Riverside Drive

by Laura Van Wormer

  “As promised, I have come to render my services for this worthy cause,” she said, holding her arms out to the side.

  Howard looked down (he guessed that was what he was supposed to do) and saw that she was in the cheerful garb of a pale blue-green sweat suit and sneakers. He brought his eyes up, touched his glasses and noticed that she was looking more than a trifle nervous.

  “We would love to take advantage of your kind offer,” Howard said, taking her arm. He quickly introduced her to the boys, ran her through the book categories, price listings and cash box, and told her she was on her own, good luck. Smile.

  Smile.

  Wink.

  Smile.

  Thunk.

  The crowd at the tables swelled to four people deep and the crew had their hands full. People were trying to drag cartons off to dig into them away from the crowd. Henry was good with them (“Sorry, these have to stay here”); Amanda was too nice to them (“Thank you for trying to assist us, however the cartons are not in need of transportation”); Skipper was downright vicious (“If you don’t keep your paws off, I swear to God I’ll cut ‘em off”) and Howard found himself yelling, “Please, please, this is a book sale, not a wrestling match!” The chaos had the four careening into each other in the struggle to keep up—”Sorry” “Whoops!” “Excuse me!” “Whoa!”—and all but Skipper spent most of the time laughing.

  “Do we have bags?” Amanda asked Howard, both bent over the cash box to make change.

  Her face was inches away from his and he could feel her breath on his chin. He looked into her eyes and the change was forgotten. “No—wait, yes. I’ll get them. But they’re for purchases of ten dollars or more.” Still, he didn’t move. Nor did she. Skipper then helped them out by pushing Howard out of the way.

  “Gotta keep in step if you wanna make the big bucks,” Skipper told Howard. It was nuts. Just crazy. An absolute madhouse. And Howard felt insanely happy.

  Alexandra Waring made the Block Association over two hundred and seventy dollars by eleven-thirty. At first it was simply through her autographing publicity stills, but then, at Michael’s suggestion, Old Mr. Gresham (as he was known in the neighborhood) had offered her twenty five dollars to let him kiss her on the cheek. Alexandra took the twenty-five dollars, let him kiss her, and then she gave the eighty-some-odd-year-old man a kiss back and a hug. But since Old Mr. Gresham’s eyes never left her chest during the latter, a rumor started that Alexandra Waring was letting men look down her dress and the line for her booth expanded accordingly. (Lest anyone think unkindly of Ms. Waring, a WWKK publicist ran about to make it known that she was only signing autographs and shaking hands.)

  Michael had appeared shortly after ten, looking ashen and unwell. He had found Cassy at Alexandra’s booth, whispered that he loved her, and then kissed her ear. His breath had told Cassy that the coffee mug he held was laced with brandy, but she was so relieved to see him up and about that she did not care. She had hugged him.

  Alexandra had risen from chair, stepped out of her booth, and simply held his hand for a moment. “When you get resituated, Michael, I only hope I’m good enough to follow you there.”

  For that one moment—suspended in the noise of the crowd and of the pesky clown beating a drum behind them—Cassy could think of nothing nicer than for Alexandra Waring to move into the Cochran household.

  Michael had moved a chair next to Alexandra in her booth and, with his thermos and mug, remained at her side throughout the morning. Cassy had watched them and noticed the remarkable kindness and sensitivity the young woman possessed. Alexandra did nothing flirtatious, nothing that could be misconstrued; she merely made Michael the center of her attention, of her calm reassurance, and of her gentle humor that made him smile and chuckle despite his misery.

  And Michael was miserable. Cassy knew the slouch of his shoulders was new; she knew his expression—as if he were half ready to be struck at any given moment—had been acquired in the night. Self-righteous rage, arrogant accusations—Cassy had been prepared for anything but this. A broken-spirited, quietly despairing middle-aged man. A man she didn’t recognize, but whom Alexandra apparently did.

  Cassy thanked the heavens for Alexandra’s being there.

  She made the rounds again near noon to see how everyone was doing. At the Junior League booth, Melissa Stewart was seething with rage. Someone, while the vegetables were doing their spring dance, had stolen their deviled eggs. When Cassy became confused (“I’m sorry, do you mean a dancer was taken? Or real food?”), Melissa had screamed at Cassy that she was the most inept, utterly moronic chairman they had ever had. At that, Cassy turned the case of the missing deviled eggs over to a policewoman and departed.

  Everyone else seemed to be doing brilliantly and having a great deal of fun. (“No heart attacks yet!” the Train Ride people cheerfully reported.) The Wyatt’s were positively making a fortune with their China Break. As Cassy approached, an elderly woman, being helped by Sam, was in the process of throwing a softball (with her eyes closed). She clipped a cup right off the hook and the crowd went wild with cheers and applause.

  “Everything’s fine,” Harriet told Cassy. “We did have one scare, though. A woman dove into the line of fire and nearly got brained. Apparently one of our plates on the rack was some kind of Wedgwood china. She gave us twenty dollars for it.”

  Althea Wyatt came charging up and handed Cassy twenty-eight dollars. “My friend Alice brought some buttons to sell. This is from her.” Cassy slipped the money in her back pocket while Althea took the liberty of pinning a button on Cassy’s sweater. JANE WYMAN KNEW, it said.

  The children, in particular, seemed to be having a wonderful time pulling their parents in one direction and then another, squealing, “Mommy! Daddy! Look!” And the parents didn’t seem to be having a bad time of it either. And since this year no wine or beer was being sold, the bands of teenagers they had had trouble with the year before were nowhere to be found.

  It was also a great day for politicians, Cassy thought, because there were two great ones to be seen: Council Member Ruth Messinger and Congressman Ted Weiss. The neighbors’ opinions apparently coincided with Cassy’s, since both—stuck on two separate blocks—were surrounded by wide-smiling constituents eager to express their admiration. (In light of current New York City political weather—heavy subpoena fall—the neighborhood was even more proud of these sterling public servants than usual.)

  But the noise—wow. Cassy could feel it in her chest at times: the steady hub-hub-hub of the crowd; isolated peals of laughter and squeals of glee; a shriek; a gasp; applause; the boom-boom-boom and clang-clang-clang of those frisky clowns who were perpetually wandering about.

  The block party was a success, Cassy knew. Really, truly, a wonderful success, and it made her feel oddly close to crying when she thought of Sister Mary under the awning in the Cochrans’ La-Z-Boy. Cassy would go to the Children’s Clinic. Soon. She wanted in the worst way to see how this festival would translate into help for those children.

  At the book tables, Cassy smiled at how happy Henry appeared to be. Howard was talking to him, apparently about the book he was holding, and Henry’s eyes were bright with interest. Howard tucked the book under Henry’s arm and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

  “Hi,” Cassy said. “Mom—look. Howard found a first edition of Islands in the Stream and he gave it to me.” He flicked the pages back to the copyright page. “See?”

  “Maybe Howard will inscribe it for you,” she said, putting her arm around him and looking up at Howard. “He’s an editor, you know.” The way Henry’s head swung in Howard’s direction indicated that this was an idea that appealed to him.

  “Later,” Howard promised.

  “I gotta get back to work, Mom,” Henry said.

  Cassy and Howard watched Henry a minute, and then Skipper stole their attention by berating a young woman for being such a hog about all the Agatha Christies.

  I never did talk to his mother, Cassy
thought.

  A policeman arrived to collect the cash and Howard brought him back around the tables for the transaction. A woman Cassy didn’t recognize came up to Howard at the cash box. She looked at Cassy and offered a tentative smile. She said something to Howard; he said something back and then the woman smiled broadly at Cassy and came over to her.

  “Hello,” she said, extending a hand, “I’m Amanda Miller, more commonly known as Tuesdays.”

  “Oh, hi,” Cassy said, smiling, “I’m Cassy Cochran, Fridays.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  The two women watched the men work the tables. “You’re a good sport to help us out,” Cassy said.

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I would have done it before had anyone asked me to.”

  Cassy nodded. And then, “Henry’s my son.” “I know. Rosanne speaks of him a great deal, you know.”

  Pause. “I find him completely charming.”

  “Thank you.” Cassy hesitated and then said, “Amanda, did you see Rosanne this week?”

  A wave of seriousness passed over Amanda’s face. “Why do you ask?”

  “She didn’t show yesterday and I can’t seem to get a hold of her.”

  Amanda sighed and looked momentarily down at her sneakers. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” She led Cassy away a few steps from the booth, saying, “Perhaps I’d better fill you in on what happened this week.”

  Amanda told Cassy the story about the robbery at the Stewarts’ and the aftermath. Cassy’s expression grew more concerned and her temper began to get the best of her. “That shrew,” she said of Melissa Stewart. “I’ve got half a mind to go down there and beat the living daylights out of that woman. How could she do that?” Amanda pressed on with her story, and the two women began comparing notes about what they should do. Both promised that if either one of them got a hold of Rosanne, she would call the other.

  Walking back to the tables, Cassy asked Amanda if Howard Stewart was as nice as he seemed.

  “He is,” she answered, looking at him.

  “Rosanne always said so,” Cassy said. “Howard and the Bitch, she always calls them.”

  Amanda seemed startled by this. “Does she?”

  At that second Cassy leaped to a wild conclusion. She tried to remember what Rosanne had ever told her about Amanda, but none of it, Cassy suspected, would be as telling as Amanda’s expression at this moment. Cassy smiled to herself. Perhaps Melissa’s punishment was already under way.

  Cassy made her way back down the Drive, carefully circling the hungry crowd buying food at the Junior League booth, and arrived at Alexandra’s booth to find a sign saying she would be back at two o’clock. She came upon Michael and Alexandra inside headquarters, sitting on the lobby stairs, Michael drinking a Heineken and Alexandra eating a deviled egg.

  “Where did you get that deviled egg?”

  Alexandra struggled to swallow, covering her mouth with a napkin. “A little boy just came in here and sold it to me. Why?”

  Cassy roared and Michael and Alexandra looked at each other. “I love it!” Cassy declared, plunking herself down next to Alexandra. “Street urchins selling Melissa Stewart’s stupid eggs. She’s been screaming all day about them being stolen. How much did he charge you?”

  “Two dollars.”

  They all laughed until Michael added, “I better ask that kid for a job.”

  From the sound of his voice, Cassy knew he had been seriously drinking. Well, she thought, if he stays with Alexandra, he’ll be all right. Wait a minute. Why am I dragging poor Alexandra into it? Whose husband is he?

  Cassy got up, moved in front of her husband, bent over and, holding his face in her hands, kissed him briefly on the mouth. Then she knelt down in front of him and wrapped her arms around his knees.

  Alexandra was politely examining her napkin.

  Cassy kissed one of his knees, looked up and said, smiling, “You’re going to be able to do the work you’ve always wanted to do, Michael. No more office stuff, lucky guy.”

  A sigh.

  Alexandra was now looking at Cassy.

  “People have been after Michael for years to go independent,” she explained.

  “Cass,” Michael said. His voice was low and tired. “I want you to steal Alexandra away from KK. I know how to break her contract.” Cassy raised her eyebrows. He closed his eyes, nodded, and opened them. “I can’t stand the idea of those bastards having her.”

  Cassy turned her head to look at Alexandra. Her face was impossible to read. Cassy rested the side of her face on Michael’s knee. “I’m not sure Alexandra would be happy at WST,” she said, watching her.

  “She’ll push your ratings through the roof—”

  “No, Michael, that’s not what I mean,” she said softly. She raised her head to speak to him but kept her eyes on Alexandra. “I think it would be a waste to keep her in local news for much longer. She needs to get out in the field, national news. And then, later, documentary, investigative or straight. My instincts tell me she’d be fabulous at either one.”

  Michael turned to look at Alexandra too.

  “Of course,” Cassy added, “my instincts could be wrong, though I would hardly say so if I thought they were.” They waited for Alexandra to say something, but Alexandra appeared to be a bit tongue-tied. “Mike,” Cassy said, turning to him, “why don’t you do it? Jack O’Hearn would underwrite you in a second.”

  Michael considered this and shifted his legs a bit. Alexandra was staring off into space.

  “Alexandra,” Cassy said.

  “Yes?”

  Those eyes... So young and bright and alive.

  Alexandra Waring, you must do this. You must go on to better things before they suck the life out of you and make you tired and afraid.

  “What do you think?” Cassy asked her.

  She smiled, shyly. “I think you may be overly generous regarding my capabilities.

  “Michael slapped Cassy on the shoulder and laughed. “That’s exactly what she said to me out in Kansas when I offered her a job.”

  Cassy and Alexandra were still looking at each other. “Really?” Cassy asked her. “Is that really what you think?”

  The slow smile that emerged from Alexandra felt like sunshine to Cassy, so pure was its warmth. “No,” she said.

  Cassy did a drum roll on Michael’s knee, got up and leaned over to kiss him on the mouth again. “I think you two have a great deal to talk about,” she announced. “But don’t talk too much—save some of your discussion for tonight, so I can hear.” She nudged Michael’s leg with her knee. “So—right?”

  “So—right,” Michael said.

  The crowds outside were as thick as ever. Cassy sat and talked with Sister Mary for a little bit, about how well the booths were doing, about how much Cassy was looking forward to visiting the Children’s Clinic. At that announcement, Sister Mary reached forward and took Cassy’s hand in her own. “Will you really come, my child?”

  “Yes, I want very much to.”

  Sister Mary smiled. “It will mean a great deal to us all. Bless you for being so kind.”

  Cassy spent the next two hours pretending to check up on things but in reality sifting through a series of troubling thoughts brought on by her talk with Sister Mary. What Sister Mary had said, about it meaning so much for her to come and visit, had struck a chord in Cassy, one that was painful.

  Yes, Cassy would make the visit. And no doubt she would bring along a reporter and mini-cam to do a story on the clinic and drum up some contributions from the public. The pain came from wondering why she had stopped doing things like this. She always had, up until—well, when was the last time? The home for runaways? She must have been thirty-six. Over five years ago.

  When had she become so wrapped up that people no longer even bothered to seek her help? Here Rosanne was going through this ordeal and, after all this time, she would rather disappear than ask Cassy for help. And Skipper—why hadn’t she followed through on talking to Deidre Marshall
?

  I can’t even help Michael.

  And, oh, Lord, what was she really doing to poor Alexandra? Should Alexandra really gamble her career on Michael? No. Would Alexandra give Michael one last ace to play in his career? Yes. If Michael went down, did Cassy want Alexandra to go down with him instead of herself? Yes.

  But she had the strength, the energy to pull it off. Cassy felt sure about that. Alexandra was like her, like Cassy, in the old days.

  “Catherine Littlefield Cochran “her mother had screamed at her on her last visit three years ago, “someday you are going to wake up and realize the price you’ve paid for being such a fool”

  “Such a fool about what, Mother?”

  “Throwing your love away on a bottle.”

  “Oh, Mother.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know! The same thing that happened to me is happening to you and I won’t just stand by and watch it happen!”

  Maybe she should hire Alexandra at WST. Maybe she should put Alexandra into the hands of a good agent. Maybe Alexandra had an agent. Maybe...

  Could Alexandra really be so trusting as to place her future in our hands?

  Oh, Lord, Cassy thought, watching children trying to extinguish candles with squirt guns, if you’re really there, please let us get through this without hurting anyone else.

  Henry was leaving for Colorado in a week, and much as Cassy had been dreading it, now she was relieved he would be so far away. It would be a long summer. Even if Michael did find another job, or decided to go out on his own, Cassy felt sure it wouldn’t happen before fall, when people were back in town. And heaven only knew how Michael would see fit to spend his time until then.

  What stories would be circulating about Michael? she wondered. “They couldn’t agree on the renewal terms of his contract,” she practiced in her head. Who are you kidding? They wouldn’t renew his contract, period. Everybody will know that, and everybody will know why.