The Yellow Braid

by Karen Coccioli

  “You’re such a ninny sometimes. This is the coolest thing ever,” Beatrice said.

  Livia ground her shoe on the floor before walking with Beatrice to the next photograph titled “Study in Dark & Light.”

  Beatrice waved excitedly to Nina, who smiled at her enthusiasm.

  Phyllis arrived. She found Tommy only after viewing the exhibition. “I didn’t know Nina was a portrait photographer. She’s quite impressive.”

  “That’s what everyone is saying.”

  “You sound as if you don’t agree,” Phyllis said.

  “I agree with the breadth of her talent. Not with the theme,” Tommy said.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t find it provocative?” Tommy escorted Phyllis to the last picture in the grouping under “Growing Up.”

  Nina must have taken it the night of Phyllis’s party because Livia had on the sea-green sundress and held the posy she’d given Phyllis as a thank-you for her invitation. She was half-sitting, half-laying on a chaise with her arm slung over her head; her dress revealed the length of her leg to her thigh; a single strap of her sandal had come undone. Livia’s face slanted toward her left shoulder. In profile, her lips fashioned a soft “O” and her long eyelashes graced the tops of her cheekbones.

  Tommy lowered his voice. “This is what I mean. And what about how Beatrice is portrayed? Poor kid. Beauty and the beast.”

  “Tommy!” Phyllis scolded. “What a rude thing to say.”

  “I’m only saying how it is. If anyone’s rude, it’s Nina. She’s the one with the camera.”

  “Listen to me,” Phyllis said. “Nina’s your wife. And she’s an artist. Sometimes the two don’t mix. Unfortunately, you don’t get one without the other—”

  “With all due respect, you don’t understand.”

  “Hear me out, Tommy. As for Beatrice, that poor kid, as you call her, is ecstatic to have pictures of herself hanging in a museum. What kid wouldn’t? Plain Jane or not?”

  “Livia,” Tommy said.

  “Livia’s a beauty. Nina captured that,” Phyllis said.

  “And miserable. She hasn’t smiled once since we left home.”

  Phyllis snickered. “Livia is being a little tyrant. And with you, she knows she has her Uncle Tommy in the palm of her hand.”

  “You’re making her out to be a manipulative brat,” Tommy argued quietly.

  Phyllis pointed to the girls who were only a few yards away. Beatrice seemed like she was trying to say something to Livia who kept turning away in a huff. Finally, Livia left her friend to go by Caro.

  “If the shoe fits,” Phyllis said. “Everyone confirms she’s special, particularly you and seems like Caro as well.”

  Livia asked Caro, “Can we go home?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Seems like we’ve been here for ages,” Livia whined.

  “I know,” Caro said, and stroked Livia’s back.

  “Besides, all this is, is to make Aunt Nina famous. She told Uncle Tommy that if people like these pictures, she has an idea to photograph girls in India, and Africa, and…” Livia cut her sentence off.

  Caro faced Livia. “That’s a wonderful idea. What’s wrong?”

  Livia’s eyes swam and grew larger but she held on. “The next time my mother goes away and my—my aunt is somewhere else in the world, then where do I go?” Livia stuttered in a cracking voice, like glass crunching underfoot. “I—I’ll get sent away, to some school somewhere.”

  “Your mom hasn’t said anything to you, has she?”

  “I know. I just know! George’s kids are in a boarding school. And I don’t care that a lot of kids go. I don’t want to. I want a home to go to every day, not once a month.” Livia threw her arms around Caro and cushioned her face in the fold of Caro’s elbow.

  Caro felt the patches of moistened skin from Livia’s tears, and wanted to cry along with her. Instead, she collected her breathing and then pried the blonde head out of its hiding place. With the flats of her thumbs she dried Livia’s cheeks while she offered words of comfort. “What might happen months from now, is then. For now, this moment in time, you’re in safekeeping. I, for one, am not going away. For sure neither are Aunt Nina or Uncle Tommy. Who would your uncle go clamming with?”

  Livia released a small smile, like a flower budding.

  “What have you ladies been up to?” Tommy asked.

  Caro winked at Livia. “Girl talk.”

  “Well, I have some news. John Straub just informed Nina that the owner of a gallery in SoHo wants to meet with her tomorrow morning so I’m making reservations at the Regency for tonight; we’ll get whatever personal things we need at the hotel boutique. What do you think? We can all stay or I can go back to Long Island with you.”

  “My choice would be to go back and let Nina take care of business,” Caro said.

  “Me, too,” Livia agreed.

  “All right,” Tommy said.

  Caro grabbed his arm. “Tommy, why don’t you stay with Nina? I’ll take the car and you two can get a driver to take you back tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know,” he hesitated.

  “Seriously, I don’t mind. And I don’t think Livia does, right?”

  “I don’t care, Uncle Tommy. Maybe Beatrice can come with us, too.”

  Tommy looked over at his wife, stunning and slim in a red dress and spiked heels that made her taller than most of the women and even some of the men. She’d confided to her husband once that the added height was self-affirming. It instilled a sense of confidence and authority in a world not meant for female photographers.

  Tommy’s shifting emotions about the show, about whether he should stay with his wife or go back to Westhampton, played out in the worry lines across his brow.

  “Have you decided?” Nina asked him.

  “I’ll stay.”

  Nina kissed her husband at the corner of his mouth.

  ***

  After a supper of Chinese take-out, Caro left Livia and Beatrice to moon-gaze on the beach. It was a habit they’d gotten into whenever they slept over. Counting stars, they’d explained to Caro, made them dizzy and giddy. And wasn’t it great to live under such a beautiful sky!

  Caro retired to her bedroom where she could monitor them occasionally. She tried to write but couldn’t concentrate. Neither could she settle down to read. The day’s events had taken their toll and she took aspirin for a headache. She heard Livia come in, use the bathroom, and go out again. She paced around her bed and then settled in the wingback chair that took up the tight corner next to the window and had only a canted view of the beach.

  Caro saw them perched on their blanket, illuminated by a moonbeam the size of the Coney Island boardwalk. Squirreling their toes in the sand, they leaned on their elbows, their faces to the night sky.

  Taking pleasure in their apparent peacefulness, Caro observed for more minutes than she normally would. She began to notice Beatrice sneaking sidelong glances at Livia. Each time, Caro saw Beatrice rest her eyes on her friend longer. One half-second. Then two. And then Beatrice tapped Livia’s shoulder and when Livia turned, Beatrice kissed her on the lips.

  Caro nearly fell off the bed. She told herself that it was wrong to spy on them. Still she twisted her body from the chair and drew close to the window until her mouth was pressed against the glass, just as Beatrice kissed Livia again.

  Caro stood trembling, dry-mouthed, her lips quivering with the pulse of desire that drummed inside her and created a white heat that coursed through her body.

  They didn’t do anything else. Except for the two kisses, Beatrice touched Livia only to pull her up by her hands when they were ready to come in.

  Caro paced the limited pathway around the bed, stopping short when minutes later there was a knock on the door, and Livia spoke. “We’re going to bed now. Are you coming out to say goodnight?”

  Caro wet her lips and breathed deeply, her reply riding on the tail of her exhalation. “I have a headache, so un
less you need something…”

  “That’s okay. We’re good,” Livia said and went back down the hallway to rejoin her friend.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There are chapters in every life which are seldom read and certainly not aloud. ~Carol Shields

  Somehow Caro made it through the rest of the night and the next day without letting on how jealous she was of Beatrice. She cursed herself for her feelings. At the same time, she was powerless to release them.

  Livia and Beatrice left at noon. When Nina came to the door to collect them, Caro had lied and said she was going to the city for a couple of days to meet with her editor. Even as she spoke, however, recollection of the girls kissing kept morphing in her mind until the image became unbearable and she couldn’t look Nina in the face. It wasn’t Beatrice kissing Livia anymore. It was her—Caro.

  She drove away the following morning after the crunch of weekend husbands returned to their city jobs and domiciles. Her car sped toward the smog-ridden horizon. After weeks of looking upon the great Atlantic in all its mercurial moods and at its vast, heavenly blue counterpart, the drive through the Midtown tunnel that dumped her in Manhattan made the phlegm rise in Caro’s throat and her chest tighten.

  The sidewalks seemed dirtier; the gutters more littered. The buildings appeared taller and more intrusive in their gray concreteness. She swerved into a parking space and slammed her hand on the steering wheel. Her heart hammered so hard she felt as if any second it was going to burst through her chest in one lethal explosion.

  “I can’t stay here,” she groaned. “I just can’t.” She felt suffocated by the city. Then again, the events that summer—Marcie’s death, and betrayal…even her love for Livia seemed designed to suck the air out of her and destroy her.

  She would accomplish at her apartment what she wanted, and then be gone again to the open spaces of sand and beach.

  Caro hadn’t been in the apartment since she’d discovered Zach’s affair with Marcie. Sometimes upon waking, she envisioned her reaction to seeing the memorabilia of the three of them that decorated the walls, tabletops, and bookcases. At those times, Caro grieved with each word of love and yearning that she supposed might have passed between them. Now, as she drove closer, her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

  Caro lived on the top floor of a 1900s brownstone. She’d purchased the apartment the year after Zach died because she’d wanted a change. In a sentimental decision, she chose a location on the Hudson River almost exactly opposite the point where they had their home on the New Jersey side.

  The New York skyline was an infinitely better view. But from her present vantage point, she liked the idea of gazing across the narrow waterway and being able to identify places she and Zach had frequented as a couple. The Steamboat Restaurant and Chappy’s Grill had been their favorites.

  Standing in her living room, looking out at the familiar landmarks, her memories now led only to suspicion. The times Marcie had joined them for steaks at Chappy’s and Caro had gone home early to work. Had Zach and Marcie gone to the movies as they’d claimed? Or had they raced to her place for quick sex?

  When she’d given out-of-town readings, had they acted like a couple? It suddenly occurred to her that Chappy himself and Roger, the maitre d’ at The Steamboat must have known about them. She’d never again be able to go to either of those places without giving herself away. She’d not be able to face them without blurting out, “Did you know?”

  Caro found herself grinding her palms together and biting her bottom lip as she looked around the room. The confluence of memories overwhelmed her. The fireplace mantel was flush with photographs. On the side table was one of Zach escorting Marcie onto the ferry at Fire Island.

  Caro reached for it, intending only to try and decipher Zach’s expression. She wanted some kind of clue that corroborated the truth. But as she drew the likeness of his face closer to her, the anger ignited and she flung the picture across the room, knocking over a picture of her and Marcie.

  Carvings, baskets, and miniatures—Caro moved methodically around the apartment dumping the once-treasured gifts into a garbage bag. She cringed every time she heard the objects crack and break. At the same time, the destruction felt liberating, especially when she dragged her booty down the hall and dumped it into the trash bin.

  With the exception of a photo of Abby that she was taking back with her, the remaining ones of Caro, Zach, and Abby, she put away for safekeeping in the storage closet with Abby’s name on it. Next she dusted and fluffed pillows. Then she sat at her desk with Abby’s picture in front of her and dialed her number in London.

  “I’m home in Manhattan,” she said to her daughter. “I just got finished packing up all the pictures of you, me, and Dad and I’m calling to know if there is any special item you want me to send you. I’m locking the place up for awhile.”

  “Why now—you only have another month on your rental,” Abby said. The depressed sound of her mother’s voice sounded alien to her daughter.

  “Maybe I’ll stay on the Island for the rest of my sabbatical. Rent a year-round place. I haven’t thought ahead that far. I only know I can’t live in this place again.”

  “I can’t think of anything. I took what I wanted when I came here,” Abby said. “Mom, you don’t sound right. You shouldn’t have gone to the apartment by yourself. You could’ve phoned one of your friends from school to go along.”

  “And have to tell them my sorry story?” Caro said. “I don’t think so. Anyway, it’s done now.”

  Abby had to moisten her lips before she said, “I’ve been thinking, I don’t want you to see me anymore as being all like Dad.”

  “What brought this on?” Caro asked.

  “Since you found out about his affair. He really hurt you and I never saw it that way before. I…I always believed you deserved how he treated you.”

  “Thank you, Abby. Telling me that means the world to me.”

  “Phillip accused me of being controlling,” Abby confided. “Said that l wanted everything neat, that I didn’t know what love was. And I was wondering if that was part of the reason why you didn’t want to know what was going on between Dad and Marcie? I always saw you as being selfish…but, were you afraid, Mom?”

  “I didn’t know before, but yes, I guess it was out of fear more than anything else.” Caro heard the muffled mewling of Abby weeping, the sound of which made her tear up as well. “What about Phillip now?”

  “I told him he was wrong and sent him away,” Abby said.

  “Are you going to call him up and get him back?”

  “I’m going to try,” Abby said.

  Caro looked around at all of the surfaces now empty of their accessories, and said, “Abby, I want to leave now. One thing before we hang up, instead of comparing yourself to Dad or me, be you. I’m sure that’s the person Phillip is longing to meet.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “Me, too, Abby.”

  When finally Caro locked up the apartment, she knew that one day in the future she would recall this leave-taking: the thud of the ancient elevator as it reached her floor; the tinny click of the key in her door, the dense snap of the deadbolt. She would remember. It signaled the moment she knew that her life, as she knew it, was over.

  On the way back, when Caro checked traffic in the rearview mirror she caught sight of her face from her nose to the top of her forehead. She grumbled over the gray roots along her hairline and the white stubby hairs that had invaded her eyebrows, making them look bristly. Her eyes had lost their sheen some time in the early morning hours while she had tossed helplessly and sleeplessly in bed.

  She keyed in Tommy’s salon on her cell phone. “Tommy, please.”

  “He’s with a client. May I help you?”

  “This is Caro Barrone. I need appointments for a color, cut, and facial for tomorrow.”

  “One moment,” the receptionist said. When she came back on the line, she said, “Sorry, his first available is
not until next week. The aesthetician is available for the facial though. Would you like me to make the bookings?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I want you to please tell Tommy that I have an affair to attend and have to come in tomorrow,” Caro insisted.

  “He’s booked solid, ma’am. Perhaps someone else?”

  Caro was just about to argue when she heard Tommy’s voice in the background, and then the transfer of the call to his extension.

  “Caro, I’ll slot you in but I’m fitting you in between clients, so be prepared to wait.”

  The receptionist was on again before Caro had a chance to thank him. “One p.m., Ms. Barrone. See you then.”

  When Caro hung up, she realized somewhat guiltily the many small lies she had told over the summer to be in Livia’s company—just as now, leading Tommy to believe she had somewhere important to go. In the next instant, however, she reasoned that the prize of keeping Livia near was well worth the dishonesty.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Twas this deprived my soul of rest,

  And raised such tumults in my breast;

  For, while I gazed, in transport tossed,

  My breath was gone, my voice was lost…

  ~Sappho

  Several days later, Caro, Nina, Tommy, and Livia piled into his Hummer and drove to a strip of beach between Long Island Sound and the ocean, a perfect picnic spot accessible only by boat or all-terrain vehicle. Locals usually came out midweek for moonlight suppers or overnight campouts. A dozen families were already there but since the beach extended for half a mile, Tommy was able to park a fair distance beyond the last camper.

  He dragged out pails and rakes, then he and Livia sloshed along the shoreline and into ankle-deep water where they began dragging their rakes through the sandy bottom in search of clams.

  “I see you don’t have a camera with you,” Caro said to Nina as they watched Tommy and Livia at their task.