Riverside Drive. Laura Wormer Van
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course not. I can handle him—it—that,” Alexandra said. “What’s difficult is just what you said—about being accused of sleeping…” She sighed, running her hand through her hair again. She looked at Cassy. “Everyone thinks I’m sleeping with him—and that’s why he brought me to New York.”
Cassy rubbed her face, thinking, Lord, what must I look like? “If I were you,” she said, lowering her hands, “I would just go on doing what you’re doing and let them think whatever they want. Alexandra—they’re going to think whatever they want to think anyway. No matter what you do. I think you know that.”
Alexandra lowered her eyes. “I care what you think,” she said. “That’s why I came back.”
Michael, you’d be crazy not to want to marry this girl. Either she was a first-rate liar, or she was a nice girl from Kansas. “I think—” Cassy began, starting to smile.
Alexandra met her eyes.
“If you’re half the person on air that you are right now, you’re going to be just fine.”
“Thank you.” It was scarcely a whisper. They were still looking at each other and Alexandra suddenly pulled her eyes away.
“Alexandra—”
The girl started.
Either Cassy was seeing things, or the nice girl from Kansas was blushing.
“I was just going to say that a friend of my son’s is here, who’s sick, and I’m rather tired and I think you are too…”
“Yes, of course,” Alexandra said, rising.
In the kitchen they found Henry with his head in the refrigerator. He jerked back, first looking at Alexandra and then to his mother.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Cassy said.
“Henry,” Alexandra said, going over and shaking his hand, “I hope I see you again one day soon. When it’s a little less rowdy.” Pause. A gesture to Cassy. “Your mom and I were just talking—well, she’ll tell you.”
Henry looked to his mother and Cassy nodded, smiling.
“I’m just going to see Alexandra to the door.” Cassy led the way through the front hall. “Well, it’s been quite a day,” she said, opening the door.
“Yes,” Alexandra sighed, stepping outside the door and turning around.
Cassy held out her hand and Alexandra shook it. “Thank you, Alexandra. You’re a very courageous young lady.”
Alexandra smiled.
The ratings have just soared in the tri-state area.
“Thank you for being so nice,” Alexandra said. She let go of Cassy’s hand, walked down to the elevator and pressed the button. “Will I see you again soon, do you think?”
“Well,” Cassy said, hanging on the door, “I’ll be seeing a lot of you. We tend to watch a lot of news around here.”
“Great,” Alexandra said.
“Good night,” Cassy said, closing the door.
“Good night.”
Cassy locked the door and leaned against it. And then, after hesitating a moment, she ventured a look out the peephole.
He won’t give up on this one, she thought.
2
The Stewarts
Howard heard the front door of the apartment slam. “Hi, Rosanne,” he called, pouring the rest of the water into the coffee maker.
“Hi.” Swish, swish, swish; the familiar sound of Rosanne’s jeans.
Silence.
Howard looked over his shoulder and saw her leaning against the doorway. “You look very tired,” he said, moving over to the butcher-block table.
“You got it.” She let her bag slide down off her shoulder to thump on the floor. “Party at the C’s last night.”
“Okay,” Howard said, picking up a piece of paper and examining it, “I’ll strike ‘windows’ off of Melissa’s list.” He leaned over the table to pencil in “next week.”
Rosanne tossed her bag up onto the counter and adjusted her bandanna to a more pirate-y angle. “Been on the list for three years,” she said, “you’d think she’d catch on.”
Howard smiled, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose. “Melissa doesn’t like to admit defeat.”
Rosanne gave him a look and moved on to the refrigerator. “You oughtta get a medal or somethin’,” she said, opening the door.
Howard let the comment pass. “I got some half-and-half—it’s in the door.”
“Great, thanks.”
“And there’re some bran muffins in the breadbox.”
Rosanne closed the refrigerator door and walked over to the coffee maker. Tapping her fingers on it, trying to hurry it along, she said, “So how are ya?”
Howard tossed the pencil down on the table. “Good, I guess.”
“I brought that book back,” Rosanne said, reaching for her bag.
“What did you think?”
Rosanne pulled it out and handed it to him. “I liked it. I liked it a lot, only—”
Howard was looking down at the jacket of the hard-cover volume of a Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. “Only what?”
“I don’t know, Howie,” she sighed, swinging her weight to one leg. “Like I don’t know if it’s so good for me to be readin’ romances. Kinda gets me depressed after—it’s not like it’s like real life or nothin’.”
“Well,” Howard said, considering this.
“But I liked it okay,” she finished. “And I read another one in there about the family movin’ out West—gettin’ shot at and attacked and all.” She moved over to the sink. “Weird how it was like now back then.”
Howard laughed. “I’ll give you something a little different this week,” he promised.
Rosanne opened the cabinets under the sink and squatted down. “Yeah, okay,” she said, pulling out various cleaning agents and plunking them down on the floor. She shook the bathroom cleanser container. “We need some Comet, Howie,” she said. Howard wrote this down. “And you better tell her highness,” Rosanne added, whipping her head around in his direction, “that we don’t want any of that el cheapo cleaner she always gets. Brother,” she muttered, standing up and slamming the cabinets shut, “you’d think if she wanted a clean house she’d get some decent cleanin’ stuff.”
“I’ll get it,” Howard said, dropping the pencil.
Rosanne turned around to look at him.
“What?”
Her mouth twitched one way and then the other. “Nothin’,” she finally said, waving him away. “Go do your work. I wanna listen to the radio.”
As Howard walked through the living room he heard Rosanne whirling the radio dial. In a few minutes, he knew, every radio and television in the apartment, save in the master bedroom, would be on (9 a.m., Radios: Howard Stern (WXRK), John Gambling (WOR), Don Imus (WNBC); TVs: Leonard Philbin and “The Munsters.” 10 a.m., Radios: K-Rock, Sherre Henry (WOR) and WPLJ; TVs: Oprah Winfrey and Phil Donahue. At eleven, while Rosanne cleaned their bedroom to Joan Hamburg (WOR), Howard would move to the living room for a half hour and either turn off the TV or give in and watch “Father Knows Best.”
In the beginning, Howard