Three Daughters: A Novel (62 page)

“My banking firm does business—a great deal of business—with Rashid Ibn Rashid. Junior members are encouraged to attend his parties as extra men. Don’t be offended, but I wish you were an extra woman.”

“My husband and I are here on demand, too.” They danced half a minute in silence. “Rashid doesn’t like me.” She felt a daring need to expose all of her crazy ideas to this stranger, as if it were her last chance. “You probably don’t believe me, but I know I’m right. Rashid wants to do something hurtful to me.”

“Oh, I believe you. He’s a very strange individual with a vindictive streak. I’ve seen it and there are stories by the truckload in the office. Once you cross him, watch out. Have you done anything to cross him?”

“Not that I know of. He just has something against me. My husband operated on his daughter and he credits him with saving her life. He’s very generous with my husband, but there are too many strings attached.”

Before he could answer, Rashid cut in. “May I?”

“Of course,” said Thomas Reardon, passing her over reluctantly. “I hope we see each other again.”

“I hope so, too,” said Star.

“Did I do the wrong thing, cutting in?” he said sweetly. “I don’t pretend to understand any woman, especially not you.”

“Why especially not me?” She became very serious. “I feel that you think”—she stopped and took a deep breath—“I’m more complicated than I really am.”

“Could be.” He shrugged. “In any case, I wanted to offer my personal condolences on the death of your mother. I must have been a terrible shock”—he waited for three seconds to tick by—“even though she wasn’t your blood mother.”

She let go of him and stopped dancing. “That’s not true. Where did you get that idea? Of course she was my mother.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Where did I get that idea? Forgive me. I must be mixed up.”

She knew Paul was angry the minute they got in the car. He was also drunk and his driving was erratic, but she felt that pointing this out would provoke an outburst. The car kept drifting over the divider line, but not far enough to cause real danger. Paul was silent except for an occasional sneering remark. “You were so cheerful tonight. And outgoing. I couldn’t believe it was my subdued wife throwing out charm all over the place. What did that guy have that brought you out of your shell? I’d like to know his secret.”

Please don’t talk.
Her first reaction was irrational. All she could think about was that she didn’t have Thomas Reardon’s phone number in case she needed help. Suppose it wasn’t in the phone book? She’d lose touch with him.

“Answer me!” He had grabbed her arm and she crowded against the door and said nothing. He returned to silence for the rest of the ride and she thought his outburst was over, but when they arrived home he went to her side of the car and pulled her out. “I’m not finished with you. Not by a long shot.”

“I wasn’t flirting. I was being pleasant. We were discussing how much we dislike large parties. The man meant nothing to me, Paul. I told him I was married.” His face had never looked so grim. She could see he was struggling to stand upright and felt sorry for him. Was it the liquor or fatigue?
Oh, God, I’m sorry you’re so tired.
He let go of her and clumped inside the house as if his feet were encased in lead. Fortunately, the sitter was a young girl who lived three houses away, because he was in no condition to drive.

While Paul went to urinate, she searched the phone book frantically and almost cried with relief when she found Reardon’s number. He lived on California Street, a street she knew. Armed with the number, she felt such a rush of energy that she couldn’t sit still. Instead of running the dishwasher, she began to wash each dish until Paul asked her what she was doing. Then she scrubbed the sink and the refrigerator while Paul paced through the house. Each time he walked near the telephone directory, she expected him to feel some telltale heat escaping.

She was scrubbing around the blade of the can opener when she felt his arm around her waist and froze.
Oh, no, please. Not now.
“You’ve never laughed aloud the way you did tonight. I was watching you. Your face was so bright and delighted. You looked so beautiful. More beautiful than the first time I saw you.” He had lifted her hair and was kissing the back of her neck. She shrank. He was using her for support, leaning heavily on her shoulder. Why didn’t he just go to bed?

“You look so tired. Can I help you to bed?”

He straightened up and mimicked her. “No, you can’t help me to bed. I’m going to help you to bed. We’re going together. You’ve never been that glad to talk to me, goddamn it! But you know what? I get to fuck you and your little English dandy doesn’t. How do you like that?”

“It wasn’t anything like that. Please go to bed. I’ll be up soon.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.” He unzipped the back of her dress. It was constructed not to need a bra, so when he pulled it away from her she was fully exposed on top. “You have the most beautiful breasts of any woman, and I’ve seen thousands.” His eyes lit up maliciously and he took each nipple between his fingers. “I’ve never told you this, but some of my patients come on to me. When I’m examining them, their legs begin to shift and they move their asses around on the table. Sort of like a bump and grind. I get a lot of rich women now and I’ve discovered they’re very horny. I think of them as my long, cool numbers who never show they’re pregnant until a week before the kid pops out. I don’t understand it. They get pregnant, the kids are born, but their asses never get wide. They’re not the least bit embarrassed to proposition me. One of them said to me the other day, ‘A hundred dollars if you eat me right now.’ ”

“Don’t tell me this,” she pleaded. She wanted to close off her mind until he collapsed in bed and slept.
Soon. He’s got to collapse soon.
“I want to look in at Cassie. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Cassie’s fine. You’re coming with me right now.” She followed him, thinking he’d calm down in bed but he became more aggressive and pulled her on top of him, speaking in the same accusatory tone. “You were my beautiful, innocent princess, but now I see you can get as hot as anybody. Only not with me.”

“Paul, please. Let me take off my dress. This is the first time I’ve worn it.” She was trying to remain calm. Let him do whatever he wanted as long as it would soon be over.

“Fuck the dress.” He hooked his hands at the bottom of the zipper and tore it open. Thrilled by his success, he ripped off her underpants. “What will it take to turn you on?” He moved his hands between her buttocks, but she fought to get away from him. “That’s not it? You want me to eat you like my long, cool ladies?” He spread her legs apart but then he changed his mind and sat astride her. “Being inside you is like being in Antarctica. More than one woman has told me I’ve got a big cock but when I’m inside the ice queen it feels small and inadequate. You’ve never been a decent lay, but tonight I’m going to make you beg for it.”

She was crying silently, waiting for it to be over. His actions didn’t hurt her half as much as his words, which struck home with deadly accuracy. She was guilty of everything he said. She allowed him to do whatever he wanted without a struggle. When he demanded it—with his hand grabbing her hair—she took him in her mouth. She let him turn her back and forth to suit whatever vicious assault would help rid him of his anger.

When he was finally asleep, curled up like an angry child, she slipped out of the room and went to the extra bed in the baby’s room. In the morning she would think of a way to leave him.

43.

JAMES HENRY SHERIDAN SAAD, WILT THOU HAVE THIS WOMAN . . . ?

W
hy are you marrying me?” Delal was sitting on the edge of the bed battling a wave of vertigo and looking pale and worn-out.

“Delal, don’t let’s go through it again. Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“It sounds as if I’m looking for reassurance, but it’s not that at all. When I feel so nauseated it’s hard to concentrate. Just tell me one more time.” She was dressed in one of those serious suits made for businesswomen that, juxtaposed with soft wisps of hair and dewy features, make them appear more vulnerable than a frilly dress. It was her wedding outfit.

He sat down next to her, making the bed sag, and they appeared to be huddled together over secret negotiations. He considered his words before answering. “I think . . . we can have a very decent life together.” He stared at the wall as if the words—to his relief—were written there. “We’re compatible mentally. You’re smart. I’m smart. You have a certain managerial ability that will make life pleasant for me. I like the idea that you want to do something with your life—that’s a bonus for you. Not many men would feel that way, so consider yourself lucky. As for me, I’ve been told I’m a good catch. I’ve presented myself to the bar and if all goes well, soon I’ll be a barrister.”

“My father’s going to cry when I tell him I eloped. All my life he’s wanted to make me a big wedding.”

“Would you rather go back and get married at home?”

“No. It’s better this way.”

He was staring down at the carpet. She looked at his profile and rubbed a finger along the side of his neck. “Poor James. This was sprung on you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s my choice,” he said crisply. “My baby. My responsibility.”

His words made her feel desolate. No one who loved her knew this was her wedding day. She had gotten a call through to her mother the previous evening, but something Julia said preempted any news of the marriage. Her mother was going on a trip to the States during which she would visit Nijmeh. When she hung up, Delal sat paralyzed for several minutes, thinking that this was a terrible omen. Suppose she had blurted out everything? That would have been ghastly. She didn’t want Nijmeh to know anything about her. Not until she felt more secure.

“Did you tell them?” James had asked.

“No. My mother is going on vacation and if I had told her she would have canceled her plans. I know my mother. We can tell them when she’s back.”

They traveled to the registry office on foot. When he wanted her to cross one way instead of another, he’d nudge her and say, “This way.” Otherwise he offered no conversation. She followed meekly—making excuses for his silence—making up a reasonable facsimile of his thoughts:
I’ve already said the words that count—
marry me
—I’m not obliged to be chatty.

Sunshine was trickling through the buildings, creating random patches of light, but she was too distracted by her nausea to be cheered by it. Her high heels made a scraping sound, as if he were walking too fast for her. He was walking too fast for her. He was picking up his pace, going faster and faster, aiming to lose her. At the point when she couldn’t see him, he was going to break into a full run and go like blazes. Away from her to safety.

He turned. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

“Just two more blocks.”

By the time they arrived at the sooty gray, symmetrical courthouse building, she was wet with perspiration. She had smoothed back her hair into a center-parted renaissance style, but it had crept out and stuck against her forehead. She could feel the dampness dissolving the little makeup she had managed to smear on her face. The silk beige blouse under her jacket stuck to her back. Her fingers inside beige cotton gloves exuded water. Her mouth was so dry and sour that she feared to open it.

The registrar looked at them curiously and the obvious question hung in the air.
How’d you bag him?
He seemed in no hurry to start.

“Could we get on with it?” she asked curtly. “I’m not feeling well.”
Now he knows I’m pregnant, too. Bully for him. Pompous ass.

“Of course.”

He checked their application and license and, seeing that it was in order, called to two clerks to act as witnesses and began. “James Henry Sheridan Saad, wilt thou have this woman, to be thy wife in all love and honor, in all duty and service, in all faith and tenderness, to live with her and cherish her in the bond of marriage?”

“I will.”

He answered simply and without emotion. She hoped to do the same.

“Delal Sara George, wilt thou have this man, to be thy husband in all love and honor, in all duty and service, in all faith and tenderness, to live with him and cherish him in the bond of marriage?”

Oh, God.
“I will.”

There was an air of unreality to the whole scene. She felt utterly alone. She had engineered everything, but if she let go of the strings—even for a second—everyone would disappear. She should have felt triumph, but she only felt tired and unable to concentrate. At some point James searched for her hand and placed a plain gold band on the right finger. She had no idea when he had bought it or how he knew the size but it seemed to fit.
Well
, she thought,
he’s well organized; that’s one thing I know about him.

“By the authority committed to me by the state, I declare that James and Delal are now husband and wife.”

She waited for his kiss but it didn’t come. He did shake hands with the official and for a moment she feared he would shake her hand as well. “OK, that’s it,” he said with uncharacteristic weariness. “Let’s get out of here.”

The night of Rashid’s party was never mentioned, but both knew the marriage was shifting and sinking to a hopeless place. The first few days Paul was self-conscious and overly polite. He was eager to bolt out the door and go to work. It was amazing how little they saw each other. He stayed at the hospital most of the day and came home to sleep but made no attempt to touch her. He was barely interested in the baby.

Even without Paul there, Star felt uncomfortable in the house. Over and over she imagined herself closing the pretentious, overly decorated door for the last time, Cassie in one arm and a suitcase in the other, and being out on the sidewalk. Free at last. The idea lit a fire in her mind. She had never been free in her life. There had always been a debt to pay. But even in her imagination, the weight of the baby and the luggage were devastating, not to mention the emotional weight of taking Cassie from her father.

Sometimes she could convince herself that he wouldn’t care. All he wanted was peace and quiet, not a ten-month-old baby in diapers. But just when she’d think the escape might be easy—“Paul, I’m leaving with the baby.” “Fine, go.”—he’d become the concerned father. “Has Cassie had her DPT booster? Her shots are very important. She’s so alert. She can put all the shapes in the cutout ball.”

Star had nodded dumbly, her spirits plummeting. He loved the baby. She had been a fool to think he would let them go. The scene of parting turned malevolent and her skin would prickle with the wrong kind of excitement.

Still, every morning she dressed fully, made the bed and straightened each room as she went along. In the back of her mind, she played with the idea that this might be her last day in that room. What she wore would become a traveling outfit. It had to be comfortable and practical. Some of the fanatic neatness was just to get through the day. Doing one menial task after another was a way of keeping her mind from collapsing.

Ironically it was Rashid who provided the means for her temporary liberation. “Would you like to take Cassie out to the horse farm for a couple of weeks?” Paul asked. “Rashid suggested it. I could come out on the weekends.”

“Oh, yes . . .”

“He said the chauffeur could take you.”

In preparation for her departure, she spent the next two days helping Larraine with paperwork and waiting for the plumber to fix a leak in the North Capitol Street house. She assumed an almost religious patience, as if any wrong move would ruin her plans. She pulled out every weed in the flower beds and polished the copper pots that hung from a rack in the kitchen. This was what made Paul happy and, after all, she was so grateful to be going that she could do something to make him happier, too.

The two weeks on the farm stretched into four. Larraine took the bus out and Mr. Risley lent them the station wagon to drive around to the antique shops. “I’m not being sarcastic,” said Larraine, “but what do you find exciting about this place?”

Star had to laugh. “The air, the grass, the country roads, the smell.”

“Mmm. Anything I missed?”

“There’s the track, but that didn’t excite you either. I love being out of doors. I feel less confined and I can take Cassie for a walk without worrying about traffic. She loves the horses. And the chickens. And the goats.”

“I’ve never enjoyed being the country mouse myself,” said Larraine, “so I have to take your word for it.”

Neither one mentioned Paul. The marriage was out-of-bounds for conversation. What was there to say? Paul had visited twice, stayed overnight, and returned. He was thinner than when she left him and she asked if he was eating enough. Several times she noticed a childlike uncertainty when he spoke, which made his mouth tremble and his eyes widen. “Is anything wrong?” she had asked. She felt sorry for him. “Are your stocks doing OK?”

“Everything’s fine but I’ve got to get back. I just came to see how you and the baby are getting along. Cassie looks wonderful. And you, too, of course.” The three of them had gone out to dinner and no one would have guessed they were a family. Star and the baby were tan and casually dressed. Paul was pale and wore a suit and tie. They avoided looking at each other and focused on the baby, feeding her bits from their plates and trying to coax her to talk.

“Say, ‘Hi, Daddy.’ ”

She squealed and took a little jump in her seat.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Dadadada.”

“Atta girl. Hi, Cassie.”

“Dadada.”

Paul laughed aloud. “I’m your daddy.”

“Dadadada.” She banged her hands on the top of the high chair and squealed.

“I thought next year we’d rent a house in Rehoboth or Bethany,” he said to Star. “Maybe during August. I’d take some time off.”

He was trying to tell her things would be different. Maybe he was even trying to apologize in his way.

She nodded and smiled, even though the idea made her shrivel in her seat. But she knew it was unlikely that he’d take time off. It was just something to say.

The last two weeks at Mara Farm she began going to the track very early each morning to watch the horses being groomed and exercised. She dressed Cassie in overalls and herself in dungarees, a button-down shirt, and boots and they were rolling down the road by seven. First they’d visit the horses in their stalls. Next they’d sit way up in the empty bleachers around the track, eating bananas and oranges and watching the trainers take the horses through their paces. Cassie, who had an open-mouthed, drooling passion for moving on all fours, would crawl along the stands, managing to pull herself upright and then, unable to let go, whimpering until she was rescued. Sometimes Star would coax her daughter to sit still and watch the beautiful Thoroughbreds, but inevitably Cassie, exhausted from climbing, would fall asleep with her head on her mother’s lap. About ten o’clock they were ready to go home.

The sight of a young, attractive mother playing with her baby daughter is probably one of the most appealing on earth. The sight of Star Halaby chasing Cassie’s bottom up the stands and then sitting like a sculpted goddess while her daughter slept against her would have charmed anyone who saw them. The grooms and trainers liked to look up at her.

One man—against his nature and good judgment—found the sight of her so riveting he returned to watch each morning. He was a man of utmost dignity and he worried that his daily appearance might be considered odd. To forestall comment, he became devoted to the horse he boarded there—an animal that had until now made him wince with disappointment.

He was a tall, rangy man of considerable wealth and wide experience, not only with women but also with the devastating lessons of war. It wasn’t his style to moon over women. And now, at the least likely time of his life, he was chagrined to be caught like this, shy and slavishly intrigued by a woman who was not only married but also a devoted mother.

For anyone who wanted the key to Andrew Larabee, there were several things that were important to know. During the war he had loved an Italian woman who had been married to someone else. It hadn’t been the typical wartime romance brought on by the possibility of imminent death, but a deep and abiding friendship and a passionate love. They’d had seven months together and then, senselessly, Cecilia was killed. Ten years later he still thought of her and had no desire to marry. The last thing anyone would have suspected of him—after all, his Scottish forebears were among the first settlers of St. Mary’s County—was that he would ignore the freckle-faced tidewater beauties who attended his own clubs and his own schools and rode through his own hills and fall for an Italian.