though, What’s yours will come back to you, and I said this to myself over and over, truly believing it. If Pearl and I were meant to be together, then all this Laura business would somehow sort itself out.
But all that happened was that things got worse.
Laura had stashed the evidence in a safety deposit box, at an undisclosed bank. Or so she told me. With a letter saying that if some strange accident befell her, that it would be murder. Names cited. Namely me. She didn’t admit to this in so many words, but that was the gist of it. Meanwhile, she wanted us to get married.
Or else.
I didn’t tell Sophie any of this, and my mother was so distraught she lay in bed reading romance novels, eating pretzels and drinking white wine, pretending she had the flu, begging me every day by telephone to find a solution.
I called Pearl, but of course she never picked up. It seemed she now went about without a cell phone—normal, why would she want Laura tracing her calls? Or me, knowing her every move? So every now and then, I had a chat on her landline with Daisy or Anthony, who had come to visit her for Christmas. She was fine, they told me, but had no interest in having anything to do with me as long as Laura was in the picture.
I didn’t pursue Pearl. How could I until I had a plan up my sleeve? I watched her from afar, though, as she stalked Rex when he went for his walks to Central Park with his “nanny” Sally. I was stalking Pearl and Pearl was stalking Rex. Ironic. That was what gave me hope. Pearl, Rex and I were a little family unit. We belonged together. I knew that we had a chance when I observed her excitement every time she saw him. I followed her like some sort of detective in a hard-boiled Raymond Chandler novel—keeping my distance, ducking into alleys, lurking behind corners and trees. All I needed was a Fedora hat to complete the look. I had taken to wearing a long, dark, wool, military coat. I wondered what war hero had played his part in it. Did he die on the battlefield or come home triumphant?
I was in my own mini battlefield myself.
An emotional battlefield.
I had become a recluse in my apartment in New York, sporadically going to visit my mother in Paris, or Laura in London, trying to convince her to put an end to her blackmail. She wanted me to father her child. Insane. I was going to give it one more go, I decided. One more go to convince her that her scheme was crazy; that I could never love her child—that the only child I wanted was Pearl’s. I had even fantasized about taking Laura heli-skiing, deep sea diving; on some dangerous, life-defying vacation, where an accident could happen and nobody could prove a thing. But every time, the image of my mother’s face would loom before me, her misting eyes wide, her plea pitiful. She had finally found some peace in her world. I needed to protect her, and the letter Laura spoke of in that safe-deposit box, coupled with the evidence, made the risk too great, although my instinct told me she was bluffing.
PEARL
A LEXANDRE HAD BEEN spying on me through my cell (the rare times I used it), but I was spying on Rex. I missed that dog. I couldn’t break our bond. On my way back home, I got off the bus at Central Park South and walked into the park, listening to Michael Jackson sing Ben , the best love song ever written about an animal. But instead of “Ben,” I sang along with the word, Rex.
I knew Sally’s schedule. She and Rex would be somewhere near the big bronze Alice in Wonderland statue, chitchatting with her dog owner friends, discussing their “children’s” behavior, and comparing notes. Would I be doing the same soon? Only with a human child, not a four-legged one? I guessed I should have joined prenatal classes and discussed breastfeeding options and which was the best brand of diapers.
Maybe I’d be coming to this spot myself, watching my child climb on Alice. Unlike most sculptures, children were invited to climb, touch and crawl
But all that happened was that things got worse.
Laura had stashed the evidence in a safety deposit box, at an undisclosed bank. Or so she told me. With a letter saying that if some strange accident befell her, that it would be murder. Names cited. Namely me. She didn’t admit to this in so many words, but that was the gist of it. Meanwhile, she wanted us to get married.
Or else.
I didn’t tell Sophie any of this, and my mother was so distraught she lay in bed reading romance novels, eating pretzels and drinking white wine, pretending she had the flu, begging me every day by telephone to find a solution.
I called Pearl, but of course she never picked up. It seemed she now went about without a cell phone—normal, why would she want Laura tracing her calls? Or me, knowing her every move? So every now and then, I had a chat on her landline with Daisy or Anthony, who had come to visit her for Christmas. She was fine, they told me, but had no interest in having anything to do with me as long as Laura was in the picture.
I didn’t pursue Pearl. How could I until I had a plan up my sleeve? I watched her from afar, though, as she stalked Rex when he went for his walks to Central Park with his “nanny” Sally. I was stalking Pearl and Pearl was stalking Rex. Ironic. That was what gave me hope. Pearl, Rex and I were a little family unit. We belonged together. I knew that we had a chance when I observed her excitement every time she saw him. I followed her like some sort of detective in a hard-boiled Raymond Chandler novel—keeping my distance, ducking into alleys, lurking behind corners and trees. All I needed was a Fedora hat to complete the look. I had taken to wearing a long, dark, wool, military coat. I wondered what war hero had played his part in it. Did he die on the battlefield or come home triumphant?
I was in my own mini battlefield myself.
An emotional battlefield.
I had become a recluse in my apartment in New York, sporadically going to visit my mother in Paris, or Laura in London, trying to convince her to put an end to her blackmail. She wanted me to father her child. Insane. I was going to give it one more go, I decided. One more go to convince her that her scheme was crazy; that I could never love her child—that the only child I wanted was Pearl’s. I had even fantasized about taking Laura heli-skiing, deep sea diving; on some dangerous, life-defying vacation, where an accident could happen and nobody could prove a thing. But every time, the image of my mother’s face would loom before me, her misting eyes wide, her plea pitiful. She had finally found some peace in her world. I needed to protect her, and the letter Laura spoke of in that safe-deposit box, coupled with the evidence, made the risk too great, although my instinct told me she was bluffing.
PEARL
A LEXANDRE HAD BEEN spying on me through my cell (the rare times I used it), but I was spying on Rex. I missed that dog. I couldn’t break our bond. On my way back home, I got off the bus at Central Park South and walked into the park, listening to Michael Jackson sing Ben , the best love song ever written about an animal. But instead of “Ben,” I sang along with the word, Rex.
I knew Sally’s schedule. She and Rex would be somewhere near the big bronze Alice in Wonderland statue, chitchatting with her dog owner friends, discussing their “children’s” behavior, and comparing notes. Would I be doing the same soon? Only with a human child, not a four-legged one? I guessed I should have joined prenatal classes and discussed breastfeeding options and which was the best brand of diapers.
Maybe I’d be coming to this spot myself, watching my child climb on Alice. Unlike most sculptures, children were invited to climb, touch and crawl
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