Cassandra got out of the car and looked around. She did not see the van belonging to Bert and Ian—their principal contribution to the maintenance of People Buying Things. An intermittent flow of people passed in through the heavy double steel doors of the bar. Cassandra felt safe. Four cars down in the lot were three women dressed like parochial-school girls—complete with bobbed hair and barettes on one side, middy blouses, tartan pleated skirts, white anklet socks, and Mary Jane shoes. They passed a joint among themselves and slowly gyrated in beat to the music from their car radio.
Cassandra got back into her car and waited in the same dazed state that she had maintained in Jonathan’s apartment. At last the van, with Rocco driving, swung into the lot and angled into a space near the front doors. Cassandra watched as Apple and Rocco climbed out of the front seats, and Bert and Ian pushed open the back doors of the van and hopped down onto the pavement. The three parochial-school girls moved nearby and watched with stoned interest.
As soon as Bert and Ian began unloading equipment, Cassandra got out of the car. Apple saw her first, smiled, and touched Rocco’s arm.
He smiled. “Couldn’t stay away, hunh?”
Cassandra smiled back. “Apple,” she said, “could I speak to you for a minute?”
“Is something wrong?” Rocco asked.
Cassandra did not reply.
Apple went over to her.
“Let’s sit inside,” said Cassandra. Puzzled, Apple got into the front seat.
Rocco, Bert, and Ian continued unloading the van. In a few minutes, Apple lowered the window of Cassandra’s car, and called Rocco over. Holding extension cords wrapped around his arms like a skein of wool, he leaned against the next car and peered inside. “Girl talk?” he said.
Apple looked at him out the window. The tears in her eyes were stained yellow by the sodium arc lamp overhead. “Jonathan’s dead,” she said. “He drowned this morning down on the Cape.”
Cassandra got out of the car and looked over the roof at Rocco.
“You’re not joking,” he said softly, drawing the extension cords tight between his hands.
“No,” said Cassandra. “He was out in the boat with Eric, and he evidently hit his head on the bottom of the boat, got caught in some seaweed, and drowned. Verity and I saw it.”
“Why didn’t Eric do something?”
“He didn’t know how to swim well enough,” Cassandra replied. “And he panicked.”
Rocco looked at Apple. “You can’t go on tonight. I’ll tell Bert and Ian to pack everything up.”
“Of course I’m going on,” said Apple, looking straight ahead.
Rocco looked across at Cassandra. Cassandra nodded. “I certainly wouldn’t have told you this now if I had thought you’d cancel the performance. You had a right to know, and a right to find out as soon as possible. But I certainly don’t think you should cancel. This is being broadcast live, and you simply can’t pass up the chance.”
“Don’t tell Bert and Ian either,” said Apple. “They’ll get thrown.”
“And you won’t?”
“No,” said Apple grimly, “absolutely not.”
“It’s going to throw me, then,” said Rocco. “I can’t believe this—”
“That audience tonight is going to get its money’s worth,” Apple said sternly, “and you and I are going to make damn sure they walk out of there talking about us and nobody else. You understand?”
He nodded. Apple threw open the door of the car. “I’ll go help set up,” she said softly. She got out, and walked to the doors of the bar.
When she had disappeared inside, Cassandra said to Rocco, “Is she going to be all right?”
“Yes.”
Cassandra slammed shut the door of the car, locking it. Rocco took her into his arms and Cassandra leaned her head against his shoulder. He held her tightly a moment and then pulled away. He pushed a wave of hair back from her forehead.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“I’m going inside to watch the show, of course.”
At the back of Channel One, alone against a black-painted wall on the dark side of one of the three bars, Cassandra stood with her third drink. About ten feet away was a large crescent of spectators, beyond them the dance floor, and against the far end of the room, the stage, raised about four feet from the floor. A large light panel, operated by two women, was to Cassandra’s left. Radio technicians from WZBC had set up their equipment to the right of the stage. The recorded music was suddenly shut off, and the radio announcer, who turned out to be one of the parochial-school girls, came on with the list of bands playing that evening. At the end she said:
“Solar Blood couldn’t be with us tonight, but we’re lucky to be able to replace them with this first band. You’ve probably all heard them over at Betsy’s Pit, and at the Rat, and last Thursday they did a really fabulous set at Spit! I know ’cause I was there. Their first number is called ‘Velvet Glove,’ and it turns me on. Everybody get up and dance, ’cause it’s PEOPLE BUYING THINGS!”
Bert and Ian ran onto the stage and took their positions. Lights flashed and swept the stage. Two loud chords brought Rocco on, and on a third chord Apple leapt onto the stage. She grabbed the microphone. Standing at the edge of the stage, she raised an arm and brought it defiantly down for the opening beat of the song. Rocco’s drums made a tempest of noise behind her as the stage was suddenly bathed in crimson light. Apple dropped to a crouch as Bert and Ian joined the drums. Holding the microphone close to her lips, she shot her free arm out over the heads of the dancers. In a deep, guttural voice, she sang:
Lead me, feed me, throw away that velvet glove;
Drain me, stain me, I’m ready for your wounding love.
Bait me, hate me, let me crawl whenever you call;
Shove me, love me, hang me on the bathroom wall.
Thank me, plank me, bathe my face in acid rain;
Crave me, shave me, wrap me up in cellophane.
Apple gyrated along the lip of the stage, emphasizing each line with a stabbing gesture of her hand and a toss of her head. Rocco joined her on the chorus:
Bed me, wed me, love you more and more each day;
Thrill me, kill me, guess you know I’m here to stay;
Taste me, waste me, guess I’ll never go away.
Cassandra took a swallow of her drink, her eyes never leaving Apple. She watched for the slightest, subtlest of movements to signal that Apple’s concentration was anywhere but on her performance. Cassandra saw none. She moved forward, and pressed between the spectators until she stood on the edge of the dance floor. Apple saw her, caught her eye, and sang the second verse as if to Cassandra alone:
Slap me, trap me, strap me to the freezer door;
Blame me, tame me, fuck me on the cement floor.
Gag me, drag me, trample on my innocence;
Tame me, maim me, chain me to that ’lectric fence.
Trick me, stick me, kick me into pleasure’s void;
Punch me, crunch me, pain preserved on Polaroid.
Cassandra backed away through the crowd. She put down her glass and walked toward the exit. Behind her, she heard Apple and Rocco’s amplified voices on the chorus:
Bed me, wed me, love you more and more each day;
Thrill me, kill me, guess you know I’m here to stay;
Taste me, waste me, guess I’ll never go away.
Eugene Strable lay on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Louise had turned on the air conditioner hours before, and now the room was chilled. She pulled the pale coral sheet higher about them.
The lawyer turned to look at the clock on the bureau. “I should be getting home.”
“Not yet,” Louise whispered.
“Jeannette asks lots of questions,” said Eugene, “and I should start thinking of a few answers.”
“You’ll think of something very convincing,” said Louise confidently.
“Yes,” said Eugene, “I’m good at that sort
of thing.” He turned and looked at her. “I didn’t plan this, you know, when I came over to tell you about Jonathan.”
“Of course not,” said Louise. A shadow crossed her face at the mention of her dead stepson’s name. “But I needed you.” She brushed her lips across his stubbled cheek. “I don’t feel guilty. I hope you don’t either.”
“Grief is strange,” he remarked softly.
“Always,” returned Louise solemnly.
He again looked at the clock. “I’ve really got to go.” He made a move to rise from the bed, but Louise prevented him.
“A few minutes more. Please. I don’t want to be alone yet.”
He settled back into the bed. Louise cuddled closer, snaking her arm about his neck. She placed her mouth on the pillow near his ear, and whispered, “I know I probably shouldn’t be asking this right now. . . .”
“What?”
“How does Jonathan’s death affect everything?”
“Don’t you know?”
He glanced over at her. She nodded softly against the pillow. Her black hair lay thick and tumbled over the coral case.
“Tell me anyway,” said Louise.
“Next February,” said the lawyer, “Verity comes into half of the trust instead of a third. That’s the only difference. Eric will have a considerably richer wife.”
Louise nodded again. “And what about . . .”
“The investments we’ve made?”
“Yes,” said Louise hesitantly.
“Everything’s the same,” said the lawyer.
“Good,” whispered Louise.
“Now that you’ve found out what you wanted to know,” said the lawyer, “may I go?”
“No,” said Louise, shaking her head, “not yet.” She pulled closer to him and rubbed her soft, perfumed cheek against the beard-roughened side of his face.
16
The funeral services for Jonathan Hawke took place in the same chapel in Brookline where his father’s, and his mother’s seventeen years before, had been held. The affair was well attended, but at Cassandra’s insistence the graveside services at Mount Auburn Cemetery were limited to the family, which to the ever-deepening regret of the sisters did of course include Louise and Eric—plus Rocco DiRico, Miriam Apple, and Eugene Strable.
All in black, the small knot of mourners were gathered to one side of the open grave. At the end of the required prayers the minister expressed in an appropriately colloquial manner his sorrow at the passing of a man so young and promising as Jonathan. In one corner of the family plot, demarcated by a low cast-iron fence, was a mound of flowers that the workmen, waiting out of sight behind a white marble mausoleum nearby, would pile on top of the filled-in grave, once the coffin had been lowered and the mourners dispersed. After the brief benediction, the words of which were blown away on a sudden breeze, Verity and Cassandra, together holding the small beribboned spade, scattered black moist soil atop the mahogany casket. The minister shook hands with Verity and Cassandra, and then went over to speak to Eugene Strable and Louise. Verity broke off three white rosebuds from the large spray with the banner reading “Family” across it. She gave one to Cassandra and one to Apple, and kept the third for herself.
“Come back to the house,” said Cassandra to Apple. She touched Rocco’s arm gently, “You too. I’d like to have you there. It’s funny,” she said, glancing at the workmen who had moved closer now, “Eric and I lifted Jonathan’s body out of the water, and carried him into the house. But now is the first time I’ve actually realized that he’s dead.”
“We’ll go back with you,” said Apple. She kissed Verity and Cassandra on the cheek and then walked with Rocco down the slope to her car, last in line behind two rented limousines and Eugene Strable’s new cream Cadillac.
Eric, at his mother’s elbow, seemed bored. He was leaning forward and peering into the open grave at the top of the coffin, still suspended with canvas straps, with the single spadeful of rich earth scattered over its dark wooden surface. Louise nudged him, and he moved over to stand by Verity.
“Can I come back with you?” he asked Verity.
“Back where?” asked Cassandra. Verity stared blankly into space and made no reply at all.
“To the house.”
Cassandra adjusted the collar of her black silk dress. “No,” she said shortly, “you may not.”
Louise’s mouth tightened. She pulled off her short black gloves and slapped them together into the palm of one hand. “Maybe you don’t want either of us at the house today? Is that what you mean?”
Verity looked all around her, as if the conversation held no interest or meaning for her.
Cassandra sighed. “Louise, I don’t care where you go or what you do when you leave the cemetery. This is very trying for us, and in any case, I don’t want a scene before Jonathan’s grave has even been filled. If you want to go to the house then fine, if not then that’s fine too. I don’t care.”
Verity jerked out of her stupor, as if Cassandra’s speech had been her cue, and she had almost missed it. “Neither do I,” she said shortly.
Louise stiffened. She lifted the netting on her black picture hat, and tossed it over the wide brim. She glowered at her stepdaughters, then snapped her head back to Eric. “You come with me, Eric. If Verity and Cassandra want to start fighting in front of a corpse, it’s none of our business.”
“Good God,” breathed Eric. “I just wish everybody would make up their mind what I’m supposed to do.” He stalked down the slope and threw himself into the back of the second limousine, jerking the door shut with a bang.
Louise gave Cassandra and Verity a look of reproval and then walked back to where Eugene Strable was still in conversation with the minister. She spoke briefly to the lawyer, shook hands with the minister again, and then headed for the limousine. Her sharp-heeled shoes stabbed the ground, and the black netting of her hat flapped about her face.
Verity and Cassandra followed shortly. In the first limousine, Verity leaned into the corner of the backseat. As the driver snaked along the curving lanes of Mount Auburn, she laid her dark glasses aside on the seat, and massaged the bridge of her nose. Cassandra glanced out the back window at the second limousine bearing Louise and Eric, unmoving silhouettes in the rear, and then shifted her eyes to Verity.
“I think you should make an appointment to see Mr. Strable tomorrow.”
“What for?”
“To have him file divorce papers on Eric.”
Verity laughed a brief harsh laugh, and dropped her hand from her nose. “You mean you actually want me to divorce my very own stepbrother?” She unsnapped her black silk clutch bag, carefully placed the white rosebud inside, and snapped it shut again. “I don’t have the energy for a divorce. Maybe this winter. February seems like it would be a good month for a divorce. Besides,” she said, looking up, “if I got rid of Eric, what would I do for a dealer?”
“Honestly, Verity, you’re making ridiculous excuses. Eric will sell you whatever you want as long as you’re willing to pay top dollar. Do you think he cares whether you’re married to him or not as long as you’ve got the cash in small bills?”
“Yes,” said Verity soberly, “I do think he cares. He’s very petty and vindictive. The only reason I get such high-quality stuff from him is that he thinks he’s buttering me up for a reconciliation. It’s the only way he knows to be nice. And I like keeping him in suspense.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to get another dealer?”
“I could never find anybody as reliable as Eric. Every other dealer I’ve ever had has got himself wasted, or turned cheat. Eric’s just a phone call away, day or night. His coke is always quality. Which reminds me . . .” She unsnapped her bag again and took out her gold matchbox and silver straw.
Cassandra frowned. “Must you do that here?”
Verity looked up and smiled into the eyes of the driver, reflected in the rearview mirror. “Grief takes many forms. Besides, limo drivers have seen everything.�
�� She pushed open the end of the box, inserted the straw, and inhaled deeply once. Her eyes teared as she replaced the simple paraphernalia. She rested back and sighed in contentment. “You know what I like best? The numbness at the back of my throat.”
“You know what you have, Verity?” said Cassandra after a moment.
Verity sniffed and frowned. “A blocked nasal passage. Damn.”
Cassandra sighed. “You have a marriage in name only that is based on a cocaine habit.”
“And Eric’s greed, don’t forget that.” She blinked several times in rapid succession. “My eyeballs just went numb.”
They rode on in silence for a while. Cassandra watched the road through the front window. She saw the driver glance around with a puzzled expression. Cassandra turned and looked out the back window. “Verity, look.”
“What is it?” said Verity, not bothering to turn.
“Louise and Eric just turned off down toward Harvard Square. I wonder where they’re going?”
“Who cares?” returned Verity. “Maybe they had an attack of good manners, and decided not to come back to the house after all.”
Louise’s limousine moved through Cambridge and crossed the Charles River into Back Bay. She directed the driver onto Exeter Street, and then into the parking garage beneath the apartment towers of Prudential Center. Louise and Eric got out at the elevators, and instructed the driver to find a space and wait for them.
“I thought everybody was going back to Brookline,” said Eric.
“Everybody is,” snapped Louise. “That’s why we’re here.”
Wicked Stepmother Page 15
