by Sally Quinn
“I’d like to talk to Dr. Lanzer.”
“He’ll never tell you anything. He can’t, as a doctor.”
It occurred to her that she could have been more noncommittal if she wanted to. She sensed that Sprague had spotted her unsureness and was coming in for the kill.
“We have been told that you and Blanche Osgood accompanied the President to the NIH for an examination by Dr. Lanzer at the National Cancer Institute. It would have been last April, April thirteenth to be exact.”
He really did know. She was so flustered she didn’t know what to say. She had never been grilled like this by a reporter, especially a world-class pro like Sprague. He was showing no mercy.
“Actually,” she said, as the blood rushed to her face, “I wasn’t here then, at least I don’t think I was. And I believe I was sick, that awful flu was going around.”
“Right,” said Sprague.
“It was also my daughter’s birthday.”
He didn’t say anything.
“So, I don’t see how I could possibly have been there.”
She hadn’t lied, really, she just equivocated. She didn’t say she’d never been there.
“The President has been indisposed several times this fall,” he said.
“So I read.”
“Blanche must be pretty upset.”
She noticed he had gone from “the First Lady” to “Blanche Osgood” to “Blanche.” It was an interesting technique, suggesting mutual intimacy.
They looked at each other.
“He’ll have to resign. The question is… when?”
“I don’t know anything about all this. It’s ridiculous.”
“Well,” he said, getting up from his seat. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
He obviously couldn’t wait to get back to the office. She understood she had given him enough to call the press secretary, say he had it from two sources and get a denial.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be of more help,” she said as she walked him to the door.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
What the hell did that mean?
“Give my best to your parents when you talk to them,” he said.
Leave them with a friendly taste in their mouths.
“And to your mother.”
He was gone. She leaned against the door and sighed. He had really done a number on her. She couldn’t decide whether to be mad at him or mad at herself.
“Bastard,” she said and banged her fists against the door.
He had used their personal relationship to get to her and then to get her to help him. It was dirty pool.
But then she had betrayed Blanche. She had betrayed her friend and not left a single fingerprint.
“Bitch,” she said to herself, looking in the hall mirror.
She had answered her own question. Both. Sprague and herself. She was mad at both.
Dear Sadie,
I’m sitting here in my San Francisco hotel room looking out the picture window at a blanket of fog. This is appropriate since I feel that my brain is in a similar condition. It is also just fine since it means I can’t see all the Santa Claus’s reindeer, Christmas trees, and blinking colored lights blanketing this town.
Unfortunately, it makes me think of you, which I have been trying hard with little success, not to do.
I miss you.
It’s been six weeks since we met at the Tidal Basin. You may have guessed I was really angry with you that day. The fact that you were “seeing” Des was a shock. I guess I’m pretty naive, but since you had told me you loved me I never expected you to go to bed with another man. Even if we weren’t sleeping with each other. I can see now that this is my problem, not yours, part of my antiquated morality.
I was more than angry. I was hurt. Make that deeply wounded. It’s not rational. I have no right to ask you to be faithful to me. I have offered you nothing, I have given you nothing. I have only taken from you. I have taken your friendship and your caring and concern and love, and I have done nothing but turn my back on you. Time and time again. Frankly, I don’t understand why you keep coming back for more when all you get is abuse. It baffles me. But then, it’s not the only thing about this relationship that baffles me.
I’m used to being in control. I have always been able to control every aspect of my life. Without control I feel helpless and scared. When I met you I lost control. It has been the most exasperating, perplexing, frightening experience I have ever had. I thought I understood about pain but nothing has ever caused me more pain than this. I became obsessed with you. To the point that I have behaved recklessly and thoughtlessly to other people, including Giselle, my children, me, and you. I’m afraid of myself. I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of it. You are like a tumor in my brain which is getting larger and larger each day. I can’t seem to stop it. Pushing you away is radiation but it’s not working. The cancer keeps growing. It’s always been there, the potential for it. You were the catalyst. I don’t know whether it’s the same for you or not. Sometimes I suspect it is, which frightens me more.
When I’m not with you I feel lonely and sad. Being with you seems right, makes me feel whole. I shouldn’t. It isn’t right. I miss talking to you, sharing things with you, laughing with you, making you laugh.
You make me feel clever and sexy and funny. It’s wonderful. But I can’t deal with it. I can’t deal with you. Why? God I wish I knew. It makes no sense. If you think it baffles you, it baffles me even more. It is not because you’re not Jewish. I’m sticking with that as a reason because it’s the only one I can think of. But you deserve better. You deserve someone who can love you and be a good husband to you and take care of Willie.
What you don’t need is a man who can’t even make love to the only woman he has ever really cherished without being sick or drunk.
Forgive me. I love you.
Merry Christmas. Love, Michael.
Dear Michael,
We seem to be better at communicating on paper than in person.
I don’t know where to begin.
There is this thing called erotic obsession. Supposedly it overtakes you, renders you helpless to make any rational judgment. The object of the obsession becomes paramount.
The Dictionary of Psychology defines eroticism as “employed in psychoanalytical literature as a general term for sexual excitement, and in psychopathology for an exaggerated display of sexual feelings and responses.”
Obsession is “a persistent or recurrent idea, usually strongly tinged with emotion, and frequently involving an urge towards some form of action, the whole mental situation being pathological.”
Since it’s come up in both definitions, you may be interested to know that pathology is a “branch of biological or medical science, which concerns itself with abnormal and diseased conditions in organisms.”
Somehow I can’t really think of our condition as “diseased,” can you? I say “our.” It is the same for me.
The question is, why does it have to be pathology? Why can’t it just be love? The answer is because you won’t let it. And the reason is because you are an asshole.
I think I’ve made my position clear, here. Now let me expound.
The Jewish thing is a crock, I’ve decided. You’re just using that to hide behind. It’s convenient and comfortable and requires no effort of self-analysis on your part. You’re a lazy coward. As you say yourself, you’re scared of you, me, it. And besides, you don’t want to do any work. So you throw it off on me. She’s not Jewish, she’ll never get it. Isn’t that clever… and easy.
Well, sorry, big guy. It won’t work. I know you too well now so you can’t play your little games with me.
When we first met you were right there for me, right in my face. You came on to me so strongly that it was like an emotional invasive procedure. I remember asking, “Who are you?” I wondered who this magical person could be who was so completely tuned in to my wavelength. It was as though you were pickin
g up signals from my invisible antenna. I felt we had known each other in another life.
Lately, I’ve had a different question. “Where are you?” Where is the person I fell in love with? It seems that ever since Giselle left you’ve been hiding from me.
I remember going to open-air shops in the Mediterranean, the ones where all the lovely, tempting wares were displayed right there on the street for you to touch. And how frustrating it was to arrive just at closing time and have the heavy metal doors slam down, locking everything from view. It was the inaccessibility of those treasures that was the ultimate frustration.
You’re very clever about it. You know how to distance yourself from me, and I suspect from everyone. You know how to hurt me in a way nobody has ever been able to hurt me before. You ask why I keep coming back for more abuse. The answer is that I know you’re not a mean person. I know you love me and it’s your way of trying to keep me away so that you won’t get hurt. Most of the time I can deal with it. It’s only when I’m feeling particularly vulnerable that I can’t take it.
I miss you, too.
I haven’t really seen you since we made love. Occasionally you’ve let me have a peek, just a hint, a flash behind those beautiful blues. I know you’re in there so you might as well come out with your hands up. Or at least let me in.
We’re making headway though. You’ve learned to reveal yourself when you’re sick, drunk, nude, and writing letters. That’s progress. Actually I like nude best. I could get raunchy if I don’t watch out. Somehow I’m in the mood. Sorry. It’s late and I’m tired.
I’ve been watching Des on “Good Night.” Speaking of Des. There’s a difference between Catholics and Jews, I’ve discovered. Catholics are motivated by fear. Jews are motivated by guilt. I’ve decided I like guilt better. Guilt is sexy. Fear is not.
There’s another thing. He doesn’t love me. I’m not sure he knows it yet. He’s trying to because he’s lost Allison, and because he cares about me and feels sorry for me and he really does love Willie. But it isn’t working. Oh, yes. One more small detail! I don’t love him.
Anyway, I’m not dead. I’m very much alive, and I’m not going away and you can’t ignore me. You can’t sit shiva for me, Lanzer, because I’m a shiksa, remember? And one more thing: I’ve decided I don’t want to “share the pain.” Pain is boring. So can we please stop this and get on with our lives.
“T.O.T.” pal. In case you don’t know, that stands for the Yiddish expression “tochis afn tish”—It means, loosely translated, “put up or shut up.”
I love you. You love me. We have a great life together ahead of us. Kineahora.
Love, Sadie.
The network’s “Christmas in Washington” special had always been one of her favorite events of the year. It was a one-hour taped Christmas show held at the beautiful old Pension Building downtown. The building was always decorated with garlands of greenery, ribbons, twinkling lights, and huge Christmas trees. The show itself consisted of a number of well-known performers singing carols as well as a black Baptist choir and the U.S. Naval Academy Glee Club. The President and First Lady always came, and others often included the Vice President, members of the cabinet and Congress, and a lot of heavy-hitting media types. What she loved most about it was that the children were invited. She had brought Willie last year for the first time when he was three, all dressed up in a green velvet suit and white knee socks. It was such fun, dressing him up like that.
This year he wouldn’t be wearing any green velvet suit. Not with Des around.
“No son of mine is going to go out looking like a fucking fruitcake” was more or less how he put it.
She refused to have her spirits dampened. She got Willie his first navy blazer, white button-down shirt, striped tie, and gray flannel pants. So he looked like a little English schoolboy instead of a fruitcake.
Blanche hadn’t quite known what to do about Des, but she gamely asked them to sit with her. She wasn’t alone in her dilemma. Everybody in Washington was somewhat confused by their relationship. They didn’t actually live together and they didn’t go to parties together but it was clear that they were an item. The whole thing made people quite uncomfortable; the two of them spent most of their time by themselves.
Sadie had trouble persuading Des to sit with them. If Willie hadn’t been part of the deal he would probably have said no. It was too public, especially now that he was a big TV star. Also joining them in the front row were the Vice President and his wife, Malcolm and Abigail Sohier, and their three children. Sadie was pleased about that. She adored the Sohiers and Des and Malcolm were old friends from Boston.
Blanche had asked Sadie and Des to come to the back entrance of the Pension Building to meet the cast and the network officials beforehand. It was customary for the President and First Lady to wait there until it was time for the show to begin.
Sadie hadn’t realized how nervous she was about appearing for the first time with Des in public. Not to mention with Des and Willie. What if someone noticed how much they looked alike?
As they walked into the large room with the huge Christmas tree and saw the cast lined up to greet them she almost turned and ran out. How could she have been so stupid? What on earth was going through her mind? She had been living such a private life with Des that she had lost touch with reality. She hadn’t focused on the kind of commotion their appearance together could cause.
She switched Willie’s hand from her right side to her left so that he was no longer between them. If she kept him far enough away from Des maybe people wouldn’t put it together. Des noticed. She felt sorry for him. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. He was so proud of Willie that, on some level, he wanted everyone to know that Willie was his son. He also knew it was impossible. He let her pull Willie away from him.
The show’s producer introduced them to the cast. Willie put a present under the tree for Children’s Hospital. She had told him that that’s where he’d been after he’d fallen and hurt his head. Willie’s eyes fell on the tables full of candy, cookies, and cakes for the party afterward and she allowed him one chocolate Santa. She was relieved and distracted by his mobility.
Des started up a conversation with one of the stars and she began to relax when she heard a commotion near the door. The President and First Lady had arrived.
To her dismay, walking in with them was Michael.
Blanche had taken to having Michael accompany her on public appearances to reinforce her commitment to her AIDS project. He always went to her country music concerts and occasionally he spoke. Tonight his presence was appropriate because there was a country music singer on the program who had performed for Blanche’s project, and the show was a benefit for Children’s Hospital. Only Sadie knew that Michael was really there for Freddy.
She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since their exchange of letters. In fact, she hadn’t seen him since September.
She was always shocked when she saw him. It was the oddest sensation, like a light going on in her brain. “Of course! Why didn’t I know that before? Why didn’t I see that before? Why didn’t I think of that before?” She was an amnesia victim suddenly getting her memory back. Seeing him was like discovering the truth after a long search and realizing that it was the only truth.
Now she had two things to hide. She felt very exposed.
Des knew about Michael, of course. But all he knew was that it hadn’t worked out.
Michael knew about both Des and Willie.
She and Michael knew about Freddy.
Things were getting so complicated that she had to concentrate to remember who knew what about whom. Tragedy was in danger of turning into farce.
Blanche came right over to her as if she had found her lost security blanket.
“Oh Sadie,” she whispered. “Thank God you’re here. It’s been awful. Freddy is sick. Michael didn’t want him to come tonight but he insisted. I made Michael come with us.”
She glanced quickly at the President. Blanche
was right. He didn’t look great. He had on makeup, so it wasn’t too noticeable unless you saw him up close. What was more noticeable was his body language. He held on to Blanche tightly. He refused to look Sadie in the eyes. Grateful, she averted hers as well.
Michael was standing right behind him. She gathered her courage.
“Dr. Lanzer,” she said, with a noncommittal smile. “How nice to see you. It’s been months. We seem to keep missing each other… at these meetings.”
Her heart skipped a tiny beat. He looked at her. She never quite knew how to greet him. She held out her hand. He took it. He wouldn’t let her look away.
“You’re right,” he said. “We have been missing each other.”
There was no chance to mention her letter. No chance to mention his. What could they say to each other anyway, with all these people standing around? She searched his face for a reaction. Had he laughed when he got her letter? Did it amuse him? Or was he angry? Did he resent her flippant tone? It could have served to make him more confused, more miserable. She couldn’t tell. He wasn’t giving anything away.
Des walked over.
“Des, you remember Michael Lanzer, don’t you? I think you met him at the White House last year.”
Des remembered.
“Doctor,” he said coolly, extending his hand. It amused her. Des really wasn’t in love with her. She knew that. Yet when his territory was threatened he reacted.
Michael’s response was equally cool. She could see his face shut down, a veil go over the eyes. He was having the same problem.
She expected them to break away from each other immediately, the way she would have. Instead, they struck up a conversation, taking each other’s measure, like two dogs sniffing out the competition.
She was about to walk away, when Willie came barreling up to Des with chocolate smeared on his face and held his arms up, begging “Uncle Des” to pick him up.
She started to lean down and get Willie right away. Before she could, Des had swooped him up into his arms, looking triumphantly at Michael as if to say, “You see. I’m the father of her child. I have impregnated this woman. I have given her a son. I’m the man here. I’m in charge.” It was so primitive she had to turn away for fear they would see her laughing.
