Winston Claridge’s secretary showed Howard right in.
Daddy looked like he always looked. And being in an attorney’s office did not faze him at all—a cigar was stuffed in one cheek, and a glass of bourbon was in one hand, and Howard was quite sure the swizzle stick in it had come from his pocket.
“I’m sorry to see you under such painful circumstances,” Howard murmured.
“Painful?” Collins said, dropping into the chair with a loud wooshing noise from the cushion. “Hell, I’m celebrating.”
Melissa looked wonderful. Howard had no doubt that she had carefully planned and orchestrated her appearance for his benefit. She said, “Hello, Howard,” extending her hand to him as though she expected him to kiss it. He did not. But he did see that her engagement and wedding ring were gone.
She saw that he saw and she smiled.
Winston got right to it, summarizing the content of the stack of papers before him that Howard assumed was his divorce. “Drink, Stewart?” Collins asked, getting up to reveal a small bar in one of Winston’s cabinets.
“No—wait, yes,” he said.
“Mr. Collins gave you and Melissa, on your wedding day, a joint gift of two hundred shares of IBM stock—” Winston was saying.
“It all goes to Melissa,” Howard interrupted. Winston looked to Melissa, who nodded, and he read on. Apartment, car, furnishings, bank accounts... all to Melissa. Collins gave Howard warm bourbon, which Howard drank down in two gulps.
“I’m glad you’re being a man about this,” Collins said, puffing smoke in his face.
The grounds for divorce were irreconcilable differences. Right, Howard nodded, experiencing some difficulty in breathing—and not because of Daddy’s smoke.
Winston pushed an envelope across his desk toward Howard, mumbling something about “rings.”
“What?”Howard asked, trying to snap to attention.
“You may have the engagement and wedding ring.”
Howard looked to Melissa.
“Take them, Howard,” she said.
Howard, blinking rapidly, folded his arms and stared at Winston.
And then they came to Howard’s great-grandmother Mills’s diamond watch, which Winston said Melissa would return to him.
“No,” Howard said, jumping up from his chair. He spun around, his back to the three, and shoved his hands in his pockets. After a moment he turned around, sighed, and said, “I gave it to her because I wanted her to have it. Just because we—” He looked at Melissa. “I want you to have something from me. It wasn’t all bad, you know.”
Melissa thought a minute and then turned to Winston. “Take out the Rolex then. I’d like Howard to keep it.”
She had been going to take his watch?
Winston fussed with a ruler for so long that Melissa finally got up, snapped the pen out of his hand, and slashed the line out of the agreement herself. She threw the pen down. “Neatness is not the issue here,” she said, going back to her seat.
Howard bit his lip to keep from laughing.
Melissa’s eye caught his and she almost laughed too. She gave a little sigh then, still looking at Howard, and smiled—smiled in a way Howard hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
Please don’t be nice, he thought.
They got through everything else. Winston said he would send a copy of the papers to Howard’s lawyer—. “No, I’ll sign them now,” Howard said, walking up to his desk.
“Howard,” Winston said, taking off his glasses, “you can’t just—”
“No alimony, right?”
“Correct. “
“No alimony to me, right?”
“Correct. “
“We’ve settled the property, right?”Winston nodded. “So when I sign this, everything’s settled, right?”
“You still should at least—”
Howard went ahead and signed the papers. While he was signing the last one, Collins let out a belly laugh.
“What?”Howard asked him, handing Winston his pen back.
“Look for yourself,” Collins said.
Howard turned to Melissa. She smiled. And she raised her hand. “I’m glad I could put it back on before Stephen got here. He would be very angry if he saw I wasn’t wearing it.”
A diamond. The size of...
Collins threw his head back and roared.
Howard’s throat caught. He coughed. He swallowed. “Congratulations, Melissa,” he said, making for the door.
“Howard,” Winston called out. He waved the envelope containing the rings. Howard walked back and took it from him. Turning, he glanced down at Melissa. She was not smiling now.
Howard went to the door and as he opened it Collins said, “Don’t, little girl. He was always a bum, that guy.”
Howard carefully closed the door behind him.
37
CASSY’S SATURDAY NIGHT
Cassy tossed her keys into the silver bowl, dropped her purse on the front hall chair, and looked at herself in the mirror. There was no denying it, she thought, touching the comer of her mouth. She was looking younger these days.
She went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water from the refrigerator, and leaned against the counter, drinking it. Ten minutes after two. She smiled. It was late, very late, and she was tired.
But what a nice kind of tired.
If people had told her that she was capable of having an affair with a woman, she would have told them they were out of their minds. If people had told her that she was capable of having an affair—period—she would have told them they were out of their minds. All right, so Cassy was out of her mind, but why wasn’t she feeling guilty?
Well, maybe she did, with Henry—but did she really?
No.
Perhaps it was because it felt so safe, that Alexandra felt so safe. To Alexandra, secrecy was everything. And too, she made so few demands on Cassy—mainly because she herself was in no position to fulfill any more than those which she had already demonstrated she could. But shouldn’t Cassy be feeling guilty toward Alexandra? Surely this affair couldn’t be good for her, not with all that was attached to it.
But then, Cassy thought, who else could Alexandra have an affair with? Alexandra didn’t have time for a real lover. Her commitment to her work discounted any chance of a full-time relationship—at least Cassy’s concept of one.
That was what had come between Alexandra and her “friend” Lisa, Alexandra had told Cassy. And before Lisa, her fiance Tyler, and before Tyler, Gordon. That all of them had ultimately declared that they would have been better off falling in love with the Invisible Woman—then at least they would have known, from the beginning, that she was invisible, and would have been spared the hours, weeks and months of waiting for somebody who never materialized.
Cassy went back to Henry’s room and peeked in the door. Skipper was snoring away in the far bed. He too, over the summer, had grown so much. (He snored like a man now.) Henry was sleeping peacefully, curled up on his side, his long arms wrapped around a pillow. She leaned over to kiss him but didn’t. His breath was slow, even, and she hung there a moment, listening, trying to regulate her breathing to his. No, too slow. She touched his hair and he stirred slightly; she retreated from the bedroom and closed the door.
She went into the guest room and, after a moment, pulled the subway poster of Alexandra out from behind the dresser and leaned it against the wall. She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at it.
It was still so hard to believe.
What did all this mean? Was she falling in love with this girl? A mere girl who knew nothing about commitment, about marriage, about stretch marks and staying up all night to watch over a sick child? Alexandra knew nothing of pain, Cassy was pretty sure. She kept searching for it in Alexandra—the damaged part, the area beaten and dented and frayed from living—but Cassy couldn’t find it.
No. Cassy did not think she could fall in love with someone like that. Man or woman.
But she co
uld fall and had fallen in love with this idea of someone being in love with her. Someone who could look at the wreck and see something worth reaching for, salvaging... Saving. That was what Alexandra had done. Saved whatever small pockets of joy Cassy had managed to hold onto over the years.
Tonight, when she arrived, Alexandra had been in the middle of cooking dinner. That in itself seemed slightly wondrous to Cassy. When had anyone ever cooked dinner to please her? (No wonder men like wives, she had thought, eating the piece of veal Alexandra held up to her mouth.) Cassy had been rather wound up and, over dinner, had found herself talking about anything and everything that was in her head (Henry, Michael and WST) and Alexandra had listened, nodded, smiled, laughed and murmured reassurances. And at one point-stopping talking long enough to eat-Cassy had looked at Alexandra and had had the most remarkable thought. I am happy. I am so very happy right now.
After dinner they had changed. (That was another wonder to Cassy. Going to the closet and pulling out a nightgown and negligee that she would have chosen for herself had she bought them. But Alexandra had bought them. For her.) And then they had gone into the living room, put in a video cassette—what had it been? Carole Lombard had been in it—and they had turned out the lights.
Was that the best part of the evening, the movie?
Close, she thought, smiling, but no. Alexandra had sat up against the end of the couch and Cassy had nestled back in between her legs to receive what had felt like the world’s most wonderful massage ever. Her shoulders. Her arms. Her back. Her neck—ohhh, her neck was always so stiff these days. Her head. Her temples. Under her eyes. Even her hands. An hour. One full hour Alexandra had given her of this.
No wonder she couldn’t remember what the movie had been.
And then, after the movie was over, they had gone to bed. Cassy smiled again to herself, thinking of this. The thoughts vaguely triggered off other things as well. She could feel them. Inside.
What surprised Cassy more than anything else about this whole affair was just how much she enjoyed making love to Alexandra. She almost liked it more than when Alexandra touched her. (Almost.) Looking at the subway poster in front of her, she shook her head. Alexandra’s composure, her confidence, her poise—everything about her was in such control. And from that first night they had been together, Cassy had wondered at the power she possessed that could so obviously, completely undo Alexandra. God, it was thrilling, stripping Alexandra of that control, slowly taking it away from her and then using it as her own. Over her.
It was wondrous. All of it. The laughter and the warmth and the comfort and—yes, admit it, Cassy, admit it, the sex is a miracle; Alexandra probably invented sex; okay, I admit it, the sex is great, so can we move on now?—the trust and the closeness and... Cassy sighed and moved Alexandra back behind the dresser. She was talking herself into something she knew she didn’t want to talk herself into. In her room, on her pillow, was a note from Henry:
Mom,
Dad called around 12:30. He didn’t sound very good. He’s in the Hotel Wynne and wants you to call him. I told him you’d be out very late and he said he didn’t care what time it was—call him when you get in. No matter how late.
“But, Daddy,” Cassy whispered in the dark, standing on the porch stairs, “Mommy said she’ll never speak to you again.”
Henry Littlefield laughed. “Don’t worry, Princess,” he said, rubbing the top of her head. “Your mother will forgive your old man.”
“I’m not mad at you, “Cassy said, hugging her father around the waist.
“Because you know how much I love you, he said, picking her up. “Don’t you, Cassy? Know how much I love you?”
Cassy dialed the Hotel Wynne and asked for Room 212. Was she imagining it, or did the hotel operator hesitate before putting her through? The phone rang seven times before it was picked up—and dropped. At last a voice—Michael’s voice?—said, “Yeah.”
“Michael? Michael, it’s Cassy.”
“Yeah.” Vague, confused. And then, “Cassy? Cassy?”
“Yes, Michael. It’s Cassy.”
A low whimper. “Cass, I’m sick. I’m so sick.”
“Michael?”
He started to cry. “I need you. I’m so sick.” A second whimper. “I need...”
“Do you want me to come get you?”
“Help me. I’m so sick. Cassy? Cassy?” “I’m here, Michael.” “I thought you hung up.”
“I’m still here, Michael.” She looked at the clock. “Michael, stay there, in your room—I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Cassy? Cassy?”
“Michael, I’m coming.”
“Will you come?”
“Michael, I’m coming! I have to get off now so I can get there. It’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Will you come?”
“Michael, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Just stay in bed until I get there.”
She went to the kitchen and scribbled a note to Henry in case he awakened. She grabbed her purse, picked up her keys, opened the front door and stopped—
Don’t go alone. They said not to go alone.
Who the hell am I going to call at three in the morning?
Alexandra? No.
Henry—no, no, no.
Sam.
He’ll be sound asleep.
She started through the door again, and stopped again. She rubbed her eyes. She sighed and closed her eyes a moment. And then she went back to the kitchen and called Sam.
No, he was glad she called—what was up? He did? The Wynne? No, she had done the right thing. Yes. He’d dress and pick her up in the lobby of her building in fifteen minutes.
Cassy sat in the lobby, listening to the tock of the grandfather clock, watching the front door. The doorman was sitting in a chair across the lobby, listening to his Walkman and reading a copy of the Racing Form, occasionally glancing up at Cassy.
“I’ve got a child in the house!” Catherine Littlefield screamed into the telephone. He can’t go running all over town after him.” Cassy stood by the kitchen door, listening, shivering in her nightgown. “Then go ahead and lock him up!” She slammed the phone down and buried her head in her hands.
“Is Daddy all right?” Cassy asked.
Catherine’s head jerked up. “That’s right—go ahead—be concerned about your father! You don’t give a damn about me, do you? Do you, Cassy?” She jumped up from the chair, sending it crashing back onto the floor. “Answer me! You love your father more than me, don’t you?”
“I love you, Mommy.”
“No one loves me!” Catherine wailed, throwing herself against the wall.
Sam arrived and the two of them walked up to West End Avenue to find a cab. The driver they got insisted on expounding his views about Fidel Castro and Cuba, and Sam conversed with him while Cassy stared out the window. When she pressed her forehead against the glass, Sam took her hand.
“Dr. and Mrs. Daley drove them from the church to the cemetery in their big blue Cadillac.
“He looked so good,” Mrs. Daley said to Catherine, looking back at her from the front seat.
“Just like when I first met him,” Catherine said, adjusting her hat. “Oh, Cassy, look at the front of your dress. “Catherine pulled a handkerchief from her purse and started wiping at it.
Cassy, with a low moan, turned away from her mother, pressing her forehead against the glass. “Daddy,” she screamed in her mind, “you can’t leave me here!”
“The child’s upset, Catherine,” Mrs. Daley said.
“And I’m not? Here I am, left all alone, with a child to support...”
The lights of Lincoln Center flew by Cassy’s eyes and then the cab slowed to a stop. Sam paid the driver, reached over Cassy to open her door, and held her elbow from behind as she got out. Out on the sidewalk, he took her arm. “You okay?” She nodded and they went into the lobby of the hotel.
Sam looked around and then asked the bellboy how to get to Room 212.
&
nbsp; The bellboy exchanged looks with the desk clerk. “He wants to know about two-one-two,” he said.
The clerk asked Sam to step over to the desk for a word in private. Sam left Cassy there and walked over to the desk. They talked for a minute and then Sam came back, with a key. “This way,” he said, steering her to the elevator. “He’s been here for four days. They’ve been worried about him, but didn’t know who to call.”
The elevator stopped at 2 and they got out.
“Whatever happens,” Sam said to her, “just remember that this could be the start of the road back.” Cassy nodded, swallowing, looking at room numbers. They found Room 212. Sam knocked. No answer. He knocked again. There was a sound—a voice—something.
“Michael?”Cassy called. “Michael, it’s me. It’s Cassy.”
Silence.
Sam inserted the key and opened the door a crack. The smell of vomit hit their nostrils. Sam poked his head in. “Okay,” he said under his breath, opening the door. Cassy covered her mouth with her hand.
Michael was lying across one of the twin beds, his clothes and the bedclothes stained with...
The bedside lamp was on its side; there were trays and dishes with half eaten food on the dresser and floor. Empty bottles, dirty glasses, a newspaper torn to shreds...
Michael’s eyes opened a crack. And then they flew open. He struggled to sit up, struggled to see. “I told him I didn’t have to sit in the press box,” he mumbled, head rolling back. He started to slip over the side of the bed and Sam lunged to catch him.
“It’s okay, Cochran,” he said, pulling him upright. “Cassy, clear that stuff off the other bed.”
Cassy let go of the door and did as she was told.
“I forgot the way,” Michael slurred to Sam, trying to keep his eyes open. “I thought it was on the other side.”
“Okay, here we go, we’re going to move over here,” Sam said, pulling Michael upon his feet and half carrying him to the other bed. “Just lie back. That’s it.” Over his shoulder to Cassy, “Get a wet washcloth.”
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