Riverside Drive

by Laura Van Wormer

  “Poor Rosanne,” Cassy murmured.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.” She yanked the clip from her hair, stuck it in her mouth, put her hair up, and clipped it back into place. “I wonder if I should go and try to find her.”

  “Tomorrow might be better,” Alexandra said.

  Sigh. “You’re probably right.” She looked at Alexandra as if she had just noticed that she was there. “You were wonderful to come up with us, but you should go on home now.”

  “No,” Alexandra said.

  Cassy looked at her.

  “Unless, of course,” Alexandra said, “you’d like me to leave.”

  Cassy smiled slightly. “God, no,” she said, touching her arm and turning away.

  Howard came back. “Amanda’s at the main admitting desk up the block. You sure everything’s okay?”

  “Yes,” Cassy said on an intake of breath. “Michael’s fine.” She hesitated and then took Howard’s arm and steered him toward the glass door. Alexandra watched as Cassy talked to him. Howard’s face blanched and he turned away from her for a moment. He shook his head, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Then he took off his glasses and wiped his face with a bandanna from his pocket. They talked a minute more and he left.

  Cassy said something to the orderly and came back to Alexandra. “Get some fresh air with me, will you?” she asked.

  They went outside and looked one way up the street and then down the other. Leaning against Alexandra, Cassy said, “I really just want to sit down anywhere but in there for a minute.” They settled on the curb outside the ambulance carport.

  “Look at your stockings,” Cassy said.

  Alexandra’s knees looked like the remains of a nuclear blast, with huge runs streaking up and down.

  “And your beautiful dress,” Cassy sighed. She patted Alexandra’s hand and then held it. “Did you ever think, when you were in Kansas, that one day you’d be sitting on the sidewalk outside an emergency room in New York City, holding hands with the station manager of WST while she had a nervous breakdown?”

  Alexandra brought her hand back to massage the back of Cassy’s neck. “Yes,” she said.

  Cassy closed her eyes and softly laughed. “Oh, Lord, that feels good.” After a little bit she said, “That’s enough, thank you,” and let her head fall against Alexandra’s shoulder. In a moment she opened her eyes. “What’s going to happen to us all, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know,” Alexandra said quietly.

  Cassy closed her eyes again and they sat there like that awhile.

  The glass door opened and Michael emerged, featuring a massive “X” of adhesive tape over his nose. He stood there, blinking, holding a cold pack to his cheek.

  “Cassy,” Alexandra said, and Cassy’s eyes flew open and the two women got up to meet him.

  At the main admissions desk, Amanda was in such a tangle of fear and despair that it took nearly ten minutes for Howard to make out what had happened.

  They arrived at the hospital.

  The doctor saw Mrs. Goldblum.

  The doctor told Amanda Mrs. Goldblum appeared to be suffering from malnutrition and should be hospitalized for a week. The nurse told Amanda there was a problem with Mrs. Goldblum’s medical coverage.

  Amanda told them she would take care of Mrs. Goldblum’s expenses.

  They told Amanda to go to the admissions desk in the hospital.

  At the admissions desk they told Amanda that Mrs. Goldblum had fallen in the examination room and had broken her hip.

  Amanda was crying.

  Howard led her away from the desk, forced her down into a chair and tried to calm her down. Amanda had to believe that everything would be all right. They would take care of everything. Mrs. Goldblum would be fine. What happened often happened with older women, and they should be grateful it was something that could be fixed.

  “But, Howard,” Amanda wailed, “she was starving. Don’t you understand? She was starving to death.” She drew her legs up in the chair, bound herself up like a ball and sobbed.

  Howard got up to talk to a nurse at the desk. He got on the phone with the doctor in the emergency room. He talked with the nurse some more and then went back to Amanda.

  “Mrs. Goldblum was supposed to rest in the examining room until they moved her upstairs to a room. She said she would, but when the nurse left her, she apparently tried to leave, fainted, and fell. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  “I’ve got to see her,” Amanda said.

  “She’s sedated now,” he said, sitting in the chair next to her. “They’re setting her hip and are going to move her into a room. You can see her first thing in the morning.” Pause. “Amanda,” he said softly, touching her knee, “she’s going to be fine. Really. Don’t be frightened. She will be all right.”

  Amanda clapped her hands over her face. “How could I not have noticed?” she said. “How?”

  “She wasn’t starving, Amanda. The nurse says it often happens with older people who live alone. They just stop eating balanced meals. Malnutrition doesn’t mean she was starving—just that she wasn’t eating properly. At least here, in the hospital, they can build her up and make everyone aware of the problem—most of all, Mrs. Goldblum.”

  Amanda uncovered her face and Howard took the used Kleenex out of her hand, tossed it into the ashtray and handed her the bandanna from his back pocket. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “Amanda.”

  She looked at him.

  “We’ve got to make some decisions about her room. We need to talk to the nurses. Do you think you can?’ She nodded, wiping at her eyes again. The nurse was waiting for them with a pile of forms. “Mrs. Goldblum doesn’t have any medical coverage,” Howard said, reconfirming the fact as it had been told to him.

  The nurse nodded. “She’s not registered with Medicare or Medicaid. In fact, she doesn’t appear to be registered with Social Security.”

  Howard looked at Amanda and she shook her head, holding the bandanna against her mouth.

  “I think,” the nurse said, glancing at her colleague, “we can straighten this out while she’s here—technically speaking, she has no coverage whatsoever, nor, as she told them downstairs in emergency, does she have any means of paying.”

  Amanda muffled a sob with the bandanna. Howard put his arm around her. “You heard what she said—we’ll straighten this out.”

  “She had no money, Howard,” Amanda whimpered, looking away.

  Howard looked at the nurse. “So what now?”

  “Well,” the nurse said, trying to sound cheerful, “our policy is to help whoever needs our help.” She smiled. “So we’re not the biggest moneymaking hospital around, but”—she looked to Amanda—”we are one of the best. Really. Your friend will receive excellent care here.”

  Howard nodded. “What kind of room can you put her in?”

  “Well,” the nurse said, “under the circumstances, we’ll have to put her in one of the min-turn wards.”

  “What’s that?” Howard asked. Amanda started to shiver and he pulled her tighter against him.

  “An open ward.”

  “No,” Amanda said. “Put her in a private room.”

  “Well,” the nurse said with caution, “what we need for that is some sort of—”

  “I’ll take care of whatever expenses there are,” Amanda said through the bandanna.

  “What?” the nurse asked, leaning forward.

  Amanda lowered the bandanna. “I said, I’ll pay for everything.” The nurse and Howard exchanged glances as Amanda looked down at her sweat pants and frowned. “I have nothing with me—what do you need?”

  “Um—” the nurse said.

  “American Express?” Amanda asked. “I have a gold card. I have a gold MasterCard. Dear God,” she said, voice breaking, “I’ve got all the money in the world.” She threw herself against Howard’s chest and he brought his arms up around
her. “Why didn’t she tell me?” Amanda wept.

  15

  CASSY SAYS SHE THINKS

  SHE KNOWS WHAT ALEXANDRA

  IS GOING TO SAY

  “You have to eat dinner with us,” Cassy was saying to Alexandra in the cab driving home. “I forgot to call the caterers. We’ve got food for sixty.”

  “So you’re not perfect,” Michael muttered, looking out the window. Cassy, on the other side of Alexandra, leaned forward.

  “What?”

  Michael turned. He was going to have a black eye, the outline of which was darkening by the minute. He lowered the cold pack from his cheek. “I said, so you’re not perfect after all.” Pause. “A fact Alexandra perhaps should be made aware of.” He turned back to the window.

  Cassy sat back in her seat without a word. After a minute Alexandra said, “I am rather tired. Perhaps we should do this another night.” Both Cassy and Michael looked at her.

  “Well,” Cassy said, “maybe—”

  “Oh, Christ,” Michael said, “you can’t leave me with her” He imitated Cassy’s voice. “’Michael, I think you should do this—Michael, I think you should do that—Michael, sweetheart—’ Who the fuck needs it?”

  Silence. Alexandra was looking down at her hands. The Cochrans were looking out their respective windows. The cab turned down 87th Street, and then right again onto the Drive. The police blockades were down and only a few neighbors were still out, picking up trash. The cab pulled up in front of their building.

  Michael started to reach for his wallet.

  “I’ll get it,” Cassy said.

  “I can pay for the goddam cab, can’t I?” Michael yelled at her.

  Cassy fumbled to open her door. Alexandra reached over to unlock it for her.

  “No,” Michael said to the driver, “I changed my mind. I’m driving on.”

  Cassy tossed her head. “Great, where are you going? Sam Wyatt’s for round 2?”

  Michael glared at her. “You are such a cunt,” he said.

  “Fine.” She yanked the handle of the door. “I don’t care what you do,” she said, getting out. Alexandra started to slide out.

  “Don’t,” Michael said, taking hold of her arm. “I’ll take you home.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” Alexandra said, taking her arm back. She climbed out and closed the door behind her. The cab pulled away.

  “Well,” Cassy said, standing there, scratching the back of her head, looking at the entrance to her building.

  “Cassy,” Alexandra said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Come on.” She pulled on Cassy’s arm and Cassy looked at her, not understanding. “Come on,” Alexandra repeated. “Let’s just get away from here for a while. Let’s just go.

  “A flicker of a smile passed over Cassy’s face. Then she shook her head. “No, I’ve got all that food upstairs... “Cassy looked back at her.

  Alexandra was smiling, eyes twinkling. It was the look of someone who suspected she was about to get her way. “Come on,” she said, taking Cassy’s arm.

  “But where will we go?” Cassy said, being pulled along.

  Alexandra laughed, stopped and looked at her. “Anywhere,” she said. And then she resumed pulling Cassy along. “We’ll get my car and take it from there.”

  They walked up 88th to West End Avenue and then over to a garage on 87th Street. Alexandra’s car turned out to be a navy-blue MG and Cassy covered her face when it came down on the elevator. “You don’t expect me to get into that thing, do you?”

  When Cassy got in, she felt as if she were sitting on the ground. It was comfortable, in fact rather marvelous, but she rolled her window down for a sense of a little more space. Alexandra got in and started unhinging two large metal hooks over the windshield. “Oh, you’re not—” Cassy protested.

  “Oh, yes, I am,” Alexandra said, laughing. She unsnapped and unzipped this and that and then hopped out to bring the top down. “Okay,” she said, getting back in, “buckle up.” Alexandra snapped her seat belt into place, helped Cassy with hers, took out a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment, put them on, revved the motor, put the car into gear, and grinned.

  “Kidnapped by Darth Vader,” Cassy said.

  Alexandra laughed and drove the car out of the garage.

  It was wonderful. Cassy felt as though she were flying. The wind blew against and around her face and the buildings loomed like canyon walls and children waved to them and it was free and open and it was wonderful. Alexandra headed east on 86th Street, toward Central Park. “How about my house?” Strands of her hair lashing against her face, Cassy’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Sure.”

  They stopped for a light at Columbus Avenue and two boys behind them in an old Valiant honked and waved. The driver leaned out his window and called, “Hey! How about having some fun?”

  Alexandra smiled into the rear-view mirror; Cassy peered around the headrest and whipped back around again. “Good Lord—I’m old enough to be his mother.”

  “Hardly,” Alexandra said, sunglasses in Cassy’s direction.

  The light changed and they shot ahead, the boys tailgating them.

  “This happened to me in Nevada a few years ago,” Cassy said over the noise. “I was driving a friend’s Porsche and this car was following me. When I stopped at a light, this teenager pulled up beside me, took one look at me and nearly had a heart attack.” She laughed.

  “Don’t,” Alexandra said, downshifting for the approach of the Central Park West light.

  Honk, honk, honk went the boys’ car.

  Alexandra looked in the rear-view mirror, pulled over into the right-hand land, and slowed almost to a stop. The boys behind them cheered.

  “Alexandra, you’re not thinking of—”

  As they crept to the corner, the light turned yellow. Alexandra revved the motor, slammed into first and the car shot across the intersection just as traffic on Central Park West began to move. They sailed into Central Park, the traffic closed up behind them, and the boys were stuck at the light.

  The cool air of the park rushed over Cassy and she laughed. “It’s fun running away with you,” she called.

  When they reached the other side of Central Park, Alexandra turned down Fifth Avenue, drove past the Metropolitan Museum, and then turned back into Central Park at 79th Street. “Just for a while,” she said to Cassy. And inside the park she took the turnoff for Central Park South and then took another turnoff and headed north, and another heading west, and on and on until she had taken Cassy on a motor tour of the whole park.

  Cassy loved it. “You’re cold,” Alexandra said later, glancing over at her. “It’s getting too dark to be safe doing this anyway. I’m heading for home.”

  Alexandra lived at the corner of 86th Street and East End Avenue. Her apartment, she explained, actually belonged to her uncle Arnold. He had lived there for forty-three years. Now he was back in Kansas, to be near her parents, and Alexandra’s lawyer was in negotiation with the owners about transferring the lease.

  They parked in the building’s underground garage. Cassy watched as Alexandra put the top back up and then they took the elevator up to the sixth floor. Outside Alexandra’s door was a stack of newspapers, each neatly slipcased in plastic wrap. Cassy picked them up: the Washington Post; the Los Angeles Times; the Chicago Sun-Times; the Houston Chronicle; the London Times; and last, but not least, the Kansas City Star.

  Alexandra sure liked white. The apartment was open and breezy in a way that reminded Cassy of a British colonial outpost in the tropics. The floorboards were light, there were what appeared to be close to a million plants, and then, of course, the white-the walls, the rug, the couch... No, Cassy decided, this was not a home intended for children. Certainly not a little boy. (She thought of the nice purple elephant Henry once drew on their living-room wall.)

  What Cassy assumed was meant to be a dining room was now Alexandra’s work area. There was an enormous white (of course) table (a dining table?)
that had a blotter and word processor on it, three stacks of magazines and journals, and several folders bulging with papers. There were a VCR and a small TV in the corner, bookshelves of videotapes, a set of Encyclopedia Britannica and World Book. an Oxford Dictionary... and plants. Yes, Alexandra certainly liked plants. The kitchen was small and cheery and—surprise—white. Even the TV set on the counter.

  The bedroom was a fair size, with a nice view of Carl Schurz Park and the East River. The room, surprise, surprise, was pale blue. There was a double bed with shelves at the foot of it, where sat another small TV and more magazines and a pile of books. A chaise longue was under the window, beside which sat a small table and more books.

  Cassy’s eye landed on the phone next to the bed. As if reading her thoughts, Alexandra said, “Go ahead. I’m going to change into some jeans—in the bathroom—and then start dinner. Bluefish okay with you?”

  Cassy called the Marshalls’ and managed to recreate the story of the afternoon for Henry in a way that did not at all accurately reflect what had happened, but it did, at least, prepare him for seeing his father looking like a prize fighter.

  Afterward, Cassy sat on a stool and watched Alexandra cook dinner. Alexandra asked her if she would mind eating on TV tables in the living room. Cassy said no, and Alexandra checked the asparagus, replaced the lid on the steamer and turned to her. “At the risk of sounding rude, would you like to talk or would you like to watch a movie?”

  Cassy thought a movie sounded terrific and Alexandra sent her off to choose one. When dinner was ready, Cassy was still wading through the tapes, unable to make up her mind. There seemed to be eight categories in Alexandra’s collection—Colbert, Crawford, Davis, Dietrich, Garbo, Harlow, Hepburn and Lombard.

  “We want something short,” Alexandra said.

  “Oh, gosh, I don’t know—they’re all wonderful. I—I don’t know, you choose.”

  Alexandra skimmed the titles and picked one. “Red Dust, “she said, “I bet you haven’t seen that for years. And it’s not even an hour and a half.”

  And so they sat in the living room and watched a large Mitsubishi TV and shared their dinner and coffee and fruit with Clark Gable, Jean Harlow and Mary Astor. While Cassy enjoyed the movie immensely, she was also very much aware of the mess waiting for her at home—sigh—and the office. And Rosanne. Her thoughts drifted to her...