Separate Beds (8 page)

“Clay, are you all right?”

“I'm okay . . . Dad, how about you?”

“I'll get you rich sons-a-bitches!” Anderson was still vowing, his face now pressed into the yellow carpet. “Goddammit! Let go o' my hair!”

Angela only pulled harder.

Outside, sirens grew closer and Inella fled from the room to the front door, which was still yawning open. Blue uniforms sped through the house behind the maid, who was shaking uncontrollably now.

Anderson was cuffed quickly and forced to remain on the dining room floor, all the while spewing threats and oaths at the Forrester family in general. The smell of burned linens permeated the room. The officers saw the charred tablecloth, the overturned dishes and the flowers strewn across the table and onto the floor.

“Is anybody hurt?”

Everyone turned to look at Angela first, as at last she flung herself into her husband's arms, crying.

“Angie, are you hurt?” he asked concernedly, but she only shook her head, leaving it buried in his chest.

“Do you know this man?” an officer asked.

“We've only met him once, day before yesterday.”

“What happened here tonight?”

“He forced his way in and accosted my son while we were having dinner.”

“What's your name, Bud?” This to Anderson, who was now kneeling on the floor.

“You ask
them
what my name is, so they'll never forget it!” He jerked his head viciously in Clay's direction. “Ask lover boy there who I am. I'm the father of the girl he knocked up, that's who!”

“Do you want to press charges, sir?” an officer asked Claiborne.

“What about me?” Anderson whined. “I got some charges need pressin' here if anybody does. That son-of-a-bitch—”

“Take him to the squad car, Larry. You'll get your chance to answer later, Anderson, after we read you your rights.”

He was pulled to his feet and pushed ahead of the officer to the front door. Outside the flashing scarlet light was still circling, the radio crackling a dispatcher's voice. Anderson was locked in the caged backseat to rain accusations on the entire Forrester family only to be ignored by the officer who calmly sat up front, writing on his clipboard.

Shortly before supper the following day, the hall phone at Horizons rang. Someone shouted through the house, “Phone call . . . Anderson!”

Running downstairs, Catherine knew it could only be Bobbi, and she was anxious for word about her mother.

“Hello?”

“Cath, have you read the paper today?”

“No, I had classes. I didn't have time.”

“Well, you'd better.”

Catherine had a sudden, horrible premonition that her fears had become reality, that Herb Anderson had taken it all out on his wife.

“Is Mom—”

“No, no . . . she's all right. It's Clay. Your old man busted into his house last night and laid one on him.”

“What!”

“I'm not kidding, Cath. He pushed his way in there and popped him. The police came and hauled sweet old Uncle Herb off to jail.”

“Oh, no.” Catherine's fingertips covered her lips.

“Just thought you'd want to know.”

There was a hesitation, then, “Is—is Clay hurt?”

“I don't know. The article didn't say. You can read it for yourself. It's on page eight-B of the morning
Trib.”

“Have you talked to my mother?”

“Yeah, she's okay. I talked to her last night, must have been while your dad was in Edina beating up Clay. She almost sounded happy that you were gone. I told her not to worry because you were safe and that she'd be hearing from you.”

“Is she—”

“She's okay, Cat, I said she's okay. Just stay where you are and don't let this change your mind, huh? Clay can take care of himself, and a night in jail might even mellow out your old man.”

Before she ended the conversation, Bobbi added a fact that she'd earlier decided not to tell Catherine, then had decided to tell after all.

“Clay called me and asked if I knew where you are. I lied.”

The line buzzed voicelessly for a moment, then Catherine said quietly, “Thanks, kiddo.”

Catherine found the article in the
Minneapolis Tribune
and read it several times, trying to picture the scene her father had created. Although she hadn't seen the dining room of the Forrester house, she could well imagine a luxurious setting there and what it must have been like when her father burst in. Clay Forrester's face welled up before her, his gray eyes, handsome jawline, and then her old man's fist ramming into it. Guilt welled up unwanted. She heard Clay's voice as he'd asked her to accept his money, and somehow knew that if she'd accepted it he would not have been assaulted by her old man. She knew, too, that her running away had thwarted Herb Anderson's plans for getting rich quick and had been further cause for him to turn his rage on Clay. At least Herb's volatile anger had been diverted away from Ada, but Catherine's conscience plagued her mercilessly until she assuaged it with the thought that, after all, the elder Mr. Forrester was an attorney and could easily prosecute his son's assailant, which would be no more than Herb deserved. The thought brought a short smile to Catherine's lips.

Bobbi wasn't surprised to answer the door the next day and find Clay Forrester there.

He said without preamble, “I've got to talk to you. Can we take a ride?”

“Sure, but it won't do any good.”

“You know where she is, don't you?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Who wants to know, her old man?”

“I do.”

“You're a day late and a dollar short, Clay.”

“Listen, could we go somewhere and have a cup of coffee?”

She studied him a moment, shrugged, and answered, “Let me get my sweater.”

The Corvette was at the curb. She eyed it appreciatively and wondered again at Catherine's foolishness in not exploiting the situation, if only financially. Watching Clay round the front fender, Bobbi couldn't help thinking that if she were in Catherine's shoes she herself might not mind exploiting Clay Forrester in more ways than one.

They drove to a small restaurant called Green's where they ordered coffee, then sat avoiding each other's eyes until it came. Clay hunched over his cup, looking totally distraught. His jawline had been altered and a bandage rode his right eyebrow.

“That's a nice little shiner you've got there, Clay.” She eyed it and he scowled.

“This thing is getting out of hand, Bobbi.”

“Her old man's always been out of hand. How do you like him?”

Clay sipped his coffee and looked at her over the rim of the cup. “Not exactly my idea of a model father-in-law,” he said.

“So what do you want with Catherine?”

“Listen, there are things involved here which I don't care to get into. But, for starters, I want her to take some money from me so her old man will leave me alone. He's not going to stop until he's seen green, and I'll be damned if I'll lay it in his hand. All I want her to do is to accept money for the hospital bills or her keep or whatever. Do you know where she is?”

“What if I do?” There was an unmistakable note of challenge in her attitude. He studied her a moment, then leaned back, toying with his cup handle.

“Maybe I deserved to get knocked around a little bit, is that what you're thinking?”

“Maybe I was. I love her.”

“Did she tell you I offered to pay my dues, financially?”

“She also told me you offered her money for an abortion.” When he remained silent Bobbi went on. “Supposing she's off having one right now?” Bobbi studied his face carefully and found the reaction she wanted: dread. She added sardonically, “Is your conscience bothering you, Clay?”

“You're damn right it is. If you think the only reason I want to see her is to get Anderson off my back, you're wrong.” He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose briefly, then muttered, “Lord, I can't get her off my mind.”

Bobbi studied him as she sipped. The black eye and bruised jaw Uncle Herb had doled out could not disguise Clay Forrester's handsomeness nor the worried expression about his eyes. Something in Bobbi softened.

“I don't know why I feel compelled to tell you, but she's okay. She's got her plans all made and she's carrying through with them. Catherine's a strong person.”

“I realized that the other night when I talked to her. Most girls in her position would come at a man with palms up, but not her.”

“She's had it hard. She knows how to get by without any help from anybody.”

“But still you won't tell me where she is?” He turned appealing eyes to her, making it extremely difficult for Bobbi to answer as she had to.

“That's right. I gave my word.”

“All right. I won't try to force you to break it, but will you do just this much for me? Will you tell Catherine that if she needs anything—anything at all—to let me know? Tell her I'd like to talk to her, that it's important, and ask her if she'd call me at home tomorrow night. That way neither one of you will have to give away her whereabouts.”

“I'll give her the message, but I don't think she'll call. She's stubborn . . . almost as stubborn as her old man.”

Clay looked down into his cup. “Listen, she's”—He swallowed, looked up again with an expression of worry etched upon his eyebrows—”She's not having an abortion, is she?”

“No, she's not.”

His shoulders seemed to wilt with relief.

That night when Catherine answered the phone, Bobbi opened by saying, “Clay came to see me.”

Catherine's hand stopped where it was upon her scalp, combing her hair back from her face. Her heart seemed to stop with it. “You didn't tell him anything, did you?”

“No, I just complimented him on his shiner. Your dad really meant business!”

It took great effort for Catherine to resist asking if Clay was really all right. She affected a businesslike tone, asking, “He didn't come to show you his battle scars, I'm sure. What did he want?”

“To know where you are. He wants to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Well, what do you suppose? Cath, he's not so bad. He didn't even complain about getting beaten up. He seems genuinely worried about your welfare and wants to make some arrangements for paying for the baby, that's all.”

“Bully for him!” Catherine exclaimed, casting an anxious glance down the hall to make sure no one was within earshot.

“Okay, okay! All I am is the messenger. He wants you to call him at his house tonight.”

The line grew silent. The picture of his house came back all too clearly to Catherine. His house with its comfortable luxury, its fire burning at dusk, his parents in their finery, Clay walking in whistling with his hair the color of autumn. A weakness threatened Catherine, but she resisted it.

“Cath, did you hear me?”

“I heard.”

“But you're not going to call him?”

“No.”

“But he said he's got something he has to talk over with you.” A rather persuasive tone came into Bobbi's voice then. “Listen, Cat, he kind of threw me. I thought he'd try to wheedle your whereabouts out of me, but he didn't. He said if you'd call him, neither one of us would have to give away any secrets.”

“Very upstanding,” Catherine said tightly, haunted even further by the remembered look of concern on Clay's face as she got out of his car.

“This might sound disloyal, but I'm beginning to think he is.”

“What, upstanding?”

“Well, is it so unbelievable? He really seems . . . well, concerned. He isn't acting at all like I thought he would. I find myself wondering what Stu would do if he found himself in Clay's situation. I think he might have left town by now. Listen, why don't you give Clay a chance?”

“I can't. I don't want his concern and I'm not going to call him. It wouldn't do any good.”

“He said I should tell you if there's anything you need, just say so, and you've got the money for it.”

“I know. He told me that before. I told him I don't want anything from him.”

“Cath, are you sure you're doing the smart thing?”

“Bobbi . . . please.”

“Well, heck, he's loaded. Why not take a little of it off his hands?”

“Now you sound like my old man!”

“Okay, Cath, it's your baby. I did what he asked; I gave you the message. Call him at his place tonight. From there on out it's up to you. So how's the place?”

“It's really not bad, you know?” Then, fighting off thoughts of Clay Forrester, Catherine added, “It has no men, so that's a plus right there.”

The voice at the other end became pleading. “Hey, don't get that way, Cath. Not all men are like your father. Clay Forrester, for instance, is about as far from your father as a man could get.”

“Bobbi, I get the distinct impression that you're changing sides.”

“I'm not changing sides. But I'm getting a better view of both sides, caught in the middle like I am. I'm always on your side, but I can't help it if I think you should at least call the guy.”

“Like hell I will! I don't want Clay Forrester or his money!”

“All right, all right! Enough! I'm not going to waste any more time arguing with you about it, because I know you when you get your mind made up.”

Absorbed as she was in her conversation with Bobbi, Catherine was unaware that three girls had gone into the kitchen for a snack, and from there any telephone conversation could be easily heard. When she hung up, she headed back for her room, more rattled than she'd care to admit by what Bobbi had said. It would be so easy to give in, to accept money from Clay, or to solicit his moral support during the difficult months ahead, but should she rely on him in any way she feared he would have a hold on her, on the decisions about her future which must still be made. It would be better to stay here where life was better than that which she'd left. At Horizons there was no censure, for everyone here was in the same boat.

Or so they thought.

The tension around the Forrester home grew as Catherine's whereabouts remained unknown. Angela walked around with a drawn expression about her mouth, and often Clay found her eyes upon him with such a hurt expression that he carried its memory with him to the law school building each
day. His concentration was further thwarted
by the fact that Herb Anderson was released after twenty-four hours without a formal charge made against him. The necessity to let him go scot-free rankled mercilessly, not only on Clay but on his father. They knew the law, knew they could pin Anderson to the wall for what he'd done. To be unable to do so only raised the pitch of their taut nerves.

Once Anderson was free, he became more self-righteous than ever. He smiled in self-satisfaction all the way home while he thought, I got them sons-a-bitches where I want them and I ain't lettin' go till they come through with the greenbacks!

When Herb got home, Ada was standing in the living room with her coat still on, reading a postcard. She looked up, startled to see him coming in the door.

“Why, Herb, you're out.”

“Goddam right I'm out. Them Forresters know what's good for 'em, that's why I'm out. Where's the girl?” His eyes were bloodshot, his knuckles still taped, the bandages dirty now. He already had the rank stench of gin on his breath.

“She's all right, Herb,” Ada offered timorously, holding out the card. “Look, she's in Omaha with a friend who—”

“Omaha!” The word rattled the windows as Herb reeled and smacked the postcard out of his wife's hand. She cowered, watching with huge eyes as he teetered and stooped to pick up the card off the floor. He gaped at the handwriting to make sure it was Catherine's. He swiped the soiled bandage across the eyes that always wore a film of water over their ochred whites. When his vision cleared, he studied the card again, then whispered, “Them rich sons-a-bitchin' whorin' no-good bastards are gonna pay for this! Nobody makes a horse's ass outa Herb Anderson and gets away with it!” Then he shoved past Ada as if she weren't there, heading out again.

She collapsed into a chair with a shudder of relief.

At Horizons, Francie got even with a few of life's injustices by stealing a bottle of Charlie perfume from the top of Catherine Anderson's dresser.

At the University of Minnesota one of those very injustices was at that moment folding her exquisite, thoroughbred legs into Clay Forrester's Corvette.

“You're late,” Jill Magnusson scolded, placing one gleaming fingernail on the door to prevent Clay from closing it, at the same time turning upon him a stunning smile that had cost her father approximately two thousand dollars in orthodontia. Jill was a beauty, and a member of the elite sorority Kappa Alpha Theta, whose members were loosely referred to as the “Thetas,” known down through the years as the rich girls' sorority at the U of M.

“Busy day,” Clay answered, suddenly piqued by her method of holding them up. He was too distracted to be charmed by those supple limbs right now. He slammed the door and walked around to his side. The engine purred as they pulled away from the curb.

“I need to stop by the photo lab to check on some pictures for a research project.” Jill was more than a superficial appearance; she was majoring in aviation electronics and had every intention of designing the first jet shuttle between the earth and moon. With career goals set high she wasn't the least bit interested in getting married yet. She and Clay understood each other well.

But tonight he was unusually testy. “I'm late and you're the one who's going to stop at the photo lab on our way to the party!” Clay snapped, laying a thin line of rubber as the car peeled away.

“My, aren't we touchy tonight.”

“Jill, I told you I wanted to stay home and study. You're the one who insisted we go to this party. You'll forgive me if I dislike playing escort service on the way.”

“Fine. Forget the lab. I can pick the photos up myself tomorrow.”

Gearing down at a stop sign, he screeched to a halt, throwing Jill forcefully forward.

“What in the world is the matter with you!” she exclaimed.

“I'm not in a party mood, that's all.”

“Obviously,” she said dryly. “Then forget the photo lab and the party too.”

“You dragged me out to this damn party, now we're going!”

“Clay Forrester, don't you speak to me in that tone of voice. If you didn't want to go with me you could have said so. You said you had a case to study this weekend. There's a vast difference between the two.”

He threw the car into gear and screamed down University Avenue toward the heart of the campus, zinging in and out between other cars, intentionally laying rubber with every shift of the gears.

“You're driving like a maniac,” she said coolly, her auburn hair swinging with the erratic motions of his lane changes.

“I'm feeling like one.”

“Then please let me out. I'm not.”

“I'll let you out at the goddam party,” he said, knowing he was being despicable but unable to help it.

“Since when have you taken to insouciant cursing?”

“Since approximately six P.M. four nights ago,” he said.

“Clay, for heaven's sake slow down before you get us both killed, or at the very least get yourself a walloping ticket. The campus police are thick tonight. There's a concert at Northrup.”

Ahead at an intersection he could see a cop patrolling traffic, so he slowed down.

“Have you been drinking, Clay?”

“Not yet!” he snapped.

“You're going to?”

“If I'm smart, maybe.”

Jill studied his profile, the firm jaw, the tight expression about his usually sensual mouth. “I don't think I know this Clay Forrester,” she said softly.

“Nope, you don't.” He glared straight ahead, curling his lower lip over his upper, waiting for the cop to flag the traffic through the intersection. “Neither do I.”

“It sounds serious,” she ventured.

Instead of replying, he hung his right wrist over the steering wheel and continued to glare at the cop, that lip still curled up with contempt at something.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asked in what she hoped was a coercive voice. She waited, dropping her head slightly forward so her hair fell like a rust curtain beyond her cheek.

He looked at her at last, thinking, God but she's beautiful. Poised, intelligent, passionate, even a little cunning. He liked that in her. Liked even more the fact that she never tried to hide it. She often teased him that she could get him to do anything she wanted, simply by using her long-limbed body. Most of the time she was right.

“What would you say if I admitted that I'm afraid to talk to you about it?”

“For starters I'd say the admission has added some common sense to your driving habits.”

He had indeed begun driving more sensibly. He reached over and rubbed the back of her hand. “Do you really want to go to the party?”

“Yes. I have this gorgeous new lambswool sweater and this magnificent matching skirt and you haven't even noticed. If you won't compliment me, I'd like to find someone who will.”

“All right, you got it,” he said, swinging left, heading for the Alcorn Apartments, where the party was in full swing when they arrived. Inside it was a maze of voices and music, too many bodies packed into too little space. The Alcorn was a converted gingerbread house with bays, nooks and pantries, the kind of place easily gotten lost in if playing hide and seek. The furniture throughout the first-floor apartment was positively decimated, but nobody cared because nobody seemed to own it. Jill led the way through the press of people, taking Clay's hand, tugging him to the kitchen where the bar was set up on a dilapidated porcelain-topped table, the kind that went out with World War II. A guy named Eddie was tending bar.

“Hey, Jill, Clay, how's it going? What'll you have?”

“Clay wants to get smashed tonight, Eddie. Why don't you give him a little help?”

In no time Eddie extended a drink that was supposed to be mixed; it was the color of weak coffee. Clay took one sip and knew three like this would knock him smack off his feet. If he really wanted to get smashed, it wouldn't take long. Jill accepted a much weaker drink. She was too intelligent to get drunk. He'd never seen her have more than one or two cocktails in an evening.

He teased her now. “Why don't you come down one notch and show you're at least as human as me and have a couple of strong drinks tonight? Then when we go to bed you'll be as uninhibited as I intend to be.”

Jill laughed and swung her waist-length hair back behind a well-turned shoulder.

“If you want to get roaring drunk go right ahead. Don't expect me to abet it by being equally as stupid.”

He raised a sardonic eyebrow to Eddie. “The lady thinks I'm stupid.” Then he mumbled into his drink, “If she only knew the half.”

In the crush of bodies and the assault of noise Jill didn't quite hear what Clay said, but he was troubled tonight, not acting like himself. “I don't know what's gotten into you tonight, but whatever it is, I don't like it.”

“You'd like it even less if you knew.”

Just then somebody came by and bumped Jill from behind, spilling a splash of her drink on her new sweater at the fullest part of her left breast.

“Oh, damn!” she exclaimed, sucking in her stomach, searching in her purse for a Kleenex. “Have you got a hanky, Clay?”

He reached for his hind pocket. “That's the second time this week that a lady has needed my hanky. Here, let me help you with that, mademoiselle.” He grabbed Jill by the hand, found a vacant corner beside the refrigerator and pushed her into it. With the hanky he began dabbing at the spot where the liquor had already darkened the sweater. But an odd, troubled look overtook his face. His motions stilled, and his eyes found hers. Then he grabbed hanky, sweater, breast and all and flattened himself against her long, lithe body, kissing her with a sudden fierceness that startled her. Fondling her breast, controlling her mouth, he pressed her into the corner where the refrigerator met the wall. She thought he'd lost his mind. This was not the Clay she knew, not at all. Something was more wrong than she'd guessed.

“Stop it, stop it! What's the matter with you!” she gasped, breaking away from his kiss, trying to push his hand from her breast.

“I need you tonight, Jill, that's all. Let's go someplace and leave this noisy bunch.”

“I've never seen you like this, Clay. For God's sake let go of my breast!”

Abruptly he released her, backed up a step, put the guilty hand in his trouser pocket and stared at the floor. “Forget it,” he said, “just forget it.” He raised his drink and took an abusive swallow.

“You're going to get sick if you continue at this pace.”

“Good!”

“All right, I'll go with you, but to make sense, not sex, agreed?”

He looked at her absently.

“Whatever it is that's bothering you, let's talk it out.”

“Fine,” he said, taking her glass almost viciously and depositing it and his back on the table which was littered with dozens of others. Without another word he grabbed Jill's wrist and started pushing his way through the mob.

When they were halfway to the door someone yelled, “Hey, Clay, hold up!” Turning, he saw Stu Glass's ruddy face making its way toward him, both hands raised above the press of elbows, trying to keep from spilling a pair of drinks. Over his shoulder Stu shouted, “Follow me close, honey; I want to talk to Clay a minute.”

The two couples converged in the milling crowd. “Hey, Clay, you leaving already?”

“Hey, Stu, whaddya say?”

“Haven't seen you around all week. Dad wanted to know if you and your father decided about partridge hunting next weekend yet.”

The two fell to discussing hunting plans, leaving Bobbi and Jill to exchange small talk. They knew each other only slightly, through their relation with the men, but now, for the first time, Bobbi studied Jill Magnusson more assessingly than ever before. She took in Jill's expensive wine-colored sweater and skirt, that angel's face of hers, and the negligent way Clay Forrester's arm looped around her waist while he went on talking to Stu. If ever two people were made for each other it was these two, thought Bobbi. Jill, with her burnished skin, her cover-girl's features and that glorious mane of hair, and Clay with his sun-drenched good looks, flawless taste in clothing to match the girl's, and both of them blessed with self-assurance, wealthy families and preordained success.

It struck Bobbi quite suddenly that Catherine was positively out of her class with a man like Clay. He belonged with the kind of girl he was with now. How futile it was to wish she'd used better judgment last Fourth of July, yet, observing Clay and Jill together, Bobbi felt a sting of deep regret.

All the while Clay talked with Stu he was aware of Bobbi. When at last someone from the crowd bumped through and took Jill momentarily away from his side, and Stu along with her, he got his chance.

“Hi, Bobbi.”

“Hi, Clay.”

The two eyed each other a little warily.

“What's new with you?”

“Same old thing.”

Damn her, thought Clay, she's going to make me ask it. He threw a quick eye at Jill, who stood near enough to overhear anything being said.

“Have you heard anything from your cousin lately?”

“Yeah, just today, as a matter of fact.”

“How's everything?”

“The same.”

Clay's eyes shifted away and back again. “I never got that call.”

“I gave her the message.”

“Could you please ask her again?”

“She's not interested.”

Someone from the crowd jostled his way behind Bobbi, pushing her forcibly closer to Clay. He used the opportunity to insist, “There've been some serious repercussions. I've got to talk to her!”

But just then Jill recaptured Clay, running her painted nails up his arm in a familiar way, taking his elbow in her own. There are people in this world who have things just a bit too good, thought Bobbi, and others who never get a break. Just to even the scales a little bit, some cunning gremlin inside Bobbi made her call after the couple, “I'll tell Catherine you said hello, Clay!”