13

THE BLOCK PARTY

It was a gorgeous day, the sun shining and the sky teal blue. The apartment buildings were festooned with red, white and blue streamers, balloons and hand-lettered signs. Across the way, in Riverside Park, the trees were radiant with new leaves catching the morning light, and the birds, as they would all summer, were sitting in them, singing their hearts out. The block party was, in actuality, three blocks long. The northbound right-hand lane of the Drive had been cleared of parked cars and was barricaded off by the police. The cross streets, too, 89th through 9lst, had been cleared and were closed to traffic. Cars on the Drive slowed to look at the activity occurring along the front of the buildings, and some even pulled over and got out to see what was what. “We don’t open until nine!” the harried volunteers yelled, frantic to meet the deadline, but fretting nonetheless about whether they should or should not make an exception to make a sale. It was for a good cause, the annual block party, though no one seemed to remember exactly how it was they had come to pledge themselves to raising money for the Children’s Clinic—a marvelous institution way up in Riverdale that, in truth, no one still living had ever visited. But every year Sister Mary came down, her habit gently aloft in the river breezes, and expressed such gratitude, such humility to the volunteers, that no one ever considered not carrying on for at least another year.

This year Cassy put Sister Mary and her heavenly influence to work. The block party headquarters was located in the lobby of the Cochrans’ building on the corner of 88th, and so was the treasury. Every two hours the off-duty police officers were to collect excess money from the booths and bring it back to headquarters. Now last year, despite the presence of the police, two different desperados had made a play at trying to steal the treasury. So this year Cassy decided to try throwing the fear of God at them, and stationed Sister Mary outside headquarters, under the awning of 162, reclining in a La-Z-Boy from the Cochran living room.

The layout of booths and stalls and rides was the best in years. The booths and stalls stretched along the buildings of the Drive; the rides and activity booths were sprawled across the cross streets: 89th had the big wooden Train Ride (powered by ten stalwart daddies who would spend the day pulling trainloads of alternately delighted and terrified little people), and a huge, inflated tent of air pillows called the Space Walk; 90th had the Puppet Theater, the House of Mirrors, Needle in the Haystack, and the China Break (manned by the Wyatts); and 91st had Pop a Balloon, Shoot Out at the OK Corral (water pistols and candles), and Lawn Bowling (on Astro-Turf).

Highlights along the Drive were MEET ALEXANDRA WARING OF WWKK TV between 88th and 89th; Melissa Stewart’s creation, THE JUNIOR LEAGUE’S “DANCE OF THE SPRING VEGETABLES” on the corner of 90th; and Howard Stewart’s MORE BOOKS FOR THE BUCK, stretching for nearly a half block at 91st.

Thanks to Henry Cochran and his friend Skipper, the book tables were set up and ready to go at eight-thirty. For nearly two hours they had carefully organized and lined up (spines up) over seven hundred books on ten long tables. When they ran out of room, at Henry’s suggestion, they organized paperbacks, spines up, in cartons to put under the tables, or on them as room was made by sales.

He was a nice kid, this Henry, and Howard was pleased when he asked if he could help Howard all day—that is, if he didn’t mind. Mind? Of course not. “In fact,” Howard had whispered to the two boys, “if you’ll help me, I can get rid of the two flakes my wife recruited.” And so Howard and Henry and Skipper became the official proprietors of the bookstall and the flakes when they finally showed up—were redirected to the “DANCE OF THE SPRING VEGETABLES” to help Melissa.

As for Skipper, well, let’s just say that what Skipper offered as a potential salesperson (which Henry claimed was a great deal), he lacked in social graces. At one point Skipper took a swing at one of the clowns in the booth next to them. “Tell him to stop banging his goddam cymbals in my ear!” Skipper complained. Howard intervened and the clown was moved to the other side of the CLOWNS COURTESY OF BRANTOWSKI CEMENT—”WE STICK TOGETHER” booth, and Skipper was assigned to work the other end of the book tables.

At twenty to nine Cassy swung by. “You’re the only ones set,” she said, throwing an arm around her son.

In a pale yellow sweater, gold hoop earrings, blue jeans and yellow Topsiders, Howard Stewart thought Cassy Cochran a knockout. They officially shook hands—yes, they agreed, they had seen each other around the neighborhood for years; Howard told her Rosanne had had him watch one of her editorials; Cassy said she knew Melissa (end of comment); Howard told her she had a great son and she agreed with him.

Looking into this woman’s eyes, Howard was struck by how tired she appeared, and yet how beautiful she was—much more than she had been on television that day. It was funny—Melissa had no lines to speak of in her face, and indeed, Cassy Cochran did, particularly at the corners of her eyes, but they seemed only to make her eyes bluer and more intense. And more... No—you know what it was? Cassy Cochran looked like she lived a life —laughed and cried and loved—whereas Melissa looked like she—well, posed for life.

Henry said he was sixteen, so if Cassy had been, say, twenty-two, that would make her thirty-eight. Well... No, Howard thought maybe forty...

Howard commanded himself to stop thinking along these lines, mainly because he knew in what direction he was trying to rationalize: speculating and exploring the possibilities of what Cassy Cochran—the woman standing here in front of him, with a teenage son at her side no less—might be like in bed.

As Howard and Cassy and Henry stood there, smiling at one another and chatting, an irate woman dressed like a tomato descended upon them. Betty the Tomato, as her name turned out to be, had been sent as an emissary to file official protest about the Junior League being repeatedly zapped by a little monster wielding a Laser Tag gun. As the woman argued with Cassy over whether or not the six vegetables could handle this extreme danger themselves, Henry and Howard moved around to the inside of the tables where Skipper was lying against the wall of the building, holding his sides, hysterical over the antics of Miss Tomato. Henry started laughing next. And then when Miss Tomato, in her excitement, started rear-ending books off the table, left and right, Howard too had to turn away and laugh.

And then a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Howard! Howard!”

The voice was so shrill, even the boys stopped laughing for a minute to follow the sound of it. Melissa, in the form of a celery stalk, was approaching. Bound and wrapped in yards of green crepe paper, her progress was not achieved without difficulty. Particularly since she had to keep a mindful eye on the horrendous green spiky things that were shooting out of the top of her head.

With a hoot, Skipper clapped his hand over his mouth and keeled back against the wall. Howard’s and Cassy’s eyes met. They both clamped down hard on their teeth to keep from laughing.

Henry, at this point, was under the table in tears. “Hey,” Howard whispered, nudging him with his foot and choking back a laugh, “cool it, it’s my wife.”

“Melissa—thank God!” Betty the Tomato said.

“I have solved our problem,” Melissa declared. “There!” She hurled a handful of plastic on the table in front of Howard. “I disarmed that Benson brat myself.”

“Good!” Betty the Tomato said.

Skipper slid to the ground.

“We didn’t have this kind of problem last year,” Melissa huffed to Cassy. “Come on, Betty, we’re about to start.” Miss Celery took Miss Tomato’s hand and led her away. “Oh, Howard,” Melissa said, turning, her spiky green things bending in the breeze, “those vile Bensons will probably want to talk to you.”

When it was safe, Howard and Cassy burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry, Howard,” Cassy said, wiping at one eye.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. He kicked Henry with his foot. “Hey, you still alive down there?”

Cassy checked her watch. “Okay, gang, you’re officially open in two minutes. Good luck. I’ll stop by later.”

“Okay, Mom,” Henry said, standing up, wiping his eyes.

“Howard,” Cassy said, motioning him away from the boys. She placed a hand gently on his arm. “Thanks for letting the boys work with you today. Henry wanted to work with the books, but since he—we—didn’t know you, he felt shy about asking.”

“I’m only glad to have him. Really.”

“Good luck, boys!”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Bye, Mrs. C.”

The liberty bell at the Colonial America booth rang and the block party officially began. People descended on the book tables with all the decorum of looters. Skipper raced up and down warning, and then threatening, the customers about how they were treating the books. “What I need,” he yelled to Howard, “is a fly swatter for these guys!”

Someone tapped Howard’s shoulder. He turned around. He felt his face flush and he said, “Amanda.”

It was Amanda all right. No, she didn’t look anything like Cassy Cochran. There was no great beauty, no great blaze of light from her eyes; she was just, just—well, lovely Amanda in the sunlight, looking even better to Howard than he remembered. Or making him feel even better than he remembered.

“As promised, I have come to render my services for this worthy cause,” she said, holding her arms out to the side.

Howard looked down (he guessed that was what he was supposed to do) and saw that she was in the cheerful garb of a pale blue-green sweat suit and sneakers. He brought his eyes up, touched his glasses and noticed that she was looking more than a trifle nervous.

“We would love to take advantage of your kind offer,” Howard said, taking her arm. He quickly introduced her to the boys, ran her through the book categories, price listings and cash box, and told her she was on her own, good luck. Smile.

Smile.

Wink.

Smile.

Thunk.

The crowd at the tables swelled to four people deep and the crew had their hands full. People were trying to drag cartons off to dig into them away from the crowd. Henry was good with them (“Sorry, these have to stay here”); Amanda was too nice to them (“Thank you for trying to assist us, however the cartons are not in need of transportation”); Skipper was downright vicious (“If you don’t keep your paws off, I swear to God I’ll cut ‘em off”) and Howard found himself yelling, “Please, please, this is a book sale, not a wrestling match!” The chaos had the four careening into each other in the struggle to keep up—”Sorry” “Whoops!” “Excuse me!” “Whoa!”—and all but Skipper spent most of the time laughing.

“Do we have bags?” Amanda asked Howard, both bent over the cash box to make change.

Her face was inches away from his and he could feel her breath on his chin. He looked into her eyes and the change was forgotten. “No—wait, yes. I’ll get them. But they’re for purchases of ten dollars or more.” Still, he didn’t move. Nor did she. Skipper then helped them out by pushing Howard out of the way.

“Gotta keep in step if you wanna make the big bucks,” Skipper told Howard. It was nuts. Just crazy. An absolute madhouse. And Howard felt insanely happy.

Alexandra Waring made the Block Association over two hundred and seventy dollars by eleven-thirty. At first it was simply through her autographing publicity stills, but then, at Michael’s suggestion, Old Mr. Gresham (as he was known in the neighborhood) had offered her twenty five dollars to let him kiss her on the cheek. Alexandra took the twenty-five dollars, let him kiss her, and then she gave the eighty-some-odd-year-old man a kiss back and a hug. But since Old Mr. Gresham’s eyes never left her chest during the latter, a rumor started that Alexandra Waring was letting men look down her dress and the line for her booth expanded accordingly. (Lest anyone think unkindly of Ms. Waring, a WWKK publicist ran about to make it known that she was only signing autographs and shaking hands.)

Michael had appeared shortly after ten, looking ashen and unwell. He had found Cassy at Alexandra’s booth, whispered that he loved her, and then kissed her ear. His breath had told Cassy that the coffee mug he held was laced with brandy, but she was so relieved to see him up and about that she did not care. She had hugged him.

Alexandra had risen from chair, stepped out of her booth, and simply held his hand for a moment. “When you get resituated, Michael, I only hope I’m good enough to follow you there.”

For that one moment—suspended in the noise of the crowd and of the pesky clown beating a drum behind them—Cassy could think of nothing nicer than for Alexandra Waring to move into the Cochran household.

Michael had moved a chair next to Alexandra in her booth and, with his thermos and mug, remained at her side throughout the morning. Cassy had watched them and noticed the remarkable kindness and sensitivity the young woman possessed. Alexandra did nothing flirtatious, nothing that could be misconstrued; she merely made Michael the center of her attention, of her calm reassurance, and of her gentle humor that made him smile and chuckle despite his misery.

And Michael was miserable. Cassy knew the slouch of his shoulders was new; she knew his expression—as if he were half ready to be struck at any given moment—had been acquired in the night. Self-righteous rage, arrogant accusations—Cassy had been prepared for anything but this. A broken-spirited, quietly despairing middle-aged man. A man she didn’t recognize, but whom Alexandra apparently did.

Cassy thanked the heavens for Alexandra’s being there.

She made the rounds again near noon to see how everyone was doing. At the Junior League booth, Melissa Stewart was seething with rage. Someone, while the vegetables were doing their spring dance, had stolen their deviled eggs. When Cassy became confused (“I’m sorry, do you mean a dancer was taken? Or real food?”), Melissa had screamed at Cassy that she was the most inept, utterly moronic chairman they had ever had. At that, Cassy turned the case of the missing deviled eggs over to a policewoman and departed.

Everyone else seemed to be doing brilliantly and having a great deal of fun. (“No heart attacks yet!” the Train Ride people cheerfully reported.) The Wyatt’s were positively making a fortune with their China Break. As Cassy approached, an elderly woman, being helped by Sam, was in the process of throwing a softball (with her eyes closed). She clipped a cup right off the hook and the crowd went wild with cheers and applause.

“Everything’s fine,” Harriet told Cassy. “We did have one scare, though. A woman dove into the line of fire and nearly got brained. Apparently one of our plates on the rack was some kind of Wedgwood china. She gave us twenty dollars for it.”

Althea Wyatt came charging up and handed Cassy twenty-eight dollars. “My friend Alice brought some buttons to sell. This is from her.” Cassy slipped the money in her back pocket while Althea took the liberty of pinning a button on Cassy’s sweater. JANE WYMAN KNEW, it said.

The children, in particular, seemed to be having a wonderful time pulling their parents in one direction and then another, squealing, “Mommy! Daddy! Look!” And the parents didn’t seem to be having a bad time of it either. And since this year no wine or beer was being sold, the bands of teenagers they had had trouble with the year before were nowhere to be found.

It was also a great day for politicians, Cassy thought, because there were two great ones to be seen: Council Member Ruth Messinger and Congressman Ted Weiss. The neighbors’ opinions apparently coincided with Cassy’s, since both—stuck on two separate blocks—were surrounded by wide-smiling constituents eager to express their admiration. (In light of current New York City political weather—heavy subpoena fall—the neighborhood was even more proud of these sterling public servants than usual.)

But the noise—wow. Cassy could feel it in her chest at times: the steady hub-hub-hub of the crowd; isolated peals of laughter and squeals of glee; a shriek; a gasp; applause; the boom-boom-boom and clang-clang-clang of those frisky clowns who were perpetually wandering about.

The block party was a success, Cassy knew. Really, truly, a wonderful success, and it made her feel oddly close to crying when she thought of Sister Mary under the awning in the Cochrans’ La-Z-Boy. Cassy would go to the Children’s Clinic. Soon. She wanted in the worst way to see how this festival would translate into help for those children.

At the book tables, Cassy smiled at how happy Henry appeared to be. Howard was talking to him, apparently about the book he was holding, and Henry’s eyes were bright with interest. Howard tucked the book under Henry’s arm and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Hi,” Cassy said. “Mom—look. Howard found a first edition of Islands in the Stream and he gave it to me.” He flicked the pages back to the copyright page. “See?”

“Maybe Howard will inscribe it for you,” she said, putting her arm around him and looking up at Howard. “He’s an editor, you know.” The way Henry’s head swung in Howard’s direction indicated that this was an idea that appealed to him.

“Later,” Howard promised.

“I gotta get back to work, Mom,” Henry said.

Cassy and Howard watched Henry a minute, and then Skipper stole their attention by berating a young woman for being such a hog about all the Agatha Christies.

I never did talk to his mother, Cassy thought.

A policeman arrived to collect the cash and Howard brought him back around the tables for the transaction. A woman Cassy didn’t recognize came up to Howard at the cash box. She looked at Cassy and offered a tentative smile. She said something to Howard; he said something back and then the woman smiled broadly at Cassy and came over to her.

“Hello,” she said, extending a hand, “I’m Amanda Miller, more commonly known as Tuesdays.”

“Oh, hi,” Cassy said, smiling, “I’m Cassy Cochran, Fridays.”

“Yes, I know.”

The two women watched the men work the tables. “You’re a good sport to help us out,” Cassy said.

“Oh, I don’t mind. I would have done it before had anyone asked me to.”

Cassy nodded. And then, “Henry’s my son.” “I know. Rosanne speaks of him a great deal, you know.”

Pause. “I find him completely charming.”

“Thank you.” Cassy hesitated and then said, “Amanda, did you see Rosanne this week?”

A wave of seriousness passed over Amanda’s face. “Why do you ask?”

“She didn’t show yesterday and I can’t seem to get a hold of her.”

Amanda sighed and looked momentarily down at her sneakers. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” She led Cassy away a few steps from the booth, saying, “Perhaps I’d better fill you in on what happened this week.”

Amanda told Cassy the story about the robbery at the Stewarts’ and the aftermath. Cassy’s expression grew more concerned and her temper began to get the best of her. “That shrew,” she said of Melissa Stewart. “I’ve got half a mind to go down there and beat the living daylights out of that woman. How could she do that?” Amanda pressed on with her story, and the two women began comparing notes about what they should do. Both promised that if either one of them got a hold of Rosanne, she would call the other.

Walking back to the tables, Cassy asked Amanda if Howard Stewart was as nice as he seemed.

“He is,” she answered, looking at him.

“Rosanne always said so,” Cassy said. “Howard and the Bitch, she always calls them.”

Amanda seemed startled by this. “Does she?”

At that second Cassy leaped to a wild conclusion. She tried to remember what Rosanne had ever told her about Amanda, but none of it, Cassy suspected, would be as telling as Amanda’s expression at this moment. Cassy smiled to herself. Perhaps Melissa’s punishment was already under way.

Cassy made her way back down the Drive, carefully circling the hungry crowd buying food at the Junior League booth, and arrived at Alexandra’s booth to find a sign saying she would be back at two o’clock. She came upon Michael and Alexandra inside headquarters, sitting on the lobby stairs, Michael drinking a Heineken and Alexandra eating a deviled egg.

“Where did you get that deviled egg?”

Alexandra struggled to swallow, covering her mouth with a napkin. “A little boy just came in here and sold it to me. Why?”

Cassy roared and Michael and Alexandra looked at each other. “I love it!” Cassy declared, plunking herself down next to Alexandra. “Street urchins selling Melissa Stewart’s stupid eggs. She’s been screaming all day about them being stolen. How much did he charge you?”

“Two dollars.”

They all laughed until Michael added, “I better ask that kid for a job.”

From the sound of his voice, Cassy knew he had been seriously drinking. Well, she thought, if he stays with Alexandra, he’ll be all right. Wait a minute. Why am I dragging poor Alexandra into it? Whose husband is he?

Cassy got up, moved in front of her husband, bent over and, holding his face in her hands, kissed him briefly on the mouth. Then she knelt down in front of him and wrapped her arms around his knees.

Alexandra was politely examining her napkin.

Cassy kissed one of his knees, looked up and said, smiling, “You’re going to be able to do the work you’ve always wanted to do, Michael. No more office stuff, lucky guy.”

A sigh.

Alexandra was now looking at Cassy.

“People have been after Michael for years to go independent,” she explained.

“Cass,” Michael said. His voice was low and tired. “I want you to steal Alexandra away from KK. I know how to break her contract.” Cassy raised her eyebrows. He closed his eyes, nodded, and opened them. “I can’t stand the idea of those bastards having her.”

Cassy turned her head to look at Alexandra. Her face was impossible to read. Cassy rested the side of her face on Michael’s knee. “I’m not sure Alexandra would be happy at WST,” she said, watching her.

“She’ll push your ratings through the roof—”

“No, Michael, that’s not what I mean,” she said softly. She raised her head to speak to him but kept her eyes on Alexandra. “I think it would be a waste to keep her in local news for much longer. She needs to get out in the field, national news. And then, later, documentary, investigative or straight. My instincts tell me she’d be fabulous at either one.”

Michael turned to look at Alexandra too.

“Of course,” Cassy added, “my instincts could be wrong, though I would hardly say so if I thought they were.” They waited for Alexandra to say something, but Alexandra appeared to be a bit tongue-tied. “Mike,” Cassy said, turning to him, “why don’t you do it? Jack O’Hearn would underwrite you in a second.”

Michael considered this and shifted his legs a bit. Alexandra was staring off into space.

“Alexandra,” Cassy said.

“Yes?”

Those eyes... So young and bright and alive.

Alexandra Waring, you must do this. You must go on to better things before they suck the life out of you and make you tired and afraid.

“What do you think?” Cassy asked her.

She smiled, shyly. “I think you may be overly generous regarding my capabilities.

“Michael slapped Cassy on the shoulder and laughed. “That’s exactly what she said to me out in Kansas when I offered her a job.”

Cassy and Alexandra were still looking at each other. “Really?” Cassy asked her. “Is that really what you think?”

The slow smile that emerged from Alexandra felt like sunshine to Cassy, so pure was its warmth. “No,” she said.

Cassy did a drum roll on Michael’s knee, got up and leaned over to kiss him on the mouth again. “I think you two have a great deal to talk about,” she announced. “But don’t talk too much—save some of your discussion for tonight, so I can hear.” She nudged Michael’s leg with her knee. “So—right?”

“So—right,” Michael said.

The crowds outside were as thick as ever. Cassy sat and talked with Sister Mary for a little bit, about how well the booths were doing, about how much Cassy was looking forward to visiting the Children’s Clinic. At that announcement, Sister Mary reached forward and took Cassy’s hand in her own. “Will you really come, my child?”

“Yes, I want very much to.”

Sister Mary smiled. “It will mean a great deal to us all. Bless you for being so kind.”

Cassy spent the next two hours pretending to check up on things but in reality sifting through a series of troubling thoughts brought on by her talk with Sister Mary. What Sister Mary had said, about it meaning so much for her to come and visit, had struck a chord in Cassy, one that was painful.

Yes, Cassy would make the visit. And no doubt she would bring along a reporter and mini-cam to do a story on the clinic and drum up some contributions from the public. The pain came from wondering why she had stopped doing things like this. She always had, up until—well, when was the last time? The home for runaways? She must have been thirty-six. Over five years ago.

When had she become so wrapped up that people no longer even bothered to seek her help? Here Rosanne was going through this ordeal and, after all this time, she would rather disappear than ask Cassy for help. And Skipper—why hadn’t she followed through on talking to Deidre Marshall?

I can’t even help Michael.

And, oh, Lord, what was she really doing to poor Alexandra? Should Alexandra really gamble her career on Michael? No. Would Alexandra give Michael one last ace to play in his career? Yes. If Michael went down, did Cassy want Alexandra to go down with him instead of herself? Yes.

But she had the strength, the energy to pull it off. Cassy felt sure about that. Alexandra was like her, like Cassy, in the old days.

“Catherine Littlefield Cochran “her mother had screamed at her on her last visit three years ago, “someday you are going to wake up and realize the price you’ve paid for being such a fool”

“Such a fool about what, Mother?”

“Throwing your love away on a bottle.”

“Oh, Mother.”

“I know. Believe me, I know! The same thing that happened to me is happening to you and I won’t just stand by and watch it happen!”

Maybe she should hire Alexandra at WST. Maybe she should put Alexandra into the hands of a good agent. Maybe Alexandra had an agent. Maybe...

Could Alexandra really be so trusting as to place her future in our hands?

Oh, Lord, Cassy thought, watching children trying to extinguish candles with squirt guns, if you’re really there, please let us get through this without hurting anyone else.

Henry was leaving for Colorado in a week, and much as Cassy had been dreading it, now she was relieved he would be so far away. It would be a long summer. Even if Michael did find another job, or decided to go out on his own, Cassy felt sure it wouldn’t happen before fall, when people were back in town. And heaven only knew how Michael would see fit to spend his time until then.

What stories would be circulating about Michael? she wondered. “They couldn’t agree on the renewal terms of his contract,” she practiced in her head. Who are you kidding? They wouldn’t renew his contract, period. Everybody will know that, and everybody will know why.

After having a bite of lasagna at the ITALY, ITALY booth, Cassy started making her way back down to headquarters. In the sunshine of the afternoon it seemed as though every child on the West Side had been brought outside. Strollers zigged and zagged through the crowds, carrying bright little eyes roving in wonderment; snugglers on mothers’ and fathers’ chests cruised through, with newborns snoozing in warm oblivion; and backpacks trotted in and out, the heads of their precious cargo jigging and jogging from side to side.

My baby is six feet tall and is going to learn how to survive in the wilderness with a knife and a piece of string.

At three-thirty the line at Alexandra’s booth was even longer than it had been in the morning. She was in fine spirits (the New York Post had just finished taking pictures of her with Sister Mary) and claimed that her hand was holding out just fine against writer’s cramp.

Michael, on the other hand, was a mess. He could barely keep his head up. Cassy tried to get him out of his chair, take him up the apartment, but he made such a scene that Alexandra urged her to leave him where he was. So Cassy stood there, posted like a guard at his side, her stomach aching with the fear that he would do something outrageous.

He did. It started with a man who paid his two-fifty for Alexandra’s autograph. She signed her picture, handed it to him, and was about to shake his hand when Michael grabbed her arm. “Jesus, Alexandra, I’d get this one checked for AIDS before I’d let him near me.”

Alexandra jerked her arm away, clearly annoyed, and frowned at Cassy.

“Michael, come on,” Cassy said, pulling him out of his chair. Literally. He fell right out of it. One of the off-duty cops came to Cassy’s aid in picking him up. Michael pushed the cop and the crowd started backing away from the booth.

“Keep your filthy hands off me!” Michael said.

“Mike,” Cassy pleaded, “come on, we have to get out of here.” He allowed Cassy to lead him away a few steps, but then he spotted little Samantha Wyatt standing there in wide-eyed fascination. “What are you looking at?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Cassy said to the cop, “he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Could you help me with him?” Michael jerked away from her and pointed at Samantha. “What’s that nigger child looking at?”

There was a blur and a scream and Cassy was thrown to the pavement. She was stunned for a moment, not sure of where she was. “Cassy,” she heard Alexandra’s voice say from somewhere. She felt hands helping her to turn over and sit up.

Sam Wyatt was sitting on top of her husband, alternately slapping his face with the palm and back of his hand. Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap—Cassy sat there, mesmerized.

“For God’s sake!” Alexandra yelled close to her ear.

The cop grabbed Sam from behind and another cop broke through the crowd to help pull Sam off. Michael just lay there on his back, blinking up at the sky, blood flowing from his nose and oozing out of the right side of his mouth.

Alexandra, on her knees, had her arm around Cassy. “Are you all right?”

Cassy hid her face in Alexandra’s shoulder and whispered, “I don’t think I can deal with this.”

Alexandra got Cassy into a chair and someone handed her some tissues to wipe the blood from her palms. The cops led Sam away somewhere and two men from the crowd helped Michael to his feet. He staggered over to Alexandra’s chair and Cassy held his head back, pressing the tissues against his nose until he could hold them himself. Uniformed cops arrived and Alexandra talked to them.

“Come on,” Alexandra said gently to the Cochrans, “Officer Blake is going to run us up to the emergency room. You should get an X ray.” Cassy stood up, and Michael, silent, eyes vacant, let Cassy lead him by the hand.

Walking through the police barricade to the Drive, with Michael between her and Alexandra, Cassy saw Melissa Stewart in the crowd. Cassy made them stop for a moment. “Henry, our son, is working with your husband,” she said, voice hoarse. “Would you tell him the plans have changed and that he is to go to Skipper’s?” Melissa just stared at her. A tear trailed down Cassy’s cheek and she wiped it away. “Would you tell the others that we’re sorry, but we have to cancel the buffet? Would you do that for me, Melissa?”

Melissa’s eyes darted to Michael. “Yes,” she said.

And Melissa did. With her spiky green things flailing wildly with purpose, she stopped at every other booth and said, “The party’s off tonight. Cochran’s drunk and Cassy had to take him to the hospital. Pass it on.” Melissa was also fed some details regarding the fight itself (which she had missed), so by the time she reached the book tables she was more than curious to see which boy it was whose drunken father had so savagely attacked Sam Wyatt’s baby girl.

Howard was standing in a little tete-a-tete with two women Melissa had never seen before. One was an old lady, on the outside of a table, of no interest to her; the other, standing inside the table by the cash box, was of interest to her, seeing as how her husband was talking to her.

“Howard,” she said.

“Melissa—hi.” He seemed startled. He was startled. But he took a step back, pulled the celery stalk closer, and said, “I’d like you to meet my wife Melissa. Melissa, this is Mrs. Goldblum, who lives in—”

“One eighty-four.”

“And Amanda Miller, who lives in 173.”

“How do you do,” Melissa said without a trace of cordiality. Her eyes were busy checking out this Amanda’s body. “Howard,” she then said, turning her green self to her husband, “which one is the Cochran kid?”

“He’s over there, why?”

Glancing at Amanda briefly, checking out her face this time, Melissa said, “His father attacked Sam Wyatt’s little girl and Sam knocked his head in. He was drunk out of his mind,” Melissa added loudly.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Goldblum said.

Amanda shot over to Skipper, who had overheard this.

Howard told Melissa to keep her voice down and they started to argue.

“Skipper,” Amanda said, “don’t say anything to Henry about—about what Mrs. Stewart just said. She’s probably exaggerating.”

“It’s true,” Skipper said, shrugging. “Mr. C’s always drunk. It’s no secret.” He turned away to wait on customers.

“Skipper,” Amanda said sharply.

“I won’t,” Skipper said, clearly exasperated.

Henry came back to the cash box for change. He smiled at Melissa the Celery Stalk. Melissa stared at him. “My wife, Melissa Stewart. Melissa, Henry Cochran, the mastermind of this operation.” Henry said hi and got his change. Howard told him that his mother’s and father’s plans had changed and they wanted him to go to Skipper’s tonight.

“Fine,” Henry said.

“And,” Howard added, “I’d like to take you guys out for a bite to eat after we clean up. To thank you for your help.”

“Great,” Henry said, eyes lighting up. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

As Henry was walking away, Melissa said, “I don’t suppose you’re expecting me to attend this little soiree. We’re due at the Griffins’ at eight.”

“Melissa, what do you want me to do? If what you say is true, I—”

“What business is it of yours, Howard?”

Mrs. Goldblum slumped and fell across the table. The crowd gasped;

Skipper managed to grab her arm before she slid off. Howard lunged and caught hold of her under her arms and Amanda ran around the end of the tables, screaming at people to get out of her way. Henry jumped up on the table and, cupping his hands, asked if there was a doctor in the crowd.

“Melissa,” Howard yelled over his shoulder, “go in the lobby and call 911!” Henry leaped off the table and waved Melissa to follow him into the building.

A woman introduced herself as a nurse and Mrs. Goldblum was gently lowered onto a makeshift bed of sweaters and jackets. Amanda accepted another jacket from an onlooker, knelt down beside Mrs. Goldblum, and covered her with it.

Mrs. Goldblum’s eyes fluttered. “I must have fainted,” she said quietly, watching the nurse taking her pulse.

Amanda smiled and signaled her to be quiet.

“I really am quite all right,” Mrs. Goldblum said.

“Shhh,” Amanda said, stroking her forehead, “you just lie there and rest a moment.”

The nurse asked Mrs. Goldblum some questions and came to agree with her that she had just fainted. The ambulance arrived, backing in through the crowd. Mrs. Goldblum valiantly argued that if she were just taken home she’d be fine.

Amanda wouldn’t hear of it. “If it were me,” she said, holding Mrs. Goldblum’s hand between her own, “wouldn’t you want to make sure I was all right?”

Mrs. Goldblum closed her eyes, smiling, and softly sighed. “Yes, dear, I suppose I would.”

The attendants carefully lifted Mrs. Goldblum onto the stretcher and Amanda walked back to the ambulance with them, holding Mrs. Goldblum’s hand. As they hoisted the stretcher into the ambulance, Howard touched Amanda’s arm. “As soon as I find someone to help the boys,” Howard said, “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

“Thank you,” Amanda said, giving his hand a squeeze.

Howard helped her up into the ambulance. “Wait—where am I going? Roosevelt?”

“St. Luke’s,” the attendant said. “Emergency room on 113th and Amsterdam.”

“Right,” Howard said. He looked up at Amanda. “She’ll be fine, you know.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

The doors closed and, lights flashing, the ambulance slowly pulled out onto Riverside Drive.