Zoe
On the road, 2004
If Saturday Night Live had been the pinnacle, the peak, the absolute high point of Grossberg/Griffin’s life, the days that followed her announcement were among the lowest.
On Tuesday afternoon, Jerry had summoned her and Russell to his office.
“My lovebirds!”
he’d said, clapping his tiny hands together, his boyish face wreathed in a smile of absolute delight.
“You’re brilliant! It’s wonderful! Let me see the ring!”
“There isn’t a ring yet,”
said as Russell stood beside her, in stony silence.
A frown flickered across Jerry’s face.
wondered if he’d guessed at what had happened, if he had any idea that this marriage was a trap she’d sprung.
“Not to worry,”
he said, as his frown disappeared.
“I know a guy.
You just leave everything to me.”
Over the next few weeks, the wedding had come together, everything snapping into place with the kind of speed and ease that was only possible, suspected, when both the bride and the groom were famous.
Event planners and hotels, caterers and florists, jewelers and designers, hair and makeup artists, and resorts were all eager to offer their locations and services and wares for free, as long as they were included in the photographs or mentioned in the copy.
The date was set for the end of May, during a weeklong break from the tour.
The next afternoon, a jeweler came to their room with a briefcase full of gems.
picked out her diamond, a three-carat stone that glistened with a pure blue light.
She had it set in rose gold, and picked out a matching wedding band, plus one for Russell.
Three weeks later, the tour resumed in Phoenix.
That was when the trouble began.
On their first night back, they’d been in and Cassie’s dressing room for their usual preshow meeting, just the five of them: and Cassie, Russell, Cam, and Tommy.
Russell clapped his hands.
“Okay, let’s huddle up.”
They stood in a tight circle.
This was their tradition: before every show they’d gather with their arms around one another’s shoulders, and one band member would speak.
Cam would usually bust out something Christian—“Lord, use your voices and our instruments to uplift Your glory.”
Tommy would stick to the basics: “Stay safe out there.”
, the most digressive, would begin with, “I love you guys,”
proceed to wishes for safety and excellence, and conclude with personal wishes for each of the band members (“Cam, I hope your solo is magic, and Tommy, may your snares sound as crisp as the first bite of a fresh apple on the first day of fall.”).
Cassie would murmur the same thing each time, “Let’s break all the legs.”
Russell would say, “Teach us to care and not to care.
Teach us to sit still.”
thought it was from a psalm, but it turned out it was from a T.
S.
Eliot poem.
Cassie, who read poetry, had recognized it.
, who read magazines, had not.
That night, instead of ending with “sit still,”
Russell ended with, “I think Cassie should sing ‘Last Night in Fishtown’ by herself again.”
“Word,”
said Tommy, giving an unpleasant look.
“Fine,”
said Cam with a shrug.
And so Cassie sang it by herself that night, and again the next night.
In Tucson, came to the stage for the preshow run-through, where she stared at the setup for a long time.
She told herself she was being paranoid, that her microphone stand was where it had always been and had not been moved the tiniest increment away from the crowd.
But two nights later, in Scottsdale, didn’t go to the hotel with the rest of the band.
She went to the arena to watch the load-in.
She was there, in the wings, as the roadies carefully unloaded Cassie’s grand piano—the one that traveled with them now, in its own U-Haul—and positioned it at the center of the stage.
She saw them huddle for a discussion, then move to the microphone stands.
The ones for the four backup singers stood, all in a row, to the right of Tommy’s drum kit.
’s microphone was usually in front of them, and it was, that night ...
only not so far in front as it had been the night before. She didn’t have a measuring tape, so she couldn’t be sure, except she was sure.
In her bones, in her heart, she knew. Cassie’s piano had been moved closer to the crowd. Her microphone was farther away.
In the next city—Denver—she’d made CJ come to the arena with her.
“Are you seeing this?”
she asked.
CJ had gotten a squirrelly look, his eyes drifting away from hers as he’d tugged at the hem of the day’s Hawaiian shirt.
“I think it’s just got to do with the camera angles,”
he said.
“Nothing to worry about!”
Except after he’d mentioned cameras, started watching the monitors and noticing how they rarely seemed to be showing her face.
She’d look up and see Cam or Tommy.
Or, more and more frequently, Cassie.
She hardly ever saw herself.
“Don’t worry,”
CJ told her again.
He’d been patting her shoulder, his round face earnest, his voice sincere.
“You’re doing fine.
You’re doing your best, and everyone knows it.”
Left unsaid was, Your best isn’t as good as everyone else’s.
But it was true, and becoming more apparent with every show.
The other four members of the band were accomplished musicians.
Tommy and Cassie were both prodigies.
And what was , compared to that? A pretty girl with a tambourine, and a ridiculously large diamond on her finger.
The tour rolled along through the Southwest.
Each venue was different and all of them were fundamentally the same.
The same greenrooms with beat-up furniture and unframed mirrors hanging on the backs of doors.
The same photographs of the same big-name artists—always the Beatles, always the Rolling Stones—in cheap plastic frames.
The same mazes of cinderblock hallways leading backstage, sometimes with taped arrows on the floor to direct them; the same smells of beer and sweat, overlaid with hairspray and perfume, that had sunk into the walls.
The same burly roadies, yelling at each other about monitors and spike tape, dead cases and dB limits.
The same marks to hit, the same dance steps to remember, the same set lists and songs to sing.
And the bad news kept coming.
Backstage in Pittsburgh, after the venue manager droned through his talking points—the emergency exits; the evacuation plan; the list of friends, reporters, and assorted hangers-on who’d been granted backstage passes— noticed a new face.
“, this is Abby Ryan.
She’s a vocal coach,”
CJ said.
“We’ve asked her to spend the next few weeks working with you.”
“Just with me?”
’s voice was sharp.
“She’s here for anyone who needs her,”
CJ said, hands spread in a gesture of conciliation.
bared her teeth and hoped he took it as a smile.
The Internet had still been in its infancy back then.
knew better than to go looking for reviews, but sometimes it felt like some minor demon took possession of her body.
She’d be in the shower, or in the gym, on the StairMaster, or lying next to Russell, her mind on the next show or wedding.
Then she’d blink and she’d be at the hotel-room desk in front of her laptop, typing her name into Yahoo or AOL or Ask Jeeves, knowing that what she’d find would be bad; unable to stop herself from looking.
She makes Linda McCartney sound like Whitney Houston, one chat-room commenter had said.
The poster had taken the trouble of isolating her vocal track, and heard her voice, high and thin, nasal and off-key, when she hit play.
“Ten Worst Griffin Performances,”
a blog post she’d seen had been headlined ...
and, Am I crazy? Is anyone else hearing how awful she is?
How’d she even end up in a band? someone would ask, in the comments beneath a review of the show, one of many where Cassie got glowing notices, the critics emptying their thesauruses to find new words to describe how great she was, and was barely mentioned at all.
Um, hello? Nepotism, someone else would respond, and would sit there, cotton-mouthed and furious, thinking, If it wasn’t for me, none of you would have ever heard Cassie! Sometimes, there’d be a picture of her, and, instead of words underneath it, there’d just be punctuation marks used to make primitive laughing-crying faces that preceded the invention of emojis.
Those, somehow, were worst of all.
The last thing she wanted to do was remind Russell of how little she was contributing, how her place in the band was essentially unearned.
But sometimes she couldn’t help herself from asking for a little reassurance.
You’re being paranoid, he’d say, a little impatiently, and would agree, would apologize, even though she could see evidence to the contrary was all around her.
When she and her sister walked into a room to meet reporters, she wasn’t the one people wanted to hear from.
When that reporter from Rolling Stone had come backstage in Richmond to interview them, he’d directed almost all of his questions at Cassie and Russell.
“Tell me how you guys wrote ‘Flavor of the Week’?”
he’d asked, and then he’d bent over his skinny rectangular notebook, pen flying.
“Cassie gets the credit for that one,”
Russell said, and Cassie, laughing—laughing!—had shaken her head, saying, “Oh, no, Russell’s just being modest.
That was all him.”
Cassie’s face had been flushed, her expression animated, hands moving as she spoke, and she’d been standing up straight, not hunched over and hiding.
Has she lost weight? wondered.
But, no.
Cassie had not gotten any smaller.
It was, in fact, the opposite.
Her sister had stopped trying to make herself small, was no longer trying to hide.
Cassie’s arms were spread, her legs were planted firmly, and she was talking about major fifths and relative minors, about Bach’s French Suites, and why they’d decided to add an oboe to “Flavor of the Week.”
“You studied classical piano, correct?”
the reporter asked, looking impressed, and Cassie nodded and started talking about the Curtis Institute and all of her professors there, taking the time to spell each one of their names.
felt fury building inside of her, and it only got worse when the photographer arrived.
The woman had her assistant set up a ladder onstage, and she’d perched on top, taking test shots with her Polaroid camera, directing Cassie and Russell to the center of the shot, telling to stand in the back row with Cam.
“Nice ...
nice .... lovely,”
she’d said, clicking away.
had wanted to hit someone or throw something.
Do you think anyone wants to look at her? she’d wanted to shout.
Instead, she just did what it felt like she’d been doing for her entire tenure in the band.
She smiled, and held her tambourine, and looked pretty.
She’d needed her fiancé.
She’d needed someone to lean on, someone to love her, to tell her that she was desirable, beautiful, worthy, and that she belonged.
Except Russell was pulling away.
“Hey, let’s get some sleep,”
he’d said, when she’d turned toward him in bed that night, arms out, needing comfort after the scene with the reporter.
In Pittsburgh, he told her he had a cold and that they shouldn’t sit together on the bus, in case he was contagious (but, she noticed, he had no compunctions about sitting with Cassie, for hours, to talk about whatever they were writing).
In the Marriott in Columbus, Ohio, he said he had a migraine, and in the Hyatt in Cleveland, when had refused to take no for an answer and had pulled off her pajamas and climbed on top of him, he’d tried to keep her hands from wandering below his waist and had finally told her that he didn’t feel up to sex, that he’d had too much to drink.
“Did I do something wrong?”
finally asked, climbing off of him and out of the bed.
She was wearing her panties and a lace-trimmed camisole, and Russell had pulled his boxer-briefs back on (a good thing too, thought—in her opinion, there wasn’t anything as insulting as a flaccid penis).
“Of course not,”
Russell had said.
He stood up and took her hands, rubbing his thumb over her engagement ring.
For one brief, terrible moment, wondered if he was going to tell her that the engagement was a mistake and end things for good.
had hurried to the bathroom, taking an extra-long time to floss her teeth, waiting until there was a good chance Russell would be sleeping before she slunk back to bed.
She lay awake for most of the night, trying not to think about how the whole world believed they were a couple, passionately in love.
They thought Russell wrote his songs for her, that he couldn’t keep his hands off her, when the reality was, he wrote his songs with Cassie—maybe not for Cassie, but with Cassie, and definitely not with, or for, .
was the one he kissed, and touched, and put himself inside of ...
but she knew that Cassie mattered to him more.
In Philadelphia, in her great-aunt’s kitchen, made herself tell the rest.
“I was lonely,”
she told Bess.
“And angry.
I should have talked to Russell and told him how I was feeling.”
Then she shook her head.
“I should have just broken up with him.
Or quit the band.
That would have been the smartest thing to do.”
She could remember every detail of those terrible weeks and months.
How she’d gotten quieter and angrier as the tour continued, as the fans and the journalists clamored for Cassie, as got pushed farther and farther to the margins, farther and farther toward the wings.
Aunt Bess looked at her, unblinking.
Aunt Bess was Team Cassie for life, thought wearily.
She didn’t want to finish the story, but she knew she had to keep going.
She’d come this far.
Time to get all the poison out.
“I thought about trying to make Russell jealous.
Flirting with other guys.”
She smiled thinly.
“Having the security guards pick out cute ones so they’d be waiting for me backstage.
But that wasn’t what I did.”
Bess waited.
“I found someone else.”
’s eyes were still closed as she spoke a name she hadn’t let herself say, or think, in years. “Tommy.”
Tommy, the band’s drummer, her sister’s former Curtis classmate, had always had a crush on her.
The worse things had gotten with the band, the more flattering had found his attention.
It soothed the sting of the cruel comments, and the vocal coach’s presence, and Russell’s indifference, and the way her microphone kept inching backward.
Maybe the fans weren’t calling her name; maybe the big screens were showing her sister, but knew that at least one pair of eyes would always be looking at her.
“Can I get that for you?”
Tommy would ask, reaching for her tambourine as they came offstage, placing it carefully in its cinched velvet sack.
He dubbed himself the Guardian of the Velvet Bag. “Milady,”
he’d say, waving his arm with an elaborate flourish, urging to walk ahead of him as they boarded the bus on their way to the shows, taking her hand to help her off when they arrived at their destination.
“Come sit with me,”
he’d urge her, every time they boarded the bus.
Sometimes she would.
She’d hold his hand as they walked from the bus to the hotel, swinging their arms up and down jokingly.
On the bus, she’d pretend to fall asleep with her cheek against his shoulder, willing Russell to turn around and look.
Russell hardly ever did.
kept trying, sitting with Tommy, touching his arm or his face, asking him flattering questions, gazing at him while he spoke.
And, eventually, realized that she wasn’t just flirting to be strategic or manipulative and that Tommy was not just a means to an end.
found that she actually liked him.
He was cute, with his sharp haircut and the little rock-star swagger he’d acquired in their months on the road.
Maybe I’m marrying the wrong guy, she found herself thinking, one night in May, as they drove through the darkness somewhere in South Carolina, with Tommy sitting beside her and Russell sitting up front, next to her sister.
But by then it was too late.
Russell D’Angelo and Griffin got married in Miami, as planned, on a beach at sunset, in front of three hundred people, maybe forty of whom they actually knew.
The rest of the guests were other famous people: musicians, actors, reality TV stars, celebrities represented by the same agents or publicists or working with the same corporations, who could benefit from the exposure.
It was all transactional.
At least looked just like she’d imagined, barefoot, in a bias-cut slip-style gown of ivory silk with spaghetti straps, with her hair in loose waves, topped by a crown of pale pink roses.
Cassie wore a long-sleeved navy-blue gown that fell to her shins with a matching bolero jacket with rhinestone details, an outfit so hideously nondescript that it zoomed past mother-of-the-bride-wear and settled comfortably into a niche for grandmother of the bride.
The morning of the wedding, in the bridal suite, as Janice fussed with ’s veil, and Sammi Johnson, who’d flown in the night before, drank champagne and giggled, and Bess sat silently in the corner, Cassie had said, “I’m happy for you,”
in a muted voice.
“Thank you,”
said graciously.
Maybe Cassie would have said more, but the wedding planner, with her earpiece and her clipboard, was knocking on the door, saying, “It’s time.”
Sam walked down the aisle, and Cassie held her bouquet, and Janice cried—in bewilderment, suspected, as much as joy.
Less than a year and a half ago, had been an indifferent student at the Community College of Philadelphia.
Now she was famous, and there were movie stars and musicians standing on the sand, craning their necks for a glimpse of her, counting themselves lucky to be in attendance.
Best of all, her sister, the one destined for fame and glory, had been relegated to a secondary role.
For once, thought meanly, Cassie is my backup singer.
At the reception, in a candlelit ballroom, and Russell entered through an archway of roses.
Russell sang “God Only Knows”
to her, and they slow-danced to “Never My Love.”
Cam and CJ both gave speeches, as did Sammi Johnson, ’s friend from home and former bandmate.
hadn’t even asked Cassie if she wanted to speak, knowing that her sister wouldn’t.
Nor did she ask Cassie if she wanted to sing.
The last thing wanted was to be upstaged on her own wedding night.
and Russell fed each other bites of lobster and filet mignon in red wine reduction, tiny mushroom tartlets, and lemon wedding cake with raspberry fondant, and they danced, first in the ballroom, then, later, on the sand, as a DJ played club music.
They went to bed at four in the morning, too footsore and exhausted to make love.
That happened the next morning.
For the first time in a long while, Russell was an enthusiastic participant, reaching for , first in bed, then in the oversized shower.
They flew to Tahiti on a borrowed private jet that Jerry had procured and spent three nights in a cabin that stood on stilts above the turquoise-blue sea.
They swam, and made love, and feasted on dorado and squid and oysters pulled right out of the water and, at night, the sound of the waves lulled them to sleep.
barely minded when, on the second day, Russell spent three hours on the phone with her sister, working through the pre-chorus of the song they were hoping to debut soon.
“I love you,”
said to Russell, as the plane touched down in St.
Louis, where the rest of the band was waiting.
Her husband had smiled and touched her cheek.
His face was tanned, and his eyes looked especially clear.
“You’re my girl,”
he told her, and cupped her cheek in his hand.
“Ready to go back to the salt mines?”
smiled and nodded.
Later, she would think that it was the last time she’d been happy with Russell, when they were still inside the airplane, on the runway, in that placeless, liminal nowhere, where she was no longer a bride, but not yet a wife, or a musician on a world tour.
had thought that being married would change things.
But other than officially sharing a hotel room with Russell instead of her sister, not much was different.
Russell continued to spend more time with Cassie than with her.
On the bus, he and Cassie would sit together, humming phrases of music or listening to a song on Russell’s portable CD player, or with their heads bent over one of Cassie’s notebooks.
During the shows, they would sing together, with Cassie at her keyboard and Russell standing center stage.
Cassie would have her eyes closed, and Russell would have his eyes on her.
would be watching the monitors, watching her husband being awed by someone who was not her.
It hurt.
So did the nights where Russell said he was too tired to have sex with her ...
or when he’d be asleep, or pretending to be asleep, by the time she finished taking off her makeup, before she could even get into bed.
When he did stay awake long enough to attend to his conjugal duties, the lovemaking felt perfunctory, like no matter what she did, or how beautiful she looked, she only ever had half of his attention.
And Tommy, when he wasn’t indulging the female groupies clamoring for his attention, was always there, watching her, loving her, hoping for his chance.
Tommy kissed her for the first time after the show in Arlington, Virginia, as they stood in the wings between their second and third encores.
He’d drawn into a dark corner, between a curtain and a stack of amps, and, while the crowd clapped and stomped and chanted the band’s name, he’d wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, kissing her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, and then, very gently, her lips.
“I’ve been wanting to do that forever,”
he whispered.
remembered how her skin prickled with heat.
She felt flushed, weak-kneed, aroused in a way she hadn’t been in weeks by his desire.
All I want is to be wanted, she’d think on the tour bus, as she stared at the back of her husband’s head bent close to her sister’s.
“We kissed for the first time in Virginia, and we slept together ten days after that, in Tampa,”
told her aunt.
She remembered Tampa specifically—how the humid Florida air threatened to make her straightened hair go frizzy, and left the hotel carpet feeling slightly spongy under her feet.
She remembered getting back to their room at two in the morning—two a.m.
was an early quitting time, in those upside-down days, where, sometimes, they’d party after the shows, then climb onto the bus at dawn and sleep all day.
That night, they’d all gone right back to the hotel.
Russell had been brushing his teeth in the bathroom when came and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“C’mon, .
I’m exhausted,”
he’d said.
“So you’re not up to performing your marital obligations?”
she’d asked, hoping that humor might build a temporary bridge over the space between them.
Their eyes had met in the mirror, and Russell’s face had looked tired, and sad.
He’d climbed into bed without glancing back.
had taken off her makeup and gotten into her nightgown.
She’d laid herself down beside him, then, almost immediately, she’d gotten up again, knowing she’d never be able to sleep.
She’d gone outside to stand on the balcony instead, and looking to her right, she’d seen Tommy, standing on his.
He was shirtless, with drawstring cotton pajama bottoms hanging low on his hip bones.
“Hey,”
he’d said, lifting one hand in an ironic salute.
“Hey.”
“Can’t sleep?”
had shaken her head.
“You should come over.”
The offer hung in the humid night sky.
“I should go to sleep.”
“I’ll rub your back,”
Tommy had offered.
I’ve got a husband for that, had thought.
Except she didn’t.
Her husband was in bed, snoring softly, his head full of dreams and music and, possibly, her sister.
He didn’t see her.
But Tommy looked at her like she was the only thing he could see, like she was bigger than the sky and brighter than the moon.
had barely felt herself deciding.
One minute she had been out on the balcony, and the next she’d been moving silently through the hotel room, her bare feet silent on the spongy carpet, then slipping out the door and into the room next door, where Tommy had been waiting for her.
The lovemaking had been exactly what she’d craved.
Tommy had spent what felt like hours just touching her—her hair, her eyebrows, the insides of her elbows.
He’d planted a line of slow kisses along her collarbones, then turned her over and traced the bumps of her vertebrae with the tip of his tongue.
He’d run his fingertips up and down her thighs, long, slow teasing strokes from her knees to her belly, first gentle, then more insistent, coaxing her legs open, waiting patiently, until her hips started to rise and fall, until she was pushing herself at him with her mind blissfully empty—no words, no thoughts, just desire.
Tommy cherished her.
Tommy adored her.
Tommy seethed with jealousy every time Russell touched her, every time he saw a picture of and Russell together, every time the photographers called for a shot of the two of them.
“Hey, ! Russell! This way,”
they’d say, or “Give him a kiss!”
And so he wooed her, leaving her little gifts, sending flowers to her dressing room, tucking love notes into her pockets.
In Hartford, Russell had gone off with Cassie, and had barely waited for the door to shut before she’d gone to Tommy’s room.
He’d filled the tub for her, scooping her into his arms, settling her into the warm water, scented with bath salts.
She’d closed her eyes, and he’d washed her hair.
In Boston, she’d found a heart-shaped gold locket in her dressing room, with the words Be Mine and Tommy’s initials engraved on the back.
In New York, during a four-day stand at Madison Square Garden, he said, “I want to be with you forever.”
Tommy’s declaration had thrilled her and terrified her, filling her with dread and delight and confusion.
What was she supposed to do? Dump Russell and be with Tommy? Leave the band, go back home, start another life? Find the thing that she was really good at, which wasn’t music, and would probably not end up with her being famous and rich and adored?
“I was trying to come up with a plan,”
she said to Bess.
“Trying to find a way out, I guess.
Tommy wanted me to end things with Russell.”
She gave a humorless laugh.
“Even though it felt like Russell had already pretty much ended things with me, we were still a couple, as far as the public was concerned.
Tommy hated that.
He kept pushing me to tell Russell what was going on.
But I was worried it would . . .”
She gestured vaguely.
“That it would break up the band?”
Bess asked.
started to nod.
Then she shook her head. “No,”
she said.
“Honestly? I wasn’t even thinking about the band.
I was thinking about myself.
How I’d get blamed for the breakup, even though Russell was the one who wanted out.
I was thinking about that, and I was thinking about Cassie winning.
If I let Russell go, if I went off with Tommy, it would mean that Cassie had won.
And I couldn’t stand that.”
Bess looked at her steadily.
touched her hair, then clasped her hands on her lap.
She’d been wondering whether Bess would get there by herself—if she’d ask, or make say it.
“And I got pregnant.”
“Oh.”
Her great-aunt’s voice was soft and uninflected.
Her expression wasn’t angry.
Nor was it particularly surprised.
looked down.
“The night that Russell died, I was going to tell him that I was with Tommy.
I thought he was probably getting ready to dump me, and I figured, if I ended things first, at least I’d have my pride.
Only then . . .”
She shut her mouth and closed her eyes, shuddering all over, remembering.