burned down the church. Come in. Please, don't let my appearance alarm you, my dear girl, and call me Lamia — Mrs. van Renssaeler is too long and tiresome, and not really true anymore, after all. Sit down, sit down. The scones are cranberry; I had them delivered from the corner bakery this morning and they've assured me that they're absolutely delicious. Normally, I would go myself and pick them out, but I'm afraid that I become rather torpid in the cold. I'd fall asleep halfway there. Ahh, well … I'll be most upset if you don't try one. The tea's Earl Grey — do you use cream? Some of us Americans don't, I know, but there's cream next to the service.'
The woman smiled, and the tongue slithered in and out again. 'Thank you,' Hannah said. 'This is, ummm, just fine.' Under Lamia's intent gaze, Hannah one-handedly poured tea into the cup and took a scone. She took a polite bite and set it down on the linen napkin folded on the table. 'Your baker was right,' Hannah said. 'They're delicious.'
Lamia seemed pleased. Her smile went wider as Hannah took a sip of the tea. 'Now then, what can I help you with? Father Squid asked that I tell you anything I know, but you were rather vague over the phone. I understand this has something to do with Brandon?'
Hannah set the cup down; the china rang delicately. Expensively. 'I'm not entirely sure, Mrs — … Lamia. Maybe. Does the name Card Sharks mean anything to you?'
It did. Hannah could see it in the way the woman's head drew back, the sudden brilliant color that washed through the scales of her chest, and the spreading of the cobra-like hood. Hannah pressed the advantage. 'It's possible that an organization by that name was responsible for the fire. They may also be responsible for many more acts of violence against wild card victims.' Lamia had regained control of her body. The color faded, the hood collapsed around her neck. 'The name van Renssaeler has come up several times in the stories I've heard,' Hannah continued. 'And I wondered — '
The end of Larnia's tail lashed. '- whether Brandon was part of it. I suppose his dislike of jokers is fairly well documented. May I ask you something? Will you be discreet if I tell you what I know? If they knew I were telling what I know, I'm afraid that they'd do something. I'm not so worried for myself, you understand, as for my daughter. They might harm her to harm me, and I couldn't bear that. I'd rather take this secret to my grave, as terrible a burden as it has been to me these twenty-five years.'
'I don't know what I can do with anything you tell me yet,' Hannah said. 'But if you don't tell, these Card Sharks will continue to do what they've been doing. They'll kill and hurt and destroy, if not your daughter, then someone else's.' Hannah shifted on the couch, and the healing wound pulled. She grimaced.
'Oh, look at you,' Lamia said. 'And listen to me. You've already put yourself in danger, haven't you? And you didn't need to. You look beautiful and normal; you're safe from them. Clara's safe enough, too; she's been safe since I left when she was five. I …' The tongue darted: in and out. The scales glittered as she rearranged her long body on the branch. 'I've been using Clara as an excuse for a long time. This is rather like lancing a boil, isn't it? The infection can't heal while it's buried beneath the surface. Everything has to be exposed to light and air to clean away the toxins. My God, the lives that were lost in poor Father Squid's church — I weep for those poor souls! If only I'd spoken sooner….'
Her voice was so pained that Hannah leaned forward and shook her head. 'No. You couldn't have known about that. Even if you had, who would you have told that would have believed you?'
Lamia smiled at her sadly. 'You're so kind, my dear. And you're right; I mustn't blame myself. This guilt I've carried, it's like a rock in my gullet or a meal that won't digest.'
'Guilt because you didn't tell anyone about the Card Sharks?'
Lamia's head moved slowly back and forth. 'No. Not that. You don't have any children, do you? When you do, you'll understand. There are joys to children that only a parent — a mother — can know. You love them sometimes more than you love yourself. And because of that, there are pains….'
Lamia's body wriggled, the muscles rippling in a wave down the length of her body as she moved closer to Hannah. The joker sighed, the hiss of a serpent. 'Let's get on with this, then….'
The Lamia's Tale
My true name is Joan van Renssaeler, nee Moresworth, of the Philadelphia Moresworths. I was a hot number back then, though you wouldn't know it to look at me now. Here, hand me the large book on the mantle, the leather-bound one. It's my scrap book.
These pictures certainly take me back. I haven't thought about Brand in years. A blessing, that. Our marriage wasn't a good one. But some of the old memories can still make me smile.
Now, there, that's a shot of me. This was taken in late May of 1968, at a party the firm threw for Brand when he was promoted to associate at Douglas, Mannerly, amp; Farsi.
No, no — I'm the willowy blonde with the sulky expression and the Twiggy haircut. Look all those sequins and feathers! What we used to wear! I shudder to think how much I loved that ghastly white lipstick. But it was positively The Thing back then.
Funny how the things we value change, isn't it, my dear? I look back and all those things I had, the money, the fame, the social connections, they brought me such pleasure then but they mean nothing to me now. Even my looks, my young woman's body, which I had so little chance to enjoy before the virus took it from me — I was only twenty-three when this happened, you know — even for that I feel little more than a lingering nostalgia. The only treasure that has lasted is my Clara.
My dear Clara. How I loved to dress her in lace and ribbons and tiny patent leather shoes. I took her everywhere.
I have news of her now and then. She's brilliant, just like her father. I suppose you could say she inherited my looks and his brains. At least, my pre-viral looks.
Here. Here is a photo of Clara when she was four, and these are of her at college. I hired a private investigator to take some pictures of her while she was an undergraduate at Rutgers back in the early eighties. Isn't she lovely, with those long legs? She resembles me a good deal; she has the same delicate facial features. And of course she looks rather like her grandmother Blythe, God rest her soul.
But I'm getting off track. Let me tell you about the doctor's appointment, where it all started.
***
Dr. Emil Isaacs was a leading obstetrician, a diplomat of some board of obstetricians, or some such. Dozens of certifications and awards hung on the wood panelling behind his desk. He was a rather short man, as I recall. Nervous nature.
Dr. Isaacs had always been so kind to me, so gentle and wise, that I couldn't imagine going to anyone else. Most people weren't patient with me back then, with my sharp tongue and ill tempers, so I valued the few who were. I didn't even mind — had long since forgotten — that he was a Jew.
You look shocked at that. I can understand that; attitudes are different now. Including mine. But, well, I'm determined not to distort this story to save face. Self-deceit is a terrible trap. I should know.
And there is no getting around the unfortunate truth. Jews, blacks, Catholics, Hispanics, Orientals, wild card victims, the poor — I feared and despised them all. Anyone who wasn't in my little social circle, frankly, and even they weren't always spared.
Weakness enraged me, you see. It awakened a need in me to strike out. Perhaps I thought I had to keep others down so they couldn't hurt me. I don't know. Only Clara was safe from the predator inside me. And to a lesser degree, such serene, gentle people as Dr. Isaacs.
But the most important thing was, he had slender hands. Between us ladies, my dear, you know how important slender hands are.
'You must have some important news for me,' I said.
He sighed and looked reluctant. 'I know how much you wanted another baby, Mrs. van Renssaeler. But I'm afraid your test came back negative.'
I looked from him to Clara to a chart with my name on it which lay open on his big rosewood desk.
'I'm not pregnant?' I asked. He shook his head.
