Mourning Becomes Cassandra

by Christina Dudley

  Funny what a difference it made, knowing I’d said yes. Although he didn’t try to take my hand again, and only once touched me to brush some snow out of my hair, we may as well have parked it in the center of the rink and made out—I was so conscious of him. For the first time I let myself look at him as much as I pleased, and I couldn’t seem to stop looking. The hokey music and flirting groups of teenagers and children screaming after landing smack on their heads—it all receded into faintness, and, like a bad ‘70s after-school special, I noticed only the laughing gray eyes and pleasant voice and quick, sure movements of the man next to me. Never mind that, at the age when I might have been watching after-school specials, James was still mastering potty training.

  The rink was small; we probably went around and around at least two hundred times and would have blissfully racked up a thousand laps, had reality not intruded—reality in the shape of the Zamboni.

  “At this time we’d like to ask all skaters to please clear the ice,” intoned the infinitive-splitting, deep-voiced, snack-bar elf. “We will be resurfacing for the next ten minutes.”

  James took advantage of the ensuing hubbub to close the gap between us, and I heard his voice right at my ear. “Let’s get some hot chocolate—my treat. Maybe if we’re lucky, we can sit with Mike.”

  So much for my deep caring for Nadina—I’d completely forgotten about the whole Mike-money incident, and when I hastily glanced around now, I didn’t see him anywhere. Giving James a quick smile, I said I would join him in line and clumped over to my girl.

  She was slumped on her stool, staring into space, and hearing me call her name, she positively jumped.

  “Jesus H. Christ, Cass!” Nadina yelled, turning red. “What the hell?” I might have asked the same of her, the way she began darting nervous glances over my shoulder. The rogue thought crossed my mind that, if she was this preoccupied, maybe I should have made out with James center ice after all.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” I said apologetically. “Where did Mike go?”

  “Away. Home. Away!” was her flustered answer. “I don’t know.”

  “Did he get what he wanted?”

  “What?” She was genuinely worrying me now, and I saw she was sweating. “He didn’t want anything. I can’t talk now, Cass—I have to work.”

  “So work,” I responded evenly. Her lips were trembling. “Nadina…are you okay?” I tried again. “You seem stressed.” Or guilty. Or both.

  She wavered and said almost involuntarily, “Mike is stressing me out. I can’t talk about it right now, Cass. Maybe I’ll—maybe I’ll tell you some other time.”

  I waited silently, hoping she would change her mind, but all that happened was that her eyebrows drew closer and closer together as I didn’t leave.

  She still didn’t trust me, then.

  I sighed. Mark Henneman was right—trust couldn’t be forced, try though I might. I still did have one idea, though. Unbuttoning my wool coat, I unzipped the inner pocket and pulled out the forty-two dollars left over from hitting the ATM that afternoon.

  “Here,” I said, pushing it across the counter to her. “This may be a bad idea, but we’ll talk about that later.”

  Stunned, Nadina unfolded the bills and counted them. Something flickered across her face, but it disappeared almost instantly. “Thanks,” she muttered. “You better go. James is waiting.”

  He was leaning against the railing that wound up to the tent entrance. Ducking his head to catch my eye, he held the hot chocolate out to me. “Warning—it’s the same terrible powdered stuff we have at work.”

  I took a tentative sip and made a face. “Ugh! We have the real deal at home—shaved bittersweet chocolate—because Phyl hates processed foods. I’d forgotten how awful fake food tastes.”

  Plucking the cup out of my hands, he dumped it along with his in the trash can. “Then let’s go drink Phyl’s,” James suggested, “unless you think you need to stick around for Nadina.”

  I peeked at her one more time. She was slumped on the stool again but rubbing her hands restlessly on her legs. “No,” I answered slowly. “Something is definitely up, but she refuses to tell me. I think she’d be relieved if we left.” Still, I hesitated to have James come over. It was Friday night, and Joanie and Phyl were probably still out on the dreaded double date, but I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure if I had a thick enough skin to stand Joanie’s crows of triumph yet.

  Reading my mind, he put his mouth close to my ear again. “It’s kiss me there or kiss me here, Cass. You decide.”

  My heart skipped in response, half enthusiasm and half panic, and I squeaked, “I’ll meet you there.”

  • • •

  It hadn’t occurred to me that Daniel might be home, but he was. I drove up to find the Palace alight and the sound of male voices and Dean Martin’s Christmas album audible from the porch.

  There was a poker game going on in the living room; the tree was lit, and so, apparently was Tom, judging by his raucous laughter. Wyatt was there, and two other men I didn’t recognize. Leaving the door ajar for James, I was going to slip quietly into the kitchen, but Daniel spotted me and called my name. He was tilting back in his chair, grinning devilishly, piles of chips stacked in front of him.

  “Cass, how nice of you to drop in. Come meet everyone. I thought you’d be home tonight, but I’d forgotten you joined the dating world.” There was an unpleasant note in his voice which I couldn’t place, but maybe he’d had a little too much to drink as well.

  Reluctantly I came forward and met Josh from the office and Someone from somewhere-or-other, but before I could do more than say hello, I felt the draft of cold air behind me as the front door opened and shut and James came in. Being a guy, he didn’t find the prospect before him intimidating and cheerily submitted to introductions, but when Tom invited him to join them, he begged off. “Thanks, but no. Good luck.” And taking my hand, he pulled me into the kitchen.

  I prayed earnestly that Tom wouldn’t think to get up from the card table and forage for snacks because James cornered me in the very same pantry as I was getting the tin of chocolate. Who knew it was such a romantic spot? When I turned around, there he was, startlingly close. Slowly, he put a finger under my chin, lifted it, and kissed me.

  Where did an ex-nerd learn to kiss like that? Maybe it was that college girlfriend who gave him the makeover, an idle part of my brain mused. I would have to ask him one day. Still holding the chocolate tin in one hand, I tentatively put my arms around his neck and let my free hand touch his curling hair. I was right to listen to Joanie—this was much more fun than being afraid.

  When we paused to catch our breath, James leaned his forehead against mine. “Was that really so awful? I’ve never had to work so hard to convince a girl to do what was good for her.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I whispered, but didn’t get to say anymore before he was kissing me again.

  We probably never would have gotten around to the hot chocolate, had we not heard sounds of movement from the living room. Daniel must have called the game prematurely because Tom was complaining that “Martin just doesn’t want to let us win our money back.” Joanie and Phyl came home as well, and soon the kitchen was full of people. James and I innocently made our chocolate and conversed easily with the others, but every once in a while he would give me a little smile, or his hand would brush mine. Of course Joanie noticed and raised her eyebrows, but I frowned at her quellingly and avoided James until people were taking their leave.

  “Can I see you tomorrow?” he murmured. I nodded. With one more light kiss on my ear, he was gone.

  • • •

  Just as I was drifting off to sleep, my phone chirped on the nightstand. A parting thought from James?

  Flipping over, I brought up the text. Not James—Nadina.

  Cass—

  Got fired tonight. Talk later.

  N

  Chapter 26: Crime and Punishment

  After her late-night text,
Nadina made herself scarce. I gave her exactly one day to call me with further details, but when she didn’t, I jammed her voicemail inbox with urgent messages until finally getting a hold of her on Sunday.

  I couldn’t help grilling her—desperate times calling for desperate measures—and when I wore her down, the story came spilling out.

  “At closing time the till was short,” she blurted out, sounding close to tears.

  “How short?” I demanded.

  “Almost sixty dollars—but it would have been a hundred dollars short, if you hadn’t given me that money. The manager said he wouldn’t press charges for $60, but that I was fired and better not show my face there ever again.”

  “Where did the money go?” I asked. There was a long pause, and I could hear her muffled sobs. Trying to make my voice non-threatening, I said, “Did Mike take it? Did he make you give it to him?”

  More sniffling and hiccupping. “Mm-hmm. He’s been—he’s been borrowing money off me for a while, but he told me this time he couldn’t wait for me to get paid because he wanted to go out, and I better come up with the money. He waited until you and James were out skating and not looking and all, and then he came over and told me to open the f-fucking cash register and give him the fucking money. And I was like, ‘Why don’t get your own fucking job, for once, instead of taking my money or someone else’s?’ And he was all, ‘Quit your fucking bitching and gimme the money!’ His hands were getting all shaky, and I thought he was gonna freak out, so I opened the till, and Mike was all, ‘Where the hell is all the money? Are you hiding it?’ And I was like, ‘Does this look like a fucking ATM? Most people pay with their fucking credit cards, asshole!’ and then he reached in and grabbed all the twenties and took off.”

  They were no Bonnie and Clyde, that was for sure. When I recovered the power of speech, I prompted, “So what are you going to do?”

  “Do?” she echoed.

  “Do,” I repeated. “Mike robbed the skating rink, and you were his accomplice.”

  She gave a loud, outraged gasp. “What the hell, Cass? Are you going to friggin’ turn us in? If the shithole rink isn’t going to bother about the money, what business is it of yours? I shouldn’t even have told you, you friggin’ goody two-shoes.”

  When the outburst had blown over me, I asked evenly, “Are you quite done?” She merely huffed, and I continued, “I’m not planning on turning you in or reporting you or whatever, although I think we should talk about restitution. I wanted to know what you’re going to do about Mike.”

  Silence.

  “What does he want the money for?”

  Longer silence.

  “Is it for drugs?”

  “I think so,” she answered unwillingly.

  “And I would bet this won’t be the last time he’s going to hit you up for money,” I pressed. “Plus, the trajectory is bad: first he just wants some of your paycheck, but he’s willing to wait until you get paid; now he can’t wait anymore, and he’s even robbing your workplace and involving you in the crime?”

  “What do you want, Cass?” Nadina demanded. “Just spit it out.”

  Good question. Quickly, I scanned through my mental file on How to Deal with Drug-Addicted, Live-In Boyfriends Who Push You to a Life of Crime—oh, that’s right—I didn’t have any such file. How on earth did I get involved in this, and what was God thinking? …God. Well, nothing better to try, and it was His fault I was mixed up in this after all. What exactly do you want me to do here? I don’t have a clue. Please, please, please, give me wisdom and the words to say. Help Mike pull his stupid self together, and help Nadina get free of him. I know you love them both—can’t say I’m there with you on Mike, but I do love Nadina. Please, please, please help us.

  “Well?” growled Nadina. “This is gonna suck.”

  “How about,” I said, “how about you go home and stay with your mom for a while, and you call Mark Henneman right after we get off the phone.”

  “No friggin’ way.”

  “To mom or Mark Henneman or both?”

  A pause. I waited, my fists clenched.

  “I’ll go visit my mom for the weekend or a little longer. But there’s nothing to tell Henneman. I mean, I’ll tell him Monday I got fired, okay?”

  “But you’ll tell him why you got fired, right?” I insisted.

  She sighed. “He’ll dig it out of me, just like you have, Cass.”

  I felt better already. “Do you need help? Can you get your stuff and go to your mom’s?” She refused help, probably half-regretting she’d even told me about the whole thing in the first place, and when I ventured to ask if I could give Mark Henneman a call myself, she put her foot down outright. Fine. I could settle for her being out of Mike’s basement for now.

  • • •

  When we met for our usual walk on Tuesday, Nadina was completely closed off. I managed only to discover she had gone to her mom’s as she said and was still there two days later. As for Mark Henneman, they talked briefly, but more than that she wouldn’t say. When I asked how Mike was feeling about it, she was evasive and tried to turn the subject to James and me, then Petco, then school. It was not one of our better times together, and she didn’t communicate with me the remainder of the week.

  After this many months of knowing her, however, I recognized that, whenever Nadina felt she had been particularly vulnerable, she always made up for it later by keeping me as far away as possible.

  • • •

  Despite the uneasy silence, I was unprepared for the shock awaiting me on the kitchen counter when I came down the next Saturday morning. For one thing, it was only eight o’clock, and the newspaper appeared to have been unfolded and flipped through, which meant that Daniel had already been and gone. I’d never known him to be an early riser on the weekend, but he hadn’t brought a girlfriend home last night, so maybe he had cashed in on the extra hours of R & R. Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d brought a “friend” home? It had to be that woman at the open house the week after Thanksgiving. Could Daniel, like Joanie, have declared a dating hiatus? I smirked. If he had, I imagined it would last about as long as I thought Joanie’s would.

  Before I could spend any more time puzzling over this uncharacteristic behavior, however, my eye was drawn to the picture on the front page: policemen leading away a group of bedraggled, trashed-looking partygoers, among which was a suspiciously familiar, slight figure with white-blond hair and weaselly eyes. Mike, I would bet my life.

  “Seattle House Party Turns Violent—Police Arrest Many for Mayhem, Drugs,” blared the headline.

  Quickly I scanned through the story to see if it named any names, but there was no mention of Mike. Still, I was certain there couldn’t be two such identical creeps in King County. According to the story, someone had called at three in the morning on Friday to report that a fight had broken out at the house party next door and was spilling into the street. When the police arrived, they found complete chaos, what read like a cross between the Three Stooges and Risky Business, with people breaking furniture over each other’s heads while others tried to jump from second-storey back windows when they heard sirens, and a third group too zonked to react, laying around with drug paraphernalia still in hand or spilling out of pockets. The end of the article reported that most of the suspects had been released on bail and would face arraignments on Monday.

  Clutching the paper, I speed-dialed Nadina who, of course, didn’t answer.

  “Hi, girlie, it’s Cass. Haven’t talked to you since Tuesday, so I’m checking in. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

  The rest of the day passed with no word from her, but I expected that.

  Then Sunday went by.

  And Monday.

  Had there not been a mentor training scheduled for Monday evening, I would have begun to badger Mark Henneman at the school. As it was, I showed up early for the training, with the Saturday paper tucked in my purse, and made small talk with Louella and Ray over the cookies a
nd coffee until I spotted the Director in the hallway and flagged him down.

  “Have you spoken to Nadina—?” he asked.

  “Did Nadina show up for school—?” I asked right over him. We both shook our heads, laughing, and I whipped out the paper to show him. “Is this who I think it is? Is this Mike?”

  Without even glancing at it he nodded. “You got it. Here, I’m going to let Barry handle this training. You come with me, Cass, and we can bring each other up to speed.”

  Mark barely sat down behind his desk when I demanded, “Have you seen Nadina today? She hasn’t been calling me back, and I’ve been trying ever since I saw this paper Saturday morning.”

  “It’s okay, Cass,” Mark assured me. “We know where she is—now. When she didn’t show up for school Friday or today, we checked in with her mom and Mike’s father and got the story between the two of them. As you figured out, Mike got himself arrested early Friday morning at that house party.”

  “For assault or drugs or both?” I asked, shooting for a concerned voice but ending up sounding somewhere between eager and thrilled—Murray certainly would have made me do it over.

  Mark’s eyes had a certain answering gleam that made me suspect he wasn’t too broken up about it either. “Mike wasn’t involved in the fight. He was one of the guys totally out of it on the sidelines, laying there with the goods on him—about 30 grams of BC Bud—so he got taken in.” Seeing my quizzical expression, he added, “BC Bud is marijuana from Canada.”

  “Did he have to stay in jail?” I asked, the thrilledness getting more obvious.

  “Not over the weekend. Mike’s dad apparently bailed him out Friday, and he got to go home until his arraignment today—”