Alexandra Waring (12 page)

“Whaaa?” Jackson finally said, evidently finding this unbelievable. “You can’t be serious.
Strenn?
You think Alexandra should marry Strenn?”

“Yes, I do,” Cassy said, feeling her face getting warm.

“So much for your opinion,” he said, sounding annoyed.

“As glamorous as it might seem,” Cassy said sharply, “being the husband of an anchorwoman is not particularly easy, and not particularly fun a lot of the time, Mr. Darenbrook. It can be very lonely and very trying, and it certainly makes demands on a husband that few human beings under any circumstances would be willing to consider. So take the five percent high of being married to a celebrity and add the ninety-five percent of loneliness and worry and anger and jealousy that can come with any expectations of having a ‘normal’ wife, if there is such a thing—and
if
you do that, Mr. Darenbrook, really look at what such a marriage takes, then you’ll see what an unusual man it requires to make a go of it. And that’s Gordon. Besides,” she added, feeling surprisingly angry at this point, “he’s a very wonderful person.”

“Are you finished, Mrs. Cochran?” he said. He was angry too.

“Yes,” she said.

“Good,” he said, slapping the sofa and standing up. “Then if you want this job we have to agree here and now that you and I will never discuss the topic of Alexandra and Strenn again. Agreed?”

“Fine,’” she said, quickly standing up too.

“Fine!” he repeated. He was frowning at her, a little red in the face. And then, still in a half shout, he said, “So do you want the goddam job or not?”

“Yes,” she said.

He looked at ‘her. “What?” he said, the wind leaving his sails.

“Yes,” she repeated, starting to smile.

“You’re kidding,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

“Huh,” he said. “Huh,” he repeated, sticking his hands in his pockets, looking at her for a long moment. Then he smiled and said, quietly, “You’re very protective of Alexandra—I like that. Because she’s going to need a lot of support—and guidance. Lang doesn’t know what he’s doing. I mean, he does about the numbers, but Alexandra needs someone who can run with her but who can also slow her down.”

Cassy nodded. “Exactly.”

“I’m not a fool,” he told her. “She’s absolutely first rate, all the way, absolutely all-star material, but she’s still real”—he winced—”young.”

Cassy nodded again.

He leaned close to whisper, “I also think Langley needs someone to explain some of the affiliate stuff to him. We’ve got this guy Deeter Page recruiting—who could sell manure to pigs, mind you—but I’d appreciate it if you could look into it. Give Langley your opinion on some of these deals.”

Cassy nodded. “We’ve already discussed it. He asked me himself.”

“Great,” Jackson said, nodding, smiling, looking at her. After a moment he stuck out his hand again. “Welcome to the DBS television network, Mrs. Cochran.”

She took his hand. “Thank you. It’s good to be here.”

“Yea team!” he cried then, nearly yanking her off her feet, pulling her over to the door. He threw it open, calling, “Make way for the president of DBS News!” and Ethel and Randy and Claire all stood up at their desks and cheered.

It was at that moment that Cassy had a twinge of conscience. There was a slight complication involved in her coming to DBS that she had failed to mention, a complication, however, that apparently—after thorough discussions with the other party involved—existed only in her own head, and maybe—just a little bit—in her own heart.

The complication was that before Michael stopped drinking, Cassy had had an affair with someone who was now working at DBS.

Cassy had had an affair with Alexandra Waring.

6
Jackson’s Contemplation of Alexandra
Grows More Serious

The day Cassy Cochran accepted the job as president of DBS News was the day the walls of West End began to hum. Not since Jackson had announced the revitalization of the printing plant in Cahill, Tennessee (instead of closing it), had he seen such high spirits in a Darenbrook facility. It was the excitement that came with the expectation of something wonderful about to happen, and the excitement was contagious, passing from one employee to another, and it all started with Alexandra.

The hiring of Cassy Cochran seemed to give Alexandra the confirmation she needed. She was supremely confident about the endeavor now, everybody could plainly see that, as she dashed about West End, welcoming new DBS News employees and dragging them around with her; running in and out of the newsroom twenty times a day (and night), popping into the engineering and satellite rooms for ad hoc tutoring by Dr. Kessler’s people; running in and out of everywhere—film, audio, editing, graphics, Studio A, the control room—checking on everything’s progress; and with her every smile, her every “This is wonderful—you’ve done a wonderful job!” spirits rose higher and smiles grew wider and everywhere in the complex hearts started to beat a little faster.

They were all falling for her, Jackson knew, the whole darn complex was. Falling for Alexandra, this whirlwind of grace and glamour operating out of Darenbrook III. For many of the employees at West End, she was, after all, the first celebrity they had ever worked around besides Jackson himself. And although this small-scale demonstration of Alexandra’s star quality pleased Jackson, he couldn’t help but feel a little twinge when he walked the halls with her and employees would say, “Oh, hi, Mr. Darenbrook,” while smiling like dopey dill-docks, eyes never even leaving Alexandra to look at him.

But how could anyone be indifferent to such an extraordinary young woman as Alexandra? She was talented and fantastic-looking, and was so happy, it was impossible not to feel the same way around her. Add her energy and brains and power and celebrity and million-and-a-half-dollar salary, and who stood a chance? But people genuinely seemed to
like
her, because Alexandra was… well, she was kind. Yes. She was warm and kind. And when she paid attention to someone, that someone felt as though they were the most important person in the world—and that someone could be the custodian sweeping up in the newsroom as easily as it could be Jackson himself.

When Cordelia came down with the flu and Belinda said she didn’t feel up to it, Alexandra agreed to fly down with Jackson and fill in as mistress of ceremonies at the annual Darenbrook Communications retirement dinner in Richmond. As the Richmond
Daily Sun
wrote in its coverage of the event (an issue of the paper Jackson went to extraordinary lengths to keep from Cordelia):

Alexandra Waring stood in as the first lady of Darenbrook Communications and handed each retiree his or her gift as they left the dais. Herbert Maclavitch, retiring after 45 years on the printing shop floor, said, “I felt very honored. There hasn’t been a classier lady up there since Barbara Darenbrook or Alice May herself.”

Jackson did not dwell on that comparison, though it had not escaped his notice that night either. That Alexandra, like his late wife, Barbara, seemed made for company-family celebrations like these. These people and the years of their hard work meant something to Alexandra; she had a kind of appreciation and sincerity that was heartfelt and everybody knew it. Behind the glitz and glamour, this was a young woman who had been brought up to respect hard, honest work.

Yes, Barbara had had that too. And in these parts, Barbara’s home stomping ground of Richmond, she had become something of a legend. And so a comparison to her was not something to be taken lightly.

Jackson had first met Barbara in 1966, when he was twenty-five, while revamping the Richmond
Daily Sun
(as an excuse, really, to get out of Hilleanderville). He met her on the elevator, helping her with this huge portfolio (with which she had whacked the operator in the face on her way in), and she told him she had just arrived home from Smith College and was on her way to interview for an art director’s job. By the time they got off the elevator Barbara Bennett was the art director.

Barbara had a wonderful body, a glorious smile and the gift of laughter and was the most horrible art director anyone—including herself—had ever seen. “I really think you should fire me,” she told Jackson after a week. “Another couple of days and I’m afraid I’m really going to do all these nice people in.” So he fired her and the next year married her.

His family at first disliked her, mainly because Little El and the twins didn’t like anybody, and Daddy and Cordelia and Belinda and Beau were upset that Barbara refused to marry Jackson until he swore they would never live in Hilleanderville. And so Jackson moved corporate headquarters to Richmond, he and Barbara built a house outside the city, and an airstrip as well, and many mornings Barbara flew Jackson to work in anyone of seven Southern states. After Beau and his boyfriend, Tiger, moved to Southern California; and Belinda came up to school in Virginia and married Langley Peterson; and Cordelia and Daddy realized they saw more of Jackie Andy and Barbara than anybody else in the family, those four came to love Barbara very, very much—especially after Lydia and Kevin were born.

Barbara was more than wife; Barbara had been Jackson’s partner in every facet of his life. She was extremely good at straightening out Jackson’s thinking and helping him to focus on what he was doing instead of getting distracted all the time. And she listened well, had a knack for managing things—straightening out complicated problems—and she believed in her husband a hundred percent. And then some. Because she was apt to push him, too, just as she was apt to kick him in the pants when she thought he was being a jerk. They fought and they made up—which was the best part since the Darenbrook marriage possessed the peculiar phenomenon of their sex life seeming only to grow more complete with each passing year of their marriage.

Lydia had been eleven and Kevin had been nine “that” summer of 1981. They were both on the swim team at the country club and so Barbara and Jackson had been recruited to participate in the Parents’ Funny Dive Contest at the club’s end-of-season Labor Day festivities.

It had been one hundred and two degrees that day, at one o’clock, and all of the kids had been gathered around the deep end of the L-shaped Olympic-size pool, pouring bathing caps of water over themselves to cool off in the sun. Jackson had opened the competition in round one with a belly flop of perfect execution and had received a score of 14 from the judges out of a possible 30. Barbara had gone next—she was infinitely more gymnastically inclined than her husband—and had executed a front flip with a can-opener ending that sent water shooting into the crowd. She had received a 27. (“I bet if I looked like that in a bathing suit,” Jackson had yelled at the three male lifeguards who were the judges, “I bet I’d get a 27 too.”)

By round four, Barbara was leading all of the parents by a disgraceful 31 points. In this last round of diving, each parent had to involve a large inner tube in their dive somehow. Jackson tried to dive through the thing but missed it entirely, and the wake of his dive sent the inner tube drifting out. Instead of waiting for someone to bring the inner tube back into place, Barbara leaped onto the board, concentrated for a moment, and then took a running start, bounded off the end of the board, and sailed way up and then out—arching through the air, stretching, reaching—and then breaking suddenly to swoop down—swish—through the inner tube, feet together, toes pointed, barely a splash behind her. The crowd went crazy.

But Barbara did not come shooting back up out of the water like she always did. Instead, her body was listless under the water, ever so slowly drifting up toward the surface. Jackson and one of the lifeguards dove in at the same time and within seconds had brought Barbara up to the side of the pool and were lifting her to the hands waiting there. She was gently lowered onto the cement and Hugh Wilson, a doctor, was right there, leaning over her. Jackson pulled himself out of the pool and, with water still flooding down from him, he saw Hugh look back at him over his shoulder.

“Jack, I’m sorry,” he said, holding his arm out for him to stay back, “there’s nothing we can do.”

She was dead.

Barbara was dead. Just like that. Gone.

Jackson had pushed Hugh out of the way and was trying to give Barbara mouth-to-mouth and everyone was screaming and Hugh was saying to him, “It’s her neck, Jack, it’s broken, she’s dead, she’s gone, you can’t—” and he heard him but he couldn’t give up.
Oh, God, Barbara, oh, God, Barbara, you can’t do this, honey, you can’t die, oh, God, Barbara, honey, you have to wake up now, you have to sit up and wave to the kids so they know it’s okay, that you’re okay, but you gotta do it now, honey, please, honey, oh, God, oh God, You can’t do this. Come back, honey, oh, God help her to come back because the kids
—
because the kids…
and he had started to sob, curling up next to her, clinging to her shoulder, screaming in his head,
Barbara, Barbara, Barbara, please, come back…

Just one of those freak pool accidents, he was told. She had gone out too far, to where the pool bottom started climbing toward the swimming lanes. She thought she had deeper water, had let her arms fall back as she streaked down through the water. Cracked her head on the bottom, snapping her neck. Her death was instant, painless. Perhaps better this way, Jack. Would have been paralyzed for sure. Brain damage. You know. And you know how Barbara was.

Yeah. He knew how Barbara was.

He buried his wife in Richmond, of course. And every day for three weeks after the funeral he went to the cemetery and stared at the first two lines on the headstone:

Barbara Hale Bennett Darenbrook
1943—1981

and he would wonder what was going on, when this awful dream would stop. He didn’t understand what had happened, why the whole world had suddenly stopped. He didn’t know why everyone was so sad and why the dog was acting funny and the kids were having nightmares and why
…
why
…

One night, when everything was beginning to sink in, Jackson slumped over the kitchen table, sobbing, asking Barbara over and over again what he was supposed to do. And then it was very strange, because it was about two in the morning and the phone rang. And it was Laurie, Barbara’s sister, who said she had awakened suddenly and had been scared that something had happened—was Jackson all right?

Laurie and her husband, Hal, came over that night and Jackson had sat there, sobbing so uncontrollably that the children woke up and were frightened, and so Hal took them over to his house. And then Langley and Belinda were there with Laurie, and still he was sobbing, holding his face in his hands, telling them he couldn’t stand being in this house, that he couldn’t—he couldn’t bear looking at the kids. He didn’t know what to say to them, he didn’t know how to make it better, how to make all the pain go away for them, because they missed their mother and they wanted their mother but she was gone forever. And then he fell into Belinda’s lap, begging her to tell him how to make the pain go away—she knew, didn’t she? Didn’t she remember when Mama died, how awful it was? Couldn’t she tell him what he was supposed to do?

“I want to die too,” he cried as his sister rocked him, holding his head against her, crying too, “I want to go with her. I want to take her to see Mama so she has someone to talk to. Belinda, help me, help me—oh, God, let me die so I can go with her. I don’t want her to be alone.”

He had gone home to the Mendolyn Street house in Hilleanderville. He moved into his old bedroom he had as a kid, up on the third floor, next to Beau’s old room, and stayed there for almost a year with Cordelia watching over him—making him get up, exercise, eat, go down to the Atlanta
Parader
and do some work—while Laurie and Hal took care of Lydia and Kevin, and Langley took care of Darenbrook Communications. Jackson never went back to the house in Richmond. He sold it and, as it turned out, Lydia and Kevin never lived with him again—not that Jackson ever bought another house, or even an apartment, for them to live with him in.

Jackson could not even pretend he wanted to try a home life again. He just couldn’t. And so Laurie and Hal raised his children. As for him, his only hope, he thought, was noise. Distraction. Color. Lights. Action, travel, noise—oh, God, more than anything, he needed noise to drown out the echo of yesterday’s satisfactions, of yesterday’s contentment.
Anything
to get rid of that horrible ache, that longing, those dreams of Barbara coming back.

So Jackson had taken to women. Women in the sense that one might view a painkilling drug, which did not actually get rid of the pain but could prevent the body from registering it. And he bought a new company jet and used it at the slightest excuse, flying to business meetings, flying to pro football games, flying to go out on dates, or flying to play shortstop on one of the newspaper’s softball teams. He was always on the move, always with a different woman, and somehow, between the women and the constant travel, life became bearable to him again—very different, hardly full, but bearable.