Olivia Goldsmith - Young Wives

“Nana? Okay.” She began to cry again. “Thank you, Daddy,” she said. “God, I’m so ashamed.”

“Ashamed? What have you got to be ashamed of?”

“Being so fucking stupid,” Angie told him. “You never trusted him.”

“Well, there is that,” he admitted. “Forget it. Women are all blind or else there’d be no human race. Just leave the bum. Let him sit there and wonder if you fell into the shitter and drowned.” Anthony Romazzano waited for a laugh but didn’t get one. “Okay,” her father said. “You promise me you’ll hang up and walk right out the door?”

“Yes,” Angela agreed. She hung up the phone and turned herself around. She took a deep breath and pulled down on the cuffs of her sleeves as if the gesture built up enough courage for her to take the first step. She ought to go into the ladies room and clean up, but what difference would it make? She’d only cry some more. When she walked toward the exit door, she felt as if everyone was watching her and that they knew what had happened. She couldn’t believe she’d never see Reid again. But the fact was that she caught a last glimpse of her husband as she walked past the dining room door. He was calmly leaning back in his chair, looking out at the water. Why was it he always looked as if nothing bothered him? So pulled together?

With all her built-up rage, Angie pushed hard on the club door and was blasted in the face with cold salt air. She waved to the first taxi in line. “Logan Airport, please. Delta shuttle.” Then she again burst into noisy tears.

It wasn’t until they got to the Callahan Tunnel and its inevitable traffic that Angie realized she might miss the flight. But since she didn’t have a penny on her, she couldn’t even pay the driver. “Please hurry,” she said. He’d already looked at her once or twice in the rearview mirror.

“Did you say Delta or USAir?” he asked. He had a lilt in his voice. Irish. Just off the boat. Driving a cab the way her father had, back in New York; but her father had gotten into the limo business, gotten rich, and married a nice Jewish girl.

“Delta,” she told the driver, and then explained about Nana. What would he do when she tried to stiff him? Call the cops?

Well, if he did, she’d telephone her father. She thought of Tony, waiting at the other end of the trip. She was grateful to him for his help, but at the same time she couldn’t avoid remembering that he had done the same thing to her mother that Reid was doing to her now. The only difference was, her father did it after he and her mom had been married for twenty-something years, and he hadn’t told her mom until he’d been caught. He still swore that it shouldn’t have broken up the marriage.

“Oops. Sorry. I missed the Delta turn. I’ll have to go around again,” the cabbie said. Perfect, she thought. Now she’d probably miss the shuttle and wind up sleeping in the airport. As if she could sleep. Sleep! She wasn’t even sure she could go on breathing. She felt as if there were jagged pieces of bone or steel or glass in her chest. Every time she attempted a deep breath, or when a sob shook her, the pieces would meet and rub and tear. How had this happened to her? She’d been so careful.

She’d waited until she was finished with college and almost done with law school before she had allowed herself to become serious about a man. She’d always been smart, and independent. She’d wanted to do something with the law to help people. She’d dated, but had been wary of men, and she’d worked hard during her internships and summers, giving her time to Legal Aid instead of dinner dates. She still gave money to “Save the Children,” participated in AIDS walks, and worked for Meals-On-Wheels once a month. She was a good person, a strong person. She had judgment, intelligence, and persistence.

She’d listened to her mother’s advice, and absorbed the lessons—all bad—of her mother’s friends’ marriages. She’d avoided alcoholics, neurotics, and the generally misogynistic. And she’d finally picked the man who pursued her, not a man she’d pursued. He’d come from a family in which there seemed to be no history of womanizing: Reid’s father was cold, not hot. She’d worried that Reid might not marry her, that her family wasn’t up to his social standards, but never that he’d cheat on her. How had this happened to her?

The taxi was pulling up to the Delta terminal. Angie looked down at her hands. One held the crumpled mass of yellow pages, now all sodden, that she’d torn from the phone booth at the club. In the other she still clutched the Shreve box that contained the perfect sapphire ring.

The driver pulled up to the curb and braked. Then, in an act of courtesy usually unknown to North Shore cabbies, he actually got out of the cab and opened the door for her. “Sorry for your pain,” he said, his Irish accent thick. “I really loved my granny, rest her soul.” He looked at her, and Angie knew her hair must be wild, her face a swollen, streaked mess. “That’ll be forty-one dollars,” the driver added, almost reluctantly.

There was only one thing to do. She opened the Shreve, Crump & Lowe box and took out the ring. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “I forgot my purse. But you can have this. It’s worth a lot. I know my Nana would want you to have it.” Then, the empty box still clutched in her hand, she walked through the airport’s electronic eye doors, away from her marriage, and up to the Delta ticket desk.

Wherein we meet Jada R. Jackson, and we discover the cost of living in Republican Westchester, as well as the state of her union

Jada looked at her watch, realized it was too dark in the car to see the dial, and checked the clock on the dash. Damn! It was half past eight already. The kids would have eaten and—if she was lucky—be settled down to bed and homework. Her eyes flicked away from the dash but not before she noticed, with a start, that the gas gauge was almost on empty. Damn it! Now, when she was so late, she’d have to take the time to stop and fill up. Why was it that Clinton, who was unemployed and had the whole day to get errands done, had used her car yesterday but not bothered to fill it up?

She burned with indignation. She knew why. Clinton’s mind was on things other than her convenience.

Jada pulled into the island at the Shell station, turned off the ignition, and waited for full—or, for that matter, even partial—service. She’d had to learn from experience that her time was more valuable than money, but if they kept her waiting here for this long at the pump, what was the point of paying more? She beeped and reluctantly an older man came out of the glass enclosure to help her. “Fill it up” was all she told him and, to speed the process along, she flipped him her Shell card at the same time before she rolled up the window to keep out the October chill. The card slipped from the geezer’s fingers and she watched as it skittered across the oily macadam; he had to squat to pick it up. She sighed and turned up the heat setting, not that it would do any good with the motor off.

Jada shivered, and the movement was reflected in the rearview mirror. Her eyes looked very bright in the darkness. Her lips were chapped and there were already patches of dry skin under her eyes—a sign of winter. Jada sighed. Only in her early thirties, she was still a striking woman, but as she glanced into the rearview to check again on the attendant she wondered how much longer her looks would last in the harshness of these winters.

The old coot had finally picked up her card and gotten to the nozzle, but now seemed to be fumbling with the Volvo’s gas cap. Jesus H. Christ! It was what she called the RTSYD syndrome: Rush and They Slow You Down. She’d experienced it at the bank. Why was it that, when you were in a hurry, morons were invariably at their slowest?

Jada jerked opened the door, got out of the car, and moved to the back fender. In a single motion she threw back the gas cap, took the nozzle from the old man’s filthy hand, and inserted it into the gas tank opening herself.

He probably wasn’t grateful for her help, but she was paying three cents a gallon more for full service and she’d had to do it herself. Jada felt that was the story of her life—she had to do everything herself—and she was ready to burst into tears.

Sometimes she doubted her faith. Her parents, island people, still had a deep faith. But somehow it seemed easier to believe when you lived in a warm climate. Right now, shivering in the chill of a New York State wind, she wondered if her God loved her. God had created marriage, she figured, to see just how much two people could irritate one another. If her theory was right, she and Clinton had certainly done God’s work. The two of them were barely speaking at this point, and she was pained to realize that not speaking was an improvement in their relationship right now. Of course, they’d have to speak tonight. She’d have to force this issue that had come up between them.

Jada climbed back into the Volvo. The old man, after too long a pause, came back with her card and receipt. Shivering, she rolled down the window to take the little tray he held out in his greasy hand so she could sign. She grabbed it, scribbled her name, and tore off her copy, thrusting the tray back at him.

But instead of taking it and pulling back, the old man merely leaned forward. “Pretty car,” he said in a conversational voice. As if she needed to talk to him! Get a grip. It was almost eight-thirty! But he continued. “And a real pretty woman in it,” he said. She was about to say thank you and roll up the window when he added, “Pretty damn uppity.” She hit the window button, closing him off as best she could. Then, as if she couldn’t predict, didn’t know the next word that would come out of his mouth, the “N” word did, followed by his spit on the side of the car.

The stupid bigoted cracker! Jada gunned the motor and pulled out of the station and onto the Post Road without even checking the left lane. She cut off a tanker truck and was rewarded with a deafening hoot from the diesel’s whistle. Tears of rage rose in her eyes, and she almost missed the left turn she had to make on Weston.

In the darkness and comparative quiet of that winding road, she tried to calm herself. To be fair, the incident with the disgusting, ignorant old man was her fault: she knew that constant vigilance and never-failing politeness were the price she and Clinton paid—along with high property and school taxes—for living in this part of Westchester County. Being black in wealthy white suburbia wasn’t as hard as it had once been, but it still wasn’t easy. They were not the Huxtables. Despite everything she did, they were barely keeping their heads above the financial water line. But they were giving the children the kind of life that all Americans dreamed of. Still, there was a very real cost involved.

They lived under constant financial pressure. And they were cut off from their church, back in Yonkers. There were no black families in their neighborhood, and few kids of color at the school. Shavonne’s friends were white, and Kevon spent all his free time with Frankie next door. Sometimes Jada worried that they weren’t just fair-skinned, but also fair-weather friends. Even she had become best friends with her (white) neighbor Michelle and sometimes, though she loved Mich, she felt … well, alone. Worst of all, though, was Clinton’s alienation.

Sometimes Jada wasn’t sure if all the struggle was worth it. When Clinton had first begun as a carpenter, he and Jada had lived in Yonkers and rented a two-room apartment. Then he’d gotten a job that changed everything. A wealthy executive in Armonk noticed Clinton’s work on a commercial project in White Plains and hired him to convert a three-car garage into a guest house. Clinton had learned the ins and outs of contracting right on the job. He didn’t make a dime of profit on that first one, but he had used it as a springboard to other jobs. The boom times, and perhaps a little white liberal guilt, had gotten Clinton work at least as often as it had stood in his way.