Riverside Park. Laura Wormer Van
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and ahhh’s. He started to carve while a detail of three out-of-work actors began the rounds with serving dishes.
Henry Cochran, Cassy’s only biological child, was seated to her immediate left. He had arrived two days earlier with his wife and young son. They were staying in the old Cochran apartment Henry had grown up in and which Cassy kept separate from the penthouse Jackson had created with the rest of the floor. Once there had been five other apartments on the top floor of 162 Riverside Drive, but one by one Jackson had acquired and added them to his new urban family manse.
At twenty-eight years old, Henry Cochran was still a good deal like his mother. He was tall, slender, blue-eyed and fair-haired (the latter, however, rapidly thinning, she noticed), but fortunately Henry had also inherited his father’s deep voice and broad shoulders so that he had not (as he had feared while growing up) turned out to be a ninety-eight-pound weakling. He was ecstatic to be a family man and doing extremely well as an architect. The only problem was the younger Cochrans were moving from Chicago to San Francisco to be near Maria’s parents, and Henry had been offered a new position that had made the move possible. Cassy felt she could not say anything because Maria was expecting another child and wanted more family around her, and living next door to the Darenbrooks in New York was not what Maria had in mind.
Cassy almost winced at the pain she felt in her heart at that moment. Having Henry living in Chicago had been hard enough; San Francisco seemed like the end of the earth.
“Good food, Mom,” Henry said.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” Cassy said, snapping out of her thoughts, “what did you say?”
“I said, ‘Great food, Mom.’”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” she said automatically with a smile, but looked down at her own plate with dismay. The food her in-laws had requested—including sweet-potato pie with marshmallow topping and mushy string beans cooked with fatback pork—was severely at odds with the regime Cassy’s mother had pounded into her head as a child: six glasses of water a day and as much vegetables, fruit, fish and lean meat as she wanted. (Cassy’s mother, in her glory days, had been a beauty queen representing the great state of Iowa. That is until, as Mrs. Littlefield was always careful to phrase it, “my horribly cruel and unfortunate marriage.”)
Cassy had been blessed with beauty and a healthy body and, at fifty-three, was extremely grateful for both. She worked out with a trainer three days a week and thus far had only made some minor concessions to plastic surgery involving her face and eyes. It wasn’t that she wanted to look younger, really; she just wanted to continue resembling herself. Her face always caught her by surprise when she had a moment to study it in the mirror. When had that happened, and that and that?
She had worn her long blond hair (now with occasional silver) up on the back of her head forever. Whenever she considered cutting it everyone around her freaked out, some declaring it was who she was while others maintained it best highlighted her features. Others said it was the promise of what that hair might hold—when and if it ever came down—that still kept eyes on Cassy when younger beauty was around.
Henry leaned over to say, “I love you, Mom,” in the same way he used to as a child when he thought his mother might be upset. But Cassy wasn’t upset, just tired. And sad, already missing her son.
She reached to give Henry’s hand a squeeze. “I love you, too.”
Suddenly mashed potatoes and peas splattered over the side of Henry’s face and there was a screech of delight.
Ah, William. Cassy’s grandson. If ever someone resembled her first husband, Michael, it was he. William had the blackest hair, was built like a tank and was shy about nothing. His current vocabulary consisted of No, Mine and Rrraaarrrr (Henry and Maria had two dogs), and his favorite pastime was throwing things at people. If they didn’t sit on the child soon Cassy knew they would regret it. And as much as she loved Maria, she couldn’t help but wish she had a little more steel in her mothering. Hopefully Maria’s mother would help with that.
Cassy heard the deep laughter of her husband from the other end of the dining room table. Jackson had seen what William had done.
Sitting to Jackson’s right was his alternately anorexic and bulimic daughter, Lydia, who, like Henry, was twenty-eight. Sitting on Jackson’s left was his son, Kevin, who at twenty-six was six-foot-three and at least three hundred pounds.
After early go-rounds with Jack’s children when they were first married, Cassy had pleaded with Jackson to go into therapy with them. He never had. On the other hand, Jackson had always taken Henry’s word over that of his own children, never doubting that it was true, for example, that Kevin was stashing cocaine in Henry’s room or that Lydia tried to have sex with Henry.
While Henry and Maria tried to cope with their screeching, food-throwing son, Henry’s water glass was upended on the table. All of the out-of-work actors rushed into the kitchen and then rushed back out again with dish towels to blot up the water. William, at this point, was crying crocodile tears because his plate of ammo had been taken away.
“I would spank him,” Cordelia Darenbrook Payne, Jackson’s half sister, loudly advised from across the table.
“Right, Aunt Cordie Lou,” Lydia cried, pushing her chair back to stand up. “We all know how much good your spankings did me! Excuse me,” she added in exaggerated politeness to her father.
“Lydia,” Jackson started to say, but she ignored him and walked out of the dining room.
Then Kevin excused himself and left the dining room, as well.
William was now screaming and Maria, blushing heavily, pulled William up out of his high chair. “I’ll take him into the bedroom.”
“Why don’t you give him to me?” Cassy suggested, pushing her chair back slightly and holding out her arms. Maria seemed happy to hand him off. (At this stage of her pregnancy Cassy didn’t blame her.)
“William,” Cassy said sharply as she plopped him down in her lap. Her grandson stopped screaming to look up at her in a kind of awe. She handed him a dinner roll and picked up her fork, managing to take a few bites before she caught Maria’s bewildered expression. “At this age they’re better with anyone but their parents.”
“He gets mad because he can’t bounce on Maria’s lap anymore,” Henry explained.
If you think he’s mad now, wait until the new baby comes, Cassy thought. She used her napkin to catch drool dripping from William’s mouth as he gnawed on the roll, which killed her appetite.
Lydia reappeared and made her way to her seat smiling defiantly down the table at Cassy as Kevin came back in, as well. They were both high on something. Probably cocaine.
Jackson simply did not want to see it. Cassy supposed he was not unlike other fathers, figuring that by their late twenties it was none of his business what his kids did.
William fell asleep in Cassy’s arms, the remains of the roll clutched in his fist. When she kissed the top of his head and stood up, everyone took it as a signal that Thanksgiving was officially over and they were excused. Lydia was out the door first. Henry, Maria and William were next to leave in a car for JFK, Cassy fighting back tears. Then she hurried to help her Southern relatives organize their bags. Everyone except Cassy would board a limousine bus to take them to the Darenbrook Communications plane in Newark. They would drop Jackson and her stepson off in Savannah and then conclude their flight in their home city of Atlanta.
“I don’t know how you do it, darlin’,” Jack said under his breath to Cassy as he gave her a hug and kiss, “but we almost resembled a family today.”
Kevin kissed Cassy on the cheek. “Thanks, Cass, it was great.”
She smiled, taking Kevin’s arm and pulling him back a step. She leaned close to his ear. “If you ever bring drugs into this house again, I promise you, Kevin, you will never cross the threshold again. Have I made myself clear?”
Startled, Kevin stepped back.