“God, I needed that,” she said when we were done.
I imagined her saying that with a sultry British accent.
6
I was, in retrospect, obsessed with Cassandra Payne, more so in the beginning than I realized, or wanted to believe.
Had I known how sickening and utterly disturbed my behavior would eventually become, I would’ve stopped myself right then and there, and my life—everyone’s lives—would be different today.
But you can’t think that way, it’ll only make you depressed and crazy.
You have to accept your actions and live with the consequences, as I do now.
I couldn’t help myself; there was a wonderfully sexy, beautiful woman living across the street whose life, whose very existence, was a puzzle and a mystery.
Maybe I wasn’t in love with my wife anymore. Maybe it was all a midlife crisis thing.
I began to take note of her comings and goings. She had no set schedule. Her husband, who drove a black BMW, usually left early—if he was around—or came home late. Sometimes the BMW would be there, but he’d depart or arrive by cab, with flight luggage. He was a tall, thin man, much like his wife, with silver-gray hair and thick glasses. He always wore three-piece suits.
When I was sitting around with either Bryan or David, we always stopped whatever we were talking about to observe the woman as she was leaving her house or coming home—and we took stock, of course, of what she was wearing. Cassandra Payne could make a potato sack sexy on her body. We never said anything about her, not usually, resuming whatever it was we were saying when she either left or went inside; but I could see it in their eyes, and Bryan and David probably saw it in mine: in our fantasies, we were undressing her, touching her, kissing her, making love to her. It didn’t matter that Bryan and I were married, that she was an unattainable woman, a forbidden neighbor—in the world of fantasy, anything was possible and everything was permissible.
I continued with my home life, my married life, and became more and more curious about what went on inside the house across the street, and what went on inside Cassandra Payne’s head.
In a dream I had of her, she came to me and offered me a berry. It was a red berry.
“Eat it,” she said, “and we’ll be married forever.”
I had no idea what the dream meant.
My son. Matthew, was starting to have problems at school—he was getting into fights with other boys. He told me that the other boys started it, but his teacher said otherwise.
“Fighting does no good,” I told my son. “People get hurt—people get arrested and file lawsuits over fights. People lose teeth, break bones.”
“They’re jerks,” Matthew said.
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
“How are they jerks?”
“They just are!” he huffed, and crossed his arms, and wouldn’t look at me.
I was worried about him. He seemed to be getting more and more angry and destructive.
I told myself it was a phase for five-year-old boys. I recalled getting into some fights at his age … I think.
Jessica, I knew, would grow up to be a striking woman, perhaps as beautiful as Cassandra Payne. Men would adore her, chase her. She’d have no problem finding success in her future. It made me uncomfortable to think of my three-year-old daughter as a grown woman and using her sex appeal to make her way through the world.
Tina started going out with “the girls” one night a week, usually on Thursdays. She’d come home drunk, and she would either be frisky or she’d fall right to sleep. I thought it was good that she and her friends went out and blew off steam.
We were starting to get a lot of crank phone calls. At first, they were hang-ups, and then sounds, like gurgling, hissing, panting, gargling. I ordered Caller ID from the phone company; when it arrived in the mail, I immediately installed it. So when the next crank call came, and someone moaned and panted and hung up, I looked at the phone number on the little ID machine.
“Gotcha.”
I dialed the number.
A kid’s voice answered, male: “Hullo.”
“Listen you little twerp,” I said, “if you call here one more time, I will tell your parents, and I will go over to your house and open up a can of whup-ass and whup your ass, you hear?”
He hung up, I called him back.
“Uh, hullo?”
I panted and moaned. I really got into it, too.
He hung up.
I laughed.
Someone was pulling at my shirt. It was Jessica. She frowned and said, “Daddy, what are you doing?”
“Just playing,” I said.
My daughter gave me a weird look. I was no better than the silly kid who’d been making the calls.
But the calls stopped.
One night, I had an idea. Tina and I were in bed. She was reading a book; I was lying next to her, looking at the ceiling.
“Let’s have a party,” I said.
“What?”
“A barbecue type deal, during the day,” I said. “We’ll cook food, invite our friends, even the neighbors.” I sounded excited about this, too.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not? When’s the last time we had a get-together?”
“Before Jessica was born,” she said.
“You see. Plus, it’d be a good way to acquaint ourselves with our neighbors.”
“You know the neighbors.”
“Just Bryan and David.”
She thought about this, and nodded. “It’d be good to see some old friends, too.”
“So let’s do it,” I said.
“You get it together and arrange it,” she said.
“Deal,” I said.
The master bedroom was on the bottom floor, the kids had their bedrooms upstairs, the third room outfitted as my office. I hadn’t used it much since being disbarred, but the office had a new purpose: the window looked right across at the Paynes’ home. Some nights, while Tina slept, I sat at my desk, the curtains drawn, and espied the house. I’d see shadows move about, hers and his. One time, their shadows confronted each other, and I could distantly hear them having an argument that only lasted a minute. Another time, her shadow swayed back and forth, like she was dancing. I wondered what kind of music she listened to.
7
We had the party two weeks later. I called friends, Tina called friends and told her coworkers. I printed up a few flyers and disbursed them throughout the neighborhood. I saved the Paynes’ house for last. I was nervous and sweating. At last, I would see her up close; and I half-hoped she would reveal herself to be less striking face to face than from afar, then I could be released from this swelling fixation.
I waited approximately forty minutes after she got home. She was wearing white slacks and a suit jacket that day, her hair pulled up. I checked myself in the mirror several times. I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khaki slacks—I wanted to appear casual and festive.
The kids were playing with toys in front of the TV. They’d be all right. I hurried across the street.
My heart began to beat fast. I was acting like a teenage kid in heat and I thought this was just ridiculous.
I rang the doorbell. No answer.
I knocked on the door.
The door opened. I almost ran away. Cassandra Payne wasn’t there, but her husband was. I didn’t know he was home; his car was there, but that didn’t mean anything. His arrival must’ve slipped by me, maybe while I was out passing flyers, or when I was in the bathroom.
“Yes?” he said. His tie was loose, he had dark circles under his eyes. I’d say he was in his late forties or early fifties, a lot of distinguished lines on his face.
“Hi, um hi,” I said, holding out the flyer. He took it and arched a brow as he read. “I live across the street, I’m—”
He smiled. “Oh, yes, of course.” He held out his hand. “Lawrence Payne.”
“Philip Lansdale.”
“You’re having a bit o
f a shindig this weekend, I gather,” he said with that refined British accent, referring to the flyer.
“Oh yes,” I said. “Some close friends, and neighbors! What better way to get to know the people who live around you, don’t you think?”
“Yes, that’s not my strongest point,” he said. “I’m out of town a lot, as my work calls for it.”
I wanted to say, I know.
“I’m sure my wife Cassy and I can drop in. Have you met my wife?”
“Well,” I said, “no.”
“She’s in the bath right now. Always takes these awful long baths and never wants to be disturbed. But when she comes out, I’ll tell her about this,” he said, holding up the flyer.
“Thanks.”
“Thank you for thinking of us,” Payne said. “Perhaps we will see you this weekend.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “that’d be nice.” I felt stupid.
He smiled, I smiled, we shook hands, he closed the door, and I walked across the street and back to my house. All I could think about was the man’s wife in a bathtub, bubbles and water all around her clean white body, her hands touching herself.
Her husband was in love with her, I could tell; he adored her and I’m sure she adored him back. I was married, too. These thoughts, these desires—I was an idiot. I had too much time on my hands, that was the problem.
I opened a beer when I got home, but what I really wanted was some of Bryan’s vodka.
I didn’t expect such a good turnout. Fortunately, Tina persuaded me to prepare for such an eventuality—“People just don’t easily turn down free food and booze, and no one does anything on Sundays except go to church and lay around the house,” she said.
People started arriving after one in the afternoon; by three, there were at least forty people mingling about my backyard and in the rooms of my house. My children were confused and delighted by all these guests. I think Tina was surprised by the number; we were both very busy hosts. Bryan and his demure and elegant wife, Ellen, the librarian, took it upon themselves to man the portable barbecue, cooking up hot dogs, hamburgers, and small steaks. Bryan, always with a drink in hand, was wearing a chef’s hat and apron, and he was having a grand old time cooking away; Ellen attended to the condiments. David, much to my surprise, showed up with a date—or, at least a woman at his side, and a very young woman at that, I’d say not too many days over eighteen, and (he confessed) a student of his.
It was nice to see some of the old friends and acquaintances Tina and I had acquired over the years, either through my job or hers, or through mutual friends. I met some of Tina’s coworkers, who seemed pleased (and curious) to meet me—the husband.
I put on music—classic songs from the seventies and eighties—and people began to dance, after they drank more. I had plenty of alcohol on hand: refrigerator and two ice chests full of beer, a well-stocked supply of gin, tequila, vodka, bourbon, and whiskey.
Around five-thirty, Cassandra Payne showed up. She was alone.
She was wearing a long charcoal gray skirt with slits on each side, slits that went high, revealing the pale flesh of her naked skin; the skirt was so tight that you could make out the outline of her underwear, the v-shape of the thong riding between the cheeks of her ass. She also wore black leather boots that came up to the tip of her calves, and a blue suit jacket unbuttoned enough to show her white chest and part of a gray bra. Gold necklace, gold earrings, no rings on her fingers. Her fragrance was gentle but bespoke expensive designer perfume. She wore little makeup, just a touch of lipstick and eyeliner. She knew she was the center of attention at that moment, and you could tell she liked it, she was used to it, perhaps she even expected and thrived on it.
I approached her, Tina trailing behind me.
“Philip Lansdale,” I said, smiling, and heard my wife softly cough. “And this is Tina, Tina Lansdale—we’re your, ah, hosts.”
“Yes,” she said with her thick British accent, which was even more smooth and stylized than her husband’s. “Yes, of course,” shaking Tina’s hand first, and then mine, and looking me in the eye. “Cassandra Payne, your neighbor across the street.” Her eyebrows were unusually thick and dark, and almost met; her chin chiseled and defined. There was something masculine about her face, but this didn’t detract from her inherent beauty … it was a curiosity. She was quite tall, almost as tall as me with those boots, and extremely thin—all these attributes that I knew well, seeing her from afar, were more evident close-up.
“Glad you could make it,” Tina said flatly.
“Will your husband be joining us?” I asked. “Lawrence. I talked to him the other day.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “He was called out on unexpected business. I didn’t want to be rude, I wanted to come by and say hello.”
“Well,” Tina said, “I hope you’ll be staying longer than just a hello.”
“Yes,” was Cassandra Payne’s reply.
“Would you like a drink?” I said. “A beer?”
Very slightly, she turned up her nose at the mention of beer—other people may not have noticed such a subtle motion, but I—having observed people during depositions and trials—noticed.
“A bourbon on the rocks would be most pleasant,” she said.
“Coming right up,” I was too eager, I know, but I went to the table where the alcohol was and poured two shots of Jim Beam in a cup, adding ice. Cassandra Payne stood where I left her, looking around, as people continued to mingle and talk, while watching her out of the corner of their eyes. Especially David—he acted like he was having a conversation with his date, but his attention was really on the British woman.
I saw her smile at him, and David quickly looked away.
I returned and gave her the cup.
“Thank you.” She sipped at the bourbon.
“Food’s out in the backyard,” I said. “Your other neighbor, Bryan Vaughn, piloting the barbecue. Have you ever had barbecue?” I asked, and immediately wished I could retract that question.
She seemed to think about it, though. “I believe I have. Steak. Well-done.”
“Ahhhh,” I said, nodding, not knowing what else to say, wanting to rip open her jacket and see the size of her breasts. “I just meant—you being English—” I didn’t know what I meant.
“Perhaps,” she said, with a smile, “a bite to eat would prove prudent. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Yeah, well, help yourself to all the grub you want.”
She walked toward the back of the house, to the yard. I wished I hadn’t said “grub.”
Tina was standing next to me. “Where did she come from? Out of a fashion magazine or a bad TV show?”
“What?”
“A bourbon on the rocks would be most pleasant,” Tina mimicked a British accent, very low. “‘A bite to eat would prove prudent.’”
“Are you making fun of her?”
“Watch your eyes, Philip,” hitting me on the arm.
“What?” I laughed it off.
“You can’t help it, I know. And every other man here has bug-eyes.” Walking away, she added, “But I don’t know if she’s really a woman, you know …”
I waited until Tina was talking to a friend, and went to the backyard. Cassandra Payne was in conversation with Bryan and Ellen. They laughed about something. Bryan handed Ellen a hot dog, which she put in a bun and added mayonnaise and mustard, and with a napkin, passed it along to Mrs. Payne.
I watched her eat the hot dog, holding a cup of bourbon like Matthew had while looking at the flames flickering from the trash can.
“Philip.”
I jumped. It was Ray McCann, a lawyer I was acquainted with. He was quickly balding, in his early thirties, and it seemed, right now, like he was well on the way to a good drunk.
“Hey,” I said.
He was nodding at her. “Who’s the babe?”
“My neighbor.”
“Do say! Will you introduce me? Does she like lawyers? Would she go out with a
lawyer?”
“She’s married.”
“So are most women you meet,” he said. “What does it matter?” He waited, then said, “Introduce me.”
“Introduce yourself, Ray,” I said. “Be bold. Be aggressive. Shouldn’t be hard for an attorney.”
“Right,” he said, straightening what little hair he had. He made his way to her, or weaved. She looked at him. He turned and walked in a different direction. She was looking at me now. I smiled. She smiled. She approached me, a subtle swing in her hips.
“I should be going,” she said. “I have an appointment.”
I wanted to ask what the appointment was, and who with. I almost did, then my daughter joined us.
“Hello,” my daughter said.
“Well, hello there, little girl.” Cassandra Payne bent down to touch my daughter’s shoulder. I was surprised she could make the move in her tight skirt, but the slits helped, and exposed a lot of leg. I could see down her jacket. I could see more skin. I think I was shaking. “What’s your name?” she asked my daughter.
“Jessica.”
“Jessica. That’s a nice name.”
My daughter was holding a plastic dinosaur and she said, “This is Bobby.”
“Bobby the Brontosaurus?”
“Just Bobby,” Jessica said.
“You’re very pretty, little Jessica,” Cassandra Payne said.
“So is Bobby.”
“You’re very pretty, lady,” Jessica said.
David was watching all this, from afar. So was Tina.
Cassandra Payne stood. “This is your girl?” she asked me.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve seen her about. She’s a charmer.”
Wild Turkey Page 3
