Cassandras Plan Ch 02

Cassandra Phillips

I wish I knew how my marriage went wrong.

Sure, fifteen years is a long time to be married, and maybe people grow a little bored with each other, a little tired of being together all the time. I've tried to give David his space. What does he want from me? I'm still attractive. Certainly he found me so when I first met him.

Cassandra Connolly / April 3, 1980, 5:22 p.m.

God, if I ever step into Butler Library again it'll be because I own the place. A big rectangular block of marble with the names of big-shot Greek and Latin writers—all men, naturally—chiselled on top; huge long windows with gratings that open creakily and infinitesimally, as if reluctant to let in any fresh air that might actually blow some of the dust away from books nobody reads; a bafflingly labyrinthine layout whereby you reach the book stacks by sidling through a narrow slit at the side of the circulation desk, and then you discover that, even though you're on the third floor, you're on the sixth level of the stacks . . .

But those stacks are the worst. Shelves piled high to the ceiling with musty books, with barely enough room between them for one person to pass, let alone two . . . And the dark! Every time you want to enter a shelf you have to turn a little timer mechanism that feebly illuminates—if you're lucky and the overhead lights aren't broken—the corridor while you dash in and get the book you want. If you stay there too long, the light snaps off without warning—and you're in the dark again with books ready to fall upon your ears. What's going on? Doesn't Columbia University, of all places, have enough money to avoid this kind of piddling energy saving?

Every so often there are signs posted up saying that there has been some sexual assault or "attempted" sexual assault—which presumably means that the poor chump couldn't get it up or finish the job—and that people (meaning women) should be extra vigilant . . . Doesn't occur to anyone to post guards there—no, that's too much money (just like it's too much money to keep the lights on all the time); we just have to be vigilant.

Well, that's fine with me. Somebody's balls will get shot off if they try to do something to me.

Here's this guy in the PS3500 shelf, trying to pull down something just out of his reach. I look at my little slip of scrap paper. I need PS3505. I scan the numbers—PS3501 (Sherwood Anderson), PS3503 (Pearl S. Buck—God spare us) . . . I get closer and closer to where he's standing. He doesn't notice me at first, he's so intent on reaching that book. Finally I come up right next to him. He's standing in front of the books I need. In fact, he's reaching for the very shelf I want. Only then do I notice that he already has a half-dozen books piled up on the floor, and he's just snapped up the one that has eluded him.

"Hey! You can't take all the Cains!"

He almost jumps out of his skin. "Ssshhh—this is a library . . ."

"Don't shush me. You can't take all those books. I want them."

Some little snotfaced girl comes over to the head of the shelf. "Would you please mind . . ."

"Oh, fuck off, you stupid cow."

She seems struck by lightning. After a second she whirls away.

I turn back to him, grudgingly whispering. "Look, guy, you really can't take all those books. I—"

"But I have to write a paper on Cain."

"So do I."

He looks at me curiously. "You're in Tough Guy Writers of the Thirties?"

"Yeah." I finally recognize him. "So are you."

"Yeah, I am. What's your name?"

For some reason I don't know whether I should tell him. "Cassandra. What's yours?"

"David. David Phillips."

I scour my memory some more. "Don't you write for the Spectator? Stories. They're pretty good."

Dim as the light is, I can see that he's blushing. Blushing! Imagine anyone blushing nowadays.

"Thanks. I . . . I didn't know anyone read them."

I'm sure he's not that dumb; just nervous. "Well, if they're printed in the paper, I guess people would read them."

"Yeah, I guess so . . ." He can't look me in the eye.

Suddenly he picks up all the James M. Cain books. He almost throws them at me in handing them over. "Here, you can take these. I can write about somebody else. Hammett, maybe . . ."

"Yeah. He only wrote four books."

"Four novels. He wrote a bunch of short stories."

"Oh, they don't count." There is a little silence. "Thanks, David. I really didn't mean to force you to give these up. Maybe we can split them up . . ."

"No, no, you take them. I want you to have them."

"It's very nice of you." Another little silence. "You want to get some coffee or something?"

I can't believe it. He's blushing again.

"Sure . . . I guess so . . . I mean, if you want to—"

I look at him straight in the face, with a tight smile. "If you don't want to, it's okay." I turn to go.

"No!" He almost shouts it; then he claps a hand over his mouth. "I mean . . . it's just that . . ."

"What?" I wait patiently.

"I'm already going out with someone . . ."

This is so quaint I can't believe it. "David, I'm not trying to seduce you. I don't care whether you're going out with someone. Go out with her all you want. I just thought you might want to have a little chat over coffee."

He gives me a crooked smile. Very appealing. "Okay. I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't. Come on, let's go."

We check the books out—his Hammett novels all fit into one omnibus volume, while I have seven or eight Cain books for my trouble—and he magnanimously carries mine for me. He's a little shy in offering to do so—the women's movement has got men so confused they don't know whether doing things like this might be patronizing—and he's also a little shy, not to say clumsy, holding open the incredibly heavy door leading out of the building.

We go to the West End. The coffee comes incredibly fast, slammed down by a waitress who darts away before we can trouble her for anything else. David puts liberal amounts of milk and sugar in his coffee, paying a great deal of attention to it. I see nothing but the top of his head.

"So, where are you from?" I ask.

He looks up and stares right in my eyes. "Kokomo, Indiana." He says it with a certain pride.

"A Midwestern boy? How charming. I knew you weren't from around here."

"How could you tell?"

"Your accent."

His eyes cloud over and he looks as if he's afraid to speak again. "Do I have it bad?"

"No, no, I didn't mean that. It's just that you don't have a New York or Eastern accent. Anyone can tell you're not from around here, but that's cool."

He sighs in relief, as if I've just freed him from a trip to the guillotine. "Yeah, those Indiana farmers"—he puts on an exaggerated accent (or is it exaggerated?)—"speak reeeel funny. It's awful." He pauses. "Where are you from?" it finally occurs to him to ask.

"Upper East Side."

He has to think about that a little, even though as a junior he must by now know what that means. "A lifelong New Yorker, eh?"

"Eh."

My hint of sarcasm abashes him. I feel a little guilty. "Sometimes I think I want to get away from New York—but I just can't imagine where else I would go. There's no other place like this, is there? Maybe London. Have you been there?"

"No," he says in a small voice.

"You ought to go. It's wonderful."

He mumbles agreement but says nothing. His coffee is almost finished.

"So what's your girlfriend like?" I say this just to say something. I can't think of any other topic of conversation.

But he perks right up. He looks me right in the eye and says enthusiastically: "Oh, she's great! Her name's Lauren. I've known her since grade school."

"She's from Kokomo, Indiana, too?"

"Yes." He starts the word eagerly but then trails off, as if he's ashamed to have to admit it.

"That's nice. Is she in our class?"

He's a little confused. "In our Tough Guy Writers class? No, of course not . . ."

"No, I mean is she a junior?"

He seems about to slap his forehead, but refrains. "Oh. I'm sorry. No, she's a sophomore."

I smile—kindly, I hope. "And she followed you here all the way from Indiana? That's sweet." I mean it. It is.

"Yeah, isn't it?" His eyes get dreamy. "I mean, I'm sure she wanted to come to Columbia because it's a great school"—maybe he thinks that as a New Yorker I have some need to defend the prestige of my town—"but I guess my being here didn't hurt." He grins sheepishly.

"No, I guess it didn't." I finish my coffee. "Are you going to get married?"

He looks a little confused. "Gee, I don't know. We haven't talked much about it . . ."

"Is it what you want?"

Now he's confused and embarrassed. "I don't really know. I guess so. After we finish college."

I feel a change of gears may be useful. "You want to be a writer, I suppose?" That sounds vaguely condescending, but he doesn't take it that way.

"Yeah! I sure do. I mean, if I can manage it . . ."

"Why shouldn't you manage it? You write well. Damn well."

He's blushing again—so hard that he can't speak, even to say thank you. He looks into his empty coffee cup. I figure I'd better help him out.

"What do you want to write? Stories? Novels?"

"Yes, sure, both. I tried writing some novels in high school, but they were pretty bad . . ."

"You wrote novels in high school?" I'm moderately impressed.

"Well, I finished one and got half through another before I discarded it. They were really bad. Detective novels."

"You threw them away?" I'm half outraged.

"Sure. They weren't worth anything—nothing in them that could be preserved. Take my word for it. I don't think I'm up to writing novels yet. I need to get more short stories done first." He sounds in total command of himself; no shyness now.

"That's good. Keep at it." I start to rise. "Let me see your stuff sometime. I'd like to read it."

He gazes up at me. "Would you? Really?"

"Yes, really." I pat him on the shoulder and leave.

Cassandra Connolly / April 26, 1980, 11:42 p.m.

"David, I'm stuck. I just don't know what to say." I throw my pen down in disgust.

He gets up from the typewriter and walks over to the couch where I'm sitting. Books are piled up in a heap around me; some lying open on their fronts, some on their backs, some with little slips of paper stuck in them like cheap bookmarks. All of them say Cain. I can't stand the sight of them.

David sees one of the open books. "You shouldn't write in library books," he says softly.

I can't believe what I'm hearing. "David, that's not helping."

He's chastened. "No, it isn't. I'm sorry." He flips through a sheaf of typed pages in his hands. "But this is really good so far. You don't have much more to go."

I take the pages from him and leaf through them. Something strikes me as odd. "You've made a mistake." I point to a word.

He looks sheepish. Even more softly he says: "Well, no, Cassandra, that's how it's spelled."

I look at the word, then up at him, then back at the word. I don't have the energy to look it up in the dictionary. He must be right—he's the writer.

"I guess you've fixed up my grammar, too, haven't you?"

His sheepish look remains, but turns into a boyish grin. "Well, yeah, a little—but I do it automatically, without thinking about it." I'm supposed to be comforted by that?

"Okay. Fine." Let's change the subject. "But how do I finish this off?"

He sits down next to me. "I think all you have to do is to get some overall idea of what Cain's novels are all about—the unifying theme, you know? Maybe—"

"But what the fuck is the unifying theme, dammit?" I almost shout.

He freezes, his mouth hanging open.

"I'm sorry, David, I didn't mean that. I'm just so tired of this thing. I wish it were over. Jesus, I've killed myself over this paper. I'm really not very good at this." I push the typed pages away; I can't stand to look at them. Then I look up at him.

"I'm being selfish, aren't I? You've helped me a lot. I'm sorry I've kept you away from Lauren so long. Who else would waste a Sunday evening waiting for some stupid girl to finish writing a page so he can type it for her? I can't write, and I can't type. Not much use, am I?"

He puts his arm around me—like a brother, I suspect. "Oh, don't be silly. There are lots of other things in the world besides writing and typing." He pauses a moment, doubting whether he should say what he wants to say. Finally it comes out:

"You know, Cassandra, maybe I could finish it up for you. You only need about a page or two more." He looks at his feet, as if ashamed of the suggestion.

"How could you do that? You haven't read the books!" I think his idea is sweet but crazy.

"Oh, I can just infer it from what you've written. The conclusion is really already there; maybe you just can't see it."

"Maybe." I look at him skeptically. "Oh, go ahead if you want to. I just can't write any more."

He almost rushes back to the typewriter, where there is still a sheet about two-thirds filled. He starts rattling away—pretty damn fast, it seems to me, for someone who is presumably composing off the top of his head. I start picking up all the books and piling them up on the floor next to the couch. The room is very small, and David's bed, couch, and desk take up about all the space in it. Still, it's a lot neater than my room back on East 68th Street.

In about twenty minutes he's finished. He's typed about two and a half pages. I can't believe it, and I start reading from where I left off, just to make sure he hasn't typed gibberish.

It isn't. It's pretty good. In fact, it's damn good.

I look at him. I feel something very strange. I feel tears in my eyes. Christ, I haven't cried since I was in junior high.

"Thanks, David," I say in a small voice. "This is a lot better than I could have done."

"Oh, I don't think it is. You could have done it."

He's sitting next to me, but seems to be trying not to touch me. I change that pretty fast. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him on the lips. For a long time.

When I let go, it's like he's gasping for breath. I thought it was women who did that.

He has this totally astounded look on his face. It's especially funny because there's lipstick smeared diagonally across his lips.

I smile at him. "I'm sorry if that bothered you."

"No, no," he stammers. "It's just . . . I just wasn't expecting it. It was sweet of you."

"Do you want more?"

"Oh, Cassandra, we'd better not . . ." I know he's thinking of Lauren. I'll put an end to that.

"I think we'd better."

I kiss him again, hard, and slowly take his left hand, which is gripping my shoulder a little spasmodically, and move it to my breast. At first he shies away from it as if it's electrified. I put it back, forcing him to hold it for several seconds. I'm still kissing him, so he can't speak, but he's trying to mumble something. All that comes out, though, is a kind of moan.

Finally he unglues his lips from mine and says, "Please . . ." In response I push him backwards so that he is half lying on his back on the couch, his feet dangling over the edge. I'm on top of him, and his left hand is now sandwiched between my breast and his chest. I take his other hand and place it directly on my bum. He moans again; it's almost a whine.

I rub my crotch against his. I can feel him getting hard. I know I have him.

Eventually we move to the bed.

After it's over he just lies there, dazed. I rest my head on his chest; its soft hairs both cushion me and tickle my nose. He smells nice. It's not cologne or after shave or anything; it's just him.

He is gingerly stroking my head. He seems hesitant or ashamed even to do that, but feels he has to do something. I turn my head so that my face is looking right at his.

"Was that nice?"

He has this scared look on his face. "Yes, of course it was. It was wonderful. But I don't think we should have . . ."

"Why not?"

"Well, well, because—"

"I know, I know," I cut him off. "Because you're going out with Lauren. Do you sleep with her?"

He looks even more scared. "Well, of course I do, sometimes . . ."

"Sometimes? Not often? Doesn't she like it?"

"No, I mean . . . sure she does . . . But we've been pretty busy. A lot of work at the end of the semester."

"Don't I know it." I smile, and he finally smiles back. But he still has a scared look in his eyes.

"Listen, David, just relax. We don't have to do this again if you don't want to. And I didn't do it to reward you for your help. That's vulgar. I did it because I like you. A lot. But we can be just friends if you want."

He looks a little more reassured. "Okay. Okay, sure, fine."

I lie there on his chest a little longer. Neither of us speaks. His heart is still beating pretty fast.

I turn my head again to face him. "Can I stay here tonight?"

The scared look again, but not as scared as before. "Gee, I guess so. I mean, it's pretty late . . ."

"Isn't it." A little silence. I reach for his member. "Do you want some more?"

It's like I suggested we fly to the moon in a Studebaker. "Well, sure, I guess . . ."

"Good." With my tongue I paint a wet line from his nipple to his crotch.

Lauren Oxley / May 22, 1980, 2:37 p.m.

"Listen, Lauren, we have to talk."

I don't like the sound of this. David's usually pretty serious—that's one of the things I like about him, he's not a goofy jerk like so many other college guys—but he has a kind of scared look in his eyes that I've never seen before.

I sit down on the edge of the bed. His dorm room is so small that there's no room for anything except a very narrow bed (not narrow enough for two, though!), a ratty couch, and a long desk with his typewriter and more papers and books on it than I've ever seen anywhere else. They're all pretty neat, though. I wonder how he does it.

"What is it, David? What's wrong? You look upset."

He turns away to stare out the window. Then he looks at his feet. It's not like him not to want to look at me.

"We've known each other a long time, haven't we, Lauren?"

"Yes," I say, a little guardedly. "Since junior high."

"I remember the first time I saw you," he says in a hurry. "My family had just come from Illinois, and I was petrified. Eighth grade in a new school, a new town, a new state! Who knows what would happen? We were in the auditorium, the whole school was. I was sitting toward the back, trying not to call the least attention to myself. You were sitting several rows up, talking to a lot of people—I guess you already knew everybody, since they were your grade-school chums—and for some reason you turned around and looked right at me. At first your face was blank, and then very slowly you smiled. That's all. Didn't say anything. You just smiled and turned back around.

"I'll always remember that smile, as long as I live."

It seems like a speech he's rehearsed. I don't think it is: David sounds like that a lot.

"I remember that, too, David." I'm trying to prompt him.

He suddenly gets up from the bed. There's very little room to walk around, but he manages it.

"David, please tell me what's on your mind. You've never been like this before."

He wheels around and says loudly: "I've met someone else!'

I don't understand what he's said. I literally don't understand what he's said.

"What?" I wish my voice didn't sound so small and cracked.

"I've met someone else," he says more quietly. It's as if he can't say anything more. I have a mad conception that we'll be saying the same things over and over again for the rest of time ("I've met someone else." "What?" "I've met someone else." "What?").

I feel dizzy. There's a roaring in my ears. I don't think I can move, even though I either want to run out of the place or punch him in the chest—not because I'm angry or hurt (that hasn't hit yet), but because I want to make him say something more. Anything more. Anything to help me understand.