Matt…' The flow of words stopped, her eyes suddenly dead, without any energy. 'It would be better if it were just all over with. That'd be the end of it.'
Maybe it was a test. Jennifer searched through the glass for something in his eyes, some answer. She scratched at the counter in front of her, reached her hand toward the Plexiglas, then withdrew it. 'It's not going to get better, no matter what happens. I'm just the kind of person that everything beats up on… men, things, situations. I'm a loser, that's all.'
Lightner was sitting forward now, his hand pushing against the glass. 'You're not a loser, Jen. You've been victimized. We've talked about this. It's natural to feel the way you do, with what you've been through. But you're not a loser. I wouldn't stick with you if you were a loser, if I thought there wasn't some end to this, some time when things are going to be better.'
'Tell me when.'
'Come on, Jen. No one knows that, exactly. But-'
'I think you'd stick with me anyway, Ken, even though I am a loser. And you know why. I've figured this out. Because I'm a challenge to you, some classic case study.'
'Jesus, Jennifer, how can you say that after all-'
'Because it's true, isn't it? You don't really care, do you? I mean about me. Who could ever love somebody as messed up as I am? As soon as I do get turned around, the minute it happens, if it ever does, the challenge or puzzle or whatever I am would be over. You'd be gone, too, wouldn't you? And then where would I be? I'll tell you where – where I am now, which is nowhere. Nowhere, nothing, never coming back, oh, goddamn it all…'
She threw the phone down, pushing the chair backward, knocking it over, standing, looking around, tears falling freely now. The guard was moving up, hand on her stick.
Lightner stood, his own hand on the Plexiglas, watching. Jennifer said something to the guard, slumping. She didn't turn back to look. They moved toward the door back to the cells, and Lightner sat again in the hard chair, trying to control his own feelings.
Suddenly she was back at the glass, hands splayed against it. Crying for real now, her body half-falling, half- leaning, her weight against the partition. Shaking her head, her face set, reaching for her stick as if she might really need it, the guard was coming up behind Jennifer – who was forcing words out between the sobs.
Even if he couldn't hear clearly he knew what she was saying. It was what she always said when she hit her own bedrock, when she felt it was all on her and she had to accept it.
'I'm sorry,' she was crying, over and over, trying to reach him through the glass as though he were in another dimension. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, don't be mad at me…'
And then the guard's hand was on her shoulder, pulling her backward, turning her around and back to the door.
Lightner stood there breathing deeply and thinking that Jennifer might be right. She might be hopeless, an incurable loser.
And after all he'd done for her. It hit him like an electric shock, forcing him back down into the chair – the realization that she might never, ever get herself straight. He realized he was shaking, trying to get it under control, but what he wanted was to wake her up, knock some sense into that confused, lovely head of hers.
Frannie could not believe that Hardy had made all these arrangemenets – calling Erin, Rebecca's grandmother, to see if she would mind taking the kids overnight, sending a cab to pick everybody up and drop them where they should be, making reservations at this luxurious Bed amp; breakfast.
Hardy was modest. 'I'm a virtual treasure trove of surprises.'
'What made you think of this? What about the trial?'
Hardy sat on a red crushed velvet settee drinking an old tawny port from a cut-crystal wine glass. 'I figured we owed ourselves about four date nights, call it twelve hours minimum. The trial can live without me a day – this is primarily Freeman's phase, anyway, remember.'
Frannie stood at the window, arms crossed, her hair up, taking in the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the back window of the California House, an old Victorian on Upper Divisadero Street that had been refurbished and reincarnated as a Bed amp; Breakfast. They were in the Gold Rush suite, complete with stocked bookshelves, jacuzzi, fireplace, port and sherry with crystal service and, of course, The View, which added eighty dollars to the room charge.
He had made the reservation from the Hall of Justice as soon as they had recessed for the day. Erin had told him it would be no problem to come by, get the kids, feed them their dinner. Hardy had the feeling that if Erin simply showed up with a plan there'd be less chance that Frannie would demur. A cab came to their house and picked her up at 6:15. And now here they were.
Hardy still wasn't sure Frannie was altogether thrilled with the surprise. Her arms stayed crossed. Her face was set. He didn't think it was anger – in spite of the distance she hadn't been acting as though she were mad at him. Her jaw was tight, her eyes alert and thoughtful, inward looking – as though she were bearing up under some physical pain she didn't want to burden him with.
His fear was that the pain was the result of some change, that she'd realized that she didn't want him and their life together anymore. Her eyes came to him from across some chasm. A half-smile. 'Hi.'
He realized he'd been holding his breath, watching her, literally afraid to breathe. If he didn't breathe, maybe the moment would stop and he wouldn't have to find out what the next one held. He put his port on the end table and let out his breath in a rush. 'So how's life, Frannie?'
'How do you think?'
'I think not good. I've had a stomache ache for a month. Since you stopped smiling. I thought maybe you'd like to talk about it.'
She turned back to The View, her face in profile to him. He saw the muscle working in her jaw. He wanted to get up, go to her, but something – perhaps the knowledge that if she pushed him away now, didn't let him gather her in and hold her, then they might not get it back, not ever – something rooted him to the chair.
The words came out mumbled and he told her he hadn't heard what she'd said. They took a minute to come again.
She turned to face him directly and met his eyes. 'Secrets.'
He digested the word, and as the most obvious interpretation hit him, his stomach churned. He felt his head go light, as though he were going to faint. 'What secrets?' It was the only thing he could think of to say.
She stood in the same posture, facing him straight on, arms crossed. 'Secrets are what you don't tell.'
Hardy leaned forward in his chair. He lifted the glass of port next to him and took a drink, then put it back down. 'Okay,' he said.
'It's not just that,' she said.
'I don’t even know what that is.'
'That's right. You don't.'
Hardy brought his hand up to his forehead, squeezed at his temples. 'Okay, Fran, but I've go to know.' His palms found their way together. Praying. 'Is it another man? Can you tell me that?'
He saw her shoulders settle, her eyes close. All her body language said that some crisis had just passed. Her arms uncrossed, untangled, came to her sides. She moved toward him, kneeled in front of him.
'What are you talking about, another man? There's no other man. There couldn't be another man.' She had her hands on his face, her eyes into his, searching, outlining his features with her fingertips, her arms then around his neck, pulling him to her, against her. He felt himself shaking under her. It was all the emotion he so much tried to keep in check, to control.
That was why he'd married her. Because he trusted her enough to let her see him like this, see who he really was. She was part of him, the catalyst that let him be whole again.
She rocked him, his head in her hands, holding him, feeling the waves of emotion coming out of him, surfacing.
She held him as tightly as she could.
This was her man and he needed her. If he could do this, trust her with what he'd call his weakest self, she didn't have to worry. She could lay herself out for him – her own doubts, her own failings, inadequacies. He wasn't
