The Cassandra Page 17

  “I don’t see why’d he win,” I muttered.

  “He’s got charisma,” Tom Cat said. “People like him.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “He’s my friend, but I hear you. I guess I’d be jealous if you said the opposite.”

  The statement embarrassed me, but I didn’t show it. “Is he really a friend of yours?”

  “Sure.”

  I was glad he didn’t argue the point with any real passion.

  “He reminds me of a wolf,” I said, “or a dog. Cunning, maybe. Ill-behaved.”

  It struck me as odd then that I hadn’t had a vision of Gordon. I thought of my vision of Tom Cat, the sweet fluttering bird in his rib cage, the early death. For all of my thinking of Gordon, it seemed his future was hidden from me.

  “I like dogs, though,” Tom Cat said. “I’m a dog person.”

  “What?”

  “You said Gordo was like a dog, but dogs are great.”

  I laughed. “I guess you have a point there, Tom.”

  “Would you ever want a dog?”

  “And name it Gordon?”

  “No, I’m serious. Or are you more of a cat person?”

  What sort of person was I? The heron sprang to mind, her beak at my ankle, freeing me from another’s sad form of protection. I thought of the coyote.

  “Dog person,” I said.

  “Me, too.”

  This seemed to solidify something in Tom Cat’s mind and he beamed at me. It was so easy to make him happy.

  It occurred to me how easy it would be to be his wife. He would dote on me, spoil me. He would be predictable, constant, generous, the opposite of Mother. I told myself I wouldn’t grow bored or unappreciative, I would match his steadfastness and affection, even if it killed me. At this last thought I tore the head off of a paper queen I was making for the ballot box.

  “Damn it,” I muttered, and I crumpled her up in my fist.

  Tom Cat glanced up at the large white clock on the wall. He put down his scissors and paper.

  “I gotta go change, Milly.” He was wearing his overalls from work, and although it suited him, the modesty of them, the sturdiness, they weren’t meant for dancing. “You okay here?”

  I was already in my simple party dress, so I told him I would stay and finish the few decorations remaining.

  “We’ve made the room beautiful, Mildred,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders.

  We stood together admiring the giant, cavernous hallway. It glittered in the low light, soft with candles and streamers and paper decorations.

  “It’s lovely,” he said, “like a room for angels.”

  He was right. It was heavenly.

  Our aloneness in the room became a living, hungry thing. It trembled and opened its dark mouth.

  I moved away from him, murmuring good-bye, and he hesitated only a moment before hurrying out the door.

  * * *

  Beth arrived, breathless, shrugging off her coat, apologizing to me profusely for being so late. She wore a long black sheath dress with simple white beading on the shoulders. She reminded me of Anna Karenina, tall and untouchable at the dance where she meets Vronsky. I wanted to be Kitty, or Natasha from War and Peace, but I knew that was silly. If I were a character from a Tolstoy novel, it would likely be Sonya.

  “You’re fine,” I told her. “Tom Cat and I did almost everything. I checked on the cooks and they said all’s well. Just look at the room! It’s so pretty.”

  Beth agreed, eyes shining. “You’ve outdone yourself, Milly. Truly you have.”

  She helped me push tables aside so that people could dance front and center of the big room. The members of the band arrived and began tuning their instruments. Men and women slowly poured into the hall, then more and more swiftly, like a mudflow gathering speed. Before long, I was shouting at Beth for her to hear me, and she shouted at me in return. Bottles were popped open and drinks poured. Women wore pretty gingham dresses or simple cocktail shifts. People wandered by with small plates of hors d’oeuvres, baked beans, cold cuts, rainbow rye bread, a simple tomato salad. A woman squealed in displeasure when she spilled sauce on her yellow rayon skirt. She rushed off to salt and rinse the stain in the outside lavatories. Kathy arrived, asking after one of our bunkmates, and I pointed in the direction I’d seen her go, but who knew where she’d landed in the vortex of people? I felt drunk already, purely from the crowd.

  A man I’d never before met handed me a glass of ginger ale mixed with beer, and I thanked him and sipped leisurely. Mother hated drinking, and Martha enjoyed only a small beer on Saturday evenings. I, myself, wasn’t crazy about the taste. Still, I liked the sensation of the bubbles on my tongue, the warmth that traced a furry comet’s tail down my throat. Beth grabbed me by my elbow, gripping her own drink, and declared that she aimed for a wild night.

  “Sometimes I love to drink hard and forget about the world, you know what I mean?” she said to me.

  I didn’t know what she meant, not exactly, but I could imagine it. Good-bye Annie, dear dead sister. Good-bye, Glen, my darling dead husband. Good-bye, Death, itself. Good-bye, pitiful Me. Nothing but the calm black waves of forgetting.

  She winked at me and then downed her entire drink in one blast.

  I was impressed.

  I hugged her with one arm and took a longer sip of my own drink, but the fizziness made me cough.

  The band started up and whoops of joy rose around us. They played “Swinging on a Star” and “I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo” and “It’s Love, Love, Love.” Everyone cheered when “Besame Mucho” started up. I found the punch bowl and poured myself a fresh glass.

  “Dontcha just love Jimmy Dorsey!” a woman screamed at me as she wheeled past, spun by her partner in wide, clumsy circles.

  “Sure do!” I said, and I did, I loved all of those crooners, almost as much as I loved Susan Peters and Richard Quine. I was overjoyed with the success of the night. I took almost full credit. I laughed and danced in a little circle by myself.

  Gordon blustered up, shouting hello to his many friends and receiving affectionate pats on the back in return. Beth danced with a man from Unit B; I recognized him from the cattle car.

  “I need a girl,” Gordon yelled at the top of his lungs, and men laughed and cajoled in response.

  Then Gordon’s eyes fell on me.

  “Why, if it isn’t Mildred Groves from Omak.”

  “Hello, Gordon,” I said.

  “You’re not dancing by yourself, are you, Milly?” His tone was mocking.

  “No, I’m not dancing at all,” I said, but I swayed my hips ever so slightly.

  He gave me a skeptical look, like I was a child.

  I clutched my drink with both hands, right in front of my heart, and tried to shrink back into the crowd.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Gordon said.

  He reached forward and grabbed my wrist. My drink splashed everywhere and I uttered a soft, “No, please, don’t, my drink,” but then he took the cup from me, swallowed the rest of its contents, tossed it onto the floor, and wiped his palm dry on his good jacket, all while pulling my body into his.

  “Lots to grab,” Gordon said, clutching my waist. He rested his chin for a moment on the top of my head, leaning over to do so, but I buckled away from him. “You’re as shy as a filly,” he said. “Milly the filly.” He laughed at his own joke. The singer crooned and the band played and he tightened his grip and whirled me in circles.

  He was a wonderful dancer. To my horror, I was thrilled. The band launched into “Sing, Sing, Sing,” and we surged and rippled.

  “You’re not as clumsy as you look,” Gordon shouted at me, grinning. I’d never seen him so handsome and commanding.

  “You’re marvelous,” I gasped, and he swung me around and then lifted me clear off the floor, tossing me through the air.

  “Good night!” I called out with excitement, and I realized I was drunk but also extraordinarily happy, happier than I’d ever fel
t.

  The song ended and Gordon released me. For a moment I felt cold without his arms around me, but I panted and smiled and blushed. Beth came up to us, holding a fresh drink.

  “Milly,” she said. “You were wonderful out there!”

  “Lighter on her feet than she looks,” Gordon said approvingly, and then he reached over and pinched Beth on the waist. “You’re up next, sweetheart.”

  “Fat chance,” Beth replied, pushing his hand away, but her tone was teasing and her eyes flirted and shone.

  “Don’t drink too much, Beth,” I told her, worried she was behaving in a way that was beneath her, and she rolled her eyes at me. It was a rude gesture, something Kathy would do, not my Beth.

  “You sound like my mother,” Beth said.

  I thought of my own mother. The comparison irritated me.

  “Take that back,” I told her.

  “Oh, Milly, lighten up,” she said. “Here, drink this.”

  She placed her glass in my hand and took Gordon by the arm.

  “I suppose I’ll dance with this big lug, after all.”

  Gordon, beaming, seemed to sprout wings right where he stood. They swirled and dipped away from me.

  I shrank back against the wall. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They made an astounding couple, she a full-figured brunette, he a rugged movie star of a man. Susan Peters and Richard Quine, I sighed. I liked watching them together. Almost.

  But even as they danced, there appeared to be some sort of struggle occurring. He pulled her in close and she fought for space against him. He put his nose up against her ear, whispering into it, and she flinched and moved her head away from his lips. He was too aggressive with her, as he’d been with me, but she was more graceful at countering his moves, while I merely succumbed to them.

  I had half a mind to break in and separate them. A small part of me wondered if I weren’t jealous. No, not the way you might think. I was more jealous of his proximity to her than hers to him. I shared that closeness with Beth; it seemed unfair that now he did. Mostly I just hated how he mishandled her, flinging her about the way a child would play with an old doll. He treated her like an object when clearly she belonged only to the power of herself.

  Kathy came up to me then, touching my arm.

  “What are you glaring at, Milly?” she shouted at me over the music. “You’re such a sourpuss.”

  I quickly smiled, showing I was a good sport. “Just thinking about home,” I lied.

  “Scorching couple, eh?” Kathy said, nodding toward Beth and Gordon.

  “He’s rough with her.”

  “She loves it,” Kathy said. “Look at her face.”

  “She’s fighting him.”

  “She’s baiting him.” Kathy scratched at one of her elbows, her gaze trained on the couple as they moved to and fro. She wore a navy blue sheath dress, almost as simple as my own. She didn’t seem self-conscious in the least. “I don’t like him, but he’s just the thing for some women, I guess.”

  “I don’t like him, either.” It was weird to agree with Kathy about something. I felt a strange flush of affection toward her.

  “You sure dance with him like you do.”

  The flush ended.

  “Anyway, Milly, Tom Cat’s looking for you.”

  “I haven’t seen him,” I said.

  “He wants to dance with you,” Kathy said, somehow both indifferent and mocking. “He was by the ballot box last I saw him.”

  The ballot box was near the stage. I had labeled it earlier. VOTE FOR YOUR KING AND QUEEN. People had crowded around the box all night, stuffing papers into the opening. I’d fastened a new paper queen and king to it but I suspected they’d already been torn off and trampled by hundreds of filthy feet.

  “I’ll find him later.” I didn’t want Kathy to see me as an eager bride-to-be. I wanted to seem as cool and unaffected as she was. “Or he’ll find me.”

  “Sooner than later,” she said, and pointed.

  There he was, holding a fake flower—a red fabric tulip—in one hand, looking left and right, weaving through the bulging islands of dancers as though in a skiff of his own sobriety. The sight of his sad search bugged me. I didn’t like his doggish, desperate, love-stricken look. Need was nauseating. What was wrong with him, that he seemed so singularly bent on my existence?

  “I need some fresh air,” I told Kathy, and she moved to the side so that I could press by her toward the large open doors. The cacophony of color and body and scent and music and cheering and singing and stomping was overwhelming. Near the edge of the boisterous crowd, my bunk mate Susan, also on the S&S Committee, clumsily gathered up the ballot boxes, readying them to tally. I hurried past her, worried she’d ask for my help. At the wide doorway, I glanced over my shoulder to find Beth: To my relief, she was no longer dancing but off to one side. For a moment I thought she was alone, leaning against the wall and gazing up with a happy expression at the lights, but then someone shifted position in front of me and there was Gordon. She was smiling up at him dopily.

  Gordon reached for her face, cupped her cheek gently, and her head rocked against his hand, just for a moment, before she pulled away from him.

  Their intimacy troubled me. A few bodies gathered together then, readying for a slow dance, blocking my line of sight. Somewhere Tom Cat searched for me, but I didn’t want to be found.

  I went out into the night.

  Summer approached. I inhaled deeply the dry scent of the Hanford Reach. It reminded me of home, the aroma of the sage, the aria of the crickets stridulating their wings. A few people stood outside. I passed a couple kissing, and I fought the urge to stare. Instead I admired my feet in their new shoes. How beautifully you danced tonight! We showed them all, didn’t we! I’d sent the old pair back home to Mother with a letter describing how I didn’t need them anymore. Surely Martha would suffer from a brief prick of jealousy. I’d sent enough money their way for them to enjoy new shoes, too, but it would be good for them to accept that I took care of myself now, too.

  I reached the barbed wire fencing of the women’s barracks and pushed open the gate. Usually there was a guard, reading his newspaper, trying not to look too bored, but even the guards were allowed to go to the party tonight, and so the women had to look out for themselves.

  Off to the side, barely concealed in shadow, another couple stood necking. I heard the sounds of their kisses and when the woman moaned, a smell hit my nose, earthy, familiar, both sweet and metallic.

  It occurred to me that I should turn and flee, but instead I gawked. A memory occurred to me of seeing my father and mother this way when I was very young. Nonplussed, terrified, I’d watched them, transfixed, frozen, before they’d noticed me, and then they separated, crying out in anger and surprise. I was curious and disgusted. It was like they were trying to kill each other. Later Mother tried to explain it to me as “pleasure,” but even she sounded doubtful as she said it. Rare pleasure, she’d corrected herself, and this was what I said aloud now, my lips mumbling and dry.

  “Rare pleasure.”

  Now the sucking noises stopped. A small hole poked into the fetid warm smell.

  “Hey,” the man said, straightening. “What the hell is wrong with you? Beat it, lady!”

  I stuttered something about the dance but the woman’s voice rose with the man’s. “Leave us alone, pervert.”

  I hurried away.

  I stopped to catch my breath, leaning against the wall to a set of urinals. The smell was overpowering but I didn’t care, I needed an overpowering. Not in the way women let themselves be overpowered, but in the way of the world showing me how small my place was inside it. This was what I wanted, I realized, more than anything, to be rendered infinitesimal. To be someone who wasn’t strange or gifted or foolish or wise but unimportant. An insignificant blip. The thought comforted me. I found a star in the sky and held on to it. The woman and man were in love, maybe, the woman was touching the man and the man was touching her. For a moment
my vision seemed to split apart, the future unraveling. I could pull a star down and knit it to my chest, or tuck it in between my legs, my womb seared with its heat. I pushed my hands against my temples, urging out the images, the woman and the man, my father with Mother, Beth with Gordon, myself with Tom Cat, myself with Gordon, myself with Richard Quine, myself with Father, myself with Dr. Hall, myself with Beth, myself underwater, myself broken and dead beneath the white bluffs.

  The very earth smelled of sex. I knelt and took up a fistful of dry dirt and then pushed my skirt up and pulled my underpinnings aside and stuffed the dirt into me, the soil pressed into the wet warmth.

  I hadn’t touched myself since I was in Omak. It was so much better here—no muzzling myself on my old bedroom pillow, no Mother down the hall, no sister banging on my door, asking why it was locked. I fit more dirt up into me.

  This was what it was like. This was how I would know. Stuffed up with earth. I rubbed myself into oblivion and when the waves overtook me I didn’t care who I was or who heard me.

  A minute later, regaining my sanity and my shame, I fixed my underwear and dropped my skirt, fluffing and grooming. The crickets started up again; I’d frightened them into silence. Relief. I was alone.

  I returned to the dance hall, fortified.

  Beth was onstage for the crowning—of course she had been elected Queen—and beside her was Gordon, crowned King Safety. Kathy must have found the paper crowns all on her own. The crown looked silly on Gordon, fastened at the back with a bit of taped newspaper. It was a testament to Beth’s beauty that her own paper crown looked glorious. The two of them held hands and beamed. They were relaxed, more than a little drunk, and gracious with the adoring crowd. I waved at Beth with both hands and she spotted me and smiled more fully, mouthing my name, Milly, and waving with both hands back at me. She pointed at her crown in a jocular manner. Isn’t this a gas?

  I smiled and applauded, and she winked at me but then nestled closer to Gordon.

  When I moved, crumbs of dirt fell from me. If people noticed the trail of soil following me everywhere, they didn’t say so. It was too crowded, they were too drunk. The earth moved both into and out of me. I’m of this place and it’s of me.