As she climbed the stairs, she wished for a quiet moment in which to experience some emotion appropriate to the occasion. Whatever happened to basic values? A human being who happened to be a close relative had just passed on. She wanted that to be the primary event. She was still deeply caught in the myth of marriage and didn't want to give it up until the very last moment. Let me love Mitch for just a few moments one last time, so I can feel the loss, so I can mourn, she told herself.
She'd tried to pinpoint her feelings about the marriage a million times since Mitch had become ill, and she'd been hopeful until the day he'd keeled over. What she thought of now was the excitement with which she'd anticipated the arrival in the mail of each of her orchids. They came from Florida, California, Hawaii, the Philippines, Thailand. So many exotic places. She always ordered them in spike. When they arrived, she watched impatiently for the spikes to bud, and the buds to flower. The day a new plant fully unfurled its first bloom, her personal achievement felt as remarkable as the bloom itself, as if each were her very own creation.
Orchid societies preached the simplicity of orchids, and the growers all promised on the Web that the blooming-age specimens they offered for sale would definitely bloom. But the truth was, orchids were not so very easy. They were like the male member: not particularly attractive when dormant, unpredictable producers or unproducers, all according to whim. Orchids were pretty much Cassie's metaphor for life.
Sometimes she'd be busy outside or involved with some benefit she was planning. She'd look away for a week or two and when she'd look back, a bud would have appeared on a dormant-looking cattleya where none had been due for months. Propelling itself out of its green sheath, much more like an animal with a distinct personality than just a pretty flower, the magnificent botanical creature would burst upon Cassie's little scene silently but with a scent and a splendor that almost stopped her heart with joy. Every time an unexpected gift: happiness.
Other orchids, like her expensive and large cymbidium, would refuse, absolutely refuse, to spike no matter how carefully she treated them, gave them the environment and nourishment she thought they wanted, watched over, and tried to love them. Ugly, barren things, taking up space in the greenhouse and not giving a single pleasure back. Mitch's member, his whole self, had been like that from the day he'd shifted to Mona. And to think that Cassie hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings by complaining.
When Cassie reached the top of the stairs, she realized that even though the remains of her husband were going up in smoke, she still couldn't help thinking orchids. Maybe this was a problem of hers. She could hope, but not love. Inside her room, she noticed the empty bottle of red wine by her bed and threw it in the wastebasket. Didn't want to appear to be a drunk, even to herself.
Old habits die hard. She was a tidy person. She made the bed. As she made the bed, she couldn't help suspecting again that there might be another trick in here somewhere. Maybe Mitch wasn't really (really) dead. Maybe he was hiding and would rise up like Jesus, but not to go to heaven. This frightening thought led her back to Charlie. Surely the government had better things to do than send a cute bully to intrude and torment her with feelings of lust just when she was working so hard to have a noble feeling.
Cassie muttered to herself. Shouldn't she be allowed a tiny respite in this, her time of loss? For a moment, just a moment, please, couldn't she be spared from having to consider betrayal and money. (Lust.) Money and betrayal. Was that all there was to life? Wasn't there a certain lack of sensitivity being exhibited by the government here?
She asked herself, why should she help Charlie? If he had so many branches, shouldn't he be able to get the big picture for himself? And, by the way, who was the snitch who'd informed on Mitch? She peeled off her clothes and eased into the hot bath. She reminded herself that on Charlie's second visit to her she'd only said she'd think about it. She remembered the occasion well. She'd been in the kitchen. He'd been out in the greenhouse. She'd gone out to talk to him. On that occasion he hadn't mentioned juice or informers. He'd talked lilies and conversions. God help her, she'd been attracted to him then. She'd decided then that she would give him Mona's house and the Jaguar. She'd forgotten that the Jaguar was supposed to be hers, so maybe she could claim it now. Take the car back and drive it herself. Maybe she could take back all the things that were supposed to be hers. This was a new and exciting thought.
But now Charlie wasn't talking conversions, he was talking immunity. And still, Cassie thought that even though he had the power to break and send her to prison, he really liked her and wouldn't do that.
The hot water eased her headache and soothed old and new bruises. It was hard to stay focused on the subject. She was feeling better now. Under the water, her body looked pretty good. Hips and thighs could be worse. Her not-bad breasts still looked nice and full, hardly older than Marsha's. They floated alluringly in the bubbles. She kept her feet in the waterfall under the tap. She didn't have bad feet, either. Not that anyone cared about feet. Cassie let her head sink deep into the water, then scrambled rich shampoo into her hair.
"Personally, I think you're a very lovely lady," he'd said with his special little smile. "If the situation were different…"
Cassie massaged her scalp cautiously, exploring those terrifying little ridges on which she'd learned only postsurgery that no hair would ever grow back. If anyone with a brain ever played with her hair, he'd know in a second what they were. Did that mean she could never let anyone play with her hair? Her gut churned with anxiety.
And what did "very lovely lady" mean in this context, anyway? Did very lovely lady mean the sort of woman slightly past her prime who did good works like she did? Prayed regularly to God to keep them good, went to yoga at the Y, and did group casseroles for friends whose husbands had strokes. Did very lovely lady imply repressed, but sexy, as when Mark Cohen had called her a very lovely lady? Cassie suspected that Mark would actually get off on performing services of an intimate nature for her while charging her very high fees and thinking he was doing her a favor.
Cassie was not attracted to her married doctor. On the other hand, she was intrigued by her personal IRS stalker. Oh, the irony of the legacy her husband had left her. She rinsed her hair and squeezed on some conditioner and massaged it in. She got out of the tub and massaged everything she could think of with BabySoft, then considered her wardrobe, a depressing collection of marked-down mostly conservative Anne Klein and Liz Claiborne separates dating back to the stone age. Little jackets and skirts (not too short) and slacks (not too tight) and camp shirts, none of which did much for anyone but didn't wear out, and never went out of style. And were now way too big. Pink, baby soft, and fragrant, Cassie was thinking Anna Sui. Marsha had left behind her little black vamp dress that was skimpy but not too pushy about it, calf length. And her nice black sandals with a little heel. She put on a robe and snuck down the hall to borrow her daughter's clothes.