Young Wives

by Olivia Goldsmith

Jada saw Reid come into the bar and knew, even before Michelle began to whisper, that he was Angie’s husband. His eyes took a little while to adjust to the dimness; in that time Jada knew a lot about him. She could read it from his height, the blue suit he wore, that arrogant, light yellow Foulard tie, and the way he stood in the doorway. Michelle raised her hand and the movement turned his head toward them.

  As Reid crossed the room, making his way among the mostly empty chairs clustered around the tiny cocktail tables, Jada had him pegged. He was one of those white boys who owned the world. They were the kind of men who were so high on the totem pole of power and prestige, that stooping to do a black woman didn’t threaten their status, it was a forbidden treat. Blue-collar white guys rarely looked at her, but Jada could see how Reid Wakefield’s eyes opened when he saw her. She wondered if a hundred and fifty years ago or so, his ancestors had bought black women at auction. Well, to be fair, she thought Angie had said they were all Bostonians for the last two hundred years. For all she knew, they were Abolitionists all the way back.

  “Hello,” he said to Michelle, and Jada reminded herself again that her friend was now Katherine and she was Jenette. “May I join you?” he asked, turning to include her in his smile, smooth as the skin inside a baby’s elbow.

  “Certainly,” Michelle said, and Reid slid into the banquette seat across from Jada. She smiled at him, but couldn’t make the smile move up to her eyes, so she half closed them.

  “Jenette, this is Reid Wakefield,” “Katherine” said, and Jada extended her long hand.

  “I’ve already heard a lot about you,” she said, deepening and softening her voice. She thought she saw Michelle’s mouth twitch, and realized for the first time this could be a lot of fun, but she decided it was best to play it straight. Well, she told herself, as straight as a faux lesbian lure could play it. “Katherine says you’ve already won her trust, but in my opinion Katherine has always been far too trusting.” She smiled, but made her smile cold.

  “Well,” Reid said in a corporate-lawyer-I-bill-by-the-hour voice, “I’d like to think that my reputation and my personality will gain your trust, too.”

  “Well,” she echoed, “I certainly do know you by reputation. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.” Did she see Michelle smirk again? She wasn’t sure. She took Michelle’s hand. What the hell. Might as well make the first move and see how he reacted. “Katherine needs someone who can take care of her,” she said. “She deserves it. I know Charles better than I wish I did, and I know what he’s put her through.” She paused a minute to let the guy imagine a few of those scenes. Then she opened Michelle’s palm and she kissed it, putting it back down on the table.

  Michelle left her hand lying open like a blown flower, and the orange imprint of Jada’s lipstick seemed to shine like neon off of Michelle’s white, white flesh: SEX! SEX! SEX!

  Jada looked across at Reid. He was staring at Michelle’s palm, mesmerized. Jada allowed herself to smile. That old black magic, she thought. But it was more than the race issue. It was the lesbian thing. She had no idea why white men’s fantasies so often seemed to center around two women, when they were so often inadequate even with one. Maybe it took the pressure off them. She couldn’t think of anything less attractive than going to bed with two gay men.

  Reid kept staring at Michelle’s anointed hand. Jada thought it was about time to break the spell and give Reid a complete show, so she stood up and let him eye her. “I’m going to the toilet,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” And she made sure that her stomach was pulled in and her ass was not just high but swinging as she crossed the room in her tight leather pants. Fantasize this, she thought. She’d let Michelle take the next shift. What the hell—she could use the time to actually use the toilet.

  She strutted across the restaurant, passing the bar, aware that many of the men’s eyes were on her. As she turned toward the ladies’ room, a man looked up from his drink and eyed her. “Black is beautiful,” he said, and she ignored him. “Hey,” he said. “I’d love to get into your panties.”

  Jada looked him over. “Sorry,” she said. “I already have an asshole in them.” She moved on, smooth as silk, to the restrooms. As she sat down on the seat, she realized she was humming, and when she began singing, it was Cole Porter’s brilliant lyrics. ‘“Do do that voodoo that you do so well,’” she sang, and then began to laugh, alone in the stall.

  Yes, she thought. She was voodoo to a guy like Reid Wakefield. She could see the appeal of a black woman and a white woman together in bed for a man like him. It was breaking so many taboos at one time, and there was an aesthetic that made it particularly juicy. The contrast of the dark skin against the light, so that, arranged properly, two women could look like a photo and a negative of one another.

  There was nothing personal about it; actually, it was impersonal. He was already interested. She didn’t think it would be hard to get Reid more than interested. And she had to admit that after the years of Clinton virtually ignoring her, she was enjoying the attention. The frisson of sexual tension was something she’d almost forgotten about. But it would only be tension, and lots of it.

  Angie could hardly believe it. Lisa had the nerve to ramble on, not only about her job and the people at work—people that Angie had been forced to abandon because of Lisa’s under-handedness—but then she continued, and as Angie allowed her to get away with it, she began to talk about the engagement, her wedding plans, and even the honeymoon. It was unbelievable! Had she always been this insensitive, or was she spiteful?

  “Reid wanted to take a week, but I said you can’t go to France for a week,” she was saying now. “It would be ridiculous. So we made it ten days, though I wanted two weeks.”

  Angie nodded. For their honeymoon, she and Reid had gone to Bermuda for five days, but she wasn’t going to mention that.

  When the waiter came to remove their plates, Lisa lifted a Saks shopping bag to the table and handed it over to Angie. For one crazy moment, Angie thought it might be a present. What gift did Lisa think Angie wanted from her? A gun to shoot her with? Arsenic for her drink? Or maybe it was a makeover bag: exercise clothes, cross-trainers, and gift certificates to a gym and cosmetic surgeon, so Angie could keep the next man she found.

  Angie hesitated, then looked into the bag and recognized her own blue sweater, the one she’d left behind in Marblehead. Underneath it was the night-light she’d had since she was five—a figurine of a little girl bending over a duckling. There were also the photo albums she’d asked for, her high school yearbook, and some other stuff. “I have the rest out in the car,” Lisa said.

  Angie smiled wanly. This was not the plan. It was supposed to be a house call. And Angie, not Lisa, was supposed to call the shots. Why was she so easily outflanked by this narcissist? Was it her personality defect, or Lisa’s? Angie tried to look at her watch without letting Lisa notice. She tried to think. There wasn’t much time, so Angie was relieved when the waiter brought the bill. She noticed that Lisa didn’t reach for it—a minor irritation in the face of this larger one. Angie took a look at the tab, and put out exactly half of what was owed, along with half a tip. Then she pushed it toward Lisa, because she sure as hell wasn’t paying for this dinner.

  “Oh,” Lisa said, as if receiving a check at the end of a restaurant meal was a complete novelty. She fumbled in her bag and wound up putting crumpled bills and a handful of change on the table. Angie remembered now that like the Queen, Lisa never carried much money.

  Okay, she thought. She needed to get control again and get this show on the road. Quickly. When Lisa next looked up, Angie very obviously took out the Shreve, Crump & Lowe box. She saw Lisa’s eyes widen. Only then did Angie stand, putting the box back in her pocket. Ha! “Well, let’s go out to your car and get the rest of my stuff,” she said calmly, but she was still panicked. She had to get over to the condo and she had to do it in the next hour. Considering the drive would take at least thirty minutes, it didn’t give her much leeway. W
hat if she couldn’t get there? Everything would be ruined. Lisa would forever think she’d humiliated a poor, pathetic, broken Angie. A fat Angie. Angie couldn’t help but clench her teeth.

  Lisa, as if mesmerized, followed her out of the restaurant. Angie thought of The Lord of the Rings. All rings had a lot of power over women. They didn’t have to be smithed in Mordor. She imagined herself as Bilbo and Lisa as sneaky Gollum. Easy image. Next she’d be hissing, “What has it got in its pockets?”

  When they reached Lisa’s car, Lisa flipped open the trunk and there was another bag of the cast-offs—oops, personal treasures—she’d mentioned: an afghan crocheted by Angie’s grandmother, and torn leather-covered bookends that looked like real books. In the tiny light of the trunk, Angie looked through the carton. Lisa was smiling. “I tried to fold everything neatly,” she said. “But you know me, I’m not good at packing.” Angie wondered if Lisa’s hand was itching for the ring.

  “I don’t see my diary here,” Angie said.

  “Oh. No? I tried to bring everything. There’s that sketchbook or whatever I found on one of the shelves.”

  “No,” Angie said. “I’m not talking about that. I mean my journal.”

  “You didn’t mention a journal. That wasn’t on the list.”

  It wasn’t, and for just this very reason. It was Plan B. Obviously, a necessary one, with a girl as sneaky as Lisa. Angie turned from the trunk and looked at Lisa with a very woebegone face. “Did you read it?” she asked, her face a mask of desperation and embarrassment. “Promise me you didn’t read it.”

  “No, no,” Lisa assured her. “I didn’t even find it.” But it looked as if she now wished that she had.

  “Oh. I can’t believe this! I think it was right there on the bookshelf. I’m sure I asked for it,” Angie said. “I have to have it back, Lisa. I’d die if anyone else read it.”

  “Well, I’ll send it to you,” Lisa said. “I promise.”

  Yeah! Like Angie could trust her word. Angie put her hand into her pocket, and silently took out the box. She flipped it open again. In the darkness, illuminated only by the trunk light, the ring gleamed. She fluttered the box just a little, to enhance the gleaming sparkle, and heard Lisa let out a breath that became white mist in the cold air. That’s it, Lisa. Here’s the piece that will make you a Wakefield, the thing that will join you forever to your future in-laws from hell. Angie figured thirty seconds was enough bait and snapped the box shut.

  “Look, Lisa. This stuff might look like a bunch of junk to you, but it’s important to me. I need you to respect that.”

  “Oh, I do. I do!” Lisa told her, the acquisitiveness in her voice almost as visible as the mist from her mouth.

  “So the thing that I need the most is my journal,” Angie said. They stood there for a moment, and Angie simply waited.

  “Well, let’s just go to the house and get it,” Lisa said at last. Yes! As she got in her car to follow Lisa, Angie had to laugh out loud. Enemies were easy once you realized they weren’t friends. Angie just hoped after Lisa put the damned ring on, the gold-toned metal of the shank of the ring would leave a nasty green line on Lisa’s so-perfect skin.

  53

  Both a strip and a tease

  Michelle got out of Reid’s car and made sure her skirt was hiked up high—not that it wasn’t already only the width of Santa’s belt. But she and Jada had invested a lot of Frank’s charge card in lingerie and great stockings. Now was the time to show them off. Reid was out of the car and running to her side for a look even before Jada pulled up in the rental car.

  Michelle almost giggled as she stepped out of the car and felt him eyeing her. She was proud of her acting over drinks—in fact, though she actually drank almost nothing, she’d managed to make it look as if she’d consumed quite a bit, and was behaving so giddily she almost felt she actually had a buzz. And it had been exciting to drive with Reid because the man was so beside himself with lust. Michelle had spent most of the ride telling him how much she really trusted him, how important it was that no one saw her, and how long it had been since she’d been with a man. Blah, blah, blah. “Except Charles, of course,” she had said. “But there is a reverse proportion to the size of his bank accounts and his …” She’d paused in a ladylike way, “personal proportions.” Then she’d squeezed the inside of Reid’s right leg.

  Now, outside the car, Jada sauntered over to her. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be seen here on the street in front of a man’s house,” she said to Michelle. “I mean, Katherine, that you must always remember Charles’s pre-nup.”

  Michelle looked at Reid. “Jenette, he’s not a man. He’s my lawyer,” she said, and giggled.

  Jada turned to Reid and gave him an appraising look. ”You have really caught her fancy,” Jada said. “Shall we take our little love baby inside?” She could see that Reid’s face was flushed. She bet that Michelle had been a perfect little tease.

  Reid, dumb as a cocker spaniel in heat, led the way, opened the door; Michelle and Jada followed him into Angie’s first home. The condo was nice, Jada thought. Young, rich, white kids lived well. Not like her and Clinton’s first place in Yonkers. It was hard to imagine that she and Michelle hadn’t known Angie when she lived here and thought she was safe and happy. All of the wood furniture was that fifties blond stuff that had become popular again, and the rugs and walls were light. “Can I get you ladies a drink?” Reid asked as he put down the keys, gesturing toward the sofa as he turned toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, we’re not ladies,” Jada said, her voice deep. Reid turned back to look at her. “We’re women. We’re definitely women. But even Katherine is not a lady.” She moved over to Michelle and put her hand on Michelle’s long hair, stroking it. She thought she could see the white boy’s jimmy move along the left side of his crotch. Hmmm. She looked down at her dark, dark hand on top of Michelle’s light, light hair, but only so she could see what time it was. How long did they have?

  “Well, I stand corrected,” Reid said.

  “Oh, is it standing?” Michelle asked and giggled. Then she threw herself back on the sofa, her legs spread, her arms akimbo.

  Reid took a deep breath. Jada wondered if he was a religious man, because if he believed in any kind of God, he was thanking Him right now. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and walked into the kitchen.

  Michelle and Jada looked at each other and began tearing off their clothes. “Don’t touch me like that,” Michelle whispered. “It was creepy.”

  “I just patted your head, Katherine,” Jada said. “I did it for Mr. Rogers over there.”

  “Well, that’s enough,” Michelle told her. She’d gotten her jacket off and was sliding out of her obscene little skirt. Meanwhile, Jada took out a Cosmopolitan, laid it on the coffee table as planned. She had her orange sweater almost unbuttoned in the next minute, but for speed decided to just pull it over her head.

  “Hey, listen,” she whispered to Michelle. “Nothing personal, but the idea of touching your breast—or anyone’s—makes me nauseous. I’m a Christian woman.” She wiggled out of the leather slacks, revealing the orange silk underpants and garter belt holding up her stockings.

  “Take off the boots,” Michelle whispered, and shrugged out of her shirt. She was wearing a pink satin bra and matching hi-cut panties.

  “What are you? The stylist for this shoot? Anyway, you leave your shoes on,” Jada told her in return. “And don’t touch me, either,” she added. “I’ll scream.”

  Just then Reid came through the swinging door, pushing it open with his back and turning around with a tray in front of him. When he saw the two of them, lingerie-clad beside the couch, he dropped the tray and everything on it. Jada had to laugh. Mr. Cool. “Oooh,” she said. “Looks like you’re going to have to pick up something more than us two ladies tonight.”

  It was amazing how easy it had been to get him half drunk, to proposition him, and to get him to invite them into his home. As they walked up the stai
rs to the bedroom, Jada shook her head. Men! She was still in her fancy lingerie, and the elastic of her garters slapped the back of her legs on each step. It was hard to believe women had actually worn these things for years. Pantyhose were bad enough.

  She hoped Reid was enjoying the view, and wriggled an extra bit to be sure. She then tried to map out the next few moves. She was carrying her purse, which would have looked funny to anybody who didn’t have a mind fogged by gin and lust. “Which door?” she asked, and Michelle, all pink and blond, stood at the top of the stairs and shrugged.

  Reid passed them by and opened the door on the right. “In here,” he said, his voice thick.

  “Now, you’re not married are you? We wouldn’t want a man who would cheat,” Michelle said in a teasing tone.

  “No, I’m not married. Well, I was married, but she’s living in New York now and the divorce is almost final.” He ushered them into a large white bedroom.

  Michelle immediately sat down at the edge of the bed. “So, we got you while you’re still hot. Before all the other women could descend on a handsome, single, sexy lawyer.” Reid had followed her and she moved toward his tie. He reached forward to kiss her, but she made sure that her face was turned just a little bit away. Good move, Jada thought. He’s the one we’ve got to pin, without a hit on us. Michelle moved down to his shirt buttons while Jada opened her purse.

  “How do you like it, Mr. Wakefield?” Jada asked, her own voice husky and almost secretive.

  Reid pulled his eyes away from Michelle. He seemed fascinated by Jada, but almost afraid to be caught looking at her. White guilt. You know his great-grandaddy owned slaves. “I like it anyway you want,” Reid said.

  “I know ya gonna like it in a threesome,” Jada said. “But do ya want it ribbed or fluorescent, or ribbed and fluorescent?” she asked, pulling out a handful of condoms. She put them all in his hands and lifted his thumb, putting it in her mouth for only one wet moment. “You decide,” she said. “I’ll apply.” Then she turned back to her purse, put it on the floor beside the bed, and took out the body oil, the Polaroid and the little tube of Crazy Glue. Unlike the condoms, she left those three bits of paraphernalia on the floor.