Riverside Drive

by Laura Van Wormer

  Howard cringed.

  “He slugged her! Decked her! Right there in front of all those people!” Melissa could barely get her breath, she was laughing so hard.

  “Oh, God,” Howard said.

  “And then he ran off. And no one’s seen him since,” she added, near choking, holding her hand against her chest.

  Howard shook his head and loosened his tie. He sighed.

  “Didi says—”

  “Screw Didi,” Howard muttered. “I feel badly for Cassy.”

  “Oh, Howard,” Melissa said, taking a gulp of her drink. “Anyone who’d marry a creep like that deserves it. God, he’s so ill bred.” Howard yanked his tie off and started to walk out of the kitchen. “And she’s always on her high horse. Well, it only goes to show—”

  Howard whipped around. “Will you shut up?”

  Melissa’s eyes widened. “Don’t speak to me like that.”

  Howard looked at her, raised his arm to lean against the doorway and said, “Why the hell not? You deserve to be spoken to like that.” He straightened up, took a step forward, gesturing with the hand holding his tie. “You sit there and make a joke out of someone else’s misfortune.” Pause. “That’s sick, Melissa. Sick.”

  Melissa was staring at him as though he were crazy.

  “Other people’s troubles are not for your entertainment, Melissa. Things happen to people. Cassy Cochran’s a nice person and her son is a nice kid and the man those two nice people love is sick. There’s nothing funny about it—there’s nothing amusing about it—there is nothing to laugh at.” He threw his tie down on the table and walked out.

  Melissa leaped out of her chair to follow him. Howard went to his study, slammed the door, and locked it. “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it, Howard?” she screamed from the other side of the door. “Just run away and hide!”

  He unlocked the door, flung it open, and sent it crashing against the wall. Melissa stumbled back and Howard grabbed her arm. “You better hope to God that I hide, because if I don’t I’m very likely going to deck you.”

  “How dare you talk to me like that!” she screamed, pulling away from him.

  Howard lunged for her arm and yanked her around to face him. “I have had it with you, Melissa. I won’t put up with this anymore.”

  “With what?”

  “With what?” He pushed her back against the wall and held her there. “With bullying Rosanne, with telling the police to arrest her husband, with you not even having the decency to apologize to her, with you laughing at the Cochrans—what do you mean, with what?”

  Melissa slapped his face.

  “And me,” Howard said, glaring at her, the side of his face turning scarlet. “Me, Melissa. I am not going to take your shit anymore.” He released her.

  “That’s not the issue,” Melissa hissed, grabbing his arm. “The real issue is how long can I put up with a little boy who can’t earn a decent living, who can’t handle any responsibility whatsoever—and whose long list of friends is comprised of the cleaning woman and some old bitch who’s in heat—”

  Howard shoved Melissa out of his way and went into the bedroom. “Now what are you going to do, lock yourself in the bathroom?” Melissa demanded, following him.

  “I’m getting the hell out of here, that’s for sure!” He banged open his closet and flung a duffel bag out onto the bed.

  “Oh, don’t tell me,” Melissa said, sarcasm supreme, “now the little boy’s threatening to run away from home.”

  “You got it.” Howard yanked out a bureau drawer and started throwing pairs of underwear on the bed. “I have had it with you, Melissa. Had it!” He slammed the drawer shut and moved on to the next—socks.

  “She’s too old for you, Howard.”

  Howard stopped what he was doing. He turned around.

  “Christ, she’s probably in menopause,” Melissa said, plunking herself down on the other side of the bed, folding her arms. Howard pushed the drawer closed behind him.

  “You really are sick,” he said, moving back to his closet.

  “Oh, I’m the one who’s sick. And you’re perfect, Howard.” She made a humming noise. “Well, she’ll find out soon enough.”

  Howard starting pulling shirts out of the closet.

  “But she is too old for you, Howard, no matter how attractive you think she is. She’s going to have skin like a rattlesnake.”

  He stared at her. “You’re really nuts, Melissa. Absolutely nuts.”

  “I saw you two at the block party. The only thing you didn’t do is hump her there in the street.” She kicked off her shoes and brought her legs up onto the bed. “I saw you, Howard, the way you two were mooning over each other that morning.”

  “Christ, Melissa!” Howard hurled a hanger across the room.

  “Thirty-three years old and you still can’t pack,” she said, adjusting the pillows behind her. Silence. Then, looking at her nails, “So that’s why her husband’s a drunk. She sleeps around. I always thought so.”

  Howard slapped his head with his hands. “You are unbelievable! Look, Melissa, get this through your head. I don’t know Cassy Cochran from Moses. I don’t even know her. Do you understand me? I don’t have anything to do with her. As far as I know, Cassy Cochran is exactly what she says she is—married, a mother, and on TV. Period. So cut it out,” he finished, slicing his hand through the air.

  She watched him shove his clothes into the bag. “Well, there’s got to be somebody,” Melissa mused. “You couldn’t go to the corner without someone holding your hand.”

  Howard continued packing. “But if it’s the cleaning woman, don’t tell me,” Melissa added. “I don’t think I could take that.” Howard got his toilet kit down from the top of his closet and headed for the bathroom.

  “But who could it be?” Melissa asked herself.

  Silence.

  “Didi,” Howard said from the bathroom.

  Melissa laughed.

  Silence.

  “Howard?”

  After a moment, “What?”

  “A skyrocket just went off across the river.”

  Silence.

  “Don’t forget your dental floss.”

  There was the sound of the medicine cabinet being closed.

  “And you should take your blue striped shirt. The gray one too. They’re in your bureau. The shirts you packed don’t match your pants.” Howard appeared at the bathroom door. Melissa was smiling. “Come here,” she said quietly. “Come on, Howard, take pity on your poor wife.” She patted the bed. “Just for a minute and then you can run away from home. Promise.”

  Sighing, Howard went over by the bed. Melissa reached for his hand and pulled him down to sit. She slipped her hands around his waist and leaned forward to rest her head against his chest. “I don’t want to fight with you. I love you,” she said.

  They sat like that for a minute.

  “Can’t you run away tomorrow?” Melissa whispered, her hand sliding down to massage him between his legs. Howard closed his eyes. “We could have such a nice time tonight,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Melissa,” Howard said, slowly detaching himself from her. He got up from the bed and walked back around to his bag. “I’m too upset. I need time to cool off. To think. Just for tonight. I’ll check into a hotel or something.”

  “A hotel?” Melissa’s eyes went wide. “That’s crazy, Howard, you can go into the study.”

  Howard sighed, picking up a pair of Jockey shorts and stuffing them into his jacket pocket. “I’ll be back in the morning.” He unzipped the toilet kit and took out his toothbrush.

  Melissa was on her feet. “You’re checking into a hotel because Cassy Cochran’s husband left her. This is insane, Howard.”

  “I’ll be back in the morning,” he repeated, throwing the duffel bag onto the floor of his closet.

  “We’ve had much worse fights than this—”

  Howard walked around the bed and past Melissa to the hallway. “I need to th
ink, Melissa.”

  “But shouldn’t you call to see if they even have a room? It’s the holiday,” she said, following him. “Where will you be? Where can I call you?”

  Howard was through the living room and breaking down the home stretch. “I’ll call you.”

  “Howard!” Melissa cried, voice ringing down the hall. “I don’t understand this! After eight years, suddenly you have to go to a hotel to think?”

  Opening the front door, “I’m upset.”

  “You’re always upset!”

  Howard rang for the elevator. Melissa stamped her foot in the doorway. “I demand you tell me what’s going on!”

  He sighed, looked over at her and said, “I’ll be back in the morning, when I’m calmer. And then we can talk. But not now. I can’t take this.”

  “Can’t take what?”

  “Melissa—don’t scream. Just calm down and I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll call you—” The elevator arrived.

  “When?”

  The doors closed and, on the strength of Howard’s earlier interest, the elevator man started talking about his family.

  “When?” echoed in Howard’s ears. Outside of bed, he didn’t think he had ever heard Melissa so close to tears.

  “Howard!” he heard for real, coming from the floors above.

  His hands were shaking; all of him was a-jitter. He wasn’t sure of what he had said. He wasn’t sure how he had actually got himself out of the apartment. But he had. He had. Because here he was, leaving.

  21

  AFTER THE RECEPTION

  PART 2: AMANDA

  He was the most affectionate man she had ever met.

  Amanda smiled when she thought about it, about how Howard clung to her, any part of her, at any time he could reach her. In his arms; holding her hand; brushing a strand of her hair with his lips; even his eyes clung to the sight of her from across the room.

  He made her happy. And she did not think it had to do with sex. She wanted to think it was sex; she had tried, those first two weeks, to rationalize what felt like her insane behavior—to welcome him, wait for him, at any time of the day or night.

  Except Mondays.

  That had been the first clue that “something” was happening between them, her horror at the thought of Howard coming to her on that day. Like the others. As if Howard was merely a replacement for Roger.

  Roger. The thought of him made Amanda feel ill. The thought of him, of herself with him, utterly repulsed her. After that first night with Howard something had closed in Amanda, like a tomb door, shutting away what appeared to be—looking back—a process of death. Christopher was behind that door too.

  But how could she fully accept what was happening to her? That everything that Howard said to her, every way that Howard touched her, seemed so new, different, wondrous? Had not men said to her many of the same things he said to her? Yes, they had. So why, coming from him, could she believe in them, remember them, mull over and savor them for hours after he had gone?

  Dr. Vanderkeaton said that Howard spoke the same language as Amanda. And what language was that? Amanda wanted to know. A broken heart finding regeneration, the good doctor had said. She had said a great deal more than that, but Amanda had not listened very closely, so taken was she with that casually offered insight.

  A broken heart finding regeneration.

  When Amanda was six, Tinker, watching her daughter dancing about on the lawn, had called her up to the veranda. Sitting Amanda in her lap, Tinker had rocked them both, and opened a book to show Amanda a photograph of Isadora Duncan caught in a supreme moment of grace. “My dearest angel,” Tinker had whispered, stopping the chair, kissing Amanda’s little hand and bringing it down to the photograph, “this is what you are like. This is your spirit and this is your laughter.”

  After a week with Howard, the Isadora of her childhood and young life had reappeared. Amanda did not think she was Isadora Duncan; but Amanda did feel like that photograph—spirit soaring, energy radiating, a burst of wonder at this splendid thing called life. She had laughed wildly, searching through her closets for Isadora’s things, and Howard had lain there, naked, across her bed on his stomach, watching as she dressed. And then he had laughed and laughed as she danced around the tower windows, and then Amanda had collapsed, out of breath, into his arms.

  Howard somehow seemed to know all there was to know about Amanda. It wasn’t just that he had recognized Isadora without aid from her, it was that he knew that Isadora was a part of Amanda, deep inside of her, that was being pried loose by him and was struggling to come out. Out in the open. And it was not just Isadora. There were others, many others.

  “You are going to have a wonderful day writing,” he had said, coming into the writing room, tying his tie before dashing to work. She had already been at her desk, writing longhand, with Missy the cat in her lap. He had leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Colette had that same ability to make reality the kingdom of her imagination.” Amanda had smiled at him but had inwardly trembled at how effortlessly he could read her. (Colette? How had he known? How? Because of the cat?)

  “Be careful,” Dr. Vanderkeaton had said, “be careful, Amanda.” But Amanda wasn’t being careful and was growing more fearful by the minute. Of Howard. Of this dear, handsome, brilliant man. Of this deeply affectionate, caring man. The man who had made her get her IUD removed because he worried about her health; the man who had collapsed in laughter over Amanda’s frustration with her new diaphragm; the man with whom she had not felt embarrassed when he said he would help her put it in.

  The man who had said, very businesslike over the phone to her, “Amanda, it is very important that you talk openly and honestly to Patricia MacMannis about your work. Your relationship with her, as writer and editor, doesn’t have, nor will it ever have, anything to do with me. It’s time for you to move ahead.”

  Be careful, be careful...

  Sigh.

  Amanda had never let a married man within four feet of her. She had never been able to get the image of Marco (and that towel) out of her head. It was with abject horror that she had viewed anyone who sought to interfere with a committed relationship. Long ago she had ceased to blame Marco for starting the problems in her marriage; and no longer did she blame Christopher or herself. But what she had not understood, not one iota, was how anyone could make love to someone they knew would be sleeping side by side with their mate that very night.

  And here she was having an affair with a married man. And did she care about Melissa? Frankly, no, she didn’t. Granted, the picture she had of her was through Howard’s eyes, no doubt distorted slightly in an effort to relieve his guilt (guilt, yes, he did have guilt, now that the initial thrill of derring—do was wearing off), but there were too many telltale signs not to know that Melissa was a woman whose heart did not work very well.

  “Be careful, Amanda, be careful...”

  “Of what?” Amanda had asked. “Because he’s married? He was young, very young—almost as young as I was when I married Christopher.” Silence. “What? What?”

  A sigh from Dr. Vanderkeaton. “He sounds like a wonderful man who genuinely cares for you, about you. But I would be careful, Amanda. I would be careful to find out what his reasons were for having endured the terms of such a marriage for so long. Particularly when he is as bright and attractive as you say.”

  “Because, because—he had to see it through.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...”

  “You say that he never loved her. You say that they have had virtually no sex life, ever. You say that he was reluctant to have a child with her. You say that he has always felt like a prop of hers. You say that he has been terribly lonely for years and years—”

  “Yes?”

  “And you say they lead a rather fast lifestyle—”

  Amanda had vaulted out of her chair, pacing the room. “I will finish it for you,” she said, angry. “You are going to tell me that the only reason w
hy Howard is having an affair with me is because I’m wealthy.”

  No. Dr. Vanderkeaton had not been going to say that. Why had Amanda?

  “Of course it has crossed my mind!” she had ranted. “How could it not after Christopher? Eight years and then me? Me?” She had burst into tears. “I understand now—you wonder how he could care for me. Why someone who is out there in the world, going places, doing things—how someone like that could care for such a hopeless wretch as myself!”

  “No, no, no...”

  “She goes to his business dinners and parties,” Amanda cried, “she travels with him, they have friends—what do I have to offer him, if not money? Sex. Of course, sex! It’s all that any of them have ever wanted from me, money or sex, why should he be different?”

  Poor Dr. Vanderkeaton had had her hands full. Why she wanted Amanda to be careful—she explained, patting Amanda’s back as she sobbed in her lap—was that Amanda was moving too fast, without thinking about the consequences, without thinking of how little she had to fall back on if it should end badly. Amanda had made wonderful progress, the doctor thought, but she wished Amanda could ease forward in her life and not plunge blindly into what might turn out to be an abyss.

  It did not help matters that Howard seemed eager to plunge into the abyss holding her hand, Amanda knew. And yet, that was what was happening. Today, at the Wyatts’, she had experienced the oddest sensation after Rosanne left them in the bedroom. She had felt as though Howard were drowning in the issue of Melissa and was turning to her to save him; Amanda had felt as though she were drowning in the emotions that Howard evoked from her, and she was turning to him to save her. Together, sitting there, she had thought about the odds of two drowning people saving each other.

  Who was she to help him? What did she know about marriage? What did she know about book publishing? And yet he talked and talked and talked to her about his problems, his torture in regard to both, as if he expected her to know what to do. What on earth could she tell him? She whose marriage had been a farce, she who had never had a job in her life, she who had all but dropped out of the world altogether?