Cassandra's Plan Ch. 05

Lauren Oxley / July 14, 1984, 10:47 p.m.

"Would you like to come up for a drink?"

Jake seems hesitant. It's like he's almost afraid to get out of the taxi. He must be the first shy man I've ever met in New York. Except for David, that is, and he doesn't count.

"Sure, I guess so." He hastily pays the cab driver and scrambles clumsily out.

"It's still early," I say. "I just thought we could talk a little more. That restaurant was so noisy."

I shouldn't have said that. He takes it the wrong way. "Oh, Lauren, I'm sorry for taking you there. I didn't know it'd be like that. It's just that I really like the food . . ."

I turn to him and smile as warmly as I can. "I know, Jake. The food was really good. It was great. It was just a little noisy."

He retreats into silence as I take his hand and lead him into the building.

My place is on the third floor and there's no elevator. It's your typical New York shoebox apartment. Two rooms, each of which are probably smaller than the bathroom in my parents' house in Indiana. I don't even know how I ended up here. The Village gets pretty noisy on weekends, too.

I sit him down on the couch and ask him what he wants. I hope to God he doesn't say a diet Coke, and I'm relieved to find he wants a little whiskey. He must have noticed the bottles on the cabinet in the kitchen—which, by the way, is also the living room.

I pour him one and pour one for myself.

I remember back a month ago, when I got his letter in the mail, responding to my personal ad. It was sweet. But then, he didn't have much competition. He didn't come out and say he wanted to fuck me, didn't say how much money he had (or how he had no money because he was divorced and paying alimony and child support and God knows what else), didn't say that I'd be doing myself a favor by seeing him, didn't say how many beautiful women he'd gone out with in the past, and didn't say he just wanted to be friends.

He's still shy, but he was really shy when we first met. It was a coffee shop—Dean & DeLuca, on University Place. It was nice of him to have come all the way from the Upper West Side to my area, since all I had to do was walk up from my office at NYU. I think he knew I lived down here, and I'm sure he wasn't fishing for an invitation to go back here after that first date. He probably would have been petrified at the idea. Amazing to find an otherwise fairly normal man in his late twenties in New York being so shy.

I sit down next to him, although leaving a little gap on the couch so he doesn't feel uncomfortable. "I've had a very nice time tonight," I say.

"So have I," and he sips his drink daintily.

"You know, I haven't seen very many men lately. And certainly not more than once."

"No, I haven't either." Then he almost blubbers in confusion. "I mean—I mean I haven't seen many women either." He looks fixedly at his drink.

I have to smile. I want to throw my arms around him, he's so cute, but I'm afraid he'll have a heart attack. I hope he drinks up; maybe that will calm him down a bit.

I wish I could just tell him that I really don't expect him to seduce me right on the spot. If it happens, fine; if not, maybe next time. I hope there will be plenty of next times.

I move just a little closer—almost imperceptibly so. I place my hand on his arm. "Jake, you're a real sweetheart. I feel very comfortable with you."

"And I do with you." He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. It's probably the best he can manage right now.

"I'm surprised someone hasn't snapped you up."

He looks back at his drink. "Oh, I'm not much. I told you about Jennie, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. We all go through bad things like that." I haven't told him about David—not the whole story, anyway. And I certainly haven't told him about some other things.

His drink is finished. I take it out of his hand and put it on the floor. I put mine down too. I guess it's now or never.

I take his face in my hands and kiss him gently on the lips. He squirms a little at first, then is still. But his arms still hang at his sides.

I stop kissing him and look right at him, smiling. "That was sweet. You're sweet. Do you want some more?"

He looks a little scared, but nods eagerly.

I kiss him some more. Finally his hands go around me, still rather hesitatingly. He places his hands on my back so that they don't make even the least contact with my bra, even through my dress. What a sweetie.

I don't really know how I'm supposed to let him know how I want him to continue. I have my arms wrapped tightly around his neck, and after a long kiss I nestle my head on his shoulder, every now and then softly kissing his neck. But his hands just kind of knead my back as if he's giving me a massage.

I figure I have to take the bull by the horns. I say: "Please unzip me."

He looks at me as if he didn't understand what I said, so I say again, "Please."

He fumbles at the zipper and finally gets it to go down. I have to release my arms from around his neck to let the dress fall to my waist. I look right at him and say softly: "Take my bra off."

It seems to take him forever to undo the hooks, and his face gets almost contorted with concentration, but finally he manages it. I slip out of the bra.

He looks down at my breasts in a kind of reverential wonderment. I stand up and let the dress fall to my feet.

I hope I can go through with this. I don't want to ruin it. This is the closest I've come in a long time.

I sit back down on the couch and say, "Let's make you more comfortable." I take his sport jacket off, then his polo shirt—it's a little damp from sweat. He doesn't have much chest hair, and he seems very pale, but it sets off his dark hair nicely. Now the test.

"Please stand up, sweetie," I say.

He does so a little mechanically. He's looking down at me, alternately at my face and at my breasts. My panties are still on, but takes a peek there also—almost covertly, as he if doesn't want me to notice, but I do. I always do. I don't know how men can think we don't notice.

I start unbuckling his belt. My hands shake a little, but I clench my teeth and the shaking stops. Then I undo his pants—first a button at the top, then the zipper. They fall to his ankles. He's hard.

I bring his briefs down to his ankles.

Oh, no! Please, no! Please don't let this happen—not to me, not to Jake, he's such a sweetheart. But it's happening.

I try to take his cock in my mouth, but I'm now trembling so much I can't even see it clearly. I can't touch it. I try to force myself, but I just can't do it. I utter a kind of strangled cry and fling myself away to the end of the couch.

He's standing there, clothes at his feet, his cock hanging in mid-air, with a look of dazed confusion on his face. He can't even say anything except, "What . . . what . . .?"

I leap up and throw my arms around him—from the side, so I don't touch his cock. "Oh, Jake, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please forgive me . . ." I'm crying and sobbing now, and can hardly breathe.

He's still so confused that he can't even put his arms around me. It's like he's torn between trying to comfort me and concealing his nakedness, which now seems to embarrass him horribly. Finally he puts one arm around me; with his other hand he covers his member, which is rapidly wilting.

"What's the matter?" he manages to say. "Did I do something . . .?"

"No, no, it's not you," I almost cough between sobs. "Not you. Me. Me!"

That doesn't seem to help him, and his look of confusion returns. "But why? What . . .?"

"Oh, God, I just can't explain it!" I shriek as I fly out of the room and rush into my bedroom, slamming the door.

I'm lying there crying on the bed. I can hear him putting his clothes on. Then silence for a time. Finally a timid knock on my door. "Lauren? Are you all right? Maybe I'd better go."

"Wait."

I hastily fish out a robe from the closet and tie it around me. My hands are still shaking, but I grasp the knob and walk out of the room.

He's fully dressed and looking at the floor. He seems itching to get to the front door and bolt out of the place. I have to try to do something.

"Jake . . . sweetie . . . I'm really sorry. I just got an attack of nerves or something. I don't know what came over me. You're such a nice man. Please forgive me. Okay?"

He still looks at the floor but says, "Okay." A momentary pause. "I'd better go."

"Please, let's talk in a day or two. I want to see you again."

"Okay." I know he doesn't mean it.

He walks out, closing the door quietly.

I know I'll never hear from him again.

Cassandra Phillips / September 29, 1984, 7:14 p.m.

"Darling, are you ready?"

"Not just yet." He sounds a little testy.

I walk into the dressing room. He's fiddling with the bow tie. "Darling, why don't you just get Jenyns to put that on you?"

He glares at me. Really, he's such a child sometimes.

I glare right back at him, although I'm smiling. "Shall I get him?"

He stops fiddling. "Sure," he says, a little petulantly.

Jenyns—who always manages these affairs from behind the scenes—comes in without my having to call him: he's like that. He immediately ties the bow tie just right. I look at both men, realizing I love them both in very different ways.

"Come on, dear, we'll be late." I take his arm.

The ballroom is already filled. It seems the tradition of being fashionably late is giving way. And why not? The main event is going to come early: those Brazilian dancers we hired need to leave by ten, for some reason.

As we arrive, I place David in the company of my old friends the Warwicks and say, "Darling, I have to check something. I'll be back in two shakes."

I leave him and go to the band that's setting up. I can't exactly tell who the leader is—they're all dressed pretty much the same, in very colorful loose-fitting outfits—but just speak to someone at random. "Do you think you can start at 8:30?"

Someone I wasn't speaking to turns around and nods. "Yeah, lady. Is okay."

"Fine. And the dancers . . ."

"They're coming too. Getting dressed. Don' you worry."

"All right. I won't."

I go back to David. I pull him away from the Warwicks and head to our table. Of course, we're right in the front row of the big circle of tables on the dance floor. We're going to have a good view. And we should—we paid enough for this shindig.

Right at 8:30 the dancers rush into the floor in a big flourish. They look wonderful. The women have flared skirts and loose blouses, the men baggy, loose-fitting pants and shirts that balloon out when they whirl around. It's all an enchanting splash of color.

For the next hour and a half they regale the guests with divine dancing: in pairs, in a quartet, and sometimes all eight together in complex but always breathtakingly rapid and acrobatic maneuvers. They're really good. The band is pretty good, too—maybe more loud than they are good. But it all creates an unbelievably exhilarating intoxication—more so than the drinks I keep having. I'm itching to get out on to that floor.

Finally the dancers finish and rush away to a thunderous applause. The musicians leave too, more's the pity, and are replaced by a rather more sedate four-piece band. But the moment they start I leap up from the table and grab David's arm. "Come on, darling, let's dance!"

He holds back like a shy schoolboy. "No, darling, not just yet."

I look fixedly at him. "David, we're the hosts of this thing. We have to take the lead. My parents aren't going to start; we have to."

With rather bad grace he gets up and accompanies me on to the floor. This is the cue for several other couples to come out, which seems to put David a little more at his ease. The tempo of the dance number is a little slow for my taste, but at this point I don't care: I just want to move.

David steps on my toes every so often, but otherwise he does pretty well. He's learning, slowly. He'd do better if he'd just put a little more effort into it and not be scared. He seems so afraid of making a fool of himself, but you can't have that attitude when you're dancing.

I decide to give him a rest after the second number, even though I just want to keep on. He's already sweating, however. We sit down and order more drinks—non-alcoholic this time. I look around the room. Everyone seems to be having a good time.

After a couple more numbers, I hear a song I've been waiting all evening to hear: "Summer Breeze." How we all loved that song when we were teenagers! Those lovely lyrics—didn't make much sense, but they had pretty words like "jasmine" in them.

I leap up and cry out, "Oh, David, 'Summer Breeze'! Come on, let's dance!"

He holds back again in a reprise of his schoolboy routine. God, this is getting really tiresome. What's the matter with him? Can't he feel the rhythm in that song? How can anyone not want to just get up and dance?

I repeat: "David, come on! I want to dance!"

But he looks as if he's glued to the chair. He has this weird, frightened look on his face. What a baby he is! He manages to croak: "Cassandra, please . . . please go with someone else. I can't . . . Please, dance with someone else."

I don't believe what I'm hearing. I look down at him to try to figure out what he could possibly be thinking, but his head is now bowed and he won't look at me. He's hopeless. Well, I'm not going to waste time arguing while the number is playing. I scan the room and find my old high-school friend John Paton, sitting there with his lump of a wife, Marion. She doesn't like dancing, either. John's a sap, but he's at least a good dancer. I look one last time at David, realize he's not going to budge, then go to John.

I don't even want to think about the rest of the evening. David says next to nothing to me; can scarcely stand to look at me. By the time we're in the taxi I'm blazing with anger. He's ruined the evening!—or at least he could have made it a lot better if he didn't sit there and sulk like a two-year-old. Okay, so David doesn't like dancing much—but it's only because he hasn't really tried it. He never puts any effort into it, he's always so scared. Scared to make a fool of himself. But you can't think that way if you're going to dance. You just have to let yourself go—get comfortable with your body. The only kind of dancing David's good at is the horizontal kind.

He's such a child sometimes. Never wants to try new things, just stuck in his rut, banging away on that typewriter all day. Oh, he does damn good work and I'm proud of him, but he needs to be a little more well-rounded. I try to get him to come out of his shell, but he's so recalcitrant. He doesn't seem to realize that I have his best interests at heart. It's been a good marriage, and I do love him, and I'm sure he loves me; but there's something not quite right.

I just wish held take my advice sometimes.

David Phillips / September 29, 1984, 7:14 p.m.

"Darling, are you ready?"

God, how that irritates me. Why is she so impatient? "Not just yet."

She stalks into the dressing room while I'm trying to knot this stupid bow tie. Why do people ever wear bow ties, anyway?

I know what's coming: "Darling, why don't you just get Jenyns to put that on you?"

I glare at her. She can be such a bitch sometimes.

She has this superior smirk on her face. "Shall I get him?"

I give up the tie as a hopeless proposition. "Sure."

Jenyns appears as if by magic. Maybe he was listening in the hallway. He immediately ties the bow tie just right, as I stand in front of him like a little boy. I try to avoid looking into his eyes. Cassandra stands gazing like a benevolent mother at both of us.

"Come on, dear, we'll be late." I rather wish we would be, but she takes my arm and marches off.

The ballroom already seems to have an appalling number of people in it. How are they all going to fit? A bunch of musicians are setting up off to one side. It's a weird mix: electric guitars, xylophone, marimba, and various wooden percussion instruments whose names I don't even know. Well, at least my actual participation may be postponed for a while.

Cassandra guides me to a small knot of people talking to themselves. I scarcely remember who they are. They greet Cassandra warmly but look at me as if they don't quite know what I'm doing there next to her.

To my alarm she lets go of my arm and says, "Darling, I have to check something. I'll be back in two shakes."

I give her this almost yearning look not to leave me, but she doesn't notice. So I'm left with these people. I look at each one in turn, trying to dredge up some memory of who they are.

An elderly man grips my hand and says, "How are you, David?"

"I'm fine." What else can I say?

"Looking after our Cassandra, I hope?"

"As best I can."

"That's all anyone can do, isn't it?"

"I guess so."

After that scintillating exchange he turns back to his own people and begins talking softly to the elderly lady next to him. No one else makes any effort to talk to me.

Finally Cassandra comes back and rescues me. I never thought I'd be so relieved to see her. She leads me to a table in the front row of a big circle of tables on the dance floor. Her parents have already sat down in the table next to ours; I nod to them with attempted cordiality, and they nod back—dutifully, it seems.

The dancers rush on at about 8:30—eight of them, four men and four women. Their costumes are superb. They immediately begin a variety of dances—extraordinarily complex ones, it seems to me. I haven't the faintest idea how people learn all the steps and whirls and other motions required by these numbers. It's not something I would want to do, but I'm overwhelmed by their expertise. They're really good.

The band I could have done without. It's not that they aren't good—but they're so damn noisy that I get a headache after half an hour. During the very brief breaks between numbers I still seem to hear the chords and drums throbbing in my head. I'm getting a little dizzy—thanks in no small part to the abundant drinks and the rather skimpy solid food being served at this affair.

Cassandra is wriggling rhythmically in her chair. She hardly gives me a glance; in fact, she seems hypnotized by the dancers. After they leave at ten to tremendous applause, another band—a more orthodox one—takes the place of the Latin musicians. At once Cassandra tugs my sleeve and cries, "Come on, darling, let's dance!"

I'm petrified at the thought of dancing in that huge space all by ourselves. I've told Cassandra repeatedly that I'm not a dancer, that I don't like dancing, but she doesn't listen. I don't know whether she feels that going to dance parties—or, as here, putting them on—is necessary to maintain her social standing; but whatever it is, I wish she'd somehow leave me out of it.

She's not going to take no for an answer. "David, we're the hosts of this thing. We have to take the lead. My parents aren't going to start; we have to."

I seem to have no choice, so I get up and go out on to the floor. Maybe if I delay a little, other couples will come out and join us. I'm relieved to see they're doing just that. I'm also grateful that the tempo of the number is slow—at least slower than the tarantella-rhythm of that Brazilian stuff.

As I expected, I'm a klutz and step on Cassandra's toes every so often; after a while I even stop saying "Sorry." By the second number I'm so wrought up that I seem to be sweating at every pore. I look pleadingly at her after the second number, and she decides to give me a reprieve and sit down. Some drinks—non-alcoholic this time, thank God—are placed in front of us. Cassandra looks around the room rather regally, as if surveying her domain.