Mourning Becomes Cassandra

by Christina Dudley

  At our weekly open house I’d had other worries. Kelly had shown up, considerably more clothed but understandably not very pleased to see me. And on top of how awkward I felt seeing her with Daniel and envisioning the last time they were together, that Tom had shown up again. Just when I was thinking I might spend the evening hiding under the couch, Tom managed to corner me for a second time.

  “Ahem. Cass?”

  “Yes..?” I said warily.

  His overly white teeth flashed as he grimaced uncomfortably. “I just wanted to apologize for how I acted a few weeks ago and for—for making you feel threatened. Ahem. It won’t happen again and I-hope-we-can-be-friends,” he finished hastily.

  The apology was so entirely unexpected that I tried not to gape and quickly said, “Oh, of course. It’s all right. I was on edge that night and a little nuts myself. Thank you for apologizing.”

  “Didn’t have much choice,” he muttered. “Dan said he’d kick my ass if I didn’t. Not that I didn’t mean it,” he added hastily.

  “Yes. Yes, thank you, Tom.” My eyes drifted unwillingly to Daniel, who was lounging in the recliner with Kelly draped on the arm. He’d been reading some article Roy had given him about networking something-or-other, but I had the feeling he’d been listening to Tom’s apology because he gave me a little smile.

  That was Thursday, and then I’d spent Friday and most of Saturday with Max and Raquel and others of Troy’s family at the cabin in Cle Elum, since I wouldn’t be there for Thanksgiving. It was exactly the time I pictured: lots of reminiscing over glasses of wine, a slideshow of our dead family that Raquel had put together—God help us—and everyone ending up in tears more often than not. The crashing headache I got as a result was still with me Sunday evening as I sat in the kitchen playing with my dish of leftover spaghetti. With so much else on my mind I’m not surprised I didn’t think fast enough to get up from the table when I heard the garage, and sure enough, I had found myself alone with Daniel for the first time since the Incident.

  “Well this is unexpected,” he said lightly. “Are you sure you don’t want to go tearing upstairs?”

  Had I not been emotionally spent I might have mustered a blush. As it was, I didn’t bother denying it. “I’m too tired.”

  He looked at me measuringly. “You are. Better eat that spaghetti. You’ll need your strength because I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  Tell me he was not planning to sit down with me. He was. Rubbing my temples, I obediently took a bite. “You have?”

  “I wanted to apologize for putting you in that situation on Tuesday.”

  Well blow me down. First Tom, and now this. Though I suppose Tom had only apologized because Daniel made him, so really this counted as the second apology I could attribute to Daniel. With a mixture of amazement and embarrassment I stammered, “Oh. Oh…uh…thank you. You didn’t—er—do it on purpose. Sorry to have interrupted.” I managed an uncomfortable smile.

  He grinned back, looking genuinely pleased. “So we’re okay now, and you’ll stop avoiding me?”

  “Okay”? Were we anything? I wasn’t aware we had enough of a relationship to warrant adjectives. Not knowing how exactly to respond, I managed to nod and tried to focus on my spaghetti. Daniel seemed in no hurry to go anywhere, even leaning back against the wall of the booth and crossing his ankles.

  “Joanie and Phyl at church?” he asked presently. I nodded again.

  Silence.

  After a few minutes he tried once more. “Still reading about Captain Cook?”

  “Finished,” I said between bites.

  “Cass, let me get a word in edgewise, what do you say,” he said in mock exasperation. “If you don’t start talking, I might suspect you’re still angry with me.”

  I marshaled a weak laugh, rubbing my pounding temples. “I wasn’t angry with you,” I said slowly. “I was embarrassed.”

  “You were angry when I referred to it in front of Joanie and Phyl,” he pressed.

  “I was,” I admitted. Carefully I crossed my knife and fork on my empty dish. “Because you have absolutely no shame.”

  “And you do.” It wasn’t a question.

  The familiar annoyance flaired. “You would call it shame; I would call it modesty. Daniel—can we argue about this another time? I’m not up to it right now.”

  He tapped his fingers on the table, debating whether he would let me off, but the better angels of his nature won out this once, and he said in a different tone, “Agreed. How about a Scrabble rematch, then? I might be able to beat you if you’re tired.”

  I cracked a real smile, then. “Not tonight, dear. I have a headache.”

  • • •

  So Daniel and I were “okay” now—maybe James and I would be again soon.

  While the pecan and pumpkin pies were baking, I ran upstairs to check my email one last time. It was odd, I thought, that Nadina hadn’t bothered to let me know how her first dog training went. Usually with her, no news was bad news, and I found myself getting a little anxious about it.

  At 2:45 sharp I was on the bench outside Camden School, a miniature pie in each hand, but Nadina didn’t come dragging out until fully five minutes later, a knit cap pulled all the way down to her ears and a sullen expression on her face. I held out the little pies, and Nadina received them blankly. “I was going to tell you, Cass,” she began without preamble, “I have ice rink training today, so I can’t hang out.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, a little crestfallen at her attitude. “What time is the training? I’ll walk down there with you.”

  Nadina heaved a sigh, which I interpreted as if-you-must-you-must, and we set off. Something was definitely wrong because she answered my warm-up chat monosyllabically: School? Fine. English paper? Needed revision. Did she prefer pumpkin pie or pecan? Both fine. How about her mom? No idea. Packed for Ohio? Not yet. Had I told her we were going to have Benny for the whole Thanksgiving weekend? Nope. I could almost hear Mark Henneman’s advice in my head: “Let them tell you things on their own time, when they’re ready.” Forget it.

  “Okay,” I barked suddenly. “Spill it. What is bugging you, Nadina?”

  She kicked at some straggling clumps of lamb’s ears next to the sidewalk. “You’re going to be so pissed when I tell you, Cass.” I said nothing, waiting. Finally she burst out with, “I got fired from Petco on Saturday—and don’t say anything because I know you’re going to say I told you so, and I don’t want to hear it. It’s all that friggin’ perky Katie’s fault.”

  Groaning inwardly, I concentrated on swallowing all the things I wanted to say, which did in fact include I told you so. “What happened?”

  We were outside the skating rink tent at this point, so I indicated that we should walk the gravel loop.

  “It was all going fine,” she began, “but then this lady showed up late with two German Shepherds. One of them charged the group, so stupid Katie tried to keep that dog next to her while she went on with the class. But then that dog didn’t like that and got all tense, so the other German Shepherd started freaking out and growling and snapping at the other dogs, and next thing you know everything’s going to hell. All the dogs are barking and whining and running around in circles with their leashes, and owners are panicking and yelling at the German Shepherd lady to control her dogs for Chrissake, and she’s yelling back at them in some friggin’ heavy accent no one could understand, and then they’re all yelling at Katie and me. Craziness. I tried to tell Katie—in a nice voice ‘cause I really was trying to do my best, Cass—that she just needed to show that first German Shepherd who was boss and then it would stop sending those stress signals to the second one, but by then Katie was all freaked out and ready to pee her pants anyhow, so she told me to shut the hell up ʼcause who was teaching this class, and it-sure-as-hell-isn’t-you-Nadina, and I told her fine, she could just shove the friggin’ class up her ass if she had it all under control, and I took off out of there, and Blaise caught me and said I’d better get
back in there if I knew what was good for me, and said I was sick of her fucking telling me what to do all the time and I QUIT! And she yelled, ‘Too late to quit ʼcause you’re fired!’”

  Well, that would explain why Nadina hadn’t texted me that weekend. After a minute I ventured, “Do you think Blaise really meant it?”

  Nadina turned on me furiously. “Who the hell’s side are you on, Cass?”

  “Yours,” I said with deliberation. “I am on your side, so don’t bite my head off.”

  “Well then don’t ask me about Blaise, ʼcause it doesn’t matter ʼcause I’m never gonna see any of them again. I am through with them. I’ve got this job now.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I couldn’t help saying. “Seasonal rink elf? That’ll show ʼem.”

  For a second I thought Nadina might hit me, the way her head whipped around and her fists clenched, but after glaring at me hard for some moments, her lips twitched. Then she snorted, and then suddenly we were both laughing. When she caught her breath she gasped, “You should see the stupid hat I’m going to have to wear! It has a friggin’ bell on it, and I was too big to fit the girls’ costumes, so I have to wear a men’s large.”

  “Speaking of your brilliant career, what time are you supposed to be at your training? You don’t want to lose the only job you have.”

  “You’re one to talk, Cass. You clean some guy’s house and hang out with nerds writing video game lines.” Nevertheless, she flipped up my wrist to see my watch. “I totally gotta go. Thanks for the pumpkin pie, Cass. I feel better now.”

  “Have a good trip to Ohio,” I called after her. “And we’re not done talking about this.”

  “Yeah we are!” she retorted. “Have a good Thanksgiving!”

  Chapter 19: Thanksgiving

  Benny was the first visitor to arrive for the long weekend; Jason dropped him off Wednesday morning on his way to the airport. Perhaps because he associated me with Nadina, Benny behaved himself circumspectly around me now, and after nudging me for some preliminary patting and scratching, he obediently lay on his bed.

  My underemployed brother came next, around midday, and we had a ball getting a jump on the Thanksgiving meal: cranberry sauce, rolls, apple pie, green-bean casserole. Perry had been given complete charge of the turkey, and he had ambitious plans for it, involving brining and subcutaneous infusions and stuffing made from the bread up. The two of us were just struggling to lift our 20-pounder from the cooler and exchange the cold water—a procedure which greatly interested Benny and kept him underfoot in hope of windfalls—when Joanie burst in, shoulders slumping and looking like a child forced to donate all her birthday presents to Toys for Tots.

  “T minus 45 minutes,” she sighed, barely managing a greeting for Perry. Mrs. Martin was taking the Amtrak Starlight from Portland, and Joanie had to go pick her up from the station.

  “Why can’t Daniel go pick her up?” I demanded. “It’d buy you another half hour.”

  “I was desperate enough to ask,” admitted Joanie. “But he has some stupid client meeting. What kind of client wants to meet the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving? I think he scheduled it on purpose so he could have another couple hours of peace.” Or the client was some woman, I thought, and Daniel wanted to get one more fling in before Mom showed up.

  “I could go get her,” Perry spoke up from where he had plunged the turkey back in its bath. “Just describe her to me. Heck, if I’d known she was coming from Portland, we could have carpooled.”

  Joanie looked at Perry as if he had just offered to donate her a kidney. “Thank you so much. That is such a kind offer, but if I passed Mom off on someone else, I would never hear the end of it. She wouldn’t care if we had an earthquake and I was pinned under an overpass—she would say it was my poor planning.”

  I gave her a hug. “Well, Joanie, I know it’s really painful for you, but Phyl and I are dying of curiosity to meet this woman. We’ve never seen you so cowed by anyone.”

  Phyl came home shortly after Joanie headed out, laden down with cocktail ingredients. “I found a recipe for Pink Verandas that I want to test out tonight. What’s for dinner, Cass?”

  I grimaced. “You know how Joanie says her mom is a vegan? I figured, since only a few of the Thanksgiving dishes are vegan, we could do vegan tonight. I’ve got coconut-curried vegetables in the slow cooker.”

  “But Daniel always makes that face when we cook vegetarian,” Phyl reminded me, her brows knitting.

  “He’ll survive!” I said dismissively. “It’s his mother, after all.”

  “He and I can pop out to Burgermaster later,” said Perry helpfully.

  “Only if you take Mrs. Martin with you,” I warned him. “We promised Joanie there’d be safety in numbers for her this weekend.”

  • • •

  When Joanie returned with the long-awaited harpy in tow, I could only blink in shock. I didn’t know what I was expecting when I pictured Daniel and Joanie’s mother, but Angela Martin was not it. Joanie had described her as artsy and vegan and very left-wing, and I had vaguely imagined your typical aging hippy: overweight, with long, gray-brown hair, Birkenstocks, art jewelry, and loose, unbleached clothing. However, rather than being the last woman in America wearing a Summer of Love t-shirt, Mrs. Martin turned out to be one of those amazingly beautiful women of a certain age, tall and erect, her silver-white hair twisted in a neat chignon, and her muted black clothing so form-fitting and tidy that I immediately felt frumpy. Maybe Joanie’s and Daniel’s dad had run off so many years ago because he couldn’t bear to be the only ugly one in such a family. On the other hand, there was a lot of Daniel in Mrs. Martin’s looks, so gorgeous Joanie must take after her long-lost father.

  It appeared from their body language when they walked in the door that Joanie and her mother had gotten their first tiff out of the way. Joanie’s mouth was pressed in a thin line, and she thumped her mother’s bags down in the entry way as if she would rather be drop-kicking them. Mrs. Martin, without looking back at her daughter, smiled serenely and held out her arty leather handbag for Joanie to take. As her eyes took in her new surroundings, her smile became positively beatific. “What a beautiful house Daniel has! And what a nice job he’s done with it.”

  Joanie flared up instantly. “That’s just it, Mom, he bought the house. I did most of the decorating downstairs, and Phyl did all the plants inside and out, and Cass—Cass—” She was spared having to think up a specific way I had contributed to the house aesthetics by her mother’s nonchalant interruption.

  “Yes, Joan, but your brother has always had an eye for beauty.” She continued right over Joanie’s derisive snort. “This house has very good lines—excellent feng shui. I love how the Qi flows up the curved pathway into the entrance—just the right size entrance, and the window above it giving all that light. Remember your last apartment? That tiny entryway, and the back door straight across from it? Energy could hardly find its way into your place, and what energy did make it in went straight out the back door.”

  “So that was my problem,” said Joanie, pokerfaced.

  Mrs. Martin bore the many introductions bravely, declaring, “Please, call me Angela,” and giving a slight “hmmm…” when she heard my name, whatever that meant. She gave us each a cool, dry handshake, and we invited her into the kitchen while Joanie took her bags up, a task which took her an inordinately long time, though she came down looking ready for another round. On her reappearance, Phyl considerately slipped her a Pink Veranda.

  “And how is it that a nice fellow like you isn’t married?” Angela asked Perry. She had been enthusiastic to discover her Portland connection to him and their mutual interest in the arts, and I think this was a roundabout way of asking Perry if he was gay.

  “The same way a nice fellow like Daniel isn’t married,” Joanie interposed.

  Perry, sharing half my genes, flushed. “Actually, Angela, I am married—or was. We’re separated now, my wife and I.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, I’m sorry,” Angela replied conventionally. She turned to look at me. “And Joanie told me about your loss. This must be a difficult couple years for your family, one divorce and one death.”

  “Almost as bad as two kids who never married,” put in Joanie. I frowned at her. For a girl who had spent the last week complaining about how her Mom riled her, she wasn’t exactly an innocent victim.

  “Now, Joanie, you know I’ve never held up marriage as a goal for either of you. You’re a modern woman. We live in a modern world. No one needs pieces of paper or anyone’s blessing to tell them whether they’re in love or not. Look where marriage got your father and me. I’m convinced that if I hadn’t pressured him to marry me, he wouldn’t have felt so trapped. He wouldn’t have run off to Venezuela or wherever, when you both were so little.”

  “You’re right, Mom. He probably would have taken off right after you got pregnant with Daniel.”

  “Another Pink Veranda, anyone?” broke in Phyl, getting up to mix a second batch.

  Angela patted Joanie’s stiff arm. “No, thank you, but I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine with dinner. That curry smells delicious. Do you have any Sauvignon Blanc? A dear friend I’ve been dating is a sommelier, and I’ve become rather particular with my wine pairings.”

  Joanie rolled her eyes, and to forestall any comment from her I sprang up saying, “Phyl, I’ll go down cellar for it. You keep working on the drinks.”

  The Palace didn’t really have a wine cellar, but we had jokingly designated one corner of the three-car garage thus. Mostly it was Phyl’s territory, and it took me several minutes to figure out her classification methodology: by country, by region, by variety, by year. There were several bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, and not being much of a wine connoisseur myself, I was just regretting having volunteered to choose when the rolling door started going up and Daniel pulled in.