She waited, gauging his response, which was simply to stare at her. “The other alternative is I could stay at your place.”
To that he shook his head. “Small town. Big talk.”
“I’d sleep on the sofa.” She drilled him with her wonderful green eyes. “Unless you wanted otherwise.”
“I think I’ll put a cot in here.”
She gave a diffident shrug, slid off his desk, and headed toward the door. “Just keep it in mind.”
He watched her leave, but not without a little stab of regret.
30
Jenny wore a plaid wool skirt and a rust-colored turtleneck. Her blond hair was carefully brushed. She appeared, Jo thought, very collegiate, probably a look she would abandon once she was actually attending college. It was just fine for her meeting at Northwestern with Marty Goldman.
His office was on the second floor of a three-story brick building with white colonnades, a block off the main campus. He looked like he’d been an athlete in his youth, but over the years a lot of his muscle had gone to fat and spilled over his belt. He wore a light blue Oxford with a yellow tie, and he rose from his desk to greet them, the skin of his face pink and shiny.
“I understand we’re your first choice,” he said after they’d finished with the pleasantries. “We’re always glad to hear that. Have you taken your SATs or the ACTs yet?”
“SATs.”
“Do you recall your scores?”
Jenny told him.
“Very impressive,” he said, with a lift of his brow. “What kind of extracurricular activities have you been involved in?”
“I’m the editor of the school paper, The Beacon. I’ve been on the yearbook staff for the past two years. I’m a member of National Honor Society, president of the Debate Club. I can go on,” she said.
“That’s just fine,” he laughed. “What is it about Northwestern that attracts you?”
“The Medill School,” Jenny said.
“Journalism,” Goldman said with an approving nod.
“I want to be a writer.”
“Well, we certainly have some fine authors among our alumni. And we have several writing programs in conjunction with Medill that might interest you.”
The talk was interrupted by a knock at the open door. A wiry young man a little over six feet tall with neatly groomed dark hair and a brooding look in his eyes stood just inside the threshold. He wore pressed jeans, a navy sweater over a white shirt, penny loafers. He stood stiffly, as if waiting for an invitation.
“Phillip. Come on in,” Goldman said, rising.
Phillip came forward with a stiff, military stride.
“Jenny, Jo, this is Phillip. I’ve asked him to give you a tour of the campus this morning. He’s a senior. I’m sure he’ll be able to answer any questions you might have. I’ve scheduled you for about ninety minutes. That should be plenty of time to see almost everything of interest and for a Coke or cup of coffee in the bargain.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll see you back here at twelve-thirty and we can talk a bit more. Phillip?”
“This way.” The young man led them out.
Jo hung back as they headed toward campus, letting Jenny and Phillip walk side by side in front. She was proud of her daughter, of Jenny’s confidence and goals, proud of the woman her daughter was and proud of who she was becoming. She relaxed and listened as the two young people talked. Jenny had a million questions. Phillip answered them all. He was polite, informative, but there was something in his voice that hinted at irritation, as if this were a small ordeal.
The Northwestern campus was beautiful, deep in colorful fall. The collegiate structures, the flow of students along the sidewalks, the energy of freedom that was a part of college-Jo remembered the feel of it from her own undergraduate years long ago. For her, college had been an escape. It wouldn’t have mattered where she’d gone. Anywhere, just to get away. She’d ended up with a full scholarship to the University of Illinois in Champaign, a campus that rose out of cornfields. She’d come well prepared to stand on her own, having spent her life standing up to her mother. There’d been nothing about college that intimidated her. The academics had been routine. Sex, drugs, and books she juggled easily and graduated magna cum laude.
After that had come law school at the University of Chicago, her first great challenge. She’d put aside the drugs and she’d also put aside men. Then came Ben Jacoby. When he stepped into her life, she was ready for something permanent, and until he said good-bye, she’d thought he was offering it.
Watching Jenny ahead of her, she hoped her daughter would have a different experience. Someone who would care about her the way Cork cared about Jo. Not that a man was necessary, because she remembered only too well how alone she’d often felt even when she was with a man. Ben Jacoby had changed that. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be with someone forever. She’d never let a man hurt her before, but Jacoby had hurt her deeply.
Maybe everyone needed their heart broken once. Maybe it had been that kind of hurt that helped her appreciate Cork from the beginning. From their very first meeting in Chicago.
It was spring. She still lived on South Harper Avenue in Hyde Park in the apartment where several months before she’d shared her nights with Ben. She came home from working late in the D’Angelo Law Library to find that her place had been broken into and she’d been robbed of her stereo and television. She called the police. A uniformed patrolman responded. Officer Corcoran O’Connor.
He filled out an incident report, then he spent a while looking over her apartment inside and out. Finally he sat down with her.
“I’ve got to be honest with you. There’s very little chance of recovering your stolen property. No serial numbers, almost impossible to trace. But I’d like to make some recommendations for the future. First of all, I’d get a better lock on your front door.”
“He didn’t come in the front door. He came through the window.”
“I understand. But almost anybody could break in through the front door if they were so inclined, so I’d get a good dead bolt. Now, about the windows. I think you should put bars on them.”
“I don’t relish the idea of living in a jail,” she said.
“Ever been in jail?”
“No.”
“It won’t feel like a jail, I promise. I understand you object to having to barricade yourself, but that’s the reality of your situation. In a way, you’re lucky. This time, they only stole from you. Next time, they might be after something different.”
“As in rape.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t know that I can afford bars on the windows,” she said.
“You don’t need them on all your windows. I’ve checked around back. You’re on the second floor, so you’re fine there. But in front, with the porch and that elm, you’re vulnerable. Really, your landlord ought to be the one who puts them on. If you get flack from him, I know where you can get them at a reasonable price.” He cleared his throat. “And I’d be glad to install them.”
“You?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please stop calling me ma’am. And why would you do that?”
“I know you volunteer your time helping people who can’t afford a lawyer. I’ve seen you in the storefront office on Calumet.”
“Yes.”
“You do it, I’d guess, because you believe it’s the right thing to do. Considering your situation here, I just
