Mourning Becomes Cassandra (41 page)

The straight answer was that, after my misadventure with Clive at Oxford, I no longer had interest in being with someone who didn’t share any of my foundational beliefs. When a believer and a non-believer got together, it was always the believer who gave ground. Added to his atheism, Daniel really left Clive in the dust when it came to being out of the question. All the women he slept with! My high school health teacher once said that, when you slept with someone, you effectively slept with everyone that person had ever slept with. Meaning, everyone who slept with Daniel was hooking up with most of North America. Ick.

Of course, none of this could be said to Daniel. I tried to give it a positive spin, as if his ego ever needed bolstering: “You’re just way too handsome for me. You’re out of my league.” No need to go into Troy’s theory of the Tiers.

“And that’s all?” He brushed some lint off his pants. “Just my looks. If I were stricken with smallpox and disfigured, you’d be all over me?” Obviously he wasn’t buying it.

“That’s not how it works, Daniel,” I objected. “You are who you are because you have been beautiful all your life. People have treated you differently your whole life long because of how you look. Getting smallpox at this late date would be a rude shock for you—you might have some trouble getting dates—but you’ve already become who you are.” Hmm…not so good. I seemed to be implying that his character was the obstacle, and that it was beyond redemption. I resorted to whining. “Why are you doing this to me? I already apologized for calling you my landlord. Who cares what kind of guys girls like me date? You just stick to your kind—”

“My kind being…” he interrupted swiftly.

I exhaled sharply in aggravation. “Your kind being…beautiful and—and easygoing. Are you going to take me home or not?”

Without another word, he started the engine and backed out. It was a silent drive home, with both of us irritated with the other, though it seemed to me I had cause to be upset and he was just being ornery. When he pulled up at the Palace, I was already opening the door to get away, but no sooner was I out of the car than I turned and leaned in to look at him. “Daniel—thank you for lunch anyhow. And thank you so, so much for introducing me to Ray and making this opportunity for Mike. I am grateful, despite calling you my landlord and getting in another argument with you. You’re a good guy—I’m glad I know you, George Bailey. Okay?”

His expression softened, even in profile. “‘How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.’” If he was quoting Shakespeare, he couldn’t be too upset. Sure enough, throwing a wave at me, he half-smiled and called as he pulled away, “Have a good time telling Nadina.”

“What would you say to a little road trip?”

I had dropped in at Free Universe to get Riley’s comments and suggestions—the truffle-hunting pigs material was finally going in a direction he liked—and to record a few enthusiastic “Oinkrekas!” for Murray to play with. When I emerged from Lockdown, James came skidding into the hallway on his Aeron chair and beckoned. Although he didn’t mix business with pleasure, most of the office was on to us by now. Nadina wasn’t the only one to notice us looking at each other a certain way.

“Road trip where?” I asked, squishing into his cube. Like Riley’s, James’ cube was wall-to-wall paraphernalia, but unlike Riley’s, James’ tended more toward freebies accumulated from several years’ worth of game expos: mousepads, laser pointers, flash drives in a rainbow of colors, game controllers, posters, mugs, even a plastic Viking helmet and
Lord of the Rings
knockoff sword. Sweeping game-packaging mock-ups off the work surface to clear me a seat, James beamed at me.

“Richland. It’s my grandparents’ 50
^th
anniversary Presidents’ Day Weekend, and I thought we could make a Valentine’s getaway of it. You get to meet the whole family; they get to meet you. We could do a little wine-tasting to unwind afterward.”

Wine-tasting indeed. I might need to suck it directly out of the barrel at that point. Choosing my words carefully, I said, “Do you think it’s really appropriate for me to meet your family already?” Or ever?

James looked at me measuringly. “Well, we’ve been going out almost three months and known each other over five. Why not?”

“Well, why?” I countered. “Why don’t you just go? I don’t think you ought to subject girlfriends to family gatherings unless you’ve been going out at least six months.”

James shot a quick glance out of his cube in both directions to see if the coast was clear before he stood up and pulled me to him. “I can see you’re going to be difficult about this,” he murmured. “I have no idea what your problem is. Trying to plan a romantic weekend here—”

“Ha!” I scoffed in an undertone. “It’s not the least bit romantic to be trotted out for all the relatives, especially when I know all the relatives want you to be with cutesy Jen. No way. Go wine-taste by yourself. I’m fine with a card for Valentine’s Day.”

“Come on, Cass,” he coaxed, dropping little kisses along my jaw up to my ear.

I could feel my resistance wavering, but I protested feebly, “Not only do I think it’s inappropriate, but I’ll be out of town the weekend after to go see Perry’s musical.”

“Then you really have to because it’s too much time apart,” he said softly, pressing his mouth to mine.

“Oinkreka! Yuck! So unprofessional!” came Riley’s voice, followed by a wad of paper bouncing off James’ head. We looked up to see Riley’s own pony-tailed head and t-shirted torso over the cube walls, his hands planted squarely on his plump hips and an expression of fascinated distaste on his face.

“What the hell are you standing on, Riley?” James demanded, annoyed. “If you’re on your flipping work surface, you’re going to bust it off, and we’re not paying for another one.” On cue, we heard an ominous cracking sound, and Riley abruptly disappeared, to reappear seconds later standing outside James’ cube.

“Just how am I supposed to get anything done, when I have to listen to you two lovebirds cooing at each other?” Riley complained. “I’m telling you, Kittredge, the working conditions are really slipping here. I knew we shouldn’t hire any women. I let you get away with Jeri because she’s on the fence, gender-wise, but—”

To cut off James’ irked retort, I said, “You’re right, Riley. I don’t blame you. James and I can continue this conversation later and somewhere else.”

“Like the Motel 6,” said Riley, looking satisfied and ambling away.

Two weeks later, James and I were on the road, headed for the Tri-Cities.

Joanie and Phyl, the only two I told about it, had their concerns. “Cass, he has got to be thinking marriage,” said Joanie. “What’s your plan?”

“I don’t know if he thinks that way,” I objected. “He’s only 27, after all.”

“Are you kidding me?” she fired back. “He’s 27, and he’s not getting any sex till he gets married, so I’m thinking he’s thinking marriage.”

“I’m with Joanie,” said Phyl.

Having expected Phyl to be more low-key, I went on the offensive. “What about Wayne, then, Phyl? He’s pushing 30 and not getting any sex.”

“That’s why he asks me to marry him every couple weeks,” she replied imperturbably. “Don’t freak out, Cass. We just think you may want to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what? You don’t think he’s going to propose this weekend, do you?” They exchanged glances which answered my question. Sitting down on the couch with a thump, I thought aloud. “We’ve only known each other a few months and we’ve been dating less than that, and Troy’s only been dead for twenty months—he can’t possibly ask me. He knows I’d say no.”

“You’re quiet,” said James, taking my hand. We’d made it over the Pass easily and were already past Vantage, following the Columbia River through Mattawa and Desert Aire. The landscape was gray-brown in winter and the sky so wide on this side of the mountains—no hills and evergreens boxing you in, just the bluffs and the flat, high desert stretching away.

“We’re getting there awfully fast,” I answered. “You’re sure this is okay with your parents?”

He looked amused and gave my hand a squeeze but didn’t answer. No need. We’d already talked it to death in the last few weeks. Instead he changed the subject. “What’s the latest with Mike? Has he been showing up for work?”

A good topic, and I felt myself untense. “Yes! Nadina says he can’t stop talking about it. She claims he goes early, even, and hasn’t complained once about bathroom duty or taking people’s coffee and sandwich orders. And it’s kind of like Cinderella—if Mike gets done with whatever chores they’ve come up with, they let him sit in the booth with them and watch them work. I’m so thrilled, James. So thrilled he hasn’t shown up stoned or broken anything or stolen from the petty cash. And Nadina said Mike already knew some of the bands coming in. I don’t know if that was a good thing or not, since the last time they saw Mike he was probably a mess.”

“Maybe they don’t recognize him all straightened up, then,” James suggested reassuringly.

I gave him a skeptical look. “Little, pale, white-haired Mike? I guess if they were stoned too, then maybe not. Anyhow, so far so good. I’m so grateful to Daniel and Ray for giving him this chance. Nadina says they’re going to pay Mike’s dad some rent for the first time next month—a piddly amount but symbolic—and they’re going to split it!”

“That’s great, Cass. And how’s our girl Nadina lately? Did you get her to agree to go to the doctor?”

My shoulders slumped. “Not yet. I’m working on it. She’s still tired all the time and has lost a lot of weight because she thinks things smell bad. I’m worried she has something hideous like Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or Lyme disease or lupus or something. It’s been over a month now. I may just have to kidnap her and take her to a clinic, so she can stick out her tongue and let the doctor have a look.”

“I could ask Melissa’s husband Pete this weekend,” James pointed out. “He’s doing his residency, and he might recognize general symptoms.”

This reminded me of the unpleasantness ahead, and I sank back, silent, for the rest of the drive.

The sun set as we passed the turnoff for Prosser, and it was dark as we entered Richland. Too soon we were crossing George Washington Way and pulling up in front of his parents’ late ‘60s split-level. The curtains twitched as James turned off the engine, and I wrapped my arms around myself as we darted through the chilly air to go inside.

Although the living room was crowded with people, as soon as our heads appeared at the top of the stairs, silence fell. Tableau of a lesser-known work: the Prodigal Son returns, bringing in tow his favorite prostitute. Then, “James!” shouted several female voices at once, and he was surrounded on all sides to be hugged, including by a couple little girls I took to be his nieces.

When he broke free, laughing, he pulled me up the last step, saying, “Everyone, this is Cass. Cass, this is my mother Peggy, my sister Melissa, my sister Amy, my best nieces Katie and Maddie—” they bounced in delight, staring at me with shy curiosity. The men were also there: James’ father Hugh, his brothers-in-law Pete and Cody, his little nephew Buck. Buck was little sister Amy’s first child, a boy almost exactly Min’s age when she died. James greeted him by tossing him in the air, causing him to squeal with glee.

Dinner was laid out buffet-style in the kitchen for everyone to graze on, and I timidly presented Peggy with the box of Boehm’s Chocolates I’d brought. She was a short, sturdy woman in her early 50s with curling, cropped brown hair and plenty of jewelry on. Peggy eyed the box. “Ah, Boehm’s. Yeah, we can get them out at the Center,” but she took the lid off and found space for it on the counter. “James tells me he met you through that kid he’s helping.”

I gave her the two-minute version, which she seemed to have heard before, and then she said, “So you’re a widow?” There followed the two-minute version of that story. I had to walk a fine line between properly-bereaved and putting-it-all-behind-me, but Peggy didn’t seem satisfied. “Not even two years, and you’re already dating, huh?” Sigh.

After a moment, she shrugged. “James has always had a way with the girls,” she said, shaking her head in a you-just-can’t-help-it manner. This didn’t exactly tally with what James himself had said about his high school years, but I suppose I had to make allowances for a mother’s fondness.

And a sister’s. When I made some overtures of friendship to little Buck, I found Amy watching. She looked the most like James, more than the taller and blonde Melissa, but Amy’s gray eyes were narrower than her brother’s and lacked his humor. “I had a little girl who was Buck’s age,” I said by way of explanation.

She nodded. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry about that. I can’t imagine what I’d do if that happened to me. Probably kill myself.” Amy had a loud, flat way of speaking. An awkward silence followed this, and I wondered if my failure to slit my wrists was a strike against me. This was going to be a long weekend. “You’re probably anxious to get married again and have more babies,” Amy added, louder than before.

Blushing, I shook my head. “Oh, no. I’m not in a hurry to do either.”

“No more babies!” echoed Amy. “If I were you, I would want to have more babies as fast as I could to help me get over it.” Would that be before or after she caved to suicidal despair? Apparently she’d forgotten her dramatic declaration of a minute ago, and I certainly wasn’t going to remind her of it. Amy shook her head resignedly in a fair imitation of her mother Peggy. “‘No more babies!’ You better let James know about that because he’s always wanted lots of kids.”

James either heard his name or caught the fleeting expression on my face because he broke off his conversation with Cody and came to put an arm around me. “Hungry? Let’s get some food.”