Cleopatra and Frankenstein(39)

“And how long did you two wait after you and Mum divorced?” said Cleo. “Five minutes?”

“Don’t be hyperbolic, Cleo,” said Miriam. “You’re not an American.”

Peter’s face reddened with discomfort. He looked down at his fists, which were balled on the table like two mounds of mincemeat.

“It was a different situation,” he said gruffly. “One you couldn’t have understood at your age. Wasn’t your business to understand.”

“You’re right,” said Cleo. “Why on earth would who my father marries be any of my business?”

“Cleo’s anger is quite natural and healthy,” said Miriam, turning to Frank. “Haven’t we always said that, Pete?”

“I am not angry,” said Cleo.

“We’re just saying it would be perfectly acceptable if you were, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t even invite me to your wedding.”

“That was ten years ago,” said Peter.

“Yes, don’t hold a grudge,” said Miriam. “It will give you wrinkles.”

“I was your child,” said Cleo.

“I didn’t want to upset you and your mother,” said Peter. “I was trying to protect her. Protect you.”

“You did a great job of that,” said Cleo. “Five stars, Peter.”

“Your father has always put others first,” said Miriam.

“She wasn’t well, Cleo,” Peter said. “Nothing either you or I did could change that.”

“Well, guess what?” said Cleo, her face flushed. “I didn’t invite you to mine either.”

“Cleo, I don’t think—” said Frank.

“We got married,” she said. “In June.”

The server reappeared with his long, mournful face. “And how was everything today?” he asked.

“We’ll just take the check,” said Frank.

“Can I interest you in any dessert?”

“No!” said Frank, practically shoving him away from the table.

“Well, congratulations are in order!” said Miriam, turning to them with a bright smile that did not reach her eyes.

Peter’s face was a deep, stormy red. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said.

“No, darling,” said Miriam, in the tone of a mother scolding a petulant child. “It’s not good for Cleo to bottle all of this up. Talking is healing—”

“My mom never talked to me about anything real,” said Frank. “Including who my dad was!”

Miriam gave him a perturbed look. She clearly hated to be interrupted.

“Well, Cleo’s mother,” she said, “as she probably told you, Frank, was a deeply troubled woman. Unwell in mind and spirit.”

Cleo, in fact, had never spoken to him about her mother in any depth. She had told him the first night they met that she died when she was in her last year of college, and that was the most he ever got out of her.

“Don’t talk about my mother,” said Cleo.

“It was upsetting for all of us,” said Miriam.

“Don’t talk about my mother,” repeated Cleo.

“Suicide,” said Miriam, sucking in her breath as though the word was something sour she had bitten into, “is a family disease.”

Cleo could feel her entire face vibrating. She wanted to leave, but she knew she wouldn’t. Soon the blackness would come, and she would feel nothing.

Frank looked at Cleo, whose face was blanched except for a single high red dot on each cheekbone. He could sense, beneath the still surface of her, a great roiling of feeling. But she did not move, did not even flinch. She reminded him of some great, noble boxer standing dazed after what should have been a knockout blow. He sprang up from his chair.

“I’m sorry, but this is bullshit,” he said. “Cleo, you don’t deserve this shit.”

“This language!” said Miriam. “Americans can be so coarse.”

Peter stayed silent, his head hanging heavily between his thick shoulders. Frank turned to Cleo and offered his hand. Slowly, with great dignity, she rose to stand beside him.

“We’re leaving,” she said.

She walked out of the restaurant with Frank following behind her. Suddenly, he turned back and took out his wallet. He strode back to the table and placed two $100 bills on its surface in front of Peter.

“The best thing you ever did,” he said, “was Cleo.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


Late September


It had been the perfect honeymoon, until Frank decided to take the bet. He was balanced barefoot on the hotel balcony, preparing to jump from its height into the pool below, while Cleo watched the silhouette of his back and seethed. The night had turned cool, but Frank had stripped to only his linen suit trousers, held at the waist with the brown alligator belt she had bought him earlier that week from the market in Nice. He hovered on the bottom rung of the railing and stretched out his arms like a tightrope walker readying himself for a trick.

“How much did we say?” he yelled.

“One grand!” a man’s voice answered from below.

Frank laughed.

“That it?”