Kindle Notes & Highlights
We are sitting on the back deck of Mother's house and are about to eat. We have already been to the Congregational Church where the minister said to me, as he always does, "And how wonderful it is to see you here this morning."
Mother is eating fruit salad, glancing through the piles of sections that make up the Herald-American and the New York Times on Sunday. She is on "The Week in Review" of the Times when I finally say something.
"So you're willing to let Doug go. And I mean really let him go, Sally, let him move on?"
"You have to grow up." She's caught me off guard with this one. "You cannot go on playing around with people anymore, Sally. You're thirty years old—not twenty, not fifteen. You can't do and say things and then not mean them. You've got to learn to bite your tongue and hold yourself in check until you're certain how you feel—until you know to what lengths you're prepared to go in order to make good on your word."
She nods once, as if saying, Well, at least you got that part right. "What does he do?"
She withdraws her hand and sits back in her chair. "In what ways do you think you might be difficult?"
"Keep what up?" "Carrying on like you're a schoolgirl instead of a thirty-year-old woman who has a major career decision to make." "My career? How did my career get into this?" I suddenly feel hostile, and Mother or no Mother I am sorely tempted to fwang some leftover biscuit at her with my fork.
"Sally, that's not the point! You've got to focus!" Mother rushes on, "You've got to make some decisions about your life! You cannot take an opportunity like this—this article for Expectations, one of the largest, most popular magazines in America—and use it as an excuse to play around with some man who clearly has a few problems of his own, when you know you should be working!"
"Well what was his last girlfriend like?" she wants to know, her voice rising. "Undoubtedly she was some good-looking gal who was as unfocused in life as the two of you obviously are!" "Mother!" I am genuinely shocked. Mother is never like this. At least, not since I was fifteen and stole her car in the middle of the night to go joyriding.
"There is nothing wrong with working for the Herald-American."
"Why are you angry?" I ask, sitting down. "Because I don't want you to waste this opportunity." She looks at me. "And I resent you trying to use me to assuage your guilt."
"It's not about living here." She leans forward again. "It's about the difference between choosing to live here, and staying because it's the easiest thing to do. The same principle applies to Doug." She stands up and pushes back her chair. "Don't let yourself run away with your emotions, Sally. No more making do with what you happen to find on the side of the road." My mouth's open, ready to scream. Something I happen to find on the side of the road?
"Steve, Angie," Buddy says, "this is Sally Harrington of the Herald-American. Steve Bernstein and Angie Manado."
My brother Rob, wanting to know why Mother sounds so pissed at me today, what's going on. Spencer. "You can't hide from me," he laughs. "I hope you're working hard. Talk to you soon." Mother. Apologizing for being so hard on me. She loves me. I am the greatest thing since sliced bread. Spencer. "Maybe you can hide from me," he says this time. "Where are you?"
"But I'm not like her," I sigh. "What's the matter?" I drop sideways into one of my armchairs. "She told me this morning I have to grow up. I've been fooling around too long."
There is nothing funny about this, I think, yanking a brush through my hair. I drink some Listerine and then swallow it by mistake; I'm such a wreck. I put on some mascara and dash out and through the kitchen out the back door. "Doug?" I call, coming down the steps.
I feel badly for Doug, but I also can't help but feel that in a way it was good the way things transpired. If nothing else, it bore no resemblance to how we've broken up before. And different is better, isn't it? Of course I'm the one who feels that way because I have met someone wonderful.
She sighs. "He got me liquored up at a church dance, don't you know. Next thing I knew... So there I am with a baby I didn't want and a drunk for a husband I certainly did not want."
Or her mother, I think. This is the worst interview I have ever sat through. I hate this woman; I don't want to listen to her; I certainly don't want to quote her. But this is my job, right? To gather as much information as I can to develop a profile of Cassy Cochran? And, I suppose, to that end, this interview is extremely helpful. If I don't start yelling at this bitch.
I hang up the phone. "Oh, my," I say to Scotty. I pack my bags for New York and Mother calls to say she has found another last-minute deal for me through her cheapo-hotel line. "Am I forgiven for Sunday?" she asks me.
Sally, Scan this and call me, okay? Buddy I pick up the next sheet. It is a scratchy copy of a Castleford police report, dated the night of my father's death. The few lines of information are handwritten on the form.
Tuesday begins with an interview with Cassy Cochran's old boss at WST. After an amusing account of how they begged she go on the air as the station's first woman co-anchor, which she adamantly refused, the interview is not particularly enlightening. It does, however, give me enough superlative quotes about Cassy to, say, wage a congressional campaign on her behalf. "Financially responsible." "Excellent supervisor of workers." "Strong but never offensive." "Creative and hardworking." "Detail oriented." "Absolutely brilliant at long-range planning." And it says a lot about Cassy that he would
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"Not at all. I was a private investigator, and after Jessica had her incident—" This translates, I assume, into, After Jessica Wright was kidnapped and nearly killed, "The network offered me a job to supervise the security on the talent."
"Oh, I travel with them. Like when The Jessica Wright Show was taping on the West Coast a few weeks ago. Or if Alexandra goes overseas, I usually go."
"Of course she did!" she nearly cries. "And she would have been in it, if she hadn't thrown such a fit. She said she just couldn't be a bridesmaid, that she's a million years old or some such nonsense, so I finally let her off the hook."
He lets out a gentle laugh, shaking his head. "Now, that sounds like Cassy." He sits back in his chair. "So what would you like to know?"
"I've met her—briefly. I don't know her." Marianne shows us to two seats in the front of the studio audience. The place is full and the audience members are raring to go. It reminds me a lot of The Tonight Show studio in Burbank.
"I find it very strange you're writing about Cassy," she tells me. "She will usually do anything to stay out of the limelight." She drags again. "Does she know you're writing about her?"
"That Alexandra thinks she's God and she's not.” She lights another cigarette and hastily exhales smoke over her head. "That you can't do anything at DBS News without Alexandra looking over your shoulder, screwing around with your stories, criticizing stuff and then, if the story is great—and a lot of our stories were—she gets all the credit." "Did you say she takes the credit or she's given the credit?" I ask, trying to get this right.
"Oh, right, Cassy." She pulls on the cigarette. "Cassy was all right. If she has a fault, it's that she lets Alexandra get away with murder. Jessica Wright, too. They bend and break the rules left and right—"
"She's been messing around with Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres for like three years. So if you want to know what I think Cassy's most valuable asset to DBS is, it's been handling the spin on that story. For God's sake, they're photographed in the Inquiring Eye every week as 'gal pals' and the network pretends it's not happening."
He flashes a grin. "You are a tricky one. We should hire you. I've got three hundred newspapers and twelve magazines."
"I didn't think I'd ever connect with another human being. 'Cause Barb and I were so close... " He smiles to himself. "But then I met Cassy—gosh, it was like ten years later—and, well, I love her more than anything." He examines my face carefully. "Sounds like bull, doesn't it? But let me tell you, Sally Harrington, I've been around. I mean, around—around and around and back again—if you know what I mean."
“A bit?" He roars with laughter. “Yeah, I'll say we argued a bit, all right, like day and night. I'll tell ya, it was so bad, I thought I was going to have to fire her. I couldn't stand her."
"When Cassy cried. Here, in my office. She said I was driving her crazy and I realized I was falling in love with her." He walks back over to the table and sits down. "It was right after she threw a section of the New York Times at me and screamed that I was driving her crazy. And then she burst into tears and I knew that was it. I was falling for her."
His smile broadens and those eyes twinkle again. "I think you should ask Cassy that. After all, a gentleman always defers to the lady's version of events."
"Go ahead and see if Expectations prints it. They won't. I don't know what it is in this town—everybody knows it but nobody wants to say it."
We talk on in this vein and I am amazed Glenn Mortimer isn't more guarded about his language. He's supposed to be the wholesome friendly face in the morning, not the foul-mouthed, angry man he is. I also have the impression that he was offered a wonderful opportunity at DBS but didn't cut the mustard.
Now we're getting to know each other. When the guy starts turning on the TV instead of fooling around, I know we are.
I start reading through the background material I have for tomorrow's interviews and I doze off. I awaken when Spencer comes in after Nightline.
"Well, the story is about a person." There is a thoughtful silence. "You'll never believe it," Chi Chi says, "but until you just said that I've never thought of it that way. We think in terms of public consumption around here, day and night."
"Ah," she says, with an inflection that makes me think of someone spying on an old acquaintance strolling in Hyde Park or something. Ah, Lord So-and-So, how are you?
I still don't know what to say, except maybe Leave me alone, I'm overwhelmed enough as it is.
It is around eight o'clock now and I am bombed, sitting at the downstairs bar of the “21 Club" with Michael Cochran. We are on our fourth tape. I have learned more about Cassy's past than I will ever get from her, that's for sure, but it is a dark, almost frightening version as Michael tells it.
"She works with them, that's different," he insists. "She doesn't have any friends-friends, never has. Well, there's Sam Wyatt, I guess, but he's a guy." He takes a sip of his drink and makes a face like he's drinking battery acid. "She doesn't trust women."
He's mad now. "You fucking bitch!" he snarls. "Who do you think you are? You're nothing, hear me?" He waves me away. "Get the fuck out of here! You're a whore. You're a dog."
Sally, my love, I got up early and skedaddled home before going to work. Call me when you get up. I really, really would like to see you before you go back out to Castleford. S. How can you not love a man who is so cool he can say skedaddle?
She is on the phone and I take a seat. When she gets off she smiles. "Well, well, well, you've been giving everyone the third degree, I hear."
"All right," I say, signaling success with a fist in the air. We're on the right track now.
Something is wrong. And the queasy feeling in my stomach confirms it. I sip my water and ask in a low voice, "What's the matter?"
