garages—exempt or entitle her in some way? She didn’t think so.
Cass slung her gym bag over her shoulder and hopped aboard a southbound train to the SoHo neighborhood that had long ago flung its luminous membrane around her and snuggled her to its forbearing self. She had moved from her parents’ Upper East Side apartment after dropping out of NYU her sophomore year, desperate for another life entirely, for a full retreat from the thing that had so disfigured her sense of self. It was along the byways around propriety and protocol that she’d found others like her, the damaged ones who’d redefined themselves within no one else’s parameters.
From SoHo to Greenwich Village, Cass had gathered a new family about her—the poets who resonated from barstools in smoky bistros; the playwrights who clung to all-night cafés, tapping out their souls in dialogue no one might ever hear; the artists who filled studios and galleries with the images that cavorted inside them, set free in the shapes and colors of abandon. At the long, crude farmer’s table in her apartment, she had delighted in nurturing those even needier than herself. She had fed out-of-work actors and stage hands, mimes and musicians. And one polygamous airline pilot.
Cass had met Everett Biggs in a karate class four years ago. He was almost ten years older than she. One night, he hung around after class long enough to engage her in conversation. He’d been intrigued by her theatrical habitat, and she, in turn, had welcomed his tales of world travel. The ensuing courtship had been swift and blinding, Cass would later admit. It took only three months for him to produce an engagement ring. A month later, they stood before a chaplain in Hudson River Park and proclaimed their undying love for each other, though Cass had no idea the chaplain was as fraudulent as the groom. The nuptials were witnessed by a few of Cass’s bohemian and Broadway friends, dressed in the artful wilds of unrestrained fashion, and the recently widowed Jillian Rodino in a Dior suit with matching pumps and handbag.
Everett had moved into Cass’s loft with little more than some pricey clothes , pilot uniforms, toiletries, a laptop, and an old StairMaster. Just months later, he fled her wrath and threats to file charges, which she never did. Some rancid little voice had surfaced within and convinced her that even such egregious betrayal was deserved.
Slogging from the subway through a torrent of rain, Cass decided against the gym that evening and headed straight home. The thought of curling onto one of her overstuffed sofas with hot clove tea and a book was far more appealing. But the likelihood of that peaceful respite ended when she reached her door and found Jordan emerging quickly through his. “Go in and lock the door,” he ordered. “And don’t open it for anyone. I’ll be back.” She was still staring after him when he entered the elevator down the hall.
Is this a joke? But she did as he said, then went to her living-room window and looked down into the street. In a moment, she watched him exit the front of the building, pull the hood of his slicker over his head, and take off down the sidewalk, now filling with after-work pedestrians and their bobbing umbrellas. When he turned the corner, she shrank back from the window and looked about the loft. Everything was in place, as clean and neatly arranged as it always was. No matter how disarrayed the rest of her life might be, her home was always in order, even the jungle upstairs.
She headed there now to shed her wet clothes and slip on warm sweats and socks, pausing every few moments to listen for Jordan. What had happened? She wondered if there’d been trouble with one of her tenants. Her tenants. She’d never grown comfortable with the notion of being anyone’s landlord. It must have amused Nicholas Rodino to leave such responsibility to his runaway daughter, but she was surprised he’d left anything at all to her. She
Cass slung her gym bag over her shoulder and hopped aboard a southbound train to the SoHo neighborhood that had long ago flung its luminous membrane around her and snuggled her to its forbearing self. She had moved from her parents’ Upper East Side apartment after dropping out of NYU her sophomore year, desperate for another life entirely, for a full retreat from the thing that had so disfigured her sense of self. It was along the byways around propriety and protocol that she’d found others like her, the damaged ones who’d redefined themselves within no one else’s parameters.
From SoHo to Greenwich Village, Cass had gathered a new family about her—the poets who resonated from barstools in smoky bistros; the playwrights who clung to all-night cafés, tapping out their souls in dialogue no one might ever hear; the artists who filled studios and galleries with the images that cavorted inside them, set free in the shapes and colors of abandon. At the long, crude farmer’s table in her apartment, she had delighted in nurturing those even needier than herself. She had fed out-of-work actors and stage hands, mimes and musicians. And one polygamous airline pilot.
Cass had met Everett Biggs in a karate class four years ago. He was almost ten years older than she. One night, he hung around after class long enough to engage her in conversation. He’d been intrigued by her theatrical habitat, and she, in turn, had welcomed his tales of world travel. The ensuing courtship had been swift and blinding, Cass would later admit. It took only three months for him to produce an engagement ring. A month later, they stood before a chaplain in Hudson River Park and proclaimed their undying love for each other, though Cass had no idea the chaplain was as fraudulent as the groom. The nuptials were witnessed by a few of Cass’s bohemian and Broadway friends, dressed in the artful wilds of unrestrained fashion, and the recently widowed Jillian Rodino in a Dior suit with matching pumps and handbag.
Everett had moved into Cass’s loft with little more than some pricey clothes , pilot uniforms, toiletries, a laptop, and an old StairMaster. Just months later, he fled her wrath and threats to file charges, which she never did. Some rancid little voice had surfaced within and convinced her that even such egregious betrayal was deserved.
Slogging from the subway through a torrent of rain, Cass decided against the gym that evening and headed straight home. The thought of curling onto one of her overstuffed sofas with hot clove tea and a book was far more appealing. But the likelihood of that peaceful respite ended when she reached her door and found Jordan emerging quickly through his. “Go in and lock the door,” he ordered. “And don’t open it for anyone. I’ll be back.” She was still staring after him when he entered the elevator down the hall.
Is this a joke? But she did as he said, then went to her living-room window and looked down into the street. In a moment, she watched him exit the front of the building, pull the hood of his slicker over his head, and take off down the sidewalk, now filling with after-work pedestrians and their bobbing umbrellas. When he turned the corner, she shrank back from the window and looked about the loft. Everything was in place, as clean and neatly arranged as it always was. No matter how disarrayed the rest of her life might be, her home was always in order, even the jungle upstairs.
She headed there now to shed her wet clothes and slip on warm sweats and socks, pausing every few moments to listen for Jordan. What had happened? She wondered if there’d been trouble with one of her tenants. Her tenants. She’d never grown comfortable with the notion of being anyone’s landlord. It must have amused Nicholas Rodino to leave such responsibility to his runaway daughter, but she was surprised he’d left anything at all to her. She
Similar Books
