Plan C by Lois Cahall Read Free Book Online Page A

wing chair. He had become mean, distant and unavailable to Bebe; so much so that he seemed to cheer up only when she agreed to his suggestion to leave him.
    It wasn’t what she wanted, but it seemed to her, that it was what
he
wanted. He wanted her to have a life. He didn’t want another victim in his. He wanted her to meet a new man and have a baby, something we all knew she would never be happy without.
    Maybe the most surprising thing was that L’il Freaky proved to be as much a victim as Henry. I had decided to write an article about the case for a Boston paper. I called it “The Ripple Effect,” and the more I researched the history of L’il Freaky, the more I saw the sorry product of a ghetto that would never release him. But then it did. Two weeks after his assault on Henry, L’il Freaky was shot dead for giving information to the police about the gang leader who had masterminded years of these brutal attacks. L’il Freaky had been promised a lighter sentence. He never lived to see it.
    Tired of walking on egg shells as the yolks might stain the oriental runner - Bebe agreed to Henry’s demand for a trial separation. Within days Henry moved to his Florida yacht, leaving Bebe the house and the business of selling it. “I don’t understand, Libby,” she said to me as she packed up her fine bone china. “I’ve done nothing wrong, except to love him. But he’s so angry at the world. He’s so
angry
at me.”
    With her lottery winnings that had been tucked away and since gained a lot of interest during her marriage to Henry, Bebe moved to New York City where she rented a Penthouse just off Park Avenue. It had a magnificent view of Central Park though in today’s chic world of Manhattan everybody knows that
nobody
rents on the sterile upper east side of town. The place to be is downtown. But I wasn’t going to tell Bebe that. She fit into the quiet dog-walking-flagship-shopping arena, figuring it would be a temporary oasis until Henry came to his senses. It was at about the same time that I moved to NewYork and moved in with Ben in the neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen. It’s been over two years now, and Henry still hasn’t come to his senses.

Chapter Six
    Until you’ve lived in New York, and crossed Fifth Avenue into Central Park, you wouldn’t know that this city has everything you could
wish
for; everything you could ever need
,
and also everything you
don’t
need. Like a polar bear. His black eyes meet mine from behind his barricade in the middle of the Central Park Zoo. I can relate to the claw-hold he applies to that ice block he’s on. He thinks it will be there forever. Where is my ice block? What can I hold onto? Or is my world just melting away….
    Tossing my woolen wrap around my shoulder, autumn makes me feel incubated and safe, unlike springtime which leaves me feeling as exposed as a mannequin in some two-for-one thong sale at Victoria’s Secret. Autumn is my favorite season, though the four o’clock sun is playing peek-a-boo through the gold tipped branches signifying imminent nightfall. A cool chill passes under my skirt, wrapping around my kneecaps and leaving goose bumps. If this were Cape Cod, the setting sun would cast purple shadows over the wild beach plums and dune grasses beckoning the attention of that last lone swimmer to come back in the water. The sandbars would be smaller now, and theseagulls out in full force, looking for food left over from summer’s beach blanket picnics. But this isn’t Cape Cod…
    Picking up my stride on the west side of the Park, I fantasize that I’m walking through the Luxembourg Gardens of Paris. I’ve brainwashed myself and every friend in my life to believe that when I’m sixty-five I’ll buy a small Pied-a-terre there. I was so sure of this decision that I began studying the history of France again, even brushing up on my French through the language CDs that I’ve now stored on my iPod Favorites List for the “just in