Separate Beds (7 page)

Marie appeared in the doorway just then.

“All set?”

“All set,” Mrs. Tollefson replied. “Feed this girl if she's hungry, then introduce her around.”

“Aye-aye!” Marie saluted. “C'mon, Catherine. This way to the kitchen.”

Some thirty minutes later Catherine walked out to the car with Bobbi. They stopped, and Bobbi turned to look back at the house.

“I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't anything like this.”

“Anything's better than home,” Catherine said with a definite chill in her voice. Bobbi saw the defensive veneer which always seemed to glaze Catherine's eyes when she made comments such as this. A mixture of pity and relief welled up in Bobbi—pity because her cousin's home life had been so painfully devoid of the love to which every child has a right, relief because Horizons seemed as good a haven as possible under these circumstances. Perhaps here Catherine might at last have, if not love, at least a measure of peace.

“I feel . . . well, better about leaving you here, Cath.”

The introspective look faded from Catherine's face as she turned to her cousin. The brilliant autumn sun burned down through the balmy afternoon, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

“And I feel good being left here—honest,” Catherine assured her. But that guilty look which Catherine had seen so often lately in Bobbi's expression was back again.

“Don't you dare think it,” Catherine scolded gently.

“I can't help it,” Bobbi answered, thrusting her hands into her jeans pockets and kicking at a fallen leaf. “If I hadn't lined you up with him—”

“Bobbi, cut it out. Just promise you won't tell anyone where I am.”

Bobbi looked up, unsmiling, her shoulders hunched up, hands still strung up in those pockets. “I promise,” she said quietly, then added, “Promise you'll call if you need anything at all?”

“Promise.”

There hung between the two girls an intimate silence while each of them thought about that blind date last July, their many shared confidences of girlhood leading to this greatest shared secret of all. For a moment Bobbi thought maybe this time Catherine would make the move first.

But Catherine Anderson found touching a difficult thing to do. And so she hovered, waiting, until at last Bobbi plunged forward to give her the affectionate squeeze Catherine needed so badly. In a life where love was a foreign thing, Catherine's feelings for this vibrant, bubbly cousin came as close as any to that emotion. And so, the hug she returned told a wealth of things, although she herself remained dry-eyed while tears gathered in Bobbi's throat before she backed away.

“Take it easy, huh?” Bobbi managed, her hands jammed once again in her pockets while she backed away.

“Yeah, for sure . . . and thanks, huh?”

And only when Bobbi spun and headed for the car, getting in and driving off without another backward glance did Catherine admit that she felt like crying. But she didn't. She didn't. Still, she came closer than she had since, at age eleven, she'd promised herself never to allow that weakness again.

It was twenty-four hours since Herb Anderson had appeared at the Forrester home with his threats and accusations, twenty-four hours during which Clay had slept little and found it quite impossible to concentrate on the evolution of the law as affected by the McGrath vs. Hardy Case he was currently analyzing in Torts II.

Angela heard the car door slam and moved toward the desk where Claiborne sat in his swivel chair. “He's home, darling. Are you quite sure about what we've decided?”

“As sure as it's possible to be, under the circumstances.”

“Very well, but must you confront him seated there like some oracle behind your desk? Let's wait for him on the loveseat.”

When Clay came to the study door he looked haggard. He stood in the doorway scarcely aware of the comfortable fire within the cozy room. He was too occupied with the strain upon his parents' faces.

“Come in, Clay,” Angela invited, “let's talk.”

“I've had a hell of a day.” He came in and sank down wearily on the coffee table with his back to them, slumping forward and kneading the back of his neck. “How about you two?”

“Likewise,” his father said. “We spent the afternoon out at the Arboretum talking. It's quiet out there at this time of year after the picnickers have gone. Conducive to thinking.”

“I might as well have stayed home for all I accomplished today. She was on my mind all day long.”

“And?”

“It's no different than last night. I just want to forget she exists.”

“But can you do that, Clay?”

“I can try.”

“Clay,” his mother's concerned voice began, “there's one possibility we did not discuss last night, although I'm sure it entered all our minds, and that is that she might possibly get an abortion. Forgive me for sounding like a grandmother, but the thought of it is utterly sickening to me.”

“You might as well know, we talked about it,” Clay admitted.

Angela felt a quiver begin in her stomach and travel up to her throat. “You—you did?”

“I offered her money, which she refused.”

“Oh, Clay.” The soft, disappointed swoon in her tone told Clay how it hurt her to hear the truth.

“Mother, I was testing her. I'm not sure what I'd have said if she had agreed.” But then Clay swung around on the shiny table to face his parents. “Oh, hell, what's the use of denying it? At the time it seemed like an easy solution.”

“Clay,” Angela said, as near to scolding as she'd been in years, “I fail to see how your feelings for that child as its father can be any less than ours as its grandparents. How could you think of—of denying it life, or of spending the rest of your own wondering where and who the child is?”

“Mother, don't you think I've thought the same things all day long?”

“Yet you don't propose to do anything about it?” Angela asked.

“I don't know what to do, I'm just mixed up . . . I . . . oh, hell.” His shoulders slumped further.

“What your mother is trying to make you see is that your responsibility is to make sure the child is provided for, and that its future is made secure. She speaks for both of us. It's our grandchild. We'd like to know its life will be the best possible, under the circumstances.”

“Are you saying you want me to ask that girl to marry me?”

“What we want, Clay, has been superseded by your thoughtless actions. What we want is what we've always wanted for you, an education, a career, a happy life—”

“And you think I'd have those things married to a woman I don't love?” Suddenly Clay rose and walked to a window, glanced absently at the gathering dusk outside, then turned to confront them again. “I've never said it before, not in so many words, but I want the kind of relationship you two have. I want a wife I can be proud of, someone of my own class, if it comes down to that, whose ambitions match mine, who is bright and . . . and loving, and who wants what I want out of life. Someone like Jill.”

“Ah . . . Jill,” Angela said with an arched eyebrow, then leaned forward intently, her petite elbow on her gracefully crossed knees. “Yes, I think it's time you considered Jill. Where was Jill when all of this happened?”

“We'd had a fight, that's all.”

“Oh, you had a fight.” Angela settled back again, her casualness belying the seriousness of the subject. “And so you took out Catherine to—to get even with Jill, or for whatever reason, and by doing so, wronged not one woman, but two. Clay, how could you!”

“Mother, you've always liked Jill far better than any of the other girls I've gone with.”

“Yes, I have; both your father and I admire her immensely. But at the moment I feel your responsibility to Catherine Anderson is far greater than that to Jill. Besides, I haven't the slightest doubt that if you'd wanted to marry Jill you'd have asked her years ago.”

“We've talked about it more than once, but the timing just wasn't right. I wanted to get school behind me and pass my bar exam first.”

“Speaking of which, I should like to point out a few facts you may have overlooked,” Claiborne said, rising from the loveseat and taking what Clay knew was his “counsel for the plaintiff” stance: both feet flat on the floor, jaw and one shoulder jutting toward the accused. “That father of hers could make more trouble for you than you might think. You are aware that your bar examinations are less than a year off, and that the State Board of Law Examiners goes to some lengths to establish that any person making application be of good moral character. Up to this point I've never given it a second thought regarding you, but I've done nothing but consider it today. Clay, something like this could be enough for them to deny you the right to take your boards! When you apply, you'll be asked for affidavits respecting your habits and general reputation, and they are fully within their rights to demand you to furnish a character investigation report to the National Bar Examiners. Do you realize that?”

The expression on Clay's face made an answer unnecessary.

“Clay, it only takes one dyed-in-the-wool conservative who still sees abortion as immoral, regardless of its legal ramifications, or who believes that siring a bastard is cause enough to doubt your moral character, and it could be the death knell to your legal career. You have less than a year left. Do you want it all to go for nothing?” Claiborne moved to his desk, touched a pen distractedly, then sought Clay's eyes. “There is a minor concern which I cannot help but inject here. As an alumnus at the university, I'm a member of the Partnership in Excellence and The Board of Visitors. I enjoy those positions and they speak well for me. They are prestigious and would undoubtedly be an asset, if I decide to run for county attorney. I should like no slur on the Forrester name, whether it be on yours or mine. And if I do run, I am counting on you to continue my established practice during my term. Of course, we all realize what is at stake here.” Claiborne dropped the pen on the desk for effect. It was implicit: he was threatening to exclude Clay from the family firm, upon which Clay had always built his plans for the future. Claiborne steepled his fingertips, looked over them at his son and finished, with further innuendo, “Your decision, Clay, will affect all of us.”

At that moment Herbert Anderson was stalking back and forth across Catherine's deserted bedroom like a caged cat.

“Goddam that girl; I'll break every bone in her body if she ain't with Forrester talking money right this minute! Talk about gratitude, that's gratitude for you!” He landed a vicious kick on a drawer that gaped at him with nothing but newspaper lining its bottom. The kick left a black scuff mark beside those he'd already put there.

From the doorway Ada stammered in a quaking voice, “Wh—where do you sup—suppose she'd of gone, Herb?”

“Well, how the hell am I supposed to know!” he yelled. “She don't tell me one damn thing about her comings and goings. If she did, she wouldn't of got herself knocked up in the first place 'cause I'd of made goddam sure she'd of known something about that lover boy of hers before she went out and got herself diddled by him!”

“Maybe—maybe he took her in after all.”

“He took her in all right, and she's got a belly full of his brat to prove it!” Stalking to the telephone, he elbowed Ada rudely aside, continuing his tirade as he dialed. “Damn girl ain't got the sense God gave a cluck hen if she's not with Forrester. Wouldn't know what her ship looked like if it run her down and sliced her in half! Them Forresters was my ticket, goddammit! My ticket! Damn her hide if she run off on me and . . .”

Just then Clay picked up his ringing phone, and Anderson bawled into the mouthpiece, “Where the hell is my daughter, lover boy!” The three Forresters were still in the study discussing the situation. Claiborne and Angela didn't need to hear the far end of the conversation to know what was being said.

“She's not here.” There were long pauses between Clay's responses. “I don't know . . . I haven't seen her since I dropped her off at home last night . . . Now listen to me, Anderson! I told her then that if she wanted money, I'd be happy to give it to her, but she refused. I don't know what more you expect of me . . . That's harassment, Anderson, and it's punishable by law! . . . I'm willing to talk to your daughter but I have no intention of dealing with a small-time con artist like you. I'll say it one more time, Anderson, leave us alone! It will take no more than a call from your daughter, and financial aid will be in her hand before the day is out, but as for you, I wouldn't give you the directions to a soup line if you were dying of starvation! Do I make myself clear! . . . Fine! Bring them! She's nowhere in this house. If she were, I'd be happy to put her on the phone right now . . . Yes, your concern is very touching . . . I have no idea . . .” There followed a longer pause during which Clay pulled the receiver away from his ear while the muffled anger of Herb Anderson crackled through the wire. When Clay hung up, it was with equal portions of anger and worry.

“Well, it seems she's disappeared,” he said, dropping down into his father's desk chair.

“So I gathered,” Claiborne replied.

“The man is a lunatic.”

“I agree. And he's not going to stop with one abusive phone call. Do you concur?”

“How should I know?” Clay jumped up again, paced across the room and stopped to sigh at the ceiling. “He threatened at least four various felonies during the course of the conversation.”

“Have you any idea where the girl might have gone?” his father asked.

“None. All she would say was that she had plans. I had no idea she intended to disappear this fast.”

“Do you know any of her friends?”

“Only her cousin Bobbi, the girl Stu's been dating.”

“My suggestion is, you see if she knows where Catherine is, and the sooner the better. I have an idea we haven't heard the last from Anderson. I want him stopped before any word of this leaks out.”

Meanwhile, in Omaha, Nebraska, the sister of a student in Bobbi Schumaker's Psych I class dropped a letter in a U.S. mail depository. It was written in Catherine Anderson's clean, distinctive hand and addressed to Ada, telling her not to worry.

The following evening the Forresters were at dinner, the table set tastefully with white damask linens, bronze-colored mums and burning tapers. Inella, the maid, had just served the chicken Kiev and returned to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. With a sigh she went to answer it. She had no more than turned the handle when the door was smacked back against the wall with a violent shove, flying out of Inella's surprised fingers.

A guttural voice rasped, “Where the hell is he!”

Too shocked to attempt forestalling him, she only gaped while the man used an elbow to thrust her aside. She landed against the side of the stairs, overturning the brass pitcher of eucalyptus. Before she could right herself, the words Warpo's Bar were disappearing into the living room, trailed by a string of filth that made Inella's ears ring worse than the thud her head had just suffered.

“I told you I'd get you, lover boy, and I'm here to do it!” Herb Anderson shouted, surprising the trio at the dining room table.

Angela's hand was poised halfway to her mouth. Claiborne dropped his napkin and Clay began getting to his feet. But halfway there he was caught in the chin by a set of crusty knuckles whistling through the candlelit room without warning. His head snapped back and the sickening sound of the fist landing on her son's face made Angela scream and grope for her husband's help. Clay reeled backward, taking his chair with him to the floor while the red nylon jacket dove after him. Before Claiborne could reach Anderson's poised arm, it cracked downward again in a second punishing blow. From the doorway Inella screamed, then covered her mouth with her hands.

“My God, call the police!” cried Angela. “Hurry!”

Inella spun from the room.

Claiborne got Anderson's arm, avoiding the swings which continued falling seemingly in every direction at once. He managed to catch the crook of Anderson's elbow, spinning the heavy man in a circle. Anderson's backside struck the edge of the table, sending crystal wine goblets, water glasses and candleholders teetering. The tablecloth caught on fire as candle wax sprayed across it, but Angela was embroiled in attempting to subdue the madman along with her husband. Clay got to his feet, bleeding, stunned, but not too stunned to throw his weight into a fist that settled satisfyingly into Anderson's paunch. The air whoofed from Anderson, and he doubled over, clutching himself, while Angela grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked as hard as she could. She was crying, even as she held the detestable hair in a painful tug. Clay stood like a crazed man himself, the look on his face pure fury as he pinned one of Anderson's arms behind his back and leaned a knee across the words on the back of the red nylon jacket. The fire on the tabletop grew, but just then a sobbing Inella ran back into the room, tipped the bouquet of chrysanthemums over to douse the flames, then stood clutching her knuckles against her lips while tears streamed down her cheeks.

“The police are coming.”

“Oh, God, make them hurry,” Angela prayed.

The shock of the attack was sinking in as the three Forresters looked at each other across the subdued man. Angela saw the cut on Clay's jaw, another above his right eye.