Young Wives

by Olivia Goldsmith

Jada put her head around the closet door and stared at him. Mercy! Sometimes she couldn’t believe the bullshit that came out of this man’s mouth. Sweet Jesus, you made this man, she thought. Now make him see the light. Or, alternatively, pluck out his eyes. She thought of her parents. On Barbados, a small island where everyone knew everything, people learned compromise as an art form. Not Clinton, though.

  “I can forgive you,” she said. “I can live with you. And I can try, even harder than I have, to keep this family together. But not if you talk to me about that woman’s spiritual qualities. Everyone has to draw a line, Clinton. I don’t want to hear one damn thing about her. Don’t insult me with a comparison.”

  “I wasn’t comparing,” Clinton began, his version of an apology, then saw her murderous expression and stopped. “My family means everything to me,” he added quickly. “You know that. Maybe we haven’t been getting on so good, but there have been times when it was smooth and times when it was rough.” He rubbed his long fingers through his hair, then held the back of his neck as if it ached. Too bad he was DDG, Jada thought. “It can be smooth again,” he said. “I know that. I hope for that. That is where my commitment comes from. But with Tonya … well, I feel like what happens there is for me. Not for my children, not for the family, not to keep the mortgage paid down. Just for me.” He paused. “And I feel like I deserve something.” He shook his head. “This is making me unhappy. And it’s making you unhappy. And Tonya, she’s a good woman. It’s making her—”

  “Don’t tell me how she feels, Clinton. That is not a way to open my heart,” Jada snapped.

  “It isn’t easy to be a black man in a white man’s world,” Clinton said.

  “Oh, spare me. It isn’t easy to be a black woman. And I’m starting to think it isn’t easy to be a white woman, either. It isn’t easy to be anything in this world, Clinton. That’s why we have churches.”

  “Jada, I have prayed over this. Tonya and I have prayed over this together.” Jada rolled her eyes, but Clinton ignored that. “All I want to do is try to explain how hard it—”

  “Stop explaining, start deciding,” she said. “Look on the bright side, Clinton. You have the choice—your family or your mistress. That’s a lot more choices than most people get. But I’m telling you, you can’t have both. So if you don’t make a decision, I’m making it for you. And this time, Clinton, there is no flexibility. Next week I move all your stuff out of here and into the garage. I’ll tell the children and I’ll tell Reverend Grant. I’ll go to a lawyer. So by next Wednesday, your decision is made, either by you or by me.” She turned her back on him and tucked in her blouse. She did it so hard she broke a nail and caught it on the waistband of her pantyhose. Well, first her marriage, now her nail was broken. And it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Beside it was a photo of Shavonne holding Kevon when he was an infant.

  Her babies. Her family. Jada knew the last few years had made her hard, and she didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Meanwhile, if she could only save her babies, give Shavonne and Kevon and Sherrilee something more to start their lives off with. She couldn’t let this decision be made for her as Clinton dithered and the clock ticked.

  She found the strength to turn around and look at her husband. “Clinton, just think a moment. Your daddy ran out on you. His daddy ran out on him. You’re free to run out on your children, too. But that’s not what we promised them. They’re your babies, too. I think you want something better for them. I know I do, but I’ll take what you give me, Clinton. It’s just that I won’t put up with you and Tonya together, and have all of them at church talking. Plus allowing you here, takin’ up space in my house and my bed.”

  “It’s my house, too,” Clinton protested. “For Christ sake’s woman, I built this bed.”

  “Then take the damn bed over to Tonya’s,” Jada snapped. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in this house. Point is, you can live here with me and the children if you want to try again to be a family. Or you can live with Tonya. She’s got kids, don’t she? Two? Three? Four? By how many men? Well, you can have them or yours. You just can’t have both.”

  “I don’t want both,” Clinton whined. “I just don’t know what I want.”

  As if she cared, Jada thought. “Well, you have a week to figure it out,” she told him. Dressed now, she clicked across the floor in her high heels. She was in the hallway before she remembered, turned back, and put her head back into the bedroom. “Oh, and Clinton,” Jada told him. “You better begin to find your own gas money.” She slammed the door and went to say good-bye to Sherrilee before she left for work.

  8

  Economically containing both Michelle’s bustier and bust

  Michelle squatted to the floor to pick up yet another Disney action figure, pushing the bones of the bustier she was wearing up into her ribs. Don’t do housework dressed like Nasty Spice, Michelle told herself. This is what you get.

  Ah, the pull between passion and prudence. Of course, she could just leave the stuff lying around, but though she sometimes wanted to dress like a high-class hooker for Frank, Michelle knew beneath her uplifted cleavage beat the heart of a very tidy housewife. In fact, she was probably a little neurotic about it. Having grown up with filth around her, as an adult she was constantly cleaning. Maybe she should get a French maid’s costume. She smiled at the thought as she picked up the red plastic toy. Frankie had so many of the things Michelle couldn’t tell who they were anymore. Was it because he was a boy or the second child? Back in Jenna’s day, Michelle had known the difference between a Little Mermaid and a Belle, but now the Hercules/Aladdin/Moses continuum was too confusing. She sighed, and guiltily wished Frankie had stuck with the Lion King. Somehow he had more toys but less attention than Jenna had gotten.

  Once down at carpet level, Michelle noticed half a dozen Legos under the ottoman—good thing she hadn’t vacuumed. She’d hoovered up more Micro Machine pieces than any Electrolux could be expected to eat. Pookie was chewing on his plastic bone and growled at her. Michelle shook her head at the dog, throwing back her hair, left down for Frank. Then she reached past Pookie for the Legos and gathered them in her right palm, balancing them with the action figure—she thought it was Jafar—in her left hand. She managed to straighten up in a single movement without using her hands from her squat on the floor. Not bad for a thirty-one-year-old woman.

  She turned her head. Over the back of the sofa she could see Frank’s dark hair, and the very top of Jenna’s head, leaning on his shoulder. Jenna was clutching Pinkie with her right arm. Frankie must be lying across his dad’s lap by now, lulled to sleep long ago by the bleeps and yeeps of whatever Nintendo game his dad and sister were playing. Michelle smiled. They had all had a good night; Fridays were always good nights. She and Frank had split a porterhouse and pasta while the kids had had hamburgers, their favorite. Frank had played wiffleball with Frankie for almost half an hour, then he’d suffered through a Rug Rats video, followed up by a Nintendo marathon. Jenna had let her brother play with Daddy while she helped Michelle clean up the dinner things. Her reward was getting Frank all to herself for the last hour while Michelle policed the area. Mich’s reward would be her time alone with Frank in bed. Her smile, which created a parenthesis on either side of her wide mouth, deepened.

  She moved to Frank and, very gently, touched his shoulder. She’d learned a long time ago not to come up behind him and touch him too hard—it really startled him. Now Frank bent his head back against the sofa cushions and looked up at her, though neither Jenna nor Frankie made a move. Nothing moved except the dancing Zelda image on the TV screen. The kids were both sleeping and Frank was playing the idiotic game alone!

  “Time for bed,” Michelle said in a throaty whisper and Frank’s smile echoed her own. “You carry Frankie. I’ll walk Jenna up,” she told her husband. Frank nodded, then reached out and took a Lego from her right hand.

  “Did you bake t
hese just for me?” he asked, his voice low.

  “You don’t bake plastic,” Michelle said. “You extrude it.”

  “I thought we’d do that later, upstairs.” He waggled his eyebrows. Michelle shook her head and moved her hand to Jenna’s shoulder.

  “Come on, big girl,” she murmured to Jenna who, very reluctantly, came out of her doze and, propelled by Michelle, got on her feet.

  “Bed time for Bonzo,” Frank added as he placed his sleeping son across his shoulder, cupping the boy’s head gently in one hand.

  “Be careful with him. Most accidents happen in the home,” Michelle reminded him.

  Upstairs, Michelle got Frankie out of his clothes and into his pajama top while Jenna got herself into bed. Michelle took pity on her firstborn and didn’t insist that Jenna wash her face and brush her teeth. Just for one night it would do. She knew just how tired Jenna felt. She looked forward to lying down herself.

  When she entered their bedroom, Frank was already stripped and under the sheets. As usual, he hadn’t folded down the bedspread, so Michelle did it for the three-thousandth time. He was a good man and a good father. They had had a lovely night, but she still couldn’t train him to take the bedspread off before he lay down. Oh well. There were a lot worse traits.

  “Come here, gorgeous,” Frank said, his voice already thick with sleep. Michelle sat down on her side of the bed, pulled off her shoes, and wriggled out of her skirt, but left on her panties and bustier. She wanted Frank to notice how nice she looked in it. Frank took a curled tendril of her hair in his hand and gently pulled her face down to his. “Hey, hot stuff. How much for the whole night?” he asked.

  “A lot,” she informed him before he kissed her.

  “Worth every penny,” he said. He reached for her upthrust breast. “Take that thing off,” he said. Michelle followed his order in less than sixty seconds. “That’s more like it,” Frank murmured, wrapping his arm loosely around her, resting his hand on her hip and pulling her against him.

  “Better than Nintendo?” Michelle teased.

  “Well, not as exciting but …” he mumbled. She poked him between two ribs. “Okay, okay. Better than Nintendo,” he admitted and kissed her on the neck. She sighed deeply and she heard her sigh echoed by him. Fridays were always long, exhausting evenings, but good ones. She was happy and tired and so was Frank. “Baby, you know I want you, but …”

  Michelle kissed him on his sexy, stubbled cheek. Later perhaps, some time in the middle of the night, he would wake her up with his arm tight around her and the rest of him insistent.

  But it wasn’t Frank who woke Michelle. It was a horrible, rending sound and the noise—lots of noise—of feet on the stairs. From somewhere downstairs the usually quiet Pookie was barking ferociously. Michelle barely had time to sit up before she was aware of the red light flickering round the room. My God, she thought, the house must be on fire.

  “Frank!” she screamed, but his eyes had already flown open, just as the bedroom door did. And then their bed was surrounded by men, some in uniform, some not, all with guns drawn.

  “Police!”

  “Police!”

  “Police! Don’t move! Put your hands up over your heads!” The voices were shouts, harsh as punches. Michelle turned to look at Frank, but one of the voices brayed “Don’t move!” in her ear. “Hands up! Don’t move!”

  Michelle wondered, for a brief instant, if this could be a dream—a very, very bad dream. But before she could find out, one of the uniformed cops leaned over and slapped handcuffs on her. She knew, from the cold reality of the metal on her wrists, that this nightmare was real. Pookie was now in the room barking; suddenly he was interrupted mid-bark and went silent. What had they done?

  “Frank,” she cried out again.

  “Don’t fuckin’ touch her!” Frank yelled, and the two men holding him at the shoulders began struggling with him. The struggle pulled the top sheet and blanket down, and Michelle, paralyzed with horror, felt her left breast exposed to the cool bedroom air in front of a dozen men.

  “This must be a mistake. You have the wrong house!” Michelle cried. “We’re the Russos. The Frank Russos.”

  “No fuckin’ shit,” one of the men said.

  “Mommy?” Michelle heard Frankie’s bleat from down the hall and, despite her nakedness, sat up. “Mommy?” The bleat now sounded more certain of being terrified and Michelle called out to her son.

  “It’s okay,” she shouted, though it wasn’t. “Leave my children alone,” she cried out hoarsely. “This is some kind of mistake. Leave my children alone.”

  “Tell her what kind of mistake this is, Russo,” one of the cops holding Frank down said. Frank went into a diatribe of swear words, some of which Michelle had never heard come out of his mouth. “Get your hands off her, you cocksuckers!” he screamed. “Leave my kids alone, you stupid fuckin’ bastards.”

  Two of the officers had gotten her up, standing between them. She hoped her hair covered most of her. She had to get to her children. That was all she knew.

  When Frank swung to hit the guy on the left with his shackled wrists and called them cocksuckers for the second time, Michelle saw the cop throw a mean knee into Frank’s groin. Frank screamed as Pookie had, then crumpled at the side of the bed.

  “Mommy? Mommy?” Frankie’s now ever-more-urgent voice was joined by his sister’s, and by the terrifying noise of crashing from below. Michelle began to shake. Pookie ran past her, past all the watching men, maybe to protect her children.

  “For chrissakes, collar the dog and give this woman something to put on,” a plainclothesman said, entering the bedroom, and threw a blanket at her.

  “Fuck the coke whore,” another one retorted, and then Frank was on his feet, naked and screaming, fighting first one, then three of the cops.

  “Frank!” Michelle yelled out to her husband as the two officers beside her began to pull her out of the room.

  “Get her outta here,” the man who had given her a blanket told the police. “Call McCourt in. Make sure she’s gotta woman officer with her all the time.”

  “McCourt’s taking the kids.”

  They were already in the upstairs hall. Behind her, Frank was bellowing. “Where are you taking my kids?” Michelle asked, frantic. “Stop! Please! Where are my children?”

  They paid no attention to her. It was as if her voice was unhearable. “Get McCourt, goddamn it!” the plainclothes policeman yelled. “We should have two women officers. And what the hell are the state guys doing here? This is our jurisdiction.”

  “It’s RICO, baby. Everyone wants in. Even the county’s here.”

  “Frankie? Jenna?” Michelle called. “Where are you?”

  Someone grabbed Michelle roughly by the shoulder and propelled her down the hallway. No! She wouldn’t. Where were her children? What was happening? She heard another howl from Frank. Trying to hold the blanket around her despite the handcuffs, she also clutched at the banister outside Frankie’s room. There were two cops in there and, as Michelle looked, they began to throw action figures, blocks, and Legos off the counter to the floor, pulling the mattress off the bed, throwing open cabinets. Frankie was being ushered out of the room by a woman police officer.

  “Mommy!” he yelled, the tears and snot already mingling on his face. “The bad man let Pookie out.”

  “Let’s go,” the officer behind Michelle said, and gave her shoulder a push. “McCourt, stick with her. Johnson can take the kid.”

  “No!” Michelle said. She held on to the banister but bent forward to her son. “I take care of the kid,” she said, her voice harsh.

  “Not now you won’t,” the voice behind her answered and gave her another, harsher push. Her long hair fell into her face. She lost her hold on the railing and fell to her knees. Her son began to wail. “Frankie, it’s all right,” Michelle said, though it had never been less all right, not ever.

  “Johnson!” The woman officer—McCourt, or whoever she was—yelled ou
t in a tough voice down the hall stairs. The sound of glass smashing obscured the response. “Johnson!” McCourt yelled again. Behind McCourt, Jenna was being pushed out of her bedroom, still almost sleepwalking.

  “They have Pinkie,” she said. The whole group at Michelle’s back was blocked from moving forward because of her. She couldn’t hold the blanket on, conceal the handcuffs from her children, and grab them all at the same time. She didn’t know what to do. She was still on her knees. She had no idea what was going on. It took all of her willpower not to break into sobs louder than Frankie’s.

  “They have Pinkie!” Jenna cried again and as Michelle was pushed past Jenna’s door, she saw a policeman tearing off the back of the stuffed animal, pulling out the kapok, and scattering it. “No! No!” Jenna shrieked, lunging for her rabbit. Someone behind him was beginning the destruction of Jenna’s room.

  “Get up,” someone behind Michelle commanded, and she felt herself lifted by her hair. Just then another uniformed woman ran up the stairs, took Michelle’s daughter by the shoulder, and moved her around the banister and onto the stairwell.

  “Let’s go,” she said. The policewoman looked up at the screaming Frankie, struggling against McCourt. “I’ll take him, too,” she said, and flashed a look at Michelle. It was a look of compassionate concern, the only human thing about this nightmare. “It’ll be all right,” she said. “It’ll be all right. Tell them to go downstairs,” she told Michelle. “We’ll all come downstairs.”

  Michelle, on her feet now but still panicked, nodded automatically. “It’s okay,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if Frankie could hear her—or anything. “It’s okay,” she said to Jenna. “Let’s all go downstairs.”

  But it wasn’t okay. Not downstairs or outside, not now or anytime soon. The Russo living room had been transformed in moments from a showplace to a scene from hell. There were more than a dozen men tearing books from the bookshelves, pulling the sofa cushions apart, tearing up the carpet. The desecration was so shocking that Michelle herself shrieked.