Young Wives. Olivia Goldsmith

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СКАЧАТЬ last out the walk if you use that much,” Jada retorted.

      They walked for a moment in silence. “Do you think I’m getting fat?” Michelle asked, as she did almost every morning.

      “Yeah. And I’m getting white,” Jada retorted. Michelle giggled. Then her face took on her serious look, the look that meant that soon the quiz would start, and Jada just wanted to put it off as long as possible.

      It was early enough that the streetlights were still on, but as the two women passed under one it blinked off. “So where do things stand, Jada?” Michelle asked, predictable as an actuarial table.

      “I don’t know. We never had time to talk.” Nevertheless, Jada raged about the condition of her kids and home the previous night as she and Michelle speed-walked past the quiet houses.

      “You have to draw a line in the sand,” Michelle said. “You have to …” But Michelle caught herself.

      Sometimes Jada thought her friend was afraid to give advice. “I don’t think I can stand it. I’m going to have to take an ax to his head, even though he is the father of my children.”

      “Hey. When did that stop you before?” Michelle asked, and Jada had to grin.

      Michelle definitely had a giving NUP—a term Jada had invented to categorize a person’s Natural Unit Preferences. Michelle was a generous friend, and generous to her husband and children. But somehow Jada just didn’t feel like taking pity from Michelle right at that moment.

      “He’s gone crazy on you, Jada,” Michelle said. “If Frank ever …”

      Jada tuned out because she loved Michelle—she was her best friend, even if she was from the south, white, had a stupid dog, and was sometimes thick as a plank.

      It had been weird when Jada realized that she really didn’t have any close black friends anymore. She couldn’t hang with the African-American tellers at the bank and she didn’t relate to the few neighborhood strivers whose daddies and grand-daddies were professionals and who went to college—real sleep-away colleges. She certainly couldn’t relate to Clinton’s homies, who thought that double negatives were standard and career planning was marriage to a man with a job at the post office.

      She and Michelle had a lot in common, but Michelle actually thought Frank was perfect and closed her eyes to all the funny stuff that went on in Frank’s business, not that any of it was funny. Jada knew there were county contracts, inside deals. Frank Russo thrived, even when the economy was at its darkest. There was no way that Frank hadn’t paid off officials, wasn’t connected to … Well, Jada didn’t like to think about it. It was none of her business. But a few years ago, when Frank had asked Clinton to join him in business, Jada had actually been relieved when, for once, Clinton had made the right decision. It wasn’t jealousy that made Jada believe that the Russos had a little too much cash. If Mich wanted to close her eyes to it, that was her business.

      The Jacksons had bought Jada’s Volvo station wagon from the Russos. It had been Mich’s car. But Michelle got a new model every eighteen months or so. Since Jada had gotten the station wagon, Michelle had been through two—no, three—luxury cars, and she’d told Jada Frank paid cash for every one. Jada had to admit Frank Russo was a good man—for a man. Most importantly, he really adored Mich. But that didn’t fool Jada: when it came to his NUP, old Frank was a taker, too. In a way he was worse than Clinton. He had Michelle completely fooled. Jada doubted if Frank knew where the washer or dryer was in his house, much less the stove. If Michelle were to ever leave Frank home alone with the children for two days and Frank couldn’t call his mother over, the Russos would die of starvation, despite a refrigerator full of food. Frank, who could work with his shining dark hair to get just the right lift, was incapable of slapping a slice of Velveeta between two slices of bread, or sorting laundry, or making the bed. He made Clinton look like the black male Betty Crocker. And Michelle never complained.

      Hey, girl, she told herself. Stop the comparisons. Try for a gratitude attitude. Drop the criticism. This daily walk, Jada thought, this friendship, and this safe and pretty neighborhood, were two of the good things in her life. She said a silent prayer, remembering to be grateful for her strong legs and lungs, her friendship and her home. She looked around at the houses, the gray trees glistening with the last of the frost. Pretty. “Look,” she said, pointing to new construction. “They’re putting a sunroom on.” She and Michelle checked every house improvement project and gave their approval—or not. Michelle looked at the hole knocked into the side of the brick colonial.

      “Oh, I’d love that. It looks like it’ll be a real greenhouse. I wonder if Frank could build one for me?”

      He should build a doghouse first, Jada thought, tripping over the leash as Pookie cut her off yet again. They turned to the right, Pookie pulling Michelle, who was almost slipping as the dog pulled her on the snowy street. As Jada looked away in annoyance, she saw the oddest thing—a face appeared in the window of a Tudor across the street for a moment. It was a face so pale that a trick of the light made it seem almost luminous, although the eyes were so shadowed that they seemed to recede into the darkness of the house. In the back of Jada’s mind something about the face seemed familiar, or … had she had a dream? She shivered and shook off the feeling. “I’d swear I just saw a ghost,” Jada told Michelle. “Otherwise there’s a scary-looking woman being held prison in there. Who lives in that house now?”

      “Oh, that’s the new guy. You know. The middle-aged one who lives there alone. He’s Italian or something. Anthony. He has that—”

      “The one with the nice cars?” Jada interrupted.

      Michelle nodded. “The one with a limo service. And a very small mortgage.” Jada reflected that being a loan officer gave you insights others might not have. Michelle continued. “I don’t think he’s married.”

      “Well, then he has a very unhappy girlfriend.”

      “Maybe it’s an arranged marriage,” Michelle said. “You know, like they write away to Russia and order some young wife.”

      “That’s not ar-ranged, it’s de-ranged,” Jada said. They walked on in silence for a while.

      “So what are you going to do about Clinton? Will you force him to make a commitment?”

      “Clinton? Commitment? The only thing those two words have in common is they both start with a ‘c.’ I mean, Clinton is the only guy in his ’hood who never got a tattoo. De Beers lies when it says it’s a diamond. A tattoo is forever.”

      “I can’t imagine why he’d do something like this,” Michelle said. “You’re perfect.”

      “Why he wouldn’t get a tattoo?” Jada asked, deflecting the discussion. Sometimes Mich just didn’t get it, Jada thought. Was it her kiss-me-I’m-Irish heritage? “That’s just it, Mich. I’m perfect, and that makes Clinton sick. I’m twice as strong as he is. He knows it and he hates it!”

      “No! Jada, don’t say that! You’re going through a hard time—a really hard time—but that isn’t true. Clinton admires you. He doesn’t hate you.”

      “I didn’t say he hates me. I said he hates my strength.” Jada sighed. “He could make it ten years ago when it was easy, but he can’t make it now when it’s hard. I could. I can. Shit, girl, I have to. And he resents me for it.” They came to the gate, where they turned around. Michelle, as always, patted the corner post. Jada, despite СКАЧАТЬ