Alexandra Waring

by Laura Van Wormer

  “No,” Alexandra said. “Jessica—why don’t you sit down? I’m not sure those doors are as strong as they look and I’d hate to see you fall. In.”

  Jessica shrugged, walking over and sitting down in a chair next to the dresser. “So you weren’t being mean to her, were you?”

  Alexandra’s mouth parted in astonishment. “Jessica,” she finally said.

  “What?” she said, putting her glass down on the dresser. “A little bird told me you’ve been giving her a hard time lately.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Jessica met her eyes. “A little bird.”

  “What little bird?” Alexandra said.

  “A big little bird, if you must know,” Jessica said.

  “Who?”

  “Me,” Jessica said. “I heard you yelling at her last week.”

  “I doubt very much that you heard me yelling at Cassy—or anyone,” Alexandra said.

  “You’re not the type who has to raise your voice to yell, Alexandra Eyes,” Jessica said, picking up her glass. “You’re the mysterious woman in the dark flowing clothes who slips in to murder people in Saturday afternoon movies.”

  “Well, thank you, Jessica, maybe we can use that in an ad for ‘News America Tonight,’ “ Alexandra said.

  The bathroom door opened and Alexandra turned around to look.

  Cassy smiled. With the exception of her nose being a little red, she looked very much herself again. To Alexandra she said, “I’m fine,” and then, to Jessica, she added, “I think I’m going to head home now.”

  “I wanted to help, not drive you away,” Jessica said.

  Cassy laughed a little, walking over to toss a crumpled tissue into the trash. “You’re not. It’s just that I’m very tired and this is not a good place for me to be in tears.”

  “It’s the best place I know of,” Alexandra said, smiling warmly up at her. “Call me later, okay? I’ll be home.”

  Cassy nodded.

  And then Alexandra gave Cassy’s hand a little shake, turning to Jessica. “This woman’s the absolute best, you know—the best.”

  “At what?”

  “Everything.”

  “Well, she sure has some mug on her,” Jessica said, sipping wine. “Every TV woman’s nightmare—a producer who’s better-looking than she is.”

  “Hardly,” Cassy said.

  “Look,” Alexandra said, pointing to the mirror.

  And for a moment the two women looked at themselves and at each other in the mirror, Alexandra sitting and Cassy standing. Then Cassy looked away, briefly touching the back of Alexandra’s head. “I better go,” she murmured, walking to the door. She turned. “Jessica, good night, dear—have a nice weekend.”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  To Alexandra, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay.”

  Cassy closed the door behind her.

  Jessica drained her glass and put it down on the dresser. “So,” she said, “are you going to tell me what’s going on, or am I still the outsider?”

  Alexandra smiled, turning back from the door. “You haven’t been here very long.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jessica said, resting her arm on the dresser, “but we have a friend in common, Alexandra Eyes, that must count for something.”

  Alexandra looked at her for a long moment. And then she said, “But are you discreet, Jessica? That is the question.”

  Meeting her eyes directly, Jessica smiled. “I am very discreet.”

  “Are you?” Alexandra said quietly, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Oh, man,” Jessica said, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the wall, “hang around with me and you’ll see. I’ve got more secrets than Gary Moore had guests.”

  Alexandra considered this for a moment. “It was about Cassy’s husband,” she said. “Michael—who’s also a friend of mine. They’ve separated.”

  “Oh,” Jessica said, opening her eyes and bringing her head back down. “Yeah, well, you know, husbands can do that to you. Kill ya, I mean.” And then, frowning a little, she looked down at the floor. “So—since you’ve been honest with me, it’s time for me to be honest with you.” She brought her eyes up. “There’s something I gotta tell ya, Alexandra Eyes.”

  Alexandra looked at her, expression unreadable.

  “Only it’s going to be a lot harder for me, because you’ll probably never speak to me again after I tell you.”

  Alexandra’s expression remained unchanged.

  “Or maybe I’ll be lucky and you’ll think I’ve had too much to drink and will forgive me tomorrow,” Jessica said. “But what I’m about to say is honestly how I feel—and you should know that.”

  Alexandra hesitated and then shook her head slowly. “I don’t…”

  “It’s about ‘News America Tonight,’ “ Jessica said.

  “Oh,” Alexandra said, visibly relaxing and starting to smile. “What about it?”

  Jessica frowned, as if to remind Alexandra that this was serious business at hand. “I have to tell you something,” she said solemnly.

  “Please do,” Alexandra said, smiling.

  “Alexandra,” Jessica started to say.

  “Yes, Jessica,” Alexandra said, laughing, “what on earth is it?”

  “Your newscast—”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “It stinks,” Jessica told her.

  19

  The Changing Times of Cassy Cochran

  If Cassy started regretting that she had cried at West End last night, then she knew could save herself some time if she simply regretted her entire life, because with a life such as the one she had led, regrets tended to multiply with a horrifying velocity after she indulged in even only one. So unless she wanted to spend the weekend working her way back through all her regrets to reach the original one—that she had ever been born—she had to accept the fact that last night, after Jackson said he had heard Michael was going to be the news director at KCA in L.A., she had broken down and cried with Alexandra and told her they had separated.

  She had not been able to bring herself to tell Alexandra about the separation until now—now that word was out on the street about Michael’s new job—and she still wished that Alexandra did not know. Alexandra had enough pressure on her right now without having to worry about her.

  Nice try, she thought to herself, cleaning off the breakfast bar in the kitchen, but that’s not it.

  No, it wasn’t.

  Well what is it then?

  I don’t want her to know my marriage is over.

  Why?

  Why do you think? she yelled inside of her head, stripping off the rubber gloves she had been wearing and throwing them into the sink. She sighed, pushing the stray hairs away from her face.

  “Mom?” Henry called from the back hall.

  Cassy took a breath, trying to pull herself together, and said, “Yes, dear?”

  “What about the computer stuff?”

  “That’s all mine,” she said, walking down the hall to stand in the doorway of the den. “Your father never learned how to use it.” She turned away then, pressing her hand to her mouth and closing her eyes, willing herself not to start crying again.

  Henry was going through a hard enough number as it was, though Cassy thought Michael had really outdone himself by asking Henry to pack up the rest of his stuff to ship to California. (How the hell am I supposed to get it if you won’t let me in the goddam house!” Michael had yelled over the phone. “You only had two months to pack, Michael!” Cassy had yelled back.)

  But though Cassy, and then Michael too, told Henry he was not to pack up the stuff, he arrived home from New Haven late last night anyway, insisting he wanted to. So now Cassy had to hang around and watch this morbid enterprise because, one, Henry didn’t really know what it was he was supposed to be packing since Michael never bothered with such details; two, the only other person besides Cassy who did know was her cleaning-woman-turned-part-time-housekeep
er, Rosanne, who couldn’t get here today until after her morning classes were over (she was working on a nursing degree)—and of course Henry couldn’t wait for Rosanne to start because his girlfriend was arriving late this afternoon (which gave Cassy a good idea who might end up packing for Michael); and, three, Langley was supposed to drop by to discuss “something” sometime before noon.

  The timing in her life always struck Cassy as remarkable.

  She took a breath and turned back around. Henry was standing there, looking at the hundreds of videotapes in the bookcases that represented the hours and hours of TV news programs and specials and interviews that had been produced by Michael and Cassy either separately or, from their early days, together. “Sweetheart,” she said gently, walking in, “he doesn’t need any of those now. And if he does, I’ll send them.” She stood just behind Henry, resting a hand on his shoulder, an uphill effort since her nineteen-year-old-son was now a little over six-two.

  Henry glanced back at her; Cassy saw that his eyes were glistening and her heart ached. Her big, beautiful blond boy, who looked so much like her father; her son, who had been so loving over the years despite… despite everything. Oh, God, everything that this child had seen, had heard, had overheard in the night. How had he ever grown up to be such a wonderful young man? How had he? Henry swallowed, looking backing at the tapes. “This is harder than I thought, Mom.”

  “I know,” Cassy whispered, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the back of his shoulder. She took a moment to make sure she could get through it and, when she was pretty sure, said, “You mustn’t ever forget that your father will always be there for you, and that I will always be here for you. You mustn’t ever forget how much we both love you—and how much we loved each other when we had you. How much we love each other, even now—and always—because of you.” Her throat was killing her, it was so tight. She couldn’t go on. No, no way. She cleared her throat, backing away from him, giving his back a pat as she did so. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I wish—”

  “Hi! I’m here,” they heard Rosanne call, followed by the sound of the front door slamming. In a few moments she appeared in the doorway, turning up the long sleeves of her shirt. She took one look at each of them and said, “Aw, come on, you guys—no one’s sick and no one’s dying, so let’s lighten up a little, okay?”

  Since Rosanne had been widowed two years ago at age twenty-six, she did have a point. After everything she had been through (which the Cochrans had at various times been a witness to) and after everything the Cochran household had been through (which Rosanne had almost always been a witness to), the fact that everyone was healthy and well, when Michael, in particular, could have been dead by now, did put a different light on things.

  “Come on,” Rosanne said, directing traffic with her hands, “outta here, Mrs. C. Too many cooks started bangin’ spoons over each other’s heads.”

  “Okay,” Cassy said, grateful to be dismissed. She turned to Henry. “Okay?”

  He nodded.

  “Where are the boxes, Henry?” Rosanne asked him.

  Cassy turned. “They’re in the guest room.”

  Rosanne looked at her. “Thank you, Henry,” she said. “Come on, Mrs. C,” she said, going over to get hold of Cassy’s arm and pull her to the door, “you’ve got better things to do than hang out with us college kids.”

  “Thanks, Rosanne,” Cassy murmured on her way out. She went down the back hall and into her bedroom, the master bedroom, and closed the door. She walked over to one of the windows and looked down at Riverside Park and the Hudson, resting her hand on the window sash. After several moments she said to herself, “Well, Cassy, you’re finally getting what you said you always wanted—a peaceful house.” She blinked several times, looking at the water, and then added, “Course, nobody’s going to be living in it. But you can’t have everything, can you?”

  And then she squeezed her eyes shut, tears burning, and let her head fall forward to rest against the back of her hand on the sill. Oh, Lord, please help me get through this. It hurts, it hurts so much and I don’t want it to. I’m so tired of being hurt. This feeling of loss, this ache—it feels so much like when Daddy died. And help me, God, please, not to let Henry down. Help me to not hate Michael.

  In a minute she felt a little better. Sniffing, she straightened up and checked her watch. She sighed, looking back out at the water.

  It was moments like these, when she felt so lonely, for what she didn’t know (Did we ever really have a family in this house? Wasn’t it always me and Henry, or Michael and Henry, or me and Michael, never the three of us? Wasn’t it always?), that she longed to call Alexandra. So much of the reason why she had not wanted to tell Alexandra about the separation had to do with her own dependencies, of knowing how easy it would be for her—working situation or no working situation—to swing her emotional needs in Alexandra’s direction.

  And last night, within moments, hadn’t that been what happened? That Jackson had set her off and she had fled and then there had been Alexandra, taking her into her dressing room and holding her while she cried? And hadn’t there been something very familiar about being on the phone with Alexandra later last night, curled up in bed, feeling grateful, warm and secure, basking in Alexandra’s never ending, never failing stream of reassurances about how everything would work out for the best? And wasn’t that what Cassy wanted and needed—and wasn’t that exactly what had gotten her into trouble with Alexandra before? To so sorely want that comfort and gentleness—to hear Alexandra’s laughter and her compliments, to see the adoration in her eyes?

  Oh, please, God, Cassy thought, holding her head in her hands, don’t let me mislead Alexandra. Don’t let me start encouraging “that” side of things again to make myself feel better.

  She dropped her hands, looking out the window again, out to the Hudson River. But I am so scared of being alone, she thought.

  And then Cassy sighed, turning away from the window, and went into the bathroom to splash cold water over her face—wondering what other women did when their homes were suddenly vacant, void of purpose, empty of warmth. Surely they did not contemplate flirting with their women friends to cheer themselves up. Or maybe they did—how would she know since she had never really had any close women friends? Her family and work had taken everything she had to offer for years—and look at what trouble she had gotten into with the only friend she had made!

  Cassy stood up, reached for a towel and patted her face dry, looking at herself in the mirror. Yes, she still had her looks. For a little while longer, anyway. But even if her looks hadn’t worn out yet, Cassy was afraid that her heart might have. Men. Good grief, after twenty-two years with Michael, could there possibly be anything left inside to take on another man? But what might you catch out there, Cassy old girl if you tried? she asked herself, pulling the skin back from her eye, wondering in the next moment whether she would ever have her eyes done.

  “Mom?” Henry was calling through the door. “Mr. Peterson’s on his way up.”

  Cassy went out to the bedroom door and called, “Could you let him in, please, sweetheart? Take him into the living room? I just want to pull myself together—I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “‘kay.”

  Cassy let her hair down and, bending over, brushed it out. Then she put it back up on the back of her head, inserting two hairpins while walking over to stand in front of the mirror. She unzipped her blue jeans to tuck her blouse in properly, zipped them back up, and then went over to the closet to kick off her Topsiders and slip on some low blue heels. Then she went into the bathroom to put on a little blue eye shadow, a little blush, mascara, lipstick and some small gold hoop earrings.

  Presentable, yes.

  She went out to the living room and almost laughed when she saw Langley because it was so strange to see him dressed casually. She had seen him only in suits—perfectly pressed, quiet suits—but here he had on a flannel shirt, khaki pants and sneakers—which would be
fine if they didn’t look as though he’d just taken them out of the box to wear.

  They settled down at the dining-room table and, while leaning on her elbow, tapping the eraser end of a pencil against her mouth, Cassy listened as Langley explained that there was going to be a reassessment of the financial structuring of DBS by the Darenbrook board this summer, and how Langley and Jackson wanted the numbers on DBS News to look as good as they possibly could.

  “What on earth can I do but what I’ve already done for you?” Cassy asked him. “The budget, budget revisions, projections, cost analyses, rundown sheets, P and L’s, it’s all there for the board to look at any time.”

  “Coffee’s ready,” Rosanne announced, bringing a small tray with a small china pot, two cups and saucers, milk and sugar.

  “Oh, thank you,” Cassy said as she put it down. “Rosanne, I’d like you to meet my boss, Langley Peterson. Langley, this is our housekeeper, Rosanne DiSantos.”

  Langley, who had stood up when Rosanne came in, nodded. “Hello.”

  “Hi ya,” Rosanne said, leaving.

  “As I was saying,” Cassy said, pouring coffee for him, “I don’t understand what I can do for you that I haven’t already.”

  “We’d like to cut as much debt from DBS News this year as we can.”

  “Debt?” Cassy said.

  “Or, rather—” Langley said quickly, “increase the forecast on the return on investment.”

  “Cassy, eyes on Langley’s face, pushed his cup and saucer in front of him. “You’re not thinking of moving us out of Manhattan, are you?”

  “No, no,” Langley said quickly, shaking his head. “West End is home free for the next nine years.”

  “It sure isn’t free in my overhead,” she observed.—’’The rent in your overhead is being applied to your debt within the corporation. “

  “What debt? Why do you keep talking about my debt?” Cassy said. “We haven’t borrowed any money. Darenbrook Communications invested money in DBS News and expects a return on it within five years—so if there’s any debt, it must be somebody else’s.” She pushed her chair back and stood up, muttering, “As if I don’t have a good idea whose,” and headed into the kitchen. She came back with some Sweet’n Low, which she proceeded to stir into her coffee. “There’s a story going around about DBS, you know.”