Mourning Becomes Cassandra

by Christina Dudley

  She didn’t appear to be listening, but she came toward me languidly. “You’re Cass, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I heard your roommate just now telling someone else that you were a widow.” Crap! Maybe I should just get on the Palace’s fancy intercom system with a Public Service Announcement. The dishes rang and clanked as I loaded them with unnecessary force.

  “So you lost your husband.”

  Hence the term ‘widow,’ I thought sarcastically. And I’ve lost a child, too, but who’s counting? “Yes,” I said warily.

  “That’s so sad.”

  Tell me about it. I took a deep breath to steady myself. For Pete’s sake, Cass, she’s only trying to express sympathy, and you treat her like she’s somehow responsible!

  She laid her plate on the counter. “At least…at least you’ve had a husband. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married, at this rate. All my friends are getting married.”

  I almost laughed with relief. Self-absorption has its benefits, and I pounced on this opportunity to change the subject. “Of course you will, Missy. You’re absolutely beautiful and—and—friendly. I’m not sure guys like Daniel are going to be your ticket out of singleness, however.”

  Missy flipped her long hair back impatiently. “He’s hard to read. He seems to like me sometimes. I thought we had a great time last weekend, and then he didn’t even call me until today. And he went and invited those other friends, and his sister keeps hanging around his neck, and he doesn’t even seem to be trying to be with me.” She glared at me as if challenging me to deny any of this.

  “Like I said, he may not be marriage material. He’s just to…have fun with…” I petered out awkwardly.

  Her eyes flashed. “And he is fun, that way. I just thought it meant something more to him. I mean, last weekend—”

  Before she could give me the gory details, the door opened again: Joanie and Roy, carrying stacks of dishes, followed by Phyl with her pile of Portmeirion. Having no paper plates is fine for a small dinner party, but tonight’s surprise turnout had taxed even the china resources of our combined households. As it was, a few of the guests were eating off Phyl’s Christmas plates because my stoneware was boxed in the attic.

  It must have struck Missy that, with Joanie inside, Daniel was now wide open to the brunette’s advances; hurriedly she sloshed herself another glass of Chardonnay and went back outside.

  “Your brother knows some interesting people,” Roy began conversationally. He was drying dishes for Joanie. “Had you met any of them before?”

  “Some. The Collins’. Missy, of course. That guy Tom who was trying to hit on Phyl.”

  “I think he’s married,” said Phyl. She was carefully wrapping up leftovers and rinsing the clamshell containers.

  “He is,” said Joanie succinctly. “But always on the prowl—kind of like your dear ex.”

  • • •

  By the time dinner and the dishes wrapped up, it was already nine o’clock, and a significant portion of people took their leave. Rock Band was up next on the agenda, but with so many people wanting to play, everyone would spend a fair amount of time rotated out. Phyl and I seemed to be the only ones not interested, so we decided on a game of Scrabble. Dashing upstairs for my board, I came upon a couple making out on my bed, still clothed, thank heavens. Mortifying. Grabbing the game box, I made apologetic sounds, while they scrambled up and out, never to be seen again.

  Joanie was getting things underway when I got back downstairs. Not for nothing did she work in the church worship department; with her voice and talent for mimicry, she distracted Roy constantly from his own screen prompts.

  After opening up the next set of songs, Joanie handed off to Missy and came to check out the Scrabble progress, but Missy’s performance made concentration difficult. She was making up for her weaker voice quite effectively by adding plenty of hip gyrations and general booty shaking.

  “If I tried that, it would be pure comedy,” I observed, as Missy cavorted about, getting in Daniel’s face.

  “Oh, yeah, you gotta have at least D cups to pull off that move,” agreed Joanie.

  “Don’t you think you could get away with it with only C cups?” I asked. “It’s all about distance and perspective. See, if you got right up in someone’s face like that, D cups become superfluous.”

  “Hell, at that distance, A cups would do you!” Joanie hooted.

  Phyl eyed our snickering with soft reproach. “Stop it, you two. It’s catty.”

  “I’m marveling at her skill,” I sputtered mock-defensively, “Anthropologically speaking, that girl will get to pass on her genes. She’s sure got Daniel’s attention now.” He was leaning over to kiss her, the most notice Missy had gotten from him all evening.

  “She is pretty,” Phyl sighed. “Usually everyone’s avatar looks way better than they do, but I think she wins hands-down.” She lay down her four-tile overlap, blocking my way to the triple-word score.

  “Darn you, Phyl!” I groused. “I had a million-pointer to put there. Yeah, most people’s avatars look way better because most people are solid Tier Two.”

  “Tier Two?” asked Phyl.

  I nodded, explaining Troy’s theory. “And Daniel and Missy are definitely Tier One—as is Joanie, for that matter. I’d put you at High Tier Two and me at solid Middle Tier Two. In fact I don’t think there are any Tier Three people here tonight, since most people make it into Tier Two. Tier Three people have to have some overwhelming flaw, like limbs eaten away by MRSA.”

  “Or like the guy at the billiards place who tried to hit on me but didn’t have any arms,” put in Joanie.

  “What was he doing at a billiards place, then?” I laughed. “He should have played to his strengths and done soccer.”

  “Or hurdles.”

  “Or hackysack.”

  “Or limbo.”

  “Or luge.”

  We were rolling around cackling by now, and even Phyl’s disapproving mouth was twitching. “If you two are this way on one margarita, we might need to make these open houses dry.”

  Sometime later, Daniel and Missy were rotated out. Daniel came over to check out our game board, and I could almost hear Missy’s irritated huff. She began running her fingers up and down his back, without measurable results.

  “Who put down ‘bastard’?” he asked.

  “Cass, of course!” said Phyl, deprecatingly. “Ordinarily I try to keep it clean. She could have played off my ‘d’ and made ‘dastard,’ but she couldn’t resist. ”

  “That would’ve opened a triple-letter for you,” I defended. “And ‘bastard’ being a totally legitimate word, so to speak, there was no reason to pass up a bingo opportunity.”

  “What’s a bingo?” asked Daniel.

  “When you play all seven letters in one turn,” I explained. “You get fifty bonus points. That little ‘bastard’ is the whole reason I’m trouncing Phyl.”

  “You should play with us some time,” Phyl coaxed. “And you too, of course, Missy,” she added belatedly. “We always try to get Joanie to play, but she says she can’t spell.”

  Missy shrugged noncommittally, but Daniel said, “I’d like to. I think I know at least as many bad words as Cass.”

  He actually winked at me when he said this, which goaded me into replying, “Oh I’m sure you could teach us all something about bastards.” Expecting him to be affronted, his quick grin surprised me. Phyl looked ready to melt under the charm onslaught, so I kicked her under the table to get the goofy puppy look off her face. “Let’s go, Levert. I have a great word to play if you don’t mess it up.” Having Daniel watching seemed to addle her brains, and she kept shuffling her tiles around nervously until he and Missy wandered away.

  “Honestly, Phyl, what are you thinking?” I demanded.

  “Nothing! I’m not thinking anything. He’s just so handsome! Tier Two people can look at Tier One people, can’t they?”

  “Phyl, it’s not just his looks,” I trie
d to reason with her. “It’s his whole approach to life, his goals, his beliefs. Daniel is almost a different species. If you tried to mate, you’d probably have sterile offspring. Like mules. Cross a donkey and a horse, and you get a mule.”

  “And I suppose I’m the donkey?” Phyl complained.

  “If you fall for someone like Daniel,” I warned, “I think the biblical word would be ‘ass.’”

  • • •

  It was 10:30 before the Collins’ and Roy took their leave. Missy was practically wilted with lack of attention, but she revived when Daniel leaned to murmur in her ear and they headed off to the Lean-To.

  Talking over the open house was almost as fun as the thing itself, and we all agreed that, apart from Missy, everyone had enjoyed themselves. “And she should be cheering up right about now,” Joanie yawned. “Besides, I don’t think she’ll be around for more than one more open house. I should have warned her that the less she fawns on him, the longer he’ll like her.”

  “But you fawn on him all the time,” Phyl pointed out. She was laying on the sofa with her eyes shut.

  “That’s me,” said Joanie simply. She was scrunched up in the armchair, leaning her head against me as I draped on the arm. “I’m touchy-feely.”

  “And he can’t suspect you of wanting to marry him,” I added. “Poor Missy. At least by dating Daniel she might get fed up with men who don’t treat her well.” Phyl looked as if she might say something, but catching my eye, she shut her mouth firmly again.

  Chapter Five: Meeting Kyle

  Over the next couple weeks I found myself settling into a cautious new happiness. The grief was there, to be sure, but shut up tight and put high on a shelf to worry about later. How could I not be distracted and excited, to wake up in an unfamiliar place with sunlight streaming in and the smell of coffee brewing downstairs? I couldn’t shower and get ready fast enough to join Joanie and Phyl in the kitchen for quality time before they headed off to work.

  We quickly learned each other’s habits. Phyl was a hot breakfast gal and never sat down with less than two eggs scrambled, toast, and juice. Joanie would eye this feast askance, unable to stomach more than coffee and some bready item before ten o’clock. For me it was always cold cereal and Earl Grey tea, and Daniel would usually dash in, fill his commuter mug with coffee and, often as not, steal Joanie’s dry toast on his way out.

  “You big loser,” Joanie yelled after him, one morning. “We cook you dinner, not breakfast!”

  By eight o’clock the house was mine. I wasted a lot of time in the beginning, reading the paper or dinking on the piano or figuring out good neighborhood walks, but I had already wasted the past year of my life lying in bed, and now I had responsibilities to my housemates, besides. New house, new start. Soon I divided my day into blocks of duty and reward. Start with housekeeping responsibilities, then read the paper. Exercise before settling down to a few hours’ work.

  As for the whole mentoring thing, I pushed it to the back of my mind and defiantly recycled the bulletin.

  Cooking days were a delight. I’d always loved to cook, but after Min came along, lack of time and energy had reduced me to seven tried-and-true quick meals. If-it’s-Tuesday-it-must-be-taco-salad kind of thing. Now I could spend all the time I liked, and my first Palace offerings were rather elaborate: chicken breasts stuffed with apples and gouda, pork tostadas with homemade chutney. Phyl and Joanie were effusive in their praise, but Daniel, who came home any time between 6:30 and 8:00, would raise a skeptical eyebrow as he watched these creations rotate in the microwave. Apparently if everything I cooked him was going to be reheated, I would have to choose more microwave-friendly creations. Phyl’s casseroles and Joanie’s stir-fries didn’t turn to cardboard jerky when nuked, after all, and I didn’t want to be the cook whose meals his lordship dreaded.

  When my household responsibilities were under control, I turned to my Brilliant Career. Before Min was born, I did some freelance work writing grant proposals and helping with fundraising, but the thought of tapping those connections now made me feel slightly nauseous, since I had last seen them, solicitous and awkward, at Troy’s and Min’s memorial. Ugh. Besides, I might as well take advantage of this moment in life when I wasn’t cash-strapped and try my hand at something completely different.

  For lack of a better idea, I decided to experiment with some creative writing. But what to write? After more hemming and hawing, I settled on trying a movie novelization as a warm-up. That way I wouldn’t be bothered with generating a plot and could just focus on getting a story on paper. I figured if I tried one of the Star Wars movies I could compare my results with an existing novelization, but this turned out to be more complicated than I thought, because I was no expert in all the myriad star ships and fighters and destroyers and droids and whatnot.

  One afternoon found me trolling the nerdy section of the library, searching for Star Wars picture books. Having found a couple likely candidates which I tucked under my arm, I was just adding a volume of detailed spaceship cross-sections when I felt a middle book squidge out and tumble to the floor, hitting me squarely on the toe with its corner. “Franklin D. Roosevelt,” I hissed, hopping on my uninjured foot.

  When I reached for my fallen book, I heard a derisive snort. Startled, I looked up to see a tall, lanky teenager with pale blue eyes and longish brown hair, combed forward. He was wearing the standard Northwest uniform of frayed jeans, layers of t-shirts and flip-flops, and he was grimacing at the title in my hand.

  “What?” I asked warily.

  He shrugged without meeting my eyes.

  “You don’t like this book?” I persisted. “I don’t super know what I’m looking for, so advice is welcome.” When he didn’t answer, I tucked it back under my arm, only to see him raise his eyebrows in a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you fashion. “Wha-a-a-t?” I demanded. “If you want to say something, say it—unless you’re mute or something.”

  “No way do you want that one,” he declared at last in a raspy voice. “The guy can’t write for crap, and he even gets some of the basic facts wrong. Can’t tell a podracer from Padmé’s ass.”

  “Oh!” Surprised at my success, I replaced the offending volume on the shelf. “What do you think of this one?” Indicating the cross-section book.

  Another snort. “I met the guys who did that one at a book-signing. They were cool—well, one of them was a total loser—but he was all pissed because he didn’t like his latté. He kept saying stuff like, ‘What, they don’t do foam in Washington?’ Like he was some kind of sorry-ass coffee expert when he wasn’t doing Star Wars books.”

  I blinked at him. “So…but you think this cross-section book is okay? Accurate, I mean?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. I mean he sucked, but he knows his shit. Why do you wanna know? You don’t look like the typical person I see in this aisle.”

  “Because I’m not a guy?”

  “For one. You work here?”

  “You mean, am I a librarian?” I screech-whispered. Grief, I could handle his sailor’s mouth and criticism of my book choices, but no way would I put up with being mistaken for a librarian.

  He looked puzzled by my irritation. “Yeah, are you a librarian? What do you want with these books?”

  “I’m trying to write a book,” I grumped. “But I didn’t know there was so much stuff I would have to learn. If you’re such a big expert, maybe you could help me pick out the good books.”

  He shrugged again and began running his finger down the row. “Decent. Total bullshit. B.S. Decent. This one’s good—hardcore nerd porn.”

  I followed behind him, hastily pulling out the “decent” and “nerd porn” ones. “Thank you.” I hesitated, then hitched the books to one arm so I could hold out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Cass.”

  He stared at my outstretched hand. “Huh. Okay, I’m Kyle.” He put his hand limply in mine for a split second and then pulled it back and stuffed it in his pocket. “What kind of book are you writin
g? Are you trying to make up one of those back stories that the movies don’t cover? ‘Still More Legends of Tatooine’ and crap like that?”

  “No,” I admitted slowly. “I’ve never done any fiction writing before, so I’m just trying to write a novel version of one of the movies. A novelization. For practice. How about you? What do you do besides read Star Wars books?”

  Kyle started fiddling with one of the sub-par books, tapping it up and down on the shelf. “Nothing. Well, school started last week, but I’m thinking I’ll just go sometimes.”

  Sometimes was right. Here it was Tuesday, and he was at the library. “Which school do you go to?”

  More book fiddling. Then, reluctantly, “Camden School.”

  “Camden School!” I screech-whispered for the second time, feeling my heart rate accelerate. Guiltily I remembered the discarded bulletin. I said God would have to be pretty clear if he wanted something out of me—did this count? “I’ve heard good things about it,” I ventured.

  Still avoiding my eyes, Kyle muttered, “I just started there, but I already hate it because it’s a bunch of druggies and the classes are stupid.”

  “Well, if you’re not a druggie, why are you there, then?” I asked, rather deflated.

  “Kicked out of Bellevue High for vandalism and other stuff. Stupid administrators want to charge me with a felony, but the lawyer’s getting the prosecutor to divert the case.”

  “Oh,” I said lamely, having had no idea that normal kid vandalism or mysterious “other stuff” could even be a felony, nor any clue how the juvenile justice system worked. Maybe this was a sign that mentoring would indeed be out of my league. Then, to my surprise, I heard myself say, “Well, do you want to walk over there now with me? You could help me more with the Star Wars stuff.”

  Kyle shrugged again but submitted to his fate. The Camden School was housed in a former church just in back of our church, about a fifteen-minute walk from the library. In an unexpected act of chivalry, he grabbed the picture books from me and carried them without a word.