Mourning Becomes Cassandra

by Christina Dudley

  “Morning,” I said, slipping the cold pan out of the fridge and tossing it on the counter. “You’re up early.”

  “I had an idea I might catch you if I got up,” he said unexpectedly. “Coffee?”

  Might as well, since I had to wait for the oven to preheat. He watched me dumping in the milk and sugar with the absent-minded distaste of someone who took it black.

  “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?” I asked, a few minutes later, when he showed no sign of continuing his thought.

  “Two things, actually.” He disappeared into the living room for a minute, returning with a wrapped gift. “Firstly I have something for you—Merry Christmas.”

  He held it out to me, and I backed away without thinking. “Oh, no! I didn’t get you anything—I had no idea you were going to get me something. I hope it didn’t cost much.”

  “A steal at twice the price,” he assured me, forcing the present into my hands. “Open it.”

  Still feeling badly, I untied the ribbon. He must have paid to have it gift-wrapped. When I pulled the paper away I found myself holding a red leather volume, smooth as a well-worn Bible, with Shakespeare’s Romances stamped in gilt on the cover.

  “Oh!” I said inadequately. I riffled the pages gently: Pericles, Cymbeline, The Tempest, The Winter’s Tale. “Oh!” My own copies of these plays existed only in cheap, high-school paperback editions with yellowed pages, or in the ponderous Riverside Shakespeare of my college years.

  “You remember our conversation?” Daniel asked after a minute. I looked up, still wondering, and saw that he looked pleased with his gift’s reception. “Shakespeare’s comedies end in a wedding, and his tragedies begin with a marriage.”

  “And the romances are somewhere in between,” I recalled. “The couples spend a lot of time apart.”

  “I figured it was more like life—some tragedy but also some comedy.”

  “I should be about due for the comedy, then,” I cracked. Cradling the volume to my chest, I added more seriously, “Thank you so much, Daniel. It’s the nicest book I own. I wish—I wish I had something to give you back.”

  A mischievous grin appeared on his face. “Well, it just so happens that I’ve thought of the very thing you could do for me.”

  “What?” I demanded warily, holding the book a little away from me now. I didn’t want to give it back, but who knew how much it would cost me?

  Daniel looked insulted and pushed the book back toward me. “It’s not conditional—the book is for you in any case. Just hear me out.” He waited for me to give a tentative nod before continuing. “My office is throwing its holiday party on New Year’s Eve, and I wondered if you would go with me.”

  “Me?” I squeaked. “Whatever for? You’re Daniel Martin—just flip open the blessed phone book and call the first woman’s name you see!”

  “A brilliant plan,” he said dryly, “but I’ve decided to change my dating habits.”

  “You have?” I asked incredulously. The oven reached 350˚ and beeped, causing me to jump.

  He waited for me to sling the cinnamon rolls in and then said, “I have. I’ve decided not to ask women out if I’m not interested in them, and there’s no chance of the relationship going anywhere.” So never again, in other words? Why, then, was he asking me to go to the stupid office party? Reading my mind, he added, “I’d like to come with a date so it’s all a non-issue there, but whoever I might ask would think I was interested in her. God knows you’d never get that idea, so I thought you would be perfect.”

  I hesitated, and he took that as an encouraging sign. “You and James didn’t have plans for New Year’s Eve, did you?”

  I shook my head. “He’ll still be in Richland. But Daniel, what kind of party is it?”

  “Fancy,” he said shortly. “Formal and expensive. Lots of alcohol, food, music. Right up your alley.”

  “I wouldn’t have anything to wear,” I stalled.

  “Tell Joanie—she’ll take care of that. Is it a date?”

  Rubbing my finger along the soft leather cover, I thought about it. “I can have the book no matter what?”

  “No matter what.”

  “Then I’ll go.”

  • • •

  It was a Christmas of odd pairings. Joanie flat-out refused to join her mother for the getting-the-blood-pumping morning walk, but my mother went enthusiastically. Instead, Joanie spent most of the day as Perry’s sous-chef in the kitchen. Daniel horned in on the Scrabble game I was playing with my father, and, thanks to me drawing tray after tray of vowels, he won.

  “Too bad, Cass,” said Dad, patting my hand patronizingly. He was thrilled and disguising it ill, since he had lost to me nine times out of every ten since I was twelve years old.

  Daniel wasn’t even bothering to hide his triumph. Grabbing the score sheet, he declared, “I may have to frame this. Or hang it on the fridge.”

  “With an asterisk by my score!” I insisted. “Something to explain that I drew 90% vowels and you got the ‘Z’ and the ‘X.’”

  “Nonsense,” he countered maddeningly. “The true Scrabble champion can play whatever he’s dealt.”

  “And I did—witness ‘luau’ and ‘oleo’ for stinking four points apiece—but you had my dad sitting there feeding you Triple Word Scores—”

  They both seemed to find this terribly amusing, and Dad even slapped Daniel on the back like they were in some cheesy buddy movie.

  It turned out he wasn’t the only one sucked in by Daniel that Christmas. After dinner, when Mom and I volunteered to clean up, she waited until I was elbow-deep in suds and scrubbing au gratin off a pan to say, “Cass, my dear, you gave me altogether the wrong impression of Daniel.”

  “What impression was that?” I asked, reaching for the nylon pan scraper.

  “Well, you told us in October that he was an insolent, sex-addicted atheist,” she explained. “Dad and I were a little concerned that you would be living with such a person, especially at such a sensitive time in your life—”

  The pan slipped from my hands back into the soapy water. “You worried I would fall for Daniel? After being married to a quality guy like Troy?”

  She shrugged off my indignation. “If he really was as handsome and unscrupulous as you said, there was no telling. But I only bring this up to say that this visit has set us at ease. I don’t know what you meant by calling him insolent, and there hasn’t been any parade of women, and as for the atheism—he’s the one who suggested we all go to Christmas Eve service!”

  With difficulty I refrained from rolling my eyes. It irritated me to no end that people like Daniel could behave like the biggest sleazebags, but all was forgiven and forgotten the second they turned on the charm.

  “I’m glad you like him, Mom,” I said. “I’m not holding my breath for his good behavior to last.”

  She patted me placatingly. “Yes, yes. I never meant to imply that you might be interested in him. I just meant we were happy to find you had such pleasant friends. Now tell me about this James you’ve been seeing. Perry tells me he’s a lot younger than you…”

  • • •

  Hours later I lay in bed, thinking of this James who was a lot younger than I. He had texted me once since I’d seen him—a quick Merry Christmas and made-it-over-the-Pass kind of message—and I had to admit I was miffed about it. Not that he seemed to be the frequent-communicator type even when he was around. Granted, they’d been completely absorbed in shipping that game, and he seemed to like me well enough whenever he was with me, but was an occasional live phone call too much to ask?

  I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow. I knew I shouldn’t have started dating anyone! After all I’d been through, to subject myself to these idiotic, junior-high, emotional gymnastics. Fine! Maybe he was already a little bored and forgetting about me, and I would just have to sit around waiting for the inevitable break-up text. Would he text? It would be so tacky.

  Sleep obviously was not going to ha
ppen anytime soon. Sitting up, I flicked on my bedside lamp and reached for the book I had begun recently, but my hand stopped halfway to it since it was about a family of insomniacs who eventually died after their bodies broke down from lack of sleep. Not very soothing.

  Next to the dying insomniacs lay my new book from Daniel. Picking it up gently, I fanned the pages, running my fingers across the stamped cover. The Winter’s Tale would be just the thing for a sleepless winter’s night; it had been one of my favorite Shakespeare plays ever since I saw it in Ashland at fifteen. Three bitter acts, followed by two of frolicking pastoral, as all was set to rights.

  Only when I opened the front cover did I notice Daniel made an inscription on the flyleaf, and I wondered why he hadn’t pointed it out before. There was no “Dear Cass” or “with fondest wishes,” simply a few lines copied out in his minute, precise script. Paulina’s speech, when she enchants to life the stone statue of Hermione, Leontes’ long-lost wife whom he had imagined dead and past recall:

  Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him

  Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs.

  Chapter 28: Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot

  “There! Okay, Cass, check it out.” Joanie spun my chair around to face me toward the mirror. She had brushed my hair to a high gloss and twirled it up in an elegant chignon worthy of Angela Martin, only looser around the sides. She had also insisted on doing my make-up (“It’s an evening occasion, for crying out loud!”), and I looked askance at my artificially longer lashes and sparkly eyelids.

  Phyl clapped her hands gleefully. “Oh, Cass, you look lovely! I wish we could do this every day!”

  “This is ridiculous,” I complained. “I don’t even want to go to this thing, and I don’t know why I let you guys do me up. Not that it doesn’t look nice,” I tacked on hastily, seeing their hurt faces. Still grumbling, I let them stuff me into Phyl’s burgundy satin dress, lent for the occasion. It really did fit me perfectly, and while the keyhole cut-outs in the neckline showed more skin than I was used to, it was otherwise modestly cut and not overly clingy. Joanie’s strappy gold sandals complimented it nicely, but I didn’t know how long I could last in those spiky heels.

  “I need more tea,” I declared, cutting short their fussing. “And I want to be downstairs before Daniel is ready—otherwise it’ll be like he’s picking me up for prom.”

  I didn’t have to wait long for him, but in that short space of time I downed as many cups of Soothing Chamomile as I could, trying to ignore the mounting feeling of dread. Why on earth had I agreed to this?

  When Daniel finally did pop in the back door, we stared at each other, stunned, for a minute. He was absolutely beautiful in a tuxedo. Dashing. Stunning. Good heavens.

  “Good heavens,” said Daniel, echoing my thoughts.

  I looked at him warily. “Is it okay? I let Joanie and Phyl have their way with me.”

  “You look…lovely,” he said finally. “That color really brings out your eyes and the lights in your hair—”

  “Okay, okay,” I cut him off, blushing. “Let’s get going before I change my mind.” I reached for Phyl’s cashmere wrap, but Daniel plucked it from my fingers and laid it across my shoulders.

  I had never ridden in his precious vintage Corvette before, and I hastened to open the passenger door before he could make any motion to—the prom feelings were getting a little overpowering.

  “I feel like I need a corsage,” I moaned. “What year is this thing, anyhow?”

  “1965.”

  “I knew it! This is straight out of my parents’ yearbook.”

  “I’d like to see that yearbook. You look a lot like your mom, you know.” I made a noncommittal sound, not being in the mood for small talk, but he seemed unfazed, and for the entirety of our drive to the W Hotel in Seattle he kept up a running series of questions worthy of a Camden School mentor. When did my parents marry? Where did I grow up? What did Perry and I like to do as kids? What had our holidays been like, growing up? And so on.

  Too soon we were pulling into the hotel garage. When I stumbled getting out of the low car, Daniel hauled me up by the elbow and didn’t release me until the elevator doors were closing.

  Someone from his office had knocked herself out decorating. The Great Room was alight with candles and Christmas trees, balloons and glittering centerpieces. The buffet table featured an ice-sculpted sled amidst platters and platters of food, and there were waiters everywhere, carrying trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. One side of the room by the windows had been carved out for a dance floor, and the DJ was already on the job. Must have been a good year for the firm.

  Daniel drew my arm through his as we made our way in, and I obediently left it there, unsure of what to do with myself. He introduced me to someone who apparently made video animations for them as trial exhibits, and that man and I made dogged conversation about his work and the animation I saw Lewis doing at Free Universe while Daniel was engaged in greeting his boss and one of the chief clients. Eventually our talk petered out, and the man took himself off, leaving me free to look around once more. Call me paranoid, but it seemed like more than one woman was looking daggers at me.

  All those cups of Soothing tea caught up with me then, and after bouncing from foot to foot for a couple minutes, waiting for a natural point at which to excuse myself, I finally hissed in Daniel’s ear, “Gotta go to the bathroom—be right back” and took off.

  Dancing around in the stall, I tried to hike every inch of Phyl’s precious burgundy gown into the clear before I sat down. Because of my heels I was almost three inches taller, which I forgot to account for, and nearly tumbled down onto the seat. One day somebody will have to explain to me how drinking three cups of tea turns into a gallon of pee because I felt like I was at it for several minutes. Long enough to hear the clacking heels of several other women entering the bathroom.

  “Did you see that girl Daniel was with?” asked the first voice.

  “Oh my God, yes,” replied the second. Only one of them went into a stall, so I imagined the rest were freshening up at the mirrored sinks. “His standards are slipping.”

  My mouth fell open in indignation. I wanted to press my eye to the door crack, but I feared if I got up from the toilet, the auto-flush would go off, and then the women would wonder why I didn’t come out. Nor was I the type of woman who could sweep out of the stall, pin the gossipers with a steely eye and leave them shaking in their stilettos. Leave that to women who looked like Joanie.

  “Her dress is nice,” piped up a third, in a sweeter voice. I instantly pictured her as the Melanie Wilkes of the bunch and could almost hear her companions’ eyes rolling. At least Phyl would be happy to hear her dress passed muster. “And her hair.” Ditto Joanie’s hairstyling skills.

  “Yeah, but since when has Daniel been a dress and hair guy?” scoffed the second.

  There was some muffled laughter, and then still a fourth voice said, “Exactly—women around him don’t spend much time with any kind of clothes on. At least, I didn’t.” Fiona? Was that Fiona? I tried to scoot to the edge of the toilet, but no luck seeing out.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Kelly,” prodded the first woman. “You’re the only other woman here who’s been with our Casanova. What do you think of his latest?”

  Kelly was silent for a moment, and I knew her mind was returning to that same November afternoon in the Lean-To that mine was.

  “She’s always wanted him,” she answered at last, provoking an affronted gasp out of me that I tried to play off by making lots of noise with the toilet paper dispenser. “I mean, I could tell from the times I was over at his place. She was always really flirty with him and kind of stalker-like. You know, he says she’s a housemate, but she’s actually more of the housekeeper.”

  That catty, rumor-mongering, fake redhead! What had I done to her? All these months I never spoke of what I saw that afternoon to anyone but Daniel, and she had the nerve to paint me as some kind of des
perate scullery maid? I could feel my face, scarlet with anger and mortification. Really, it was another strike against Daniel’s character that he would even sleep with women like this, but I suppose, with him, big breasts covered a multitude of sins.

  “You know,” came Melanie Wilkes’ peacemaking voice again, over the snapping-shut of compacts and handbags, “I was surprised he brought a date tonight because I haven’t seen him with anyone for weeks and weeks. And he’s been different around the office, somehow. I used to always feel like he was secretly thinking of dirty jokes every time he talked to me.” Despite my anger, I felt a twinge of amusement. I rather liked this girl—that was exactly the way I used to feel when Daniel talked to me.

  “He has been less of a flirt,” the second voice conceded. She sounded slightly disappointed. “I kind of miss it. It made me think one day I’d get my chance with him.”

  “You probably will,” the first woman replied dryly. “If he’s relaxed his criteria enough to go out with his stalker-housekeeper, I’ll bet in another couple weeks an Accounts Payable rep fifteen years his senior won’t be unthinkable.”

  “I’ll be waiting!” sang the Accounts Payable rep, and I heard the clacking of heels again as the crew made their way back out.

  I stumbled out of the stall, with the loud auto-flush drowning out the rushing of blood in my ears. Phyl’s dress looked rather rumpled from its long stint scrunched up around my waist, and I tried to smooth it out before dabbing my face with cold water. Crap, I forgot I had mascara on. It took another three minutes to repair my make-up, then one more to gather my courage and slap on a calm face before emerging from the bathroom.