A Dangerous Woman

by Mary McGarry Morris

  He spoke again.

  “The Flatts,” Frances exploded. “Why? Why in God’s name would you go there?” She looked at Martha by the car, its hot dusty hood making pinging noises. “Was it your idea? Was that it? I won’t have them crawling through my life again, do you understand? Do you?” she cried. “See what happens,” she panted, gesturing back at Mack, who sagged against the railing. “See what they do! That’s what I grew up with! That’s what your father and I had to get away from—but not you! Not you!” Suddenly she sprang at Martha. “Get out! Get out of my house! Get out of my life, you stupid, stupid fool. I’m through with you! I won’t be embarrassed by you anymore. I won’t be hurt by you anymore! I’m through with you! Go back to the Horgans!”

  Martha’s mouth hung open as Frances shook her. Go back to the Horgans? They were nothing to her. Frances was her only family.

  “It’s beyond me. It’s too much for me! You’re too much for me, and I refuse to be responsible anymore.”

  Again Mack tried to speak.

  “You don’t understand,” Frances told him. “It’s like a curse.”

  “Don’t blame her,” Mack said, forming the words with excruciating effort.

  “I want her to go. I just want her to go!”

  “But it wasn’t even them,” Martha said. “It was Getso.”

  Frances looked at her. “Getso? Him again? Oh, Martha, just go!” she groaned. “Go and leave me alone!”

  Twenty

  Steve Bell was in his office, writing on a yellow legal pad, when Miss Eldredge buzzed him. He buzzed back twice, his signal that he could not be disturbed right now. This brief had to be ready by morning. One of the younger attorneys had left it until the last minute. Steve’s desk was stacked with case folders. Beside him on the floor was another stack, finished and ready to be filed. He had gotten more work done in the last month than in the previous eleven. He arrived by seven most mornings, usually ending his days at seven or eight at night.

  His practice had become his whole life. It was the one area in which he was confident and resolute. The work made him feel like a young lawyer again, fastidious in detail and hungry for the flaw, the tear in the opponent’s argument. The practice of law was once more an invigorating experience. In many ways he felt like a man who attends church all his life, then one day, for no apparent reason, discovers the meaning of his religion and, in it, himself. Thus far, this rejuvenation had not spread into his private life. Evenings with Anita passed minute by weighted minute. As soon as he stepped inside his house, he grew old and tired, stooped by an unassuageable weariness. An old man read in his chair and slept in his bed and made tedious love to the shell of the fragile woman who claimed to be his wife. The constant pretense was draining him. He had lost a great deal more than he was allowed to mourn; Anita’s youth had been numbed and shriveled by alcohol, and she had returned this pathetic creature with haunted eyes and thin, almost transparent flesh. It was the right thing to do. It was right and just, or so they said. But he knew it was not. No, he had wasted himself on a sour-breathed broken woman he should have left years before, when he still had his youth, when he still had an excuse, and courage.

  And so he came here, seized with his clients’ quest, exacting in the name of justice and truth all that was their due, even if it resulted in another man’s penury. Somehow, he thought, it might be contained here; somewhere in all these documents and books might be the only courage necessary now, the courage to see him through the dark, block-shaped hours that piled one upon another to form a night.

  There was a tap on his door, and then Miss Eldredge stepped quickly inside.

  “It’s Martha Horgan. I don’t think she should wait much longer.”

  There were three people in the waiting room, two middle-aged men and Martha. She perched on the edge of the green wing chair. Her lap was covered with pieces of the tissue she was twisting. Set around her were two bulging shopping bags, a brown grocery bag, and a small frayed suitcase. The men watched her over their magazines.

  “… have to go,” she muttered, sliding her feet back and forth.

  “Martha,” he said quietly. “What a pleasant surprise.” He started to pick up her bags, but she quickly grabbed them.

  “I need my father’s money,” she said the minute they were inside his office. He closed the door and asked her to sit down, but as if she hadn’t heard him, she stood by the desk, still holding the bags.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. She looked terrible. Her dress was wrinkled and her arms were streaked with dirt.

  “I have to get a place to stay and I don’t have any money.”

  “Did you have a fight with Frances?”

  “No. She had one with me. And so now I need money. I don’t have any money! I want my money!” She set down her bags, then dug in one and pulled out a large red wallet. “Can I have my money?” she asked, gesturing expectantly with the wallet. Her mouth trembled. It was all he could do not to laugh. Martha’s directness had always amused him.

  “The will’s being probated,” he said, and then, seeing her mounting impatience, explained what that meant.

  “How long will that take?” she asked.

  “Probably just another week or two,” he said. Enough time for this latest crisis to have passed, he thought, noting how deftly his mind shifted into the crisis gear he knew so well from his years with Anita: say this, when you mean that.

  She sank into the chair. “What am I going to do?” she asked, her panicky eyes so watery and distorted behind her thick lenses that he winced and had to look away.

  He capped his pen and closed the folder. He stood up and told her he would give her a ride home and help her resolve this thing with Frances. He smoothed back his hair, wishing he’d gotten it cut today. The thought of seeing her sent a flush through his entire body.

  He regretted that he had never given Frances much help with Martha. Their individual sorrows had served as ballast, a balancing between them. And, to be honest, just as he had always seen Anita’s drinking as a selfish indulgence she preferred to continue, so had he regarded Martha’s eccentricities as a way of forcing attention from her cold rigid father and allowing her great control over Frances.

  “No!” she said. “I’m not going back there.”

  He bristled. This blank defiance rattled him, and it occurred to him that, for a man who had never wanted trouble, who couldn’t bear discord, he had certainly taken all the wrong paths in his choice of profession, wife, mistress.

  “Then I’ll call,” he said, and dialed Frances’s number. She answered immediately. Nodding, he listened, murmuring, “I see. Of course. Yes. I understand,” at key moments, expecting, hoping she would ask how he was doing. But all she said was that Martha had brought this on herself; that she was through with everyone’s burdens. From now on, she was going to lead a real life, before it was too late.

  “Of course. I understand,” he said, and hung up with a tightness in his chest. A real life. Colin Mackey.

  “Well,” he sighed. “I guess you do need some money.” He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and removed his personal checkbook, which for years had borne only his name. He would have to change that, add Anita’s name. No, give her another month. If she stayed sober, then he would order new checks. “A thousand,” he said, ripping out the check.

  “But I thought my father had ten thousand in the bank,” Martha said, peering at it suspiciously.

  “That’s what’s being probated. In the meantime, this is an advance.”

  “Thank you!” she said, slipping the check into her billfold. “Now, what do you want me to sign?” She folded her hands on the edge of the desk and looked around.

  “You don’t have to sign anything. I trust you.” He smiled. “You’re probably the most honest person I know.”

  She smiled. “I am!” She bit her lip and thumped her chest. “I’m very honest! Thank you.” She stood up and shook his hand, and her fingers felt small and cold in his.
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  The only sound in the Cleaners was the shimmy of the plastic-sheeted clothes hanging on racks under the huge exhaust fan. It was three-twenty and Birdy Dusser was alone at the counter, reading the newspaper. She reached into her basket and broke off another piece of peanut brittle, which she put into her mouth. The phone rang and she took the candy out of her mouth before she answered.

  “Cleaners!”

  Her head jerked up. “Hello? This is the Cleaners!” Her toes curled against the pull of silence at her ear. She hung up quickly, waited a moment, then took the phone off the hook. She hurried to the glass door and peered up and down the sunny streets. A dog, two young boys, and that was all. She put the phone back in its cradle.

  This morning’s incident with Getso was starting to get to her. Just lay low, she had told him. She had him switch routes with Charlie for the next few days. Better to have him out of town and out of trouble. He said he had warned Mackey, had begged him not to fight, and she believed him. He said one look at Mackey, bleary-eyed and old enough to be his father, and he knew if he hit him he might kill him. Getso was all for calling the cops before Mackey did, but she knew what John’s reaction would be. This time he would fire Getso.

  She put the peanut brittle back in her mouth and returned to the paper. The candy clunked against her teeth. It was too quiet in here. Barb was on vacation and Mercy had gone home sick right after Getso left.

  She looked up. It sounded as if someone were coming up the back stairs. But after a few seconds of straining to hear, she felt silly. If there were any drivers out back, she would have heard a truck down in the lot.

  John was right. This entire mess was her fault. She never should have hired Martha in the first place, but she had looked so pathetic that day, dragging through the door, head down, muttering her lines by dismal rote, fully expecting to be rejected again. She turned out to be the most eager and the most conscientious worker Birdy had ever trained. But then that became part of the problem too. Even the slightest variation in routine upset her. And, if such a thing were possible, she became too efficient, working like a machine at top speed, gears spinning, sparks flying, edging closer and closer to a breakdown.

  Birdy sighed. She had allowed Martha to become too emotionally dependent on her, and then, when she started seeing Getso, the poor thing had been devastated. Well, if anything, she had learned a good lesson. And so had Getso. She chuckled softly. If Martha Horgan’s fury wasn’t the surest cure for light fingers, she didn’t know what was. Since that day, Getso didn’t dare pick up a penny from the sidewalk. Martha had made him an honest man.

  Maybe it had all worked out for the best. Martha was better off at home instead of being harassed every day on the streets. The shortages had ended. Of course, now that Getso was living with her, what bills did he have? Poor guy, most of his check went to support three kids, two of which he swore weren’t even his.

  “Hi, Birdy.”

  “Martha!” Her hand flew to her heart.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. I came up the back.” She kept gesturing behind her. “I wanted to make sure Getso wasn’t here.”

  “He’s out on delivery. He should be back soon,” she added quickly, feeling a little safer seeing Martha’s shudder. Martha looked as if she hadn’t bathed in days. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin had a yellow tinge to it. One of her bulging shopping bags had split along the seam, and an olive-green sock hung out of it. Maybe she was just bringing in her laundry, Birdy tried to tell herself.

  “I’ve decided to live in town again. My aunt and I aren’t on the best of terms right now.” She rolled her eyes and laughed nervously. “And now it’s so late and I’ve got so much to do. I’ve got to get my old room back and I’ve got to cash a check and … and …”

  Was that all she wanted? “How much is it for?” Relieved, Birdy rang open the cash drawer.

  “Oh! A thousand. Oh no!” Martha shook her head and waved her hand.

  “Dollars?” Birdy gulped.

  “I didn’t mean for you to cash it. I was just saying all I have to do.” Her voice broke. “Birdy, I need my job back.”

  “There’s no way, Martha. You know John!” It was maddening how she could be so thick, so insensitive, so blind to the truth. Once, in frustration, she had taken Martha’s glasses and looked through them, thinking they might reveal Martha’s perception of reality.

  “But if you tell him I didn’t steal anything, he’ll believe you! He’ll listen to you! You know he will! And you know I didn’t take any money. Steve Bell just said the same thing. That I’m the most honest person he knows. I am! You know I am!”

  And she was, Birdy thought. Too much so. Was that what Martha saw through those thick dirty glasses, the world in black and white, no gray, no shadings, just the cold sharp edges of starkness, of good and evil, love and hate?

  “How can you keep believing him? Do you know what he did today? He beat up a friend of mine! And now I can’t even live at home. He took away my job and my home and my best friend. Every time he sees me, he yells things, and today he spit tobacco on my friend’s car.” She dropped her bags and ran toward Birdy. “How can you let someone like him even touch you? He’s disgusting. He …”

  “Stop it!” Birdy insisted, her hand out, pointing to keep her at bay. “Do you hear me? Just stop it!”

  Tears streamed down Martha’s face. “How can you choose him over me?”

  “Martha! This is bizarre!”

  “But how can you, when you know he’s a thief? When you know he’s taking Mercy out, the two of them out there, kissing and rubbing against one another. They’re not your friends. I am. I am! I am!” Martha tried to smile. “I mean, you don’t even have to answer my letters and I still keep writing. Now, that’s a friend, a real friend!” She was grinning, grinning through tears.

  For a minute, she couldn’t catch her breath. She didn’t know what to say. Mercy and Getso. All their kidding and pushing and tugging on one another. All his trips over there to fix her temperamental water heater that always seemed to go on the fritz after her husband left for second shift. Today Mercy had left right after he did. No. They wouldn’t do that to her. She had been too good to them.

  “Help me, Birdy. Please help me. I never had anything. And then I came here and I had everything.”

  Birdy shook her head and laughed bitterly. “Then you didn’t have much, Mart. Take my word for it.”

  “I know sometimes I tried too hard. But this time it’ll be different. I’ve changed. You know my friend, he … I’m in love with him and I know he wants to love me back. Oh, Birdy, please help me. All I want is a normal life. I did it before and I can do it again. I know I can!”

  “You’re asking the wrong person for help, then. It’s your aunt you should be talking to. She’s the one that kept you here before. Have her talk to John.”

  “Frances?”

  Numbly Birdy explained how Frances Beecham had subsidized Martha’s salary, even providing Martha’s Christmas bonus, with a little something to John for all his trouble. “So don’t be asking me anymore. Okay?”

  “But no one else will help me! You’re the only one. Please, Birdy,” Martha begged. “Please help me!” She threw her arms around Birdy, sobbing and kissing her face.

  “No, Martha!” she cried, shoving her away. “I can’t take this anymore. Just leave me alone! Don’t call me! Don’t come here! I don’t want anything to do with you anymore, do you understand? Will you please leave me alone?”

  With Martha staring at her, Birdy turned away, her chest heavy with all this sadness, this treachery in the world.

  She watched Martha struggle down the street with her bags. Her dress hung on her skinny frame. Just trying to be human was hard enough, but imagine, on top of that, having to be Martha Horgan, she thought, staring, as if her eyes could pave a safe path for Martha until she was out of sight. It was the least she could do.

  Miss McDonald, the teller, was a tall overweight young wom
an with short dull baby-fine hair that she had finally gotten permed and frosted after months of cutting curly hairdos out of magazines and laying them over a photograph of herself. Her new look made her feel cute, bouncy, almost petite. Even her walk had changed, and there was no question but what people were reacting differently to her now. Roger, whom she had been dating for almost a year now, was calling twice a day from the garage where he worked. Last night he had given her a silver ankle-bracelet strung with a pearl.

  “For no reason at all,” she was telling Jimmy, the next teller, as she initialed her customer’s paycheck. Her customer was a short older man with four long green cigars sticking out of the breast pocket of his tweed suit coat.

  “Oh jeez, what’d your mother say?” Jimmy asked. He knew how much her mother disliked Roger.

  “I didn’t tell her.” She wet her thumb and counted five brand-new twenties out to her customer. She stretched her leg back to show Jimmy the ankle bracelet. “And it’s not like I hid it on her or anything,” she said, sliding the man’s pass book and deposit slip under the Plexiglas divider. “Have a good day,” she said. The man remained at the window, counting his money, double-checking all the transactions.

  “So what do you think did it?” Jimmy asked, his long fingers flying over the keys as he tallied up. His cage was still closed.

  “The perm. The whole change thing, you know,” she answered. She wished he would open up. Martha Horgan was in line. Oh God, look at her trying to pick up all the clothes that had spilled onto the floor when the little boy behind her bumped into her bag and tipped it over. All down the line, people were picking up shoes and shirts and photographs and giving them to her. The little boy’s mother handed Martha a plastic food-container with a blue lid. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

  Still kneeling, Martha peered up at her. “You should keep a better eye on him.”

  “I know. But he’s just so tired of waiting.”

  “Poor service. That’s why. It’s the manner of the modern marketplace. That’s what my boss always said.” She got up and thumped her chest and took a deep breath.