Cassandra and Other Stories

The public relations man in me sprang to the fore.  It can only be a matter of minutes until a professional photographer turns up.  I can easily spin the New Age ritual – after all most tabloid readers truly believe in extraterrestrials and the like.  But how will I ever explain the polyester when a simple muslin would have been just as easy to pack?

Even more embarrassing than Cassandra’s bad taste is the talentless supporting effort of her two friends.  The Gregorian chants and ludicrous Isadora Duncan choreography around the outstretched maiden offends at least two of the senses.  I look around the familiar grounds.  This has always been one of my favourite places in all of England, but now the commotion caused by my sister and her woolly Wickens has turned this hallowed sanctuary into a three-ring circus.  Where are the guards?  I don't want my sister carted off to jail or anything, but shouldn't they at least be paying some attention to what's going on?  If this sort of thing happened back home, the cops would have arrived in sufficient force to put down a small uprising.

In the thirty‑three years I have been her brother, my ability to influence Cassie on personal matters has been circumscribed.  My persuasive talents are limited to her business decisions.  What would St. Shirley MacLaine do now, I wondered?  I looked at my watch and sighed.  She’d probably go with the flow.  After all, it’s only one life.   But I had to try to retrieve the situation.  I shouldered my way through the crowd of camera‑mad onlookers.  "For Christ's sake, Cassandra, get up!" I said.

All eyes in the gallery turned on me.  Abby and Patricia stopped and glared at me.  Cassandra's eyes remained closed, and her face retained its calm, composed appearance.  "Shut up Peter!  You'll break her concentration," Abby said.

"I don't give a damned if I break her concentration, I want her to get up off the grave and out of that robe-of-dubious-fabric-origin right now," I said.

Patricia looked at me severely.  "She's attempting an astral projection."

"I know what she's doing, you twit.  I simply want her to return from wherever she is and stop making such a spectacle of herself," I said.  By this point, all I had accomplished was making myself the center of the spectacle, while my corpse‑like sister remained immobile.  I was torn by my desire to wash my hands of the whole situation, and my responsibility to my sister and our business.  There was no doubt in my mind that she would need my assistance any minute now, and these two chanting cretins were unlikely to be much help with the authorities.

Patricia helped make the decision.  "Why don't you just go take a chill pill, Peter?"

How could I compete with such a rapier wit and razor tongue?  This New Age bitch would be completely incapable of managing the situation when officialdom arrived.  Even without calling on my powers, I could foresee it all.  Actually, anyone with two eyes could figure out how this scene would end.  In the meantime, I needed a drink.  I looked at my watch.  It was only 11:00, but somewhere in the world it was past five and I could project myself there if necessary.  Fortunately, in this part of England, you can get plastered at virtually any hour of the day.  As I reached the exit to the abbey, I looked back at the ever-increasing throng around the gravesite.

As I sat down at the George and Pilgrim, I heard the siren and saw the police van go down the street and around the corner.  I ordered a pint of ale and waited at a table by the window.  In about ten minutes, the van returned up the street, the siren blaring.  I knew where to collect my sister.  Perhaps it was the warm, amber liquid or the warm, amber light, but following the van with my eyes, I felt abandoned.  This was the first time Cassie had excluded me from her plans.  Staring at my half-finished pint, my mind wandered to our first time.  It seems like yesterday, but it was six years ago.