by Sally Quinn
Her voice was completely without emotion. It was just this little problem of nightmares, actually. Nothing serious. Maybe a few shrink-type tricks to cure it and everything would be just fine. No problem.
“Let’s talk about it,” said Rachel, equally matter-of-factly. Allison did pick up a slightly sympathetic tone in Rachel’s voice, which made her uneasy. She did not want sympathy. That was exactly what she couldn’t handle.
“I’ll probably only need one session,” she said. “I’m sure that’s all it will take to deal with this problem. You know me.” She laughed. “I’m the original can-do girl. Let’s get in there and get this thing solved. Let’s not spend five years on the couch.”
“Right,” said Rachel.
Why did Allison get the impression Rachel was just humoring her? It really did annoy her a little. Maybe it was just her imagination. Maybe she was just paranoid. In any case, they had made the appointment. She would go to see Rachel once. What she didn’t tell Rachel was that once was all she would see her.
* * *
“Well,” said Allison, very chipper, very in control. “I guess I’d better start out with the dreams.”
Rachel was sitting across from Allison in her tiny little cubbyhole of an office, all cozy and secure and womblike. She had forgotten how reassuring that room and Rachel’s presence were. Yet now she only felt dread. Dread that she would have to talk about what had happened. Rachel was good at getting her to open up about things she didn’t want to deal with. This time she would outwit her. She had braced herself against any of Rachel’s overtures. They would talk about the dreams. Period. She was in charge.
Rachel’s eyebrows were turning downward, a sign of concern. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at Allison. Allison felt as if Rachel had X-ray vision. She didn’t want anyone to look inside her just now, so she avoided Rachel’s gaze.
She told Rachel the dream about the ship and the slime, everyone blaming her. Rachel was writing it all down on a yellow pad.
“So. What do you make of it? What does it all mean, Coach?”
Rachel looked at her again with that damned compassionate look.
“How are you, Sonny? You’ve just been through an enormous tragedy. What you’ve been through is very, very hard.”
Allison suddenly felt very lightheaded and slightly nauseated. She couldn’t decide whether she was going to faint or throw up. She could feel the blood drain from her face, her breath quickened. Her hands grasped the arms of the chair. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the chair. She had to get a grip. Rachel was trying to do it to her. To bring it up. She wasn’t going to let her. Very clever, the way she had done it, too.
It seemed like hours before she managed to speak. Strangely, she hadn’t felt like crying. She felt dead inside. Nevertheless, Rachel had stirred something. It didn’t feel good either.
With her eyes still shut, she spoke very softly in a dull voice.
“I can’t do this, Rachel. I don’t want to do this. I don’t have the strength for it. It’s a matter of survival. If you want to help me, then help me with my dream. Tell me what it means. If you do anything more I promise you I will get up and leave. Tell me what the dream means and maybe if I understand it it will stop.”
She hadn’t opened her eyes. She just sat there very quietly, waiting.
“It’s not unusual for parents of deformed, disabled, or handicapped children to have a death wish for their children,” Rachel said softly. “They wish their children were not that way. They wish they would die. When you realized Kay Kay was brain-damaged you wanted her to die. It’s one thing to wish it to happen. It’s quite another to make it happen. In your case you were forced to make it happen. You decided for her to die. Now you can’t help but feel you are a terrible person for not wanting a vegetable for a daughter. You feel you are a terrible person for making her die. You feel you are a terrible person because the people you have loved the most have died. You feel maybe you have been responsible for their deaths. You feel you must be punished because of it.”
There was another long silence. Allison still did not move, still kept her eyes closed.
“Right,” she said after a while. “That makes sense. Even though rationally I know that I am not responsible for everyone’s death, subconsciously I have taken the blame. Even though Des and I made the decision along with all the doctors and the board of ethics and even though we clearly had no choice, I am taking the blame for Kay Kay’s death, too. I know I’m not to blame but I can’t help feeling like a terrible person.”
Her voice had a stilted, even, zombielike quality as she recited her little catechism.
She opened her eyes and sat up in her seat.
“Thank you,” she said to Rachel. “That helps. That’s exactly what I needed. Now we’ll just have to see.”
She got up and put on her coat, grabbed her bag, and walked to the door. Rachel hadn’t moved. Allison turned to look at her. Rachel’s eyebrows were down around her chin.
“I’ll call if this doesn’t work,” said Allison, “and insist on my money back.”
* * *
It was a Monday and a very slow news day. Nothing was happening. It meant she had time to think. That was not acceptable. Total distraction was her only means of survival. She had had her morning meeting with the national staff and she was looking for a lunch. She walked out of her office and surveyed the newsroom. She needed to find the right person. Too often lately she’d ended up at lunch, ostensibly to talk about work, and the person she was having lunch with would bring up Kay Kay. They would inevitably get teary and maudlin and she would have to cheer them up. She could do it but it wiped her out emotionally, and she found that it exhausted her physically as well. She hadn’t figured it out at first. She would have one of these lunches and then collapse by the time she got to story conference at 2:30. She had recently fallen asleep at a story conference. It was especially puzzling because she hadn’t been having the shipwreck dream since the session with Rachel. It was only after the third or fourth time it happened that she made the connection. Nobody ever mentioned Kay Kay in the office. It seemed that didn’t follow protocol. But just have a bloody cup of tea in the cafeteria with someone and it was the first thing they brought up. Once she got the picture she began getting Walt to speak to her lunch dates beforehand to warn them off. Even so, there were still people who couldn’t help alluding to it. Especially the women. They were the criers, too.
She spotted Sprague talking to the foreign editor. She hadn’t really talked to him since the night Kay Kay was born. He and Jane had sent food and flowers to the house and they had both written notes. Sprague’s note surprised her. It was long and very personal, steeped in emotion and a sense of the tragic that Southerners seemed given to. There was also something chivalrous about it. It was as though he felt it his personal duty to protect her from any more pain, honor bound to throw an emotional cloak over the mud puddle for her to step on. She had never seen that side of him. What she got, what everyone at the Daily got, was the stoic, steely, distant warrior. Sprague, she often thought, was the journalistic equivalent of a samurai. Honor bound, single-minded, focused, deceptively gentlemanly… and a killer.
Perfect for lunch. He wouldn’t cry, for one thing. And he was sure to distract her, for another. She had yet to have a conversation with him since he had come to the Daily where they hadn’t fought or argued or where she hadn’t gotten mad at him. He wouldn’t fail her now.
More important, Sprague had just come back from Colombia, this time a trip she had vetoed. She had thought it too dangerous and she had not been wrong. An American freelancer doing a television documentary had been kidnapped in Bogotá a few weeks earlier and had not been heard from. She would have to debrief Sprague and dissuade him from another trip.
She had never had lunch with Sprague. He didn’t do lunch. This time he would. She’d like to see him try to refuse her now. The bastard.
She waited until
he had returned to his desk, then walked over to him. He was reading some sort of document. She didn’t say anything. She just stood next to him until he looked up at her.
“Lunch?” she asked.
“What time?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“Meet you at the elevator.”
She went immediately to Walt in triumph. It was the first moment of pleasure she had had in two months.
“Guess who I’m having lunch with?”
“Sprague.”
“How did you…?”
“I saw you talking to him. Besides, you wouldn’t have bothered to tell me about anyone else.”
“I needed someone to fight with today and you looked too nice.”
“Shall I give him the usual prelunch briefing?”
“Are you kidding? Of course not. Why do you think I picked him?”
“Sorry. Of course you’re right. Do you have an agenda?”
“Drugs. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to him about where he is in all of that since… since… Anyway, I’m sure he’ll have some outrageous request that I’m going to have to veto and the fur will fly. At least that’s what I’m hoping. I’m really in the mood today for a little combat. I can’t take it out on Des anymore. So Sprague will do just fine.”
“Is everything okay with you and Des?”
Walt’s flippant tone had altered.
“Oh, sure. Everything’s fine. It’s just that we tend to take everything out on each other. You know. I guess it’s inevitable.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think so really. But thanks, Walt. I know if I need somebody to talk to I can come to you. That’s a big help…”
She looked at her watch. “Oh Christ, it’s almost twelve-thirty. I’ve got to go. I think we’ll go to The Palm. If I’m not back for story conference, call the rescue squad.”
* * *
The Palm. It was a man’s restaurant. Actually, it was a guy’s restaurant. If she had to go head to head with Sprague she had to be one of the guys. No fancy French restaurants with fresh flowers and sycophantic waiters. She wanted rude waiters so she could be rude back. Demonstrate her toughness. She wanted to eat a man-sized steak or veal chop, something that needed cutting with a real knife, not some sissy knife. Sprague had gone to the Citadel. He was a military man. He had managed to intimidate all of the male editors at the Daily. He would do the same to her if she let him. But she was not going to. She wanted Sprague to see her as his equal. What hadn’t occurred to her was that Sprague, who was not only an “officer” but a “gentleman,” would not be seeing her as an editor he had to take on, but as a woman whose baby had just died.
Allison was puzzled. Sprague wasn’t acting as he usually did, confrontational. He practically held her chair out for her. Solicitous.
They had been seated right near the entrance at a round table in the center of the room so they could be seen. They were a hot-ticket item that day, she realized. They both ordered sparkling water.
“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked after the waiter had disappeared.
“We haven’t had a chance to talk about your project for a while,” she said. “I thought I ought to catch up. You’ll be thrilled to know that I’m back on your case.”
“Great.”
She couldn’t read him. Was he being sarcastic? She didn’t think so.
The waiter approached them.
“Okay folks. What’ll it be?”
It seemed so intrusive today when usually it was amusing and fun. She realized she had made a mistake with the choice of restaurants. The Palm was great for its ample food, cheeky waiters, and rough, noisy barroom atmosphere. Usually she enjoyed the paintings of local celebrities—hers and Des’s included—on the walls, and the glad-handing of the insider lawyers, journalists, and politicians. It just wasn’t what she needed now. She needed someplace quiet. She needed a womb-like atmosphere. She sensed that Sprague felt the same way.
“It’ll be another table,” she said to the waiter. “Like one of those booths in the very back, preferably with nobody on either side of us. I don’t think it will be a problem. It looks like a slow day.”
He seemed unhappy about her request but acquiesced when he saw she was serious. Sprague didn’t say a word but she could tell he was pleased. Once they were seated he suggested they order immediately so they could dispense with the waiter.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she said. “I don’t really care what I eat.”
She hadn’t meant to sound hopeless but it was there, oozing out of her. She hadn’t meant to arouse his sympathy, to allude in any way to what had happened. Nevertheless, he had picked up on it and cast a questioning glance at her.
“Thank you for your note,” she said. “It was… beautiful.”
What was she doing? This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid.
“You sound surprised.”
“I was, a little, to tell you the truth. I just hadn’t seen that side of you before. You don’t talk all that much. At least to me.”
“ ‘The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint’—that’s a line from one of my favorite poems.”
They both seemed slightly embarrassed. She cleared her throat.
The waiter appeared to take their orders: veal piccata, home fries, fried onions, and creamed spinach. She nearly gagged at the idea of eating all that food.
“So,” she said, trying to sound as brisk and full of enthusiasm as she could, “where are we in the saga of Foxy and Antonia Alvarez? Not to mention Mendez, the distinguished Foreign Minister of Colombia, my new favorite person.”
“I’d say it’s more like the saga of Sprague and Jane.”
“What?”
“I’ve had to send Jane and Melissa back to Savannah.”
“Oh, Sprague, I’m sorry. I had no idea you two were having problems.”
“We aren’t.”
“Then why…?”
“I’ve had a threat on my life. I’ve gotten a message that unless I lay off this story my life and that of my family will not be worth that of a ‘mule.’ That’s the way the cocaine cowboys describe the little guys who do the small deals for the big guys. A ‘mule’s’ life expectancy is jack shit in case you’re interested. They’re always getting blown up by car bombs.”
She suddenly thought she was having a panic attack… the same symptoms she’d had at Rachel’s, the dizziness, the cold sweats, the nausea. Once again, she leaned her head back, this time against the wooden booth. Someone else was going to die. Someone else she cared about.
Sprague? She cared about Sprague? She certainly found him attractive and interesting, there was no question about that. But would she be terribly upset if anything happened to him? Her throat constricted. Yes. She would. The realization of that fact shocked her. Could it be that she just couldn’t bear the idea of anyone else dying? It could, but it wasn’t. It was Sprague. She cared about Sprague. It was that simple.
She waited a second to steady herself, then took a sip of water. Just then the waiter appeared with their food. She didn’t think she would be able to swallow even a bite.
“What kind of a threat?” she asked, after the waiter had left. She thought she sounded pretty cool. She didn’t want him to know how upset she was.
“Telephone. Over a period of several nights. Three A.M. to be exact. The phone would ring. Jane answered. It was always a man with a German accent. He would tell me what I had been doing. For instance, I was up at Justice two weeks ago and met with Foxy’s righthand guy for about an hour. He told me about that. He told me practically everyone I had talked to on this last trip to Colombia. He even knew about my meetings with Garcia. I’ve been meeting him for lunch at this Mex joint called Jaimalitos on the Georgetown water-front. Garcia is my Deep Throat at the DEA. He would shit if he knew we were being followed.”
“Have you noticed anyone fol
lowing you?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. When I knew they were serious was when they gave me Melissa’s schedule, including her gymnastics.”
“Oh my God.”
“The point is that they know what I’m doing and how close I’m getting. I’ve almost got it nailed that Foxy is on drugs and being blackmailed by Antonia and the Foreign Minister, their chief money launderer. They don’t like it.”
“What makes you think they’re serious about the threat?”
“They’ve done it before. They own one of the small islands down in the Bahamas called Jenkins’s Cove. Some guy who owned a house on the island got suspicious and started making trouble for them, calling the Nassau police and contacting the Nassau papers. They threatened him and he didn’t back off so they blew up him and his wife and two kids. Oil fire on their boat. Nothing left but one tiny orange life jacket. Tragic accident’ is how it was reported.”
“How do you know?”
“They told me and I checked it out. It’s true.”
She closed her eyes.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“You’re the first. I wanted to get Jane and Melissa out of here and get them to a safe place. They’re in hiding.”
“But why? You’re obviously not going to stay on this story, are you?”
“You’re fuckin’ A.”
“Sprague. They’ll kill you. And they could track down Jane and Melissa, too.”
“I’m not going to let a bunch of cowboys intimidate me. They’ve got to be stopped. Somebody has to do it. If I don’t now, when I’m in a position to, it’s just going to get harder and harder.”
“I don’t care. I will not have one of my reporters risk his life over a stupid story. It’s not worth it.”
“Is this the same editor who couldn’t wait to send me off to Colombia?”
“You’re fuckin’ A.”
“Ally! Does this mean you care?”
She was stunned. It was so un-Sprague-like. For one thing, he had never called her Ally before. In fact, nobody had ever called her that. Sonny had always been her nickname. She couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was mocking her or not. Only his eyes had a glint of humor. What did he mean? What was he asking her? It couldn’t be what she thought. Not given the circumstances.
