Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) (38 page)

I wrote him expressing this concern, but what he wrote back to me was even more mysterious. He informed me that I had a “secret benefactor” and not to worry because it looked like funding would continue until I graduated. Still not convinced it wasn’t him, I decided to take a job during the summer when my class load was lighter (that way I could contribute to my own support). And so I got a reception job at a travel agency just a block or two off campus, and it went so well that they invited me to continue part-time in the fall.

Billie Jean opted to do one more year, getting her master’s degree, which would enable her to teach at the high school level (and since her Prince Charming had yet to show up, she figured she’d better be ready for the long haul). As a result, I wasn’t forced to adjust to a new roommate during my senior year, and I must admit I’d become rather fond of Billie Jean and her sensible, domestic ways.

Somehow, she enticed me to start going to her nondenominational Christian fellowship group that year, and I was surprised to discover a fairly normal group of kids who just wanted to hang out and study the Bible together without going over the deep end. In fact, it seemed we only spent a small amount of time actually studying the Bible. Mostly we just talked and laughed and did ordinary things like bowling and eating pizza. And so I wasn’t too worried.

And I had to admit, the teaching seemed sound and lined up with what I’d been learning myself in my daily Bible reading. It was refreshing to be part of a group where we could talk freely about Jesus without getting all big-eyed and putting on spiritual airs. It was more like knowing Jesus was just an everyday part of an everyday life. And I must say I liked that.

But as a result of this new “social” outlet, I was faced once again with the guy problem. Now, Billie Jean could not for the life of her understand why I perceived this as a problem, and I couldn’t even begin (without going into all my embarrassing history) to explain it to her. And finally one day she just confronted me and asked me quite blatantly if I was, in fact, a lesbian. Her normally plumpish, pink face had become all red and splotchy and I could see that the possibility of my questionable sexuality had given her no small amount of stress and vexation.

I just threw back my head and laughed. “Of course not, Billie Jean!” Then I absolutely howled with laughter. “Good grief, Billie Jean, were you afraid that I had fallen in love with you or something?”

She was totally mortified and actually speechless for a few moments; then she sputtered, “Well, no, no—but I—well, you know, I just didn’t know what to think.” She folded her arms across her chest and scowled. “Think about it from my perspective, Cassandra! First you go on about Billie Jean King and all that women’s lib stuff. And then, here’s this nice Paul Copeland, and he’s just a-calling and calling, and you just keep making up your petty little excuses. Good night, I’d jump at the chance to go out with someone like him.”

“Well, then why don’t you?”

She made a face. “Because he hasn’t asked me, you big nincompoop!”

And so we settled that matter. I was not, and never had been, nor did I want to become, a lesbian. But it did worry me some that she had thought so.

I suppose it was true that I didn’t put much care into my appearance. But I enjoyed wearing jeans and work shirts and overalls, and besides, this kind of clothing fit in well at the art department, where the dress code was definitely casual. But when I took a jewelry class during winter term I made myself some long, dangling earrings that I hoped gave me a more feminine look.

Although I must say I’d never noticed any problem with
guys
thinking I was a lesbian. In fact, it seemed I had no problem attracting guys, probably because I just didn’t care that much and they felt at ease around me. But for the time being I just wanted to be friends. Somehow I knew I wasn’t emotionally ready for anything more. And I explained this to “that nice Paul Copeland” and so we kept things low-keyed and went out for coffee or sodas occasionally, and we even went to a concert and a movie together. But that’s all there was to it as far as I was concerned.

It was during that year, my senior year in college, that Joey all but quit writing. Just a card at Christmas, and then one again at Easter. I kept writing to him (thinking he was just swamped with classes and work) but I slowed it down some when I began to think maybe this was his way of cutting himself free from me. I sure didn’t want to be some kind of ball and chain tied around his one good leg.

But toward the end of the school year (just before my graduation) I decided to send him an announcement (just a little homemade one since I saw no need to send out more than two—one for Elizabeth and one for Joey). I honestly didn’t expect him to come, but I suppose it was just my way of saying, “Hey, look, I did it!” And thanks, of course.

Elizabeth sent me a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses, but to my surprise Joey actually showed up! You could’ve knocked me over with a sneeze when he stopped by my dorm and invited me out for lunch before the ceremony. Unfortunately he said he had to leave right afterwards (to get back to his job on campus) but I was deeply touched that he’d driven all that way just to watch me march down the aisle and pick up my diploma.

We went out for a quick cup of coffee before he had to hit the road, and I told him that I was following my roommate’s example and going for my master’s too. But I explained that I planned to live off-campus next year. (I’d found a cozy studio apartment that didn’t cost any more than my dorm room.) Naturally, I would continue working at the travel agency (full-time during the summer, except for the two-week tour of Europe that I had booked at an incredible rate).

“You’re going to Europe!” he exclaimed as he set down his cup.

“Why, yes,” I stammered, suddenly wondering if he might’ve been, after all, my “secret benefactor.” (And then who else could it have been? Joey had given me some complicated explanation about why he was taking four years to finish law school instead of the usual three, but I was still afraid he might just be working too hard and putting all his extra earnings into my trust fund.)

“That’s great, Cass.” He looked slightly unhappy, though.

Suddenly I felt like I needed to explain what might be perceived as extravagant. “You see, I’ve been putting a little down every month and it was such a great deal that Marsha—the woman who owns the agency—said I couldn’t afford to pass it up and it works well with my art major and—”

“Cass, you don’t have to defend yourself. Really, I think it’s absolutely fantastic. I wish I could go too.”

“Do you think you—”

“No, no… I’m… too busy right now. But maybe someday.”

“I could get you a good deal, Joey.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s about time for me to go, Cass.”

“I wish you could stay.”

He shrugged, then started to stand, arranging his cane to help balance himself, but the look on his face made me wonder if his leg was giving him pain. “Say, I hear that you and Paul Copeland are going out”

“You know Paul Copeland?”

“Yeah, he was a friend of my roommate.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it going out, Joey.”

“Oh, you don’t have to explain anything to me, Cass.” He began walking to the door, but I could sense something was different about him. Almost as if he were hurt or something, but it just didn’t make any sense.

We stood out on the sidewalk for a few minutes. “I’m so proud of you, Cass,” he said, his old smile returning and warming me all over. “I knew you could make it.”

“Not without your help, Joey.” I reached over and touched his arm. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, you’re a survivor, Cass. You always have been. And there’s always been greatness in you. I knew you’d come out on top.”

I could feel a big lump catch in my throat. For some reason this felt like one of those final good-byes—kind of like Bogie and Bergman in
Casablanca
—the ones where you never see that person again, or at least not in the same way. “Joey, I just want you to know that you are the closest thing to family to me.”

He reached out and pulled me into a big hug that felt more intimate than usual. But then he said, “You’ve always been like a sister tome, Cass.”

So, it was a brotherly hug then. Well, I could accept that. But when he finally let go of me I’m sure we both had tears in our eyes, although we didn’t speak of it.

And quite honestly I wasn’t even sure why I felt so broken up, almost forlorn, even. I really didn’t know what was going on inside me. Was it that our lives were finally just going in two separate and totally different directions now, and perhaps this was his way of telling me, “It’s been nice”? Maybe he did have a serious girlfriend back at Harvard, and why not? Or perhaps he had some big, important plans that could never include someone like me. Or perhaps it was just his way of saying that this was the last time he’d be able to simply drop everything and run off to check on poor old Cass again.

And of course I understood completely. I knew better than anyone how Joey had gone above and beyond what any other ordinary friend might’ve done. I’d never expected this much from him, not ever. Still, I could barely see through my tears as his old blue car drove away.

Twenty-nine

T
he funny thing about a rut
is that you never notice exactly when or quite how you got yourself into one. I guess it just starts slowly, but the more you keep going along those same old lines, the deeper your rut becomes until one day you’re just totally entrenched and you begin to wonder if you will ever find your way out again. I think that’s what happened to me after graduating with my master’s degree in art.

Oddly enough I got my first teaching job right back at old Brookdale High—the same school I never graduated from. And to add to the strangeness of that, some of my old teachers were still there—just a-teachin’ away like no time had ever passed. Maybe they were in a rut too, although I’m sure they didn’t think so. I suppose it was just me. And I know I should’ve been thankful that old Mr. Rawlins had decided to retire from teaching art just as I was needing a job, and that my supervisor Bev Jacobs at the university had possessed the foresight to do some checking around for me before graduation time.

But I couldn’t help but think something was wrong about this whole setup right from the get go. Me, back in Brookdale? What would people think? And what if, of all things, my daddy happened to live there and was still working down at Masterson Motors during the week and being the town drunk on the weekend? It would be just too humiliating for words. But as it turned out my daddy was nowhere to be seen in that town, and as far as I knew he hadn’t shown his face around there since the last time he’d gotten himself into such trouble by trying to kill his only daughter.

Aunt Myrtle still lived in town though and had managed to get herself another bank job, which seemed to please her. Not only that, she’d finally found herself a man! His name was Burt Flanders and he owned the Shell station on Main Street. So in some ways my little family was gaining a tiny bit of respectability (although I’m sure that lots of folks still whispered when they saw me or my aunt passing by).

It’s not like Aunt Myrtle and I had become all warm and cozy living there in the same town together, but at least we were on speaking terms now, and I didn’t mind driving into the Shell station when it was time to fill up my little Datsun, because I liked Burt just fine. In some ways I was even a little bit worried for him, afraid that he might be just a little too good for my aunt, but he didn’t seem to mind her somewhat prickly and persnickety nature. And I think they were happy, in their own way. I was only up to their house a couple of times, but when I was there they both treated me just fine. And my aunt even dug out another photo of my mother for me to keep. It looked just exactly like the other one, and yet something seemed different too. Or maybe it was me that had changed. She’d found the photo tucked away in my grandma’s things—things I never really got to look at much or handle.

Aunt Myrtle seemed to be protecting them from something, keeping them all shut up in an old trunk that she kept shoved into a corner of the back bedroom. Now, if they’d been my things I’d have taken them out and enjoyed them some. But as it was Aunt Myrtle never gave me the option.

Sometimes I’d go over and visit Mrs. Divers. I knew she’d had some serious health problems and didn’t get out much anymore, so I’d take her some flowers from my garden or some sort of homemade goody I’d whipped up. I suppose I felt I owed her my eternal gratitude for that time she’d forwarded that strange-looking letter I’d sent from the Funny Farm on to Joey. She could so easily have thrown it away.

We’d sit there in her front room and just visit a spell, and I started to realize she really was a very nice woman. Surprisingly, she seemed to actually like me now that I was a grown-up and not leading her son astray and getting into trouble all the time. And after the first couple times, she even learned not to inquire about my family (or rather my daddy). I’m sure she hadn’t meant any harm by it, probably just being social and friendly and all, but I did not appreciate anyone bringing up my daddy to me, and I never attempted to hide my feelings about this either. And so in time she caught on.