12

NEWS AT THE COCHRAN’S

It had been some Friday. To start it off, for the first time in over three years, Rosanne did not show. After Cassy tried her a number of times, left messages with increasing urgency, she finally gave up, rolled up her sleeves and started cleaning the apartment herself.

By eleven she was on the phone, checking with the forty-seven odd neighbors who were running booths or working at the block party the next day. Did they have everything they needed? Did they know what to do? Would they make sure that Cassy would never, ever again be asked to organize this horrendous escapade?

Every time she placed a call, it seemed, someone from WST called on the other line. Was Cassy aware that the AFD films had not arrived yet for the weekend film festival? Did Cassy know the air vents were all being replaced next month? (Next month? This had to be discussed at noon on her day off?) What was Cassy going to do about Chester’s new contract? Had Cassy come to a decision regarding the removal of pay phones from the lobby of the building? Her boss, Steven Lubin, called too, simply to say what he always said when Cassy was out of the office. “If you’re going to be indispensable, you can’t leave us to fend for ourselves in this asylum.”

Phone under her chin, Cassy took an inventory of the kitchen. After the block party, the neighbors who helped were all supposed to come back to the Cochrans’ for a buffet. With Rosanne currently and mysteriously missing in action, Cassy assumed the worst for tomorrow and called the caterer in Rosanne’s stead. And of the six casseroles in the freezer? Well, Michael and Henry could predict the next month’s menu.

Alexandra Waring called in. Since Harriet Wyatt reported that Newton Thatimov was on tour to promote his 345th book and could not get back from San Francisco in time for the block party this year, Alexandra had become their sole starring attraction.

“Michael suggested one dollar for an autograph, two dollars for a handshake and five dollars to—” Alexandra had laughed, a wonderfully long affair that reminded Cassy of Garbo in Ninotchka. “He seems to think people would want to pay five dollars to kiss me on the cheek.”

“Oh, Lord,” Cassy had said, “I wouldn’t make you do that.”

“Good,” she had said. “But do you want me to? Five dollars is a good deal of money.”

“Alexandra, I would not ask anyone to be kissed by strangers. In Kansas maybe, but in New York? Good Lord. No, what I think we should do is stick to autographs for two dollars. Okay?”

“Fine with me.” Pause. “What do you want me to wear?”

“Oh, anything you’re comfortable in. No—you know what? I adored the blue dress you wore on your debut—”

“The navy one?”

“Yes, I thought it was stunning.”

“So you’re going to make me stand in heels all day.”

“You can wear whatever—”

“I was kidding, Cassy, really. I don’t mind.” Pause. “Okay, I’ll wear the navy number. By special request. Say, if it’s as stunning as you say it is, maybe I can fetch two-fifty.”

Alexandra handed the phone to Michael, who promised to be home by four to help out with the tables in the basement. Next came the police department, checking and rechecking the hours of the fair, the exact area that was to be barricaded off from traffic and the number of off-duty cops the association would pay for. Sergeant Baker made no secret of his fond admiration for Cassy, and it was with great effort that she succeeded in convincing him she needed no further assistance from him tonight after he got off duty.

Henry zoomed in from school at three and out again, down to the basement to sort the books for Howard Stewart’s bookstall. Cassy went out herself, coordinating and rechecking arrangements with the building supers who were storing materials for various booths. When Michael failed to appear, and the evening grew later, Cassy took Henry and moved and labeled the tables for the booths herself. By nine they were finished. By quarter past ten Cassy was bathed and in bed. Five-thirty would come awfully early the next morning.

She dreamed that Henry married a German girl who looked suspiciously like Greta Garbo. (“Henry,” Cassy said in her dream, straining her eyes, “I’m positive this girl is Garbo.” “Her name is Hilda, Mom.” “But I know it’s Garbo in disguise and I think she’s too old for you. She’s only pretending to be sixteen.”)

“Mom,” Henry’s voice was saying.

Cassy struggled to wake.

“Mom, come quick—it’s Dad.”

Cassy sat up like a shot. “Henry?”

“You’d better come.”

There was a crash from somewhere in the apartment. Cassy turned on the bedside lamp and reached for her robe on the chair. Henry was already gone.

There was another sound—a kind of thunk—followed by the crack of glass, and then a harsh scraping sound. She heard Michael laugh. It was coming from the study.

Henry was standing outside the door to the study. He looked back at Cassy with a silent warning.

Crack. Scrape. Crash.

Cassy pulled Henry behind her and peered into the study. Michael was stabbing the photographs on the wall with a kitchen knife. Cassy yanked Henry a few steps down the hall. “I want you to go to your room and lock the door.”

“No. I’ll stay with you.”

Cassy put her hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye and said, “I’ll be fine. Go. Now,” and gave him a little shove. “Go on.” Crack. Slam.

Once Cassy heard the lock on Henry’s door click, she went back to the doorway of the study.

Roughly half the pictures were still hanging. Glass and tattered photos and broken frames were everywhere. The point of the knife had broken off, but Michael was beyond caring. Holding the knife in both hands up over his head, he took aim and then swung down on another picture.

Crack.

It was a direct hit, splintering the glass and slashing through the back of the frame. It was of Michael accepting a Dupont Journalism Award in 1973. The picture was stuck on the knife and Michael laughed, flinging it off.

Crash.

“Mike,” Cassy said softly.

He turned with a ghastly smile. For a second Cassy considered running, but then he lowered the knife. “Sweetheart,” she said, voice hushed, “what’s happened?” He swung away from her and faced the wall of pictures again. “I’ve decided to redecorate, that’s all,” he said, scraping the knife in an arc over the wall, sending three more photographs to the floor. “I’m sick of these pictures. Sick of the people in them.” He stepped down hard on a picture and ground his heel into the glass. “It’s all in the past, Cassy girl. They don’t count for nothing.”

Dazed, he looked at the mess around him. Sighing, he dropped the knife to the floor. Then, weaving slightly, he covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Cass,” he said, “my contract.”

Cassy hesitated, and then took a step toward him.

“Cassy,” he wailed, looking up from his hands. Tears were spilling down from his eyes. “They fired me. Fired me.”

In a moment Cassy was there, holding Michael, feeling the pain of his heart.