by Tracy Brown
Frankie shifted a little in his seat.
Camille turned to a particular page in the stack of papers before her. She read aloud her requests—the proceeds from the sale of the house plus monthly spousal support of five thousand dollars and child support totaling ten thousand dollars a month.
“All I want is for you to give me my fair share. That way me and my child can go on living the life we’ve become accustomed to and you can run off with Gillian and live happily ever after.”
Frankie stared at his wife. Her demeanor was stoic. Gone was the frail and fragile Camille and in her place was a no-nonsense woman with an agenda. “My child,” she had said. Frankie didn’t blame her. She had every reason to exclude him. She was nearly six months pregnant and he hadn’t even talked to her about it.
“What happened to us, Frankie?” she asked, as if reading his mind. “How the hell did we get to this?”
Frankie met her gaze, saw the pain in her eyes. He tilted his head slightly and spoke sincerely to his wife for the first time in years.
“I should have left a long time ago,” he said. “I should have been man enough to tell you that I was getting bored, or that I don’t want the same things you want. I really don’t want kids, and there’s a lot of reasons for that.” Frankie looked away, thoughts of those reasons never far from his mind these days. “And I don’t want to be with somebody whose only hobby is me. Truth be told, I fell out of love with you a long time ago. I just didn’t know how to leave you when you were so good to me.”
Camille sat back, shaken by the truth finally spilling forth from Frankie’s lips.
“You’re a good wife, a good woman, period. And you were by my side when nobody else was there. I appreciated that so much I let myself stay even when I wanted out.” He looked at her again glaringly. “I let your sister take advantage of your generosity—paying her rent, buying her a car, babysitting her son.”
“We’re not here to talk about her,” Camille reminded him, aware that whenever Misa crept into his mind, Frankie shut Camille out.
“How can we not talk about her?” he asked, his handsome face appearing pained.
“Tell me why you stopped loving me.”
He felt the familiar tug of guilt then, but pressed past it. He was eager to come clean. He sat back and crossed his leg across his lap. “You changed,” he said truthfully. “You used to be fun and sexy. You had a goal to become the next top model.” He smiled at the memory of her posing at her photo shoots. “You were focused. Then we got married and you wanted the picture-perfect family and I never promised you that. You wanted a baby and it seemed like sometimes that was all you talked about. I got tired of that. And then you started gaining weight, you stopped doing anything but putting on a show for your friends.”
“To me, it wasn’t a show. I thought we had the real thing,” she said.
“We did,” he answered, nodding. “At one time we did.”
“But you let Gillian come between that,” Camille said. “You let her break us up.”
He shook his head. “She’s not the reason I was unhappy.”
“Oh no?” Camille asked rhetorically. “All those late-night phone calls, all those trips, the dinners, the parties. I should have been smart enough to see it for myself, but I didn’t. I trusted you, Frankie. When you told me that she was just your friend, I believed you. And look where we are now.” Camille stared at him, such a beautiful man who had been so ugly toward her. “You treated me like shit in front of her, more than once. You were supposed to be my husband.” Her face furrowed in disbelief. She still couldn’t believe the way things had changed. “Frankie, I can admit that I wasn’t perfect. Maybe I didn’t fix myself up like I could have. I stopped working out and started drinking and eating all the time. But I did everything I could to keep you happy. I never disrespected you. In fact, I disrespected myself before I ever dreamed of doing it to you.” She laughed at herself, sadly. “You owed me more than this.”
“You were smothering me and I was fucked up. Nobles was dead—”
“I understand that, Frankie.”
“Do you understand, Camille?” Frankie’s voice rose.
“Absolutely. He was like a father to you, so instead of letting me help you mourn his loss, you ran to Gillian and fucked her for comfort.”
Frankie shook his head. Camille didn’t understand that his connection to Gillian was more than sexual. She was, to him, everything Camille had ceased to be.
He looked at his wife and noticed again how pregnant she was. She looked so angelic sitting there, and so hurt. Frankie knew she was crushed by his decision to leave her. But too much had happened between them to reconsider. One look around reminded him of the fate his brother had suffered here at the hands of her sister, and he cringed.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he said. “But, Gillian really was just my friend until the night her father died.” Frankie looked sincerely into Camille’s eyes.
“Gillian has never been just your friend,” Camille scoffed. “I can see that now. You might not have slept with her until after you walked out on me, but you were cheating on me with her for years. Whispers, private jokes, late-night phone calls, all of that was part of it. So don’t give me that.”
Camille felt her baby move within her womb and instinctively stroked her belly. Frankie noticed, watching her closely. He was still in disbelief that he would soon be a father.
“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” he asked, curious. Camille shook her head no. He wished she would elaborate, but she didn’t volunteer any more information. He had been wondering about this child—what it would look like, if she would be better off aborting it. He hadn’t spoken about it to anyone, but it had certainly been on his mind. Seeing his pregnant wife now made him anxious to find out more. “I don’t even know when you’re gonna have it.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” Camille snapped. She caught herself and steadied the tone of her voice. The last thing she wanted was for Frankie to see how deeply this was hurting her. “July. The baby is due in July.”
“July what?”
“Fourteenth.”
He thought about that and smiled slightly. “That’s your birthday,” he said.
“How nice of you to remember,” she said sarcastically.
Frankie stared at her, tried to get excited about the thought of being a father, but he couldn’t. All he felt was anxiety at the idea of it. He felt as if everything was being forced on him. The baby, the terms of the divorce, even the death of his brother. Everything was happening around him and he was powerless to stop any of it.
“I won’t fight you on this,” he said, gesturing toward the paperwork. He knew that if he did there was no telling what Camille could and would reveal about his business and his finances. “I’ll sign the papers once my lawyer looks them over.” He didn’t want this house anymore, didn’t blame Camille for not wanting it, either. He didn’t care about the money. Having lost his brother and watching his mother unravel before his eyes, money seemed so insignificant these days. Camille wasn’t the one to blame for what had gone wrong in his life. He felt bad for punishing her for what her sister had done. Still, the child growing in Camille’s belly was causing him to lose sleep.
“But I don’t know how to be a father, Camille.”
She looked at him, staggered by his honesty.
“It’s natural to be nervous about becoming a parent for the first time,” she said. “How do you think I feel?”
Frankie was willing to bet that she didn’t feel the way he did. A sense of dread had taken up residence within him and it felt like the walls were closing in on him. “I’m just trying to get you to understand that I’m not ready to be a father. I don’t have the patience it takes or the understanding.” He felt sweat forming on his forehead then and tried to will himself to calm down. It felt sort of like he was having a panic attack at the very thought of fatherhood.
Camille saw him going through changes
and frowned. “I’m not asking you to be involved,” she said. “I’m willing to raise the baby by myself. All I want from you is the financial support to give him or her the best opportunities.”
Frankie felt his blood pressure rising. “And then I walk away and act like I don’t have a kid?” he asked, his face incredulous. “I would never do that.”
“You’re doing it now,” she said. “Right now, while I’m pregnant. You cut me off from everything, Frankie. I don’t have a damn dime to my name.” Baron had sent over a couple thousand dollars the other day, but Frankie didn’t need to know about that.
His gaze turned icy. “I’m supposed to hand you a stack of money when your freeloading sister killed my brother?”
Camille sucked her teeth. “I’M NOT THE ONE WHO DID IT, FRANKIE!” she yelled. “Misa did it. Misa shot Steven. She’s the one who you’re supposed to be mad at. Not me! I’m your fucking wife. I didn’t cheat on you, you cheated on me! And you took away all that we worked hard for overnight because you want to punish me for what she did!” Camille was nearly out of breath by the time she finished. “I need you to stop making excuses for the bullshit you’ve put me through over the past few months. I know you’re hurt about Nobles and about your brother. I get it. But you’re not the only one suffering. My nephew is an innocent little boy, Frankie. And I’m sure that even in your cold heart you can find some sympathy for a child. Surely you must remember what it feels like to be a scared little kid. So you’re not the only victim here. My family is in ruins just like yours is.”
Frankie felt a headache creeping up on him. Part of him knew that Camille was right. But another part of him wasn’t ready to make nice.
Camille was done trying to end things amicably. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’m not asking you to participate if you don’t want to. This is my child, and I’m fine with doing it by myself.”
“I don’t want you to do it by yourself,” Frankie said softly.
Camille stared at him, wondering what was going on inside of Frankie’s head. She had never seen him so reflective, so sincere.
He was thinking about his own childhood, and all the horrible images it conjured up. His family life had been so utterly dysfunctional that he wouldn’t know the first thing about being a good father. “I mean…” Frankie searched for the words to say what was in his heart. “Camille, I didn’t want any kids in the first place.”
“I know. You already said that a thousand times,” she reminded him.
“Now that it’s happening, I have a lot of shit to process … mentally.” He looked at her seriously. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you told me that you’re pregnant. And I can’t come up with one positive memory of my father.”
Camille watched him trying even now to think of one.
“I keep coming up empty. So, I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to do or how I’m supposed to act…”
Camille felt her baby move again. She cleared her throat. “I can tell you this much. You’re not supposed to ignore my phone calls, take everything we own, and allow your girlfriend to disrespect me.”
Frankie looked at her coldly. He should have known that Camille wouldn’t understand.
She pointed at Frankie. “You may have had a fucked-up childhood, but so have thousands of other people. It’s no excuse for the way you’ve treated me.”
“You’re right,” he acknowledged.
His admission did little to comfort Camille, who was on the verge of tears yet again. She wouldn’t allow him to see her cry anymore, so she looked away. She gathered her papers together and folded them, placing them in her purse. She stood up, her bulging belly clearly visible as she grabbed her coat and looked at her husband. “See you in court.”
Frankie watched Camille leave, and listened as her car pulled away. He sat there in the home he bought for her when they first fell in love and he knew their marriage was officially over. Still, the relief he had been longing for—the sense of calm and liberation—eluded him once more.
Repentance
Baron had had enough. He was sick of being confined to a chair, sick of being nursed and tended to twenty-four hours a day. All he wanted was to walk, to take a step or two and know that he was on the road to recovery.
He put his wheelchair in park and steadied himself on its arms. Gripping tightly, his big hands wrapped firmly around the armrests, he pulled himself up on his feet. Still clutching the chair, he smiled, encouraged. He felt the muscles in his forearms protruding as he willed himself to put some weight on his legs. Baron planted his feet on the floor and his arms trembled under his heaviness. His legs felt like Jell-O no matter how hard he tried to steady himself. His knees buckled, and he lunged forward. The wheelchair came crashing down behind him and he fell to the floor, face-first. Baron cursed through clenched teeth and writhed in pain, praying that his nurse didn’t come in and find him so vulnerable and pathetic. Fuming, he sat up on the floor and set the chair upright. Several agonizing minutes passed as he slowly dragged himself up from the floor, using his wheelchair for leverage. His legs had no strength to aid him, and his jaw throbbed where he had fallen on it with the wheelchair on top of him. Finally, he managed to pull himself up. Frustrated, he slumped back down in the chair, his chest heaving breathlessly.
Anger pulsed through his veins as Baron struggled to catch his breath. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, and quietly Baron cried. There were so many reasons why—his father was dead and it was all his fault, the empire they’d spent years building was no longer his to control, his legs were useless, and the police were searching for Danno, zeroing in on Baron. He felt like the world was closing in on him and for the first time in his life he was powerless.
If he had been able to walk, to run or even drive, Baron knew in his heart he would have killed Danno. He would have murdered his friend just to prevent him from testifying against Baron in connection with Trina Samuels’s murder. Considering how he’d been feeling lately and all the wicked thoughts running through his head, he may have even killed Frankie and Gillian, too. As Baron thought about that his conscience overwhelmed him. He had been so ruthless, so brutal in his business that he took lives mercilessly. Trina had certainly not been the first. Her gang rape and murder was only one of the many devilish schemes that Baron’s psychopathic mind had devised. Dusty and countless others had fallen victim to his murderous rage.
He thought about his father, about what Gillian had said to him on the phone. He may as well have pulled the trigger himself. His father had given him everything, and had died because of it.
For weeks, Baron had sat in his bed or in his wheelchair or endured hours of physical therapy, all the while plotting his revenge. He wanted to make Frankie and Gillian pay for turning their backs on him, wanted Danno to disappear before he could do the same. But now, as he sat there with snot in his nose and tears staining his face, he knew no amount of vengeance could help him atone for what he’d done. Baron wanted nothing more at that moment than to end his own life and to stop feeling the shame of having failed everyone.
Surely, God was punishing him. He was being forced to pay for all the wrong he’d done by being crippled, abandoned, and demeaned. But it was more than he could bear. Gone was his arrogance, his bravado, his dominance. In its place sat a man with legs that didn’t work and pride that had been wounded beyond repair.
He was so distraught that it scared him. It felt as if the angel of death were looming over him, eager to snatch his soul and cart it off to hell. He knew that’s where he was going, had dreamed of it almost nightly since waking up from his coma. Baron was afraid, terrified really, of what he was feeling and of the evil he knew lurked within him.
He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for the first time in his life. With tears steadily streaming, in a hushed and humbled voice he talked to God.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said. He didn’t know how to pray, had never been much for church or anything religious. His mother
had always been a God-fearing woman, but he had been his father’s child. The streets had been his church and Doug had been its pastor. Now, as he sat alone and tried to talk to God, he didn’t know where to begin.
Baron opened his eyes and looked up toward the ceiling. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I’ve done anything good in my life,” he said. “I never have. I’ve been a fuckup my whole life. You know that. I’ve lied, cheated, stole. I’ve killed.” Baron’s body trembled. “And I was a bad son. I didn’t honor my father. I never honored nobody but myself.” He wiped his eyes with his hands and gripped the wheelchair again. “I know I’m being punished for everything I did. I deserve it. Even now, I still have evil in my heart. I still want to kill.” He shook his head. “But I want to change. Take this urge away from me, God. Take these demons off me and help me change. Let me walk again, and I swear I’ll do right. I swear to you, God. I just want to walk again.”
He took a deep breath and let it out. A sense of peace washed over him, and he couldn’t tell if it was the crying or the praying that caused it.
* * *
Dominique lay in Archie’s bed watching him put together a customer’s package. Half an ounce of weed sat atop a scale he had put on the island in his kitchen.
She had spent the night in his arms again. Dominique had called Archie up after a late night at work and asked if she could come over. He had happily allowed that but she was getting sick of this arrangement. It seemed that the only time she saw him was when she called and asked for an audience with him. He never turned her away, but she was longing for the day when he would make the first move and show her he was just as open as she was.
She felt like a plaything for the king’s amusement; a jester in his court. While he sat on the throne wielding that powerful sword of a dick like King Henry VIII himself, she was playing right into his hands. Dominique got up, stuck her weed in her purse, and reminded herself it was time to quit smoking so much. It was a costly habit and it was really a weakly disguised excuse to see this sexy warrior.
