After having a bite of lasagna at the ITALY, ITALY booth, Cassy started making her way back down to headquarters. In the sunshine of the afternoon it seemed as though every child on the West Side had been brought outside. Strollers zigged and zagged through the crowds, carrying bright little eyes roving in wonderment; snugglers on mothers’ and fathers’ chests cruised through, with newborns snoozing in warm oblivion; and backpacks trotted in and out, the heads of their precious cargo jigging and jogging from side to side.
My baby is six feet tall and is going to learn how to survive in the wilderness with a knife and a piece of string.
At three-thirty the line at Alexandra’s booth was even longer than it had been in the morning. She was in fine spirits (the New York Post had just finished taking pictures of her with Sister Mary) and claimed that her hand was holding out just fine against writer’s cramp.
Michael, on the other hand, was a mess. He could barely keep his head up. Cassy tried to get him out of his chair, take him up the apartment, but he made such a scene that Alexandra urged her to leave him where he was. So Cassy stood there, posted like a guard at his side, her stomach aching with the fear that he would do something outrageous.
He did. It started with a man who paid his two-fifty for Alexandra’s autograph. She signed her picture, handed it to him, and was about to shake his hand when Michael grabbed her arm. “Jesus, Alexandra, I’d get this one checked for AIDS before I’d let him near me.”
Alexandra jerked her arm away, clearly annoyed, and frowned at Cassy.
“Michael, come on,” Cassy said, pulling him out of his chair. Literally. He fell right out of it. One of the off-duty cops came to Cassy’s aid in picking him up. Michael pushed the cop and the crowd started backing away from the booth.
“Keep your filthy hands off me!” Michael said.
“Mike,” Cassy pleaded, “come on, we have to get out of here.” He allowed Cassy to lead him away a few steps, but then he spotted little Samantha Wyatt standing there in wide-eyed fascination. “What are you looking at?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry,” Cassy said to the cop, “he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Could you help me with him?” Michael jerked away from her and pointed at Samantha. “What’s that nigger child looking at?”
There was a blur and a scream and Cassy was thrown to the pavement. She was stunned for a moment, not sure of where she was. “Cassy,” she heard Alexandra’s voice say from somewhere. She felt hands helping her to turn over and sit up.
Sam Wyatt was sitting on top of her husband, alternately slapping his face with the palm and back of his hand. Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap—Cassy sat there, mesmerized.
“For God’s sake!” Alexandra yelled close to her ear.
The cop grabbed Sam from behind and another cop broke through the crowd to help pull Sam off. Michael just lay there on his back, blinking up at the sky, blood flowing from his nose and oozing out of the right side of his mouth.
Alexandra, on her knees, had her arm around Cassy. “Are you all right?”
Cassy hid her face in Alexandra’s shoulder and whispered, “I don’t think I can deal with this.”
Alexandra got Cassy into a chair and someone handed her some tissues to wipe the blood from her palms. The cops led Sam away somewhere and two men from the crowd helped Michael to his feet. He staggered over to Alexandra’s chair and Cassy held his head back, pressing the tissues against his nose until he could hold them himself. Uniformed cops arrived and Alexandra talked to them.
“Come on,” Alexandra said gently to the Cochrans, “Officer Blake is going to run us up to the emergency room. You should get an X ray.” Cassy stood up, and Michael, silent, eyes vacant, let Cassy lead him by the hand.
Walking through the police barricade to the Drive, with Michael between her and Alexandra, Cassy saw Melissa Stewart in the crowd. Cassy made them stop for a moment. “Henry, our son, is working with your husband,” she said, voice hoarse. “Would you tell him the plans have changed and that he is to go to Skipper’s?” Melissa just stared at her. A tear trailed down Cassy’s cheek and she wiped it away. “Would you tell the others that we’re sorry, but we have to cancel the buffet? Would you do that for me, Melissa?”
Melissa’s eyes darted to Michael. “Yes,” she said.
And Melissa did. With her spiky green things flailing wildly with purpose, she stopped at every other booth and said, “The party’s off tonight. Cochran’s drunk and Cassy had to take him to the hospital. Pass it on.” Melissa was also fed some details regarding the fight itself (which she had missed), so by the time she reached the book tables she was more than curious to see which boy it was whose drunken father had so savagely attacked Sam Wyatt’s baby girl.
Howard was standing in a little tete-a-tete with two women Melissa had never seen before. One was an old lady, on the outside of a table, of no interest to her; the other, standing inside the table by the cash box, was of interest to her, seeing as how her husband was talking to her.
“Howard,” she said.
“Melissa—hi.” He seemed startled. He was startled. But he took a step back, pulled the celery stalk closer, and said, “I’d like you to meet my wife Melissa. Melissa, this is Mrs. Goldblum, who lives in—”
“One eighty-four.”
“And Amanda Miller, who lives in 173.”
“How do you do,” Melissa said without a trace of cordiality. Her eyes were busy checking out this Amanda’s body. “Howard,” she then said, turning her green self to her husband, “which one is the Cochran kid?”
“He’s over there, why?”
Glancing at Amanda briefly, checking out her face this time, Melissa said, “His father attacked Sam Wyatt’s little girl and Sam knocked his head in. He was drunk out of his mind,” Melissa added loudly.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Goldblum said.
Amanda shot over to Skipper, who had overheard this.
Howard told Melissa to keep her voice down and they started to argue.
“Skipper,” Amanda said, “don’t say anything to Henry about—about what Mrs. Stewart just said. She’s probably exaggerating.”
“It’s true,” Skipper said, shrugging. “Mr. C’s always drunk. It’s no secret.” He turned away to wait on customers.
“Skipper,” Amanda said sharply.
“I won’t,” Skipper said, clearly exasperated.
Henry came back to the cash box for change. He smiled at Melissa the Celery Stalk. Melissa stared at him. “My wife, Melissa Stewart. Melissa, Henry Cochran, the mastermind of this operation.” Henry said hi and got his change. Howard told him that his mother’s and father’s plans had changed and they wanted him to go to Skipper’s tonight.
“Fine,” Henry said.
“And,” Howard added, “I’d like to take you guys out for a bite to eat after we clean up. To thank you for your help.”
“Great,” Henry said, eyes lighting up. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
As Henry was walking away, Melissa said, “I don’t suppose you’re expecting me to attend this little soiree. We’re due at the Griffins’ at eight.”
“Melissa, what do you want me to do? If what you say is true, I—”
“What business is it of yours, Howard?”
Mrs. Goldblum slumped and fell across the table. The crowd gasped;
Skipper managed to grab her arm before she slid off. Howard lunged and caught hold of her under her arms and Amanda ran around the end of the tables, screaming at people to get out of her way. Henry jumped up on the table and, cupping his hands, asked if there was a doctor in the crowd.
“Melissa,” Howard yelled over his shoulder, “go in the lobby and call 911!” Henry leaped off the table and waved Melissa to follow him into the building.
A woman introduced herself as a nurse and Mrs. Goldblum was gently lowered onto a makeshift bed of sweaters and jackets. Amanda accepted another jacket from an onlooker, knelt down beside Mrs. Goldblum, and covered her with it.
Mrs.
Goldblum’s eyes fluttered. “I must have fainted,” she said quietly, watching the nurse taking her pulse.
Amanda smiled and signaled her to be quiet.
“I really am quite all right,” Mrs. Goldblum said.
“Shhh,” Amanda said, stroking her forehead, “you just lie there and rest a moment.”
The nurse asked Mrs. Goldblum some questions and came to agree with her that she had just fainted. The ambulance arrived, backing in through the crowd. Mrs. Goldblum valiantly argued that if she were just taken home she’d be fine.
Amanda wouldn’t hear of it. “If it were me,” she said, holding Mrs. Goldblum’s hand between her own, “wouldn’t you want to make sure I was all right?”
Mrs. Goldblum closed her eyes, smiling, and softly sighed. “Yes, dear, I suppose I would.”
The attendants carefully lifted Mrs. Goldblum onto the stretcher and Amanda walked back to the ambulance with them, holding Mrs. Goldblum’s hand. As they hoisted the stretcher into the ambulance, Howard touched Amanda’s arm. “As soon as I find someone to help the boys,” Howard said, “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said, giving his hand a squeeze.
Howard helped her up into the ambulance. “Wait—where am I going? Roosevelt?”
“St. Luke’s,” the attendant said. “Emergency room on 113th and Amsterdam.”
“Right,” Howard said. He looked up at Amanda. “She’ll be fine, you know.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
The doors closed and, lights flashing, the ambulance slowly pulled out onto Riverside Drive.
14
SAINT LUKE’S HOSPITAL
“You’re lucky,” the orderly told the Cochrans. “The Saturday night massacre doesn’t start until six. You can go in now.” A nurse opened the door and waved them into the examining area.
Cassy looked back to Alexandra. “I’ll wait out here.” Cassy nodded and went on with Michael.
“Pretty busy on Saturdays,” Alexandra said to the orderly. He nodded, scribbling on a clipboard. He looked up. He looked down. He looked up.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Alexandra said. “I just moved here. From Kansas.”
He rested his elbows on the standing desk and gave her his full attention. “Ever run into Auntie Em?”
Alexandra smiled. “Yes. She’s very nice.” She scanned the waiting room. It was not a particularly uplifting room. But then, it is very hard to enliven any room whose purpose is to take in the ill, the maimed and the less than sane straight from the streets. It was an oblong room, with the orderly at one end, the door to the examining room on his left and the glass door to the outside on his right. Near the glass door, suspended from the ceiling, was a large color television set which, at this moment, was blasting a baseball game. The right wall of the room was made of a lively blue glazed brick, along the upper part of which were windows looking out at St. John the Divine across 113th Street. The left wall had a large glass partition where administrators and medical people were on view. The floor, though astonishingly clean, was still—no matter what they did—the same linoleum that one comes to associate with any form of American incarceration, from schools to prisons. There were many, many plastic chairs and the people sitting in them did not seem very happy, but neither did they seem very unhappy.
“Are all these people waiting to see a doctor?” Alexandra asked.
The orderly chuckled and pointed his pencil with discreet subtlety. “That one there,” he said in a low voice, “drops in when he’s lonely. That lady decided today’s the day she wants a physical. Those three are waiting for someone inside. That gal—the one with the sunglasses—is waiting around to see if she can buy any of the patients’ prescriptions from them. I have to wait until she tries before I can throw her out. And see the guy in the back?”
“Yes.”
“He’s writing a novel about a hospital. And that one—the girl on the other side—she’s working on her master’s degree on urban health care.” He smiled at Alexandra. “But don’t worry,” he said, looking at his watch, “we’ll be up to our necks in patients in about an hour.”
“And then...”
“And then,” he said, “the Saturday night massacre officially begins and it will be standing room only—until about nine tomorrow morning.”
Alexandra scanned the room again.
“Do you have enough doctors?” His head kicked back with a snort. “Ever see MASH?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what it’s like in this part of town. We don’t need more doctors, we need less wounded. Every since Crack Alley opened up—” He ran his hand through his hair. “You don’t live in Brooklyn Heights, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I swear I know you from somewhere.” He tapped his pencil. “Maybe that means I should know you.”
Alexandra smiled. “I guess I’ll sit down and wait for my friends now.”
The orderly bit his lip a moment, shrugged to himself, and went back to his papers.
Alexandra sat along the brick wall and watched the people behind the glass. In a minute or two a long wail of pain came from the direction of the examining rooms. It was a woman’s cry. When it stopped, the people in the waiting room uncomfortably exchanged looks but then, a moment later, lapsed back into their private worlds.
After a bit Alexandra got up to walk around. Through the glass door she saw an ambulance pull into the carport outside. She walked to the door and watched as a stretcher was unloaded and carried inside, a young woman trailing behind it.
Alexandra sat down again and tried to watch the baseball game.
“Channel 6 news!” the orderly suddenly yelled.
Alexandra turned. The orderly snapped his fingers and pointed at her. The entire waiting room looked at her. She got up and reapproached the desk.
“Alice, right?”
Alexandra shook her head.
The glass window slid open. “Alexandra Waring,” said a nurse, poking her head out.
“That’s it!” the orderly said, pounding the desk.
“The lady on the news,” the woman wearing sunglasses said, standing up.
“Who?” asked the old man who was lonely.
“In the subway ads,” the novelist called out.
The nurse came out to get Alexandra’s autograph, a request that was soon echoed by many of the people in the waiting room. The orderly donated his pencil and some paper and a corner of his desk.
“I was just talking to her,” the orderly was saying to the nurse. “I knew I knew her face—”
The door to the examining rooms opened and the small figure of a woman cautiously emerged. She briefly looked up at the commotion, at Alexandra, her eyes and face mottled with red. She quickly lowered her head, then circled around the people and slipped out the glass door.
A moment later a doctor’s head appeared around the door. Looking around, he said, “Clem—did you see Mrs. DiSantos?”
The orderly looked around. “No.”
“If you see her, tell her I need to see her before she leaves,” the doctor said. He frowned at the little autographing session. “What the heck is this? Clem, get these people to move outside. This isn’t Hollywood.”
Alexandra promised everyone an autograph on condition that they take their seats and be quiet. It worked and she went to work, moving from chair to chair until she met a woman who said she didn’t want her stupid autograph, and so then Alexandra reseated herself and tried to watch the baseball game.
Loud voices were emanating from the glassed-in area behind her. She turned in her chair to see the woman who had climbed out of the ambulance before. And then Cassy landed in the chair next to Alexandra, startling her.
“His nose isn’t broken,” Cassy reported, sighing. “They’re just giving him a couple of stitches in his cheek.”
“He’s okay,” Alexandra said.
Cassy nodded.
“Yes, he’s okay.”
“Clem,” the doctor said from around the door, “did you find Mrs. DiSantos?”
Cassy sat up.
“She’s not here, Dr. Karrel.”
Cassy jumped out of her chair and went up to the orderly. She said something to him. He said something and then went back to the examination area. In a minute he reappeared and said something to Cassy. She drew her hand up to her mouth.
The woman from the ambulance came out of the door (looking very upset), crossed the room behind Cassy and went out the glass door. Alexandra saw Cassy cover half of her face with her hand and hurried over to her side.
“What’s wrong? Is—?”
“It’s not Michael,” Cassy said. I just—when they said Mrs. —I wondered—”
“Cassy?” Alexandra had taken hold of her arm.
“Our cleaning woman,” Cassy said, dropping her hand. “Her husband just died. In there. Just a few minutes ago.”
“Oh, no,” Alexandra said. “I’m sorry.”
A mother came in with a little boy screaming at the top of his lungs. The women moved out of the way so the mother could talk to the orderly.
“I didn’t know him,” Cassy said. “But Rosanne—she’s had such—” She sighed. “I can’t believe it.” She shook her head.
“Cassy,” a man’s voice said. They both turned.
“Howard,” Cassy said.
“I just left Henry. He’s going to Skipper’s. Is your husband—”
“He’s fine. He’s just getting some stitches.” Alexandra’s head was turning back and forth with the exchange.
“Is Amanda here?”
“Amanda?” Cassy said.
“They were bringing in a friend of hers—oh, what’s her name?—a nice old lady who’s a neighbor of hers. She fainted at the bookstall and they were bringing her here.”
“In an ambulance?” Alexandra asked him.
“Yeah.”
“I think I saw her,” Alexandra said. “If it was she, she just left.”
“Left for where?”
“I don’t know.” Alexandra pointed to the glass partition. “She was in there, before, talking to those people.” Howard walked over there.
Riverside Drive Page 21
