June

by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore

  Cassie spent the evening with Elda and a bottle of Jack. The more she drank, the less she cared about being left out of Nick and Tate’s confidence, and the question of Jack and June’s affair, and the house falling to pieces around her. Elda had good stories and she sure knew how to pose. Cassie shot off two rolls of film even though the light was terrible, because she knew, from the way Elda lit up her tall tales, that her charisma would illuminate the pictures. There was that time Elda rode a white stallion into Studio 54. And that other time she and Jack had played a fabulous practical joke on Candice Bergen’s family (it involved two pigs set loose at Bella Vista, the family compound; the pigs were painted with the numbers “one” and “three”). The time she’d gotten high in the bathroom of the Concorde and woken up wearing a clown costume in Istanbul, with no memory of how she’d gotten there. But when Cassie asked casually, from behind the lens, if Elda could remember anything about the summer Jack had spent in St. Jude, the older woman shrugged and equivocated, and the optimistic sheen that had spread over them, as darkness smudged the windows, dulled.

  At the westernmost border of the eastern time zone, St. Jude stayed light until ten on a midsummer’s night. Cassie waited until darkness to brush her teeth, feeling a dull headache throb into the spot where her buzz had so recently been. The moon was bright and a breeze tickled in the window as she tried to feel where, exactly, Nick was in the house at that moment, as though Two Oaks was an extension of her body, with nerve endings and cilia, and she could feel the weight and movement of him inside her. Then she did her best to pretend that wasn’t what she was doing, because the thought of feeling him inside her—just the phrase of it—almost made her want to pass out in a desperate, embarrassing way.

  She was shuffling back across the wide upper hallway toward her bedroom when, suddenly, Tate’s door opened. “Can I talk to you?” Tate looked left and right like a spy; it was endearing to see how eager she was to get Cassie alone.

  But once Cassie was inside Tate’s inner sanctum, the woman busied herself in front of the marble sink. The number of serums and oils in tiny white bottles and jars was dizzying. Each had a specific and vital part to play in Tate’s bedtime regimen. She was wearing white loungewear—cotton and silk, draped and billowing. Her hair, even after a long day, fell just so around her shoulders. Her toes were perfect little pebbles lined up on the wood floor, her wrists slender and long, her earlobes the size of a gentle peck on the cheek.

  The movie star had been respectful of June’s belongings. None of the old woman’s knickknacks had been moved; the Jackson Pollock postcard—blank, Cassie’d checked—was still propped on the mantelpiece, beside a framed black-and-white photograph of a young June with a bundled baby—Cassie assumed it was her dad—in her arms. Next to that sat a snapshot of a six-year-old Cassie between her parents, all three of them grinning, which Cassie could hardly bear to look at. She allowed her eyes to skim over it now. Did her young father have Jack Montgomery’s nose? His eyebrows? His mouth? All she could see was her dad, the dad she missed.

  June’s modest belongings had accommodated the much larger collection Tate had brought from home: two dozen framed snapshots of a French bulldog standing in front of international monuments, including the Lincoln Memorial, the Eiffel Tower, and an Egyptian pyramid. Cassie picked up one taken in front of the Taj Mahal, realizing the frame was, in fact, silver, instead of the silverish metal of the frames regular folks bought at T.J. Maxx.

  “Not one of them is Photoshopped.” Tate’s clean finger tapped at the glass. “That’s my Benny boy. I bring him everywhere.”

  “Not to St. Jude.” Cassie settled the picture back into its spot, wondering if Tate really lugged these everywhere—that seemed more like Hank’s handiwork.

  “Well, we didn’t exactly know we’d be staying so long. Anyway, he’s safe with Daddy.” Cassie watched Tate’s eyes trail over the last picture atop the mantel, a snapshot of Benny the bulldog between Tate and Max in front of the Great Wall of China. The humans were wearing baseball caps and sweatshirts, trying to look like a normal couple, but the effect, with their perfect skin and glowing smiles, was that of gods playing at mortality.

  Cassie pointed her chin toward Max. “What’s he like?” She figured she deserved a bit of gossip, if only getting to see how Tate would react.

  Tate considered the question evenly. “He works harder than anyone I know. You know, Aloysius started in his dad’s garage in Burbank.” She smiled brightly. “Oh! Funny story—did you know that was the name of Daddy’s character in Erie Canal?”

  Cassie shook her head.

  “Well, Max didn’t exactly name the band after him, I mean, Max loved what the name evoked—manliness, America—but I also happen to know the band wasn’t officially called Aloysius until he met me.” She beamed. “Anyway, Max came from practically nothing and worked his way up and now he’s the lead singer of the most famous band in the world.”

  “Yes, but what’s he like?”

  Tate flopped down onto the bed. “Smart. Funny. Sexy. Kind.” She hesitated over that last word, and sucked in a raggedy breath. Then her face melted into something real and sad. “When he wants to be, he is very, very kind.”

  Cassie thought she’d seen Tate cry on that first day she’d come to Two Oaks—really cry—but in the face of what was happening before her, she wasn’t so sure. This was something else entirely. This was being ravaged by an onslaught of sobs, turning ugly, making sounds you wouldn’t ever want another soul to hear. Watching immaculate Tate dissolve into this devastation was like witnessing a statue crack open to discover a slimy creature writhing inside. It wasn’t that it felt satisfying, exactly, just that Cassie couldn’t help but feel triumphant that she’d finally gotten to something true.

  She found herself muttering unhelpful clichés: “It’s okay. Just let it out.” Tate’s tangible sorrow didn’t feel this honest in any of the movies in which people she supposedly loved had died of cancer or had left her on the tarmac and gone back to their wives, which meant she was a much better actor than even Cassie had known; she had, apparently, made up a palatable version of sorrow that seemed real and yet had nothing on this. This anguish, the actual kind, went fathoms deep.

  Cassie had started to wonder if she should leave Tate alone when Tate rasped three words. She was huddled on the bed by then, and Cassie had to lean over her red, wet face to understand. Tate repeated the three words—“He left me”—and then dissolved again.

  Cassie warmed a washcloth. How had it come to be that she, of all people in the whole entire world, was being confided in by Tate Montgomery, America’s Sweetheart, about the end of her marriage? It was not a scenario Cassie would have believed even five days before, and, yet, here Tate was, letting Cassie mop her brow, drinking from the proffered glass of water, thanking Cassie once she’d gathered herself together. Cassie felt infinite in her own kindness, proud in the way she had on the day Tate had first wept—or seemed to weep—over the loss of her parents’ love story.

  “I’m sorry,” Tate mumbled with her stringy mouth. She dabbed at her reddened eyes and pulled herself up against the headboard. “It’s so embarrassing.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” Cassie said, spreading out across the bed. Tate tossed her a pillow. “I mean, it is a big deal, obviously. I’m so sorry to hear you and Max are separating. You can cry. You should cry.”

  Tate balled the tissue and nodded as her tears welled up. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Isn’t that stupid? He’s in the house in Malibu so I can’t go to L.A. The apartment in New York is under construction. And if I check into a hotel, the paparazzi will smell it all over me. Oh god, what am I going to do?”

  Cassie let Tate sob again for a bit, then said, “You’ll stay here.”

  Tate covered her face with her hands and shook her head vehemently; she was still wearing her giant diamond. “You’re too nice.”

  “I’m not very nice.”

  This made Tate laugh and cry at t
he same time.

  “Anyway, we’re family, right?” Cassie said. “Hank might have to turn the volume down on the quinoa/yoga thing though.”

  “Oh god,” Tate cackled. “She’s the worst. Most of the time I want to wring her little neck.”

  Cassie felt momentary pity for Hank. But she also knew slamming the girl would bring Tate closer. “Doesn’t it hurt her face to smile that much?”

  “She smiles like that because I treat her like gold. She worked for some real bitches before she came to me. I said, ‘You don’t have to kiss my ass, honey, but it’ll get you a raise.’ Isn’t that horrible? Most days I want to kick in her teeth, but if she wasn’t so damn perky I’d fire her.” Tate shook her head and muttered, “It’s her job to pretend I shit rainbows, and I know it, and I still believe her when she says I do.”

  Cassie wondered if Hank was in her bedroom right next door, and how much their voices were carrying. Ah well, if Cassie knew her at all, she’d bet Hank would smile and say, “It’s my job to take Tate’s abuse!” And then she’d rah or cheer or something.

  “Can I ask you a favor?” Tate asked.

  “Tate, as far as I’m concerned, you can stay as long as you need.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Tate said, as though they’d already gotten past that point. “Could you take my picture?”

  “Sure,” Cassie said, confused. She’d already taken Tate’s picture a dozen times over the last few days. But then she realized what Tate was asking. “What, now?”

  Tate smiled ruefully. “I know it sounds crazy. I just don’t have any pictures of what he does to me. I want to remember, so that when he begs me to come back, I can look at this night and see how destroyed I am. Anyway, I trust you. I need to trust a photographer to give her something real.”

  Cassie obliged, because of course she couldn’t resist capturing this golden goddess on film, at her most vulnerable, broken on a bed, tearstained and messy. She got her camera. Back behind Tate’s closed door, she shot off a whole roll, easy. Then Tate thanked her in her imperial way and Cassie knew she was done. Out Tate’s window, the clouds closed over the moon.

  Tate’s chin dipped, so she was looking up at Cassie with those liquid eyes. “You really mean I can stay?”

  Cassie nodded. “Even after we do the DNA test. Whatever it shows.”

  Tate put her hand over her heart, like a prima ballerina moved by a standing ovation. “Thank you.”

  Cassie wanted to hug her but the urge felt a touch needy, and Tate wasn’t making any move toward it, so she just said, “Good night,” and made her way for the door.

  “One more favor?” Tate asked, as Cassie’s hand alighted on the doorknob.

  “Sure.”

  “Try not to distract Nick?” Cassie made every effort not to betray emotion at the mention of his name. “I need him focused right now. I’m the one paying him. I know it’s purely physical for you guys—he’s made that clear to me—so if that’s all you want, awesome; sex can really center a man. Just don’t get too attached.” Tate shrugged and offered an adorable smile. “Keep it up as long as it’s fun!”

  Cassie’s limbs had grown numb, her mouth like cotton. Nick had told Tate their attraction was purely physical? And clearly that wasn’t all he’d told her; he was sharing all sorts of intimate details. She felt betrayed, undone, but all she could muster was a chipper “Of course.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. I love how honest we can be with each other.”

  “Yeah,” Cassie said, opening the door, “me too.”

  “And let me know how I can repay the favor,” Tate said, her voice carrying out into the hallway. “Elda’s such a bitch sometimes, and I know Hank’s impossible. This is your home. If you want them gone, just say the word.”

  “No,” Cassie said automatically, turning back to glimpse Tate on her grandmother’s bed. “No, of course they should stay.” She closed the door and listened for signs of life, but the rest of the house had bedded down.

  Cassie bumped into Hank in the hallway the next morning, or maybe it wasn’t an accident after all. Hank was superperky, of course, and dressed like Fitness Barbie, and she just wanted to go over a list of improvements for Two Oaks.

  “Improvements?” Cassie croaked.

  “The plumbing, the oven, the ant infestation in the dining room.” Her nose wrinkled. “And Nick said the roof needs repair.”

  Cassie felt a wave of exasperation. She’d hardly slept, going over and over her conversation with Tate the night before; she really didn’t have much patience for Hank’s OCD. She held out her hand for the list, which was sixteen items long. Hank had cross-referenced it, with multiple price quotes from different service providers. The damn thing was color-coded.

  “I can take care of this,” Cassie mumbled. It was too early in the morning to do anything but lie.

  “Oh.” Hank shook her head quickly, the way one might rattle a toaster on the fritz. “Oh. No—Tate asked me to do it. Then you don’t have to worry! She’ll pay! We don’t want this to turn into a construction zone, but we do want to make it livable!”

  “It’s livable. I live here,” Cassie growled, crumpling the list into her pajama pocket.

  Hank offered a panicked smile, eyed Cassie’s pocket, apparently decided it would be impossible to steal the list back, and darted toward the back hall.

  Cassie harrumphed into the bathroom, ignoring the half-closed door until she discovered Nick flossing.

  He was just about the last person she wanted to see. “You floss in the morning?” she asked grumpily, to hide the way her stomach lurched at the sight of how achingly cute he looked caught off guard; his hair was tousled, and he was wearing a plaid pajama set she couldn’t help wondering if his mom had picked out.

  “You don’t floss in the morning?” he asked.

  She sidled up beside him and squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. “I don’t floss. Period.”

  He raised his eyebrows in the mirror but didn’t say anything.

  “God,” she said, “Hank’s on a crazy rampage to get everything fixed.”

  He kept flossing.

  “I mean, I get it, the place is a little funky, but it’s a hundred-and-twenty-year-old house. There are going to be quirks.”

  Nick cleared his throat.

  “What?”

  He caught her expression in the mirror and shook his head.

  “What?” she pressed.

  “I’m concerned about that roof. A big rainstorm and you could have some serious water damage.”

  She started to brush her teeth with more vehemence than usual, but it felt good and it kept her from being mean. This was what drove her crazy about these people—thinking they knew better. From his expression, she knew he had no idea he was out of line.

  She spat.

  “Is something wrong?” he garbled, flossing at his molars, hands wedged up inside his mouth.

  “I have to pee,” she blurted.

  “Sure.” He went toward the door.

  “And just because Max is leaving Tate, and she doesn’t have any place to stay, doesn’t mean I have to change everything for you people. This is still my house, you know.”

  He closed the bathroom door and whispered, “How do you know about Max and Tate?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “She told me.”

  Then he was pacing, running his hands through his hair. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  “Who am I going to tell?” she cried. Apparently he didn’t care a lick about anything but Tate’s marital crisis, because he just opened the door and started out.

  “Where are you going?” Cassie was just getting started.

  But he looked at her, and frowned. “You have to pee.” And then he closed the door and left her alone.

  So Cassie escaped. For one harebrained moment, she considered climbing out the bathroom window, onto the top of the overhang above the driveway, and down one of the columns that held it up. But she was a grown woman. And this was her house. This was h
er life, dammit, and she could go anywhere she wanted. She got dressed and made it out the front door without any of them noticing, which didn’t exactly feel like the victory she’d expected it to. She didn’t leave a note, but she did take a picture of her house from the outside, and decided to title it “Filled with Lunatics.”

  On her way past the house across the side lawn, she noticed her elderly neighbor peeking from between the blinds. Cassie lifted her camera and snapped away. Her stomach growled, but Illy’s wouldn’t be open until lunch. She rummaged in her canvas shoulder bag. She came up with half a squashed Snickers, which would have to do for now.

  Cassie took the bridge over the sludgy canal that cut through Montgomery Square, then walked under the graffiti-covered rotunda where teenagers liked to smoke and outswear each other on the deadly slow St. Judian afternoons. Chip bags tossed like tumbleweed across the patchy grass. Cassie counted crumpled cans of beer to avoid thinking about the last time she’d been there, with Nick. She snapped shots of the old fire station and Memorial High, then doubled back through to the western edge of the square, having settled on a destination.

  —

  The elderly librarian was seated alone behind a counter, her nose in a Kate Atkinson novel. Linoleum counters surrounded her on three sides, stacked with hardcovers swathed in those plastic sleeves Cassie knew would crinkle under her touch. The woman wore a blue cardigan, and with good reason—the AC was humming a Freon tune in time to the flicker of a fluorescent bulb.

  She looked so shocked when she noticed Cassie standing there that she nearly fell off her seat. She clutched the keys hanging around her neck with her knobbed knuckles and declared, “You must be Cassandra Danvers.”

  “You recognize me?”

  “You only look just like your grandmother June.”

  “You think?” The library was deserted, save for an old man making photocopies over by the drinking fountain; Cassie wanted to wave to him and shout, “She thinks I look just like my grandmother!” She was flushed with a sudden longing for June’s physical self—for her cold, small hands, and the silver hair at her temples, for the dry rasp of her lips when she kissed you.