“That’s nothin’,” Natalie said and threw a fat file down on the desk in front of Angie. “Take a look at this one. You want injustice, see what they tried to do to JoAnn Bloom. Too bad Karen got sick,” Natalie said. “But she’s a tough bird. She’ll be back. At least until she’s through chemotherapy.” Angie sat and looked at the folder.
“What happens in the meantime?” Angie asked, finally looking at her mother’s blank face. She knew that her mother was holding out the hook and hoping that it stuck, and she was afraid that maybe it might.
“You know,” Angie said, before her mother could answer, “ever since you and Daddy divorced, I thought you were, well, a little adamant. I know he tried to give you a raw deal, but I just didn’t believe that all women were being given raw deals. I thought that maybe you were … paranoid.”
“You know what William Burroughs used to say, don’t you?” Angie shook her head. ‘“Paranoia is having all the facts.’” Natalie’s gaze swept the room. “Nice office space, huh?” she asked.
Angie looked up at her. “What are you asking?”
“Whether you want to give a few hours of your time to help out.”
“A few hours?” Angie laughed. “It would take my whole life time to fix this.”
“Oh, a lot more than that,” Natalie said. “But you could take a small bite. Just something to chew on while you find your feet.”
Angie knew her mother, knew her strategy, but nodded anyway. She wouldn’t get sucked in forever. Still, she could do this now. She couldn’t go back to Needham.
“Okay,” she said. “But it’s just temporary. It’s just for right now.”
In which Michelle cleans up the debris with a little help from her friend
Michelle was on her hands and knees trying to pick the bigger pieces of broken glass out of the carpet. She’d stopped crying a long time ago—sometime after she’d quit looking for Pookie out in the dark, and before she’d tried to put some order into the wreckage of her children’s rooms upstairs. She’d had to settle for eliminating, filling six big garbage bags with all of the torn pillows, smashed toys, broken knickknacks, shredded posters, and other mangled bits and pieces of her two children’s material lives. Frank had helped her put their son’s bunk beds upright but, battered himself and with at least one rib broken, he had at last gone to lay down. Neither she nor Frank wanted the children to see their father’s face tonight, and maybe not tomorrow. It even frightened Michelle. She had put ice on it, but it was really too late for that. He would look frightening for the next week at least.
Michelle knelt there. She thought of the joke Jada always made. She was like Cinderella now, but there was no fairy godmother. She was about to get up from her knees when she saw yet more glass, these shards glinting from under the ottoman. As she reached to extract them she realized she’d used the exact same motion only twenty-four hours ago, though her house had been perfect then and she was only reaching for innocent Legos. Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and with both hands now full of broken glass, she couldn’t wipe them away. What was the use, anyhow? she asked herself hopelessly. She’d probably be crying for years. She felt like a car crash victim. How right she’d been. Most accidents did happen in the home.
After the horror of last night, Frank had called a lawyer. The lawyer had gotten her and—after a considerable delay—Frank himself out of jail. The guy, named Rick Bruzeman, was a small very well-dressed man who seemed effective but far from sympathetic. Michelle wanted to tell him how outrageous, how awful the police had been, how she and Frank were innocent, and how this outrage, this unjust invasion should be on the front page of the newspaper. “Don’t worry. It will,” he said, “but not with that spin.” He didn’t seem to want to listen to her. Perhaps he’d heard it all before, and from people who weren’t innocent. What he’d done had been effective and efficient—he’d picked her up, he’d gotten the children released into her care, and he’d gotten Frank’s bail reduced and had him sprung—if that was the word you used for a legal exit from the Westchester Detention Center—but he seemed worse than cold. He seemed professional. He made Michelle feel more like a criminal than the police had.
Now Michelle stood up, the glass still in her hands, the tears still on her cheeks, and looked around again at the destruction. It was incredible, unbelievable. If the police had to search for drugs or whatever they suspected was hidden, did they also have to break, tear, and rip apart everything in their search? She started walking to the garbage bin she had placed in the center of the room and, as she did, her foot crunched against something spread in the carpet.
She looked down. What the hell was this? She crouched and looked more closely. At first she thought that it was potting soil from her corn plant, but then she recognized it was coffee. Coffee? Someone had opened—well, it looked like two or three of her sealed fresh cans of ground coffee, and had not only pawed through the stuff, but then thrown it onto the floor here. It had already sunk down into the weft of the carpet, but in some places it was thick enough to form little hills. Ironically she wondered if maybe Frankie would like to use the setting for his action figures—it would make a realistic battleground diorama.
She rose again, threw the glass into the garbage, and looked around. Framed pictures had been pulled off the walls, the canvases torn, the frames broken. The big mirror beside the credenza had been cracked. The contents of every drawer and cabinet had been pulled out and were lying now in mounds on the floor. There wasn’t an upholstered piece of furniture that hadn’t had its guts pulled apart, its cushions torn. Empty, the cushion covers now lay on the floor like giant crumpled condoms.
It was a nasty image, but there was something almost brutally sexual about all this, Michelle thought as she went for the Dustbuster. Her home had been rent apart. She felt almost as if she’d been invaded or raped. And look what it had done to Frank and her children. She’d pull it together as best she could, but the cracks and tears and dirt couldn’t be erased.
She looked past the dining room table into the hallway. She knew she should go outside and bring in her chairs, the chairs that were sitting in her front yard like drunken relatives advertising her family’s tragedy. She should also go out again and look for Pookie. But the fact was, she didn’t have the courage to do it. She had felt the neighbors’ eyes on her when she was outside. Anyway, she had to get this place decently cleaned up before the children could come in, but the task was so overwhelming that she didn’t know exactly what to do next.
So, instead of pulling out a new box of trash bags, she turned around and walked back up the stairs, passed the children’s emptied and scarred rooms, and into the master bedroom. Frank, one eye blackened, both cheeks bruised, was lying on the bed, perhaps lightly dozing. She should let him try to recuperate, but she couldn’t. As she got onto the bed, he opened his eyes. That was all she needed—to see his dark, pained eyes staring into hers—to start her crying again. “Oh, Frank, it’s so horrible. They’ve destroyed us, Frank.”
“No, they haven’t,” he told her and put his right arm out and around her. He winced with the pain of moving, but his arm felt so good on her shoulder and back. He soothed her while she wept against his side. “Michelle, babe, they attacked us. But they didn’t destroy us,” he said in his deepest, most serious voice. “I don’t know why, and I don’t know who decided to pull this horrible bullshit on us, but I’ll find out and I’ll take care of it, babe. I swear I will. We got the best lawyer. They busted us and there was nothing here. Nothing.” She nodded, her head now against his chest. “Thank God they didn’t plant something here.” Michelle shuddered at the thought. “We’ll sue the town, we’ll sue the county, we’ll sue the state. Keep a list of everything torn or broken. They’ll pay.” He looked at her. “They didn’t hurt