Being Neighborly, Part 4

The next week, Elle borrowed the sequel to The Five Children and It, and we drank more hot chocolate and had gooey chocolate chip cookies (Cassandra tore open a new package for us). The week after that Elle demanded something more grown up, and went home with The Three Musketeers. By that time Mother knew that we were spending our early Friday evenings at a neighbor’s house, and although she never met Cassandra — we always got home before Mom — she had made the decision, based on Elle’s voluble and my evasive praises, that a literary acquaintance was to be encouraged.

Actually, Cass was far more Elle’s friend than mine. She was always happy to ask Elle about her school day and her opinion of the books she was reading, just as she was happy to call her “Scout” as long as Elle’s determination to embody the desire for social justice, circa 1963, lasted. She had little to say to me, even after I had overcome my initial paralysis in front of her and began to try to draw her out with questions.

She worked, I discovered, for a high-paying actuarial company downtown and used her free time to mingle with the endless crowds of the city. She loved the fictional worlds of books and plays — her conversations with my sister made that apparent — but her own world seemed strangely devoid of people. She spoke vaguely of family upstate, but when I asked her if she spent many of her nights out with friends (thinking, with a jab of anxiety, about boyfriends), she made a bitter face.

“This city promotes isolation, even in crowds,” she said, and took a swig of her cocoa. “Especially in crowds.”

But why do you isolate yourself? I wanted ask her. I was afraid to push too much, but I was puzzled by it, and not just because the pattern of our Friday afternoons — Elle sprawled in front of the bookcase while Cass and I sat awkwardly on either side of her table — was so counter to the other aspects of Cass’s life, but because I still sometimes saw a hint of that sadness and anger that had transformed her face when she first looked at us. Fall turned into winter, and the sky outside Cass’s window began to be dark when we got there. Cass lit thick white beeswax candles to brighten her table, but her apartment remained barren of holiday decorations. When Elle asked one of her impetuous questions about what and when she celebrated, Cass was more than usually vague, but assured us that she would be here all month.

“You aren’t going up to your family’s place?” I asked, trying to be polite.

“No.” Her voice was cold. “It’s better for me not to.”

“That’s so sad!” Elle chimed in. “Mom always says it’s a terrible time to be alone — you should come celebrate with us!”

Cass stood up and began stacking plates and mugs; clattering them together so that I was afraid she would break something. “Sad is what I live with. What your mother says doesn’t mean anything if being with people is the most terrible time of all.” She turned her back to dump the dishes, while Elle and I stared at her. She turned on the faucet and the sound of running water filled up the silence.

I looked over at Elle. She was staring down at the book in her lap, and the top of her forehead had turned bright pink. I knew I should say something, but I was choked by embarrassment that felt like anger and sympathy that felt like curiosity.

After far too long, Cassandra turned back towards us. Her voice was lower than I’d ever heard it, and sounded almost shaky. “I’m sorry. I misspoke. Sometimes, I let things get the better of me. I didn’t mean to say anything hurtful, but I think it would be best if you went home now.”

Elle and I got up, Elle with a scramble, and me slowly enough that — I hoped — Cass wouldn’t notice how close I was to shaking, too. Cass brushed past us and held the front door open, refusing to look at Elle. I caught her gaze as I followed my sister out. I didn’t want to; but even now I couldn’t stop staring at her.

She closed the door behind us, softly but with as much finality as if she had slammed it. I fumbled for my key with one hand and felt Elle grope for the other, as she hadn’t done for years. I didn’t shake her off as her fingers curled around mine, something I hadn’t allowed for even more years before that. I didn’t have the heart, and there were no witnesses to this crime against my dignity. We were quite alone.