Snapped (36 page)

They got to where Camille was now standing, and Gillian wasted no time making a hasty exit. “Hi, Camille,” she said, and greeted Toya politely as well. Toya responded, but couldn’t help noticing that her friend did not. Gillian didn’t seem to care. Instead, she moved past the ladies and walked over to Baron’s mother, who was seated nearby. Hugging her, Celia burst into tears, and Gillian consoled her. Celia was distraught. Not only was her only child comatose with a grim prognosis, but her ex-husband—whom she had never stopped loving—was gone. Gillian cried tears of her own as
the two women headed to Baron’s room to hold vigil at his bedside.

Frankie was now standing with Camille and Toya, awkwardly silent.

“Hi, stranger,” Toya greeted Frankie. “I’m glad to see that you’re all right. Your wife has been extremely worried about you.”

Frankie looked at Toya and nodded, his hands in his pockets. She noticed that he still hadn’t even greeted his wife. No hug, no kiss, not even a hello. Such a contrast from the man she’d seen at Camille’s birthday party rubbing her back and professing his love for her. She wondered what was really going on with the Binghams.

The awkward silence returned, and Toya figured that she was the odd one out. She turned to Camille. “I’m gonna go now,” she said. “Call me if you need me.”

Camille nodded, terribly embarrassed by how distant Frankie was acting toward her. “Thanks, Toya. I appreciate you coming down here to meet me.” She hugged her friend and watched as Toya sauntered off toward the elevators.

When her friend was out of earshot, Camille scowled at Frankie, fighting to keep her voice down. “First you walk out on me. Then you spend the night with Gillian. All night and all morning long your phone has been going straight to voice mail, and I’ve been thinking the worst. I have to pick up the newspaper to find out what’s going on in my own husband’s life, and now you stroll in here and you can’t even acknowledge me, Frankie? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He looked at his wife, and suddenly felt guilty. He had no regrets about what happened between him and Gillian the night before. But he did feel bad that Camille—who
clearly loved him deeply—would inevitably be hurt because his heart just wasn’t in their marriage any longer.

“Listen,” he said, taking a deep breath. “You played yourself last night. Going through my voice mail, accusing me of fucking around on you . . . Camille . . .” Frankie’s voice trailed off as he struggled to find the words to say. “I’m tired of it. Tired of you always being jealous of my friendship with Gillian.” He looked at her seriously. “Nobles is dead.” Each time he said it, the reality of it hit him like a freight train. “And you know he was like a father to me.”

Camille nodded. As soon as she’d seen the
Daily News
headline that day and a picture of the bloody carnage that the anniversary party had erupted into, Camille had known that Frankie would be devastated by the loss of his mentor. “I don’t even know what happened. All I know is what I read in the paper, because you haven’t picked up your phone.”

Ignoring her subtle dig, he shook his head. “I got back to the party and it was chaos. Pops was dead, Baron was in emergency surgery, and the decision was made that Mayra and Gillian should be kept safe in case they were targets.”

“I see,” Camille said, folding her arms across her chest. “So you volunteered to protect Gillian, am I right?”

Frankie stared at her blankly, not bothering to answer her.

She was getting more and more angry. “Right, Frankie? You spent the whole night protecting Gillian instead of making sure that I was okay? It was so important for you to keep a good eye on her that you couldn’t answer a single one of my phone calls?” Hearing herself speak, Camille realized that she was fighting a losing battle. Frankie hadn’t called or come home to her because he didn’t want to be with her anymore. She shook her head and started to cry.

Frankie rolled his eyes. This shit was so unwelcome right now! “Camille, stop crying.”

“I’ve been trying so hard,” she said between gasps. “Trying to look good enough for you, and keep the house clean and cook like I’m the fucking black Rachael Ray! All this time I’ve been the perfect wife. I tried everything I could to keep you happy. And the first chance you get . . . the first mistake I make, you go running off with that bitch and you can’t even be bothered to call me. To check in and let me know that even though the guys you do business with were shot the fuck up, that you were okay. I sat up all night calling you, Frankie! Then you walk in here, you see me sitting here with my friend, waiting for someone to tell me where you are, if you’re okay. And your fake-ass friends won’t tell me anything because the whole time they knew that you were laying up with that bitch! And you can’t even say hello to me? Not even a hug or a fucking handshake? Why do you hate me all of a sudden, Frankie? What did I do wrong?”

Camille’s sobbing caught the attention of several passing hospital staff members. Frankie was embarrassed, both of Camille’s public outburst and of his own selfish behavior.

“It’s not even like that,” he lied.

Camille looked at him in disbelief. “You spent the night with her, Frankie!”

Frankie couldn’t take this. “Camille, the woman just lost her father. Her brother is in there fighting for his life, and your selfish ass is standing here acting like it’s all about you. Poor you!
You
sat up all night calling me.
You
called all over town looking for me.
You
tried so hard to be the perfect wife. How do you sound?” Frankie was so disgusted by his wife, who sat before him with tears in her eyes and snot in her nose. “Your friend came and sat with you all morning
here at the hospital. She dropped everything for you, didn’t she? So my best friend just watched her father and brother get gunned down and I’m wrong for dropping everything for her?”

Camille didn’t have an immediate comeback.

“This is the type of shit I can’t take anymore, Camille. Gillian’s not the fucking problem. You are. And the only reason you keep talking shit about her is because you’re jealous of her. She’s more interesting than you. She’s more independent than you. And you feel like less of a woman because I enjoy being around her.” Camille looked wounded by his words, so he stopped. Maybe he was being mean because he was going through some serious emotional turmoil after the events of the last twenty-four hours. He tried to tone it down. “You keep talking about how hard you tried in this relationship. I’ve been trying, too, Camille. I try to ignore your nephew being at our house more than he’s ever at his own and I try to ignore you nagging me about a baby every few minutes. Your sister takes advantage, you spend money on her like she’s one of our dependents, and I keep my mouth shut about it. You’re not the only one trying.”

Camille looked in her husband’s eyes and wondered if they were at a point of no return. “So what now, Frankie? You seriously want to leave me now? Just like that? All these years and it’s over just like that?” She was trying not to cry again.

Frankie looked toward Baron’s room, thought about Gillian in there. He thought about the night he spent with her and the way he felt waking up beside her that morning. Then he looked at his wife and could see that she was falling apart right before his eyes. He loved her, but not the way he used to. Still, he couldn’t shake the sense of obligation he
felt toward her. She had been a good and faithful wife to him over the years. Even in the early days, when he was far from rich, she’d been in his corner. Was it her fault that he was bored with her? He shook his head, frustrated by the fork in the road he was facing.

“I got a lot of shit going on right now. Now that Pops is gone and Baron’s out of commission, I have to help hold everything together.” He was tap-dancing around the truth. He wanted out of his marriage, but seeing his wife crying a river was making it hard for him to say that. “I’m gonna need some space, Camille. Seriously. We both need that.”

Camille didn’t respond. She stared at Frankie, wishing she could wave a magic wand and make everything all right. But she knew that it wouldn’t be that easy. Relieved that he hadn’t flat-out said that their marriage was over, she took a deep breath. “So now I’m supposed to turn around and go home alone?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I have to help make Pops’s funeral arrangements when I leave here.”

“And after that?”

He looked at her, wondering why she was pressing him to tell her what she didn’t want to hear.

Realizing that Frankie wasn’t going to deny that he would be with Gillian that night, Camille nodded slowly. She looked at the floor, then turned and picked up her clutch bag from the chair behind her. She turned back to her husband and said, “I’ll be waiting for you to come home, Frankie.”

He didn’t respond. Finally, Camille walked away, fighting back a flood of tears and nursing her wounded pride.

As soon as Misa found out what had happened to Baron, she rushed to the hospital and held vigil at his side. Celia was there each day, too, wondering why her son had never told her about the young lady who showed up each day when visiting hours began and stayed until they ended each night. Misa explained that she and Baron had only recently begun seeing each other, and that she had fallen in love with her son. Celia was, quite honestly, grateful for the company as she waited and prayed for her son to regain consciousness.

Meanwhile, Camille held out hope that her marriage wasn’t really over. Frankie hadn’t been home since the night of the shooting. She hadn’t spoken to him, either, since he wouldn’t answer her phone calls. Still, she wouldn’t give up. As the day of Nobles’s funeral neared, she continued to play the role of Mrs. Bingham, getting food ready to take over to Mayra’s house and purchasing a beautiful black Tahari suit to wear to the funeral service. She was in denial about the state of her marriage. She didn’t think about the fact that Frankie was avoiding her. Instead, she attributed his absence to the fact that he was stepping up in order to honor
his mentor one last time. She understood Frankie’s love for Doug Nobles, and that love, she believed, was the only reason her husband was away from her for so long. What did bother her was the thought of Frankie being intimate with Gillian. Even after witnessing the two of them together at the hospital the day after the shooting, Camille refused to accept that there was anything serious going on between them.

That all changed on the day of Doug Nobles’s grand funeral at the Frank E. Campbell funeral chapel on Madison Avenue in Manhattan. Cars lined the surrounding blocks as droves of mourners showed up to pay their respects to Nobles. Fur coats and diamonds of all sizes and colors adorned them as they poured in through the large doors leading into the chapel. The smell of flowers filled the air, and arrangements of all kinds—sprays, large bouquets, and plants—dotted the room. Beside the heavy mahogany casket where Nobles lay in repose, a large canvas portrait sat atop an easel. Camille recognized the image of Nobles as one she’d seen on a number of occasions. In it, he was dressed in his favorite blue velvet bathrobe as he sat in his favorite chair, which resembled a throne. His face bore a slight grin and his right hand held one of his fine Cuban cigars. The canvas was elegantly framed with an engraved brass nameplate affixed at the bottom. A pianist played softly in the corner, and Camille noticed a videographer capturing the service on film. Camille took a seat in the row closest to where the family would be seated. After all, she was married to the deceased’s surrogate son.

The family began their processional into the chapel, led by Mayra, who was escorted by Tremaine. Celia followed, escorted by Mikey. Next came Gillian, who walked in hand in hand with Frankie.

As they neared her row, Frankie locked eyes with his wife. Camille’s jaw tightened. Frankie turned away and continued as if he barely noticed her presence. While the rest of the family, including Doug’s sister and her children, filed in, Camille’s gaze was fixed on her husband. Even as the officiator began the service, all Camille could do was stare ahead at Frankie, who was seated in the row ahead of her. She saw Gillian bow her head and cry and watched as Frankie wiped her tears with his handkerchief. As tears fell from her own eyes—mourning the demise of her marriage more than the fall of Doug Nobles—Camille couldn’t help but ponder the fact that her husband was not there to wipe them away. He was too busy with Gillian instead. Their hands still clasped, the two of them spoke softly to one another throughout the service. Camille could make out some of what they were saying to each other. At one point Frankie leaned in to Gillian and tenderly swept a lock of hair out of her face. “It’s all right, baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

Camille could hardly stand it, and she felt terribly embarrassed. She was relieved that her sister and her friends were not there to witness the spectacle her husband was making with another woman. Still, there were dozens of people there who knew that she and Frankie were married, and she could certainly imagine what they must be saying or thinking as Frankie wrapped his arms around Gillian, who was now sobbing hard. Finally, as the service came to an end, the minister invited the attendees to come up for the final viewing, beginning from the last row of the chapel. Camille sat still in her seat, her eyes shielded by Gucci sunglasses, which did a wonderful job of masking the hurt and palpable sadness she felt as she watched her husband.

When the time came for her row to move forward, Camille fell in line with the mourners ahead of her as they inched toward the casket. Passing Frankie’s row, she stared at him and was dismayed that he didn’t even seem to notice her at all. He certainly made no attempt to acknowledge her, his attention focused solely on Gillian, who seemed to be coming undone. She was crying harder than ever now, no doubt dreading saying her final good-bye to her beloved father. Camille lingered at the casket and touched Nobles’s cold hand as she said a silent prayer for him. Then she moved along and watched from the back of the chapel as Frankie tenderly led Gillian toward her father’s casket.