“Louise, you can think about what Father might have done, and what Father might have said, all you like. You can comfort and console yourself until you choke on it. But you cannot interfere in my life. You cannot barge in here any day of the week, start fixing dinner, and then get upset because we won’t rearrange our schedules for you. And also, it’s no concern of yours whether I sleep in my bed, someone else’s bed, or in a doorway on lower Washington Street.” Out of the second drawer, Cassandra withdrew a utensil, darkened with age and use, which was the counterpart of the one Louise had been deploying with such difficulty and so little success.
“You’re treating me as if I were a stranger! I’m not a stranger! I’m part of this family now!”
“That’s unfortunately true.”
Louise’s eyes fell hard upon Cassandra. “You’re being deliberately unpleasant. You’re going out of your way to upset me. Your father loved you very much, but if he could hear the way you’re talking to me, he’d be horrified. Except, if he were here, you wouldn’t dare to say these things to me, or to anybody else. I try to help you out and you accuse me of interfering. I know you say ugly things about me when the doors are closed. Well, let me tell you, young lady, I am your father’s widow and that entitles me to a say in what goes on around here!”
“A very limited say,” said Cassandra. “We’ve decided to let you choose the monument to go over his grave.” She had moved around the butcher-block table, and picked up one of the radishes. While Louise talked on, Cassandra carved a perfect rose with the older implement. She set the radish down neatly, and with a small flourish, next to the casserole, then picked up another. “This is a very unpleasant conversation,” she said.
“I’m not the one who made it unpleasant!” cried Louise. Her voice was strident, brittle.
“I have no interest in fighting,” remarked Cassandra. “I’m not used to it, and I don’t like it.” Cassandra spoke slowly. She finished a second perfect radish, and placed it beside the other. She picked up a third, and began on that. “As far as running the house goes, one thing Father would never do is interfere with Ida here in the kitchen. And Father never said anything tasteless such as ‘You were out all night last night. Where were you?’ Father said, ‘Verity, there are circles under your eyes. Are you sure you’re getting enough sleep?’ Father didn’t care what we did so long as we were polite and did it in the right places. Actually, I don’t think he cared about anything but selling houses at the top of the market, and sailing when the weather was good. If he hadn’t insisted we all learn to handle a boat, we wouldn’t have seen him at all while we were growing up.”
“He loved you, Cassandra. All of you!”
“In his way, I suppose he did,” replied Cassandra mildly. She picked up a fourth radish. “And we loved him, in our own way. But Verity and Jonathan and I have no intention of allowing him to run our lives from the grave through you.”
Louise’s expression hardened.
Cassandra finished off the last radish quickly, and put it down with the others. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with the thumb and middle fingers of her right hand. “I hope you don’t need any more rosettes than that, Louise, because I have a terrible headache. I really do hate having to say these things aloud.”
Louise shook her head. “I don’t like being talked down to like this.”
“I just want you to understand that this is the way things are,” returned Cassandra. “I had to make it plain, for Verity, and Jonathan, and myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I had better go and apologize to Ida. She’s not used to being made to listen to family arguments.”
Cassandra walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room.
Louise flung the four carved radishes into the garbage disposal.
10
For some time, Jonathan had been putting pressure on Apple to move in with him. He no longer saw anything but inconvenience in their maintaining separate residences. Apple was willing to move into Jonathan’s apartment in the Prudential Towers only after she was certain that she would not be leaving Rocco in the lurch. She knew that his salary at Filene’s was insufficient to pay the rent on their two-bedroom place on Commonwealth, but when she raised the matter with him, Rocco only said mysteriously, “I’ll be able to manage.”
“Do you have a source of income I don’t know anything about? Are you running numbers? Have you won the lottery?”
“No,” said Rocco. “But I’ll manage.”
On the first Saturday in May, Cassandra and Jonathan went over to the Commonwealth apartment directly after breakfast. Apple had been up much earlier packing boxes and suitcases.
She stood in the center of her bedroom, looking around her carefully. It was bare of all the personal belongings that had adorned the bureau, nightstand, and windowsill. The closet door was open and held only black hangers. The bed had been stripped of its coverings. Three small embroidered Middle Eastern rugs were rolled up and tied together near the door to the hallway. The walls were bare and even the picture hooks had been removed. A spider plant in a forlorn cracked pot was tilted into a dusty corner. “I’m leaving that,” said Apple. “I always hated that plant.”
“Let’s get going,” said Jonathan.
Rocco came up behind Cassandra and put his hands around her waist and hugged her. He wore an army surplus khaki shirt and a green cloth marine cap. “Let’s get a move on,’’ he said. “I’ve waited three years to get rid of this woman. Thank God she’s finally moving out.”
“Are you getting another roommate?” asked Jonathan, picking up a box.
Cassandra shook her head. “We like the privacy.”
“Oh, ho!” said Apple, following Jonathan out with the rugs under her arm. “That explains . . .”
She and Jonathan were out the door before she finished the sentence.
“Explains what?” Cassandra asked Rocco.
“She was asking how I’d be able to afford this place by myself.”
“Did you tell her I was going to help you out?”
Rocco shook his head. “She just figured it out.” Cassandra had just picked up two shopping bags filled with toiletries and clothing. Rocco took them from her, and put them down again. He threw his arms loosely over her shoulders and kissed her.
“Do you mind?” Cassandra asked.
“Mind what?”
“That I’ll be helping you with the rent?”
“Why should I mind?”
“Some people would.”
“Does it bother you?” Rocco asked.
“Of course not. I do like the privacy when I come here. And I’m willing to pay for it. And if I’m smart, I’ll figure out some way to take it off on my taxes—my office in the city, or something.”
“Christ,” breathed Rocco with a laugh, “you rich people!”
They were still locked in an embrace when Apple and Jonathan returned for a second load.
“Wait till I’m out before you do it on the bare floor, would you, please?” sighed Apple.
“The sooner we’re out,” said Jonathan meaningfully, “the sooner you two will have the place to yourselves.”
“All right,” said Cassandra, taking the hint. She and Rocco filled their arms, and trudged downstairs behind Apple and Jonathan. When the car was packed, and the apartment was checked to make certain she was leaving nothing behind, Apple turned to Rocco and Cassandra standing together on the sidewalk.
“Come over to dinner tonight.”
“You sure you want us?” said Rocco to Jonathan, who was revving the car.
“Yes,” Jonathan replied. “I’m going out to Brookline this afternoon, and I’ll ask Verity if she wants to come too. Our housewarming.”
A few minutes later, upstairs, Rocco removed his hat and tossed it into a chair in the hallway, on top of several other of his garments.
“How about some coffee?” asked Cassandra.
“Not now.” He moved into the living room, looking around. “This
place is all ours now.” He threw himself sideways into a chair and motioned Cassandra over. She stood beside him, and he pulled her down beside him. They kissed for a long moment, holding hands, until she nestled her face against his shoulder. She felt him tense up as a drum solo, off the radio, filled the room.
“What’s wrong?” she said, looking up.
“That’s Danny Longo.”
“You know him?”
“He used to be with the Normal Mailers until they broke up. Then he formed his own group—the Monotones.”
“Can you actually tell it’s him playing?”
“Can you actually tell it’s Liza Minelli when she sings New York, New York? Of course I can. Just listen to that,” Rocco sighed. “Longo plays like his sticks are lead pipes. And the Monotones are getting air play?”
Cassandra sat up. “Why haven’t People Buying Things cut a single?”
Rocco raised his eyebrows. “It’s not quite like publishing a book, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“When you get a manuscript and you can see some potential in it, you work with the writer for a while, suggesting rewrites and so forth, and he looks at it again, and maybe another editor sees it, and a copy editor, and so forth—it goes through a hundred stages before it gets to the public, right?”
“Close enough.”
“Well, when we play an audition, the man booking us doesn’t give us the chance to make rewrites. He listens to what we’ve got and it’s thumbs up or thumbs down. No editing, no consensus of opinion. Same with a record. A real chancy proposition. Say we took it to one of the really progressive rock stations, ERS or ZBC, and the producer says, okay, we’ll give it air play—they spin it once at two a.m., and if forty-seven people don’t call up immediately and say, ‘Oh, God, that song has changed my life,’ then it never gets played again. God forbid somebody should call up and say he hates the disc—then you won’t even be able to get in the door of the station again. And a bad disc on the radio will keep people away from a gig in droves.”
“What are you saying? That it’s not worth the risk?”
“Of course it’s worth the risk. It just has to be done right.”
“What does doing it right entail?”
He smiled at her, and undid two buttons of her blouse. He slipped his hand inside to cup one of her breasts. “Don’t you want to take advantage of this empty apartment?”
“Later,” said Cassandra, removing his hand and closing the buttons. “This is very interesting. Come in the kitchen with me while I make hot chocolate. Keep talking.”
He followed her into the kitchen, saying, “You need quality engineers all the way down the line. Boston must have seven or eight recording studios that are capable of putting out a flexi-disc, but there’s probably only one that’s exactly right for us. And of course it’s bound to be the most expensive. You need a good cover for it, and that means the right illustrator, or the right photographer. Advertising—a poster that will make people remember us and forget everybody else. Twenty-seven college freshmen to tack up the fliers on every pole in town, and even somebody to take ’em down to New York. And above everything else, an agent or manager who can get us decent gigs.”
“It’s just like publishing a book—a commercial book, at any rate.”
“Except we’re supposed to do all this ourselves. It costs money, that kind of push—and there are other things we need.”
“Like new equipment.”
“Yes.”
“And a rehearsal studio.”
“Yes.”
The kettle whistled and Cassandra poured the boiling water into cups set up with cocoa, sugar, and cream. As she stirred the mixture together, her expression was thoughtful and distant.
“What’s wrong?” asked Rocco.
“Nothing,” she replied hastily. “I’m just thinking.”
“About what?”
“People Buying Things.”
Rocco nodded. “We’re in a rut. We were coming along quickly there for a while, but then we got in a rut. I don’t know what happened. It seems like all the bands that were coming up with us are going right on ahead. Like the Monotones—that burns me up. I’m not sure what we can do about it.”
“I’ll tell you one thing you can do—”
The telephone rang, interrupting her. She answered it and, after a moment, handed the receiver to Rocco. “It’s the root of your problem,” she said with distaste.
“Hello, Lenny,” said Rocco. “What’s up?”
As Rocco listened, Cassandra stood by, watching him intently.
“Providence is all right. Let me speak to Apple, though, she . . . What do you mean, no guaranteed base? Christ, Lenny, this is not a major opportunity—Providence?”
“Tell him no,” said Cassandra quietly.
Rocco continued to listen to the manager, and finally he said, “No. No way. Not without guaranteed base. Just something for our dignity, for God’s sake. . . . Apple’s not here. She’s moved out. . . . She’s living with her boyfriend now. . . . No, I won’t give you her number, you can get it from her tonight. Besides, my decision goes in this case.”
Cassandra nodded approval.
After more argument, to no purpose, Rocco said good-bye abruptly and hung up.
“Lenny’s the reason you’re not going anywhere,” said Cassandra.
Rocco nodded ruefully. “But what do we do? We’ve got to have an agent, and you’re going to find this hard to believe, but Lenny’s not the worst agent in town. Hey, let’s go in the bedroom, and see what the ceiling looks like from the point of view of a couple of pillows.”
“I’m too distracted,” she said, shaking her head.
“About what?”
“The group.”
Rocco laughed. “Are you going to get us on the fast track to success?”
“Maybe,” said Cassandra seriously. She put down her cup unfinished. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I’m going to go now. I want to look into something.”
“Man,” said Rocco, “when you get something in your head, romance goes right out the window, doesn’t it?”
“Getting things right takes time. And nobody’s got time to waste. If you want something, then you’ve got to go after it.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
She smiled and said, “Shoot Lenny.”
That afternoon, when Jonathan arrived at the house in Brookline, he was startled to find a moving truck in the drive. Uniformed workmen were loading a tall piece of furniture, wrapped in pads and loosely covered with a sheet. Jonathan looked closely, and ruminated, and then realized that the piece was the highboy from his parents’ bedroom. Amazed, Jonathan followed the men inside the house and up the stairs to the second floor. As the moving men went into the master bedroom, he heard Louise’s voice. “All right, the vanity next.”
Jonathan saw the door of Verity’s room opened. He stepped inside, and found Verity sitting on her window seat, drink in hand, wrapped in a shawl, looking out at the moving van. “I always loved moving days,” remarked Verity. “Even when I was little I loved to watch things carried in and out of the house. Maybe I should have been an interior decorator.”
“What the hell is she doing?” asked Jonathan.
“Louise is redecorating her bedroom over on Marlborough,” said Verity, with an ironic smile.
“Why?” demanded Jonathan in open-mouthed astonishment.
“Because she likes our furniture better, I suppose.”
“By what right, I mean!”
Verity shrugged. “Louise thinks she has the right to do anything she wants around here. She just gets up out of the chair and does it.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“As little as possible.”
“Does Cassandra know about this?”
“Yes,” said Verity, “I believe she does.”
“Is she here?”
“Maybe,” replied Verity vaguely. “I don’t know.”
> “Well, if nobody else cares what happens to this house, I do. I’ll speak to Louise,” said Jonathan.
“She’s in there, directing the action. You know, if I were stronger,” said Verity thoughtfully, still looking out the window, “I think I’d be a moving man. I think it would be great to go in strange people’s houses, and lift their most treasured belongings.” She looked around, but Jonathan was gone.
The moving men, carrying Margaret Hawke’s vanity, nodded to Jonathan on their way down the steps. Jonathan went into the master bedroom, and found his stepmother standing in the center of the room, her hands on her hips, looking proudly around at the nearly empty space. Nothing remained but the family photographs on the near wall, and the carpet on the floor. The fragments of a Chinese vase littered a corner by the window.
“Oh, hello, Jonathan!” Louise cried. “I didn’t know you were coming here today. It’s so nice to see you!”
“Louise,” said Jonathan, looking around the room and shaking his head, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“What?”
“You think you can simply walk in here with moving men, and take away all of my mother’s furniture?”
Louise winced at the word mother, and fielded his question by saying flatly, “It was your father’s furniture. And because of that, it was very dear to me. I want it as something to remember him by.”
“Louise,” said Jonathan slowly, “you have no right to do this. This furniture is part of the house. And the house, as you know, does not belong to you. It belongs to Verity, to Cassandra, and to me.”
“I got permission,” said Louise distastefully, as if she thought Jonathan had no right to question her so.
“From whom?”
“From Verity. She said I could do whatever I wanted in here.”
“Verity owns one-third of this house. Cassandra owns one-third. I own one-third. You certainly didn’t get my permission to move Mother’s furniture out.”
“It was your father’s furniture,” Louise snapped. “And as his widow, I have claim on it. Besides, I don’t know why you care anyway, Jonathan. You don’t live here. You haven’t been in this house in a month, I don’t think. What difference could it make to you what furniture is in here? Those rooms above the garage out there are filled with furniture. If you’re so upset, then all you have to do is move some of that stuff in here. It’s as simple as that.”
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