Back to Wando Passo, David Payne [little red riding hood ebook .TXT] 📗

life. I wanted him to be with me, and then his wife discovered us, and I was sent away to the Franciscanos en Guanabacoa. And Wenceslao died and left me not a peso. My best hope, then, you see, is for some pardo tradesman, some free Negro man to marry me.

“Then Harlan came. He brought me money. We looked into each other’s eyes and felt love, what I look into your face and do not see. Am I mistaken? No, it isn’t there. You don’t love him. Look at this.”

She steps inside and takes a picture from a shelf. “Look,” Clarisse repeats, handing Addie a tintype portrait of herself, seated in a chair with a closed fan pressed against the breast of her black dress. Her straight dark hair is piled, as formerly, à la giraffe, held in place by the roof-tile comb of tortoiseshell and sterling. Behind her, a younger, fresher Harlan stands, stout and prematurely balding, with muttonchops he must have later realized brought out the weakness of his chin. He’s dressed in a manner Addie could never have imagined, like a Cuban dandy, in a swallowtail coat, nankeen breeches, flesh-colored hose, with silver buckles on his shoes. His right hand rests on Clarisse’s shoulder, his left—or rather two fingers of it—slipped between the buttons of his piqué waistcoat. In his mouth is a cigar.

“Do you know what this is? It’s our engagement portrait. We had it made to give to Mama and to him, to Percival. This, you see, this love was the best thing that happened in my life. It changed everything for me. Then we arrived, and it was taken from me, too, by him, by you, and no one, no one meant me any harm! Everyone wants peace, like you!”

“I didn’t fully comprehend what this had been for you,” says Addie now. “But, still…Still, Clarisse, would it not ease you to forgive?”

Her laugh is furious. “You mistake me, china. It isn’t ease I seek. I want what’s mine. I won’t be thrown away or left to beg for scraps. I may suffer, I may be destroyed, but if it comes, I’ll know that those who did this wrong to me will suffer more. Including you, ‘who mean no harm.’ No, nene, the only peace there’ll ever be between the two of us is when you leave or when you’re dead. You decide. Now go.”

FORTY-SIX

The tires went tump-tump, and they were home.

Returning straight from Tildy’s, Claire carried Hope upstairs and tucked her in. She took a melancholy read of the frown her daughter wore in sleep. Daddy’s little girl. Thinking of Gardener and herself as much as Hope and Ran, Claire experienced a heavy pang of doubleness, child and mother both. With a sigh, she pulled the sheet over Hope’s bare shoulder and tiptoed down the hall to Charlie’s room. Backlit by the hall light, she stood silent in the door and watched, arms crossed and elbows cupped, as Cell unbuttoned Charlie’s shirt, then, supporting his nape, lowered him like a rag doll to the pillow and, one by one, untied his little shoes.

“What?” he whispered as he passed her in the door.

“I can’t even get his clothes off without waking him.”

Seeing her furred eyes, his furred, too.

Downstairs, as Claire switched on the portrait lamps, she glanced at the empty hooks above the door, and she and Marcel traded looks.

“Could he have gone to Killdeer, do you think?”

“Why?” she asked him. “Ran has no one in Killdeer anymore.”

“He’s probably just driving, Claire. I doubt he has a plan.”

“Do you think it’s too late to call that Sergeant Thomason?”

“I wouldn’t. And anyway, the police already know, don’t they?”

“I guess they do. It’s unbelievable, Marcel. He’s forty-five years old and now he’s going to fight the law? Who does he suppose is going to win?”

“I’m not sure winning’s at the top of Ran’s priorities right now.”

“Has it ever been? I wish someone could tell me what is at the top of Ran’s priorities.”

He blinked but didn’t look away. “If you want my vote, I say we wait a bit before getting too proactive. He’ll probably show up here before too long.”

“That’s what I’m half afraid of.”

He studied her. “Meaning…”

“Meaning my husband, who’s off his meds and crazy as a shithouse rat, is out there somewhere with a shotgun, and you’re telling me he may be coming here? I don’t know, Marcel. I honestly can’t tell you I’m not a little spooked.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Damn straight, you’re not. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d like your keys.” She held her hand out, and Marcel smiled. Claire, however, didn’t. “Let’s have a drink. Since you’re my captive and all. Do you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I absolutely second that.”

She poured them each three fingers of Clive’s old single-barrel sour mash, then sank beside him on the scuffed green leather sofa—not too close together, not too far apart. “Do you know what he told me on the phone? He said, ‘I know what’s going on, Claire.’”

“Meaning what?”

“I think he thinks we’re having an affair.”

Claire’s face was sober, and Marcel briefly held her stare, then let his head recline against the sofa back. In the quiet, with the windows open, they could hear cicadas chirring in the trees. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “So, what exactly are we having?”

“Oh, shit, Cell, don’t,” she answered, with a husky note. She touched his arm. “Don’t do this now, okay? Do we really have to?”

He turned his head to look at her. His face was sad. “I think we do.”

Now Claire’s expression settled, too.

“All these years, Claire, ever since Mt. Hermon…”

“You loved Shanté.” She cut him off and wiped her brimming eyes.

“I had a crush on her, but really, it was you. You’re why I went to Juilliard. I joined the band because of you. I thought I could take it, but I couldn’t.