You’d hardly expect Cressida to sit still for long enough to eat—to try to eat—a meal; you’d hardly expect her to linger after a meal, as others did, not out of obligation but because they wanted to, because they enjoyed one another’s company, and took pleasure and not pain in the presence of others.
Needing desperately to get away, and be alone. And when alone, her thoughts turning against her like maddened hornets.
Recklessly she’d bicycled downhill, into the city of Carthage. Her nostrils pinched at a smell of chemical waste, organic rot and smoldering rubber borne by the wind in this old, semi-deserted part of the city bordering the Black Snake River, that had once been an area of small factories, mills, and active warehouses. Now what remained were scattered businesses looking as if they were on the brink of bankruptcy, or beyond—gas stations, fast-food restaurants, taverns, pawnshops, bail-bondsmen, NO WAIT CHECK CASHING OUR SPECIALTY.
How like Cressida Mayfield, they would say, to have made her way, downhill, steeply downhill, unthinking and stubbornly, here.
She’d made a mistake, maybe—she wouldn’t be able to bicycle back up those hills but would have to walk her bike, much of the time.
But she wouldn’t call home to ask for someone—(it would be Mom of course)—to come in the station wagon and rescue her.
Big deal if they missed her at home—if she missed whatever it was she’d miss, by not being home.
Cressida honey where were you for so long?—we were worried about you!
Did you tell me you were going for a bike ride? Did you even say good-bye?
We looked in your room, honey—we called you—I even called Marcy Meyer thinking maybe . . .
On Waterman Street there was traffic: trucks, delivery vans, rust-flecked vehicles careening along with conspicuously less concern for the well-being of a lone girl bicyclist than in the residential hills of north Carthage. Yet Cressida liked it here: this mild sensation of risk, danger, alarm as traffic passed close beside her and her bicycle jolted over railroad tracks, quick and unexpected, so that she nearly lost control of the handlebars. (She wasn’t the only bicyclist on Waterman Street: some distance ahead were several boys, lanky teenagers, who hadn’t noticed her. Maybe one of them was Kellard.)
(Cressida wouldn’t easily forget Kellard. Foolish to say so, but the boy had broken her heart.)
(Certainly she knew: it was all so petty! It was utterly trivial, forgettable. But she would not forget.)
The sharp chemical odor was becoming stronger, as Cressida made her way along Waterman Street. She was passing, on her right, a derelict railroad yard and in this yard, stretching along the river, sprawling for a quarter-mile, were abandoned box cars, a scrap heap of metal debris, piles of sinister-looking grayish gravel, or powder—a smell of nitrogen? And something sulfurous beneath.
She passed Fisher Avenue—(Booker T. Washington Middle School was a block or two away)—and now, at 200 Waterman, the beige-brick facade of Home Front Alliance—a community-service organization which operated a soup kitchen and a “store” in which impoverished, homeless individuals and entire families—(“clients,” as Zeno carefully called them)—were invited to shop once a month, moving along the aisles as in a grocery or a discount store, filling up a designated number of carts: one for each adult, plus another for “family.” Zeno Mayfield had helped to initiate Home Front Alliance when he’d been mayor of Carthage and on the city board; he was still involved in the administration of the organization, lobbying for funds, hosting fund-raiser evenings. Of course, the Mayfield family had been involved in a number of the programs at Home Front Alliance; particularly, Arlette and Juliet continued to participate in the soup kitchen and in the store—Cressida wasn’t sure how often, for Cressida had little interest in such things.
Though, initially, she’d allowed herself to be talked into coming with her family to a Home Front Alliance activity—some sort of fund-raiser involving volunteers, community organizers, church-related members, and “clients.” She’d helped ladle baked ziti, covered in a molten crust of mozzarella cheese, onto paper plates, at a buffet; she’d even helped, in a trance of misery and boredom, with the massive cleanup that followed. (Noting that Zeno, MC of the evening, avoided the kitchen as if it were a place of contagion.) Then she’d slipped away to wait for her parents in their car, relieved that so many volunteers had turned out, predominantly white, educated, well-to-do women acquaintances of her parents.
Cressida teased her social-activist parents by paraphrasing a remark of W. H. Auden—“We’re here on earth to help other people. But what the other people are here for, nobody knows.”
Still, despite her lack of interest in Home Front, and her heartbreak over Math Literacy, Cressida hoped to do Good. She would think of the Good as a high mountain to be climbed. But a distant mountain, not in the southern Adirondacks.
Pedaling past Home Front she saw a line of people straggling into the entrance to the soup kitchen. The majority were men, probably homeless. Cressida bicycled quickly past.
Was she ashamed of herself, or—defiant? Guilty-feeling or contemptuous?
Don’t care about any of you, any more than you care about me.
Why should I?
I am the ugly one.
What she’d done to Juliet’s cashmere sweater, the beautiful heather-colored cardigan Grand’mère Helene had given Juliet for a birthday two years ago—she did feel ashamed of this.
With a nail scissors, cutting just a few crucial threads in the sweater, on the inside. Shivering with elation, for who would know?
Other times, Cressida erased phone messages for Juliet, if they were recorded on the family phone.
Other times, Cressida appropriated items of Juliet’s—including Juliet’s new, shiny little cell phone that had been a gift from their parents—and tossed them away.
Oh damn! I’m losing every—damn—thing I own, I could just cry.
And Cressie the younger sister said teasing, with her particular tormenting smile Poor Julie! Maybe you caught chemo-brain from Grandma.
(A truly nasty remark, which Juliet deflected with a startled little laugh.)
(Which, if their mother had overheard, would have been shocking to her.)
So frequently sick with spite, jealousy, envy of her popular-pretty sister whom all adored, and whom Cressida herself adored, Cressida found herself entering Juliet’s bedroom in stealth to sit at Juliet’s computer. Juliet rarely turned off her computer or quit email and so there was no difficulty getting into Juliet’s computer to delete email including new messages in her in-box from friends; Cressida read her sister’s correspondence with her numerous girlfriends and her boyfriend Elliot Keller—(and other boys as well, which had to be a secret from Elliot)—deleting at will, with childish satisfaction. Why should her sister have so many friends, even these shallow, silly friends, while Cressida had so few friends?—it was unjust. Particularly, Cressida resented the letters that ended with Love—for she herself rarely received emails from classmates, only just one or two girls, and in all of these there were no Loves.
A few times, Cressida employed her limited-but-lethal computer skills to muck up Juliet’s files.
With the result that poor Juliet came pleading to her—Oh Cressie! Can you help me? I’m so stupid—I must have done something wrong—clicked something wrong—you won’t believe it, all of my “desktop” is gone!
So Cressida took pity on her older sister. OK, hey I guess I’m the “smart one.” I’ll try.
Now at the intersection of Waterman and Ventor in a derelict neighborhood of warehouses fronting on the river Cressida became aware of a delivery van uncomfortably close beside her, in the street; though she was bicycling as close to the curb as possible, still the van seemed to be pressing inward, to frighten her; the driver had slowed his speed to keep pace with her, unmistakably. For, after the traffic light turned green, the delivery van didn’t surge forward and leave her behind but lingered, just slightly behind her.
> Was a radio turned up high, in the van? Or—was that the driver’s voice Cressida was hearing, a soft low mock-caressing voice, words she couldn’t decipher?
Words she didn’t wish to decipher.
Cressida was so frightened, she turned the bike’s handlebars sharply, and was nearly thrown from the bike as it hurtled over a curb onto a vacant lot covered in cracked and crumbling concrete, an abandoned gas station property. Scattered across the pavement were shards of broken glass, scrap metal and trash, tough little weeds poking through cracks like sinister fingers. The van driver had braked his vehicle to call after Cressida more distinctly. Hey-you li’l cunt—where’re ya goin so fuckin fast li’l cunt know what?—somebody’s gonna tear up ya sweet li’l ass.
Halfway Cressida had been thinking, pedaling her bicycle along Waterman, that she’d be attracting the attention of men—and of boys—and that they might be “interested” in her; as, bicycling on Cumberland Avenue, or in the vicinity of Convent Street School, she aroused the “interest” of no one. And now—a rude rebuke of her fantasy.
Maybe the man was joking. Or maybe, threatening.
In any case it was hardly flattering, this attention from a man—it was an insult, obscene and hateful.
He could see that Cressida was young. He could see that Cressida was very frightened. Trying to ignore him but increasingly nervous and self-conscious as boldly he turned his vehicle into the lot, jolting over the curb and careening through trash, leering at her through the windshield. She had a confused impression of a youngish man with a low, furrowed forehead, unshaven jaws, mocking smile—and in a panic she lost her balance, pitched forward from the bicycle and fell, hard.
On the broken and oil-stained pavement she lay sobbing, shuddering. She knew she’d cut her knee, she hoped she had not sprained or broken any bones. Her head had struck something hard. The bicycle handlebars were beneath her, jabbing her ribs. She heard a man’s voice—another man?—and saw another driver braking his vehicle to a stop, on Waterman Street. A young man threw open his door, climbed out and ran toward her even as the van driver wheeled his vehicle around, in a semi-circle, to escape.
The young man called after the van driver, raising his fist.
To Cressida he said, in a disgusted voice, “I saw that! Jesus.”
The young man was no one Cressida knew, or could recall. She had an impression of fair brown hair, stark-staring eyes, an expression of utter revulsion mitigated with concern for the fallen Cressida, whom he helped to her feet, gripping her hand and half-lifting her. Then he picked up her bicycle, checked the wheels by spinning them, and corrected a misalignment in the back wheel.
“You all right?”—he peered at her sidelong.
Cressida rubbed at her knee, which was bleeding through a film of dust and dirt. Her head rang, her eyes spilled tears. She tried to laugh, saying yes, she was all right.
At the curb the young man’s car motor idled. He’d rushed to help Cressida leaving the keys in the ignition.
“What was he, trying to run you over? Or just scaring you? Asshole. Should’ve got his license plate number.”
Cressida was too embarrassed to reply. Inanely she was smiling, trying to laugh. But what was funny?
The palms of her hands too were scraped. Tiny rivulets of blood oozing through. And her ribs felt as if they’d been cracked.
“Y’know, I think my mother works for your father—he’s Zeno Mayfield, right? The mayor? My mother works at City Hall. Your dad is a great guy.”
Cressida stood tentatively, wincing. She couldn’t meet the assessing gaze of the young man, who was smiling at her.
Twenty-two or -three years old, Cressida guessed. But she had no idea who he was.
Shyly she murmured yes, Zeno Mayfield was her father.
“My mother is Ethel Kincaid. Tell your dad hello from me—Brett.”
Brett Kincaid took from his pocket a tissue which he unfolded to check if it was clean; this tissue he gave to Cressida, to soak up the blood running from her knee.
Down the calf of her left leg and into her sock, onto her foot in a grimy sneaker the blood-rivulet ran. So like menstrual blood, Cressida’s face flamed.
“Might be, I should drive you home? Put the bicycle in the trunk? You don’t look like you’re in a condition to bicycle much more.”
But Cressida insisted, no she was all right.
Brett Kincaid didn’t argue with her. But examined the bicycle another time, gripped the handlebars and moved it swiftly back and forth, determining that the wheels seemed in workable order now, and the hand-brakes hadn’t been damaged.
Then doubtfully he said: “Still maybe I better drive you home. Yeah, I’m thinking I better.”
Cressida weakly protested. Cressida’s heart was pounding in a ridiculous way. She saw that Brett Kincaid was regarding her with a look of concern as if he were a brother, not a stranger.
“No trouble. I’m on my way home anyway. Where d’you live? Up around Cumberland?”
Brett Kincaid carried the bicycle to his car and placed it carefully in the trunk, lowering the trunk door without shutting it; wordless Cressida limped after him and slid into the passenger’s seat of the car—(she had only a vague impression of Brett Kincaid’s car, for she knew little of automobiles and could never recognize a brand, still less recognize its age and/or special features)—and so Brett drove her home into the hills of North Carthage almost exactly reversing her reckless bicycle-ride into the city, as if he had some idea of where she lived. At the sprawling Colonial on Cumberland Drive, to which Cressida had directed him, Brett parked his car saying in a matter-of-fact voice in which there was not a vestige of envy or irony, “Real nice house you guys live in. This is a great neighborhood. I’ve met your dad a few times—maybe he’d remember me—like from J-C-C softball?—he’d come out for a few games at Solstice Park.”
J-C-C softball. Cressida had no idea what this was.
Junior Chamber of Commerce? Zeno was always involved in what he called community sports. Some of it was community-action for the children of poor people but maybe not all.
Cressida’s cheeks were still burning. She muttered something like Thanks!
She would note: Brett Kincaid had parked on the street, and not in the driveway; and not directly in front of the Mayfields’ house but a little to the side so that, if someone inside the house were to glance out, he or she wouldn’t see Brett’s car, or Brett lifting the bicycle out of the trunk for Cressida to take from him, with a muttered Thank you.
She would note: he hadn’t asked her name.
Hadn’t wanted to embarrass her further, or just hadn’t thought of it.
Nor had Cressida looked at him, met his gaze. Or smiled at him, as he’d been smiling at her.
The phobia against looking at another person. For then, the other will look at you.
Quickly then Cressida walked the bicycle up the long driveway to the garage. Limping just perceptibly, for her knee throbbed with pain.
Yet her heart continued to beat, with excitement.
The thrill of—she wasn’t sure—being alive.
And if she never saw Brett Kincaid again, and if next time he saw her he didn’t remember her, that would not alter this profound experience in Cressida’s life in the slightest.
SEVERAL YEARS LATER when Juliet brought Corporal Brett Kincaid home to meet her family, it did seem—(unless Cressida imagined it)—that Brett remembered her.
Smiled at her, shook her hand, happily.
A knowing smile, an intimate smile, and yet a smile that assured Cressida that he would never embarrass her by bringing up their shared memory.
We have a secret between us. We always will.
Now crossing the state line from Virginia and into Maryland and soon, New Jersey; immediately beyond New Jersey, New York City where in a clamorous bus terminal Cressida would disembark and take another Greyhound bus, north on I-87 to Albany.
Grungy in her slept-in clothes, her unwashed hai
r. It was possible to wash, if not bathe, on a bus trip of several days but you had to make the effort at rest-stops—Cressida hadn’t the energy to make the effort.
At last the air-conditioning throughout the bus had turned to warm air but it came too late, Cressida had become ill: her throat was sore, her skin hurt when touched even lightly by clothing, helplessly she’d been coughing, spitting up a nasty greeny phlegm into wadded tissues and, when these ran out, into strips of toilet paper from the lavatory. With a pang of loss Cressida recalled Haley McSwain leaning over her, forehead creased, asking was she all right?—she’d been coughing. Or, drawing her cool stubby fingers across Cressida’s forehead asking did she have a fever?—she felt “clammy-hot.”
At the Cancer Center Haley’s friend Luce had examined her—“Sabbath”—Haley’s younger sister of whom she took such good care, like a frantic mother. Now she was so very alone, on this Greyhound bus plunging through a landscape increasingly sere and wintry, it was a shock to Cressida to recall that for seven years she’d been “loved”—“protected”; that she’d even, in her ignorance, taken for granted the curious fact that the little Filipino tech who was a total stranger to her helped oversee her welfare at Haley’s request, providing her even with sample-cards of antibiotics, free meds that, in a drugstore, would have cost hundreds of dollars, and weren’t available in any case without a prescription.
Oh God! She missed Haley.
She missed the Investigator, yet more.
And her parents, and Julie. And Brett Kincaid—as he’d been, in his early twenties, before he’d been injured, made monstrous and lost to them.
Still maybe I better drive you home.
Yeah, I’m thinking I better.
Never thinking I love him. For Cressida had not that capacity, for either the emotion or its articulation.