Five Women (21 page)

“How are you going to do it?”

“I'll just have to follow him,” her mother said.

“How are you going to do that? You're no detective.”

“I'll find a way.”

Kathryn went to sleep early that night, as soon as the babies were asleep. On the nights that she could stay home and didn't have to go out to work she was exhausted and glad for the rest. She was twenty-one years old and part of her felt like a kid who didn't know anything, while another part of her already felt ancient with responsibilities. The rain was peaceful outside her windows and her comforter was warm. When the bedside phone shrilled in her ear she was disoriented at first, and even more so when she looked at the clock and saw that it was one o'clock in the morning.

There was a woman on the phone, a voice Kathryn did not know. “Your mother's in trouble,” the woman said.

“Who is this?”

“She's at the Roxbury police station.” And the woman hung up.

Kathryn fumbled for the light and turned it on. She called the Roxbury police station, a number she knew well. “My name is O'Mara,” she said. “My mother is being held there. Sheila O'Mara. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Hold on.” A pause. “Nobody here with that name,” the cop said.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Kathryn hung up. This was so weird. Who was that woman anyway? Was this some kind of practical joke? She wondered what kind of trouble her passive, law-abiding mother could possibly be in. Now she was wide awake. Maybe she should call all the police stations, but the woman had clearly said it was that one. Kathryn put the radio on to soft music and tried to figure out what she should do now, if anything. She knew the one thing she wouldn't do was sleep. The song ended and there was a news flash.

“A Boston police officer was brutally gunned down tonight outside the Avalon Ballroom. Officer Brendan O'Mara was killed in his car while off duty. The suspect is his own wife. She was taken into custody and brought to the Roxbury police station for questioning. More news later.”

“My God!” Kathryn said, and jumped out of bed.

She dressed and ran upstairs to the neighbors, the Fiorentinos, whom she knew slightly, and leaned on their bell and banged on their door. Finally Mr. Fiorentino appeared, his face crumpled with apprehensiveness and sleep. “Please will you take my kids for a couple of hours,” Kathryn said, “My mother's in trouble.”

She left her babies with the Fiorentinos and drove as fast as she could to the Roxbury police station. On the way she finally realized, for the first time, that her father was dead, and that she felt nothing about her father's death; not remorse, not grief, only—if anything—relief. Her mother should have killed him years ago. But the one she was concerned about was her mother.

“That's O'Mara's daughter,” one of the cops said. They knew her family, of course. She wondered if the woman who had called was her father's girlfriend, and if she had known about the murder even before her mother got to jail. Her mother had said she was going to follow them. Just follow them . . . something had obviously gone wrong.

Her mother was sitting in a room, at a desk, surrounded by four people in uniforms. The two men were cops, the two women were police matrons. Her mother looked as if she was in shock. Kathryn felt sick. She stood at the doorway and watched as a cop shoved a paper at her mother to sign a confession; her mother signed, and the matron grabbed it and tore it up.

“Don't sign anything until you get a lawyer,” the matron said.

“I killed him,” her mother said dully, “and I want to die.”

The cop gave her another piece of paper, and again her mother signed it and the matron tore it up. It was obvious to Kathryn which sides the men and women were on in the case.

“I took his gun with me,” her mother said, “because I was afraid he would kill me. I thought the safety was on. I only wanted to find out who his girlfriend was.”

“Don't say any more,” the matron said.

“You stalked him,” the cop said. “You hid under the back seat of his car. You shot his head off. There was a woman witness in the car who escaped, and she saw the whole thing.”

Her mother covered her face with her hands then and her shoulders shook. “I want to die,” she said again, but this time she was sobbing. Kathryn knew she meant it. Her mother had killed her father and was suicidal, and the only lawyers she knew handled divorces. Her mother would need someone good.

“Mom, I'll call Uncle Brian,” she said. She turned to the cops. “You know my uncle, Captain Brian O'Mara, don't you?” Of course they did, they all knew her uncles, she was just reminding them that she came from strength and authority, that she was one of theirs. “And Captain Patrick O'Mara, and Sergeant Michael O'Mara?” She was pulling as much rank as she could. Her uncles, powerful and feared, were the only ones she could think of who could help. “Don't sign anything, Mom, until they get you a lawyer,” Kathryn said. “They'll know what to do.”

But would they do it? Her mother had killed their brother. They would not be able to forgive that so easily and help her—Kathryn was sure of it.

Maybe her uncles, too, would want her mother to die.

Chapter Eighteen

T
HE FOUR FRIENDS
were having their usual weekly dinner at Yellowbird. That winter, the winter of 1995, had been unusually warm, and because tonight was one of those rare evenings with damp and chill and the hint of snow, they had decided to drink red wine instead of white. Kathryn, impatient for dramatic weather, was trying out the designer Eskimo outfit she had bought for a trip to Scandinavia, but after the first glass of wine she started to peel it off. The others were in New York black, a color that went with everything else in your closet and didn't show the grit that flew through the city air and settled on everything. As always, the conversation came around to the subject of men.

“What is it about us and men?” Felicity asked. “Why do we give them so much control?”

“It's the social system,” Kathryn said. It was the first sign of anger any of them had ever seen her show. “Women have children to take care of and support, they have to work, they're at the mercy of men. I would never have gotten married if I didn't
need
to. I didn't love any of my husbands. Well, one.”

“But I give away my own autonomy for love,” Felicity said. “I did it when I was young and I do it now when it has nothing to do with economics. I have no children and I make a big salary.”

“I used to give it away too,” Gara said. “I needed a very strong man, the sense of power that would be on my side, because I felt vulnerable. I thought Carl would save me . . . and actually, in a lot of ways, for a lot of years, he did. I look back and I seem like such an idiot, but love makes idiots of most people. When I met Carl I thought he looked like a lion, the king of the jungle, and I told him so.” She smiled wryly. “The Lion King.”

Felicity gasped. “When I went out with Russell on our first date I told him he was like a king! I did! I thought he was going to save me too. No wonder you and I are friends.”

“I would admit a man was a king,” Eve said, “only if he was a real one, with a country.”

“Right,” Kathryn said, and they all laughed.

“I would never give up my power to anybody,” Eve went on. “Man or woman. My power is what makes me always win.”

They ignored that.

“But Russell fooled me,” Felicity said. “He fooled me on purpose, he wanted to. He was actually a despot.”

“Maybe that was what you wanted,” Gara said.

“I didn't want it. I was a naive kid. Whatever was wrong I thought could be fixed.”

“When are we going to learn we can't change anybody?” Kathryn said. “It's enough trouble just trying to survive.”

“The next person I'm going to try to change is me,” Felicity said. “I'm tired of being miserable.”

“Hear, hear,” they all cheered. But they had heard her say it before.

* * *

Felicity was twenty-five years old now, and she was working in a law firm in New York as she had dreamed she would; she had her own apartment, she had a life of her own. Her firm, Friedland, Jordan and Samm, was small enough to give her a degree of autonomy, she was making decent money, and she was able to work with authors. Her apartment was a one-bedroom in a doorman building on the East Side, and she often gave Sunday brunches or Saturday evening cocktail parties there for the many single friends she had met in the city, both black and white (although more were white), all young, upwardly mobile professionals.

Her college militancy had gone the way of her afro and dashikis. She worked in a white law firm. She lived in a white apartment building, although she had a few black neighbors who were just like her. She wore corporate little suits now, with high heels to show off her good legs, and her hair was long and pulled back for work in a ladylike bun. On weekends, when she went out with her friends or gave parties, she dressed to look sexy. Finding men was not a problem; finding one she would like to see twice was.

She thought about love all the time, although she had very few lovers. Everyone she knew worked harder and longer than they wanted to, went to the gym faithfully after work, went out on pathetic blind dates, and nearly fell asleep in the cab home because they were so tired. Her younger sister Theodora, who was living in Cambridge, had already had her first child of the planned four, and was working too, doing something or other with statistics. It was the era of the over-achiever.

Felicity met Russell Naylor at a cocktail party given to raise money for a black political candidate. He was there with a beautiful young woman. He was older than any of the men Felicity had ever been out with, but not too old; just sophisticated, she thought. He had a presence: the look of a man who enjoyed his success, and also of a tough guy who had come up the hard way, smoothed off the rough edges, and never forgotten his warrior heart. She knew he was a self-made millionaire building contractor because she had heard of him and read about him in the newspapers, but she had never thought of him as a possible romantic interest, just a role model. But now that she had met him she was fascinated. She liked him right away. This was what she wanted—a pillar of the black community with pizzazz.

She watched them carefully. She knew he wasn't married, so the beautiful woman was just a date, or, at the worst, his girlfriend, although he hadn't treated her like a girlfriend. Felicity spoke with him for a few minutes and she made sure he knew where she worked . . . just in case there was some chance he liked her.

The next morning at the office she looked him up in
Who's Who
and was interested to discover that he had apparently never been married and had no children. She remembered then that Russell Naylor had always been known as quite a ladies' man. Of course he would be; he was a catch. Why would he want to settle down? She let herself fantasize about him a little.

One reason he would want to settle down, she thought, was his age. He was forty-five. It was time. She was twenty years younger, at the prime of her fertility, innocent enough to be influenced, attractive and intelligent enough for him to show her off. But then her lack of self-confidence took over and she decided he wouldn't want her anyway. Why would he want her when he could have anybody? She doubted if he would even call.

He called her that same day, before lunch. She was stunned and flattered. “I just found myself free for lunch,” he said. “Would you be free too, by any chance?”

“Well, yes I am,” said Felicity, in a tone that implied surprise at this fortunate coincidence. Actually, she never went out to lunch unless it was someone's birthday, and was therefore almost always available, but if she hadn't been she would have made herself so.

“How about ‘21' at twelve-thirty?”

“That would be lovely. See you then.” When she hung up she stifled her shriek and giggle of triumph. “All right!”

He had assumed she knew where it was, that other successful men had taken her there, but since she had never been there she had to look for the address in the phone book: “21” was such a famous restaurant that even she had heard of it. Her boss ate there sometimes when he had an important client to entertain. It was just lunch, she reminded herself, but it was a beginning. Suddenly she felt sensual and attractive. Who knew what would happen?

It turned out that “21” was in a townhouse with a line of jockey statues going up the side staircase, and when she got inside it looked like a men's club, all dark wood and horse pictures. She was on time and Russell was late. When she told the man at the door whom she was meeting he obviously knew who Russell was, but he wouldn't let her go to the table; he made her wait in an anteroom with a big television set in it and a view of the front door. Felicity couldn't decide whether she had to stay here in limbo because she was only a woman, a young woman at that, and therefore suspect, or because she was black. But they knew Russell Naylor and seemed cordial, so it must just be her. She was aware again, as she often was recently, of how women were often treated as if they were nothing unless they had a powerful man on their arm, and how sometimes that made it even worse.

When Russell came in they all made a big fuss over him, greeting him as if they knew him well and were glad he was here, telling him there was a young lady waiting for him, noticing again that she existed. Russell beamed at the sight of her and Felicity felt better. He took charge immediately, and as they went into the bar where their table was he was shaking hands, greeting and being greeted by name by what looked like every tuxedoed man who worked there. He was like royalty in his castle.

They sat side by side at a small table with a red and white checkered tablecloth, under a profusion of boy's toys hanging from the ceiling. The place was full of white businessmen, with a few older white women who looked like society types, and a picture flashed through Felicity's mind of the tea room where she had to go years ago with her mother and her mother's lover. But she didn't know why, since this was certainly more like a men's club than a tea room and she was grown up and with her own date.

Her mother was watching her, she supposed, always in her mind even when she least expected it. Her mother would have been pleased to see her today.

They ordered bottled water and swordfish. “You certainly are important,” Felicity said. “You're like a king.”

He laughed. “The great acting teacher Stanislavsky was once asked by one of his students: ‘How do you play a king on the stage?' And Stanislavsky answered: ‘You don't have to do anything to play a king. The audience knows you're a king by the way the other actors behave.' That's why there are certain restaurants where I like to go regularly.”

She digested that and was impressed. “You must read a great deal.”

“Some,” he said. “Not really. I used to go out with an actress and she told me that.”

“The education of the bachelor comes from all the women he went out with,” Felicity said, pretending to be teasing him.

“And you?” Russell asked. “How is your education?”

“Unfinished. I'm still pursuing it.”

“I hope I can help.”

“I'm sure you can.”

They smiled at each other and she felt the spark. I could learn a lot from him, she thought. She asked him about his work and his life, she hung on every word, she was as pliant and seductive as she had been taught, which was by now almost second nature to her, and she even pretended to be as interested in sports as he was. Why were men so devoted to watching other men trying to take a ball away from each other? She told him nothing about her dysfunctional and crazy childhood because he had obviously liked his own parents, and poverty had been his only, albeit great, problem growing up. As they talked she was aware that he was sizing her up and that he liked what he saw. All she wanted was for him to save her. She was not sure from what, but she thought perhaps everything.

He told her about his travels, his vacations to exotic places—Tunisia, Morocco, Egypt, a cruise down the Nile; Hong Kong, Singapore, Bali—always with one woman or another. Felicity wanted to be that woman.

“I just got back from two weeks in the French wine country,” he said. “I had a date with me and we had a car and fold-up bicycles. We would go into a little town and stop at a wonderful inn, and then we would ride our bikes for miles out into the country and have a picnic of charcuterie and cheese and fresh bread and good local wine, and then we would ride back in time for dinner. The next day we would be on to the next town. The scenery was so spectacular.”

He's middle-aged but he's in good shape, Felicity thought. All that bike riding lets him eat things I would never eat, and look at him.

“I think you met her,” Russell said. “She was with me at the party.”

Felicity nodded. “‘Date' or girlfriend?” she asked. She was jealous already.

“Was my girlfriend, now is a date. We're winding down.”

“Maybe I could become her replacement,” Felicity said flirtatiously.

“Maybe,” he said, smiling. “You have beauty
and
brains. I'm very impressed.”

“Thank you.”

And although she was determined she would never give up her work, luckily her work was part of what made her appealing to him.

She knew her life with him would be so different from anything she had ever known that she felt like an innocent little hick with her fingers and nose pressed against the window to a magical world. I must be in love, Felicity thought. She wondered if it was success itself that was such a turn-on, or the fact that he had been able to achieve it. How could you separate the two anyway? She wondered what she could possibly do to keep from becoming another one of Russell Naylor's social statistics.

They had to go back to their offices then. The next day Felicity wondered if she should call Russell to thank him for the lunch, or if that would be too forward and if maybe she should write him a brief note instead. She wanted to keep the connection. While she was pondering this dilemma flowers arrived.

Thank you for brightening my day
, the note read.
Russell.

All right! Felicity shrieked to herself, and hugged herself as if she were her own best friend.

Then she didn't hear from him for a week. She hoped he was out of town on business, but she knew he was with the girlfriend, “winding down,” if indeed he was. Why is dating torture, she thought, why can't people just have an arranged marriage to someone perfect and avoid all the bullshit? Then he called and invited her out to dinner. She took an unaccustomed lunch hour and rushed to Saks where she bought a sexy black dress she couldn't really afford, to wear for him.

Russell took her out to dinner three times, always to an expensive restaurant where he told her stories of his sophisticated adventures. His stories made her yearn for him with a feeling that was like pain. Finally he invited her to his apartment. Felicity knew what the invitation meant and she was ready.