Card Sharks

Eventually I found Brand seated at a table in a side room, an interior balcony lit only by votive candles, with a great view of the west side of the park. Brand introduced me to his companion, Dr. Pan Rudo, a noted psychiatrist. That's him right there, with Brand and me.

They definitely made an odd pair. Brandon cut an exquisite figure in his formal tails and black tie, his gold cufflinks and silk shirt and kerchief. That night he looked his best: intense, excited, his dark auburn hair slicked back, his ruddy complexion aglow, hands moving in sudden, enthusiastic gestures. His black eyes were all fiery with glory and dreams.

The doctor's appearance also commanded attention, but in a cooler, more exotic way. His hair was a blond so pale it looked white, his eyes a violet-blue that stared right past one's surfaces into the soul. I remember shivering deliciously when he looked me over.

He stirred his drink with a paper umbrella swizzle stick and stroked his lower lip thoughtfully: pale ice to Brand's dark burning; serene age to Brand's youthful, barely suppressed impatience. He had the hypnotic patience of a cat.

That suit of his was a Nehru suit; do you remember those? The intelligentsia and other trendy types favored them back then. It was made of an expensive, cream-colored Irish moygashel linen. About his neck was a thick silver chain with an ankh hanging from it. Very odd.

Despite his bizarre appearance, he emanated power and money; from Brand's demeanor I could tell the man was Someone Important. We chatted a bit, and the doctor seemed quite congenial.

Brandon's older brother Henry walked up shortly.

Of all the people who made me wild with fury, Henry van Renssaeler, II, headed the list. He had accepted a scholarship to Juilliard, thwarting his fathers wishes for him to pursue a political career, and had become a brilliant classical pianist instead. This had been all to the good, as far as I was concerned. But once he had completed his degree he'd grown long hair and a beard and taken up the acoustic guitar, of all things. He now spent all his time in little cafes or bars in the Village, playing folk rock, when he wasn't marching in antiwar protests. I considered it a hideous waste of talent.

Worse, he had spent this spring loudly supporting Bobby Kennedy for president, who was not only a little carbon copy of his older brother John, which was the last thing we needed in the White House again, but a Catholic to boot. In fact, Henry had a 'Kennedy for President' button on the lapel of his dinner jacket. A thoroughly tasteless gesture.

Henry kissed me on the cheek and slid into the chair opposite Brand, folding his lanky legs under the table.

'Where's Fleur?' Brand asked.

'Here somewhere. Have you caught up on your sleep yet? The papers are still talking about the coup you pulled off.'

Brandon flushed and shrugged. I could tell he was pleased that Henry had noticed, despite their mutual animosity. A weirder love-hate relationship I'd never seen, unless it was their relationship with their father.

Brand introduced him to Dr. Rudo, who raised his eyebrows at Henry's campaign button and smiled. 'Can you really back a man with Bobby Kennedy's platform? His position on joker's rights and war only promise to divide the country further.'

'Oh, I don't know. He beats Clean Gene hands down, don't you think?'

Brand flushed again, and not from pleasure. Brandon wanted Eugene McCarthy to win. For myself, I couldn't understand how anyone could vote Democrat after what they'd done to the country.

'Kennedy is a power-grabbing poseur who's simply trying to cash in on his brother's name,' Brand said in a flat tone.

Henry gave him a sour look. 'You're in fine form tonight, I see.'

Another of their endless arguments was in the works; I excused myself and went in search of Patricia.

It was around then that one Miss Marilyn Monroe arrived.

She stood framed in the doorway for a moment and surveyed the party. The shy, vulnerable look on her face infuriated me. Whom did she think she was fooling? I'd read about what sort of woman she was.

A silence fell over the room when people first began to notice her. Apparently she had come unescorted. I wondered who had invited her.

She wore a dress even shorter than mine, and she certainly had the legs for it. Her dress was made of layers of translucent silk the red of candied apples, snug at the waist with a flaring skirt. Brilliant, heart-shaped diamonds made up a cluster of buttons at her waist, and more of the same were stitched into her plunging decolletage. The diamond teardrops at her ears and a matching pendant on a gold chain must each have weighed at least four carats. She had the pale skin and dark mole on her lip she was so famous for, and her hair was shoulder-length, and wavy. She had let the color return to its natural dark chestnut.

Several men rushed forward, including doddering old Thomas Mannerly, the firm's senior practicing partner. Patricia caught my eye and motioned me toward the ladies' powder room down the hall, where we spent a few minutes repairing our faces and remarking upon Marilyn's taste in clothes. Not to mention certain of her other characteristics.

'I feel so embarrassed for her,' Patricia said, 'wearing a dress like that.'

I arched an eyebrow at her in the mirror; the dress I wore was similar to Marilyn's — at least in its length. Patricia sat down at one of the chairs and applied a little eyeliner, then caught a look at my expression.

'I mean, for a woman her age. Did you know she's supposedly at least forty-five? Well, forty, anyway.'

'Did you see those diamonds?' I asked, dabbing a bit of powder onto a shiny spot on my nose.

'They're a bit overdone, aren't they? Someone should take her aside.'

'What embarrassed me was that cleavage!' I said. 'You could see practically everything. And her breasts, they are so enormous. I can't imagine they're real.'

'Those Hollywood doctors can work miracles.'

We both giggled.

Patricia was smaller in stature than I, with a round face and a tendency to pudginess. She was always dieting. Tonight she wore an empire-style black gown With black bead embroidery and pearls. More pearls were wound up her swirling hairdo, which she now teased with a comb.

She wore a more subdued style than usual because she was five months pregnant with her first child. Looking at the curve of her belly I felt a tightness in my chest. The doctor's appointment came back to me; my hands curled into fists on my own, flat belly. I had to breathe deeply for a couple of seconds before my heart stopped pounding.

My face had lost color. I applied a bit of rose-colored rouge and brushed more powder over it. Patricia didn't seem to notice my reaction; she was applying a new Chanel color to her lips.

'Did you hear how she got invited?' she asked, squinting as she pursed her lips at herself. Looking at her expression, my anxiety passed. I suppressed a smile.

'For heaven's sake, dear,' I said, 'stop impersonating a fish and put your glasses on. We're alone here.'

She gave me a rueful glance and slipped her rhinestone-rimmed, catseye glasses out of her handbag. She put them on and surveyed her appearance, dabbed at the comers of her mouth.

'I hate these things.' She tucked the glasses back into the bag.

'You look fabulous. Tell me who invited her.'

'Oh! Caroline's husband found out that she was going to be in town, and went straight into old Douglas's office.' Patricia laid a hand on my arm, leaned close enough to me that I caught a whiff of her spicy perfume, and continued in with a conspiratorial tone. 'They were holed up in there for two hours, his secretary told Caroline. And the invitation was hand-delivered by Douglas's private chauffeur.'

I paused with my powder puff in midair, studied her reflection in the mirror. 'Two hours, eh? Maybe they want to set up a Hollywood office.'

'Who knows? They're always up to something.' She gave me a meaningful look in the mirror. 'It's going to be nothing but trouble while she's in town, you know, with the partners courting her influence. She'll sleep with anyone, they say. I'm keeping my George under lock and key and you'd be wise to do the same with Brandon.'

I put my compact back into my handbag and gave Patricia a thin-lipped smile. 'Brandon's too busy pursuing glory to waste time puising women. Especially an older, burned-out woman like our dear Marilyn.'