30

THE UNDOING
OF CASSY COCHRAN

Cassy arrived at WST at five in the morning. On the comer of West 60th Street and West End Avenue, the windows of her office overlooked the old railroad tracks, a battered section of the West Side Highway, abandoned docking facilities and the beautiful waters of the Hudson River. On normal mornings, at eight, she would swing her chair around to face the windows, sip coffee, scan the Times, the Washington Post and the Wall Street Journal, periodically gazing outside to view the progress of the morning sky. But not today.

It was waiting for her with the security guard downstairs. Carrying it up the elevator, she nearly ran to her office. Once there, she threw down her briefcase, ripped open the package and unfolded the copy of Conolly’s.

CASWELL ZANDER, ELECTRONIKA EXECS ARRESTED

Wall Street Reels in Anticipation of
Massive Insider Trading Scandal

by Paul Levitz

“Good, you’re here,” Sid Freeman said, charging into her office. “I’ve got our copy for the six o’clock.” Cassy tucked Conolly’s under her arm to accept the script from Sid.

Cassy was holding out the copy, reading, nodding, making her way over to her desk. “This is great,” she murmured, going on to the next page. She eased herself down into her chair. “Good, good,” she murmured, opening her center drawer, feeling around and extracting her glasses. She put them on and drew the copy closer.

“Chester and Pam are all set downstairs,” Sid reported, fidgeting. “They’ll start the 6 A.M. and run through the day. Bill’s coming in at nine as backup, Lydia at ten.”

“Hmmm.” Next page. “Anything from Washington yet?”

“Not yet. We should hear around noon.”

“How does the tape look?” she asked, still reading.

“Great—I want you to come down now and look at it.”

Cassy looked up, thinking. She smiled then, and took off her glasses. She held the copy out to him. He looked confused. “Take it,” she said.

Sid took the copy from her.

“It’s terrific. Run with it.”

“Cassy, it was your—”

“Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “Go on—go!” she said, shooing him out.

He laughed. “Oh, Cass—” He poked his head back in. “I’m not going to be able to make the Handervilles tonight—could you fill in for me?”

She nodded. “I was going anyway.”

“Great,” he said, slapping the frame of the door.

Sam Wyatt called Cassy from a pay phone at six forty-five.

“We just saw the news,” he said. “Man, it’s just so hard to believe.”

Cassy laughed, turning down her monitor of the broadcast with a remote control, and swung her chair around to look out the window. “Disappointed?”

“Hardly! Ten million dollars of options? It’s unbelievable.”

“The SEC’s frozen trading on Electronika.”

“Fifty-three million dollars those guys would have made?” He coughed slightly. “Well, I’m on my way to the office now. There’s a board meeting at eight.”

“Minus a few, I should think.”

Sam laughed. “Did you see Canley take a swing at your reporter?”

They talked for a while longer; Sam promised to let Cassy know how he made out at the office; Cassy reminded him he could give up phone booths as a hobby.

WST was a madhouse all day. Cassy spent most of it on the phone with the independent stations in Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco and London that WST was beaming their “Caswell Zandergate” coverage to by satellite. As the day progressed, so did the scope of the story. Seven other executives at five other New York-based companies were indicted in connection with other Caswell Zander stock and option transactions of the past. And then, at noon, WST was fed live reports from Washington as two congressmen and one senator were indicted concerning government contracts that had been awarded to another Caswell Zander “client”—Linnolare Motors—whose CEO happened to be Walter Brennan’s brother-in-law.

The networks of course were on the story now, but WST’s head start was serving them well. (That was the thrill; knowing that at CBS, NBC and ABC today they were writing their own bulletins largely from what was being aired on WST.) WST’s lead would not last longer than, perhaps, the evening news, but who cared? For today, the story was theirs alone and it felt marvelous.

Cassy left the office at five, feeling a mixture of elation and longing. Perhaps today, more than any other day, she felt the acute loss of having left the newsroom. It made her feel lonely. Left behind.

When she arrived home and saw herself in the front hall mirror, Cassy decided that she definitely qualified for Rent-A-Wreck. Good Lord, what the lack of sleep did to her now. Funny, how she looked in the mirror and could still be surprised by the face that looked back at her...

Oh, well. She supposed being forty-one was better than forty-two. She poured herself a glass of Perrier and grapefruit juice and carried it back to the bedroom. First, a hot bath, then Operation Face.

Michael.

As soon as she walked in the door, she knew he was there. She smelled him, smelled it, the stench of stale liquor.

He was lying face down across the bed, apparently asleep. Or dead.

No, he was not dead. He was breathing.

Cassy stood there, mind racing. Was he home for good? Was he passed out? Was he here—what was he here for? What should she do? Call Sam? Just talk to him? Pretend everything was all right? Should she go to the dinner? Should she wake him up and ask him if he wanted to go to the dinner?

Oh, Lord, what was she thinking of?

Okay, now, a plan of action. Just go about my business. Do what I would do if he were not here.

So Cassy went into the bathroom and started her bath. She came back out to the bedroom. Michael had not moved. She stripped off her clothes, closed the door to the bathroom and got in the bath. She knew, lying there, feeling the heat of the water, that she should be thinking and yet her mind seemed to have closed down. So she closed her eyes and decided that paralysis of the brain was probably a blessing.

She got out of the bath, flipped the drain, and toweled herself dry. She opened the door, went into the bedroom, and stood there, watching Michael. The drain made a ghastly gurgling sound and Michael stirred, turning over onto his back, arm over his face, coughed once, and then started to snore. His face was awful-looking; it was bloated and shades darker. In fact, all of Michael was bloated. She looked at the fingers of his hand and scarcely recognized them as his. His wedding band was gone too, she noticed.

Suddenly Cassy was terrified he would wake up. Fear shot up the back of her spine, into her neck, and then she was trembling. God, please, God, don’t let him wake up while I’m here.

She crept back to the bathroom and flipped the drain over.

Now what?

She slipped on Michael’s robe, quietly opened the medicine cabinet, and stuffed her makeup, cotton swabs and toothbrush in the pockets. She left the medicine cabinet open. She peered out into the bedroom.

He was still snoring.

Her stomach clenched, her breath short and ragged, she tiptoed out. It took nearly ten minutes of agonizing care to get her underwear and stockings out of the dresser drawers, her dress and shoes out of the closet and then—problem. She was running out of hands and pockets. Back to the bathroom she crept for a towel. Spreading it out on the floor, she put her deodorant, hairpins, hair spray, necklace, brooch, bracelets, earrings, brush, comb and slip on it, bundled it all up, and then sneaked out of the bedroom.

Cassy went to the guest room, the last place Michael would go if he woke up. She hurried to get dressed—but her makeup! The eyeliner nearly made her cry with exasperation; her hands were simply shaking too much, making lines that belonged only on maps. She tried to wipe it off with a cotton swab but she was too shaky to do even that correctly.

Just calm down. In five minutes you will be out of here. Thu will go to dinner. You will come home, prepared to meet him. Just pull yourself together and get out while he’s still asleep.

In five minutes Cassy at least looked as if she had made some attempt at dressing for dinner. But a mere attempt it was. She had no foundation on, nor any eye shadow (she didn’t dare go back for either), and the earrings had been chosen in haste, not taste. Still, she would pass.

She wrapped everything up in the robe and stuffed it under the bed. She took one last look in the mirror and then she heard Michael—coughing. She stood there, straining to hear—would he go back to sleep? Please go back to sleep.

Silence.

She moved toward the door.

“Cassy?”

Cassy’s heart pounded. What to do, what to do? To get out of the apartment, she would have to go past their bedroom. Her only chance would be if Michael went to the bathroom. That, or hide in the closet until he left. Oh, God, what if he finds me hiding back here?

“Cass?” he was calling.

He had been drunk; he was now half drunk.

Cassy heard something. She heard him, she thought, moving around. Toward the bathroom? She longed to move down the hall to hear, but what if he came out? She’d be trapped in the hallway. Please, God, let him go to the bathroom.

He did. She heard the all too familiar sound of the toilet seat being hurled up.

Shoes in hand, Cassy was off—down the hall, into the kitchen—damn, no purse. Don’t be a fool, just take your briefcase. Go! Go! Hurry! Keys—never mind! Go! Hurry!

She slipped out the front door and tried to close it. It was sticking so she left it ajar. She looked at the elevator and in her mind could see Michael coming out of the bathroom, looking for her. Her clothes were only lying out there on the chair...

“Cassy?” she heard.

Quick. She put on her shoes and hurried down the hall to the staircase. Her heels clattered on the stairs—damn—so she gripped the railing and wobbled down to the next floor. And just in time. She heard their door open and a voice bellow, “Caaaaaassy!”

She pressed for the elevator.

There was noise above. Michael was in the hallway. What was he doing?

God, please let the elevator come.

The elevator slowly went up past her floor—and stopped. It’s on our floor, she thought. And then it hit her— the elevator will stop here next. She wheeled around and headed for the stairs and was almost on them when she heard the elevator doors open behind her. She didn’t turn around, she didn’t move. She did not breathe. If he doesn’t hear anything, he’ll go down to the lobby. She heard the elevator doors close and the whine of its descent. Thank you, God.

“Please don’t run away from me,” Michael’s voice said from behind her. Cassy didn’t even look back. She let her shoulders slump, dragged herself over to the stairs, and sat down. And cried.

Michael stood in front of her, watching her, and then sat down next to her on the step, careful not to touch her. His voice was low, gentle. “Why did you run away from me?”

When she opened her eyes, she saw that most of her makeup had made the transition to her hands. “I’m tired of being hurt,” she finally said, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t want to be hurt anymore.”

“Oh, Cass,” Michael sighed. He pulled a tissue out of the side of her briefcase and handed it to her. She used it. In a moment she looked at him; he was studying his hands.

“Do you think I want to hurt you?” he asked, voice barely audible. “Do you think I ever wanted to hurt you?” He swallowed, still staring at his hands. “I’m sick of failing you, Casso. Over and over again. I can’t be what you want me to be. I never could.”

A neighbor came out of an apartment down the hall. Neither Cassy nor Michael looked up to see who it was. They remained silent, eyes to the ground, until they heard whoever it was get on the elevator.

“What do you want?” she asked quietly.

He sighed. “I need some money. It’s the only time I’ll ask.”

“He’ll be back when he needs money,” Sam had warned Cassy. “It’s vital that you don’t give it to him. All it will do is enable him to keep drinking. And you have to warn Henry, too. Because if he can’t get it from you, he’ll use Henry to get it.”

Next time, Cassy thought to herself. I don’t have the energy to fight him now. Michael was being nice now, but what would he be like when he didn’t get what he wanted?

“Change the locks on your doors,” Sam had warned her.

She hadn’t, of course. But tomorrow she would.

Cassy opened her briefcase and rummaged for her checkbook. “How much do you need?”

“Whatever you’ve got on hand.”

She opened the checkbook on her knee and looked at the balance, well aware that he was looking over her shoulder. “I have a little over three thousand in my checking account,” she said. “Is that enough?”

“More than enough. Thank you.”

From the way he said it, Cassy wondered if Michael had expected to get anything from her. She wrote a check for three thousand dollars and handed it to him, still not meeting his eyes. He folded the check carefully and put it in his back pocket. “I’m short on cash—” She looked into the pocket of her checkbook. “I need fifteen for cabs. I have to go to a dinner at the Hilton. Here. Here’s forty.”

He took the money and put that carefully away as well.

“There are two things you must promise me,” she said, putting her checkbook away, “or I’ll stop payment on that check.” Pause. “One, you see a doctor.” She sniffed and glanced over at him. “You look terrible, Michael.”

He shrugged, looking down at his shoes.

“And two,” Cassy said, rising, “that you’re not here when I get back.”

“I won’t be.”

She started down the stairs to the next floor. On the half landing, she looked back up at him through the bars of the banister. “Call me next week. I just can’t deal with this right now.”

“Me neither,” he sighed.

When Cassy arrived at the Hilton, she fled to the ladies’ room off the lobby. The attendant, bless her, was fully equipped to deal with broken down women like herself (this was, after all, New York—where hearts were broken every minute). Cassy had a full selection of repair tools at her disposal, and blush, eye shadow and mascara did much to cover the damage. Only after she was finished did Cassy realize she had no cash to pay the woman, so she wrote her a check for ten dollars—an offering the attendant viewed with a bit of skepticism (this was, after all, New York).

Cassy felt better because she looked better. She felt relieved too, because dealing with Michael had been postponed. Relieved. Good Lord, what sense did that make? Agonizing over him for weeks and then when he shows up.

She tried to shake her thoughts away and concentrate on the dinner. She took the escalator up to the second floor and followed the people into the ballroom. Taking a deep breath, she moved forward into the people, around the tables, greeting and talking briefly with those she knew. She found WST’s table, found her place card, sat down and listened to a young woman from public relations explain that she had heard WST had not won their category.

Cassy ordered a vodka tonic to stop the quaking of her hands. It worked, slowly, and she felt a bit better. She ordered a white wine next. Oh, great, now the other Cochran will get drunk, she thought. They’ll all love that.

Alexandra slid into the empty seat next to Cassy, took one look at her, pressed her hand and asked what had happened. Cassy smiled, weakly, and said, “Michael’s back.”

“At home?”

Cassy said, looking past Alexandra to Barbara Marioni, to whom she waved, “He’s staying elsewhere at the moment.” She looked at Alexandra. “Come on,” she whispered, “let’s forget about him. This is your night. Deal?”

“Deal,” Alexandra said, pulling one of her ratings smiles. Her eyes then skipped away to survey the room. “Everyone’s talking about WST. You could have at least warned me that you were going to blow up Wall Street while I was in Poughkeepsie today.”

Cassy smiled. “It wouldn’t have been a coup then, would it?”

Alexandra turned, speaking through a frozen smile, “What the hell is a ‘put’? I’ll die before I let on I don’t know what anyone’s talking about.”

Cassy patted her hand. “A put, my young colleague, is a bet that a stock will go down a certain amount within a given time. The price of a put, like a call—that’s up—depends on the odds. The puts in question cost next to nothing, since the odds of Electronika’s—”

“Got it,” Alexandra said. “Race track ala Wall Street—they doped the horse and bet he’d lose.”

Peter Cannon, WST’s financial controller, arrived, and Alexandra vacated his chair and returned to WWKK’s table. Dinner was served; Cassy was barely aware of whatever it was she ate (and she did eat—something). Sy Bolin, the producer of the documentary, arrived finally, and Cassy let the PR gal break the news to him that he wouldn’t be winning. Peter Cannon was going on and on about something—at first Cassy thought it was the transmitter, but no, it was about the satellite fees they were spending on the Caswell Zander story.

Cassy laughed to herself, sipping on a new glass of white wine. Caswell Zander? Had that really only been today?

The MC cleared his voice at the podium on the dais and the room grew quiet. Waiters weaved in and out, carrying out the debris of dinner. Cassy drank her wine and pretended to listen to the introductory remarks while, in reality, thinking about divorce, Henry, divorce, suicide, the things stuffed under the bed in the guest room, divorce, Sam, God, and what it would be like to be single.

Old and single.

They proceeded with the awards. There were short, wonderful speeches by veteran broadcast journalists and then short, wonderful speeches by veteran and younger broadcast journalists as they accepted their awards. Major Market, Feature Reporting: WCBS in New York won for a story about welfare hotels; WMAQ in Chicago for a story about a controversial community; WBZ in Boston won for a story about Afghanistan. They went on into independent documentaries and poor Sy was mentioned as a nominee but did not get to go to the podium (he left a few minutes later).

Maxwell Faldigrand was supposed to introduce the Middle Market, Feature Reporting category. Last Cassy heard, Maxwell was reminiscing about his days down South, and then Peter turned to look at Cassy. Then Cassy noticed that a couple of people had turned around to look at her. Trying to wake up from wherever she had been, she heard Maxwell say:

“...and Sid says, ‘You want to know who uncovered the story? I’ll tell you who. Our station manager, Cassy Cochran, that’s who.’ “

Faces swung in her direction.

“I know, I know,” Maxwell was saying at the podium, “next year will be here soon enough, and the good people at WST will be up here receiving their accolades. But I, for one, can’t wait and want to give a round of applause for a job well done. Cassy Cochran, please stand up and take a bow for the WST newsroom.”

The applause started in the front and made its way, in waves, to the back. Peter pushed Cassy up on her feet and she smiled, seeing but not registering, quite safe behind the gray veil that had dropped in front of her eyes. And then she saw Alexandra across the room, clapping over her head, face radiant.

Cassy sat down and Peter patted her on the back while she drained her wineglass.

Michael doesn’t even know about it.

They got on with the awards and in a few minutes Cassy heard, “KSCT News, Kansas City, for ‘Death of an American Farmer.’ To accept the award is reporter Alexandra Waring and KSCT station manager Seth Philby.”

Cassy cheered and her table glared at her. (It is not nice to cheer loudly after one of your own has failed to win.) But Cassy couldn’t have cared less.

Alexandra glided up onto the dais and everyone’s eyes, Cassy noted, were riveted on her. And why not? she thought, eyes returning to Alexandra. With her long, dark dress, a few scattered sequins sparkling under the lights, her hair fanned out in all its glory, and with that face, those eyes...

Peter whispered, “Now why don’t we ever have anyone looking like that working for us?”

Thanks, Cassy thought.

Alexandra’s acceptance speech was quite moving. She talked about the subject of her story—a farmer who had shot himself after losing the farm his family had owned for generations, and the family he left behind. Her message concerned political grandstanding and the economics of greed, neither of which take into consideration the fundamental needs of human beings. And that when you systematically strip an American of everything that he or she holds dear—their home, their livelihood, their self-respect and their dignity—it should come as no surprise that they will no longer wish to live.”

She thanked the individuals who had worked on the story with her, and, on a lighter note, made a special note to thank a Mrs. Kaffundersmelt in Winnopeka for lending Alexandra her fishing waders to go out in the field. People laughed; people loved her.

I love her too, Cassy thought, eyes misting.

And, finally, Alexandra offered heartfelt gratitude to KSCT, the station that had taught her so much. She stepped to the side and Seth Philby ran through his little speech, ending with KSCT being so proud of Alexandra Waring, now of WWKK here in New York.

Alexandra stepped down from the dais, nodding and smiling at the people congratulating her. She said something to a man at the WWKK table and walked on, holding her award, looking directly at Cassy.

Cassy helped herself to a swallow of Peter’s wine and then Alexandra was there, looking down at her. “Come with me for a minute,” Alexandra said, touching her shoulder and walking on.

Cassy smiled at Peter, excused herself, and got up. Uh-oh. A little too much wine—but no, it was going to be okay. Throwing her shoulders back, Cassy walked out to the lobby of the ballroom where Alexandra was waiting. “Congratulations,” Cassy said, reaching to hug her.

And then she burst into tears, right there on Alexandra’s shoulder.

Alexandra stood there, awkwardly trying to hold both Cassy and her award. “Come over here,” she said, gently prying Cassy’s arms loose and taking her hand. She led her to a couch and sat her down.

Peter came out of the ballroom. “Hey,” he said to Cassy, squatting down in front of her. He gave her his handkerchief. “You need some rest, Cassy. You’ve been working too hard.”

Cassy nodded, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking to Alexandra.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alexandra said.

Cassy started to hand Peter the handkerchief back, but he smiled and said, “That’s okay, you might need it. Listen, why don’t I take you home? I was thinking of leaving early anyway.”

“Thanks, Peter,” Cassy began. She hesitated and then turned her eyes to Alexandra.

Alexandra’s eyes darted to the ballroom but then quickly over to Peter. “That’s all right,” she said, offering a quick smile. “I’ll see that she gets home.”

“No,” Cassy said, shaking her head. “You should stay—”

“Peter,” Alexandra said, “I would appreciate it if you could get Cassy’s things and my purse. It’s sitting in my chair at the KK table.” As Peter went off, Alexandra turned back to Cassy. “Don’t say a word,” she warned her. “I’m taking you home and that’s the end of it.”

Cassy wiped her eyes, sighed heavily, and fell back against the couch, murmuring, “I think I really am losing it this time.”

They heard applause in the ballroom.

“Oh, Alexandra,” Cassy said, “tell me it’s not the end.”

Alexandra looked at her. “It is not the end,” she said quietly.

Cassy managed a sad smile, but as she continued to look into Alexandra’s eyes her smile faded. Then she looked away, shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said, voice fading too. “I can’t believe the thoughts that are running through my head.”

Alexandra didn’t say anything.

Peter reappeared, holding Cassy’s briefcase and Alexandra’s purse. They thanked him, Peter told Cassy to take some aspirin before she went to sleep and said good night.

Alexandra steered Cassy to the escalator. Going down, they could see that it was pouring rain outside. “Uh-oh,” Alexandra said, “this could be tricky.” The line for taxis was miles long; Alexandra finally located an errant bellboy who agreed to run down the street to the parking garage to pick up Alexandra’s car.

“KK wouldn’t even spring for a limo for you?”

Alexandra laughed, holding Cassy’s arm. “Since Martha was filling in for me tonight, I decided to stay longer at the seminar. I drove straight here from Vassar.”

They stood outside, under the overhang of the driveway, to wait. It felt good to Cassy; the wind was blowing and the air was damp and the sound of the rain on the Avenue of the Americas was dramatic. In a few minutes they could see the MG slowly maneuvering up to the entrance. They crossed the line of taxis and reached the MG as it pulled in on the other side of the driveway.

The bellboy held the door for Alexandra and a doorman ran across the driveway to usher Cassy in. Alexandra placed her award in Cassy’s lap, helped her with her seat belt, and flicked on the radio. It was an all—news station. Cassy reached for the dial and searched for another station.

They pulled out on Avenue of the Americas and the rain came thundering down on the canvas top.

Cassy flipped the radio to FM, found a classical station, turned it up to hear it over the roar above, and sat back in her seat. The car seemed even smaller than it was. A tiny cavern of fogged windows and flailing wipers.

They stopped at a light at the entrance to Central Park South. “I think I’d like to go to your house,” Cassy said, watching Alexandra’s profile.

Alexandra turned to look at her.

A taxi behind them honked, startling Alexandra, and she put the car into gear. Cassy shifted slightly against the seat belt and continued to watch her.

They drove slowly through the park. There was flooding everywhere. Alexandra periodically glanced over at Cassy, looking vaguely worried. When they reached the East Side exit to Fifth Avenue, they stopped for the light and Alexandra turned to Cassy, hand twisting at the knob of the stick shift. “Are you all right?” she asked—in a way that said she believed Cassy clearly was not.

Cassy nodded.

They drove to Alexandra’s building, Cassy humming to the Prokofiev on the radio, eyes still on Alexandra. At Alexandra’s direction, she pressed the door opener in the glove compartment; the gates of the garage rose and Alexandra drove them in and down the concrete tunnelway. Down in the garage, Alexandra pulled around a pillar to park in her corner space. She revved the motor once and cut off the engine.

They sat there waiting for the Prokofiev piece to end, Alexandra staring straight ahead at the wall, Cassy staring at Alexandra. Cassy undid her seat belt and angled her back against her door. When the music was over, Alexandra reached for the dial. “Okay?” she asked.

Cassy only smiled.

Alexandra turned the radio off. She sat back in her seat, looked straight ahead, and swallowed. Her mouth parted to say something, but she didn’t. And then, quietly, looking down into her lap, she murmured, “I’m not sure what it is you want.”

After a moment Cassy leaned toward her, making the leather of the seat creak. Very slowly, very gently, she placed her hand under Alexandra’s chin and pulled it up toward her. “I need you, Alexandra.”

And then Cassy kissed her.

Alexandra let Cassy pass in front of her into the apartment. Cassy walked over to the wall of pictures and stood there, briefcase in hand. Holding the door open with her foot, Alexandra reached to put her purse and award on the table and then bent down in the doorway for the newspapers. She closed the door with her foot, glanced at Cassy, put the papers down on the table, glanced at Cassy again, and then turned the lock on the door.

Click.

“You can put your briefcase down there, if you’d like.”

Cassy turned away and put it down next to the wall. Straightening up, her back to Alexandra, she looked at the pictures and said, “The biggest night of your life and I made you leave.”

She heard the rustle of Alexandra’s dress as she came to stand behind her. There was a pause and then, softly, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

After a moment Cassy nodded.

“Cassy.” She felt Alexandra’s hand on her arm. “Please, look at me.” She slowly turned around. It was just Alexandra, she told herself. The same eyes, the same hair, only it was not TV. It was the gentle voice from the telephone, back in the wrappings that had unsettled Cassy from the start. Alexandra took her hands. “I don’t want to do anything that you’ll later regret.”

Cassy closed her eyes, shaking her head. “I don’t think you could.” She reopened her eyes. “Could you hold me? Please.”

She could, and Cassy held onto her, smelling a faint scent of perfume through her hair. Alexandra’s hand was moving lightly over her back, up and down, up and down, and Cassy thought, Are those her breasts against mine? They are. She wondered at how strange it was to notice it.

She heard Alexandra sigh, quietly, and then Alexandra released her, bringing her hands up to hold Cassy’s face between them. The light in her eyes was gentle. “Are you sure?” she whispered.

Cassy nodded.

Alexandra’s eyes traveled down to Cassy’s mouth then, and in a moment she brought hers over to meet it. The kiss was carefully dry, but different from the one in the car. This, Cassy felt, was a kiss hinting restraint, edging toward somewhere, turning slightly, quite sure in its intent, but not quite sure of how it was being received.

It was so like Alexandra.

Cassy was falling into it, her mind losing the chant—I am kissing Alexandra. Good Lord, I am kissing Alexandra—and she started to part her mouth, wanting to know more. But Alexandra’s mouth slid away, breezing over the side of her face to her neck, and Cassy found herself being held again, and heard being whispered, just under her ear, “I don’t want us to go too quickly.” There was a long kiss then, right there under her ear, and it registered with Cassy that she liked it.

When Alexandra let go of her, she felt oddly unbalanced. Alexandra seemed to know this, for as she led Cassy away by the hand, she whispered cautions. “There’s a molding here... The counter, on the right... The door...

The bedroom was softly lit by an upward cast of citylight through the windows. Alexandra took Cassy over to one and stood there with her, arm around her waist. Across the East River were the thousands and thousands and thousands of lights that made up the nighttime galaxy of Queens.

They stood there for a long while, until Cassy let her head fall on Alexandra’s shoulder. “I’m not—” she started to say. She hesitated, swallowing. “Alexandra, I’m not very—” She closed her eyes, unable to follow it through. Alexandra turned toward Cassy and slid her other arm around her waist. Cassy opened her eyes and saw that she was waiting for her to finish. “I don’t want to disappoint you,” she said.

“Oh, Cassy,” Alexandra sighed, pulling her close. “Cassy, Cassy—” Cassy felt her hair against her face, and she felt Alexandra pull her close, and then closer still. “No, no,” Alexandra whispered. “You cannot disappoint me. I’m very, very happy. Right now. Just like this.” She pulled back slightly to look at Cassy. She kissed her gently on the cheek and then took her hand. “Come over here,” she said, leading her over to the bed. “Let’s just sit down for a moment. Here.”

Cassy sat down and Alexandra sat down beside her, taking both of her hands into her own. “I want you to listen to me carefully.” She lowered her head slightly. “Cassy?”

Cassy raised her head to meet Alexandra’s eyes.

“I want to make love to you. Very much. But I don’t want to scare you, and I don’t want to do anything that doesn’t feel good to you.” She paused, and then brought one hand up to the side of Cassy’s face. “There’s no agenda here. There’s no performance. I only want you to feel how much I care for you, and how much I want to give you pleasure.”

Cassy nodded, wondering where, exactly, her breath had gone.

Alexandra was touching her hair now. “You don’t have to do anything but trust me.” Her voice, in its whisper, was not quite even. Her hand was on the clip in Cassy’s hair, and her other hand came up to help undo it. “I want you to tell me when you don’t like what I’m doing.” The clip was out and Cassy’s hair fell. Alexandra put the clip down on the bed and then gently ran her hands through Cassy’s hair. “If you can’t say it, just touch my hand and I’ll know.” She let out a quiet sigh, and her hands came down to rest on Cassy’s shoulders. “All right?”

Cassy closed her eyes. “Promise not to laugh?”

A gentle kiss was Alexandra’s response.

“Could I borrow a nightgown?”

“Of course,” Alexandra murmured, kissing her briefly again. She led Cassy over to her dresser, left to turn on the bathroom light and came back. She opened a drawer. “Black, white, blue or gray? Whatever you’d like.”

Cassy touched the silk things she was offering. She looked up. “Whatever you’d like.”

Alexandra smiled, eyes lingering. “Blue,” she finally said, handing it to her and gesturing to the bathroom. As Cassy walked through the doorway, Alexandra said, “Cassy?” She turned. “And what would you like?”

Cassy smiled and felt like crying suddenly. But she didn’t. She just said, “Black, I think,” and closed the door.

Under the glare of the bathroom light, Cassy squinted into the mirror and thought about what Michael used to say in college when the bar was closing and the terrible white lights would come on: “Hey, look, Cass—everybody’s Chinese!”

She almost laughed out loud. This simply couldn’t be real, she thought. None of this. Not her life, not Alexandra, not Michael’s illness

Michael’s illness. As she got out of her dress, she wondered if that was why she was here. Because she knew, finally knew, that her husband—that Michael was lost to her in his illness.

“I felt like every wife and husband in there was talking about Michael,” she had said to Sam after a visit to the group. “It’s the disease,” Sam had said. “The symptoms of the disease are almost always the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Either everyone in the group is married to someone with the same disease, Cassy, or all of their spouses have exactly the same personality. Which do you think it is?”

It was true. Michael’s personality had changed—rather, it had slowly slipped away in recent years. The rages, the insecurities, the craziness—the affairs—she had almost forgotten that he had not always been like this. But then she had not always been like this, either.

Did this count, cheating on him while he was ill? Was she cheating on him? Did a woman count? What would Michael think if he knew?

He would love it, she thought, working to clear the mascara from under her eyes. He had even said in recent years, more than once, that he would like to watch Cassy with a woman. “Damn you, Michael,” she would say, close to tears, throwing herself out of bed.

It was only now, right now, in fact, that it occurred to her that Michael might not have said it to torture her about her increasing sexual problems. Sexual problems. God, could it have been true that their sex life together had once been a given? That desire had run as free and easily between them as the work they had shared?

So just whose fault had his affairs been, anyway? His? Hers? The bottle’s? It was an interesting question.

And now here she was in a strange bathroom, supposedly getting ready to go to bed with a woman.

She sighed, leaning on the sink, looking at herself in the mirror. Forty-one years were looking back at her. Whose line was that? Michael’s? Henry’s? WST’s? And that one? And that one, and that one—

She lowered her head, wondering at how she had supposed she could actually go through with this. It was ridiculous. A twenty-eight-year-old girl from Kansas, sitting out there, waiting for Cassy to come in and make love with her? Cassy, who had felt almost nothing for—good Lord, how long had it been?

Long. It had been a long time.

Well She couldn’t hide in here forever. She looked down at her slip. And then she pulled it over her head. As if on a dare, she stripped down to her naked self and then—then went back to the mirror. Is there anything here anyone could want? she demanded of the mirror. It looked at her face, at her hair, at her shoulders and, finally, at her breasts. And then she stepped back from the sink and looked down at her stomach, at her legs and at her feet. And then she went back to the mirror.

I don’t know.

She looked at her dress, stockings and underwear lying over the lid of the john. This was really rather funny. She really had gone crazy this time. There was a quiet knock. “Would you like a glass of wine or something?” Alexandra asked through the door.

Wine? Cassy clapped a hand over her eyes. Leave it to Alexandra to be out there reading her mind, offering something to get her through this. “No, thank you,” she said. And then, after a moment, “Alexandra?”

“Yes?”

“If I’m not out of here in five minutes, I think you might have to come in and get me.” There was a low rush of laughter. Cassy smiled in recognition. It was Alexandra’s late night telephone laugh. But had it sounded like this before?

She slid the nightgown over her head, loving how it felt against her, and—after seeing what it did for her eyes, for her breasts—she made the declaration that yes, she was completely crazy, and so all of this was perfectly fine because no one could hold her responsible when it was so clear she was so crazy. She reached for the brush on one of the shelves and bent over to brush her hair out. Throwing her head back and looking into the mirror, she thought, yes, there might be something here someone could want.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and to see that Alexandra was not in the bedroom. There was one small candle lit, on the windowsill. The bed was turned down. It was not scary.

“Hi.” Alexandra was in the doorway, holding a glass and a bottle of Perrier.

Cassy felt something stir in her chest. Alexandra looked so innocently, devastatingly lovely. Innocent were her eyes, her gentle smile from across the room, but devastating was the trick of her hair and the body curving under black. Could this be Alexandra as well? Could everything Alexandra had given her these weeks be an extension of this body? There was nothing frightening about this thought. About this woman across the room. She was familiar, very familiar. It was only Alexandra.

“You are so very beautiful,” Alexandra said, putting the things down on the night table.

Cassy lowered her eyes and walked over to the bed. “I wanted—” she started to say, sitting down on the edge. She took a breath and turned to look at Alexandra. “I wanted to say how beautiful you are.”

Alexandra watched her for a moment and then eased down onto the other side of the bed. “It’s going to be all right,” she whispered. Cassy nodded, lowering her head, breath picking up.

“Do you think you can let me hold you?” Alexandra murmured, sliding slowly across the bed. She stopped just next to Cassy, leaning over to look at Cassy’s face. She touched her arm, a light, trailing movement that told Cassy she wanted her to move. “Here,” she whispered, helping to guide Cassy, “just lie back against the pillows.” Cassy did, and Alexandra reached over to pull her legs up as well. “There,” she announced, sitting over her, resting her weight on one arm.

Cassy lay there, waiting for what was next, but also half hoping for the nerve to look at Alexandra’s breasts. She was curious, having them there in the bottom of her vision, and, besides, she thought it might be nice if she didn’t appear to be totally indifferent. But she didn’t get the nerve or the niceness to do so. Alexandra brought her hand up to push Cassy’s hair away from her face and then gently stroked her cheek. It was sweet and Cassy smiled slightly and turned her head to kiss Alexandra’s hand.

She was down next to Cassy in a moment, easing Cassy onto her side and sliding an arm underneath her. Then Alexandra lay on her back, pulled Cassy over snugly against her, and with her free hand brought Cassy’s head down between her shoulder and neck and held it there. “Let’s just lie here for a while,” she murmured.

All Cassy could see was Alexandra’s arm. She hesitated, but then reached up to the arm and followed it back to the hand that was in her hair. The hand took Cassy’s, and Cassy brought them both down to rest on Alexandra’s stomach.

There. Now she could see. The smooth skin of Alexandra’s neck and chest—was that a freckle? Perhaps. And then, lower, under the black silk, were her breasts, easing slightly to either side. And there, in the slight shallow of her stomach, were their hands. One young, one not so young. Her eyes moved back up to her chest and Cassy squinted slightly, timing the rhythm of Alexandra’s breath against her own. She blinked. She blinked again. And then, timid but determined, Cassy slid the side of her face down. To listen.

Alexandra’s heart was pounding.

Cassy’s mouth parted and she raised herself up on her elbow to look at her. Alexandra was looking vaguely frightened—or something—and Cassy smiled, touching her cheek. Alexandra took her hand and pressed it against her mouth. And then she pushed Cassy’s hand away, reached for the back of her neck, and pulled her down.

Alexandra wanted her. Cassy had no doubts about that now. Alexandra’s mouth was searching hers, maneuvering for the best way, careful not to hurry, but careful not to let her go. And then Alexandra had her on her back and was touching the side of her neck, the kiss going on and on, and then Alexandra’s mouth hesitated, and Cassy opened her own slightly, wondering if maybe now—

Yes. She felt Alexandra’s cautious descent into her mouth. It was Alexandra, yes, and Cassy welcomed her, wondering at her, at them, at what was happening in this marvelously slow experiment. And then Alexandra began easing back, and then her mouth was gone, and Cassy felt it just under her ear, working gently, slowly, down her neck. It felt wonderful and she made a sound to let her know it. It went on for quite some time, with Alexandra’s mouth becoming more adventurous, and then the same slow assault that had been made on Cassy’s mouth was being made just under her ear, and Cassy could feel the effects starting to travel.

“You are glorious,” Alexandra whispered, working slowly down Cassy’s neck, and then over, turning Cassy’s head slightly to start up the other side. Alexandra’s mouth, on this side, was still quiet, but quite there, growing more insistent. And then there was a low roar in Cassy’s ear, and there was damp warmth spreading rapidly through it, in it, over it and Cassy’s body started to tense and Alexandra’s hand was down there, doing something with her nightgown. Drawing it up, yes, that was it, and then she felt Alexandra’s knee suggesting something and Cassy sighed, thinking, Marvelous idea, and she turned slightly, parting her legs, and she felt Alexandra’s leg slide smoothly in to its thigh.

Yes, Cassy thought, bearing down slightly, marvelous idea.

Alexandra came sweeping back across her face. There was no hesitation from her mouth now. She was after her—Cassy could feel it—and the deeper she went into Cassy’s mouth, the harder Cassy bore down on her thigh. And then there was a sound inside of Cassy’s mouth—but it was not hers—and she felt Alexandra lurch slightly against her, down below, and Cassy’s mind started to get lost, running from her mouth to down there to Alexandra to

Alexandra’s hand brushed over her breast twice and then lightly settled there, pausing, as she retreated from Cassy’s mouth and slid down into her neck again. Cassy felt her hand starting to move, slowly, over and over and around her breast and then, casually, it seemed, slipping under the silk to cover it. Cassy was hanging onto her now, feeling the hand growing stronger on her breast, feeling herself being pulled apart inside, and then suddenly Alexandra’s hand was gone—but she was only taking down the straps of the nightgown—but Cassy wished like hell she would hurry it up and she heard herself whispering, “Please, I want you at my breasts.”

Alexandra was not getting there fast enough and Cassy thought of simply yanking her head—so slow was that marvelous mouth in making the descent—but then, finally, Alexandra was there, and all was forgiven—quite so, yes, very, very forgiven—as Alexandra started moving tides of gratification through her, pulling the nightgown down farther and farther in the effort to do so, and Cassy said something—anything, God, who knew—and she felt another surge from Alexandra’s lower body and Cassy’s urgency swung in direction and went plunging. Straight down. God. To there. She fumbled for Alexandra’s hand and pushed it down, pushed it over her stomach, pushed it over her hip—come on, Alexandra, this is no time to dawdle, God, no.

Alexandra’s leg slid away and Cassy shifted back, settled back, wondering whether—

The first touch cut her breath right out of the air.

But then, in a moment, it came back. Through her teeth. And then it caught again, struggled, and Cassy thought, This is impossible, this cannot be happening. Alexandra was exploring—no—playing with her, doing what to her oh who the hell cared what it was she was doing as long as she kept doing it—but no, yes, Alexandra was exploring, examining her, seeing which movement evoked a sound from her, and they all were damn it just listen to me can this be me? Alexandra’s hand was lingering now, right there, cautious, and then Cassy recognized the same slow style of—slowly, yes—God—Alexandra—was Alexandra really doing this? Was this Alexandra inside of her? Was this—

Everything stopped. “This is wonderful,” Alexandra sighed. And then everything gently resumed. In a few moments she could feel Alexandra sliding out, and then her fingers pulling up slowly, making a wide track as they went. And then the fingers slid down, proving just how easy this track was going to be, and then they pulled back up, and Cassy thought, No, I cannot be feeling this, and they moved back down, sliding to there, and they pulled back up, and Cassy said, “Yes, like that,” and immediately she thought, Please don’t let me think—please—please—I’ll start thinking I’m going to start thinking—damn it—no— I’m starting to lose it—damn it, I’m losing it—oh, please don’t let me lose it, Alexandra—stay with me, please, just stay with me—Alexandra, this is Alexandra, this is Alexandra doing this to me—God, is it really Alexandra doing this to me?

And she threw an arm around the back of Alexandra’s neck and pulled down on it, deciding she didn’t care whether Alexandra could breathe or not because Alexandra knew exactly what she was doing because Alexandra always knew what she was doing and she was doing it to her now and God how Alexandra knew—she knew—oh yes how she knew—God—how could she know so much? Oh God, Alexandra, are you ever right on it, are you ever on it—

Cassy couldn’t do anything but try and hold herself down when what she wanted to do was what she didn’t know what she wanted to do and—my God, it’s coming, oh, my God, it’s really going to happen—God, she could feel it and Alexandra was right with it—don’t stop, Alexandra, just don’t stop but of course you won’t because you know exactly what’s happening to me and you want this too, don’t you, and oh, my God, my God—and then everything was moving and it was pulling, pulling Cassy down and—oh, God—pushing her now, pushing her up, up—Up—Is it—Is it—Can I

Oh, my God, this is it, she thought, this is it, I’m having an orgasm with Alexandra—God, is this happening? Oh—Oh—Oh—GOD. GOD. GOD. But God is this good. God is this good. God is this good. God is it ever.

God this is unreal.

Oh, yes, yes.

Surely—no wait—

Oh, yes, yes. There. Oh, wait—

Oh, yes, yes.

There. Yes, that was the last.

Yes. For sure.

For sure.

Yes.

Good Lord, I should think so.

She felt a gentle kiss on her chest. Cassy let her arm fall away from around Alexandra’s neck, and Alexandra came up to see her.

Look at this wonderful girl.

She slipped a piece of hair from out of the comer of Alexandra’s mouth and then used both hands to sweep her hair back off her face—and held it there.

Alexandra was about to cry. No, wait.

And then Cassy smiled, thinking perhaps Alexandra’s expression did not indicate this at all—not the anguish in her eyes, not the tension at her mouth. It could be, she thought, it damn well could be that this was the expression of a young woman quite beside herself with desire.

Well, Cassy thought, pushing Alexandra onto her back, she could at least find out if she was right.

She was.