. “I got a problem with the car,” I said. “It’s a very tight schedule. I can’t drive you if you’re going to be late.”

  “Your blinkers are on.”

  I switched off the blinkers.

  “I mea
n it,” I said. “I really can’t afford to be late.”

  She smiled. “Don’t be an old grouch. We got plenty of time. You’ll see.”

  It was not a pleasant drive. Traffic was heavy, and the going was slow and I just knew I was going to be late. I also resented being called a grouch. Or perhaps it was her choice of adjective. At any rate, I was not in a good mood, and if Sherry Fontaine had brought up the trip-and-fall scam again, I was gonna tell her where to get off.

  But she didn’t. Instead she jabbered on and on about the rehearsal, and her part in the play, and the director, with whom she was having some sort of argument. The play was, of course, an experimental piece by a new playwright. To the best I could determine, it had something to do with three lesbians and a baseball player. The dispute with the director was over her interpretation of her role, of course. It seemed to center on her relationship with the baseball player, and the issue of who was seducing whom.

  Somehow I found this hard to relate to.

  Traffic thinned out, and we pulled into the municipal parking lot at ten to ten.

  “See,” Sherry said. “What did I tell you? Here you were so worried, and we’re early.”

  She was early. She got out of the car and went in. I had to circle the parking lot. I was lucky and got a parking space five minutes later. I fed ten quarters into the meter, hustled up to 111 Centre Street and got in the elevator. I didn’t take it to four, though. I got out at three and hurried to the Juror Assembly Room.

  A clean cut young man in slacks and a polo shirt was sitting in the back of the room reading a newspaper. I went up to him and said, “Excuse me.”

  He looked up and said, “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’m in a real bind. I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

  He frowned, but he folded his paper and stood up. “What’s the problem?”

  “I got put on a jury and I have to be in court.” I pointed through the back door of the Juror Assembly Room. “My car’s in the municipal lot over there at a two-hour meter. It’s gonna run out at noon, I’m gonna be sitting in court, I’m gonna get a thirty-five dollar ticket. I got one yesterday.” I whipped an envelope out of my jacket pocket. “I got a tan Toyota. Here’s the license number on this envelope. It’s in the second row you come to. There’s ten quarters in here. At five to twelve, if you haven’t been called, could you run out and put ’em in the meter?”