“I thought I was away from him for good.”
Marriage, I’m finding out from my divorce clients, is forever.
I look back over at Harry, who is now watching us suspiciously. I could use a good caning for upsetting this girl, his expression says.
“This won’t get him in trouble,” I say, too glibly. Lawyers tell people this all the time, when, in fact, we may be setting off an avalanche that will maim them for life.
“It’s not him,” she says, still no inflection in her voice, “I ‘m worried about.”
But it is, I think, as I watch Harry dodder toward us.
Through his thin white shirt I can see the outline of the straps of his old-fashioned ribbed undershirt, which again reminds me of my father, who fascinated me as a small boy by the painstaking way he tucked his shirt into his pants each mo ming before going off to his drugstore. All Charlene had to do was hang up, keep the chain in place, or even lie to me in a convincing manner. Humans are even worse than canines when it comes to hanging on to bad relationships.
“How long were y’all married?” I ask, curious about the amount of violence in their relationship. Maybe in private Leon was as cute as a French poodle, and she laughed her head off, but somehow I doubt it. Raised to be polite to my elders, I nod at Harry, who stares at us with the frankness that is only permitted to certain groups of our society. Disgusted, he shakes his head. Thirty years ago, he might be standing over this young woman, but he wouldn’t be making her cry.
Charlene, perhaps unnerved by such interest (or maybe just bored) stares at the ground.
“I was fourteen when he and I made it legal. I’m twenty-one now.”
Charlene, the tease. I do not ask, but I wonder how old she was when she first had sex.
“Any kids?” I ask. What other reason would a girl have for giving up her youth?
Now that Harry is past us, it is our turn to stare at him.
From the rear he is trim as Nancy Reagan and is nattily attired in white bucks and blue seersucker pants. Maybe there is a Bess at the Arlington restlessly checking her watch. Time for a massage and then, who knows? After Charlene he seems a little pumped. Her forearms resting against the bench, Charlene shakes her head.
“My mama and daddy had so many yard apes runnin’ around, I swore I wouldn’t never have a one, and I haven’t,” she says proudly.
“Good for you,” I say, wondering how she has managed it. Leon doesn’t seem the type to accept rejection well.
Though I doubt if Charlene was social chairman for the Saline County Planned Parenthood Board, I have detected a spunkier side to her than I thought existed. She may tell the truth about her husband in court yet. “He may come looking for you,” I say.
“The women at the bar may have told him I was looking for you.”
Charlene shrugs and says, more bravely than she surely feels, “I’ll worry about that when I have to.”
At exactly seven o’clock Kim Keogh, dressed in baggy jeans, a shapeless gray man’s shirt with the tail hanging out, tennis shoes, and white athletic socks, opens her door to me.
“God!” she exclaims. “Somebody didn’t just get mad-they got even, maybe a little ahead.”
Perversely, I am a little disappointed. Though I wasn’t expecting her to run down to a beauty salon this afternoon, I guess I wanted her to make more of an effort. After all, we did go to bed together, didn’t we? Instead, she has barely run a comb through her normally stunning hair and could stand some lipstick. Damn, I’m awful, I think. Presumably I’m here on business, and I want her to look as if this is our wedding day. I move on into her living room and still an urge to gather up the Sunday papers, which are scattered on the couch, and to pick up a dirty coffee cup and spoon and take them to the kitchen. The movie stars are still up on the walls.
dark, what do you think? I nearly ask aloud. Would your feelings be a little hurt by such casualness? He probably didn’t give a damn about that either.
Kim, shoving the Democrat-Gazette aside to make a space for me, doesn’t seem to be aware of the impression she is making.
“Have a seat,” she says absently. She sits down across from me on the one chair in her living room. I’m glad I’m not hungry or thirsty, since it doesn’t appear I’m about to be offered anything.
“Did you talk to your client?”
“Can’t get hold of him,” I confess, having tried three times before I gave up.
“I’m in though,” I tell her.
“And I’ll do my best to convince him this is in his best interest.”
I am afraid I will miss out on something important if I play this too cool. Kim is holding the only card available. If my only chance is Charlene Newman, I’m in deep trouble.
She is leaning forward on her knees as if she were a hungry animal trying to decide if the meat she sees is real or part of a trap.
“Why should I trust you when you wouldn’t even call me back?”
Good question. Why should she? My face warm, I begin to fold up her papers to try to stall for time.
“I’m much more trustworthy when the subject isn’t women,” I mumble.”
“Actually I’ve been involved with this other …”
She cuts me off.
“You don’t have to explain that.” Leaning back against the back of her chair, she folds her arms under her breasts.
“I’ve been given a tip that Olivia Le Master had a child taken from her several years ago because of child abuse, but since the records in juvenile court are confidential, I can’t get them.”
Another child? I touch my lower lip, measuring its puffiness. Olivia, to the best of my recollection, has never even mentioned another marriage. A lot could have happened since she had Pam. People don’t stop living their lives because of a single catastrophe.
“How do you think it’s relevant?”
I ask.
Kim, now slightly defensive that I’m not reacting more positively, says, “The word on the street is that the prosecutor would love to charge Olivia Le Master with murder but she needs more evidence. If she intentionally abused one child, wouldn’t that be relevant in showing her state of mind toward the one that died?”
I have my doubts about its admissibility. If it were admissible, it could be dynamite. Unfortunately, it might hurt Andy as much as Olivia if a jury believed he was a part of a plan to kill Pam. The one thing I know it will do is make Andy rethink the possibility of a plea bargain. Somewhere a noose is slowly being tightened around somebody’s neck: if it’s Andy’s, he’d better take the opportunity to slip his head out of it while there is still time. Simply screaming “racism” in this case won’t be enough.
“I don’t know whether a judge will admit it or not,” I say candidly.
“You can be sure Jill would try her damnedest.” As I watch Kim nod, a satisfied look on her face, I realize what she is doing does amount to blackmail. Probably Jill Marymount would find this information more useful in court than I would. As far as I’m aware, she might already know. Kim is way ahead of me, but I’m beginning to think it doesn’t take much.
“What year was this supposed to have happened?”
My inattentive hostess shrugs.
“I’m not sure, and don’t ask how I found this out. I can’t reveal anything.”
After a few more minutes during which I learn exactly nothing, I head back home, having promised my story in exchange for a rumor. What I have learned, however, is exactly how little I know about Olivia Le Master. I have assumed she was what she seemed: a woman caught in a seemingly endless nightmare that her desperate effort to end turned into a tragedy. Instead, for all I know she could be a sadistic bitch who has never blinked once in her life.
In the car on the way home I decide to verify this information before I tell Andy. I have a theory that he doesn’t know everything about Olivia either. Knowing Andy, he will discount it as gossip unless I confront him with some evidence.
As an old social worker for the Department of Human Services in Blackwell County, I have a friend who, if she will, can speed up my research.