Blind Delusion (10 page)

“I’m ready, dear.”

“Nice dress,” is all he could think to say without taking his eyes off her swelling décolletage.

“Thank you, darling. You look rather dashing yourself this evening,” she said and patted the lapel of his jacket.

Bill presented the image of a sophisticated gentleman in his classic three-button tuxedo complete with a wing-collared shirt and cravat. His gray-flecked hair and graying mustache looked quite distinguished. He helped her with her coat and they left through the front door after he activated the security alarm. As soon as she eased into his sporty BMW and sank down into the leather seat, the 'Flatter-Me' bra’s stiff under wirings cut into her breastbone mercilessly. Her chest and breathing felt tight and constricted. Bill turned on the ignition and the car pulled out of the driveway. They got as far as half way down the block when she screamed in a panic, “Stop the car!”

“What’s wrong?” he frowned, “Don’t tell me. You forget something.”

“No,” she panted, “I can’t breath in this … bra.”

“What the hell … what’re you gonna do about it now? We’re already twenty minutes late.”

“Let me out. I have to get out of this bra.”

“Jesus Christ of Nazareth!” he said, and made an abrupt turn around, “Are we ever gonna get the hell outta here tonight?”

“Must you use the Lord’s name that way?”

“Since when did you become religious?” he said, “I always took you for an agnostic like myself. I didn’t think you’d turn into one of those religious fanatics on me.” He made an abrupt stop in the driveway and glanced annoyingly at his watch.

“Can you please unlock the door and come help me out of this batmobile before I pass out?” she said.

Bill sighed heavily and got out of the car, slamming the driver side door. With his help, she lifted her constricted body out of the sports car. Renee ran back into the house and raced upstairs, nearly tripping in her high heels.

Bill stood at the bottom of the stairs and shook his head. Then, he went to go sit down in the living room to wait. Every few minutes, he glanced at his watch, annoyed.

Renee frantically tore off her gown and struggled to release the bra’s death grip. When getting dressed she had taken her time to hook and snap each loop but now her torso felt so restricted she could barely breath. Her fingers grappled at the seemingly endless row of miniature hooks. Cheeks now flushed and forehead wet with perspiration, Renee breathed rapidly as her newly manicured nails worked against her now that she was in a hurry. All the while she was cursing Bill under her breath. Why hadn’t he come upstairs to help her out of this damn bra? Or to at least make sure she hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen! Wouldn’t that have been the gentlemanly thing to do? If she didn’t get out of that contraption soon Bill would have to call paramedics to revive her. That is, if he ever bothered to come upstairs and check! Rationally, she knew it was wrong to blame Bill. Still, he was an easy target to blame. He and this damn bra were responsible for her misery. A death bra that she had only bought to try to look good for him!

“To hell with it,” she said and snatched the scissors from the dresser. She cut a seam through the nylon-lycra corset, snipping carefully to avoid accidentally stabbing herself. Finally, she was free of this expensive torture device and could breath again. Bare-breasted, she stepped into her walk-in closet for a quick inventory to select something more comfortable to wear. She did not have another evening bra that would accommodate the plunging neckline on her gown. She changed into one of her everyday bras and chose a black, silk Donna Karan pants suit and beaded stretch nylon camisole. It didn’t matter if her bra strap showed through the camisole because she planned to keep the suit jacket on. She replaced the stiletto slingbacks with a lower heeled pump. Now, not only could she breathe freely, she wouldn’t have to worry about falling down a flight of stairs and breaking her neck. It’s amazing what pain women subjected themselves to for the sake of beauty, she thought. Renee glanced at her new look in the mirror and felt relieved that her desperate effort to get out of the 'Flatter-Me' bra hadn’t ruined her makeup or hair. She ditched the five-inch evening bag and selected a more practical purse that was big enough to hold her wallet and cell phone.

Renee returned downstairs this time looking more like her old self, a psychologist, rather than an enticing femme-fatal.

Bill stood up and noticed immediately that her bulging cleavage and tiny, pinched in waist had vanished. “What happened?” he asked with a frown and pointed to her chest.

“It was the bra, Bill. Not me. This is me. Let’s go,” she said, passing in front of him. “I’m ready now.”

Renee could never be glamorous the way Bill liked. If he couldn’t accept her without the fakeness and pretense, then that was his problem. It felt good to accept herself just as she was, imperfections and all.

Bill grumbled while speeding out of the driveway. “Damnit. I just knew we’d be late for this thing. Even though I asked you to be on time for once,” he said without bothering to hide his anger. She decided to ignore Bill’s chilly mood. To her, it seemed like he was trying hard to ruin her birthday. When he turned on the CD player it blared out some loud repetitive beat that Renee immediately found annoying. She studied the rows of buttons, dials, and symbols on the console but couldn’t identify the volume control. Her irritation was evident when she finally gave up and spoke to him in a clipped voice. “Do you mind turning that noise down? Or better yet … off?”

Without a word of protest, Bill obliged by switching the button to Off position. “Was that so hard for you to do?” he said sarcastically. Renee’s reply to him was her silence and a prolonged glare at his profile. The early niceties from the evening’s romantic beginnings had evaporated. During the rest of the drive downtown they spoke intermittently and only when necessary. While it seemed their night out for her birthday had turned unpleasant, she was hopeful that things would improve once they both had a chance to relax and remember why they were there—to celebrate her 45
th
birthday. Bill stopped at curbside on 13
th
and Pennsylvania Avenue behind a succession of limousines. Exquisitely dressed, jeweled women in furs with perfectly coifed hair and men dressed in tuxedos wearing shiny, black shoes emerged from stretch limos, M-class Mercedes, Beamers, jags and other luxury vehicles. A valet appeared and opened Renee’s door just as another valet accepted the car keys from Bill on the driver’s side.

“Careful parking her in the garage, buddy. And be sure to leave plenty of room between cars.”

“Yes, sir,” the valet nodded and got behind the wheel.

“Where are we?” asked Renee, staring ahead at the massive building in front of her.

Like many native Washingtonians, Renee had lived in Washington, D. C. all her life but still couldn’t identify all the magnificent, neo-classical, and Greek Revival architectural structures situated throughout the city. The nation’s capital represented a masterpiece of artistic monuments, buildings, parks and statues that most D. C. residents took for granted. Its streets were efficiently arranged in a symmetrical grid of circles and right angles that only confused an illogical mind.

“That’s the Ronald Reagan Building. We’re practically in President Barkley’s backyard. The White House is just two blocks away.”

“Then my next question is, why are we here?”

“You’ll see. Just come on.” He took her by the elbow, leading the way up the numerous rows of white concrete steps.

The lobby buzzed with downtown high-rollers and power brokers. Renee hoped that Bill had reserved a more intimate setting in one of the private dining rooms for her birthday. After checking their coats, he led her down a packed hallway to the elevators. They stopped at the concourse level floor and entered the Atrium. A row of stately columns divided the ballroom and the Atrium Hall. Overhead a long glass skylight revealed the onset of dusk through a cloudless, slate-gray sky. Natural light from high-filter accent lights bathed the room in shimmering iridescence. A centerpiece, overflowing with reddish pink amaryllis and long dancing stalks of full-bloomed paperwhites, sat on a covered table in front of a mirrored wall. Burning tea lights encircled the floral arrangement and bestowed a magnificent, glowing effect when reflected off the mirror.

Beautiful woman escorted by formally-dressed gentlemen
glided down a grand staircase.
The reception area was packed with black-tie attired Washington symbols of power and money—bankers, lawyers, real estate tycoons, high-powered political figures and lobbyists. They all assumed the familiar 'grin' and 'grip' position. Renee realized the evening to celebrate her birthday would not be the intimate atmosphere she had envisioned. Why would Bill bring her to this type of affair for her birthday, she wondered.

Renee recognized the mayor and a few sports figures from the Washington Wizards basketball team. Bill pointed out some of the players from the Capitals hockey, Nationals baseball and Redskins football teams that were also present, accompanied by their entourages. Just as Renee was about to ask Bill what all this was about, a dramatic visual appeared on a large monitor and displayed words of welcome to sponsors and supporters of this year’s fundraiser dinner for Boys & Girls Clubs of Greater Washington (BGCGW).

The program’s host stood on stage in front of the wall-sized screen and rattled off impressive statistics. He told guests that the Washington Boys and Girls Clubs operated 17 clubs and 7 group homes in the District of Columbia, Suburban Maryland and Northern Virginia. BGCGW was the second largest affiliate of Boys & Girls Clubs of America where over 25,000 youth participated, and it had served youth in the community for over 114 years. Their goal tonight was to raise one million dollars. The host reported that the President of the United States volunteered for the Washington Boys and Girls Club whenever his busy schedule permitted. He wanted to be there today but prior commitments prevented him from joining them.

“However,” continued the host as he waved a sealed letter in the air, “President Barkley sent this letter expressing his support which I’d like to take a moment to read to you now.”

A wave of applause preceded complete silence. Then the host read the president’s letter that commended the organization for saving youth’s lives. President Barkley congratulated this year’s BGCGW Youth of the Year and indicated his pledge for a generous donation. Renee started to feel guilty about not wanting to be there among all these strangers on her birthday. The black-tie fundraiser of more than 1,000 guests represented a worthy event where old and new money mingled for a common cause. Education, recreation and mentorship for underprivileged children were easy goals to support, but it was completely out of character for Bill. He cared about children as much as he cared about giving money to any charities, virtually nil. She was the one who volunteered on alternate Saturdays for the Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) program where she worked with abused, neglected or seriously ill children. She was the one who sent in pledges and donations to charities whereas Bill would toss the unopened envelopes in the trash if he got to the mail first. So why did this particular Boys and Girls Club fundraiser dinner hold such interest for him?

There was no need to ponder her question any further because the answer walked up wearing a five-button tuxedo and silver tie—Clifton Corbin Shaw, her husband’s new business partner. Clinging on Shaw’s arm like an accessory, stood a mocha complexioned, twenty-something beauty in an
emerald green Oscar de la Renta bustier gown. Next to Shaw’s choice of eye candy for the evening, Renee suddenly
felt plain and matronly. Shaw turned to Renee with a fake grin that looked like he had grabbed a smile out of his pocket and pasted it on his face. He introduced his date merely as LaToya and led her and Bill to his private table where other political and business people from Washington were already seated. Renee seethed internally. This was one time she regretted her years of practicing how to maintain composure and not make a scene. Her muscles tightened and she walked robotically behind Shaw, who led the way to the table, with LaToya close to his side. Renee didn’t trust herself to look at Bill.

Chapter 8
 

T
he conversation at the table centered on Shaw and his many accomplishments. He held his audience captive while answering questions about himself. He clearly relished the attention.

“Well, Shaw, you look like future presidential candidate material to me,” said a gray-whiskered man as he gulped his Merlot, “A rising star. Got the brains, the youth, and the charisma. The elderly gentleman raised his glass to Shaw, “Hell, if a former beauty queen turned soccer mom can be a serious contender for the White House, why not you?”

Shaw sat up straight and squared his shoulders proudly, “Give me another eight years, George, before I take over the presidency. At forty-six, I’m still a young man for politics. But you’re right about one thing. In Washington it ain’t
what
you know, but
who
you know. Anyway, I got my eye on an ambassadorship to a Caribbean country or a cabinet appointment first.” Shaw went on talking about himself. “Before I’m though greasing the right palms, it’ll be a slam dunk. Yeah, a Presidential Appointment with a senate confirmation or a PAC should last me for about a year and a half, tops. Oh, and for those of you unfamiliar with Washington-speak,” he explained, looking directly at Renee, “a PAC stands for Political Action Committee. Or, I could make due with something on the level of cabinet, secretary, department, or a deputy cabinet level position. Any of those positions would work just fine for me as a launching off pad. Since I’m not the favored son of somebody important, I gotta do whatever it takes to get my political ducks lined up. And that translates into a lotta loot, my friends. If you expect favors, you gotta pay for ‘em. Ain’t nothing free in this land of milk and honey, my friends.”