Riverside Drive

by Laura Van Wormer

  “What on earth would make you think I want to wake up to that!”

  Michael was further dismayed when Henry rejected his offer to hang Alexandra in his room. “No, thanks, Dad. I don’t think it’s very polite. I mean, like I know her.”

  Alexandra was currently leaning against a bed in the guest room.

  It was strange enough to watch her husband fall desperately in love with this young woman, but what made it more confusing to Cassy was Michael’s insistence on sharing his obsession with her. More than once Michael had awakened Cassy in the middle of the night to ask, “Just tell me what you think of Alexandra, Cassy? Am I crazy or am I right there’s no one like her?”

  A question like that was unclear to Cassy. Was Michael asking if Alexandra was his ticket to professional glory, or was Michael asking her if she would understand if he left her for Alexandra? Or was he simply asking for Cassy to put his massive insecurities to rest? Or could it be that Michael wished to use Alexandra as a new bond between them?

  Cassy didn’t have the slightest idea. But it sure made her edgy. If nothing else, Alexandra’s arrival had prompted some of the heaviest drinking Michael had done in years. But then Cassy had to admit that it was not the drinking of despair, but rather the drinking of excitement, dreams and ambition that had marked the early years of their marriage. It was as if the drinking was the only thing stopping Michael from running around the clock in jubilant euphoria. And there was something else this wild time had kicked up in Michael—sexual desire.

  Cassy was pretty sure Michael’s sudden sexual interest in her meant that Alexandra was still only in his head and never in his arms. On the other hand, there was the nagging voice of experience that reminded Cassy that Michael’s affairs usually began with sexual reattention to Cassy, as if giving Cassy what he was giving to another woman somehow lifted the guilt.

  The last week of May, Michael announced at breakfast that the Cochrans were going to have dinner with Alexandra and a friend of hers on Saturday night.

  “Saturday?” Cassy asked.

  “Yeah. It’s okay, isn’t it? There’s nothing on the calendar.”

  “No, no, that will be fine,” Cassy said, placing a bowl of fresh fruit salad in front of Michael and Henry. “I don’t have to go, do I?” Henry asked. “No, hotshot. Just your mom and me.” Cassy sat down at the table and sipped her grapefruit juice. “We’re going to Alexandra’s house?”

  “No, 21. We’ll be editing all day.”

  “Oh,” Cassy said.

  “It was Alexandra’s idea,” Michael said. “Said she’d like to see you again.” Michael ate some fruit and waited for a response from Cassy, which did not come. “She liked you, Cass.”

  “Maybe she thinks Mom’ll hire her,” Henry suggested.

  Michael booed at his son. “Bad idea, kid.”

  “What are you working on?” Cassy asked.

  Michael ate another spoonful of fruit before answering. “Bombings on family planning centers around town.”

  Cassy nodded her approval. “From the angle—”

  “Can I have your orange juice?” Henry interrupted to ask his father, reaching for the glass. Michael grabbed the glass and pulled it closer to him. “Get your own, lazy.”

  Henry looked at his mother, frowned, and got up. Cassy looked at Michael. Michael raised the orange glass, said, “I want it,” and drank it all down.

  Silence.

  It was one of Henry’s oldest ploys to find out which way the wind was blowing with his father. What just transpired had told son and mother that father’s orange juice was spiked with vodka this morning.

  “Alexandra maintains that bombings are normally classified as terrorist activities in the U.S.,” Michael said. “So if Macy’s or something got bombed, the FBI would be called in like a shot. But because of the abortion issue, the Feds are reclassifying the bombings as arson so they can forbid the FBI’s involvement.”

  “She’s got guts,” Cassy said. “She’ll have the Right to Lifers at her doorstep within hours, to say nothing of the mad bombers.” “Yeah,” Michael said, sighing, “that’s what I told her. But,” he continued, eyes lighting up, “you know what, Cass?”

  “What?”

  “The other day I was trying to think who it is that Alexandra reminds me so much of.” And you know who it is?” He smiled, dangling his spoon. “Who?” “You.” He nodded, his smile expanding. “Yeah. She reminds of you in the old days.”

  Cassy arrived at the 21 Club bar promptly at seven. A good-looking young man came up to her and introduced himself as Gordon Strenn, reminding Cassy that they had met at the Peabody Awards three years before. Cassy remembered him—ah yes, wasn’t he with KSBH in Los Angeles? Was, now producing independently for public television. They were standing there talking for ten minutes before Cassy realized that Gordon was Alexandra’s date.

  Gordon and Cassy had just sat down to order a drink at a table when Michael and Alexandra arrived. Cassy was struck by how old Michael looked, and how terribly young Alexandra looked; and how Alexandra almost looked as if she could be his daughter. Michael kissed her hello (smelling of scotch). Alexandra kissed Gordon hello and, ignoring Michael’s direction, sat down next to Cassy.

  “I hope this was a good idea,” Alexandra said to her. “I’m so tired I might fall asleep on you.”

  Well, yes, there were small traces of fatigue around Alexandra’s eyes, but they did little to making Cassy feel sympathetic. When she was Alexandra’s age, she could go two nights running with no sleep and still look sensational. Not anymore though. One all-nighter these days showed on her face like a misplaced tent pole.

  While Michael was politely talking with Gordon, Cassy took the opportunity to find out if there was any reason to hate Alexandra. Resting her chin on her hand, Cassy leaned close to her and said, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  Alexandra’s forehead furrowed immediately. “With me?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a billboard of your face sitting in my house and a husband who’s determined to hang it somewhere.”

  Alexandra clearly surprised, pulled back. When Cassy didn’t say anything, Alexandra smiled and leaned forward to whisper, “If I wanted him to have a remembrance of me, don’t you think I’d be a little more discreet? A wallet-size photo perhaps?”

  Cassy burst out laughing, bringing the men’s conversation to a halt. Michael cleared his throat. Cassy looked over at him and knew that he was displeased about something.

  Michael started discussing Alexandra’s special report on the bombings and received Alexandra’s full attention. As they talked, Cassy watched Alexandra and contrasted her now against her TV persona. There was a difference, all right. On air, Alexandra was rock-still, relying almost exclusively on her eyes for establishing the mood of the story she was relating. She was at her best on stories of villainy, when her eyes would sear through the screen with an intensity that accomplished the goal of every television personality—to so absorb the viewers as to make them oblivious to the fact that it is a television set they are watching, not a live person. But here, sitting next to Cassy, Alexandra was relaxed, and her otherwise terrific posture was continually interrupted by unconscious (Cassy was sure) dramatic body movements:

  Alexandra Laughing: falling back hard against her chair, making it rock.

  Alexandra Fascinated: hands pressing down so hard on the table in front of her that fingertips turned white.

  Alexandra Caught up in Making a Point: hands jammed into her hair on top of her head.

  Alexandra in Agreement: head bobbing emphatically, earrings swinging.

  Alexandra Waiting to Disagree: hands clasped under her chair, arms trying to lift it from the floor.

  She is like me in the old days.

  Entranced by her observations, Cassy was only half aware that Alexandra had pulled her into the conversation.

  “Chester’s always written his own copy,” Cassy heard herself saying. “The old school usually does. It’s t
he new talent we have problems with. But then, of course,” she added, “we’re just about the only newsroom left in town that still insists the anchors write their own copy.”

  “You have to understand, Alexandra,” Michael said, voice rising, “Cassy still caters to liberal creeps.” “Then I must be a liberal creep,” Alexandra said. “I like WST’s newscast.”

  Cassy thought Michael might blow up, but then, smart girl that Alexandra was, she treated Michael to a glorious smile meant only for him. The anger in his eyes vanished.

  “So, Gordon,” Cassy said, “tell me about this South African film that has Walter Annenberg so upset.”

  Michael managed to down three scotches before they went upstairs to dinner. He had another before ordering. With each one, a layer of courtesy was stripped. Michael eventually ignored Cassy and Gordon entirely. To her credit, Alexandra repeatedly tried to say something to Gordon and Cassy, or listen to what they were saying, but Michael would, if he had to, start shaking Alexandra’s shoulder until she paid attention to him again. If Gordon hadn’t had such a good sense of humor about it, Cassy would have forcibly dragged Michael out of the restaurant. But a compromise of sorts was silently worked out at the table. Cassy would entertain Gordon and Alexandra would baby-sit Michael.

  After Cassy realized that Alexandra was amazingly good at saving Michael from embarrassing them all (somehow she got him to lower his voice; somehow she stopped him from snapping his fingers at the waiter; somehow she kept track of his silverware before it was swept to the floor), Cassy actually began to enjoy herself. She was intrigued with Gordon’s series under production for public television, an adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise.

  Michael dropped his glass of wine in his dinner plate. He got upset. Alexandra gave him what was left on her plate to eat and he was happy again. Other than that near crisis, they got through to coffee and dessert (and brandy for Michael) without incident. Cassy excused herself to visit the ladies’ room and Alexandra followed.

  They did not speak until they were washing their hands. Looking at Cassy in the mirror, Alexandra asked her if she would ever consider having lunch with her.

  “What an odd way of putting it,” Cassy said, accepting a towel from the attendant. “Thank you.” To Alexandra, “Why wouldn’t I want to have lunch with you?”

  Alexandra merely smiled and accepted a towel from the attendant.

  “I’d like to have lunch with you. Particularly after a night like this.” She withdrew a dollar from her purse and placed it in the dish. Alexandra followed suit. “The only problem though,” Cassy said, “is that I’m a little overwhelmed the next couple of weeks. But let’s talk this week—when I’ve got my calendar in front me.”

  “Great,” Alexandra said, handing the towel back to the attendant.

  A woman was standing in the doorway. Cassy glanced at her and saw that she was staring at Alexandra. Alexandra followed Cassy’s eyes and smiled at the woman. “Hello.”

  “Aren’t you the new girl—Alexandria?”

  “No,” Alexandra said, “that’s a city in Egypt.”

  The woman looked as though she might die on the spot. Alexandra laughed and touched the woman’s arm. “That’s okay, my grandmother used to make the same mistake.”

  The woman followed them out to the lounge and stammered out a request for Alexandra’s autograph. Cassy came up with paper and pen, and Alexandra sat down on the settee, using her pocketbook as a lapboard.

  “S-M-I-T-H,” the woman spelled, hanging over Alexandra’s shoulder.

  “That’s her first name?”

  “Yes. It was my maiden name.”

  Alexandra scribbled away, signed her name and handed the paper to the woman. “For Smith, with best wishes for good news and happiness, Alexandra Waring.” The woman looked up. “That’s so nice.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  When the woman left them, Alexandra joined Cassy at the mirror to brush her hair. “What are you doing next Saturday?” Cassy asked her. Alexandra sighed, looking at herself in the mirror. “Working, no doubt but why?”

  “You couldn’t come to our block party for an hour or two, could you? I’d love to stick you in a booth and have you sign some autographs—we’d make a fortune off you.”

  Alexandra shrugged, turning to view the side of her hair. “Why not? I’d love to.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” Alexandra put her brush away and turned toward Cassy. “I could really use a change of pace—for a day.”

  “That would be great,” Cassy said. “And then maybe afterward you’d stay for dinner and we’d have a chance to talk.”

  Alexandra looked into her eyes and smiled. “I’d like that,” she said. She dropped her eyes. “I, um—”

  Um? Alexandra says um?

  “I don’t really know anyone in New York,” Alexandra finished.

  Cassy looked at her face closely. Was Alexandra about to cry? “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

  Alexandra closed her eyes and touched her forehead. After a moment she nodded and opened her eyes. “I’m fine, I think I’m just—”

  “Here,” Cassy said, leading her to the settee, “sit down a minute and let me get you a glass of water.”

  “No, no water.” But she did sit down.

  Cassy sat down beside her. “Are you dizzy?”

  “No,” Alexandra said. It did not sound convincing. “I think I’m just exhausted.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Cassy said.

  The woman cruised back through the lounge with her piece of paper. “Thank you again,” she said to Alexandra.

  “You’re very welcome.” The door closed.

  “You forget you’re human, don’t you?” Cassy asked, smiling.

  Alexandra offered a weak smile.

  Cassy patted her back and rubbed it briefly. “Well, old Mother Cochran says no work tomorrow. You need twenty-four hours’ bed rest, old movies and the New York Times.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Alexandra murmured.

  Cassy stood up. “If you’re not dizzy, I think the best thing to do is to get you home straight away.” No response. She moved in front of Alexandra. “One great thing about being old and a mother is that no one can argue with me when I’m feeling old and want to give motherly advice.”

  Alexandra looked up at her.

  Cassy held out her hand.

  “You’re very beautiful,” Alexandra said.

  Cassy felt her face redden. “We better get you home,” she said, “your eyes are failing.”

  Alexandra stood up. “I can’t bear to hear you talk about yourself that way. You did the other night too, after the party.”

  Cassy’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

  “You’re not old,” Alexandra declared. “You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life.” Then she grinned—grinned the way Cassy imagined a twelve-year-old Kansas farm girl would, posing by a fence post for a picture on a sunny day. And then it was gone, and the familiar Alexandra reappeared. “We’d better go back,” she said, swinging the door open.

  “Yes,” Cassy said, standing there. “Yes, of course,” she said, sweeping her purse up from the settee.

  Their reappearance at the table was not without drama. Michael had tucked the corner of the tablecloth in with his shirttail, so when he stood up, everyone had to dive to catch something. Michael just stood there and roared. The maitre d’ hovered, anxious for a conclusion to this act. Gordon and Alexandra, propping Michael up between them as discreetly as possible, ushered him downstairs while Cassy signed for the check.

  When Cassy joined them under the awning outside, Michael, his arm around Gordon’s neck, said, “Hey, Cass, Alexshzandra’s comin’ to the block party!”

  “I know, Mike,” she said. Turning to Alexandra, “How do you feel?”

  “Fine. The fresh air—” She breathed deeply to illustrate its regenerative effect.

  “Would you mind the
n if we took the first cab?”

  “I have my car just around the corner,” Gordon said.

  “Do you want a ride?” Alexandra asked.

  “No—a cab will be fine.” The attendant flagged down the cab in question. “Alexshzandra’s gonna sell kisses at the block party.”

  “No, dear, Alexandra’s going to sign autographs.” The attendant held the door as Gordon rolled Michael into the cab.

  “Maybe—” Gordon started.

  “No, that’s all right. We’ll be fine,” Cassy said, pressing some money on the attendant. She held out her hand to Gordon. “It was lovely to see you again.”

  “I wanna say good night to Alexshzandra!” Michael demanded, trying to crawl out of the cab.

  Cassy grabbed hold of his coat to keep him in place while Alexandra leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Michael, I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Cassy pushed herself against Michael to get into the cab. “Phew!” she said as Gordon closed the door. She rolled down the window. “Thanks.” She held her hand out to Alexandra. “I’ll talk to you next—Michael!” Michael’s hand was up her dress. Cassy yanked his hand away and made a face for the benefit of their audience. “Riverside and 88th,” she said to the driver. “Good night!”

  “Good night!” Alexandra and Gordon and the attendant called.

  Cassy thanked God that Henry was staying overnight at a classmate’s.

  The doorman helped her get Michael upstairs. Once they got him to the bed, Michael was out cold. Cassy saw the doorman out, gave him a five, and returned to the bedroom to proceed with the routine that had become second nature to her:

  Take off Michael’s shoes, then his socks, then his tie; unbutton shirt, undo belt, unzip his pants; roll on left side and slip off right arm of jacket and shirt, tug at pants; roll on right side and slip off left arm of jacket and shirt, tug at pants; roll on stomach, move to end of bed, pull off pants. There. Put clothes away; wipe Michael’s face with washcloth; leave glass of water on nightstand; undress self and take hot bath.

  Lying there, the hot water lapping against her neck, Cassy thought of Alexandra and decided she did not want to think about Alexandra. It was painful, this proximity to youth. It made her wonder what it was like to be young and beautiful and unmarried. What it would be like to be taken home by a Gordon. What it would be like to have more beginnings in front of her instead of so many endings, or worse—to have so many things the same, day after day after day...