Card Sharks

The Lamia's Tale

My true name is Joan van Renssaeler, nee Moresworth, of the Philadelphia Moresworths. I was a hot number back then, though you wouldn't know it to look at me now. Here, hand me the large book on the mantle, the leather-bound one. It's my scrap book.

These pictures certainly take me back. I haven't thought about Brand in years. A blessing, that. Our marriage wasn't a good one. But some of the old memories can still make me smile.

Now, there, that's a shot of me. This was taken in late May of 1968, at a party the firm threw for Brand when he was promoted to associate at Douglas, Mannerly, amp; Farsi.

No, no — I'm the willowy blonde with the sulky expression and the Twiggy haircut. Look all those sequins and feathers! What we used to wear! I shudder to think how much I loved that ghastly white lipstick. But it was positively The Thing back then.

Funny how the things we value change, isn't it, my dear? I look back and all those things I had, the money, the fame, the social connections, they brought me such pleasure then but they mean nothing to me now. Even my looks, my young woman's body, which I had so little chance to enjoy before the virus took it from me — I was only twenty-three when this happened, you know — even for that I feel little more than a lingering nostalgia. The only treasure that has lasted is my Clara.

My dear Clara. How I loved to dress her in lace and ribbons and tiny patent leather shoes. I took her everywhere.

I have news of her now and then. She's brilliant, just like her father. I suppose you could say she inherited my looks and his brains. At least, my pre-viral looks.

Here. Here is a photo of Clara when she was four, and these are of her at college. I hired a private investigator to take some pictures of her while she was an undergraduate at Rutgers back in the early eighties. Isn't she lovely, with those long legs? She resembles me a good deal; she has the same delicate facial features. And of course she looks rather like her grandmother Blythe, God rest her soul.

But I'm getting off track. Let me tell you about the doctor's appointment, where it all started.

***

Dr. Emil Isaacs was a leading obstetrician, a diplomat of some board of obstetricians, or some such. Dozens of certifications and awards hung on the wood panelling behind his desk. He was a rather short man, as I recall. Nervous nature.

Dr. Isaacs had always been so kind to me, so gentle and wise, that I couldn't imagine going to anyone else. Most people weren't patient with me back then, with my sharp tongue and ill tempers, so I valued the few who were. I didn't even mind — had long since forgotten — that he was a Jew.

You look shocked at that. I can understand that; attitudes are different now. Including mine. But, well, I'm determined not to distort this story to save face. Self-deceit is a terrible trap. I should know.

And there is no getting around the unfortunate truth. Jews, blacks, Catholics, Hispanics, Orientals, wild card victims, the poor — I feared and despised them all. Anyone who wasn't in my little social circle, frankly, and even they weren't always spared.

Weakness enraged me, you see. It awakened a need in me to strike out. Perhaps I thought I had to keep others down so they couldn't hurt me. I don't know. Only Clara was safe from the predator inside me. And to a lesser degree, such serene, gentle people as Dr. Isaacs.

But the most important thing was, he had slender hands. Between us ladies, my dear, you know how important slender hands are.

"You must have some important news for me," I said.

He sighed and looked reluctant. "I know how much you wanted another baby, Mrs. van Renssaeler. But I'm afraid your test came back negative."

I looked from him to Clara to a chart with my name on it which lay open on his big rosewood desk.

"I'm not pregnant?" I asked. He shook his head.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I'd been so sure.

Clara said, "Don't cry, Maman. It'll be all right."

I dried my eyes and gave her a big hug; she Wrapped her arms about my neck.

"Sweet girl. We'll keep trying. You'll have a little brother soon. Or maybe a little sister."

Clara gave me a wet kiss and told me she loved me. Children give their love so freely. It was so long ago; it's remarkable that I'm tearing up about it now, isn't it?

Where was I? Oh, Dr. Isaacs. When I looked back up at him the pitying expression on his face infuriated me. I thought he pitied me my failure to be pregnant. Gathering up my handbag and kerchief, I stood.

"Well. I certainly don't understand why you felt the need for an appointment to tell me that. You could have informed me over the phone."

The doctor grimaced and ran a hand over his face. He glanced at Clara. "Please sit down. That wasn't the only reason I asked you to come in. I need to discuss your pregnancy screening tests with you."

His tone alarmed me; I sat. "What? Tell me. Have I got cancer? A venereal disease? The wild card? What?"

Something in his expression told me I'd guessed the truth. The world went strange and flat. I pressed my kerchief to my lips. Clara's hand was on my arm; her worried little face looked up Wide-eyed at me, asking me what was wrong.

"Tell me which."

"Perhaps we should have Nurse Clifford take Clara outside," he said.

***

Once we were alone, he told me what you must have already guessed, that it was the wild card.

"It's a standard test for pregnant women. I'm sorry."

"Whatever are you apologizing for?" I had my composure back by then. "Obviously you've confused my blood sample with someone else's. I don t associate with those sorts of people. I go out of my way to avoid jokers. There's no way I could have been exposed."

Unless, it occurred to me, Brandon had been visiting houses of ill repute, or joker drug dens, or had a secret life as a "weekend hippie." Weekend hippies looked and acted normal during the week but then put on wigs and bellbottoms and love beads and peace signs at night or on the weekends, grew sideburns and read bad poetry to each other and smoked marijuana cigarettes till their brains leaked out their ears.

And I knew he'd tried that marijuana stuff at a recent American Bar Association convention. He'd brought a marijuana cigarette home and I'd flushed it down the commode, terrified the police would break in and arrest us both at any minute, or that mere skin contact might be enough to tie my unborn children's chromosomes into pretzels. He'd laughed at me.

Brandon. Brand could have picked it up someplace disreputable and given it to me.

But Dr. Isaacs was shaking his head. "You could live alone on a desert island and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. The spores are all over the world by now and they aren't transmitted from human to human. They're airborne. Or genetic. Those are the only two ways you can contract it. And since we know you didn't have it while pregnant with Clara, you must have contracted it in the interim."

"But I feel fine!"

He was shaking his head again. "The virus is dormant in you right now. It could remain dormant forever, or it could express itself tomorrow."

I remained silent, just looking at him.

He went on, "There are things about this situation that you can't control, and things you can. You can't control the fact that you have the virus. But it's possible that the virus will never express itself in you. You could live out a very normal, fulfilling life.

"But I must strongly advise you against a second pregnancy. The child would be at high risk of being a carrier. And the stress of the pregnancy and labor would almost certainly cause the virus to express itself in you.

"The wild card is a life-threatening illness and I won't lie to you: the prognosis is not good if it is triggered. The vast majority of wild card victims die a very painful death, and most of the rest end up with severe deformities. I've lost a sister to the disease and I can assure you, it's not to be taken lightly."

"Doctor, this is absurd."

He leaned across the desk. "I know this is difficult for you to hear. But you must do everything you can to minimize all stress in your life. Stress is a key factor in whether the virus expresses itself. Here." He placed a business card down on the desk. "I'm sure you're familiar with Dr. Tachyon's work at the Blythe Van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic in Jokertown. There's no one in the world with greater expertise in the wild card virus. I advise you to make an appointment to see him as soon as you can. Today, if possible."

I was familiar with Tachyon, all right. That odious alien had seduced Brand's mother, Blythe, away from her husband and children, had destroyed first her reputation and then her life — had brought Brandon such pain he still couldn't bear to speak it, after all these years. I didn't pick up the card.

"Surely you jest."

"I'm quite serious. He's the best."

I said nothing for a moment, looking down at my handbag and the kerchief wadded up in my trembling fist. Then I looked up at the doctor again.

"I can assure you there's been some mistake."

But he was giving me that look again, that unbearable pitying look. I stood.

"I'll want a second opinion, then, by a doctor I can trust."

Douglas, Mannerly knew how to throw a party.

Of course, the senior partners were up to something more than just presenting Brand to New York society as their boy wonder after the big court case he'd just won. '68 was a national election year. The papers and TV newscasts were cluttered with stories about the presidential and other candidates making their junkets around the country, and the city's power brokers were plotting for all they were worth.

I didn't know what their other motives were, and didn't care. The party was a major event and Brandon was at the center of it, which meant I was only a little right of center, myself. The glow it gave me blotted out any lingering unhappiness from the doctor's appointment.

Remember that dress you saw in the photo, with the big blue sequins? Those sequins shivered and glittered like shiny coins when I walked. The dress had spaghetti straps and was sinfully short, with cobalt blue silk stockings, square-toed, sequined platform heels, and a garter that one caught glimpses of when I danced, or lifted my arms or bent over just the slightest bit. And I loved the cobalt blue feather boa. My mother would have had to get out her smelling salts if she had seen me.

I'd done up my eyes in beatnik fashion. I had that sort of sultry, honey-blonde, green-eyed beauty that captivates certain men. So I got a few admiring looks, I don't mind telling you.

Douglas, Mannerly had rented the two uppermost floors of St.-Moritz-on-the-Park, which has a spectacular view of Central Park, and had hired a top-notch caterer and a jazz band. Enormous arrangements of rare tropical flowers rimmed the tables and walls. Lace-covered tables displayed caviars and pates, finger sandwiches, crisp vegetables on ice with dip, shrimp and smoked salmon. The bar served hard liquor and mixed drinks, as well as wine and champagne. The musicians were colored, but I didn't care as long as they didn't mingle.

Brandon was supposed to have come straight from work, but I didn't locate him right away. Plenty of introductions kept me busy, though.

Mayor and Mrs. Lindsay came. Several rumor-mongers had been whispering it around that Mrs. Lindsay had a joker deformity, which she may have been hiding under that full gown of hers, but I scrutinized her closely and saw nothing except a tendency to obesity. Needless to say, I avoided her anyhow.

Gregg Hartmann gave me a dance. He was a city councilman then, not yet mayor, or senator. I can tell you, the man knew how to foxtrot. I also chatted with Asaf Messerer, the balletmaster and main choreographer for the Bolshoi Dancers, who were performing at the Met.

I tipped the photographer covering the party to get several shots of me and Brand during the evening — which is where the photos you're looking at came from. He promised to mail them to me within the week.

***

Eventually I found Brand seated at a table in a side room, an interior balcony lit only by votive candles, with a great view of the west side of the park. Brand introduced me to his companion, Dr. Pan Rudo, a noted psychiatrist. That's him right there, with Brand and me.

They definitely made an odd pair. Brandon cut an exquisite figure in his formal tails and black tie, his gold cufflinks and silk shirt and kerchief. That night he looked his best: intense, excited, his dark auburn hair slicked back, his ruddy complexion aglow, hands moving in sudden, enthusiastic gestures. His black eyes were all fiery with glory and dreams.

The doctor's appearance also commanded attention, but in a cooler, more exotic way. His hair was a blond so pale it looked white, his eyes a violet-blue that stared right past one's surfaces into the soul. I remember shivering deliciously when he looked me over.

He stirred his drink with a paper umbrella swizzle stick and stroked his lower lip thoughtfully: pale ice to Brand's dark burning; serene age to Brand's youthful, barely suppressed impatience. He had the hypnotic patience of a cat.

That suit of his was a Nehru suit; do you remember those? The intelligentsia and other trendy types favored them back then. It was made of an expensive, cream-colored Irish moygashel linen. About his neck was a thick silver chain with an ankh hanging from it. Very odd.

Despite his bizarre appearance, he emanated power and money; from Brand's demeanor I could tell the man was Someone Important. We chatted a bit, and the doctor seemed quite congenial.

Brandon's older brother Henry walked up shortly.

Of all the people who made me wild with fury, Henry van Renssaeler, II, headed the list. He had accepted a scholarship to Juilliard, thwarting his fathers wishes for him to pursue a political career, and had become a brilliant classical pianist instead. This had been all to the good, as far as I was concerned. But once he had completed his degree he'd grown long hair and a beard and taken up the acoustic guitar, of all things. He now spent all his time in little cafes or bars in the Village, playing folk rock, when he wasn't marching in antiwar protests. I considered it a hideous waste of talent.

Worse, he had spent this spring loudly supporting Bobby Kennedy for president, who was not only a little carbon copy of his older brother John, which was the last thing we needed in the White House again, but a Catholic to boot. In fact, Henry had a "Kennedy for President" button on the lapel of his dinner jacket. A thoroughly tasteless gesture.

Henry kissed me on the cheek and slid into the chair opposite Brand, folding his lanky legs under the table.

"Where's Fleur?" Brand asked.

"Here somewhere. Have you caught up on your sleep yet? The papers are still talking about the coup you pulled off."

Brandon flushed and shrugged. I could tell he was pleased that Henry had noticed, despite their mutual animosity. A weirder love-hate relationship I'd never seen, unless it was their relationship with their father.

Brand introduced him to Dr. Rudo, who raised his eyebrows at Henry's campaign button and smiled. "Can you really back a man with Bobby Kennedy's platform? His position on joker's rights and war only promise to divide the country further."

"Oh, I don't know. He beats Clean Gene hands down, don't you think?"

Brand flushed again, and not from pleasure. Brandon wanted Eugene McCarthy to win. For myself, I couldn't understand how anyone could vote Democrat after what they'd done to the country.

"Kennedy is a power-grabbing poseur who's simply trying to cash in on his brother's name," Brand said in a flat tone.

Henry gave him a sour look. "You're in fine form tonight, I see."

Another of their endless arguments was in the works; I excused myself and went in search of Patricia.

It was around then that one Miss Marilyn Monroe arrived.

She stood framed in the doorway for a moment and surveyed the party. The shy, vulnerable look on her face infuriated me. Whom did she think she was fooling? I'd read about what sort of woman she was.

A silence fell over the room when people first began to notice her. Apparently she had come unescorted. I wondered who had invited her.

She wore a dress even shorter than mine, and she certainly had the legs for it. Her dress was made of layers of translucent silk the red of candied apples, snug at the waist with a flaring skirt. Brilliant, heart-shaped diamonds made up a cluster of buttons at her waist, and more of the same were stitched into her plunging decolletage. The diamond teardrops at her ears and a matching pendant on a gold chain must each have weighed at least four carats. She had the pale skin and dark mole on her lip she was so famous for, and her hair was shoulder-length, and wavy. She had let the color return to its natural dark chestnut.

Several men rushed forward, including doddering old Thomas Mannerly, the firm's senior practicing partner. Patricia caught my eye and motioned me toward the ladies' powder room down the hall, where we spent a few minutes repairing our faces and remarking upon Marilyn's taste in clothes. Not to mention certain of her other characteristics.

"I feel so embarrassed for her," Patricia said, "wearing a dress like that."

I arched an eyebrow at her in the mirror; the dress I wore was similar to Marilyn's — at least in its length. Patricia sat down at one of the chairs and applied a little eyeliner, then caught a look at my expression.

"I mean, for a woman her age. Did you know she's supposedly at least forty-five? Well, forty, anyway."

"Did you see those diamonds?" I asked, dabbing a bit of powder onto a shiny spot on my nose.

"They're a bit overdone, aren't they? Someone should take her aside."

"What embarrassed me was that cleavage!" I said. "You could see practically everything. And her breasts, they are so enormous. I can't imagine they're real."

"Those Hollywood doctors can work miracles."

We both giggled.

Patricia was smaller in stature than I, with a round face and a tendency to pudginess. She was always dieting. Tonight she wore an empire-style black gown With black bead embroidery and pearls. More pearls were wound up her swirling hairdo, which she now teased with a comb.

She wore a more subdued style than usual because she was five months pregnant with her first child. Looking at the curve of her belly I felt a tightness in my chest. The doctor's appointment came back to me; my hands curled into fists on my own, flat belly. I had to breathe deeply for a couple of seconds before my heart stopped pounding.

My face had lost color. I applied a bit of rose-colored rouge and brushed more powder over it. Patricia didn't seem to notice my reaction; she was applying a new Chanel color to her lips.

"Did you hear how she got invited?" she asked, squinting as she pursed her lips at herself. Looking at her expression, my anxiety passed. I suppressed a smile.

"For heaven's sake, dear," I said, "stop impersonating a fish and put your glasses on. We're alone here."

She gave me a rueful glance and slipped her rhinestone-rimmed, catseye glasses out of her handbag. She put them on and surveyed her appearance, dabbed at the comers of her mouth.

"I hate these things." She tucked the glasses back into the bag.

"You look fabulous. Tell me who invited her."

"Oh! Caroline's husband found out that she was going to be in town, and went straight into old Douglas's office." Patricia laid a hand on my arm, leaned close enough to me that I caught a whiff of her spicy perfume, and continued in with a conspiratorial tone. "They were holed up in there for two hours, his secretary told Caroline. And the invitation was hand-delivered by Douglas's private chauffeur."

I paused with my powder puff in midair, studied her reflection in the mirror. "Two hours, eh? Maybe they want to set up a Hollywood office."

"Who knows? They're always up to something." She gave me a meaningful look in the mirror. "It's going to be nothing but trouble while she's in town, you know, with the partners courting her influence. She'll sleep with anyone, they say. I'm keeping my George under lock and key and you'd be wise to do the same with Brandon."

I put my compact back into my handbag and gave Patricia a thin-lipped smile. "Brandon's too busy pursuing glory to waste time puising women. Especially an older, burned-out woman like our dear Marilyn."

Still, on our return to the party, I had to admit she didn't look old and burned out. She looked pretty damned good for a forty-year-old, pardon my language.

Looking at her wide, innocent eyes, her winsome expression, my heart filled with rage. I wanted to bring her down. I wanted to see her humiliated.

Dr. Rudo had taken her hand and was saying how lovely it was to see her again; it'd been so long, etc. etc., as Brandon and I came forward to be introduced. But something about how they acted — the way she straightened almost to stiffness, something in his face — made me believe they loathed each other.

"How is your movie deal proceeding?" he asked. At her lifted eyebrows he added, "That is why you're here, is it not? That's what the papers say."

"Oh, I'd love to discuss it with you, Dr. Rudo," she said in a light tone, "but you know, how these ventures are. The backers get jittery if we discuss too many details before the deal is closed."

"But of course. Pardon my prying." He smiled. But his attitude was aggressive, and he didn't take his eyes off her. It seemed to make her a bit nervous. Which suited me just fine.

Dr. Rudo's example emboldened me. When Brand and I were introduced I refused to take her extended hand, merely gave it a cool, quizzical glance. As if to say, what should I do with that?

A look of hurt and bafflement came into her eyes, but she simply gave me that smile she is so famous for, equal parts innocence and sensual languor, and nodded to me. She kept her hand extended, transferring it to my husband, who bent over it and kissed it, lingeringly.

I wanted to scream. As I pulled Brand away he gave her a charming little grin and a shrug, and I knew he'd seek her out later. Then and there I decided to glue myself to Brand for the evening.

"What is your problem?" he asked sotto voce, summoning up his courtroom smile, a parody of the one he'd given Marilyn. I suppose you could say he was more concerned about appearances at the moment than I.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Lower your voice. You know precisely what I'm talking about." Brand pried my hand loose from his arm and, folding my hand and arm under his in a deceptively tight grip, dragged me along toward the end of the room with the dance floor. He nodded a greeting at Councilman Hartmann, who stood nearby watching us.

"Let me go."

"I mean it. I have important plans for tonight. This may he my big chance to make some important contacts and I won't have you interfering."

"Exactly what sort of contact did you intend to make, darling?" I asked, showing as many teeth as he, though his fingers were digging hard enough into my wrist to leave bruises. "And with whom?"

"Don't bait me."

"I saw how you looked at her."

"Someone had to show some courtesy."

"That woman is in no need of your courtesy."

He virtually dragged me out onto the dance floor, with that hateful, suave smile on his face, making pleasantries all around. The song was Louis Armstrong's "Wonderful World." He grasped me in a clutch with a hand around the back of my neck and an arm around my waist, and whispered in my ear, "This is my big night and I wont have you interfering."

"Stay away from her."

"Don't push me or I'll make you regret it."

His hand closed alarmingly tightly on the back of my neck; I started to become frightened. Councilman Hartmann still watched us over the heads of the crowd. He must have known something was going on, and was wondering whether he should intercede. A sudden impulse rose in me to struggle in Brand's grip, to hit at his face, to cry out for the councilman's help — for anyone's. Which would have been disastrous at a time like this. I knew how to handle Brand; why was I getting so panicked?

Besides, Councilman Hartmann had looked away by that time, so I was on my own. I took a deep breath and relaxed in Brand's grip. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I breathed a gentle breath in his ear.

"I can't help being jealous. You're such a powerful, attractive man that other women won't be able to resist your charms. I couldn't bear it if you got involved with another woman."

He loosened his grip a bit and drew back to give me a suspicious look, but I had my most sincere face on. After a moment he said, "All right, then, but no more public displays."

"You have my word."

He let me go, so suddenly I stumbled. "All right. Go get yourself a drink and find Patricia. I have business."

"I'll come with you."

"No you won't." The I can't trust you not to make a scene was implicit in his expression.

Hurt, I turned my back on him and went over to the bar. I'd intended to drop a few hints into Councilman Hartmann's ear about my husbands inexcusable behavior, but he had wandered away.

By the time I found him he had become embroiled in a heated political discussion with the mayor, Governor Rockefeller, and several other men. When it became clear that nobody was going to take particular notice of me, I went in search of Patricia and my circle, to pass the evening with martini in hand, exchanging gossip about those of our circle not present, along with other unfortunates whose names arose in idle conversation.

Brand spent most of the evening with Marilyn. I comforted myself that the husbands of most of the women in my circle also paid court to her. But Brand was clearly a favorite, and they went off together at least twice, before I got too drunk to notice.

Patricia began throwing me pitying looks, which reminded me in an unfortunate way of Dr. Isaacs's expression earlier. I'd be a target for nasty rumors as soon as my friends gathered without me. I wasn't the only predator in my social circle.

The rest of that evening fades into obscurity in my memory, but one other incident stays with me. New York politics and high society were always weird and paranoid, and one got used to not knowing what was going on. But this seemed different.

The party had thinned out so it must have been quite late. In the past couple of hours I had managed to sober up a bit. On my way out of the ladies' room I happened to hear Brand's voice, quite low but recognizable. It came from within a cranny around the corner, where the pay phones were.

I started to enter the cranny but paused at the corner when I heard Dr. Rudo's voice. He spoke in a soft and reasonable tone that nevertheless managed to sound as though he expected unquestioning obedience.

"It would be preferable for you to avoid her altogether."

Brand sounded a bit chilly. "Let's leave my personal life out of this, shall we?"

"Your involvement with her could complicate matters. It's easy to underestimate her, but I've known her a long time. She's seductive and she can be cunning."

Brand scoffed. "Oh, come now. There's not a ruthless bone in that lovely body."

"I don't think you understand me. She is one of ours."

Brand's voice was shocked. "She's a Card Shark?"

"Mmmm. She holds a key position in Hollywood and is an important player — even if she is inept."

"Then … if she's one of us, why the secrecy?"

Dr. Rudo's voice was sharp. "Think about it."

A pause, then a gasp. "Of course. She's compromised."

"Seriously so. We've kept her completely out of the picture. But it's my guess she's gotten wind that something's up. She'll learn eventually — she probably knows we're up to something right now — but it's important she doesn't find out What we're about too soon. Otherwise she might try to stop us."

Somehow, call it a Woman's intuition, I knew that they were talking about Marilyn. And that Brand had fallen for her. The rest made no sense to me, but it all sounded so odd that I decided to take notes in my address book, in case I needed details for emotional blackmail later.

I wrote down "Card Sharks." I thought they were playing one of those silly conspiracy games one hears about, played by men old enough to know better, who don silly hats and pass secret codes and hand shakes back and forth.

"She'll need someone, then."

"Don't be a fool, van Renssaeler. She's using you. She knows you're involved. And if not now, afterward she'll certainly know."

"Nonsense. How could she?"

"I imagine my organization has sprung a leak. And I intend to locate it. In the meantime, I suggest you stay away from her."

Perhaps I should have taken some comfort from the fact that Dr. Rudo was warning Brand off Marilyn, but I knew Brand too well. He had never listened to his father, never listened to me, and he wasn't going to listen to this Dr. Rudo person, either, if he could help it.

A noise, like a chair bumping the wall, made me flee to the bathroom, heart racing. I put away my address book with shaky, sweaty hands, and then made a commotion coming out again. But they had already headed down the hall to rejoin the party.

Though I could have caught up with them I didn't feel I could face Brand right then, so I went in search of friends — only to learn that Patricia and most of my social circle had left.

I headed straight for the bar and ordered a highball, And another. And another. But the alcohol didn't dissolve the indigestible knot that had formed in my stomach.

The sun was rising by the time Brand finally blurred into view and announced that it was time to go home. As he hailed us a cab I remember hugging myself, looking at Brand, wondering if he'd already taken her someplace and had her — someplace filthy like a stairwell. Or perhaps he'd thought to rent a room. A tear or two trickled down my face. I rubbed my belly again.

With that artificial clarity that comes as drunken euphoria collapses into toxicity and illness, I recall thinking as Brand bundled me into the cab that all I'd have to show for this night was a terrible hangover and a lot of trouble.

***

Incidently, I can't help but notice that you're feeling the heat a bit. I would turn down the thermostat but you would find me talking ve-e-ery slowly.

Do feel free to remove as much clothing as you need to, to remain comfortable. It's just us ladies here tonight and as you can see, all I wear any more is my scales.

Tuesdays, at promptly nine-thirty A.M., Patricia and her car and driver would arrive at our apartment. I would rush down, climb into the back of her grey Mercedes limousine, and we would descend upon the upper class midtown stores. Our sweep usually encompasse Chanel, Bergdorf's, Di Laurenta, Jaeger, and the higher quality midtown boutiques along 5th Avenue. We'd hand our purchases to the driver as we went along, to dump into the trunk of the limo.

Afterwards we would send him on his break and eat a late lunch at the Russian Tea Boom on 57th Street near Broadway, where we would pull out some of our smaller, choice pieces to croon over, and look for Igor Stravinsky. The famous composer ate chicken-with-giblets soup at the Russian Tea Room every Tuesday afternoon. He was a friend of my parents, and it wasn't unusual, if we ran into each other, for him to join us for lunch. Often, though, Patricia and I got there too late. More rarely, we had a chance to dine with Salvador Dali as well.

This Tuesday four days after Brands party was, in some respects, no different than most of our outings. Once the waitress had brought us our drinks and taken our orders, Patricia spread the Times across the table.

"Have you been following Dr. Spock's trial? They've selected an all-male jury."

I caught her cocktail glass barely in time to keep it from toppling; cloudy drops stained the newsprint. She brushed the liquid away and went on. "It's simply shocking, isn't it? Him egging boys on to dodge the draft."

"I wish you'd wear your glasses, dear. You're terrifically clumsy without them."

"Oh, thank you very much I'm sure!" She turned to the inner pages and sat up a little straighter, studying the ink-sketched advertisements. "I knew we shouldn't have skipped Jaeger today. They're having a big spring sale. Listen to this. 'Nostalgic Mists of Organza Silk. Cafr-au-lait, gentle grey, glade green.' Look at the cut of this dress. Perhaps we should have Rufus drop us by there on the way back."

I sighed and ran a finger slowly around the rim of my glass. It made a tone like a flute or a bell; I stopped, embarrassed, and folded my hands in my lap. "I'm all shopped out."

"You? Impossible. Besides, the glade green sounds perfect for you."

"I'm just not in the mood."

She folded up the paper with a sigh of mild exasperation and looked at me. "What's the matter with you? You haven't been yourself all day."

The waitress brought our lunches. I leaned my chin on my knuckles, poked at my salad, and said nothing for a moment. Tears gathered in my eyes.

"He's having an affair. I'm sure of it. With that horrid Marilyn Monroe."

Her thoughtful nod told me she'd already known.

"Everyone knows, don't they?"

She nodded again, looking uncomfortable. "He's not making much of a secret of it, I'm afraid. Several people saw them leaving Tuxedo Park together yesterday. She met him there after the golf game."

My throat got tight and tears spilled down my cheeks. She took my hand and made several false starts.

"Look," she said finally, "he's swinging a bit, that's all. Free love, you know?"

"You're the one who told me to keep him under lock and key."

"And you were the one who said he'd never go for her." At my hurt glance, Patricia grimaced. "What I mean is that it's a little late to lock him up now. Why not let it run its course?"

"Thanks for the understanding."

"I mean it. She won't be in town long."

I shook my head, miserable, took my hand back. "This isn't just a fling. He's in love with her."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm sure of it." I bailed my napkin up, shook my head. A tear ran down my cheek. "He came home Sunday night smelling of her perfume and last night he didn't even come home. And with her, of all people. Damn him."

More tears came. Patricia shushed me, looking around. The couple two booths down stared; I pointedly stared back till they looked away.

In a lowered voice I said, "He can't treat me this way."

"There's not much you can do, though. Really."

I was silent a moment, eyes downcast. Not because I didn't know how to respond or because I didn't know what I wanted; I'd given it plenty of thought. I hesitated because if I said what was on my mind it would be made too real.

But when I looked up, Patricia read my intent. "You know you can't. How would you survive?"

"I have my trust fund."

"That only gives you ten thousand a year! You'd live like a pauper, you'd have to get a job. And doing What?"

"I'll find something."

"What about Clara? You can't deprive her that way." She grabbed my hands again and held them. "Don't do something in haste you'll regret later. Brandon, you know, he's a fine catch. He'll probably be general counsel for Morgan Stanley someday. You'll have everything you ever dreamed of if you just stick it out."

I pulled my hands loose. "How can you say that? You know how miserable I've been. He doesn't care about me. I'm just an ornament on his arm. A hostess for his parties."

"It beats not having anyone." She paused, thinking. "Besides, Brandon will fight it. And he's a lawyer. They know all the tricks and they close ranks. You'll never win. At the very least he'd get custody of Clara."

Patricia must not have realized what was happening with me right then. Though the word "divorce" had never been uttered, the subject of how miserable I was with Brand had always been a favorite topic. Always before her arguments had supported nicely my reluctance to act.

This time was different. This time he was in love, with something other than his dreams and ambitions. The pain was clarifying my thinking; this time I'd been pushed past my limits. And I knew what to do.

"I want the phone and address of your cousin Franklin. And I want your promise to say nothing about this, to anyone."

She didn't answer, merely looked distressed.

"Please promise me," I repeated.

"Franky doesn't do divorce investigations. He's not much more than a document hound for city councillors' aides."

"I want someone I can trust not to talk to Brand. Someone not connected in any way to Douglas, Mannerly."

"You're making a mistake."

"I'll call you when I get home. Have the information ready, all right?"

She bit her lip, looking forlorn. "I can't. George will kill me if he finds out I helped you find a PI to incriminate Brandon."

I shook my head. "Your name need never come into this. I'll tell Brand I had the information from the Yellow Pages, or something. In fact, if you won't help me I'll get the information that way anyhow, so you might as well help me. I promise I'll never tell."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She sighed, and lifted her eyebrows in a shrug. "I still say you're making a big mistake. But OK."

I got the number, all right. I must have dialled it six times over the next day. And hung up before the first ring, each time.

Brand got home after eleven, smelling of perfume and sweat. We barely spoke a word to each other. Wednesday morning I feigned a headache to escape an excruciating breakfast.

That night he came home at his usual time, and after dinner he played with Clara for a while. Then he retreated to his office.

The photographs from his party had arrived in the mail that day. Clara had been pestering me for a snapshot of Papa for her scrap book; I had promised Clara a photo of Brand from his promotion party. But when I went through them after dinner, most of the ones with recognizable shots of Brand had Marilyn in them as well.

Seeing them made me behave rather terribly to Clara. I shut the photos up in the rolltop desk, snapped at her when she asked for her photo, and put her to bed without a story. Which made Clara cry, which made Brandon spank her. Poor little dear.

So I sneaked in and rocked her till she stopped crying and promised her a better photo of Papa than those nasty old photos from the party. We'd take a snapshot of him for Father's Day in a couple of weeks. She seemed comforted; she stuck her thumb into her mouth and fell asleep in my arms.

Then I listened in on Brand's phone calls from the bedroom extension.

"Brandy." I'd have recognized the voice anywhere; I'd heard it in dozens of movies. "I've missed you terribly today."

"My darling." His voice quavered, for heaven's sake. I thought I'd be sick.

"Can you get away tonight?"

"No. She's getting suspicious."

"Poor woman. I feel bad for her."

"Don't bother. She's a bitch. Shallow and stupid."

"I wish you wouldn't talk that way about her, dearest. It makes me feel bad."

"Believe me, she won't care about us. All she cares about is whether I have enough money and power to keep her in designer clothes and the right social circles."

"Do you — really — think she knows?"

"Mmmmm. Don't know. It may just be a snit, but I'd best spend the evening here. And I have a business call at ten."

"I see." A pause. "Tomorrow, then. At Cafe Reggio, at four?"

"At the Reggio at four."

Another long pause.

"I love you," he said.

"Sweet Brandy. Not being able to hold you is torment."

I'll give you torment, I thought. Slut.

But she hadn't said she loved him. He'd said "I love you" and she hadn't said it back. She's using you, Brand. She's using you.

"Tomorrow," he whispered. I slid the receiver back onto its hook.

"He's perfect for our needs," Dr. Rudo was saying. Brand's "business call." I scribbled furious notes at my bedside. "One of our inside people at the Jokertown Clinic tagged him immediately as a Man with a Mission. Seems he's into mind control, and hunted up Tachyon to see if he'd teach him some mentat tricks. Tachyon turned him away, of course, so he turned to the Rosicrucians."

"He sounds like a certified loon."

"By no means. I've had my people do a thorough check. He's intelligent, well-educated, dedicated, and has contacts in the Middle East — which should muddy the investigative waters nicely. He also has his own good reasons for volunteering, so no one is likely to come looking for us, if he talks."

"I don't like this. How can we trust him?"

"We don't have to trust him. How can he hurt us? Once you give him the schedule and hotel layout, pay him off, and turn him loose, all he'll know is that some man in a parking lot gave him money to do something he wants to do anyway. That's all he'll ever know."

"I still don't like it. He might be able to finger me later. We could use an underling just as easily."

"It's quite simple," Rudo replied. "You want to move into the upper tier. We need proof that you're willing to risk all before we allow that. Your reputation. Even your life. Consider this a rite of passage."

A pause. "If you insist on this, I suppose I'll have to do it. But if I go down, you'd better make sure of this: I'm taking you and a lot of other people with me."

"Look. It's up to you. You can do the payoff and come play with the big boys. Or you can refuse and stay right where you are, in the cozy middle of the organization, with the little boys.

"Don't worry; it's in our best interests to keep our people happy. The risks are minimal. And we'll protect you if anything goes wrong. But for now, it's your turn to prove yourself."

A longer pause. Brand sighed again. "When and where?"

"I'll give you the details tomorrow at lunch."

Thursday morning at breakfast, while Clara played with her oatmeal and blueberries and Brand read the New York Times Business section, I cupped my coffee mug in both hands and sipped at it, stared with burning, red-rimmed eyes out the window.

The housekeeper had put fresh-cut tulips in glass vases on the end tables in the living room, straightened up a bit, and opened the windows. Fresh air and sunlight streamed in through the picture window; the hyacinths and lilies-of-the-valley in the flower box outside were in full, fragrant bloom.

Too beautiful a spring morning can amplify one's misery.

Clara tugged at Brandon's arm and stepped on Frou Frou's, our Llasa Apso's, tail, as he was lapping up the last of the oatmeal she'd dropped on the floor for him. Frou Frou retreated under the table, yelping.

"Papa, will you take me to the zoo on Saturday?"

Brandon didn't answer right away. Clara tried to scramble up into his lap, and in so doing tore a page of the Business section. Brandon scowled and started to chide her, but caught my warning glance. To assuage my own guilt, I had chewed his ear for quite a bit the prior night, over how he'd brutalized Clara.

At any rate, at my glance he laid his paper down, picked her up, and wrapped his arms around her instead, and kissed her curls.

"I have to work on Saturday. Sorry, Tookie."

"Please? Please?"

"Papa has to work," I told her. "I'll take you shopping with me instead."

"It's all right," Brandon said. "Maybe we can go to the park for a while on Sunday. Well take Frou Frou along. OK?"

She beamed, grabbed his ears, and gave him an excited shake. "Groovy! Then Maman and I can go shopping on Saturday, too."

"Where did you pick that up?" I asked.

"What?"

"The 'groovy.' "

"That's what Uncle Henry says. And Jessica says it all the time, too, when she talks on the phone to her boyfriend. She's hip."

"She's what?" I asked.

"Hip, Maman. In the groove."

I gaped at her, flabbergasted.

"That sort of slang may be all right for some people but it's not appropriate language for you, little lady," Brand said. To me he said, "You'd better have a talk with Jessica. And I'd better talk to Henry."

I might have felt the same way myself, if Brand hadn't suggested it first. But the slang did sound kind of cute, coming from her. "It's just a word, for heaven's sake. It's not an obscenity."

"Can we go shopping Saturday, Maman?"

"Well see," I said, and smiled at her.

Brandon's and my eyes met over the top of her head.

"I'll be working late," he said. It occurred to me that I might as well have had Jessica set a place for Marilyn. She was right there at breakfast with us.

"Of course you will," I replied, and sipped coffee.

"I'm a friend of Patricia Wright's," I said into the phone. "Joan Moresworth van Renssaeler. We met last year at her Christmas party."

"Oh — yeah, yeah. I dig." Franklin Mitchell sounded as if he didn't have a clue what I was talking about. He also sounded like a flake. Not a good phone personality; he'd made a better impression in person. "How's Patsy doing these days? Has she, you know, like, dropped the kid?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Has she had the baby?"

"Oh. No. Not for several months yet. Listen." Through the open bedroom door, I saw Jessica and Clara playing with Clara's Barbie Dolls on the living room carpet.

Jessica had been helping me care for Clara since she'd been born. She was a strawberry blond, at least forty pounds overweight, and had the most beautiful, freckled face. She was also Irish, but I didn't mind the Irish so much. At least they were Protestants, some of them.

I dried my palms on my skirt, lowered my voice.

"This may not be your usual type of job, but I need someone I can trust and you come highly recommended. I need you to follow someone and take some photographs. This afternoon. And possibly — well, the job may take a few days, before you get the chance to catch — exactly what I'm looking for — on film."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

My voice failed me for a moment. "Does it matter?"

"Well — yeah. Of course it does. How'm I gonna, like, know if I got what you needed, if you don t tell me what you need?"

"Oh. Well." I cleared my throat.

"Maman, Maman, look!" Clara came running in, holding up her Ken doll. She'd put a dress on him and was giggling. "He dresses funny."

"Amusing, dear," I said to Clara, and glared at Jessica, who entered behind her. "This is an important call; do you mind?"

A sullen look crossed Jessica's face. She scooped Clara up and carried her back out.

"Hello?" he said. "Hello?"

"My husband is cheating on me."

"Ah."

"I want you to get pictures of them together. Lots of them. In bed, if possible. I'll pay you well."

"I charge a hundred fifty a day, plus expenses. I'll get you all the pictures you need. Since you're a friend of Patsy's, you can pay on delivery."

"Don't be surprised when you see whom it is."

He chuckled. "Man, nothing gets to me any more. Not in this business."

Over the next few days life carried on in a travesty of its old routine: Brand ate breakfast with us, went to work, stayed late or didn't come home at all. Clara seemed to sense that something was wrong; she needed a lot more attention and reassurance than usual. Jessica and I had difficulty controlling her.

On Sunday after services, Brand stayed home all day. He paced the house like a caged wildcat. When I asked what was going on he told me to mind my own business. I grew afraid that he'd invited her over — that they were going to announce their intention to run away together.

That afternoon he surprised me by keeping his promise to take Clara and Frou Frou to the park. Afterwards, while Jessica and I helped Clara press the flowers and leaves she had picked in the park between sheaves of waxed paper and then glue them into her scrap book, he spent a good deal of time in his office on the phone. I couldn't listen in because Jessica was around, and in the evening after she'd left he didn't make any calls. After we put Clara to bed he went out again, and didn't come back.

Franklin Mitchell called on Monday rnoming. "We'd better talk. Right away."

"I can't, not today. It's the babysitter's day off."

"I'll come there, then."

"You certainly will not! What's the urgency? Did you get the photos?"

"I got more pictures than I know what to do with, man. Something weird is going down."

"What are you talking about?"

"Listen," he said. His voice was strained. "Your old man is into some heavy shit. I don't know what it is, but this is more than I bargained for."

I closed my eyes, strove for calm. "Did you get photographs of him with Marilyn, or not?"

"I did. It was hot stuff, too. She's one sexy lady." He whistled.

"It'd be nice if you'd leave off with the commentary."

"Uh, right. Anyhow, you were right about them. It took till last night for me to get everything you wanted. You know," he cleared his throat. "Them together in bed."

I couldn't bring myself to respond.

"They spent the evening in a room at the St. Moritz," he went on. "I got some great shots from the fire escape. And then he left. I was going to split but then the chick started tailing him."

His slang confused me. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Marilyn, man. She tailed him. You know — followed him. So I tailed her. We all took cabs to a deserted parking lot in Newark, where I lost her. But not your old man."

"Oh?" This didn't sound like Brand at all. He hated New Jersey.

"Yeah. He met a couple of dudes there. Heavy dudes, man. They went off and hid behind a wall, and then your old man stood around for a while under a street lamp near this big graffiti wall mural. Then a fourth dude arrived and your old man gave him a big envelope.

"And While I was taking pictures, one of the other dudes spotted me. He tried to kill me. He shot at me and chased me for several blocks." He sounded indignant. "I think your old man is messing with the Mob, or something."

"Preposterous." But I thought about the odd conversations Brand had been having with Dr. Rudo. Card Sharks? A Mafia connection?

Brand's recent court case, the one that had earned him a big promotion, had been a Fourth Amendment case, and the newspaper involved had reputedly had connections with the Mafia. But Dr. Rudo had been so nice. And so — so Germanic. It didn't seem possible he was Italian.

"Look." No offense," Mitchell said, "but I want to unload these pictures, get my money, and say good-bye. You'll have to take them now, or I destroy them. I don't want any trouble with the Mob."

I looked down at Clara, lying atop big sheets of yellow, green, and red construction paper with her crayons scattered about her and her tongue poking out.

I didn't want her involved in this, in any way, no matter how urgent Mitchell felt matters were.

"Patricia will hold them for me. You have her address?"

"Of course."

"I'll call her now and tell her what to expect. Seal the photos and the negatives in an envelope with my name on it and drop it off at her place. She can pay you. I'll get the photos from her and reimburse her tomorrow."

Look at the hour. And I have to be at the Clinic at eight in the morning. I wonder if we could continue this some other time?

No, no. I understand. There's not much more to tell, actually. It's just, this is all rather painful to recount.

I'll make some sandwiches and coffee for you, then. I have a frozen pie in the freezer, too. And we'll get this over with.

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.

Brand took me to an office in a skyscraper down in the Financial District. Dr. Rudo was there, dressed in a different Nehru suit, a black one that made his pale skin and hair and his violet-blue eyes seem luminous in contrast. He greeted me in a way that made me shiver and shrink away.

Brand said, "I believe you wanted to speak to my wife?"

The room looked like a doctor's office, with the requisite diplomas and certifications. An overstuffed couch and cubist paintings on the walls made it a little less medical-looking.

I thought about Dr. Isaacs's office, and what he had said about stress. I wondered if I was going to die.

Dr. Rudo put me in an armchair before his big desk, saying to Brand with a glance at me, "Yes, that would be charming. But a word with you first."

As soon as the door closed and the tumblers of the lock turned over, I dumped out the pens from a pen holder on the desk and rushed over to kneel by the door. The open end of the wood cup I pressed against the wood, and on the closed end I put my ear.

I heard Brand say, "… only wounded."

"Yes. It's a shame that the upper echelon's first impression of you will be how you failed at your first major assignment."

Brand sounded desperate, angry. "I was only the messenger. He didn't use a high enough caliber weapon. That's not my fault."

Rudo laughed. "Relax. It's a head wound. The senator will be dead before morning. And if not, we can send someone in to finish him off. Your wife is the more important factor. If her detective did get shots of you with our Palestinian friend, and she's passed them on, you're at real risk."

"The bitch …"

Their voices faded to murmurs as the floor transmitted to my shins and knees the trembling of their footsteps. They had moved away from the door. I stayed crouched at the door, shivering and sweating till I could smell my own stink, and thought about the photos in the rolltop desk back home.

A moment later footsteps shook the floor again. Dr. Rudo's voice said, "… I doubt her resistance is high; this shouldn't take long."

The tumblers turned and the door opened. They looked down at me. I tried to duck between their legs, but Brandon grabbed my arm and hauled me upright — virtually off my feet.

"My dear young lady, you're showing an alarming amount of initiative," Dr. Rudo said.

"What are you going to do with me?" I felt embarrassed, apologetic, at how my voice quavered. He smiled.

"Just ask your a few simple questions. Come sit down. Relax. Nobody's going to hurt you." He took me by the elbow and led me back to the chair.

Dr. Rudo made Brandon leave the room, and then we chatted. I should have been much more on the defensive; to this day I don't know how I could have relaxed around him, given what I knew.

But the questions all seemed so innocuous. I remember his cool violet eyes looking at me, and his head nodding…. I Went on about Clara, about myself and how much I wanted another child, about Brandon's ambitions. Memories and thoughts surfaced and spilled out of my mouth that I had thought were long buried.

And when he asked me about the photos, I should have been prepared but I–I don't know why; I must have been an idiot! — but I had become convinced that the photos Franklin had taken were harmless and pointless, that I had no reason to conceal them.

And, well, I told him where they were.

Do you know, it took me years afterward to realize that it was even odd I should have told him where the pictures were? Whenever I thought about the session my mind kept slipping and sliding off the memory of the pictures, every which way. I'm still disturbed by how I could have been so foolish, so easily fooled. I wonder if he hypnotized me?

Brandon came back in at some point and took me home. I don't remember that part too clearly.

When we got home, Clara and Jessica were nowhere to be seen. I had a high fever by then, and was freezing cold, quaking like an aspen leaf. My joints ached. Brand took the pictures out of the desk, then undressed me, put me in bed and looked through the photos. He made a call on the phone, sitting on the bed.

"Pan? Brand. I found them right where she told us. Yeah, he got some shots of the exchange but nothing too incriminating. I think we can destroy them and leave it at that. I'll take care of them."

A pause. "I'll make sure she doesn't cause any more trouble. Isn't that right, Joan?" he asked me, gripping me by my sweat-soaked hair. Pain spread inward from the loci of his knuckles. I moaned.

He released me and spoke into the phone again. "OK. How about tomorrow evening? You can have supper with us." Pause. "Fine. Seven thirty. See you then."

Next he set fire to the photos, one by one, and dropped them, flaming, into a crystal serving bowl. Except for several explicit ones of him and Marilyn. Those he waved at me.

"Perhaps I'll start my own scrap book with these."

He eyed the photos for a moment, gave me a look, then threw back his head and laughed. I was struck at how honest and open that laugh sounded. He hadn't sounded so open in years.

"God, Joan. It's great to be free at last. Free to tell you how much I hate you. Your jealousies and suspicions, your pettiness, your clinging and complaining and prudishness and controlling, bitchy nature — you've made my life a living hell.

"But that's over now. From now on, you are Clara's mother and that's all. You have nothing to say to me, nor I to you. You'll be my wife to the public eye, but there's nothing between us any more. And if you ever try anything like this again," he waved the picture at me, "I swear I'll kill you."

He put them in his wallet and then picked up the phone again.

"Hi. It's me." I could tell by how his voice grew husky and by how a bulge swelled in his trousers whom he'd called.

"I arranged for our babysitter to take Clara overnight," he said. "She's sick with the flu. I need a place to stay. I need to see you."

Pause. "Can't you find a sitter?"

Another pause. "I read about it in the papers. I'm so sorry. But, you know, he is a threat to our work, with his position on the wild card."

A pause. "Who told you? Wait — don't hang up. Damn it!"

He slammed the phone down and rubbed his face, looking at me. Anguish was stamped on his face like someone's shoeprint. He really loved her. I was curled into a tight ball, riding out the fireball of pain spreading through me, and couldn't focus on him, even to taunt him.

I don't remember him leaving.

That night, I became intimate with the virus. It was the longest night, the worst pain I have ever lived through.

The next morning I awoke to Frou Frou's yaps, welcoming Jessica and Clara into the apartment.

The night's agony was fading, though a thousand aches and twinges tormented me along my body. I had that lightheaded, floating clarity one feels after a high fever breaks, and also a terrible, cavernous hunger. Morning sunlight streamed in through the sheer curtains. Jessica clattered about in the kitchen, making breakfast. Clara's voice rose and fell in a dialog with Frou Frou in the living room.

Clara. I wondered if the prior day's torture had been a dream. I wanted Clara in my arms. I propped myself up on my elbows.

Great tufts of my hair lay strewn about my pillow. With a strangled gasp I touched my scalp and felt — baldness. Brushing backward, the skin was smooth and cool and dry; brushing forward it felt like sandpaper. My arms were covered in scales, in a pattern that vaguely mimicked the roses and dark green leaves twined on the comforter.

Throwing off the comforter, I meant to put my feet on the floor. But when I tried to swing my legs out from under the sheets nothing happened. My toes were down there somewhere; I could even wiggle them, but whatever was moving in there wasn't my toes.

I strained to lift my legs again. Nothing happened except the sheet moving. I was afraid to lift the sheet.

I heaved with all my might. My lower torso slid out from under the sheet — and slid, and slid, and collapsed onto the floor in a single looping, rubbery limb: a growing, sinuous tangle. The weight of it pulled the rest of me off the bed.

I grabbed at the bedsheets to keep from striking my head on the bedside table. Then I twisted around to see what I had become.

No legs. No toes. I felt them but they weren't there. My torso, my navel, even my genitalia — or so I thought then — gone.

From below my breasts, I was all snake, eighteen feet of scaled coils about the thickness of one of my former thighs and mottled now like our carpet, gleaming moonstone and sand. Even the flesh of my nipples was scaled, a slightly darker brown. My lips, too, felt scaled. How beautiful the scales were: luminous, translucent, like semiprecious stones. Beautiful, and horrible. My fingernails were long, horny claws, a lizard's claws.

My lace nightie had slipped off my shrunken shoulders and gotten tangled in the loops of snake flesh. I struggled with the nightie, sliding it over the coils, heaving portions of myself back and forth, till I could pull it off over my head. That small exertion exhausted me and I had to rest for a moment.

Then, hand over hand, I dragged myself over to the mirror by the door and propped myself upright, supported by shaky arms. From the breasts up the thing in the mirror was mostly me, though the wrong color, scaled and hairless, with an altered nose, mouth, and ears, shrunken shoulders and arms. From there down, I'd become monstrous.

I reared back in horror and shock, and my lower body clenched into a mass of coils. The thing in the mirror bobbed like a cobra about to strike. Its color — and mine — went a brilliant parrot blue with yellow, black, and red striping, as a cobra hood spread behind its head. Its reptile eyes dilated. A bitter taste bled from my lengthened canine teeth as a milky substance leaked from the mirror thing's canines.

It wore my face. A scaled, reptilian face, but unmistakably mine. The colors were fading now to a softer, smoky blue as I studied it, with sand-, ash-, and rust-colored stripes.

I ran my tongue over my lips and saw it had lengthened and forked at the end. After extruding it, when I brushed the tongue against my pallet, it could — taste the air, smell it; neither of those words is right, but it was a little like both. It could taste the scent of Brand's belongings and mine, and taste faintly the presence of Jessica and Clara and Frou Frou in the other room, of frying eggs and bacon and toast.

Hands over my face, I lurched away from the mirror with a soft cry.

First I thought, a dream. A nightmare spawned by my fever.

I But I knew differently. What Dr. Isaacs had said would come to pass, had come to pass. My body had been stolen from me during the night. Some malevolence had traded it for this mass of heaving, scaled coils. I'd become in body the predator I'd always had in my heart. I'd become a lamia.

One's priorities shift when survival is at stake. Hysteria was definitely called for; I felt it bubbling around the edges of my thoughts. But now was not the time. I couldn't be certain Brand had gone for the night — he might have borrowed Clara's bed, since she'd been at Jessica's. And Clara, I couldn't bear for her to see me like this.

On the other hand, I couldn't bear to lose her.

Brand had always hated the wild card and its victims, as much as I had. He would never tolerate a joker wife. I didn't know what he would do when he discovered what had happened to me, but given that he had been involved in the murder of two men, I didn't want to find out.

But first things first. Food.

When I thought about eating my tongue flicked, flicked again, tasting the air. The smells it detected made me writhe into knots of hunger and revulsion. The cooking eggs and bacon and toast turned my stomach. Raw animal flesh was what my body needed. A prospect equally revolting, but imperative.

Three prime, New York cut strip steaks were in the refrigerator. Those would do.

I lurched and slung and dragged my elongated self over to the door. It was exhausting work; slithering is not as easy as it looks, especially when one is starved, weakened by illness, and unaccustomed to the motion. Heart racing, I turned the knob, pulled the door open, peeked around the corner. The blue was fading from my scales and a dark brown with moonstone and sand mottlings, the combined colors of the door and carpeting, faded in.

My scales gave me protective coloring. With a sudden, faint hope that I could escape this situation unharmed, I slipped out onto the cool wood floor, my colors shifting as I moved.

Frou Frou's ears pricked up when the door opened. He looked over at me. I froze.

Clara had arranged Frou Frou and her dolls in a semicircle beyond the couch. The circle included the dog, Barbie and Ken, the plastic Crybaby Cathy baby, the fine, antique China doll my mother had given her for Christmas, and stuffed animals of assorted types, colors, and sizes. Clara told Frou Frou to sit down but instead he came around the end of the couch, suspicious and confused, with a growl rumbling in his throat.

I hurled myself toward the safety of the bedroom. But I was too long and clumsy to get all of me through the door and slam it shut before Frou Frou darted inside. Bristling, with little yips and growls, he backed me into the corner. I pulled myself into a tightly coiled mass, held out my hands.

"Frou Frou," I whispered. "Hush." My colors began to brighten, responding to my fear.

Frou Frou tilted his head at my voice, clearly confused, yipped experimentally.

"Hush." My voice trembled and my speech was slurred; I hadn't yet learned to form my words quite properly with my new mouth.

Frou Frou sniffed at my fingers, then made up his mind. I wasn't his mistress, I was an intruder. He snapped at my outstretched hand and started to bark. Jessica yelled at him from the other room.

I rose up above my coils. Colors blazed on my scales; my cobra's hood spread.

He darted at me, baring his teeth, and his teeth closed on my twitching tail. Pain lanced up my body. With a cry I struck out and bit him on the left flank, behind his foreleg. While he struggled, yelping, glands in my palate emptied themselves, venom pulsed in my gums and through my teeth. Dismayed, I let him go.

He ran in circles, yowling, then staggered under the bed, fell on his side and twitched. I worked my way over to him. His eyes were glazing. I lay down next to him. His heart fluttered against the palm of my hand. Then the heart stopped beating.

Clara stood at the door.

"Clara," I said, propping myself upright with effort. Starvation and exertion made my head spin.

"You hurt Frou Frou."

"He attacked me, honey." I forced the words out. "I had no choice."

"You hurt Frou Frou! Bad snake!"

She came at me with both fists, struck at my face. One blow caught me on my nose, still tender from its transformation. At the pain, anger flooded me. I coiled and reared. My scales blazed blue with red, yellow, and black, and my hood fanned out.

Not Clara; no!

I forced down the urge to strike. The angry, brilliant colors drained from my scales. I caught at Clara's hands and held onto them till her rage passed. Without adrenaline I was so weak that it took all my strength to control a five-year-old.

"It's all right, honey. It'll be all right. It's Maman."

She burst into tears. I put my arms around her and stroked her head. My arms were almost too weak to hold her. "I'm so sorry, honey. I'm sorry about Frou Frou."

Jessica had come into the room to see what the commotion was. She stood at the door, pasty white. She must have seen me about to strike at Clara.

"My God," she said, "oh, my God."

Clara, nestled next to my heart, said, "Jessica, it's Maman."

"Clara, come here." Jessica held out her arms. Her voice was shrill.

I didn't let go of Clara. "It's me, Jessica. It's all right. It's the wild card, that's all."

Jessica squatted. Her voice was tinged with hysteria. "Clara, come here right now."

I released Clara and gave her a gentle push. "We need to talk, honey. Go on out for a minute. Jessica — "

But she snatched Clara up, took her out, and slammed the door. Loud bumps and thumps told me she had blocked the door with the rolltop desk. I crept over and tested it anyway; it was blocked.

I collapsed on the floor and panted. I was ill from hunger, all but unconscious.

I moved back to the bed and flicked my tongue all up and down Frou Frou. He was dead and nothing I could do would bring him back. He smelled like what I needed to eat. Fresh, newly killed meat.

I dragged him out from under the bed, lifted his limp head, removed his collar with trembling hands, and then gave him a last caress. I shuddered. The dog was so big, I wasn't sure I could go through with it.

I forced his head into my mouth. My throat gagged but I kept pushing, salivating heavily, and my jaw unhinged as a snake's does, so he could pass more easily. The skin of my mouth stretched over him. My throat expanded to take him.

He got stuck when his shoulders reached the back of my mouth. No matter how hard I shoved and punched at him he'd go no further. So I propped his hindquarters against the floor, struggled up atop him, and used my own weight to push him all the way in, fur, claws, and all.

It hurt a lot. I swallowed and swallowed. Tears streamed down my face. Eating him was a great labor. I swallowed some more and my powerful throat muscles carried him farther down my gullet, where he pressed hard against my ribcage and made my breathing labored.

The ache of famine was ebbing. The pain of an overlarge object stuck in my gullet remained but my body knew it had the right kind of sustenance.

Exhausted, still swallowing feebly, I lay on my side and looked down at myself. Frou Frou had lodged at about where my diaphragm tapered into the snake's trunk. My stomach — if that's what it was, though I guessed it was just a long tube with digestive juices; there didn't seem room for a set of intestines — growled and burbled. I looked pregnant.

At that thought I started to retch, and then couldn't stop. The same strong muscles that had swallowed him tried to force him back up my throat. But they were weakened now, and by concentrating and taking deep breaths I managed keep him down.

Lethargy settled over me. I stretched out against the wall behind, the bed, folding my tail double, and my scales faded to eggshell white, moonstone, and sand. I slept.

"Joan?" It was Brand's voice, and it roused me to semi-wakefulness.

The color and angle of the sunlight told me it was mid-afternoon. essica must have called him home early. I was in the throes of a massive, reptilian-grade digestive stupor, so I have only a vague memory of their voices, and of blurred images moving about the room, though I managed gradually to force myself to complete wakefulness.

Jessica said, "It was in here before. It said 'it's me' in her voice." A moment later, "Where's the dog?"

They looked right at me at least twice. And then past.

"It was here," she repeated in a defensive tone. Brandon gave her one of his patronizing looks. "It killed the dog. It tried to attack Clara, too. I rescued her."

"I've never known you to be this excitable. I pray you'll do it on your on time next time, and not disturb me at work."

They were on their way out when Clara came in. "Maman?"

"Get back!" Jessica snapped, but Brand said, "There's no one here. Don't be a twit."

"Maman." Clara had a child's eyes, not as easily fooled by expectations. She saw me at the wall and came over, knelt beside me and touched my face.

I should have regretted her revealing me. But all I knew was joy at the relief and delight in her eyes and voice. She threw her arms about my neck and I enveloped her with arms and coils.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you about Frou Frou," she said.

"And I'm sorry," I replied. "I'm sorry that I scared you and hurt Frou Frou."

"He's not ever coming back, is he?"

"No, not ever," I said. "He's dead now. Gone. I'm sorry."

She gave it some thought. "You couldn't help it. I saw what happened. He was trying to bite you. You must have been really scared."

"Yes. I was."

"But I wish he wasn't gone."

"Me too, honey."

She pressed her cheek against my scaly breast. She stroked my skin, and as if her fingers were tiny paintbrushes, my scales changed color beneath their touch: silver, rose, amethyst.

She released a contented sigh. "You look pretty, Maman. Prettier than ever."

That brought tears to my eyes.

I heard a sound and looked up. Brand had a poker in his hand now, and was lifting it to strike a blow to my head.

My colors grew bright, blue / red / yellow / black and dangerous. My coils curled up beneath me and my hood spread. I felt my glands taut and warm with venom, pressing against my sinuses and palate. Brand hesitated.

But I was sluggish, and couldn't maintain my erect posture. My colors began to fade to smoke, rust, sand, and ash. I leaned against the wall with Clara in my arms, striving for fierceness.

"Put that thing down before someone gets hurt," I said. "Put it down."

He lowered his arm and regarded me. Then Jessica looked closely at my misshapen trunk, and her hand went to her mouth. "It ate the dog."

Brand winced. "My God."

"Leave us be," I muttered.

"Give me my child." Fear had entered Brand's voice. Fear for his child. "I'll let you go if you give me Clara."

I was shocked at that. "I'd never hurt her, Brand."

He dropped the poker and went down on his knees before me, folded his hands and held them out to me, pleading. A bead of sweat rolled from his temple to his chin.

"You were human once. You adored her. Swear to me that you won't harm her. Swear, or let her go."

I remembered, when she had struck me, precisely how close I had come to lashing out, poisoning her as I had Frou Frou. I remembered how the dog had thrashed when I'd struck him and I remembered the sensation as I'd shoved him down my throat. The thought turned me numb with dread.

I looked at Clara's trusting face, pressed against my chest, and sobbed. I'd just killed and eaten a pet I'd had since I was fourteen. I couldn't be sure of myself at all.

I handed her over to him and slumped back against the wall.

I wouldn't have hurt her, you know. I would never have hurt her. If only I could go back, reassure that younger, frightened me. Yd tell her, take Clara, hold her to you. Trust yourself. She needs you. You can do it.

I've never hurt a human soul, since my changeover. Except to help the terminally ill on to a better life at their own pleading. And surely that's a gift, not a curse. I've forsworn bigotry and pettiness, and devoted my life to helping others.

I've killed animals, to be sure. Often. Famine drove me to eat Frou Frou that day, but it wasn't a human's hunger. This body needs the nutrients, the minerals and proteins in animal blood, skin, hair, and bones. That was why the craving was so strong. It's a part of my nature now, to require live or newly dead, whole animals. Raw meat is as close as I can come to human foods, and it's not adequate to sustain me for very long. I'm not human any more, in that way.

My eating habits are certainly less sanitary and more immediate than buying ground round at the grocery store. But it's not so different in concept, is it, after all?

Other animals, their intelligence is not the equal of ours. Yet they are still living creatures, and have more intelligence than we credit them with. They deserve life and respect, as much as we do.

But our very existence forces us to make hard choices. It forces us to prey on other creatures when the need is great.

I had always been a predator, by choice, without need. I had spent a lifetime preying on the weaknesses of others. The wild card made me a predator in truth, and gave me no choice in the matter.

I've learned from it. I learned that one must forgive oneself for what one has had to do to survive. And I can forgive myself everything. Everything but how I abandoned Clara that day.

I understand why it happened, don't mistake me. I'd spent a lifetime being untrustworthy and shallow and hypocritical. And now I had become a creature whom I feared at least as much as Brand and Jessica did.

How could I know that all that had happened in the past few days would force me to find a strength I didn't know I had? Nothing in my past had prepared me to trust that I could protect Clara from the worst of what I had become.

I wish I could forgive myself for that failure of faith.

Brand kept his promise, to my surprise. They kept me shut up in the utility room for a couple of days, until my digestion had proceeded far enough along for me to stay awake for more than a few moments at a time. Then he let me go, with a suitcase stuffed full of personal memorabilia, a hundred dollars cash, and a check for two thousand dollars. I'm still grateful to him for that.

He held Clara in one arm and opened the door for me with the other.

"Where are you going, Maman?" she asked. I paused out in the hallway and looked back, but all the words lodged in my chest, the place where the rock was starting to form.

Brandon shushed her. "That's not your Maman. It's just an animal that looks a little like her."

She struggled in his arms, reaching out to me. "I want Maman!"

"Hush! Maman is dead," he said, and closed the door. Her rising wail, faint through the door, followed me down the hall.

I suppose that's all.

No, no. Please don't apologize. It was time for the story to come out. These are tears of release. Just let me be for a moment, will you? I'll be all right.

There, now. Much better, thanks. It's odd. I actually feel better for having told it. It's weighed on me so heavily for so long. I've kept that secret inside for so long, of how I abandoned my daughter. Perhaps the key to forgiving oneself is through the telling of the tale.

My, it's three-thirty in the morning. Would you like to sleep on the foldout? My boyfriend is on call at the Clinic tonight, and this oak branch is quite comfortable for me. I only sleep when the temperature drops too low, or after eating a heavy meal.

No? Well. Certainly. No offense at all. Though you must take care out on the streets this late.

Here, before you go. I'd like you to have these notebooks; they contain the notes I made on what happened. I wrote everything down soon afterward so I wouldn't forget the details. They might help you in your research.

Oh. One last thing you should know. This may be paranoia on my part, but, well, it has returned to me over and over. As I related to you, Brand told Dr. Rudo on the phone that the photos the detective had taken weren't very incriminating. That closeup of him with Sirhan Sirhan, Kennedy's assassin, was damning. Perhaps he was lying to Dr. Rudo, but why?

And I remember how much Clara wanted a photo of her Papa, and how I had left her alone with the photos when I had that argument with Jessica. That photo was definitely the best shot of Brand's face, of the whole batch. I keep wondering.

But now I'm being paranoid.

Come, let me put on my electric sleeve and I'll escort you to the subway station.