by Steve Bailey
He poured two glasses of bourbon and reached across the desk to set mine down. He looked down and started shuffling papers. Was that a wince I saw? A flinch? A break in his calm?
"Don't bother. Already saw it," I said.
"What?"
"You think she didn't teach us to read? Even then I could see the picture."
"I don't…"
I took the brooch out of my pocket and tossed it onto the table. "Why'd you do it?"
LaCroix sighed. I almost wanted to shoot him more than I wanted an answer.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Rachel, your Ma, she wouldn't listen. The city's changing. I tried to warn her but she wouldn't listen. She never did."
"How much of it was you?"
"You don't understand. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to arrest her. Just to scare."
I aimed.
"Please, I'm your—"
I pulled the trigger and spread his fancy collar. Whatever he'd been, he was nothing anymore. Before I left, I returned the brooch to my pocket.
Outside, the city was too quiet for everything that just happened.
I turned up my collar. It was starting to snow.
Cassandra and Abigail
by Galal Chater
ABIGAIL: Tuesday 9:02pm
I don't wanna say over text. I'm coming over.
ME: Tuesday 9:04pm
Just tell me already. You know how much I hate suspense.
ABIGAIL: Tuesday 9:08pm
I'll be there in a half hour TTYL.
Cassandra tried to speed-dial her sister, but there was no answer. Abigail's line kept ringing and Cassandra hung up when it went straight to voicemail. As her screen went black, Cassandra caught her own reflection for a brief second before she quickly turned the phone upside down and placed it on the kitchen table. The wrinkle lines developing on the corners of her eyes were more obvious to her than anyone else, but a feature that she obsessed over every time she saw her reflection. Her attention quickly turned from her aging skin to her younger sister. What could possibly be so important that she needed to drive to her apartment in the middle of the night?
Could it be something with Tom? Cassandra was hopeful again. Maybe they were having problems.
The next half-hour seemed like an eternity. Anticipation welled up inside her, creating a frantic energy that she didn't know quite what to do with. She tried calling Tom but got no answer. She started pacing the length of the kitchen, occasionally sitting down for a few seconds before standing up again and starting all over.
Cassandra looked at the clock. It was only 9:15 p.m. She couldn't remember whether her sister had texted at 9:05 or 9:10 or if they'd had a five-minute text exchange or two minutes worth of messaging. She checked the call log on her cell phone and saw that it was only seven minutes since she hung up the phone.
Cassandra the artist—the one who was going to change the world with her talent—was now sitting in her kitchen wondering if her little sister had bad news for her to revel in.
Her little sister, the one she always looked after and protected. The one that followed her around incessantly and wanted nothing more than to please her.
Abigail was a bank executive with the perfect life, the perfect job, and the pride and joy of the family. Cassandra, the actress (or was it musician? or was it performance artist?) who stopped being any of those things one day at a time by picking up extra shifts at the bar she worked at. Getting drunk with her friends more often than she should. Talking about the future, fantasizing about the day they would all be loved by the masses as they poured their drinks and enjoyed the sweet escape of New York City nightlife.
Cassandra picked up the phone again and hit the second name on her speed dial.
"Hello, Dad?"
"What's up sweetheart?"
"Abigail is coming over to tell me some big news, do you have any idea what she's talking about? She said she needed to tell me in person. Does it have anything to do with her and Tom?"
"It has everything to do with both of them, but she wants to talk to you herself about it. I have to get back to work now. You know I'm not supposed to be on the phone during my watch." Dad, his emotionless, inflection-free tone giving away…giving her nothing at all.
"Dad can you just tell me. Are they having problems?"
"I have to go." Click. Done. Cassandra began to pace once more. She tried Tom a second time and there was still no answer, his phone completely off now.
It IS Tom, I know it. He finally changed his mind…
Abigail had to go away on a corporate retreat two days after she and Tom had celebrated their first wedding anniversary.
Cassandra had been waiting to hear back on a part she had auditioned for, the one that was a sure thing—partly because she had slept with the producer. The audition was merely a formality. When she found out that someone else had been cast, she went on a three-day bender, calling Tom from a bar bathroom at 2:00 a.m. asking him to help her because she was too drunk, stoned, and sad to do anything for herself.
Cassandra was face-down on the bar talking into a half-full shot of cheap whiskey by the time Tom arrived. On her left side was a guy gently stroking her hair and wearing a big grin on his face, a little too eager to be within touching distance of a female.
To her right was the stroker's sidekick, a guy with an unkempt beard and disheveled clothes who incessantly talked about his old days as a roadie for Metallica. His big claim to fame had something to do with helping the groupies get ready to shower the band after each gig. He offered up detail after lurid detail in a manner that implied that some of these escapades would be relived that evening with Cassandra as the centerpiece. He stole glances at his cohort as his hand started to maneuver to Cassandra's thigh. She allowed it to continue its intended trajectory, too oblivious to her surroundings at that point to do anything about it.
As the hand continued to slowly creep up her side, Cassandra caught a familiar scent when a large figure in a fashionable trench coat stepped in between her and the roadie. She looked up to see Tom's frustrated face as he lifted her off the barstool. His other hand reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, placing it on the bar.
She was still in a haze, but the sound of elevated voices drew her attention as the two barflies started in on Tom.
"Hey, that's my fucking wife," she heard Tom say, in response to whatever protests were being lobbed in his direction.
She felt his fingers gently wrap around her arm—a sturdy hand that helped her up from her chair, helped her stand, helped her walk.
"C'mon honey, let's go home."
They walked out of the bar and those two words kept resonating in her mind:
Home…wife…home…wife…
The firm tone of his voice as he claimed her as his own to the savages and parasites of that shithole, where only a few hours ago she thought she belonged. His strength lifting her up was enough to elevate her spirit out of the cesspool and give her just enough dignity to stop destroying herself for the moment.
His actions seemed so effortless to her, the way he handled the bar tab, the two creeps, and the walk to his car, letting her lean on him for support as she buried her face in his large coat, the faint smell of his familiar cologne erasing the foul stench of stale beer from her memory.
Tom drove her home and walked her inside. He took off her jacket and boots and gently placed her into bed, tucking her securely under the covers. Nothing else happened that night, but the comfort he had brought to her was all it took to ignite a spark within Cassandra.
The next day she went over to her sister's house and waited for Tom to get home. She cooked him dinner to thank him, making sure she was wearing the appropriate amount of seduction necessary to make herself irresistible. It was the only dish she had ever learned to cook; chicken francaise with portabella mushrooms and truffle oil over angel hair pasta.
Her skirt was just a little higher than usual, her heels re
d but not too tall. Her blouse was unbuttoned casually, giving just a hint of cleavage. All of this combined with a dab of perfume and an excellent meal.
Tom walked into the house, smelled something good, and assumed that his wife had gotten home early from her trip. When he walked into the kitchen, he was surprised to see Cassandra standing there, cooking up a storm and wearing just enough sex appeal to make him receptive to whatever "innocent" flirtation she would offer up that evening.
They opened a bottle of Bordeaux, and then another…and then some 18-year-old Lagavulin. They sat on the couch and talked about their lives and whether any of it had any meaning—deep philosophical conversations about art, music, and passion while the wine and scotch warmed them both from the inside-out.
This man was not what she imagined him to be when they first met. He wasn't just another corporate hack obsessed with climbing the ladder of success into an upper-middle class lifestyle full of material comforts and predictable events. He talked about things that mattered. There was talk of Beethoven's string quartets and how his middle period spawned the greatest creative output that any human being had ever produced. He told her about how he managed to squeeze in a minor in music at Harvard, much to his parents' chagrin. He'd even entertained a career as a classical composer for a little while before he came to his senses and realized he didn't want to live hand-to-mouth his entire life.
She listened attentively, waiting for pregnant pauses and moments of inflection, using them as opportunities to get a few inches closer to him, touching his shoulder or his arm until she was near enough to let her hair hang down close enough to his face. Close enough to smell her shampoo and feel the loose strands against his cheek in those moments when he leaned in to emphasize the point he was making.
Tom was enjoying the conversation, enjoying her company. He relished talking about art and music, something he could only pay lip service to with his wife, who humored his artistic inclinations just enough to not cause a disruption in the conversation.
That night was different though. Cassandra could see his passions, subdued for the sake of bourgeois desires.
Passions that were dormant, but not dead.
He let his guard down enough to be seduced, opening himself up to receiving the reward she had carefully wrapped and delivered to his doorstep. She gave herself to him fully and he consumed every inch of her, over and over.
"What the fuck did we do?"
Tom's first words to her the next morning, their bodies spread out diagonally over the bed.
His wife's bed.
Her sister's bed.
The sheets hanging over the side, miles away from them and unable to cover up the shame he felt.
"It's okay Tom," Cassandra said. "I wanted this to happen. Don't try to fight it. There's too much between us."
"Are you fucking crazy? I have a wife, who happens to be your sister, whom I love dearly."
"Yes, I can see how much you love her." Cassandra's words stung him into action as he slid off the bed and began getting dressed. "I'm sorry. Let me make you breakfast and we can talk about this," she said.
"You need to get out of my fucking house right now. Abigail will be back this afternoon and I have to get this place cleaned up."
"Let me help you."
"I think you've done enough, just go."
The next few weeks were tumultuous as Cassandra tried to convince Tom that what they had was special. She called him at all hours of the day, stopped by to visit him at his office, and even went over to his house several evenings under the guise of wanting to see Abigail.
Of course her sister was delighted by all the attention she was suddenly receiving from Cassandra. The fact that Abigail's success had caused a rift between both of them did not go unnoticed. Abigail thought that the wound was finally beginning to heal and she could once again enjoy being a regular part of her sister's life.
In response to Cassandra's efforts, Tom acted as if nothing had ever happened between them. At first he tried to reason with her, trying to get her to see that it was merely a moment of weakness on his part and that he had no strong feelings for her. When that approach failed to thwart her efforts, he became belligerent and forceful—pushing her out of his way whenever she confronted him in private.
Finally, silence. The only weapon left in his arsenal. He no longer acted as if she existed, barely glancing at her when she was in his presence.
Desperate for a reaction, Cassandra called him one last time. Since he'd stopped answering when her number appeared on his phone, she used what was probably the last working pay phone in Manhattan.
"Hello?"
Just hearing his voice again without the bitterness, the undertone of anger thrilled her. "If you hang up, I'm telling Abigail everything."
Silence, then a pained sigh. "I'll just deny it."
"Sure, and you can explain why you decided to change your bed sheets for the first time ever the very same night she was away from home. You can also explain why we were on the phone with each other the night before at 2:00 a.m. and how that has nothing to do with anything. I take it you never mentioned this to her? Your little jaunt into the city to pick me up? I wonder why that is? Do you think she'd be suspicious as to why you never told her?"
More silence, but she could hear his strained breaths through the earpiece. "What do you want?"
"All I want you to do is be nice to me, that's all. And spend some more time with me. I'll keep my mouth shut."
"Okay, fine. But we're not sleeping together anymore, so get that out of your head."
"I just want to be close to you. I'll take what I can get."
The next few months they met up for lunch frequently and occasionally went out to the bars to watch some live music or go see a Broadway play together. Tom would always tell his wife that he was out with his friends or that he had to stay late at work. When Abigail began to get suspicious of his behavior, she sought the advice of the only person she ever trusted implicitly.
"Cassandra, I think Tom's having an affair with someone. He's been distant lately and he's acting strange—late nights at work and hanging out with his friends all of the time. I think he's losing interest."
"Oh my god, are you sure?"
Cassandra saw an opportunity to manipulate her sister and create a situation that would ultimately work to her benefit. She was relieved that her sister decided to confide in her instead of confronting Tom with her suspicions.
"I don't know, I feel like there's something on his mind all the time that he's not telling me. It's driving me crazy. What should I do?"
"Whatever you do, don't tell him how you feel. If he is having an affair, then he'll probably cool it if you confront him. Just keep doing what you're doing and if things get worse, then you'll know the truth."
Cassandra started demanding more time from Tom after that. The fact that he was creating distance between Abigail and himself was a sign that he was coming around. She thought that if he just gave them a chance, he'd see how right they were for one another. Her plan was working in ways she couldn't have imagined.
And now this—her sister's call in the evening, her need to come into the city to see her at this hour, the fact that Tom was nowhere to be found. These things all pointed to one irrefutable conclusion; that Cassandra had won him over. Tom was leaving her.
She tried calling Tom again, this time a little less frantic, having convinced herself that her suspicions were right. Still no answer. Oh well, he was probably packing his things.
Finally the door buzzed and Cassandra rushed to the intercom to let her sister in. Abigail ran up the two flights of stairs and wrapped her arms warmly around her sister. Cassandra's mind reeled. This was not her expectation. This was not the behavior of a woman who had just had her heart broken.
A sick feeling began welling in Cassandra's stomach.
"Can we sit down?" Abigail said excitedly.
"Sure, come in. You want me to make us some tea?"
"Ne
ver mind that, I have some great news."
Abigail led her to the couch. They sat down and before they could settle in, Abigail stood up again and grabbed Cassandra's hand.
"I'm pregnant!"
"You're what?" Cassandra stood up and let go of her sister's hand.
"I know, it's crazy. I just found out myself. No one knows except you and Dad. I want it to be a surprise for Tom."
"Where is the mystery man himself tonight?"
"He's with his brother and his sister-in-law. We were all supposed to go out to dinner, but I wasn't feeling well and decided to stay home. I insisted that he go without me. I took the test again, three times! I'm going to be a mom!"
Cassandra's face was frozen—an exaggerated grin that she knew was betrayed by eyes that held nothing but contempt. She continued to try to smile through her sister's narrative, each word making it increasingly difficult to keep up her façade.
"That's just fucking great isn't it." Cassandra's expression dropped. She walked away from her sister and into the kitchen. She began to pace, sitting down for a few second and then standing up again.
Abigail went into the kitchen after her. "What's wrong?"
At that point, Cassandra noticed her sister's innocent face, her sweet innocent face. A face that had never experienced a day of trouble or heartache. A face shielded from the pain and suffering that most people felt. The pain and suffering Cassandra felt while everything she ever thought she was, and everything she ever wanted, always fell apart in front of her, leaving her with nothing.
She wanted to be happy for her little sister, to continue to support her as she embarked on yet another happy chapter of her life while Cassandra was again left behind to deal with the shattered pieces of her broken dreams. The dreams that were almost realized again when she opened her eyes and embraced the only man that could ever make her feel complete.
But that man was Abigail's man, not hers, and she was alone…again, she was alone. And now the anger began to rise, from the pit of her stomach, up through her lungs, taking shape in the venomous words spewing out her mouth.