Riverside Drive Read online

  She leaned over the sink and sighed, slowly. She raised her head and again looked at her face. She touched her cheek, her chin, her mouth. Yes, she was still quite beautiful, but she looked like someone else now. Maybe she was a Catherine now, like her mother, too old to be a Cassy.

  Good Lord, she was fading. That was it. Just fading. From radiance to glow. Like her eyesight, her face was fading. Reading glasses she had almost resigned herself to, but when it’s your face—what do you do, wear a mask?

  Yes. But you call it make-up.

  Was it worth it, this life? In love with Henry in the odd moment he expressed a need for her, in love with her television station, in love with her schedules, DETAILS, in love with ignoring the passing days of her life. When, exactly, was it that she had stopped insisting they drive out every weekend to the house in Connecticut? When was it she had decided to let the garden go, and not care if the house was painted or not? When had she stopped wishing they had a dog?

  When had Cassy Cochran stopped wishing for anything?

  Someone was knocking on the door. “Just a minute,” she called out. And what was this singsong in her voice? Why didn’t she just gently cast flowers from a basket as she walked?

  It was Rosanne, balancing a tray of hors d’oeuvres on her hip. “Henry’s on the phone. The kid sounds funny so I thought I better get you.”

  Cassy’s heart skipped a beat, for Henry never sounded “funny.” “I’ll take it in the study.” Cassy walked down the hall and opened the door to the study. It was off limits at parties because it was here that the Cochrans harbored what they did best-sift and sort through work and projects. There were three television sets, two VCRs, tons of scripts, computer print outs and magazines. There were two solid walls of video tapes; the other two walls were covered with photographs of the Cochrans with various television greats over the years and, too, there were a number of awards: Emmys, Peabodys, a Christopher, a Silver Gavel, two Duponts, and even a Clio from a free-lance job of Michael’s years ago. What a lovely mess. Pictures and papers. What they both understood completely. His chair, his desk; her chair, her desk; the old sofa they couldn’t part with, where Henry had been conceived so many years before.

  “Henry?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  He does sound funny.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Pause.

  “Well, Mom, I’m sort of in a situation where I’m not really sure what to do.” Pause. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  He sighed and sounded old.”I’m over at Skipper’s and the Marshalls aren’t home yet.”

  Pause.

  Let him explain.

  “Skipper was drinking beer at Shea and then here... Mom, he’s kind of getting sick all over the place and I don’t know what to do.” He hurried on. “I tried to get him to go to bed but he threw up all over the place and then started running around.” Little voice. “He just got sick in the dining room. Mom—”

  “Listen, sweetheart, don’t panic, I’m coming right over. But listen to me carefully. Stay with Skipper and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

  “He’s sort of out of it.”

  “If he starts to get sick again, make sure he’s sitting up. Don’t let him choke. Okay, sweetheart? Just hang on, I’ll be right there.”

  Cassy grabbed her coat and purse and went back into the party to find Michael. Easier said than done. Where had all these people come from anyway? Some woman was playing “Hey, Look Me Over” on the piano, while Elvis was belting “Blue Suede Shoes” on the stereo.

  Where the hell is Michael?

  Where the hell is Alexandra Waring?

  Well, at least Cassy knew who was with whom.

  The Marshalls lived on Park Avenue at 84th Street. Skipper was a classmate of Henry’s, a friendship sanctioned by Michael since Roderick Marshall was the longtime president of the Mainwright Club, of which Michael yearned to be a member. (He was turned down year after year.) As for Cassy, she thought the Marshalls were stupid people. Period. And because she felt that way, she had become rather fond of Skipper for openly airing all of the family secrets (his mother had had two face lifts; his father went away on weekends with his mistress; they had paid two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to marry off Skipper’s hopeless sister...).

  While Cassy wouldn’t have chosen Skipper as Henry’s buddy, she did appreciate one of Skipper’s attributes—he absolutely worshiped the ground Henry walked on. And he was bright; he understood all of Henry’s complicated interests; and he was loyal, not only to Henry, but to all of the Cochrans. (Whenever Cassy told the boys it was time to go to bed, Skipper always made a point of thanking her for letting him stay over. “I really like it here,” he would declare. “I would really like it if you liked my liking it—do you, Mrs. C?” “Yes, Skipper, I do,” Cassy would say, making him grin.)

  The poor kids. Cassy found Henry sitting shell-shocked on the lid of the toilet seat in the front powder room while Skipper snored on the tile floor, his arm curled around the base of the john. Lord, what a mess. Henry held Skipper up so that Cassy could at least wash the vomit off his face and take off his shirt. They took him to his room, changed him into pajamas, and then put him to bed in one of the guest rooms since his own was such a mess. With Henry’s help she found the number of the maid and Cassy called. Would she come over since no one knew where the Marshalls were, or when they could come home? She would.

  Cassy stripped the sheets in Skipper’s room and, with Henry, cleaned up the worst from the carpets around the house. Aside from answering her questions about where things were, Henry hadn’t volunteered anything. Cassy checked on Skipper again; he was long gone, in a peaceful sleep now.

  They sat in the kitchen and shared a Coke.

  “Are you sure the Marshalls didn’t leave a number?”

  Glum. “Yes.”

  “Henry,” Cassy asked after a moment, “do you like to drink?”

  He glared at her. “Mom.”

  “No, sweetheart, it’s okay. I mean, I know all kids experiment sometime. I just wondered about you. About how you felt about alcohol.” He shook his head and looked down at the table, restlessly moving his glass.”Henry— “ “I hate it.” His voice was so low, so hostile, Cassy wasn’t sure she’d heard it right.

  “What, sweetheart?”

  He looked up briefly, let go of his glass, and leaned back on the legs of the chair. He caught his mother’s look and came back down on the floor with a thump. Back to the old tried and true position. “I hate the stuff. It makes me sick.” A short pause. “Why do people have to drink that stuff? It just makes them act like jerks and it’s not good for your body, so what’s the point?”

  Cassy’s mind raced with that one. After a moment she asked, “Does Skipper drink a lot?”

  Henry gave her a does-he-look-like-he-does-silly-old-Mom look. “He tries to.”

  “Has he ever said why?”

  Another look, not dissimilar to the last. “No. He just does it whenever he’s pissed at his parents.”

  “Angry.”

  “What?”

  “Angry at his parents.”

  “Yeah, anyway—today his mother told him he couldn’t go to Colorado.”

  “Why not?”

  Henry shrugged. “Bad mood, probably. She’s like that.”

  By the time the maid arrived, Cassy had changed her mind about what to do. She apologized to Angie for bringing her over, and explained that she had second thoughts about sticking her with the situation. Cassy would take Skipper home with her. She left a note by the front door:

  Deidre,

  Skipper is safe and sound at our house. He is not feeling very well and since I didn’t know where to reach you, I thought it best to bring him home with me. Call me when you get home and I’ll explain.

  Cassy Cochran

  Michael was bellowing “My Wild Irish Rose” down the hall for the benefit of departing guests. Cassy sighed, Henry’s back snapped to attention and Skippe
r, bless his heart, did his best to move along between them without letting his eyes roll back into his head.

  “Hey, kid, nice to see you! Didn’t want to miss the fun with your old man, huh?” Michael said, holding his glass high. “Hey, Skip!”

  “Skipper’s ill,” Cassy said, ushering Skipper by him. “I’m putting him to bed in the guest room.”

  “Too bad, Skipperino,” Michael said. He got hold of Henry’s arm. “Come on,” he urged, pulling him along. “Kiddo, I want you to meet one hot cookie. Our new star.” He halted suddenly, pretending to whisper. “Kid, she’s so beautiful—I can’t tell you how beautiful she is, so hold onto your hat...”

  Cassy was reluctant to leave Henry, but Skipper was fading fast. Rosanne, in the kitchen, took one look at him and followed them back to the guest room. While Cassy stripped Skipper down to the pajamas he was wearing under his clothes, Rosanne turned down the bed and set out a pail beside it. Cassy sat for a minute or two with Skipper, reassuring him that he would be feeling better after he slept, stroking his forehead all the while. She left the hall light on and the door open.

  When Cassy went into the living room, she found Michael practically shoving Henry into Alexandra’s lap on the couch. When Henry saw his mother it apparently gave him courage, for he slapped his father’s hand away, excused himself to Alexandra, shot past Cassy without a word and headed for his room.

  There were only six guests left—the die-hards, five of whom were in worse shape than Michael. Alexandra was stone cold sober and looked as though she wished she could go to her room too.

  Hmmm.

  Cassy went into the kitchen, where Ivor asked her what she would like to drink. She asked for a Perrier, changed her mind, and asked for a glass of white wine.

  “That Waring chick is a strange one,” Rosanne said, rinsing a tray in the sink. Clang, clatter, into the rack.

  Cassy accepted her glass of wine, sipped it, and moved across the kitchen to lean back against the counter. “Why, what did she do?”

  Rosanne pulled off her rubber gloves, untied her apron and threw it on the dish rack. “She comes in here like the Queen of Sheba and so I look at her, and like Mr. C’s standin’ over there by the bar.”

  “And?”

  “And so she stands there,” Rosanne continued, pointing at the very spot on the floor, “and says”— Rosanne stood on her tiptoes to accurately reenact the scene—”’Where is Mrs. Cochran?’ So I said”—dropping down to her heels, plunking a hand on her hip—”’If she’s got any sense, she’s hidin’ from the likes of you.’”

  “Oh, Rosanne,” Cassy groaned, covering her face.

  “Naw, naw,” Rosanne said, shaking her head. “I didn’t say that. I said, ‘She’s out.’ So she says”—back on her toes—”’When is she coming back?’ So then Mr. C says”—holding her arms out to the side, implying largesse—”’What do ya want Cassy for?’ And she says, ‘I’d like to know her better,’ and so then Mr. C starts gettin’ upset, and she says cheeze it, the cops.”

  Cassy was about to say, “Alexandra Waring said, ‘Cheez it, the cops’?” when she realized that Michael and Alexandra had come into the kitchen. A look back at Rosanne found her busy at the sink, minding her own business of course.

  “So what’s with Henry?” Michael said, shoving his glass into Ivor’s hand and then grunting.

  “He’s had a rough afternoon.” Cassy glanced at Alexandra and added, “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Brooding kid sometimes,” Michael said to Alexandra. “Oh, thanks, Igor.”

  “Ivor, Michael—the man’s name is Ivor,” Cassy sighed, sitting down on a stool.

  “Igor, Ivor, you don’t care as long as you get paid, right?” he said, slapping Igor-Ivor on the arm. Cassy noticed that Amos’ hat was leering down from on top of the refrigerator, a cigarette dangling from its jaws.

  Michael turned to Alexandra. “You know where the kid gets it from?” He swallowed almost his entire drink and laughed. “We made the kid on the couch I showed you in the den—” He started cracking up.

  “Michael—” Cassy said.

  “And the whole time, Cass kept oooing and ahhhing and then all of a sudden she starts yelping about a spring stabbing her in the rear end—”

  Cassy slumped over the counter.

  “And the kid inherited it! He gets this look like—Jesus, something’s stabbing me in the rear end. “Michael fell back against the doorway, hysterical. “You saw him, Alexandra! Isn’t that what he looks like?”

  Rosanne hurled a handful of clean silverware into the sink; Ivor examined the wallpaper; Michael continued laughing and Cassy left the room. She was halfway down the hall when she heard her name being called. It was Alexandra. Cassy turned around and stood there, waiting. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Why,” Cassy said, “what have you done?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant, I—”

  Cassy silenced her by raising her hand. “Look,” she said, “do me a favor, will you? Just please get out of here and take those drunken idiots with you. Michael included. All right?” And then she fled to the guest room, slamming the door behind her. Having awakened poor Skipper, Cassy stayed with him for a while until he fell back to sleep. When she emerged from the room, she found that Alexandra had granted her her favor; the party had departed for dinner at Caramba’s.

  They didn’t say much while cleaning up and were done by ten-thirty. When Cassy paid Ivor and tipped him well (in the far-flung hope he might give the agency a favorable report), Rosanne whispered to offer him Amos’ hat. Cassy stared at her. She nodded. And so she did, and Ivor took Amos’ hat home with him in a Zabar’s bag.

  “I had a hunch he liked it,” Rosanne said after he left. “He kept lookin’ at it.”

  Cassy asked Rosanne if she wanted some hot chocolate; she was making some for Henry and herself. Rosanne declined, saying she had to get going—had to be at Howie and the Bitch’s early the next morning.

  “Do you know how I cringe, Rosanne, when 1 think of how you must describe us to your other clients?” Cassy said, stirring Ovaltine into a saucepan of milk.

  “I call ya the C’s, that’s all,” Rosanne said. “Honest.”

  Cassy smiled slightly.

  “Well,” Rosanne reconsidered, slipping on her coat, “maybe once I said that Mr. C stood for Mr. Crazy.”

  Cassy wanted to say something but didn’t. She just stirred and stirred until the handle of the stainless steel spoon was too hot to hold. She put it down on the stove top. What was this? Tears? Yes, a tear, spilling down her cheek. And she wasn’t even crying. At least she didn’t feel as though she was crying. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, sniffed, and said, “I’m sorry, I’m just so tired...”

  “Mrs. C,” Rosanne said, moving to the doorway. Cassy didn’t look up. “Like it’s never easy, ya know?”

  “No,” Cassy finally said, “I don’t suppose it is.”

  Silence.

  “Thanks a lot for the dress. I really like it.”

  Quietly, “You’re welcome.”

  And Rosanne left.

  In his room Henry accepted his hot chocolate and put an issue of the Backpacker aside.

  “I think Skipper will be fine,” Cassy reported, sipping from her mug. “When do you suppose the Marshalls will get home?”

  “They won’t call, Mom, so don’t wait up for them.”

  After a moment Cassy patted Henry’s knee and he scooted over so she could sit next to him on the twin bed. It was a tight fit, but a well-practiced maneuver. They drank their hot chocolate, both looking across the room at the window.

  “Tug?” Cassy asked.

  “Police boat,” he said. Henry knew all the boats on the river at night.

  “Oh, yes.”

  Silence.

  “Mom,” Henry said, “do you ever get scared for no particular reason?”

  She swallowed. “Sometimes. Usually when I’m wondering what’s going to happen. L
ife always seems like an unlikely proposition when I try to figure out how everything’s going to turn out.”

  Pause.

  “What are you going to do, Mom?”

  “Talk to Mrs. Marshall.”

  Long pause. “I meant about Dad. He’s really getting— you know, like that summer in Newport.

  “Cassy looked at her son. How much did he know? “What do you mean?”

  Henry was uncomfortable. “You know, that woman. He’s acting like that again.”

  So he did know. Probably more than Cassy herself knew. If she hadn’t wanted to know for sure about Michael’s affairs, she supposed she was about to find out.

  “Mom—why don’t you do something?” This was delivered in a whisper.

  Where the energy came from she wasn’t sure. But it came. She put her cup down on the night table and put her arm around Henry. She sighed. “Sweetheart, Henry, your father and I, no matter what our troubles—we both love you more than anything else in the world.”

  Silence.

  “Mom, he humiliates you. He humiliates me. Is he sleeping with that woman who was here tonight? If he is, why doesn’t he do like other guys and at least hide it?”

  Cassy felt nauseous.

  “He just throws it in your face. Rosanne knows it, I know it, half the station knows it. Why don’t you do something?”

  Cassy vowed not to cry. Quietly, “What do you think I should do?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to him.” And then, blurting it out, “Make him love you again.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Cassy was close to breaking down. What to say, God, what to say? Did her son not think she had tried? The pain was centered right there, right on that. I have not tried and we both know it.

  Cassy raised her head and saw that Henry was not angry with her; he was trying to comfort her. Tell her he was on her side. When did he start needing to shave? was her next thought. When did that happen?

  The doorbell was ringing. Cassy kissed Henry on the cheek, got up and slipped on her shoes. The doorbell was persistent. She leaned over and kissed Henry again. “It’s probably Mrs. Marshall,” she said.