Mrs Mariano: Part 1

by L Neil

  Diffusing this suddenly awkward situation, I smile and say to him, “I’ll see you around,” and then sling my backpack over my shoulder and lead Frank outside.

  Whatever that phone call was about doesn’t seem to worry him anymore. As we stroll down the street, I am reminded that ice cream isn’t the only food available at this time of night in the French Quarter.

  I could almost see the tendrils of aroma creeping out onto the sidewalk, the smells of gumbo and jambalaya making my might water, despite my earlier claim of not being hungry.

  Over the years, I would fly home to visit Manny for a few days or weeks to keep in touch and each time, the promise of traditional Creole and Cajun dishes only adds to the excitement of seeing my baby brother.

  As I battle my renewed hunger, Frank returns to being in awe of my performance.

  “You were the most beautiful contradiction up there. You looked perfect, but...broken. Your voice is pure, angelic but your words are dark and soulful. Did you write those songs?”

  It’s hard to be mad at someone who is laying all these compliments on you.

  “Yeah,” I tell him, “but Sebastian fixes them up, makes them sound like that.”

  “Sebastian, which one is he?” He questions curiously, as we continue to walk side by side on the rocky pavement, passing under warm streetlamps.

  “The guy with the cello and the synth,” I say. “He’s brilliant.”

  His smile slips and head lowers with his voice, “Are you and he…” he trails off, a shadow falling over most of his face.

  “Oh, no,” I say quickly. Jesus, is he…jealous? I don’t know why, but I want to reassure him. “I wouldn't be agreeing to marry one of your sons if I had a boyfriend, Frank. Besides, the model sitting at the table directly in front of him – that’s his girlfriend. The one in the red dress with the long legs.”

  He tilts his head back up and the light returns to his face. As his eyes roam over me, he remarks smoothly, “I didn’t see anyone but you tonight.”

  I look away and, without thinking, bite my lip. Goddamn it, please tell me he didn’t see that.

  He chuckles as he opens the door and guides me into the shop with a gentle hand on my lower back. Yes, he saw my reaction. I can almost hear him thinking, “Gotcha!”

  The ice cream parlour is so sweet with its retro booths of red leather seats, checked tablecloths and vintage memorabilia. It feels like we've walked onto the set of Grease.

  It’s practically empty and Frank seems pleased about that as he leads me into a booth, carefully, like a true gentleman.

  I can feel his eyes across the table as I browse the menu. Without looking up, I joke, “Are you going to pick something to order or just stare?”

  “Stare,” he answers, unembarrassed.

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I continue to peruse the menu.

  A round, middle-aged waitress with frizzy brown hair takes my order and I turn my attention to the powerful, patient man across from me. He dismisses her without ordering.

  We make small talk. He wants to know how I’m liking New Orleans and I tell him it’s fine.

  He asks what I do for work and I tell him that I start a new job on Monday.

  He tells me he has never taken anyone for ice cream before and admits that earlier, he had only guessed that it would be a fine establishment, as it was back when he was a young man.

  “You gonna tell me what we’re doing here, Frank?” I ask, finally.

  “We are here so that you may eat some ice cream.”

  The evasiveness is really grating my nerves.

  “Are you toying with me?” I ask quietly.

  And then my sense must have run off with the last of my patience because I stupidly ask, “Do you do that with your victims, too? You like to play with them before you flay them?”

  The change is instantaneous. One moment he is smiling and doting; the next, he is still and serious as cancer. He leans in and I am genuinely afraid. Did I just push him too far?

  He rasps, “Are you offering to let me play with you?”

  Sliding back quickly, I search his face for signs that he was joking.

  He hasn't moved.

  My cheeks burn. “I... uh...” I don’t know what to say. I guess I dug myself into that one.

  After an agonizingly awkward moment passes, his devious grin makes a return and then he chuckles deeply, quite satisfied with himself.

  My cheeks get hotter. I am not in the mood to be teased.

  “When will I meet your sons?” The scorn in my question will totally distract him from my embarrassment.

  He looks away, serious again and it’s quiet for some time before he speaks again.

  “Do you remember...after your stepmother abandoned your father and he brought you along to a... meeting at my home?”

  I nod, “It was my first memory of you.”

  He smiles and his brown eyes twinkle. For some reason, this pleases him.

  And of course, I remember.

  A goon had answered the door of Frank’s home and we were led to a hall. My father ordered me sit on the button chaise and to keep an eye on Manny. It was the most extravagant home I'd ever seen. Manny was too young to notice much of anything. But I liked it there. It felt like a castle. And I imagined I was a princess.

  “I was in the middle of something,” – he had stepped out of a nearby room and there was blood splattered all over his white shirt – “and then I saw you...this little golden-haired girl. You were holding your brother’s hand.”

  His voice lowers and his eyes probe right into my soul. “You heard the screams; you saw me and... you didn’t flinch. I almost felt ashamed of what I was doing, just because you were there to see the evidence of my evil-doing on my shirt.”

  He laces his fingers on the table’s surface before him and his eyebrows knit together in agitation.

  “I nearly throttled Jimmy for bringing you with him – I mean, surely, he could have found a sitter. But then you smiled at me,” he adds, whimsically. “I knew that you were strong, right then - a force to be reckoned with.”

  I remembered the exchange and I recall how unsettled it made my father. But I don’t see what this has to do with anything.

  Unless he proposes to recruit me? Or perhaps take me under his wing... teach me the tricks of his trade?

  That’s a bizarre thought, for sure but given the life I’ve had and the things I have been exposed to, it wouldn’t be so surprising.

  The waitress returns with my caramel sundae and I dig right in. The ice cream is cold, the caramel is velvety and the whole thing tastes amazing.

  When I suck a film of caramel from my bottom lip, I realise that I am being closely watched.

  “You are positively hypnotic,” he bemuses quietly.

  I laugh inwardly. “Hypnotic? Are you serious?”

  He seems genuinely bewildered.

  “Never mind,” I say, loading up another spoon, “you were saying?”

  This is hopefully the part where he tells me that he will solve our little “Briggs” problem if I worked for him.

  Composing himself once more, he continues, “I saw you a handful of times after that.” He considers his next words, “My…most trusted friends would…watch you, particularly during those times that Jimmy was away and you had to walk to school and take care of Manny on your own. They...ensured your safety.”

  O…kay. The ice cream melts and drips from my suspended spoon onto the table.

  “Don’t be alarmed. I…felt a responsibility to keep you safe, that’s all.”

  I feel the blood drain from my already pallid face. Is there even a response out there to something like this?

  He gives me a moment to let that sink in and takes his jacket off. It’s cool in this ice cream parlour so things must be about to get real. I wanted honesty and it seems I am about to receive it. Careful what you wish for and all that.

  “I have friends everywhere, Helena. I was sent a copy of all your
report cards, all your awards, details of your accomplishments. I was so proud when you were accepted into college.

  “You deserved that scholarship too - I didn’t even need to pull any strings. It was all you. And of all things, you chose music.”

  He shakes his head and grabs my free hand, startling me. “I was prouder of you than I ever was of my sons.”

  His thumb absently rubs my hand as he tells me, “By this time, I knew that you were too good for them, but I also knew a marriage between our families would advantage everyone else – your father, your brother, myself… mostly, whomever it was that you married. I felt very...conflicted.”

  We’re finally getting somewhere but I am having major second thoughts now. I mean, what is he rambling on about?

  “Cristian is nine years older than you. Back then, that was too big a gap. You were a teenage girl, still a child in my book. And Sam…” he looks away, collecting himself, it seems, “if he hurt you, I would have torn out his throat without a second thought.”

  He runs his free hand over his stubbled cheeks contemplatively.

  “I should go home,” I say softly.

  It’s hard to keep listening to this. Not that it feels bad or wrong but because I feel nothing. I should feel enraged about the invasion of privacy, shouldn’t I? Maybe it’s shock. Or because I know it could be shock, does that mean that it isn’t?

  “It’s late.” I pull my hand from him, drop my spoon into the half-eaten ice cream and say again, “I should go home.”

  He stands with me, watching with cautious eyes. “I've spooked you…” He sighs, “Helena…let me finish.”

  “It’s Hel-ee-na,” I tell him. As if that’s important right now.

  He freezes for a moment, before nodding. “I suppose I knew that. I’m sorry.”

  “Is there anything you don’t know about me?” I snap. There are some truly disturbing things that I had done and that had been done to me. I couldn’t bear it if he knew, if anyone knew.

  He holds his hands out to show me that he is harmless. His eyes droop as he looks down at me. “Plenty,” he replies, quietly. “And I am here to learn.”

  “Why?” I cry. My mind is a mess, I can’t think straight. I need to get out of here.

  As I move to pass him, he grabs me gently and pulls me in close to him. He whispers, “Helena, I’ve got you,” and shushes me. “Baby, there is nothing to be afraid of.”

  Why can’t I stop shaking? I’m not that mad at him, not really. And I’m not scared of him, either. I am just tired and worried. And... did I mention tired?

  I don’t mean to, but I start to cry into his shoulder. He brushes my hair as he holds me and sways me gently.

  There is relief in letting the tears spill. I’ve been so consumed with making things right and safe for my family that I never let myself take a breather. Even while writing and performing, it’s always in the back of my head: I need to fix this. I can’t let Manny or his family get hurt. Or worse.

  But Frank is holding me now. And weirdly enough, I have never felt this safe before in my life.

  He must be able to read my mind because he tells me, “Mr Briggs will not hurt you. Or your brother. Or little Isabella. I will take care of it.”

  When I pull back, I can see my reflection in his brown, concerned eyes. The pitiful creature staring back at me would normally be cause for concern but I am just too raw to care.

  It is so unlike me to fall apart so easily.

  He drops some bills on the table, collects his jacket and leads me outside, away from the scarce but prying eyes inside the parlour. Yes, I did just make a scene. Argh.

  What did he mean when he said that he would take care of Briggs? Like, “take care” take care or... you know, normal people problem solving?

  The Mercedes is waiting out front. Before I think to question it, Frank and I slide into the backseat.

  Martin knows better than to look into the rear-view mirror but from here, I can see that his face is uncertain.

  Frank tells him to take us home, as in Frank’s home. Exhaustion washes over me and I don't bother to protest. Again - so unlike me. But he is soothing and warm beside me and I must admit that it feels good to be held.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cop Killer

  As I wake, I realise that I must be in one of Frank’s guest rooms because my sheets have never felt this soft and smooth against my skin.

  I sit up quickly when I realise that I’m not wearing my dress anymore. But then, I vaguely recall replacing it with this nude, sheer camisole that I’m wearing now.

  I was pretty out of it last night, with the result of all my stress finally crashing down upon me, but I do remember that I undressed in front of Frank. It was swift and casual enough, I hope. He wouldn’t leave the room until I assured him that I was okay.

  The room is beautiful with white, French chic furnishing and glamorous shades of beige, peach and blush linen and cushions. The morning light floods in through the white, soft curtains, adding to the dreaminess.

  There’s a rose-gold button settee near the bay window with my backpack atop it. Frank must have retrieved it from the parlour last night, while I was having my embarrassing breakdown. Gah!

  I jump out of bed – geez, even the carpet feels luxurious – to search my bag. Where is it?

  Trying not to panic, I empty the bag onto the floor and hunt frantically.

  Ah!

  I lift up my zippo, light it up and eventually, my heart rate slows and my mind clears.

  The soothing flame flickers as the door to the room opens a fraction. Frank peers in, probably expecting to see me on the bed.

  When he spots me on my knees on the floor, I close the lid over the flame and lower the lighter. I'm not surprised at the lack of respect for my privacy.

  “I came to check on you, again. Are you…okay? I spent most of the night worrying about you.” The dense stubble on his face and roughly brushed hair confirms this.

  “I’m fine,” I reply, curtly.

  He steps inside the room and I see that he is wearing a brown sweater, grey slacks and dark brown dress shoes. I don’t think I have ever seen him out of a suit. I guess he is at home.

  He doesn't move very far into the room - probably knows that he has crossed so many lines already.

  “The truth is...” I sigh, “I’m not even mad about you stalking me.”

  I stand, pushing my long hair behind my shoulders and composing myself. Just because my dignity has been trampled on yet again, it doesn't mean I have to be defeated.

  “I’m done with all of this, though. I’ll find another way,” I resolve. “I’ll take Manny and his family overseas.”

  I start to pack my bag and tell him, “I still have savings.”

  Frank slides his hands into his pant pockets and casually walks further into the room.

  “Marry me,” he offers, quietly.

  Moments pass as we stand there, gazing at each other.

  At first, I thought I might have misheard him but now it all makes sense. It was obvious that he was attracted to me – I’m not that naive. And he didn’t want me to marry his sons but he was still keen to arrange a marriage between our families. He still kept pursuing me.

  Did I expect it? No. Am I surprised? No.

  How do I feel right now? Confused. Vulnerable. Somehow, a bit...relieved.

  Still, I know I must look like a deer in headlights.

  He walks over to me, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. His arms envelop me, holding me. He must know that it is a lot to take in.

  I relax into him, it’s hard not to.

  With my head against his chest, his gravelly voice explains, “The plan was to take my time and woo you.”

  He strokes his hand down my hair and it is incredibly soothing. “A girl like you deserves a man's complete, absolute and unadulterated attention.”

  “No, I don't,” I murmur, the lighter heavy in my hand.

  “Ah,” he realises, “il m
io piccolo piro...” My little pyro.

  I look up at him now, eyes hot and watery. The panic makes my chest tight. “How much do you know?”

  He tenderly searches my face and when he tells me, “I know you killed the cop but not why,” I believe him.

  “But you don't need a reason,” he assures me. “Not for me.”