Cassandra's Plan

David Phillips

I wish I knew how our marriage went wrong.

Maybe it was a mistake from the beginning. I was just swept off my feet—didn't really know what I was doing. Cassandra and I are not well matched; I don't even know what she ever saw in me. She seems to have wanted me as some kind of prize. Maybe she just wanted to hurt Lauren, although she didn't know her very well and didn't even seem to care about her.

Things seemed to go wrong from the start. What could I have been thinking of?

June 3, 1980, 5:43 p.m.

"David, these are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Connolly."

My whole arm seems stiff as iron, but I extend it and shake hands with both the people standing before me. In all honesty, they seem pretty nondescript: the woman of medium build (Cassandra is taller), with salt-and-pepper hair, bland face; the man a little stout, with a pasty kind of complexion that fleetingly makes me ashamed for the entire white race. Only their clothes would distinguish them on the street: as little as I'm interested in clothing, I can tell that what they have on wouldn't be found in those discount stores on 14th Street.

I must make sure not to say anything stupid. Nothing like "Gee what a nice place you got here." Of course, the place is nice: so nice that I can hardly take it all in. Renaissance paintings on the wall—the real thing, you betcha, no reproductions. Vases that look delicate as origami. Furniture that could have come from Versailles. God, I hope I don't break anything while I'm here.

There's an awkward little silence, as if everyone expects me to start the conversation going. I don't want to start a conversation; I don't even want to know these people. With my eyes I plead for Cassandra to help me, but someone else comes to the rescue.

A reed-thin, elderly, sober man in a coat and tails walks in silent as a cat. Cassandra turns her head, and a big smile bursts out over her face—she almost looks like a little girl. My heart feels as if somebody's squeezed it hard. I realize that at this moment I love her very much.

Cassandra cries out: "Oh, Jenyns, it's you!" She runs over to him and gives him a little peck on the cheek. He endures it gravely and with monumental patience, as if he expects everyone to know that this is just the slightest bit undignified.

She turns to me. "This is Jenyns, the butler." Somehow I have trouble believing my ears. I think she had mentioned him before, but it all struck me as so unreal and Wodehousean that I must not have taken it seriously. But there he is. A real-live butler.

I can't even begin to think what my parents in Indiana would say right now.

Mr. Connolly asks if we would like drinks. Everyone names a different drink; I mention something, forgetting it the moment I do so. Jenyns nods shortly and glides away.

We all sit down in the living room. Cassandra sits next to me on the couch, and actually puts her arm halfway around me. It comforts and relieves me more than I can say. Her parents are still looking fixedly at me: smiling a little, but clearly giving me the once-over. I wonder how I stack up in comparison to the men and boys who may have been in this position before. I don't know exactly how many there were, but from Cassandra's guarded hints I'm sure there have been several.

The drinks come. We sip. Still no one speaks. Cassandra looks at me with a peculiar, mischievous twinkle in her eye. I think I must look petrified.

Finally Mrs. Connolly speaks up. "So, David, Cassandra tells me you wish to be a writer."

"Yes, ma'am." Should I have called her "ma'am"?

"Mother, he doesn't wish to be a writer—he is a writer!" Cassandra cries vehemently. "He's already had a story accepted for Ploughshares."

The parents look at me blankly. I'm sure they've never heard of Ploughshares. If they know I'm from Indiana, they probably think it's a farming journal.

"That's very nice, dear," Mrs. Connolly says, looking at me as if I've just done a flawless somersault. "But can one make a living by it?"

I shrug. "It depends. There are lots of things one can do—fiction, articles, reviews, journalism. I might try them all; I've done several already."

The parents seem grudgingly impressed.

Mr. Connolly takes a different tack. "So, David, I hope your parents don't mind our hijacking you this summer." He chuckles at his own joke.

"No, sir. I guess they've seen enough of me the last two summers. I'm glad to be here. And very grateful, too."

Maybe I shouldn't have said that. The parents seem to take no notice of that last sentence, and Cassandra frowns at me sharply. Maybe I'm being too humble and effusive.

After our drinks are over, Cassandra leaps up and pulls me up as well. "We want to freshen up before dinner, okay? We'll see you later."

We wind through a series of labyrinthine corridors until we reach a closed door, which Cassandra opens violently and slams shut almost before I'm inside. It is as gaudily furnished as the rest of the place. She flops down on the bed so hard that it groans.

"Oh, God," she says, "I'll be so glad when they're gone!"

I sit down next to her. "They seem like nice people."

She stares at me with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. She doesn't look like a little girl anymore. "You try living with them."

"But you still do live with them."

She sits up, propping herself stiffly on her arms. "Of course I do. You think I'd live in one of those ratty little dorms for undergraduates? I'm not stupid. I like comfort." She lies back on the bed and rolls around a little, like a sleek and contented cat.

Now that I'm alone with her I feel a little less uneasy. I lie down beside her and force her on top of me. She cries out a little in surprise, but she's smiling. I pin her legs with my own, locking my arms around her waist. She takes tufts of my hair on either side of my head, looks right into my eyes, and says:

"What did you have in mind, sir?"

I suddenly get apprehensive. "Can they hear?" I whisper.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! Of course they can't."

I would feel more comfortable if we were on a different floor from her parents, the way it was with . . .

Don't think about that. But it's too late.

I'm suddenly very tired. I let go of her and gently pull her hands away from my hair. At first she doesn't want to let go, but when she sees that I'm no longer playing she releases me.

"What's the matter?" she says sharply.

"Nothing." I can't look at her face. "Nothing. It's just . . . just been a long day."

She's peering intently at me. She's still lying on top of me, her arms stiffly propping her up. She lets herself down gently, resting her head on my chest. "David, this is going to be a wonderful summer, isn't it?" She's not going to take no for an answer, so I say "Yes." And at that moment I believe it.

Cassandra Connolly / July 30, 1980, 4:27 p.m.

It's hard not to be a little antsy when you know your parents are going to leave you alone with your boyfriend for a month.

My parents aren't the most observant people in the world, but they could tell. No doubt I blundered a bit by actually being nice to them.

Less than two days to go. God! these last two months have seemed like ages. David too has been pretty antsy—but maybe not for the same reasons I've been.

Mother and Father come up to me. They both have this pursed look on their faces: aside from their gender, they might be identical twins. Maybe that's what happens when you're married too long.

"Dear, come and sit for a moment," Mother says.

There's no way I can escape this. Might as well get it over with. But really, they should know better than to try this on me. It won't work.

"You know we're leaving for Newport soon," she goes on.

"Yes, Mother." Does that sound dutiful enough?

"You'll have the place to yourselves, you know."

"Yes. I know."

"You will be all right, won't you?" Jesus Christ, Mother, why can't you just come out and say it? You won't get into any trouble, will you? This subterfuge is so damned stupid.

"We'll be fine, Mother."

She peers at my face, but the effort of penetrating its blandness seems to prove too much for her, and she leans back heavily on the sofa. This gives Father an opportunity to pitch in.

"We like your boy, Cassandra . . ."

My boy? Have I given birth to him? Haven't I been seeing "boys" for six or seven years now? Well, now that you mention it, those loathsome prep-schoolers really were "boys."

There's an unspoken "but" in Father's voice. I know a kicker is going to come presently, but Father tries to do a conversational end run.

"You're very fond of him, aren't you, Cassandra?"

I look at him and wonder why more children don't kill their parents. "Yes, I'm very fond of him, Father."

I'm not going to give them any slack.

"Then you're serious about him?" Mother blurts out.

"Yes, of course. And he's serious about me. Can't you tell?"

Her eyes say it all: Yes, unfortunately we can tell. But what she actually says is:

"Do you think you might marry him?"

I stare right into her eyes and say: "Yes. I think that's very likely."

"Has he mentioned it?"

I lose patience. "Oh, Mother, we've only known each other for four months! But surely you can see how close we are. David means more to me than any other—" (bloody hell, I almost say "boy") "—man I've ever met. He's wonderful." I can't say any more, I'm so knotted up inside.

And now Mother finally comes out with the remark I've been expecting to hear from the beginning. "But, dear, is he really our sort?"

I leap up from the couch. I want to throw something.

"Oh, God, Mother, what is our sort? Washed-out little shits like Marlin Schumaker?" (Dad predictably mutters, "Watch your language, dear.") "You really didn't want me to tie the knot with him, did you? Just because his parents are your bridge partners?" ("That's not it at all," Mother mutters, not quite under her breath.) "Jesus, can't I start making my own decisions for once? I'll be twenty-one next month . . ."

I'm out of steam. I'm standing there, breathing heavily and looking down ferociously at them. They just sit there placidly. Their mouths are getting that pursed expression again.

"Cassandra," Dad starts in, "I think we've given you a pretty long leash." What am I, a dog? "We don't interfere in your affairs. We've helped you whenever you've needed it"—oh, God, don't bring up that time in high school when Frank Wendelstadt got me pregnant—"and always stood by you. We just want to look out for your best interests."

There ought to be a law stipulating that if you use a certain number of platitudes in one speech, you should be taken out and shot.

But confrontation isn't going to get anywhere. My parents are like the Tarbaby: the more you struggle with them, the more entangled you get in their meshes.

I can't speak a word to Father, but maybe Mother will understand a little better. "Mother," I say very quietly, "David and I are very well suited to each other. We need to get to know each other a little better, and that's what this next month will be for. It'll be a little like a trial marriage, don't you think?"

"Yes, dear," she says, "that's very nice. But . . ." She can't look at me when she says this. "But what sort of prospects does that young man have?"

"Oh, Mother, what the f—" I bite my tongue. "What does that matter? I don't think we'll starve, do you? Anyway, he's just about the best writer I've ever met, and he's going to go far."

Father intrudes. "You know we'll always provide for you, Cassandra. We have no one else, you know." You make it sound like I'm a last resort—a process of elimination. You shit.

"Thank you, Father," I manage to choke out. "We won't let you down." I'm almost on the point of bursting out in a fit of crazed laughter. I must be in a bad '50s movie or something.

They seem to have heard what they wanted to hear. They both get up heavily and simultaneously—rather like a flock of birds who, on some mysterious signal, suddenly fly out of a tree in droves. Father places a heavy hand on my shoulder, and Mother actually pats me on the cheek. Yes, she does.

I can't take much more of this. I give them a kind of sickly smile and stalk out.

Please, David, where are you? Get me away from this . . .

Lauren Oxley / September 19, 1980, 4:47 p.m.

Vanessa accosts me at the subway entrance.

"Are you coming to the lecture tonight?"

"No, Vanessa." I don't think I want to hear about "Wolf Whistles as Mental Rape" tonight, not where I'm going. "I have a—an errand to run."

She looks at me blankly for a while. "What . . ." She begins to realize that I don't want to talk about it. "Well, see you later, I guess."

"See you."

I get on the 1 train. Even though it's a rickety local—every metal surface covered with multi-colored graffiti, except, the ads, strangely enough, as if out of a weird sense of respect for commerce—the Times Square stop comes faster than I expect. I almost miss it in stumbling out: since I'm one of the last to leave, the people who want to get on are already starting their relentless stalking into the car. I don't want to touch these people, but I force myself to elbow my way through them and on to the platform.

The address is hard to find, because there are no numbers on any of the doors. I can't imagine it would be one of the endless row of sleazy movie theatres, playing either porn or action films. Does he work above one of the peep show emporiums or X-rated video stores? I see a lot of lowlife—men and women both—and a single policeman who doesn't seem to be doing anything, even though what looks to me like a pick-up or a drug deal is going on about ten feet from him. Maybe he'll only intervene if there's a murder or something.

A dim, faded number—made, it seems, of red tape affixed to the wall—is barely discernible above a warped wooden door. There's an Indian guy standing in front of it. I walk up to him and try to go around him and through the door, beyond which I see a flight of stairs leading up. He halts me by gruffly putting his hand on my chest-almost on my breast.

"Where do you think you are going, miss?" he says in a very pronounced Indian accent.

"I—I'm here to see Mister Weaver," I manage to stammer.

He looks at me keenly for a moment, then seems to lose all interest in me. "Up the stairs," he says with a gesture of his head.

I open the door at the top of the stairs. It's only a kind of tiny lobby that has two other doors in two of its three walls. Neither is marked in any way. I almost want to go back down and ask the Indian which door it is, but I'm afraid to—maybe he'll hit me for being so stupid.

I try one of the doors. It's locked. I guess it's the other one.

A room not much bigger than the lobby has a desk with a man behind it. There are various porno magazines scattered over the desk, and pictures—cut out from the magazines, apparently—pasted crookedly on the walls. There's no other furniture in the room.

The man looks up at me. He doesn't seem much interested in me either. He seems to expect me to say something, but I don't know what to say. All of a sudden my heart is beating really fast, and I don't think I could speak if my life depended on it.

Finally he says: "Yeah?"

I have to take a few deep breaths before I can say: "Are you . . . are you Mister Weaver?"

"Yeah. Who're you?"

"Lauren Oxley." Suddenly my name sounds ridiculous, as if I'd made it up on the spot. "I have an appointment . . ."

He moves some of the magazines away and comes upon a clipboard with what looks like a single sheet of paper attached to it.

"Oh, yeah." He looks at his watch. "You're early."

"I'm sorry. . . . Should I—?"

"That's fine," he interrupts. "You know why you're here?"

I'm not sure I understand the question. "Well, I answered your ad and you said to come by now . . ."

He finally looks right at me—he hadn't done that before. "I'm saying, do you know what you're expected to do?" He speaks very slowly and deliberately, as if to a somewhat slow-witted child.

"Well, you wanted to . . . to—"

He cuts me off again. "How old are you? Are you over eighteen?"

"Yes, I'm twenty. Well, I will be in a week . . ."

"Do you have proof of that?"

I wasn't expecting that. I look hastily through my handbag. "Well, I don't think so."

"No driver's license? Passport?"

"I don't drive." I continue scouring my purse. I guess credit cards won't do. But not very many people under eighteen get credit cards, do they? "Listen, I can go back and get my pass—"

"Fuck it. Are you willing to sign this?"

He passes a sheet of paper to me. It was exactly under the sheet that had his appointment schedule on the clipboard, so I didn't see it.

"What is it? Should I read it?"

A crooked smile from the side of his mouth. "I think that might be a good idea. When you sign it you certify that you're over eighteen and that any photos we take of you are our property, to use as we like. You get a flat fee. You have a problem with any of that?"

I try to hear him while reading the contract at the same time. The effort makes me dizzy. "No, I guess not. But I don't want my real name being used. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure, we'll come up with a name." He pauses a moment, then looks at me with almost a kindly expression.

"You ever done this before?"

"Well, no . . ."

"You sure you want to? Don't sign that paper if you don't want to."

"I do want to. I really do."

"Why?"

I don't expect that question—none of these questions, really. I thought we would just go ahead and do it and get it over with. "Well, I just want to make some more money, I guess. My parents can't—don't give me much."

"Do you work? You have a job?"

"No, I'm a student. Barnard."

Another crooked smile. "Barnard? I thought they were all feminists up there."

"No, well, I'm not . . . I mean, I kind of am, but I don't go too far. . . ." I realize I'm babbling, so I shut up.

"Well, if you really want to do this, then sign."

I have to bend over his desk to sign the contract. He doesn't even give me a pen, so I fish one out of my handbag. I sign.

"Okay." He takes the paper back and puts it in a drawer—just stuffs it in without putting it in a file folder or anything. "Take your clothes off."

"What?" I can't believe I'm hearing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. "Right here? Now?"

"Yes. Here. Now."

"Why? I've already signed the paper."

"I want to see how you're built. I guess you didn't read the part in the contract where it says I don't have to use you if I don't find you suitable. So please"—the word seems to come hard out of his mouth—"take your clothes off." As I still do nothing, he seems to get peeved, as if I'm a disobedient schoolgirl: "You don't have to worry. I'm not going to do a damn thing to you. I just have to assess my wares."

Well, I guess that makes me feel a lot better, doesn't it?

I unbutton my blouse, then unzip my skirt. I have to remove my shoes in order to get my pantyhose off, and it's all pretty difficult to do without even a chair to sit on. I'm down to my bra and panties, and my hands suddenly start to tremble. I don't think I can do this.

"Go on, hurry up!" Mr. Weaver almost shouts. "I have another girl coming in twenty minutes."

I take off the rest of my clothes.

I think I look okay. Real blond hair—not that mousy blond that makes it hard to tell whether you're a blond or a brunette—slim waist, freckles over part of my face and over my shoulders (do men like that? does it turn them on because it makes me look underage?), firm round breasts, a pretty heavy blond (not dark) bush. I wonder if he wants it shaved or trimmed.