Stephen Leigh - Card Sharks

The photos; I was about to tell you about those. Patricia dropped the sealed envelope off the next morning, with an accusatory look and a cool greeting. I repaid her the money she'd given her cousin, excused myself from our shopping spree, and asked Jessica to entertain Clara in her room. Then I spent a while looking at the photos and trying to think what to do.

Franklin Mitchell had indeed taken many photos. Brand and Marilyn at a cafe in the Village. Brand buying a diamond and sapphire necklace. A close-up of his hands putting it aroun Marilyn's neck. Brand and Marilyn eating a meal at I Tre Merli's. Marilyn, laughing, wrapping a scarf about Brand's head, in Washington Square Park. And about two rolls' worth of Brand and Marilyn frolicking about in various stages of undress in a hotel room.

I had to give her credit; she had excellent taste in lingerie.

And then there were the "conspiracy photos," as I thought of them. A long shot of Brand talking to two sharply dressed men who loomed over him. Close-ups of each. A blurry shot of Brand standing alone under a street lamp. Brand talking with another man — a short, dark-complected man, perhaps an Italian, with a thin, serious face. A close-up of Brand and the other man, with the envelope exchanging hands: the clearest picture of the bunch. A blurred human-shaped form in the foreground, with Brand and a piece of the big mural in sharp focus in the background. The blur presumably being the man who had chased Mr. Mitchell.

I had the photos spread all over the kitchen table when Jessica brought Clara out for some juice and crackers. The first I realized they'd left the bedroom was when Clara touched my arm and asked if those were the photos of Papa I'd promised her.

The thought that Jessica would see the pictures of Brand and Marilyn filled me with terror and rage. I swept Clara out of harm's way, held onto her arm as I came to my feet and shrieked at Jessica. Blocking her view of the table, I ripped her to verbal shreds for bringing Clara out of the bedroom when I'd said they were to stay in there. She was disobedient, I said; slothful and incompetent. It was all in keeping with her scatter-brained, Irish nature.

She was no shrinking violet, was Jessica; she raised a few nasty welts, herself, about my brittle, supercilious nature. I'm certain she used the 'b' word at least twice, and she slammed the door on her way out.

Instantly I knew I'd been a fool. In spite of my ways, I trusted and needed Jessica. I told Clara to stay right where she was, then yanked the door open and caught Jessica before she got to the end of the hall.

She refused to be mollified. "I may not be some wealthy lady from Philadelphia, but that doesn't mean you have the right to insult me and treat me so poorly."

And when I offered excuses she said, "It's a wonder to me a girl like Clara could have a mother like you."

And she left.

To my relief, Clara was humming to herself in her bedroom when I returned. She was playing with her scrap book and her Barbie doll and making up stories. I suppose she'd seen me like that often enough before. She told her Barbie not to be afraid, Maman sometimes just yells a lot. That brought tears to my eyes.

I'd tried, oh, I tried hard to be a good mother to her. But whatever it was inside me, some reptilian beast, ugly and hate-filled, it just got out of control sometimes. I rarely lashed out at her, but even when it isn't aimed at them, children get caught in the crossfire. Poor Clara.

Quickly, I gathered up all the incriminating photographs and hid them in the rolltop. Then I sat down on the couch and cried for a while.

I sure had my custody case. No court in the world would refuse me a divorce, nor grant him custody of Clara over me. The trouble was I didn't know what else I had. What was Brand involved in? I was frightened for him.

It can be hard to let certain feelings go.

***

That evening I reached Jessica by phone and begged her forgiveness. She finally agreed to return, for a raise in pay and the full day off on Sunday, instead of just mornings.

I took a sleeping pill and went to bed early, at the same time as Clara. I slept heavily. Brand must have come in during the wee hours. By the time I got up Jessica had arrived and was straightening Clara's room, Francine, our cook, was washing dishes, and Brand and Clara were eating breakfast. Clara gave me a hug and a kiss. Brandon didn't even look up, just continued to read his paper.

On my plate was the New York Times , neatly folded open to page seven. I sat down and picked it up.

The article exposed said, "Private Investigator Killed in Crossfire." Franklin Mitchell's body had been found in the south Bronx, full of bullet holes. It was believed he'd been caught in the crossfire, in a shootout between the police and a roving mob of looters.

I looked up at Brand. He was watching me. All the warmth drained out of my body.

"Jessica," he called, without taking his gaze from mine.

She appeared in the doorway. "Sir?"

"I wonder if you could take Clara to her room and help her dress? Francine, you, too."

"I can dress myself!" Clara replied, indignant.

"Do as I say. Now." His tone was much sharper than it needed to be. Clara's face started to scrunch up, but Jessica murmured kind words as she and Francine hustled her away. Brand ate a bite of his toast and made a pretense of reading the Business section.

Numbed, I refolded the paper, then caught a look at the main headline on page one. I had a second shock. Bobby Kennedy had been shot.

I skimmed the article. The senator had been gravely wounded early that morning at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, upon winning the California primary. On an interior page they had a photo of the unidentified gunman who had been captured by Kennedy's supporters.

The man was the same young man as the one in the photos Franklin Mitchell had taken on Sunday, the swarthy man who had accepted an envelope from Brand.

I looked up at my husband. He was watching me now.

"I got an odd call at the office yesterday afternoon," he said.

"Oh?" I'd had years of practice disguising my own weaknesses; my voice didn't tremble.

"Mmmm. Patricia said you'd hired her cousin the detective."

Patricia knew where the real power lay, between Brand and me. She'd played it safe. Maybe even told herself she was doing me a favor. "Do tell."

"Mmmm. She said you hired him to take incriminating photographs of me, for the purpose of securing a divorce and custody of Clara."

"She certainly has an active imagination."

"Doesn't she, though?"

Jessica and Francine came out with Clara. Clara wore her peach corduroy dress. It had a felt poodle with blue rhinestone eyes on the bib over a white, short-sleeved blouse trimmed in lace. She also wore her white patent leather shoes and white stockings. Her dark hair was pulled back in white bows. I took Clara into my lap and buried my face in her dark chestnut-and-gold hair, which smelled of baby shampoo. I clutched her tight. She hugged back.

"Your hands are cold," she said.

"Go get dressed," Brand told me. I looked up at him, and my terror must have shown.

"NO."

"Yes. Now."

We both looked at Jessica and Francine, who knew something was up but not what.

"Are you going out, Maman ?" Clara asked me. She'd put her hands on either side of my head and those beautiful, speckled green eyes were only inches away.

"Yes, she is," Brand said, lifting her out of my arms. He handed her to Jessica.

I should have fought him. I should have clung to her and not let him have her. I could have run with her; maybe one of the neighbors would have helped me. Someone would have helped me.

I should never have let him take her like that.