The Ditto List (35 page)

“I mean he takes things and twists them and makes it look like he's in the right and I'm in the wrong. On everything. He did it our entire marriage, so it's hardly a surprise that he's doing it now.”

“I tend to agree,” D.T. said. “He's making his case against you by putting you under a magnifying glass that exaggerates only your faults. He's trying to crucify you for being human. Your mistake will be in thinking he can't get away with it.”

“He can't, can he?”

“He can if we get the wrong judge. And he can if we don't do our job. Which is to explain away every one of his allegations. Have you got one?”

“One what?”

“An explanation.”

She nodded slowly. “My life may be a mystery to him, Mr. Jones, but it is not to me.”

“Let's hear it. First, the booze.”

She sniffed. “I am not a drunk. I have never been arrested for drinking; I have never passed out. The night Chas referred to I was merely sleeping.” She took a breath. “I drink to relax. Not every day, not even every week, these days. Just once in a while. I exercise my constitutional right to take something to make me feel better. My something happens to be bourbon. And I have acted silly at parties because the parties were silly to begin with.”

D.T. smiled. “What about the bar?”

“I went in there once to buy cigarettes. It's on the way home from the mall. I saw a girl who used to be a checkout at the market I use. She had become a cocktail waitress. We talked, mostly about our hair. I liked her. I went back a few times. To talk to her about other things. She told me about her boyfriend Dale and her problems with him. They sounded a lot like mine. I learned a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like saying no. Like putting my foot down. Like taking a whole day sometimes and doing only what I wanted to do. And the most I ever had in there was two drinks.”

“Witnesses?”

“Well, the girl, except she moved to Phoenix with Dale. The bartender, I guess. He's kind of a lecher. I'm sure he'd remember me.”

“I'll talk to him. How about the affair?”

“I told you. One man. One month. Two dirty deeds. That was it.”

“How'd it start?”

“Chas and I had our first big fight. He attacked me savagely. Verbally, I mean; he's a master of verbal abuse. Called me irresponsible. Negligent. Slovenly, that was the one that got me. Slovenly. I moved to the guest room, but it wasn't enough. I needed someone to tell me Chas was wrong. I knew who that someone was. He liked me. He'd told me so in those ways men have—laughing at your jokes, patting your shoulders, fetching your drinks. The next time I saw him I let him know I was available. He was glad to hear it.” She smiled for the first time. “We cooked up a plan that ended with us meeting by a carefully calculated accident in a downtown hotel. After that we became less elaborate in our schemes. Interestingly, the affair immediately became less fun. Eventually we learned we didn't have what it took to be cheaters, either of us. We went back from whence we came. And Richard confessed all on Christmas eve. I didn't know that before.”

“What does it take to be a cheater?” D.T. asked.

“It's not what it takes, it's what it doesn't take, Mr. Jones.”

“Which is?”

“The intelligence to realize that once you have experienced infidelity you can never,
ever
experience fidelity again.”

She seemed sad, wanting to say more, but he let it go. “How about since Chas moved out?”

“I've dated. That's all. Nothing kinky, nothing promiscuous. Men have been here, we've talked, they've gone home, none of them to wives, by the way. And none have spent the night. Not one.”

“Sex?”

“Rarely. And not when the children were in the house.” She smiled again. “They sleep over a lot.”

“The rest of it? The mess? The lack of discipline? The sleeping late?”

“Guilty as charged,” she said firmly. “I am not a saint. I dislike most household duties. I neglect them at the slightest excuse. I have trouble sleeping, from reasons ranging from anxiety to depression to rather erotic fancies, so I choose to stay in bed some mornings. The children manage quite nicely. Cristine makes far better oatmeal than I do. She puts cinnamon in it.” Mareth Stone looked directly in his eyes for the first time. His eyes tried to hide. “Well. That's my confession. What do you think of it?”

“I think it'll have to get a little better by the time we go to trial.”

“Better how?”

D.T. shrugged. “I'm not a coach, Mrs. Stone. Some lawyers tell their clients exactly what to say on the stand, but I don't because the training usually breaks down. We'll talk, though. A couple of days before the trial date. In the meantime, make a list of people who'll testify as to your sterling character.”

She shook her head. “I won't drag anyone else into this.” She grinned crookedly. “Except maybe my mother.”

“Mothers are impeachable. Also, I want you to read the deposition again. Let me know if he was lying about anything. I mean a flat-out lie, not an exaggeration. Also, list anything you can think of that your husband did that was not in the best interests of your children.”

“Like work sixteen hours a day? Like run the house like a boot camp?”

“That. Other things. We need to show he's not much of …”

“A bargain either? Is that what you were about to say, Mr. Jones? You bastard.”

D.T. shrugged. “Close enough. It's been a bad day. I'm sorry.”

They stared at each other stonily. Then each saw the other's face crumple into laughter. “This is all just horrible, isn't it? This fighting, blaming, criticizing?”

D.T. nodded. “Yep.”

“It's like flunking a test. That's what I feel like. Chas flunked me, fired me from the only job I ever had. You know, being married is the only thing I ever really
decided
to do. Everything else just happened. Even motherhood. But I
decided
to marry Chas and now he's fired me. And it feels like shit, like there's this big hole in the world that no one's ever going to fix.”

“I know.”

He sensed she had finally surrendered, finally decided to be truthful. “How are you really getting along, Mrs. Stone?”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “I don't know. I'm fighting back, at least. I'm taking some classes at the university, seeing some men, seeing some women. My mother has been great, to my total surprise. I've learned things about her and Dad I never ever suspected. People are so good at hiding things, aren't they?”

“Sometimes it's a good thing they are.”

“I suppose.”

“How about the kids? How are they taking it?”

She frowned. “I'm worried, particularly about David. At first they both denied it was happening. They insisted Daddy would be back any minute. Then they got mad at him. Swore and carried on, and were very protective of me. But now David has started to blame himself. He feels he disappointed his father and that that's really why Chas left. It's very sad. I may have to take him to see someone.”

“I can give you some names if you need them.”

“Thank you. I'm trying very hard with the kids, Mr. Jones. I think I'm doing a good job. I think I'm getting them through it with as little scarring as possible. And they're helping me get through it as well. We've become quite a little family, I think. More in some ways than we were before.”

D.T. stood up. “Have you crashed yet, Mrs. Stone? Has it all come out?”

She looked up at him with anger. “No. And I won't, either. It's under control, Mr. Jones. I told you. We're handling it.”

“Great,” he said. “You have any problems, you give me a call.”

“I've learned to solve my problems, Mr. Jones. Don't worry about me.”

“Ignoring isn't solving,” D.T. said. “Keep that in mind.” As he let himself out of the house he imagined the sister, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bathroom floor.

It was dark, the cold gray dark of sleepless nights and lonely days. He drove through the city knowing where he was going, not knowing why. When he got there the Ford was nowhere to be seen but a light was burning behind the thin shade that covered the only window in Apartment Two. He parked and went into the building and knocked on the apartment door. It opened immediately.

Lucinda Finders wore only a nursing bra and panties. “Mr. Jones. What are
you
doing here? I thought it was Del.” She started to cover herself, then stopped when somewhere behind her the baby began to cry.

“I just wanted to see if you're all right,” he said.

“You shouldn't be here. Del will be back any minute. He just went after beer.” Apprehension nudged her voice to an unnatural register.

“Are you okay, Lucinda? Has he hurt you again?”

He looked her over carefully, telling himself his inspection was merely clinical, not pathetic.

“I'm okay. Really. Now please leave.
Please
. If he finds you there'll be big trouble.”

“Has he hurt you?” D.T. repeated.

“No.”

“Are you here because he's
threatened
to hurt you? Or the baby?”

“No. It ain't like that. Really.”

He knew he should leave but he couldn't get anything to move. “Do you want me to stop the dissolution action?” he asked.

She nodded. “I told that man you sent; I was going to call you about it tomorrow. I'm going back to Del.” She looked around. “I mean, I'm already back, I guess.” She closed the door halfway and stepped behind it, shielding herself, reproaching him justly.

“Why Lucinda?” he persisted, his presence now involuntary.

“He … I … we're going to try again. For the baby's sake. Del wants the baby to have a father. So we'll see. He's been real good so far, Mr. Jones. Really. He has. Now, please. Go. I'll talk to you tomorrow if you want. But don't stay here, and don't let that creepy man with the papers come back again.”

“He won't be back. I won't, either. Unless you ask me.” He looked at her face. He thought he could see the slightest shadow of a bruise where Del had hit her three months before. “Plenty of kids grow up without fathers, Lucinda. You don't have to risk your life for that.”

“Please. Del promised to change. I owe him the chance. I …”

“The hell you do.” He sounded like someone else, someone down the hall who was outraged at them both.

“You ain't my lawyer any more, Mr. Jones. I'm sorry, but you ain't. So you can't tell me how to live my life. Please? Leave?”

D.T. did what she asked, and heard the door close as softly as a book behind him.

On the way to his car he decided to lie in wait for Del, to accost him, to warn him away from Lucinda, to threaten or bribe or plead, whatever it took. But when he opened his car door he saw that a confrontation had been previously arranged.

“Hello, Delbert.”

D.T. climbed into the car and came to rest beside the swarthy, sullen man-boy who was leaning casually against the opposite door, one booted foot resting on the seat between them, one tattooed forearm draped across the arrogantly upraised knee. A twelve-pack of Schlitz Malt Liquor lay in his lap like an alms.

“Hello, Lawyer. I though I told you to keep away from her.”

“She's my client. I wanted to see if she was all right.”

Delbert grinned, revealing scrambled teeth. “That's where you're wrong, Lawyer-Man. She don't need a lawyer no more. You're out of a job.”

“I know. She told me.”

“She tell you I been treating her real sweet?”

“Something like that.”

Del nodded peaceably. D.T. could smell the leather of his jacket over the sour musk of his breath. “She tell you to stay the fuck away from us? Huh? She tell you I see you again around here I'm going to bust you up?”

“She told me.”

The hand on the knee became a fist. The tattoo undulated. His face froze. “I better seen the last of you, Mister. You hear me? Keep your bony ass away from my woman.”

“I hear.”

The hand slapped D.T.'s shoulder. The extravagant smile returned. “Good. Want a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

D.T. looked at him, at the long brown hair gathered in an oddly feminine ponytail, at the single gold loop that dangled from an ear, at the pack of cigarettes stuffed into the pocket of his T-shirt, at the scattered teeth with edges dark with rot, at the beady, yellowed eyes, and imagined smashing everything about him to a pulp. Cleansing the world of Del forever. But though he warred in dreams, he said nothing that could be heard.

“Suit yourself,” Delbert said affably. “Guess I better get in there and give Lucy what she's waiting for, which is about eight inches of good stiff dick. Right, Mister Lawyer-Man? Got to let them have their cock, don't we?”

Delbert had made him a co-conspirator. D.T.'s hands gripped the wheel, his teeth made noises against each other, his veins bulged with rushing blood.

The door opened and closed, the dome light flashed on and off, and Delbert was gone into the night, laughing, strutting, clutching beer. D.T. started the car and drove away, refusing to think of what had just happened, thinking only of where he could go. After ten unnoticed minutes he found himself on Billings Avenue.

The address Bobby E. Lee had given him was a darkly gothic structure, complete with parapets and sloping dormers. Its granite facade was blackened by at least a century of the city's soot, its oculus was lit like a cyclops' eye. A limestone fence protected the occupants from prying eyes. The wrought-iron gate was firmly closed. There was a street light on the corner, lights in several windows of the house, but the rest of the world was dark.

It started to rain. D.T. drove past the entrance once, then circled and passed it again, then turned around and parked down the block, facing the gate. As the rain beat cadence on the roof of his car he slid low in his seat and tried not to think of why he was where he was.