Cassy went to the guest room, the last place Michael would go if he woke up. She hurried to get dressed—but her makeup! The eyeliner nearly made her cry with exasperation; her hands were simply shaking too much, making lines that belonged only on maps. She tried to wipe it off with a cotton swab but she was too shaky to do even that correctly.
Just calm down. In five minutes you will be out of here. Thu will go to dinner. You will come home, prepared to meet him. Just pull yourself together and get out while he’s still asleep.
In five minutes Cassy at least looked as if she had made some attempt at dressing for dinner. But a mere attempt it was. She had no foundation on, nor any eye shadow (she didn’t dare go back for either), and the earrings had been chosen in haste, not taste. Still, she would pass.
She wrapped everything up in the robe and stuffed it under the bed. She took one last look in the mirror and then she heard Michael—coughing. She stood there, straining to hear—would he go back to sleep? Please go back to sleep.
Silence.
She moved toward the door.
“Cassy?”
Cassy’s heart pounded. What to do, what to do? To get out of the apartment, she would have to go past their bedroom. Her only chance would be if Michael went to the bathroom. That, or hide in the closet until he left. Oh, God, what if he finds me hiding back here?
“Cass?” he was calling.
He had been drunk; he was now half drunk.
Cassy heard something. She heard him, she thought, moving around. Toward the bathroom? She longed to move down the hall to hear, but what if he came out? She’d be trapped in the hallway. Please, God, let him go to the bathroom.
He did. She heard the all too familiar sound of the toilet seat being hurled up.
Shoes in hand, Cassy was off—down the hall, into the kitchen—damn, no purse. Don’t be a fool, just take your briefcase. Go! Go! Hurry! Keys—never mind! Go! Hurry!
She slipped out the front door and tried to close it. It was sticking so she left it ajar. She looked at the elevator and in her mind could see Michael coming out of the bathroom, looking for her. Her clothes were only lying out there on the chair...
“Cassy?” she heard.
Quick. She put on her shoes and hurried down the hall to the staircase. Her heels clattered on the stairs—damn—so she gripped the railing and wobbled down to the next floor. And just in time. She heard their door open and a voice bellow, “Caaaaaassy!”
She pressed for the elevator.
There was noise above. Michael was in the hallway. What was he doing?
God, please let the elevator come.
The elevator slowly went up past her floor—and stopped. It’s on our floor, she thought. And then it hit her— the elevator will stop here next. She wheeled around and headed for the stairs and was almost on them when she heard the elevator doors open behind her. She didn’t turn around, she didn’t move. She did not breathe. If he doesn’t hear anything, he’ll go down to the lobby. She heard the elevator doors close and the whine of its descent. Thank you, God.
“Please don’t run away from me,” Michael’s voice said from behind her. Cassy didn’t even look back. She let her shoulders slump, dragged herself over to the stairs, and sat down. And cried.
Michael stood in front of her, watching her, and then sat down next to her on the step, careful not to touch her. His voice was low, gentle. “Why did you run away from me?”
When she opened her eyes, she saw that most of her makeup had made the transition to her hands. “I’m tired of being hurt,” she finally said, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t want to be hurt anymore.”
“Oh, Cass,” Michael sighed. He pulled a tissue out of the side of her briefcase and handed it to her. She used it. In a moment she looked at him; he was studying his hands.
“Do you think I want to hurt you?” he asked, voice barely audible. “Do you think I ever wanted to hurt you?” He swallowed, still staring at his hands. “I’m sick of failing you, Casso. Over and over again. I can’t be what you want me to be. I never could.”
A neighbor came out of an apartment down the hall. Neither Cassy nor Michael looked up to see who it was. They remained silent, eyes to the ground, until they heard whoever it was get on the elevator.
“What do you want?” she asked quietly.
He sighed. “I need some money. It’s the only time I’ll ask.”
“He’ll be back when he needs money,” Sam had warned Cassy. “It’s vital that you don’t give it to him. All it will do is enable him to keep drinking. And you have to warn Henry, too. Because if he can’t get it from you, he’ll use Henry to get it.”
Next time, Cassy thought to herself. I don’t have the energy to fight him now. Michael was being nice now, but what would he be like when he didn’t get what he wanted?
“Change the locks on your doors,” Sam had warned her.
She hadn’t, of course. But tomorrow she would.
Cassy opened her briefcase and rummaged for her checkbook. “How much do you need?”
“Whatever you’ve got on hand.”
She opened the checkbook on her knee and looked at the balance, well aware that he was looking over her shoulder. “I have a little over three thousand in my checking account,” she said. “Is that enough?”
“More than enough. Thank you.”
From the way he said it, Cassy wondered if Michael had expected to get anything from her. She wrote a check for three thousand dollars and handed it to him, still not meeting his eyes. He folded the check carefully and put it in his back pocket. “I’m short on cash—” She looked into the pocket of her checkbook. “I need fifteen for cabs. I have to go to a dinner at the Hilton. Here. Here’s forty.”
He took the money and put that carefully away as well.
“There are two things you must promise me,” she said, putting her checkbook away, “or I’ll stop payment on that check.” Pause. “One, you see a doctor.” She sniffed and glanced over at him. “You look terrible, Michael.”
He shrugged, looking down at his shoes.
“And two,” Cassy said, rising, “that you’re not here when I get back.”
“I won’t be.”
She started down the stairs to the next floor. On the half landing, she looked back up at him through the bars of the banister. “Call me next week. I just can’t deal with this right now.”
“Me neither,” he sighed.
When Cassy arrived at the Hilton, she fled to the ladies’ room off the lobby. The attendant, bless her, was fully equipped to deal with broken down women like herself (this was, after all, New York—where hearts were broken every minute). Cassy had a full selection of repair tools at her disposal, and blush, eye shadow and mascara did much to cover the damage. Only after she was finished did Cassy realize she had no cash to pay the woman, so she wrote her a check for ten dollars—an offering the attendant viewed with a bit of skepticism (this was, after all, New York).
Cassy felt better because she looked better. She felt relieved too, because dealing with Michael had been postponed. Relieved. Good Lord, what sense did that make? Agonizing over him for weeks and then when he shows up.
She tried to shake her thoughts away and concentrate on the dinner. She took the escalator up to the second floor and followed the people into the ballroom. Taking a deep breath, she moved forward into the people, around the tables, greeting and talking briefly with those she knew. She found WST’s table, found her place card, sat down and listened to a young woman from public relations explain that she had heard WST had not won their category.
Cassy ordered a vodka tonic to stop the quaking of her hands. It worked, slowly, and she felt a bit better. She ordered a white wine next. Oh, great, now the other Cochran will get drunk, she thought. They’ll all love that.
Alexandra slid into the empty seat next to Cassy, took one look at her, pressed her hand and asked what had happened. Cassy smiled, weakly, and said, “Michael’s back.”
�
��At home?”
Cassy said, looking past Alexandra to Barbara Marioni, to whom she waved, “He’s staying elsewhere at the moment.” She looked at Alexandra. “Come on,” she whispered, “let’s forget about him. This is your night. Deal?”
“Deal,” Alexandra said, pulling one of her ratings smiles. Her eyes then skipped away to survey the room. “Everyone’s talking about WST. You could have at least warned me that you were going to blow up Wall Street while I was in Poughkeepsie today.”
Cassy smiled. “It wouldn’t have been a coup then, would it?”
Alexandra turned, speaking through a frozen smile, “What the hell is a ‘put’? I’ll die before I let on I don’t know what anyone’s talking about.”
Cassy patted her hand. “A put, my young colleague, is a bet that a stock will go down a certain amount within a given time. The price of a put, like a call—that’s up—depends on the odds. The puts in question cost next to nothing, since the odds of Electronika’s—”
“Got it,” Alexandra said. “Race track ala Wall Street—they doped the horse and bet he’d lose.”
Peter Cannon, WST’s financial controller, arrived, and Alexandra vacated his chair and returned to WWKK’s table. Dinner was served; Cassy was barely aware of whatever it was she ate (and she did eat—something). Sy Bolin, the producer of the documentary, arrived finally, and Cassy let the PR gal break the news to him that he wouldn’t be winning. Peter Cannon was going on and on about something—at first Cassy thought it was the transmitter, but no, it was about the satellite fees they were spending on the Caswell Zander story.
Cassy laughed to herself, sipping on a new glass of white wine. Caswell Zander? Had that really only been today?
The MC cleared his voice at the podium on the dais and the room grew quiet. Waiters weaved in and out, carrying out the debris of dinner. Cassy drank her wine and pretended to listen to the introductory remarks while, in reality, thinking about divorce, Henry, divorce, suicide, the things stuffed under the bed in the guest room, divorce, Sam, God, and what it would be like to be single.
Old and single.
They proceeded with the awards. There were short, wonderful speeches by veteran broadcast journalists and then short, wonderful speeches by veteran and younger broadcast journalists as they accepted their awards. Major Market, Feature Reporting: WCBS in New York won for a story about welfare hotels; WMAQ in Chicago for a story about a controversial community; WBZ in Boston won for a story about Afghanistan. They went on into independent documentaries and poor Sy was mentioned as a nominee but did not get to go to the podium (he left a few minutes later).
Maxwell Faldigrand was supposed to introduce the Middle Market, Feature Reporting category. Last Cassy heard, Maxwell was reminiscing about his days down South, and then Peter turned to look at Cassy. Then Cassy noticed that a couple of people had turned around to look at her. Trying to wake up from wherever she had been, she heard Maxwell say:
“...and Sid says, ‘You want to know who uncovered the story? I’ll tell you who. Our station manager, Cassy Cochran, that’s who.’ “
Faces swung in her direction.
“I know, I know,” Maxwell was saying at the podium, “next year will be here soon enough, and the good people at WST will be up here receiving their accolades. But I, for one, can’t wait and want to give a round of applause for a job well done. Cassy Cochran, please stand up and take a bow for the WST newsroom.”
The applause started in the front and made its way, in waves, to the back. Peter pushed Cassy up on her feet and she smiled, seeing but not registering, quite safe behind the gray veil that had dropped in front of her eyes. And then she saw Alexandra across the room, clapping over her head, face radiant.
Cassy sat down and Peter patted her on the back while she drained her wineglass.
Michael doesn’t even know about it.
They got on with the awards and in a few minutes Cassy heard, “KSCT News, Kansas City, for ‘Death of an American Farmer.’ To accept the award is reporter Alexandra Waring and KSCT station manager Seth Philby.”
Cassy cheered and her table glared at her. (It is not nice to cheer loudly after one of your own has failed to win.) But Cassy couldn’t have cared less.
Alexandra glided up onto the dais and everyone’s eyes, Cassy noted, were riveted on her. And why not? she thought, eyes returning to Alexandra. With her long, dark dress, a few scattered sequins sparkling under the lights, her hair fanned out in all its glory, and with that face, those eyes...
Peter whispered, “Now why don’t we ever have anyone looking like that working for us?”
Thanks, Cassy thought.
Alexandra’s acceptance speech was quite moving. She talked about the subject of her story—a farmer who had shot himself after losing the farm his family had owned for generations, and the family he left behind. Her message concerned political grandstanding and the economics of greed, neither of which take into consideration the fundamental needs of human beings. And that when you systematically strip an American of everything that he or she holds dear—their home, their livelihood, their self-respect and their dignity—it should come as no surprise that they will no longer wish to live.”
She thanked the individuals who had worked on the story with her, and, on a lighter note, made a special note to thank a Mrs. Kaffundersmelt in Winnopeka for lending Alexandra her fishing waders to go out in the field. People laughed; people loved her.
I love her too, Cassy thought, eyes misting.
And, finally, Alexandra offered heartfelt gratitude to KSCT, the station that had taught her so much. She stepped to the side and Seth Philby ran through his little speech, ending with KSCT being so proud of Alexandra Waring, now of WWKK here in New York.
Alexandra stepped down from the dais, nodding and smiling at the people congratulating her. She said something to a man at the WWKK table and walked on, holding her award, looking directly at Cassy.
Cassy helped herself to a swallow of Peter’s wine and then Alexandra was there, looking down at her. “Come with me for a minute,” Alexandra said, touching her shoulder and walking on.
Cassy smiled at Peter, excused herself, and got up. Uh-oh. A little too much wine—but no, it was going to be okay. Throwing her shoulders back, Cassy walked out to the lobby of the ballroom where Alexandra was waiting. “Congratulations,” Cassy said, reaching to hug her.
And then she burst into tears, right there on Alexandra’s shoulder.
Alexandra stood there, awkwardly trying to hold both Cassy and her award. “Come over here,” she said, gently prying Cassy’s arms loose and taking her hand. She led her to a couch and sat her down.
Peter came out of the ballroom. “Hey,” he said to Cassy, squatting down in front of her. He gave her his handkerchief. “You need some rest, Cassy. You’ve been working too hard.”
Cassy nodded, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking to Alexandra.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alexandra said.
Cassy started to hand Peter the handkerchief back, but he smiled and said, “That’s okay, you might need it. Listen, why don’t I take you home? I was thinking of leaving early anyway.”
“Thanks, Peter,” Cassy began. She hesitated and then turned her eyes to Alexandra.
Alexandra’s eyes darted to the ballroom but then quickly over to Peter. “That’s all right,” she said, offering a quick smile. “I’ll see that she gets home.”
“No,” Cassy said, shaking her head. “You should stay—”
“Peter,” Alexandra said, “I would appreciate it if you could get Cassy’s things and my purse. It’s sitting in my chair at the KK table.” As Peter went off, Alexandra turned back to Cassy. “Don’t say a word,” she warned her. “I’m taking you home and that’s the end of it.”
Cassy wiped her eyes, sighed heavily, and fell back against the couch, murmuring, “I think I really am losing it this time.”
They heard applause in the ballroom.
“Oh, Alexandra,” Cassy said, “tell me it’s not the end.”
Alexandra looked at her. “It is not the end,” she said quietly.
Cassy managed a sad smile, but as she continued to look into Alexandra’s eyes her smile faded. Then she looked away, shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said, voice fading too. “I can’t believe the thoughts that are running through my head.”
Alexandra didn’t say anything.
Peter reappeared, holding Cassy’s briefcase and Alexandra’s purse. They thanked him, Peter told Cassy to take some aspirin before she went to sleep and said good night.
Alexandra steered Cassy to the escalator. Going down, they could see that it was pouring rain outside. “Uh-oh,” Alexandra said, “this could be tricky.” The line for taxis was miles long; Alexandra finally located an errant bellboy who agreed to run down the street to the parking garage to pick up Alexandra’s car.
“KK wouldn’t even spring for a limo for you?”
Alexandra laughed, holding Cassy’s arm. “Since Martha was filling in for me tonight, I decided to stay longer at the seminar. I drove straight here from Vassar.”
They stood outside, under the overhang of the driveway, to wait. It felt good to Cassy; the wind was blowing and the air was damp and the sound of the rain on the Avenue of the Americas was dramatic. In a few minutes they could see the MG slowly maneuvering up to the entrance. They crossed the line of taxis and reached the MG as it pulled in on the other side of the driveway.
The bellboy held the door for Alexandra and a doorman ran across the driveway to usher Cassy in. Alexandra placed her award in Cassy’s lap, helped her with her seat belt, and flicked on the radio. It was an all—news station. Cassy reached for the dial and searched for another station.
They pulled out on Avenue of the Americas and the rain came thundering down on the canvas top.
Cassy flipped the radio to FM, found a classical station, turned it up to hear it over the roar above, and sat back in her seat. The car seemed even smaller than it was. A tiny cavern of fogged windows and flailing wipers.
Riverside Drive Page 37
