Cassandra

by Kathryn Gossow

  Samantha, she sees Samantha too. Lying on grass, lush from summer rain, soft as a bed, she watches a kite, blue and red and yellow against a sky the colour of denim. A perfect moment. A moment of perfection. Contentment. One she spends her whole life trying to find again.

  Paulo lifts her shirt, his clammy hand slimy across her stomach. She plucks at the end of her shirt, shoves against his hand. His breath hot lava over her face nuzzles, singes her neck. His burning mouth on her ears. She stiffens, pushes her arms against his body.

  The fire’s breath, Paulo’s breath. A scream frozen in her throat, smothered by his lips, his teeth scraping against hers, his breath fire and smoke and bourbon and …

  Paulo not loving her. A woman, her face grey and gaunt, her head disappearing into her pillow. The pain in Paulo like a knife ripping open his guts. His children. Her children. Their children together, so small, so little, their perfect cherub lips kissing their mother’s face for the last time. They don’t understand. Poor Paulo.

  ‘She’s not interested.’ Bazza’s voice thumps her back onto the riverbank. Bazza heaves Paulo off her. The rock hard beneath her back, her jeans unbuttoned, her top pulled up over her breasts. Paulo’s weight gone from her like release from hand cuffs.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Paulo spits at Bazza. Tony is on his feet too.

  Bazza jams a finger into Paulo’s chest. ‘She said no, I could hear her from here, what the fuck are you? She’s ripped, fuckin’ drunk too, and you’re taking advantage. That the only way you can get at a girl?’ Paulo takes a step back with each jab of the finger, stumbles with each word Bazza slings at him.

  Paulo loves the woman he hasn’t met yet, who will die of some terrible illness. Die before his eyes. Wither. But first, he will betray Cassie with his words, use her and tell his mates about it. She heard every dirty word he would speak. He would have betrayed her. Bazza has changed her future. She sits up. Straightens her clothes.

  She puts her hand in her breast pocket and touches the sharp edges of the Knight of Pentacles.

  Paulo crashes back through the grass and up the embankment.

  She turns to the side and vomits.

  ‘Christ,’ Tony complains, ‘let’s go back to the other fire.’

  Bazza helps her climb back up through the grass. He sits her gently on the ground by the bonfire. Most of the party has broken off into smaller parties, gone home, passed out. People walk around, their futures pinned to them like pennants.

  She slumps onto the ground, her head in the trodden grass.

  Bazza pulls her up. ‘Don’t go rolling into the fire.’

  The firelight bronzes his cheeks. The streak of blood shines like glitter.

  ‘When you join the army,’ she says.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘The army, when you go to the sandy place.’ She slumps against him. ‘You’ll be brave then too,’ she says and closes her eyes. The less they see the better.

  In the dark, behind her closed eyes, the stars twinkle like God’s freckles.

  Later, Bazza wakes her and helps her back up to the car. It is just the four of them, Tony driving, Bazza in the front and Natalie in the back with Cassie. The space between an ocean. Natalie nods into sleep. Natalie, who they said was bad news. Small-town Natalie is going places and she doesn’t even know it yet. Cassie smiles for her friend. Natalie will show them all.

  Cassie presses her face against the cold car window. The country roads whiz by in the predawn darkness. White crosses are scattered along the road, sprinkled from the sky like salt over a wound. Random attacks of violence, road carnage that is yet to happen. Cassie sees each accident, the names of the fallen, the twisted metal, the creaking silent aftermath, the whimpers of the living injured. Each one churns inside her stomach.

  But not tonight. Tonight Tony will get them home safely. Tonight everything is clear.

  She glances at him, his hand clutching the steering wheel. She remembers the dull metal of Tony’s dope tin sparkling in the firelight. She wonders at this key she has found.

  They drop her at her front gate. The sun’s soft torchlight spreads over the ground, though the sun has not appeared on the horizon. It arrives at the same time Cassie arrives at the veranda stairs. She sits on the top stair. The sun, a flat slither on the horizon, wobbles, as if deciding if it will rise. It will rise. Of that she can be sure.

  The screen door screeches behind her.

  ‘Cassie, what are you doing up so early? You look a mess.’

  Poppy stands in the doorway, steam rising from his teacup.

  She smiles at him. ‘I went for a walk, I couldn’t sleep,’ she says.

  ‘You should go back to bed.’

  ‘I might,’ she says, standing and walking to the door. ‘See you later, Poppy.’

  ‘Don’t wake your aunty. She had a bad night,’ he says as she steps inside.

  In the kitchen, her father stands over the sink, a cup of tea in his hands, his overalls on already.

  She tears the clothes she stuffed in her bed—a human shaped lump—out onto the floor, rips off her shoes and climbs inside the warm sheets. She should write it all down for Athena, she thinks, and then falls asleep.

  ~ 24 ~

  Father

  Her mother jerks the curtains open. They make a ripping sound as the metal curtain rings tear along the curtain rod. Cassie’s crusty eyes open to slits, the bright sunshine searing her eyeballs.

  ‘What are your shoes doing in here?’ Her mother holds the shoes aloft, dirt caked into the heels. ‘Where have you been in these?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk early,’ Cassie rasps.

  ‘What? I can’t hear a word you’re saying. How’s your cold?’ She lays the back of her hand on Cassie’s forehead. ‘You think you can get up?’

  Cassie sits up. ‘Better,’ she says, her mouth gummy and sticky. ‘I’m going to Athena’s for lunch,’ she says. ‘What’s the time?’ She looks at her alarm clock but the hands blur and shimmer.

  ‘It’s almost midday. Your brother has been out helping your father since breakfast.’ Her mother gathers dirty clothes off the floor. ‘This room is a pigsty. If you’re better you can clean it. And don’t leave dirty shoes on my carpet in future.’

  She leaves the door wide open.

  ‘My carpet,’ Cassie says between gritted teeth and slams her head back on the pillow. She has to get up. Images flash through her mind. Natalie, leaning back on the leather office chair, frowning with concentration, lolling over Tony, smoke curling from her mouth. Paulo, his face a blanket of grief, Bazza standing over him, shielding her from his web. Moonlight shining on faces. The face in the fire, speaking to her through its smouldering mouth.

  She leans over the side of her bed and searches for one of her notebooks. Her hand trembles with weakness as she pulls herself and the book back to the bed. At first her handwriting is sludgy, the words big and loopy, but soon her pen races before her mind as she writes every detail between the lines of the paper.

  By a quarter to one she steps up the hill to Athena’s. The grime of the night before clings to her skin like a comforting caress. As she rises higher towards the house, the sun washes over her, the sky empty of clouds, blue with possibility.

  Athena’s father lounges along the front step, a glass of red wine balanced in one hand, his other hand stroking his mammoth beard.

  ‘Aha, the wanderer returns, the beautiful princess Cassandra, doomed lover of gods. When will you sit for me?’

  Cassie’s chest crackles with sparks of white light. Athena’s father’s eyes, deep as a canyon at midnight, stare into hers. She looks down at her feet, willing him to release her.

  ‘Hello, Mr Cerauno. Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Late! A beautiful woman must always be forgiven for being late.’

  Cassie scrunches her shoulders togethe
r and smiles shyly.

  ‘And don’t call me mister. It makes me feel old.’ He rises smoothly; tall and lean, he towers over Cassie. He places his hand on her back and leads her up the stairs. ‘Really, now I have finished that damned sculpture, I have some time. I could sketch some ideas out. I think you would be a patient sitter. I think it is in your blood.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask my mum,’ Cassie says, flaming heat flowing into her from his fingertips.

  ‘Ah yes, the mother,’ he says, smiling and waving his glass back towards her house. ‘I think she will agree.’

  They pass through the door, the interior cool. He moves his hand from her back and she feels its absence like ice melting down her spine.

  ‘Athena,’ he calls, ‘Cassandra has arrived.’

  ‘In here,’ Athena’s voice comes through the wall.

  ‘I see. The dining room, madam.’ He offers his arm like a nineteenth-century lord. Cassie places her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  ‘You must come see my sculpture before you leave,’ he says conversationally. ‘It rests in its birthing place for only a few more hours.’

  They enter the dining room. Heavy curtains cover the windows. A long table stretches the length of the room. Candles flash and flame along its length, reflecting on the shelves and cupboards.

  Athena’s hair flickers red and orange in the candlelight. ‘I know it’s sunny out,’ she says, ‘but I wanted it to be romantic.’

  Her father’s laughter rumbles and he drops Cassie’s arm. ‘Your guest,’ he says, bowing to his daughter.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ Athena nods at him.

  ‘The kitchen awaits,’ he says, lifting his glass to his lips as he leaves.

  ‘Here.’ Athena pulls out a chair for Cassie and pours her a glass of red wine. ‘Father said we can have a glass each. Wait until you see the sculpture. It is amazing. Don’t drink the wine too fast. It tastes better with food.’

  Cassie sips some and scrapes her teeth over her tongue. ‘It’s not very nice,’ she says.

  ‘It’s a damn sight nicer than that rubbish you drink with your friends.’

  Cassie grins.

  ‘What?’ Athena leans towards Cassie. ‘What’s happened? Something, I can tell.’

  ‘Something happened last night.’

  ‘At the party? On the river?’ Athena’s eyes glint in the candlelight.

  ‘We smoked … marijuana.’ The word is unfamiliar in Cassie’s mouth and she wonders over her pronunciation.

  ‘Oh.’ Athena sits back in her chair and sips her wine.

  Cassie takes her notebook from her bag. ‘I had sooo many visions. It was unbelievable.’

  ‘Oh.’ Athena sits forward again and takes the notebook.

  ‘I hope you can read my writing,’ Cassie says. ‘I had to get it all down in a hurry. That’s why I’m late.’

  ‘I’m used to your writing.’ Athena opens the book. Her eyebrows arch as she reads. ‘This is amazing,’ she says at last, closing the notebook. ‘A lot of detail.’

  ‘I know,’ says Cassie, taking the book back from her and putting it in her bag. ‘I think it is like a key—’ she whispers, ‘—the smoke.’

  Athena nods. ‘Maybe. Tell me about the thing with Paulo.’

  ‘I think his wife will die young. Cancer maybe.’

  ‘No no, not that. About you and him.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cassie’s face reddens. She picks up the big silver fork in front of her and taps it on the table.

  Athena takes the fork from her and places it back in its setting. ‘Paulo and you,’ she says again.

  ‘I really liked him,’ Cassie says. ‘Like him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I thought he might have liked me. He acted like he did. Sometimes. Other times he ignored me.’

  ‘Sounds like a pig.’

  ‘No,’ Cassie says, ‘I think he is nice, deep down.’

  ‘Deep, deep down,’ Athena says. ‘He wanted to screw you and brag about it. He’s a user.’

  ‘He didn’t really like me,’ Cassie concedes. ‘He was just after a bit.’

  ‘And you,’ Athena points her finger at Cassie, grinning wildly, ‘you changed your own future.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You saw he was going to betray you. Use you. You didn’t let him touch you. He has nothing to brag about.’

  Cassie focuses on a slither of sunlight in the gap between the curtains. ‘No,’ she says slowly, ‘it wasn’t me. It was Bazza. The Knight from the tarot, remember?’

  ‘The guy with blood on his face?’

  ‘The guy I think will join the army. He’s not a bad person. He doesn’t murder anyone or anything.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s very nice,’ Athena says, ‘but he only came to your rescue because you asked him to.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You did. You wrote that you were pushing Paulo away. You thought you might have screamed but you weren’t sure. If you hadn’t seen Paulo be a bastard you would have let him kiss you, do whatever, and this Bazza bloke would have just let you get on with it.’

  Cassie shakes her head.

  ‘It’s like,’ Athena says, leaning in, ‘the future is a forked road. More than forked. There are so many paths one could take. Any change in direction takes you down a different path. You just proved it.’

  Athena’s father glides into the room.

  ‘Spaghetti bolognaise,’ he says in a fake accented voice and places a heavy earthen pot in front of the girls. He lifts the pot lid and the exotic aroma billows out.

  ‘You are going to love this,’ Athena says, and picks up Cassie’s plate. ‘Load it up, Father, Cassandra’s had a long night. She needs her sustenance.’

  Cassie copies Athena, twisting her fork for a swirl of spaghetti and sauce. The meal’s richness, the sharpness of what she thinks is basil, the smooth oiliness of the meat, the saltiness of the cheese, exceed her expectations. The wine doesn’t taste any better though.

  Athena’s father lolls back in his chair, drinking more than he eats, his billowing white shirt shallowly buttoned. Cassie glimpses tight curls of black hair against starlight white skin.

  ‘Read any good books lately?’ He catches her looking at him.

  Cassie hunkers over her plate. ‘I’ve been a bit busy with school work,’ she lies.

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad. I’m sure Athena has something brilliant she could lend you. Something to take your mind off your study. You need to take a break sometime.’

  ‘Father,’ Athena says.

  ‘What, my Athena?’ her father replies, his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. His lips are red and wet between the tangle of his beard.

  ‘Maybe Cassie is not much of a reader.’

  ‘Not much of a reader! Is there such a thing?’

  Athena shakes her head at Cassie and smiles.

  Cassie tries to grin back but wonders if it is more of a grimace. Most of her spare time is taken up with Athena’s experiment and practising her tarot.

  They clear the dishes into the kitchen, a riot of mess with spaghetti stuck to the walls and spaghetti sauce in dried up pools on the stove top, the sink piled with dirty saucepans and spoons. Garlic and onion skins are scattered across the floor around the bin. Cassie’s mother had made her promise she would help with the dishes. She lifts a gritty saucepan from the sink.

  ‘No, no—you can’t do that,’ Athena’s father protests from the doorway. ‘I’ll do it. It’s a cook’s prerogative to make a mess and I believe his responsibility to deal with it. Come, see our sculpture instead.’

  Athena’s father’s walk changes from languid to striding the nearer they get to the shed. Fine dust plays in the sunlight at the doorway. In the middle of the oil-stained concrete floor is a tarp covered mound. Athena’s father stand
s by the tarp, the structure under it taller than he is. He rubs his hands over his jeans as though to wipe away sweat.

  ‘You’re his second public showing,’ Athena whispers. ‘He’s nervous.’

  ‘It’s only me,’ says Cassie.

  ‘Right then,’ he says and gestures towards the tarp. ‘No, no, best not to explain, just first impressions. Come help me, Athena.’ He bends to the base of the tarp. Athena rushes to his side and together they lift and roll the tarp up and over, unveiling the sculpture.

  Cassie realises then that she has never actually seen a sculpture. She had imagined it would be a statue, like the soldier in the slouch hat in the middle of town, the names of the fallen piled around his feet. In another town they visited, a local race horse was revered in gigantic bronze. This is something else altogether.

  The figure of a woman rises from her toes, stretches, her fingertips reaching for the sky. The elegant curve of her back, the full roundness of her breasts, is at odds with the materials.

  ‘Is she made of …’ Cassie takes a step forward, peering at what looks like a line of five cent coins.

  ‘Nuts, bolts, screws, hinges, bits and pieces.’ Athena’s father stands, his hands on his hips, peering at the sculpture.

  ‘Can I … ?’ Cassie steps closer again.

  ‘Touch? Sure.’

  Cassie’s fingers stroke the smoothness of the woman’s hips, the metal cool and gleaming, the welded ridges flat and organic. The rise of her chin, the angle of her cheekbones, remind Cassie of her mother.

  ‘You like?’ Athena’s father stands behind her, lifts the hair from her neck, twirls it once and lays it over her shoulder, leaving his hand to rest in the curve.

  Goosebumps spread down Cassie’s arm. She nods, speechless.

  He reaches up with his other hand and caresses the slight bulge of the sculpture’s belly.

  ‘Father,’ Athena speaks from the doorway, ‘it’s getting late. Cassie needs to start off home.’

  ‘Yes.’ He claps his hands together, grins at the lifted chin of the figure towering above him. ‘Back home to the mother.’