Riverside Park (16 page)

“Who is what?” she called.

“Who it is that's puttin' that smile on your face.”

Cassy's blood ran cold. “What are you talking about?” she said, slipping out of her dress and heading to the bathroom.

“I gotta report here in my hand that is gonna tell me what my wife's been up to.”

Cassy tried to mask her fear by taking the offensive. “Now why would you do something like that, Jack?” she said, putting on her robe and sticking her head out the door to look at him. “It's not fair. There aren't enough private investigators in all of the United States to keep track of you.”

“I'm going to open it.”

“Fine,” she said, closing the bathroom door. She had used the john, washed her hands and face and brushed her teeth. Then she flossed, hands on the verge of a tremor.

“What is this, a joke?” He pounded on the door.

“It's not locked,” she called.

The door flew open behind her. “This clown says you're meeting Alexandra at an apartment on East End Avenue.”

She was. Alexandra had turned out the tenant in her old co-op to give them somewhere to meet. “I meet Alexandra all the time in all kinds of places,” Cassy said, checking the skin around her eyes in the mirror.

“But she lives on Central Park West.” He was looking through the sheets of paper, trying to figure it out.

“Excuse me,” she said, sliding past him. She went into the bedroom and turned down the bed.

“Cassy!” he yelled, stomping in a moment later. “Is
Alexandra
fucking you?”

“You do have a way with words,” she said, taking her robe off and getting into bed.

Then he read something else that made him drop the papers to his side and stare at her. “Alexandra went from Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres to
you?
I don't believe it.”

She looked at him. “Thanks, Jack.”

“I don't believe it,” he said, dropping down on the edge of the bed. “I just don't fuckin' believe it. I build her a whole goddam news network and she fucks my wife.”

Cassy propped herself up on her elbows. “I do have some say in it, you know.”

“Why she would do this to me, I do not understand.”

“How
dare
you,” Cassy said, sitting up.

“What?” he said, turning. “What did I say?”

 

“Is that snow?” Emma Goldblum asked with a note of concern in her voice.

“No, I don't think so,” Cassy said, leaning closer to the window. “I think that's soot from somebody's furnace.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Goldblum said. “I'm afraid my eyes are not what they once were.”

“I know how you feel,” she said. “Mine aren't, either.”

Mrs. Goldblum put a hand on her arm. “You won't mention our little jaunt to Rosanne just yet, will you?”

“Emma,” Cassy said, “I don't even know what this little jaunt was about. But if Rosanne asks me where we went, what do you want me to say?”

“That it is a surprise,” she said. She patted Cassy's arm. “I am very grateful to you, Cassy dear. You've always been so lovely.”

“You're very welcome.”

“You must promise me you'll continue to watch over Rosanne. She respects you so.”

Cassy frowned slightly. “Emma, you really should tell me if there is something going on.”

Emma thumped her stick on the floor. “Samantha Wyatt is expecting a child in the beginning of February—”

“What?”

Emma took a little intake of breath as she nodded, saying, “Yes. It's no longer a secret. She intends to give the baby up for adoption and return to school. Needless to say, her parents are beside themselves and Rosanne has been trying to help.”

Cassy's mind was reeling. With Harriet's views on birth control, how did this happen? Harriet had to be devastated she wanted to give up the baby. And Sam.

“So my timing is not the best, I find,” Emma said. “Everyone has enough on their plate without having to deal with me.”

“I was just pleased I could take you,” Cassy told her.

“Yes, and so was I, but what I mean, dear, is that I'm dying, and I'm afraid it might be sooner rather than later.”

“
DIS COFFEE TASTES
like piss!” the loudmouth said, following with a string of expletives that made the newcomer to AA cringe.

Some are more sober than others
, Sam tried to remind himself before he lost his temper and dumped this nasty piece of work headfirst into the garbage. “If you don't like it,” he said, putting a reassuring hand on the shoulder of the newcomer, “then
you
come early and make it.” He steered the newcomer back into the safety of the church basement kitchen.

“It tastes like piss, I tell you!” the loudmouth yelled through the serving window.

“I'm sure you would know,” Sam mumbled under his breath and he was pleased to see the newcomer crack a smile. He was all of sixteen days sober and terrified.

The loudmouth started coughing then, that horrible early emphysema sound Sam had heard so many times in so many people who had passed through this particular meeting over
the years. The Upper West Side may have given way to big money—almost all the old single-room-occupancy hotels were gone now—but there was still an underside to Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue this meeting catered to. The meeting was considered hard-core, where wet-brains and advanced illness were not uncommon. Harriet had given up trying to convince Sam to drop this meeting (she worried he might catch tuberculosis); Sam had found it an excellent contrast to his Friday midtown luncheon meeting that looked like a roll call for the Fortune 500. The only concession he made was to take greater care to make sure he washed his hands at this meeting.

“I'm still having trouble reading,” the newcomer told Sam. “I couldn't really see the directions on the coffee can. I hope I don't have cancer or something.”

“We'll try getting you some glasses,” Sam said, reaching for a jar of instant coffee. “When was the last time you had your eyes checked?” When the newcomer didn't answer, but only jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Sam knew it was probably never. He noticed the newcomer was wearing the same pair of blue jeans and green shirt again, but they were clean and his hair was still wet from a shower. He had come a long way since Sam picked him up from the drunk tank thirteen days ago.

“We'll get you some cheaters at the drugstore after the meeting,” Sam said. “Reading glasses, magnifiers,” he added when he saw the newcomer's puzzlement. “So listen, here's a trick about the coffee.” He held out the jar of instant coffee and poured some into a foam cup. “Now,” he prompted, leading him back out into the meeting room. He took the lid off the massive coffeemaker, grabbed a bunch of paper napkins to lift the steaming basket out, took a furtive look over his shoulder and dumped the instant coffee in. Then he used the
basket stem as a stirrer, replaced the coffeemaker lid and, holding more napkins under the basket and stem, winked at the newcomer and carried them back into the kitchen.

“Would you be my sponsor?” the newcomer stammered while watching Sam dump the grinds in the garbage.

“I already am,” Sam said with a grin. “But it's always nice to be asked.”

Even after all this time an AA meeting still put Sam on an even keel. If he was very happy a meeting brought him down a notch, reminding him of his precarious vertical position when he had first arrived in AA, and if he was very down, as he had been since Samantha had come home, watching the initial despair of newcomers slowly turn to wonderment always brought him up a notch.

 

“Hey, babe,” he called when he arrived home.

“In the kitchen, honey.”

“Hi, Dad,” Althea greeted him. She was sitting on the other side of the table from Harriet. Mother and daughter were evidently having a chat while they were eating what Sam hoped was a Cobb salad. (At least there would be some meat in it.)

“There's a salad for you in the fridge,” Harriet reported.

“Great, thanks.” He was already there and was surprised to see quite a lot of bacon in it, which meant Althea must have made it. “I thought you were in Budapest, kiddo.”

“I was. I got home this afternoon. Thought I'd come over.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Where's Samantha?”

“She went to the movies with Rosanne.”

“How do you suppose she thinks we're going to explain the situation to people?” he asked himself. “They see Samantha all
over town, pregnant out to here, and then later when they ask how the baby is, we're supposed to say, ‘Oh, we all gave it up for adoption because Samantha said she would never come home again if we didn't'?”

When Sam and Harriet had broached Samantha with the idea of raising the child themselves, they were stunned and then heartsick over Samantha's rage. She'd screamed at them that everything was arranged, to just leave her alone, “Or I swear to God I will never come near you again!” Then she'd made some crack about old people and wheelchair races and locked herself in her room.

It wasn't as if Sam and Harriet were thrilled with the prospect of parenting all over again. If they did raise the child it would mean selling their place down south, because no one under fifty-five could live in that community full-time. Even as they had discussed it Sam swore he could feel his arthritis getting worse by the second. Committing every day of their lives for the next eighteen years? Yeah, high school graduation at eighty-two and eighty years old, that would be interesting.

He'd have to hire somebody to teach the kid how to throw a ball.

“Daddy,” Althea said, Sam noticing at once she had addressed him in a way she had not for decades. “I want to adopt Sammy's baby.”

Sam lowered the salad dressing cruet to the counter and looked straight ahead, examining the grain in the cabinet. Then he picked up the cruet again and poured dressing over his salad. “Are you proposing the child should bring itself up while you're traveling around the world?”

“I'll hire a live-in nanny,” Althea said. “And I can alter my schedule, group my meetings together. Like other mothers do.”

Like other mothers do.
Althea was about as much like other mothers as gales at sea were like windy days at a swimming pool.

He knew she meant well. Althea couldn't stand the idea of letting the child go, either. “It would be a huge commitment,” he said, joining them at the table. He pretended not to see Althea exchanging looks with her mother. “It would mean a life of self-sacrifice on behalf of an innocent being, whose fault none of this is.”

“Yes, I know.”

Sam imagined this was the same tone of voice Althea must use in business meetings, when people trusted what she had to say. He wished he had not brought up Althea so he could trust everything she said, too. Althea had been running so hard and so fast for so long she scarcely knew who or what she was anymore—so how could he trust what she said were her true feelings?

“If you did this,” he said, “interfered with Samantha's plans, you realize your sister might never speak to you again.”

“Oh, I think she'd come around—if she knew the child thought she was his aunt.”

Now there was a healthy start, Sam thought, let's just lie to the baby right from the beginning.
Here's your aunt Samantha. Oh, don't mind her, she's just moody.

“And with Samantha parading around the neighborhood in her condition how are we to keep the secret that she is more than the child's aunt?” He speared some salad but then had to put his fork down. He couldn't eat when his stomach was tied up in knots like this.

“We'll figure it out, Dad,” Althea said. “We'll take it as it comes.”

We'll,
she said. Althea was counting on their support. Well, she should. The child would need grandparents, a father figure.

He tried to quell the sudden streak of joy he felt in his heart—a father figure!
But it's not about what we want,
he reminded himself,
it's about what is best for the baby.

“What's important,” Althea continued, “is that the baby would have a loving parent and loving grandparents and would always know he or she was loved and wanted.”

“And the baby could also have a loving mother
and
a father and
two
sets of grandparents if it were adopted,” Sam said.

Althea cocked her head to the side. “You gotta problem with a single mother?”

“I don't have a problem with one, I just wouldn't choose that situation for a child.”

“Where the hell do you think I would be if I
hadn't
had a single mother, Dad? A single working mother? While you were out doing whatever it was you were doing?”

Althea was referring to those years Harriet raised her by herself, before Sam got sober.

He pushed back from the table slightly, running his hands on the edge of it, trying to control his temper. “I know your heart's in the right place, Althea.”

“I want the baby, Dad. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything.”

“A child is not a pet,” he said, looking up. “And you've wanted a pet for years and you still don't have one, do you? Why? Because you've always said with the kind of life you lead it wouldn't be fair to the animal. So why do you think it would be fair to a child?”

“Because I will make changes in my life to make it fair,” she argued. “I would be the child's
mother
—”

She stopped speaking when they heard the front door of the apartment slam.

Slammy Sammy
they had called her when she was little.

“Hi,” Samantha said, coming into the kitchen and dropping her keys in the bowl. She disappeared down the hall.

“Hi,” Rosanne said, her jacket still buttoned and her hands in her pockets, trying to sound cheerful but not quite succeeding.

“Can I get you something?” Harriet asked her. “Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

“Dad's salad?” Althea added, pushing his plate over an inch.

“No, thanks, I can't stay.” She rested her back against the counter, looking first at Sam and then back to Althea. “I guess I'm interrupting something.”

“No, no,” Sam said.

Althea frowned, looking at him.

“We were talking about the future,” Harriet said quietly, staring down into her mug. Then she looked up, lowering her voice. “How did you find her?”

Rosanne glanced at the doorway before answering. “She's pretty much the same. Angry, angry,
angry
and I dunno who at.”

“Maybe us for so badly mistreating her,” Sam said sarcastically. He looked at Harriet. “We should have doubled her allowance, bought her the car she wanted, given her a mink coat. We should have catered to her every whim day
and
night and then everything would be okay.”

“We know, Dad,” Althea sighed. “None of us knows what's going on with her. Not even me.”

“What about the father?” Sam said. “Rosanne, what do you know about him?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Like does he
know
he's going to be a father and the baby's going to be sent down the river?” Sam continued. “And is he white, is he black, is he purple, does anyone know?”

“Shh,” Harriet said. “She's coming.”

Samantha walked in and went straight to the refrigerator. She stood there, unconsciously using her hands to help shift her bulk as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Don't we have anything to eat?” she complained. “There's no cookie dough.”

“In a month you can eat all the junk food you want,” Rosanne said, saving Harriet the trouble.

Harriet pushed her chair back and carried her dishes to the sink. “I'll make you some toast with peanut butter and banana.”

“Yeah, all right, thanks,” Samantha said. “What?” she said to her father. “What are you looking at?” Frowning, she shuffled over to the table and sat down in her mother's chair, a hand over the baby.

“I just wondered if you wanted my salad,” he lied. He was thinking how huge she was and wondered if she might not be a little further along than she'd said.

“Salad, yuck,” she said. “It'll make me barf again.”

Sam stood up and took his salad over to the counter.

“So I gotta get going,” Rosanne said. When no one said anything, she added, “Yeah, okay, don't everybody fight to see me to the door.”

“Bye, Rosanne,” Samantha said. “Thanks for going to the movies even though it sucked.”

Sam walked Rosanne to the front door. “The atmosphere is so pleasant here,” he whispered, “I can't understand why you don't want to stay and enjoy the festivities.”

“Just hang in there, Mr. W,” she said, patting his arm. “I gotta get home and check on Mrs. G. She's not so hot these days.”