Dorothea pulled herself to her feet and looked down at Cassie. With typical Sioux bluntness, she said, “It comes from three Lakota words, the ones that translate to ‘fat, greedy person.’ ”
Cassie slogged quietly through the mud, forcing herself to stay silent.
Nobody had asked her here, nobody had to like her. For her whole life, she’d been playing roles where she tried to please and inevitably failed, simply because of who she was: a helpless child, Alex’s wife, a white woman. She wondered if, as Dorothea said, this was something she’d been born to, something defective in her spirit.
She almost walked directly into Dorothea because she didn’t notice that the old woman had stopped moving. “You know,” Dorothea said easily, “when I was a child, I had seven sisters. We lived a little closer to Pine Ridge town. Of course, my parents did not have money for enough food or clothing, much less toys, so all we got to play with were old buttons and Salvation Army teddy bears at Christmas, and things we could make ourselves. My oldest sister taught us how to make gourd dolls out of the squash that grew wild, and rags we could find in trash barrels. We’d wrap the rags around the bulb of the squash like a kerchief, and knot the fabric into arms and legs.
“They were something, those dolls. And what I remember was that each year while my sisters were trying to find a smooth green squash without bumps on its face, I would look for the particolored ones, the ones that streaked yellow and green, half and half.” Dorothea suddenly grasped Cassie’s hand, and Cassie was amazed at the power in her thin brown fingers. “Hybrids are strong, you know. They last longer. And in their own way, they are beautiful, Cassie,haη?”
The women walked carefully, both unwilling to break this gossamer thread that Dorothea had netted between them by speaking, for the first time, Cassie’s given name.
AS ALEX RIVERS KNOTTED HIS BLACK BOW TIE, HE THOUGHT ABOUT Macbeth, the character he’d shelved for a month before resuming production last week. He was starting to understand the makings of the character, much more so than he had when he’d first undertaken the film. There was a terror to Macbeth’s marriage—a realization that the woman standing before him was not the same woman he’d married;
that she had a capacity for acting a way he’d never believed possible.
His personal situation was clearly different, but still familiar. Certainly mistakes had been made, but he’d never figured it would come to this. When he’d come into the house and found Cassie missing, he had been tempted to check the rooms twice, the closets and the attic.
It was hard to accept that she had actually gone. It happened to other people, especially in Hollywood, where weddings were more a confection of publicity than a wellspring of love. But it had never been like that between him and Cassie. He hadn’t believed Cassie could walk out that door, mostly because he couldn’t admit to himself that maybe he needed her more than she needed him.
Alex dragged a comb through his hair and straightened his wingtip collar. In five minutes he’d leave for Melanie Grayson’s place. She was his Lady Macbeth; they’d go together to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion where the Academy Awards ceremony was held. He stared into the mirror, not quite able to place the face that he saw. He knew that the greatest acting job of his life would not be the one for which he might receive an Oscar, but rather the one he would give tonight when in front of thousands he’d have to pretend that he gave a damn whether he won or not.
Herb was waiting downstairs with a white Mercedes limousine. “I tell you, tonight I got heartburn,” he said. He grinned at Alex. “You talk to Cassie?”
“Just got off the phone,” he lied. “She wishes me luck.”
“Agh, luck,” Herb said. “You’re a shoo-in. It’s a shame she couldn’t make it out here, even for the night. But I know what it’s like in those touch-and-go situations, you don’t want to leave them alone for a minute.”
Alex nodded. “She says maybe if I win, her father will make a dramatic recovery.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” Herb murmured, and then he pushed Alex toward the door. “Let’s get Melanie, and then we schmooze.”
Alex didn’t even get out of the limousine when they pulled into Melanie’s driveway; he figured this was far from a date, and he wasn’t planning on giving the wrong impression. He let Herb escort her from the door to the back seat of the car, where Alex had already poured her a glass of champagne. “You look lovely,” Alex said, knowing it was expected.
Melanie smoothed down the white satin skirt that clung to her like a snake’s skin. “This old thing?” she said, smirking. They all knew she’d spent an exorbitant amount of money on the ostentatious dress, and that she’d tried to bill it to theMacbethproduction. She pointed out that she never would have had to be so careful about her appearance if she hadn’t been seated beside Alex, on whom the cameras would focus at least three times that night.
He stared out the window as the traffic began to grind to a halt several blocks in front of the building. Cassie would never have worn a dress like that. She would have had something original, of course, but simple and beautiful. Just like her.
He found himself getting angrier and angrier at Melanie as the car crept along. Her thigh was pressed too closely to his; her hair was the wrong color; her perfume wasn’t Cassie’s. “You nervous?” she purred, rubbing his forearm.
Alex didn’t answer. He stared down at her hand on the sleeve of his coat as if it were a tarantula.
“Kids, kids,” Herb bellowed from the seat facing them. “Let’s kiss and make up,” he said. “Remember, this is good publicity.”
Alex knew that Herb was right; rumors were flying about the former shutdown in production ofMacbeth, so many that Alex was beginning to remember the hell he’d gone through withAntony and Cleopatra.
Maybe he was just doomed when it came to Shakespeare.
“Yeah, Alex,” Melanie breathed, inches away from his face. “Let’s kiss and make up.”
Alex twirled his wedding ring around his finger, a habit he’d taken to lately, as if it were a necessary reminder.If you win, he warned himself,no matter what, do not jump up and embrace her. Herb patted Melanie’s knee. “Leave him alone,” he sighed. “He’s brooding.”
“I know,” Melanie said huskily. “That’s what we all love about him.”
Alex ignored their senseless patter until their limousine was next in line. “Ready for the vultures, darling?” Melanie asked, snapping closed her compact.
Alex stepped into the afternoon sunshine first, squinting and holding his hand up in a half-wave, half-sunshield. He reached into the bowels of the limousine to help Melanie out, watching her turn on a smile with the wattage of a nighttime beacon at a maximum-security prison.
She lightly placed her hand on his arm, and at his low growl, removed it.
