Crawford’s arms. It had been a long time since someone had held her with such overt tenderness. Even when she and Jake made love, and their lovemaking had remained surprisingly passionate throughout the years, it was this tenderness that was lacking. She realized now just how much she’d missed it. How much she’d missed. “I’m so sorry.”
Roy Crawford pulled back, though not away, his strong hands still resting on her upper arms, his wide fingers kneading the flesh beneath her coat. “What can I do?”
Poor guy, Mattie thought. He didn’t do anything, and yet he looks so guilty, as if he were used to making women cry and ready to assume full responsibility, regardless of his innocence. Mattie wondered for a moment whether this was the way all men felt, if they went through life afraid of the power of a woman’s tears. “Give me a minute. I’ll be fine.” Mattie offeredRoy Crawford what she hoped was her most reassuring smile. But she felt her lips wobbling all over her chin and tasted salty tears burrowing between tightly clenched teeth, and Roy Crawford looked anything but reassured. In fact, he looked terrified.
Who could blame him? He thought he was meeting with his art dealer to view a photography exhibition, and what did he meet up with instead? Every man’s worst nightmare—a hysterical woman carrying on in a public place! No wonder Roy Crawford looked as if he wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole.
Still, the look of discomfort on Roy Crawford’s face was nothing in comparison to the look of sheer horror that had overtaken her husband’s entire being during her earlier outburst in court. What he must have thought! What he must be thinking now! He’d never forgive her, that much was certain. Her marriage was over, and it had ended not with accusations and recriminations but with laughter.
Mattie had fled the courthouse, hooting with laughter as she ran along California Avenue between Twenty-fifth and Twenty-sixth Streets, not the best area in the city, she knew, noticing a drunk zigzagging across the street to avoid her. Even the winos want to get away from me, she’d thought, laughing louder, hearing footsteps and looking behind her, hoping to see Jake, instead seeing two black men with knitted wool caps pulled down around their ears, who looked the other way as they hurried past.
Her car, a white Intrepid in need of a wash, was parked at an expired meter two blocks from the courthouse.Mattie had fumbled in her purse for her keys, found them, dropped them to the sidewalk, retrieved them, dropped them again. Securing them tightly between her fingers, she’d tried repeatedly to open her car door. But the key kept turning over in her fingers, and the door remained stubbornly closed. “I must be having a stroke,” she’d announced to the row of decaying small buildings beside her. “That’s it. I’m having a stroke.”
More likely a nervous breakdown, Mattie decided. How else to explain this outrageous behavior? How else to explain her complete and utter lack of control?
The key suddenly slid into the car door. Mattie had taken a deep breath, then another, shaking her fingers, wriggling her toes inside her black suede pumps. Everything seemed to be working okay. And she’d stopped laughing, she noted gratefully, sliding behind the wheel and checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, using her car phone to call Roy Crawford, to ask if they could change the time of their meeting, possibly view the exhibition early, then discuss possible purchases afterward at lunch, her treat.
Some treat, Mattie thought now, wiping away the last of her tears, struggling for at least a semblance of control. Why hadn’t Jake followed her? Surely he had to have realized that something was wrong. Surely he had to know that her outburst hadn’t been designed to sabotage him. Although how could he know that when she wasn’t sure of it herself?
“Think you’re okay now?” Roy Crawford
Roy Crawford pulled back, though not away, his strong hands still resting on her upper arms, his wide fingers kneading the flesh beneath her coat. “What can I do?”
Poor guy, Mattie thought. He didn’t do anything, and yet he looks so guilty, as if he were used to making women cry and ready to assume full responsibility, regardless of his innocence. Mattie wondered for a moment whether this was the way all men felt, if they went through life afraid of the power of a woman’s tears. “Give me a minute. I’ll be fine.” Mattie offeredRoy Crawford what she hoped was her most reassuring smile. But she felt her lips wobbling all over her chin and tasted salty tears burrowing between tightly clenched teeth, and Roy Crawford looked anything but reassured. In fact, he looked terrified.
Who could blame him? He thought he was meeting with his art dealer to view a photography exhibition, and what did he meet up with instead? Every man’s worst nightmare—a hysterical woman carrying on in a public place! No wonder Roy Crawford looked as if he wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole.
Still, the look of discomfort on Roy Crawford’s face was nothing in comparison to the look of sheer horror that had overtaken her husband’s entire being during her earlier outburst in court. What he must have thought! What he must be thinking now! He’d never forgive her, that much was certain. Her marriage was over, and it had ended not with accusations and recriminations but with laughter.
Mattie had fled the courthouse, hooting with laughter as she ran along California Avenue between Twenty-fifth and Twenty-sixth Streets, not the best area in the city, she knew, noticing a drunk zigzagging across the street to avoid her. Even the winos want to get away from me, she’d thought, laughing louder, hearing footsteps and looking behind her, hoping to see Jake, instead seeing two black men with knitted wool caps pulled down around their ears, who looked the other way as they hurried past.
Her car, a white Intrepid in need of a wash, was parked at an expired meter two blocks from the courthouse.Mattie had fumbled in her purse for her keys, found them, dropped them to the sidewalk, retrieved them, dropped them again. Securing them tightly between her fingers, she’d tried repeatedly to open her car door. But the key kept turning over in her fingers, and the door remained stubbornly closed. “I must be having a stroke,” she’d announced to the row of decaying small buildings beside her. “That’s it. I’m having a stroke.”
More likely a nervous breakdown, Mattie decided. How else to explain this outrageous behavior? How else to explain her complete and utter lack of control?
The key suddenly slid into the car door. Mattie had taken a deep breath, then another, shaking her fingers, wriggling her toes inside her black suede pumps. Everything seemed to be working okay. And she’d stopped laughing, she noted gratefully, sliding behind the wheel and checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, using her car phone to call Roy Crawford, to ask if they could change the time of their meeting, possibly view the exhibition early, then discuss possible purchases afterward at lunch, her treat.
Some treat, Mattie thought now, wiping away the last of her tears, struggling for at least a semblance of control. Why hadn’t Jake followed her? Surely he had to have realized that something was wrong. Surely he had to know that her outburst hadn’t been designed to sabotage him. Although how could he know that when she wasn’t sure of it herself?
“Think you’re okay now?” Roy Crawford