Clay sipped his coffee and looked at her over the rim of the cup. “Not exactly my idea of a model father-in-law,” he said.
“So what do you want with Catherine?”
“Listen, there are things involved here which I don't care to get into. But, for starters, I want her to take some money from me so her old man will leave me alone. He's not going to stop until he's seen green, and I'll be damned if I'll lay it in his hand. All I want her to do is to accept money for the hospital bills or her keep or whatever. Do you know where she is?”
“What if I do?” There was an unmistakable note of challenge in her attitude. He studied her a moment, then leaned back, toying with his cup handle.
“Maybe I deserved to get knocked around a little bit, is that what you're thinking?”
“Maybe I was. I love her.”
“Did she tell you I offered to pay my dues, financially?”
“She also told me you offered her money for an abortion.” When he remained silent Bobbi went on. “Supposing she's off having one right now?” Bobbi studied his face carefully and found the reaction she wanted: dread. She added sardonically, “Is your conscience bothering you, Clay?”
“You're damn right it is. If you think the only reason I want to see her is to get Anderson off my back, you're wrong.” He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose briefly, then muttered, “Lord, I can't get her off my mind.”
Bobbi studied him as she sipped. The black eye and bruised jaw Uncle Herb had doled out could not disguise Clay Forrester's handsomeness nor the worried expression about his eyes. Something in Bobbi softened.
“I don't know why I feel compelled to tell you, but she's okay. She's got her plans all made and she's carrying through with them. Catherine's a strong person.”
“I realized that the other night when I talked to her. Most girls in her position would come at a man with palms up, but not her.”
“She's had it hard. She knows how to get by without any help from anybody.”
“But still you won't tell me where she is?” He turned appealing eyes to her, making it extremely difficult for Bobbi to answer as she had to.
“That's right. I gave my word.”
“All right. I won't try to force you to break it, but will you do just this much for me? Will you tell Catherine that if she needs anything—anything at all—to let me know? Tell her I'd like to talk to her, that it's important, and ask her if she'd call me at home tomorrow night. That way neither one of you will have to give away her whereabouts.”
“I'll give her the message, but I don't think she'll call. She's stubborn . . . almost as stubborn as her old man.”
Clay looked down into his cup. “Listen, she's”—He swallowed, looked up again with an expression of worry etched upon his eyebrows—”She's not having an abortion, is she?”
“No, she's not.”
His shoulders seemed to wilt with relief.
That night when Catherine answered the phone, Bobbi opened by saying, “Clay came to see me.”
Catherine's hand stopped where it was upon her scalp, combing her hair back from her face. Her heart seemed to stop with it. “You didn't tell him anything, did you?”
“No, I just complimented him on his shiner. Your dad really meant business!”
It took great effort for Catherine to resist asking if Clay was really all right. She affected a businesslike tone, asking, “He didn't come to show you his battle scars, I'm sure. What did he want?”
“To know where you are. He wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Well, what do you suppose? Cath, he's not so bad. He didn't even complain about getting beaten up. He seems genuinely worried about your welfare and wants to make some arrangements for paying for the baby, that's all.”
“Bully for him!” Catherine exclaimed, casting an anxious glance down the hall to make sure no one was within earshot.
“Okay, okay! All I am is the messenger. He wants you to call him at his house tonight.”
The line grew silent. The picture of his house came back all too clearly to Catherine. His house with its comfortable luxury, its fire burning at dusk, his parents in their finery, Clay walking in whistling with his hair the color of autumn. A weakness threatened Catherine, but she resisted it.
“Cath, did you hear me?”
“I heard.”
“But you're not going to call him?”
“No.”
“But he said he's got something he has to talk over with you.” A rather persuasive tone came into Bobbi's voice then. “Listen, Cat, he kind of threw me. I thought he'd try to wheedle your whereabouts out of me, but he didn't. He said if you'd call him, neither one of us would have to give away any secrets.”
“Very upstanding,” Catherine said tightly, haunted even further by the remembered look of concern on Clay's face as she got out of his car.
“This might sound disloyal, but I'm beginning to think he is.”
“What, upstanding?”
“Well, is it so unbelievable? He really seems . . . well, concerned. He isn't acting at all like I thought he would. I find myself wondering what Stu would do if he found himself in Clay's situation. I think he might have left town by now. Listen, why don't you give Clay a chance?”
“I can't. I don't want his concern and I'm not going to call him. It wouldn't do any good.”
“He said I should tell you if there's anything you need, just say so, and you've got the money for it.”
“I know. He told me that before. I told him I don't want anything from him.”
“Cath, are you sure you're doing the smart thing?”
“Bobbi . . . please.”
“Well, heck, he's loaded. Why not take a little of it off his hands?”
“Now you sound like my old man!”
“Okay, Cath, it's your baby. I did what he asked; I gave you the message. Call him at his place tonight. From there on out it's up to you. So how's the place?”
“It's really not bad, you know?” Then, fighting off thoughts of Clay Forrester, Catherine added, “It has no men, so that's a plus right there.”
The voice at the other end became pleading. “Hey, don't get that way, Cath. Not all men are like your father. Clay Forrester, for instance, is about as far from your father as a man could get.”
“Bobbi, I get the distinct impression that you're changing sides.”
“I'm not changing sides. But I'm getting a better view of both sides, caught in the middle like I am. I'm always on your side, but I can't help it if I think you should at least call the guy.”
“Like hell I will! I don't want Clay Forrester or his money!”
“All right, all right! Enough! I'm not going to waste any more time arguing with you about it, because I know you when you get your mind made up.”
Absorbed as she was in her conversation with Bobbi, Catherine was unaware that three girls had gone into the kitchen for a snack, and from there any telephone conversation could be easily heard. When she hung up, she headed back for her room, more rattled than she'd care to admit by what Bobbi had said. It would be so easy to give in, to accept money from Clay, or to solicit his moral support during the difficult months ahead, but should she rely on him in any way she feared he would have a hold on her, on the decisions about her future which must still be made. It would be better to stay here where life was better than that which she'd left. At Horizons there was no censure, for everyone here was in the same boat.
Or so they thought.
Chapter 5
The tension around the Forrester home grew as Catherine's whereabouts remained unknown. Angela walked around with a drawn expression about her mouth, and often Clay found her eyes upon him with such a hurt expression that he carried its memory with him to the law school building each
day. His concentration was further thwarted
by the fact that Herb Anderson was released after twenty-four hours without a formal charge made against him. The nec
essity to let him go scot-free rankled mercilessly, not only on Clay but on his father. They knew the law, knew they could pin Anderson to the wall for what he'd done. To be unable to do so only raised the pitch of their taut nerves.
Once Anderson was free, he became more self-righteous than ever. He smiled in self-satisfaction all the way home while he thought, I got them sons-a-bitches where I want them and I ain't lettin' go till they come through with the greenbacks!
When Herb got home, Ada was standing in the living room with her coat still on, reading a postcard. She looked up, startled to see him coming in the door.
“Why, Herb, you're out.”
“Goddam right I'm out. Them Forresters know what's good for 'em, that's why I'm out. Where's the girl?” His eyes were bloodshot, his knuckles still taped, the bandages dirty now. He already had the rank stench of gin on his breath.
“She's all right, Herb,” Ada offered timorously, holding out the card. “Look, she's in Omaha with a friend who—”
“Omaha!” The word rattled the windows as Herb reeled and smacked the postcard out of his wife's hand. She cowered, watching with huge eyes as he teetered and stooped to pick up the card off the floor. He gaped at the handwriting to make sure it was Catherine's. He swiped the soiled bandage across the eyes that always wore a film of water over their ochred whites. When his vision cleared, he studied the card again, then whispered, “Them rich sons-a-bitchin' whorin' no-good bastards are gonna pay for this! Nobody makes a horse's ass outa Herb Anderson and gets away with it!” Then he shoved past Ada as if she weren't there, heading out again.
She collapsed into a chair with a shudder of relief.
At Horizons, Francie got even with a few of life's injustices by stealing a bottle of Charlie perfume from the top of Catherine Anderson's dresser.
At the University of Minnesota one of those very injustices was at that moment folding her exquisite, thoroughbred legs into Clay Forrester's Corvette.
“You're late,” Jill Magnusson scolded, placing one gleaming fingernail on the door to prevent Clay from closing it, at the same time turning upon him a stunning smile that had cost her father approximately two thousand dollars in orthodontia. Jill was a beauty, and a member of the elite sorority Kappa Alpha Theta, whose members were loosely referred to as the “Thetas,” known down through the years as the rich girls' sorority at the U of M.
“Busy day,” Clay answered, suddenly piqued by her method of holding them up. He was too distracted to be charmed by those supple limbs right now. He slammed the door and walked around to his side. The engine purred as they pulled away from the curb.
“I need to stop by the photo lab to check on some pictures for a research project.” Jill was more than a superficial appearance; she was majoring in aviation electronics and had every intention of designing the first jet shuttle between the earth and moon. With career goals set high she wasn't the least bit interested in getting married yet. She and Clay understood each other well.
But tonight he was unusually testy. “I'm late and you're the one who's going to stop at the photo lab on our way to the party!” Clay snapped, laying a thin line of rubber as the car peeled away.
“My, aren't we touchy tonight.”
“Jill, I told you I wanted to stay home and study. You're the one who insisted we go to this party. You'll forgive me if I dislike playing escort service on the way.”
“Fine. Forget the lab. I can pick the photos up myself tomorrow.”
Gearing down at a stop sign, he screeched to a halt, throwing Jill forcefully forward.
“What in the world is the matter with you!” she exclaimed.
“I'm not in a party mood, that's all.”
“Obviously,” she said dryly. “Then forget the photo lab and the party too.”
“You dragged me out to this damn party, now we're going!”
“Clay Forrester, don't you speak to me in that tone of voice. If you didn't want to go with me you could have said so. You said you had a case to study this weekend. There's a vast difference between the two.”
He threw the car into gear and screamed down University Avenue toward the heart of the campus, zinging in and out between other cars, intentionally laying rubber with every shift of the gears.
“You're driving like a maniac,” she said coolly, her auburn hair swinging with the erratic motions of his lane changes.
“I'm feeling like one.”
“Then please let me out. I'm not.”
“I'll let you out at the goddam party,” he said, knowing he was being despicable but unable to help it.
“Since when have you taken to insouciant cursing?”
“Since approximately six P.M. four nights ago,” he said.
“Clay, for heaven's sake slow down before you get us both killed, or at the very least get yourself a walloping ticket. The campus police are thick tonight. There's a concert at Northrup.”
Ahead at an intersection he could see a cop patrolling traffic, so he slowed down.
“Have you been drinking, Clay?”
“Not yet!” he snapped.
“You're going to?”
“If I'm smart, maybe.”
Jill studied his profile, the firm jaw, the tight expression about his usually sensual mouth. “I don't think I know this Clay Forrester,” she said softly.
“Nope, you don't.” He glared straight ahead, curling his lower lip over his upper, waiting for the cop to flag the traffic through the intersection. “Neither do I.”
“It sounds serious,” she ventured.
Instead of replying, he hung his right wrist over the steering wheel and continued to glare at the cop, that lip still curled up with contempt at something.
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked in what she hoped was a coercive voice. She waited, dropping her head slightly forward so her hair fell like a rust curtain beyond her cheek.
He looked at her at last, thinking, God but she's beautiful. Poised, intelligent, passionate, even a little cunning. He liked that in her. Liked even more the fact that she never tried to hide it. She often teased him that she could get him to do anything she wanted, simply by using her long-limbed body. Most of the time she was right.
“What would you say if I admitted that I'm afraid to talk to you about it?”
“For starters I'd say the admission has added some common sense to your driving habits.”
He had indeed begun driving more sensibly. He reached over and rubbed the back of her hand. “Do you really want to go to the party?”
“Yes. I have this gorgeous new lambswool sweater and this magnificent matching skirt and you haven't even noticed. If you won't compliment me, I'd like to find someone who will.”
“All right, you got it,” he said, swinging left, heading for the Alcorn Apartments, where the party was in full swing when they arrived. Inside it was a maze of voices and music, too many bodies packed into too little space. The Alcorn was a converted gingerbread house with bays, nooks and pantries, the kind of place easily gotten lost in if playing hide and seek. The furniture throughout the first-floor apartment was positively decimated, but nobody cared because nobody seemed to own it. Jill led the way through the press of people, taking Clay's hand, tugging him to the kitchen where the bar was set up on a dilapidated porcelain-topped table, the kind that went out with World War II. A guy named Eddie was tending bar.
“Hey, Jill, Clay, how's it going? What'll you have?”
“Clay wants to get smashed tonight, Eddie. Why don't you give him a little help?”
In no time Eddie extended a drink that was supposed to be mixed; it was the color of weak coffee. Clay took one sip and knew three like this would knock him smack off his feet. If he really wanted to get smashed, it wouldn't take long. Jill accepted a much weaker drink. She was too intelligent to get drunk. He'd never seen her have more than one or two cocktails in an evening.
He teased her now. “Why don't you come down one notch and show you're at least as human as me and have a
couple of strong drinks tonight? Then when we go to bed you'll be as uninhibited as I intend to be.”
Jill laughed and swung her waist-length hair back behind a well-turned shoulder.
“If you want to get roaring drunk go right ahead. Don't expect me to abet it by being equally as stupid.”
He raised a sardonic eyebrow to Eddie. “The lady thinks I'm stupid.” Then he mumbled into his drink, “If she only knew the half.”
In the crush of bodies and the assault of noise Jill didn't quite hear what Clay said, but he was troubled tonight, not acting like himself. “I don't know what's gotten into you tonight, but whatever it is, I don't like it.”
“You'd like it even less if you knew.”
Just then somebody came by and bumped Jill from behind, spilling a splash of her drink on her new sweater at the fullest part of her left breast.
“Oh, damn!” she exclaimed, sucking in her stomach, searching in her purse for a Kleenex. “Have you got a hanky, Clay?”
He reached for his hind pocket. “That's the second time this week that a lady has needed my hanky. Here, let me help you with that, mademoiselle.” He grabbed Jill by the hand, found a vacant corner beside the refrigerator and pushed her into it. With the hanky he began dabbing at the spot where the liquor had already darkened the sweater. But an odd, troubled look overtook his face. His motions stilled, and his eyes found hers. Then he grabbed hanky, sweater, breast and all and flattened himself against her long, lithe body, kissing her with a sudden fierceness that startled her. Fondling her breast, controlling her mouth, he pressed her into the corner where the refrigerator met the wall. She thought he'd lost his mind. This was not the Clay she knew, not at all. Something was more wrong than she'd guessed.
“Stop it, stop it! What's the matter with you!” she gasped, breaking away from his kiss, trying to push his hand from her breast.
“I need you tonight, Jill, that's all. Let's go someplace and leave this noisy bunch.”
“I've never seen you like this, Clay. For God's sake let go of my breast!”
Abruptly he released her, backed up a step, put the guilty hand in his trouser pocket and stared at the floor. “Forget it,” he said, “just forget it.” He raised his drink and took an abusive swallow.
Separate Beds Page 8
