Crossroads by Belva Plain Page A

is that I have not expected.”
    “That woman—the woman in the car—she was not . . .” He trailed off, his face reddening. And then she saw it. She knew.
    “She was not simply an employee . . . someone he didn’t know well. . . . He wasn’t giving her a ride to her home to be kind. . . .”
    The lawyer shook his head. “No . . . She worked in the bar at the hotel where he stayed . . . and she . . . well, she . . .” He was stumbling, trying to make this easier for Cassandra—but he knew he was making it worse.
    “What about her?” Cassandra had to ask it.
    The man took the plunge. “My dear, sometimes a man wants a woman who isn’t of his class, who isn’t an equal. . . . Do you understand?”
    “Yes,” she whispered. In her head a voice was screaming,
I don’t deserve this! This isn’t fair!
    But then she looked at the lawyer again. “There’s more, isn’t there?” she said. And the man with the kind expression, who did not want to be the bearer of bad news, nodded painfully, and looked to the floor again. “Tell me,” she commanded.
    “Your husband had a child. A baby. A girl. Ten months old now.”
    When he looked up at her, their eyes met. A picture flashed through her mind—of other eyes meeting and words spoken solemnly:
’Til death do us part.
    “A child?” She couldn’t make sense of the word. She couldn’t get her brain to take it in. She had wanted to have children, he always said he didn’t. “A baby? His?”
    “Yes,” said the lawyer. “I’m afraid there’s no mistake.”
    In the hall outside the room, there were disembodied voices, too loud and cheerful: “Hello! Good to see you! You’re looking great! Some tan you’ve got there!”
    Inside the room there was nothing but the screaming of the voice inside her head.
    I’ve been a good wife, damnit! A loyal wife. Even with all the
doubts—and I have had them, God knows. I’ve known—deep
down—for a long time that Bradford did marry me for the business,
just the way Father said someone would. The business and the
power, and my gracious home—don’t forget that—but I told myself
he wanted me too. I told myself most marriages are a bargain and
ours was no worse than any other. Oh, the lies I’ve told myself !
    “How’s your tennis game these days?” asked the cheery voice in the hall. “You should come play at my club sometime. I don’t like to brag, but our courts are the best.”
    I backed him. When there was criticism of his policies at the glassworks, I refused to listen. I told the foremen and the managers and
the men who had been with my father for decades that my husband
was in charge. I said they must obey his orders. I made them respect
him! And this is how he repaid me. The woman in the car was not a
casual acquaintance. She was the mother of his child.
    Something was burning on her left hand. She looked down and saw her wedding ring. The lawyer was still watching her with his kind sad eyes.
    I will not cry or curse him—the man who was my husband. I will
not disgrace myself. Not for Bradford. He was what he was. A lot of
men are like him. I know that. I never wanted to know it, but now I
do.
Suddenly the ring had become too hot to stay on her finger, she pulled it off with a trembling hand, and laid it on the desk in front of her.
    “I can’t . . .” She stumbled. “I don’t want it. Not another second. Would you . . . is there some charity you know here in New Orleans?”
    “I could sell it for you. I could give the money to the poor box at my church.”
    “Thank you.”
    Mr. Robichaud really was a good man.
    *                           *                           *         
    Cassandra got up out of the chair and went to look out the window again. But it didn’t stop the memories. So she let her mind go back to New Orleans. To the city everyone said was so charming and colorful, but to her it would always be gray and