Margot's War

by Ty Knoy

  Nick shook his head. “I don’t think she did. If she did, she didn’t tell me.” He laughed at his next thought. “It would have ruined the French girl illusion, wouldn’t it?”

  Camille shook her head. “My mother has had some bad luck with men. Not that you would have been. She couldn’t blame anyone but herself for my father, but there was one who wasn’t her fault.”

  “She was married before?”

  “Oh, no. Only ever to my father.”

  “So who’s this other guy you mentioned. Not Aaron. Who’s the other guy?”

  “He’s not really anything to worry about. I’ll tell you right after you tell me what happened at the party.”

  “Okay then. Your mother and I arrived more than an hour after the party had begun and—”

  “What had you done in the meantime? Just kidding. Never mind.”

  “Right. A lot of people were already at the party. The house, as big as it was, was almost entirely a huge living room. A pianist was playing background music on a concert grand, and Victor was near it, talking with a couple of men with big cigars. Beautiful women in beautiful gowns and men in tuxedoes were everywhere, in the big room and out on the balcony. Victor was in a frock coat.

  Telling the story for Camille brought it all back vividly to Nick’s mind, not that it had ever been very far out of his mind. “I had caught Victor’s eye, and he broke off his conversation with the cigar guys and came over. After the perfunctory how-have-you-beens, how-are-your-mom-and-dad, and so on, Victor asked, ‘Where’s this girl you’re going to marry? I’m anxious to meet her.’”

  “I explained that Gayle was probably landing at Stapleton about then and that she wouldn’t be up in time for the party. He said I should bring her around the next day.

  “You didn’t tell him you were breaking the engagement?” Camille said.

  “No, but I did tell him I had left his phone number in a message for Gayle and that she might call if she got in early. He said I should tell the security guys, and they would let me know.

  “I also told him I had given a lift to my neighbor, Margot Renard, the pianist, who was playing on her deck at night. He seemed surprised that I had brought her up, but then he did say he had heard and that he knew who it was. I said she had gone to a powder room. He patted me on the shoulder and said he had to get back to the guys with the big cigars.”

  “And where was my mother all this time?” Camille asked.

  “I had begun wondering myself, and I wandered around looking. I talked to a violinist whose winter job was in the Cincinnati Orchestra and then to a bassoonist from the Detroit Orchestra.

  “Finally, I spotted Margot’s blue gown in among some other lovely gowns; she was outside on the balcony, talking with a couple of other women, in French. She had somehow slipped past Victor and me. She also apparently had been previously acquainted with one of the women she was with. The three broke into English as I was introduced. One of the women was a viola player Margot had known in Paris and the other was a cellist from Montreal. The other two women had drinks in their hands, but Margot didn’t, so I went off to the bar to get her a martini and got myself ginger ale.”

  “Because Gayle was coming?”

  “No. I didn’t want my motorcycle to get drunk. But forever after I wished I had ordered gin and tonic and just carried it around.”

  Camille shook her head. “Mother loses again.”

  “No, I was stalling. Actually, it had occurred to me by then that I didn’t know if Margot had a husband back in France. I mean, maybe it was an open marriage, and I was just a plaything. All these thoughts were in my head.”

  “You were coming to your senses, at least a little bit.”

  “I should have asked her at breakfast.”

  “Or you could have asked her after breakfast instead of—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I should have, I should have, I should have. But there I was, on the balcony, paralyzed, with Gayle a couple of hours away.

  “Then Victor came out onto the balcony, and all who were out there took the chance to fawn over him. In the midst of it, I introduced him to Margot, explaining that she was the pianist next door to whom I had given a ride. What happened next took my breath away.”

  Nick took a deep breath. “Margot and Victor stood stiffly before each other, like two statues, and the others on the balcony seemed instinctively to back away until their backs were to the rails, leaving Margot and Victor alone in the middle. I, for no reason I could explain to myself, also backed out into the circle. Victor, without the courtesy bow he usually went into when being introduced or introducing himself, merely and evenly said, ‘How are you, Kathy?’

  “She merely said, ‘Hello, Victor.’ I didn’t clearly hear ‘Kathy,’ but after he turned away, it became clear that that was what he had said. ‘Kathy’ reached for my glass, took it out of my hand, and sipped the ginger ale while holding her martini glass in her other hand. Then she spit the ginger ale over the rail, handed my glass back, and said, ‘I’ll find my own way back down, Nicholas.’”

  Camille sighed deeply and shook her head.

  Nick went on. “Everyone on the balcony was frozen, staring. Down by our houses—mine and Margot’s—a police car was turning in to head up the switchbacks.

  “I went in, and across the room I got a glimpse of Victor talking to his security people. It seemed he had left a wake through the guests. I had a clear view of him with the sheriff’s deputy guard at the front door, and I walked quickly through the wake, thinking about whether I had heard right—that he had called her Kathy.

  “Victor was telling the plainclothes guy, ‘She’s an imposter, and, well, don’t make a scene, but stay close by her just in case.’ Victor turned to me. ‘She isn’t who you think she is, Nick.’

  “In the corner of my eye, coming from the direction of the buffet—guests parting as if they were a curtain on her stage—a beautiful, statuesque woman with a bowl high on her head, like those graceful African women who majestically walk with vessels of water atop their heads, was coming my way. A dancer, I thought. A dancer Victor had brought in. But the woman wasn’t African; she was Caucasian. Maybe a Soviet ballerina. But she was brunette, not blond. Her arms were high over her head as she danced through the guests, who were drawing away before her, in the way the sea had parted for the Israelites fleeing Egypt, I supposed.

  “Her face was beautiful, and I knew I had seen her before as the crystal bowl passed by me, higher than my head. It was Margot, and she was closing in on Victor. I was frozen. The plainclothes security man, who had started off toward the balcony, came running back and lunged, but he was too late. The bowl crashed onto the face and the chest of Victor, showering him with red liquid and ice.

  “Victor fell, and the bowl fell with him, shattering on the tile. Margot tripped on Victor’s feet and fell onto him, her fists flailing at him, missing him, and flailing into the liquid and the ice and the shards. The plainclothes man grabbed Margot’s hair, and Victor, who was on his back in the red punch and glass, raised his hand from where he was on the floor and told him, ‘Let go of her hair! Let go of her hair! Take her arms, take her arms!’

  “The plainclothes guy and I together took her arms and stood her up. The uniformed man came over, handcuffs in hand, but Margot got her arm free from me and smacked him in the face. He caught her wrist then and got a cuff on it, and then spun her around. They got the other cuff on her behind her back.”

  Camille sat frozen on the sofa, gasping, her elbows on her knees and both hands covering her face. “Oh my god,” she kept saying into her hands. Then she took her hands down and said, “I’ve never, ever heard such a thing as that.”

  Nick took her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

  Camille didn’t answer. She just cried quietly, shook her head, and put a tissu
e to her eyes.

  Nick said, as he held Camille’s arm, “Victor kept saying, ‘Do not hurt her. Do not hurt her.’”

  “They didn’t, did they?”

  “No,” Nick said. He released Camille’s arm. “Victor got to his feet, and he followed the men as they took your mother out the door to the patrol car. I followed too, and I know Victor said something to her. But I couldn’t make it out, except for ‘Kathy.’ I don’t know if she said anything to him. I wasn’t close enough.

  “Two other men were in the patrol car, and they got out, took Margot, and put her in the back. I noticed about that time the deputy who was working as a guard was bleeding from his cheek down to his jaw. Victor touched his face and said, ‘Bloody hell. Did she scratch you?’ He took a towel from a serving person, who was mopping at his clothes, and put it to the deputy’s face. To me, the blood looked like it was from more than a scratch. Your mother’s fingernails were short, per force, and couldn’t have done that.

  “One of the patrolmen who had driven up said the cut was deep, that it looked like a knife cut. Then he and the others looked at your mother, who was sitting in the car, her hands cuffed behind her back. I remember distinctly that she was sitting there quietly, aloofly, with her chin up, as if she were proud of herself.”

  “You don’t mean—” Camille said.

  “No, no, no,” Nick said, holding his hand up as if he were about to recite an oath. “There wasn’t a knife. No knife. The deputies took her back out of the car and patted her down, then put her back in while the deputy who was holding the towel to his face went back in and looked at the mess on the floor. There was no knife.

  “I went up to the car and looked at your mother—still Margot to me, still French woman to me—and wondered if she would be deported, and if she were, what I would have to do to find her if she were sent back to France. Stupid thought.”

  “You didn’t wonder why she did what she had just done?”

  “Of course I did, but not before I had that stupid thought. I was totally wacked out for a minute or so.”

  “This is all so horrible. I can’t imagine.”

  “I looked at her through the car window, but she only looked straight ahead. She didn’t turn her head toward me. She wasn’t wild-eyed. One of the patrolmen who had arrived in the car pulled me away and got in the back with her, and the other patrolman drove the car away.

  “People from the party were beginning to crowd around on the cul de sac, and some ran back through the house, to the railing out on the deck, to watch the car go down. Not one drop of the punch had hit my clothes. I sort of melted in with the gawkers outside, got to my bike, and coasted it to the first switchback turn before I let the motor start. A car went behind me all the way to the bottom of the switchbacks, and as I pulled up in front of my house, the car went by. On the passenger side was the deputy, who had been cut, holding a towel to his face.

  “At the house, I put the motorcycle in the garage. I didn’t want Gayle to see it, which was goofy, since I was going to break it off with her.

  “And I took the Jeep downtown.”

  CHAPTER 20

  LARRY, IN SUIT and tie, came in from the hall. Nick waved and nodded. Larry nodded. From behind Camille, Larry looked at Nick, held out his hands, palms up, and raised his eyebrows.

  Nick shook his head.

  Larry put his hands on Camille’s shoulders, patted her, and massaged her shoulders. She turned her face up to him and smiled, then looked back at Nick. “We need to go before long,” Larry said. “You must tell him.”

  “I have to hear the rest of this,” Camille said, taking a deep breath.

  Nick said Gayle still hadn’t come when he got into town and that he left a note at the Big Lodge desk and went over to the sheriff’s office. “The only person there was the deputy with the cut face. The bleeding had mostly stopped, and he was typing. He remembered I had come to the party with ‘the subject,’ as he called her, and he asked if I knew her name.

  “I told him Margot Renard—that’s the only name I knew at the time—and I gave the address of the house next to mine. He took my name and address also. There were only two detention cells in the office, and no one was in either, so I asked him where Margot was. He said that on the way down, the deputy riding in the back with her had found that a shard of glass was stuck in her right hand—in through the palm with a sharp point out the back—that hadn’t been noticed, and so the deputies had taken her to a doctor.”

  Camille gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

  Larry patted her shoulders. “The deputy said he was sure that the glass was what had cut him.”

  “Was he okay?”

  “Apparently not serious,” Nick said. “Victor came, driving his car himself, and he stepped out of it in jeans and a plaid shirt. He and the clothes looked fresh and clean. He came in and asked the deputy how he was, then he assured the deputy he would take care of all medical bills and make up any wages he might lose. Victor asked, and the deputy explained to him that Margot had been taken to the doctor.”

  Camille nodded. Nick looked up at Larry, who shrugged, as if to say he was confused, and Camille, who had seen Nick look up, looked up at Larry and said she’d catch him up later.

  Nick went on. “The deputies who had your mother came back with her. One went into the office while the other stood by outside with your mother. The deputy who came in said her hand was wrapped and numbed, that she had been given a painkiller and a sedative, but that the doctor feared removing the shard himself and had ordered that she be taken down to a surgeon at a hospital in Denver. Victor, who had begun arranging to take the deputy to the hospital, suggested that he drive the deputy and Mrs. Kendall down.

  “After some negotiation, it was decided that one of the patrol car deputies would drive Mrs. Kendall down and that the injured deputy and Victor would ride along. The deputy with the cut got in the back seat with your mother, who was still handcuffed, and Victor rode in the front. They left with the car lights flashing.”

  Camille nodded grimly. Larry looked at his watch.

  “I went back to the lodge, and soon after, Gayle arrived. I told her that the party had ended, and I took her home in the Jeep.

  “I guess I had a couple of stiff drinks on an empty stomach, and she did also, also on an empty stomach, and we fell from grace that afternoon, that evening, that night. The next morning, we decided that—just in case—we would go to Nevada. We got into the Bentley and started driving. That afternoon, still in Utah, we got a motel room and spent another night falling from grace. The next day we crossed into Nevada, went to the nearest justice of the peace inside the state line, and got married. Then we started back to Colorado.

  “Three days after that, Gayle flew back to New York. She was afraid her mother would be calling and that her roommates would not be able to lie for her much longer.

  “A few days later, Victor told me that the surgeon had said the shard was successfully removed, apparently without ligament damage. He said he called your grandfather in Iowa—they apparently already were acquainted from years before—and that your father and grandfather arrived at the hospital late the next morning. Victor, who had stayed, said your grandfather apparently drove through the night and that your father had flown in.

  “Victor also told me he had persuaded the deputy not to press charges.”

  Larry asked, “The glass was how her hand was injured?”

  “I believe so,” Nick said, looking up at Larry and then back down to Camille. “Maybe the surgeon was overly optimistic, or maybe your mother was overly pessimistic.”

  “And you and Gayle patched things up?” Camille asked.

  “We did,” Nick said, “The big wedding in Petoskey went off as planned, and no one was ever the wiser.”

  Camille and Larry smiled.

  “Just before she died,” Nick said, “Gayl
e told me that she had gotten birth-control pills before she left New York that weekend and that there was never anything to worry about.”

  Larry laughed quietly.

  Camille smiled, and said, “So my mother wasn’t the only woman with a plan” After a pause and a deep breath, she added, “Now, Mr. Rohloffsen, there’s something I must tell you.” She glanced up at Larry and then looked back at Nick. “Maybe you already know. My mother died last night.”

  Nick stood, walked over to the picture window, and looked out for a few moments. “I knew it was something very grim,” Nick said, keeping the pretense going that he didn’t know. “I think I all but knew it already.”

  Camille’s cat came by just then, meowed, and rubbed against Nick’s ankle. He reached down and petted it.

  CHAPTER 21

  “WE MUST GO,” Camille said. “There are fresh towels in the bathroom down by the laundry, if you want to splash some water on your face.”

  A few minutes later, Camille, Larry, and Nick went out the front door toward the Lincoln. Nick asked if Camille could ride in back with him, saying he had a couple more things to ask.

  “Mother was cremated this morning,” Camille said as Nick held the door. “Her orders, not my idea. She arranged months ago for it to be immediate.”

  Nick closed the door after her and got in on the other side. Larry turned his head to look to the back seat and said, “She also ordered that there be no publication of any kind. She wanted to leave things as if she had never existed.”

  “Except for this memorial service,” Camille said.

  “You didn’t attend the cremation?” Nick asked.

  “Good God, no,” Camille said. “I couldn’t have stood it. I guess I should be thankful to those girls who wrecked our store for providing me the distraction while it was going on.”

  “Perverse serendipity,” Nick offered.

  “This memorial service we’re going to also was arranged by her. A faculty pianist is playing for it.”