by Kyra Davis
“He really wants to see me?” she asks as I pull myself into the chair.
“Yes, very much so.”
Cathy takes a swig from the bottle. Then, realizing the faux pas, turns to me and asks, “I’m sorry, would you like some?”
“No, thanks.”
“Really, I insist,” she says. “Come make it as you like it. There’s tonic water in the refrigerator.”
Reluctantly I get up, retrieve the tonic water, and pour myself a weak drink.
“I’ll have the same,” Cathy says.
I look up at her, a little startled by her presumption that I’m serving both of us, but don’t argue as I pour and hand her the drink. She’s a little awkward and clumsy in the way she takes it from me. It makes me wonder how much she had before I got here.
“Thank you,” she says as she lifts her glass to me before taking a sip. “I haven’t spoken to Travis in years,” she says. “Shall we sit?”
This time we both sit at the island, across from each other. For at least a full minute neither of us says anything as Cathy sips her drink and stares out into space.
When she speaks again I can hear the raw emotion in her voice. “So . . . he’s leaving her?”
The question takes me aback. “I . . . He didn’t say. Look, I’m sort of breaking the rules here. I’m really Travis’s personal assistant. I’ve also just started dating his brother so Travis and I have developed a familial relationship.”
Cathy breaks out in a laugh. “A familial relationship?” she repeats. “With Travis? What kind of family are we talking about here? You mean a familial relationship like it existed within the Tudor family? Complete with civil wars and decapitations? That kind of family?”
I sit back in my stool. “Oh,” I say, trying to keep my tone as casual as possible. “Are you a Tudor aficionado?”
“A bit, certainly enough to see the resemblance between them and the Gables,” she says wryly, then adds with a self-effacing smile, “I actually am into the Tudors. I’ve always been a bit obsessed with Anne Boleyn.”
“The Lady in the Tower,” I note.
“Yes! Oh, I got that book for Travis when I was trying to explain my fascination! He didn’t get it at first but . . .” She lets her voice trail off. “I’m sorry, I’m . . . I’m talking about things that don’t matter. None of that matters at all anymore.”
“I think it matters,” I say gently. “You know, Travis didn’t want me to tell you that the invitation is really coming from him.” I push the invitation over to her. She fingers it but doesn’t open the envelope. “He had Sam Highkin, that’s the candidate the dinner’s being thrown for, he had him write a personal note to you . . . or maybe he had someone else write it. I don’t know. He just . . . he wants to see you, but he’s proud, Mrs. Lind. He doesn’t want to admit how much he’s missed you.”
She lets out another little derisive laugh. “It’s been over a decade.” Then her face grows solemn, almost angry. “Over ten years. That’s how long this charade has lasted. And why? Because he’s weak, that’s why. Only a weak man sticks with a marriage of convenience for ten goddamned years. And he had kids with her! That must have made daddy-Edmund happy.”
I run my hand across the counter. She’s hinting at something big here and I’m dying to find out what it is. But I have to handle this perfectly. I can’t push too hard; she might clam up. And I can’t do anything that will keep her from coming to the dinner on Tuesday.
“Do you think Mr. Edmund Gable would be upset if his son split with his wife?”
“Well, Edmund’s the one who insisted Travis marry her, so I would think so,” she says irritably. “I’m better suited for Travis, you know. And I’d be a much better standard-bearer of the Gable name. You hear stories about Jessica all over town! By now she could probably drink Charlie Sheen under the table. No one takes her seriously; they take the Gable name seriously, but not her.”
“Why would Edmund Gable want his son to marry Jessica?” I ask, keeping my voice soft, not pushy, and certainly not as eager as I’m feeling.
Cathy toys with the envelope, tapping one edge on the counter, then the other. “What was your name again? Bellona?”
“People call me Bell.”
“Well, Bell, if you come up with an answer to that question I’ll give you ten thousand dollars. Hell,” she says, taking another sip, “make it twenty. Twenty thousand dollars for the reason why that woman is so damned important to the Gables’ family fortune. Twenty thousand dollars if you can tell me why Travis gave up me, a woman he loves, a woman who has more class in her little finger than that junkie he’s married to has in her whole body, why he gave up me, for that pill-popping basket case.”
There are a few clues in Cathy’s little tirade aside from the suggestion of a slightly inflated, albeit bruised, ego. One of them is her use of the present tense. She didn’t say Travis loved her, but that he loves her. Perhaps that’s her ego speaking. Or maybe it’s something else.
“Do you miss him?” I ask quietly.
She straightens her posture and sucks in a slow, steadying breath. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m a happily married woman,” she says primly. “Eli has given me everything Travis wouldn’t. Look.” She waves her hand around, gesturing to the room as a whole. “Look at this place! And you know, Travis isn’t the only one who dabbles in New York politics. I’ve helped many a man, and woman, get elected. People respect the Lind name too, you know. My husband may not have Travis’s money, but people like Eli. And you know what? If Travis had married me people would have liked him too. That’s what a good wife can do for you. That’s what I could have done for him. We complemented each other. We compensated for each other’s weaknesses and we enhanced each other’s strengths. But Jessica?” She shrugs. “As far as I can tell, she’s nothing but dead weight.” She brings her thumbnail to her mouth and nibbles on it lightly. “He really wants to see me?” she asks again in an almost girlish whisper.
“Yes, he does, Mrs. Lind. But . . . he really can’t know I told you that. I just . . . I thought you should know. Still, if we could pretend that you just received that in the mail?”
She looks at me for the first time since I walked in the door. She narrows her eyes as she examines me, as if she’s trying to bring me into focus or something. “You’re quite pretty, aren’t you?”
It’s an odd question and I’m not sure how to respond. “Thank you?”
“Are you his mistress?”
“No,” I say, by now almost bored with the question.
She looks away, takes another sip of her drink. “I was offered that position. I could have been his kept woman. That was going to be my consolation prize. It’s the same offer Henry the Eighth initially gave Anne Boleyn. She refused it, as did I. But her refusal got her a king, while I got Eli.” Her hand caresses the invitation. “I chose Eli,” she says, squeezing the disappointment out of the words.
For a minute or so we just sit there. I can almost see her walking back in time, to a moment when she was on the cusp of having it all. I try to imagine it, try to envision Travis loving someone and being loved back. But I can’t quite do it. It’s easier for me to believe in unicorns than it is for me to believe that Travis was ever the kind of man who would hold a woman’s hand.
Cathy continues to toy with the invitation, her hands moving over it a little more roughly now, as if she’s using it as a rope to pull her back into the present. After another minute or two she takes a deep breath and asks, “Where is this dinner?”
“The address is on the invitation.”
“What, you can’t tell me?” she snaps. “Would that ruin the story you’ve concocted about me getting this in the mail?”
“No, no,” I say, rattling off the name of the place and the address.
“Really?” She scrunches up her nose in distaste. “Did Jessica pick that venue?”
“Actually, I think it was Mr. Gable’s choice. It’s a rather impressive place, historic even. And since it
’s on a Tuesday night I don’t know if they’ll have other events going on. We may have the whole building to ourselves.”
“Oh.” She hesitates before adding, “Well, I hear it’s much improved since the remodel. I assume I will not be asked to pay into this man’s campaign. I know who he is and he goes against everything my husband supports.” She squints down at the envelope before adding, “Travis can’t expect my loyalties to turn on a dime just because he’s finally reaching out to me, not after all this time.”
“You won’t be asked to pay a cent,” I promise with a smile. “You’ll practically be the guest of honor.”
chapter seven
* * *
As soon as I leave Cathy’s I call Lander.
“Well?” I ask eagerly. “What’s on the USB?”
“It’s encrypted. I’m working on it.”
I pause a moment, standing on the corner of the street, the sky above me now as dark as a city sky can get. “Encrypted.”
“This is good, Adoncia,” he assures me. “It means that what’s here is important.”
“But what if you can’t crack the encryption?”
“Then I’ll hire someone who can.”
I nod and inhale the cooling breeze. I’ve heard so many tales of hackers doing the impossible. The advancements in hiding information will always be five steps behind the advancements in uncovering it.
But still¸ I’m not fond of this turn. Tonight, tomorrow, Sunday . . . At some point Travis is going to find that stepladder. And then there’s the dinner on Tuesday. I have Cathy as a kind of weak insurance policy. If she comes I might have an easy out from my promise to Travis, but what if she doesn’t come? What if I’ve miscalculated and seeing her has no effect on Travis at all? Or worse yet, maybe he’ll be all the more eager to be with me, using me as a release for his rage and unspent passion. I’ve suffered too much pain not to know that the worst is always possible. And if this worst-case scenario plays out I will have to make a choice: revenge or Lander.
Perhaps that’s not a choice at all. Despite everything he makes me feel, Lander is a man. A man who has never said he loves me. A man with his own agenda, his own priorities. A man who shares the same genetic code as all the other men who have disappointed me, from my father on up.
“Where are you?” Lander asks. “I’ll send the limo.”
“I’m going to sleep at home tonight.”
There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line. “Doncia, I’m going to figure out this encryption. There’s nothing to be upset about here.”
“I know,” I lie. Because I don’t know anything except that certainty is for suckers. “I haven’t been home in days. I can’t keep wearing the same two outfits. Besides, Micah might be watching my place. I’m not sure if it’s good for us if he thinks I’m spending every night with you. It might get back to Travis.”
“Then I’ll spend the night at your place.”
“No!” The word shoots out of my mouth so fast that I even startle myself.
“If you like, I’ll be discreet. If Micah’s men are watching they won’t recognize me,” Lander says. “Although since he knows we’re dating I don’t see the problem. But when you consider how dangerous Micah is, and Travis for that matter, I would feel more comfortable if we stay close for a while.”
For a while. Not forever.
“We should stick close,” I repeat after a moment’s hesitation, “because team members look out for each other?”
“Of course.” And then in a voice slightly softer, “I will look out for you, Adoncia.”
“I can look out for myself,” I say, a little too sharply. “Work on the encryption, that’s your job and only responsibility for the night. Leave the rest to me . . . including my protection detail.”
I hang up the phone before he can respond.
I don’t know why I’m being like this. I’m acting like a girl in the most stereotypical way. I hate that.
I have no reason to be irritated with Lander, I think as I find the stairs that lead down to the subway. He hasn’t done anything wrong. The problem, as usual, is with me.
Standing beneath the ground, waiting for a train, I can’t help but dwell on that. I’m the fucking problem.
That’s what my second foster family called me. A problem child. They didn’t say it to my face, not at first. But I heard the whispers. I listened to the murmurings after I was supposed to be in bed.
“She’s damaged, a problem child,” the mother would say.
“Let’s just cut to the chase,” laughed the father, “she’s fucked-up. There’s no helping this one. We got ourselves a dud.”
It had been odd . . . going from a child who was loved to being a child who was nothing more than a burden. I had helped form that narrative; there was no doubt about that. But still . . .
“There’s no helping this one. We got ourselves a dud.”
I was eleven. And now I knew it was too late for me. There was no point in trying to be anything more than a problem. I was raised and loved by a murderer. I was contaminated; like a fruit tree in a field exposed to radiation, everything I produced would be poison.
So the choice was not: Shall I be healthy or sick? It was: Shall I be sickening?
Or shall I be lethal?
In the end, I chose the latter.
When the train pulls up I’m almost in a meditative state, thinking about how I came to be the way I am. Was it really all circumstance? Or was I predisposed to be . . . well, a problem?
I sit across from a woman with a round face and a shoulder-length bob, probably in her late forties or early fifties. She clutches her purse protectively, keeping her eyes to herself. Wary, guarded. On her finger is a tan line where a ring used to be.
Here is a woman who is just now learning to live with the failure of love and the loss of a future she once took for granted. That’s something I know how to do. I almost wish I could trade places with her, not because I want to give up Lander but because my relationship with pain is so intimate, by now it almost serves as a security blanket.
It’s odd; I’ve been pushing people away for so long I don’t know how to pull someone to me. I don’t know how to ease into happiness, so instead I’m floundering in it, like an unskilled swimmer who just fell into the deep end.
As the train jolts back into motion my gaze moves to the other passengers. It’s a fairly integrated crowd. People of all different races and religions, male and female, some clearly gay, some straight. There’s no way to pinpoint who here is a problem just by looking at them. You can’t tell by what they’re wearing. The guy dressed like a thug might be a virginal lightweight, hoping that his clothes will scare people into thinking otherwise. The guy in the suit might be a serial killer.
People looking at me, dressed in my feminine, secondhand business attire might think that I’m a nice girl.
And who did I think Lander was when I saw him? A spoiled rich kid, a man who expected everything to be handed to him and would hurt whoever he needed to hurt in order to protect his family’s name and status.
I was wrong.
And when people see Travis, when they just see him without knowing his name, without hearing his voice, what do they think? Do they think he’s respectable? An upstanding example of the 1 percent? A gentleman?
Lander says that Travis’s mother abandoned him when his father offered her the money to do so. And I don’t think Edmund was exactly a loving parent either. Mostly Edmund paid Travis’s mother to leave so he could marry someone else without having to worry about messy things like shared custody or paying out child support. And this new wife would soon give Edmund another son: Lander.
Lander loved his mother and she loved him. That was never in question. Due to his father and brother’s interference he wasn’t able to be by his mother’s side during her last months of life. He didn’t even know she was dying. It was a horrible way to lose someone. I get it. Lander was created by loss.
Travis was cre
ated by rejection. At a young age he was forced to face the fact that his parents weren’t good people. And at some point Travis must have realized that he too was toxic. And instead of fighting the inevitable, he’s spent his life finding ways to increase and perfect his toxicity.
I have more in common with Travis.
That’s good. My mother once told me that when you choose a partner you should find someone to balance you. Someone who is strong where you are weak, weak where you are strong.
But when it comes to enemies? Commonality can be an asset. I am not weak where Travis is strong or vice versa. It’s an even playing field . . . or at least it was. Being with Lander, allowing him to make me feel something other than rage . . . it’s so confusing, even dizzying at times. I need to even the playing field again, and that’s what Cathy’s for.
It takes one train transfer and about an hour to get me to my stop in Harlem. And when the doors open I get out quickly, walking through the well-lit station, up the stairs and into the darkness.
chapter eight
* * *
As I walk home from the subway station I find that I feel more delicate than I normally do. The gray-black sky and littered streets have a surreal quality. Things are changing, although I can’t quite put my finger on what those changes are. I pass Mary, a homeless woman I often talk to. She puts her finger against her lips and holds up an open coloring book. It’s a picture of a child, deep in sleep. Mary has colored part of the nightgown that covers the girl’s chest red, and that red seems to spill onto the blankets and then to the floor. Her heart is bleeding.
I take a Clif Bar out of my purse and place it on the ground in front of her. She closes her hand around it, offering me a wide, yellow-toothed grin. “You’re a good girl. I bet your mama’s proud of you.”
“She used to be,” I say quietly. “A long time ago.”
“I like talking to you,” Mary says as she drops the Clif Bar into her lap, “when it’s not so close to bedtime.”
