by Sally Quinn
The producer ushered them all into a tiny holding room—Freddy, Blanche, Michael, Sadie, Des, and Willie. Mercifully, he came with them to go over last minute instructions with the President and Blanche about their remarks at the end of the performance.
It was time to go in. Willie was already hyperventilating from candy Des had given him behind her back. Sadie, Des, Willie, and Michael slipped into their seats in the front row. Sadie could hear a low murmur go up when people saw her with Des. Well, the hell with it. They would just have something to talk about for the next few weeks. She had given Washington a little Christmas present. What did she care? It was her life, after all. She could damn well do anything she wanted. That realization calmed her considerably.
The President and First Lady were announced and the crowd stood and applauded.
Sadie was distressed to see that Michael was seated between her and Blanche. Willie was between her and Des. The little gold wooden chairs were so close that one side of her body was pressed against Michael’s.
Des took one look at the situation, picked Willie up, sat himself in Willie’s seat next to hers and put Willie on his lap.
Your basic nightmare.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Allison and Sprague were sitting three rows behind them.
Allison knew about Willie. Sprague knew about Freddy. Pray God neither of them knew about her and Michael. No matter how sworn to secrecy they were, journalists could not be trusted. She had learned that from Des. “In the end,” he had told her, “everything is a story. Nothing is ever off the record. Journalists will always go for a story if it’s good enough. Stories are to be told. They can’t help it. It’s chemical.”
Des and Allison exchanged glances. The pain was evident on both their faces. Though she was still beautiful, Allison seemed terribly pale and gaunt, like some tragic heroine. It had to be difficult for her, seeing Des with Willie for the first time, having lost her own baby exactly a year earlier.
For Des it must have been even harder. He had lost one child and was forbidden to recognize the other. Not only that, seeing Allison with Sprague was obviously killing him. Des’s territory was being infringed upon on all sides. She felt bad for him. She put her hand on his arm to reassure him. Michael saw it and tensed. Willie started to whine.
This was too awful. The question was, how were they going to get out of it? She looked around for a distraction. She found it in Foxy and Antonia.
They were sitting in Siberia, off to the left at the very end of the row that faced the side of the stage. Banished.
Sprague had had a huge story in the Daily that Sunday morning about Foxy and his links to the drug dealers. It was pretty much the nail in the coffin. There was no question that Foxy would have to resign soon. Up until tonight he and the President had been playing the Washington game, Freddy professing loyalty and Foxy insisting he would stay. The embattled victim. They all thought they could tough it out. The White House never failed to bestow on its occupants a false sense of security, an aggrandized sense of power. Foxy was playing his role as if the script had been written for him. Showing the flag, stiff upper lip. Nobody in his right mind would have shown up in public after a piece like that had run about him. Unless he had White House protection. Yet Foxy’s seat assignment had not gone unnoticed. Nobody had even looked at him, much less spoken to him. All those Washington establishment types who had been kissing his ass for the past two years had abandoned him the moment they smelled blood. It was always interesting to watch the stunned sense of betrayal when these people found out that they had no friends, no supporters; that all that power was ephemeral; that nobody really liked them for themselves. Foxy looked like his stay of execution had been revoked.
She jabbed Des in the ribs.
“Look where they were seated,” she whispered.
He looked, smiled, and nodded. He liked the idea that she was whispering to him and not Michael.
“That bastard is history,” he whispered back. “I never thought I’d see the day when Freddy would abandon him like that. This is what’s so great about Washington. The symbolism of power: Where he sits at some little Christmas pageant determines his fate.”
What Des didn’t like was that the story was Sprague’s triumph. And Allison was Sprague’s editor as well as his “friend.”
The performance opened with a medley of carols beginning with “Away in a Manger” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
Every time the name Jesus was sung Michael would jab her in the ribs.
“Makes me feel right at home,” he whispered. “This certainly is the American way.”
Des put his hand on top of hers.
Next came “O Holy Night,” sung in a beautiful operatic voice. Sadie had always loved the music to this song but somehow, this evening, all she could concentrate on were the words:
“Long lay the world, in sin and error, pining, till He appeared and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…”
They made her feel tired and sad.
What was to become of them all? How had they managed to screw up their lives so badly, each one of them? Freddy and Blanche, Foxy and Antonia, Des and Michael, Allison and Sprague, and herself. Here they were, listening to songs of birth and hope and joy and every single one of them was suffering. They were all in sin and error, pining. None of their souls felt their worth. For them the world was still weary. There was no hope.
They were all at the pinnacle of power. My God. Look at who they were. She was talking about the President and First Lady, the former First Lady, the attorney general, a legendary Latin female diplomat, a nationally famous television anchor, a Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter, the most powerful woman in journalism, and one of the most distinguished scientists in America.
All this success and power and money and fame. For what?
The performance was ending with a rousing rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” The producer was standing at the lectern introducing the President and First Lady. They stood up and walked slowly up the few steps onto the platform. Sadie noticed that Freddy was not steady. Michael was practically on the edge of his chair. Standing in front of the audience, Blanche did not step away from Freddy but stood closely, almost propping him up. He looked straight ahead toward the teleprompter and began to read.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” His voice was wooden. Blanche had one of those mirthless “I’m thrilled to be here with my husband” political wife smiles on her face.
Freddy didn’t continue.
The audience waited.
Blanche turned her frozen face toward Freddy. The audience began rustling in their seats. Michael was barely touching his seat.
Freddy stared straight ahead. All the color appeared to drain out of his face, leaving it translucent.
“Freddy,” said Blanche.
“Mr. President,” said Michael softly, starting to move toward the platform.
He opened his mouth to continue. His lips moved but there was no sound.
“Timmmmmmmmmmbbbbbbber,” said Des under his breath.
Freddy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he keeled over, hitting the floor with a terrifying thud.
There was pandemonium.
As everyone was screaming and shouting, Michael calmly ordered the Secret Service to pick him up and get him out to the limousine. It happened so fast that before anyone even realized what was happening Freddy and Blanche and Michael were gone.
She turned to Des. He thrust Willie at her, practically causing her to fall over, and ran in the direction of the telephones. Running in the same direction right behind him were Sprague and Allison.
She stood there alone for a moment, in the midst of the chaos, not quite knowing what to do, where to go.
Willie began to cry, frightened.
“Mommy, Mommy,” he said, tears running down his cheeks. “What happened?”
She pulled Willie to her and
pressed his head on her shoulder.
“I think, my angel,” she said, patting his back to comfort him, “that our world is falling apart.”
* * *
Sadie was sitting in bed, a duvet wrapped around her, thumbing a book and waiting for “Good Night” to start. She tried to watch every night unless she fell asleep, which was not unknown to happen.
She hadn’t spoken to Des that day, so she didn’t know who was going to be on. She was more than surprised when Des announced that his only guest would be Sprague Tyson and the subject was the attorney general.
It was a few days before the inauguration, on January 20. Sprague had just dropped a bomb. That morning the Daily had run a story saying that they were in possession of videotapes of the attorney general snorting cocaine with Antonia Alvarez in Colombia at the private ranch of the Foreign Minister. They had evidence that the attorney general had quashed several DEA investigations of drug dealing between the Colombians and Americans and a special investigation of two drug dealers, Skinner and Bader, whose money was being laundered by the Foreign Minister himself. Antonia and the Foreign Minister had been using the tapes to blackmail Foxy into thwarting the investigations.
The evening news shows had all led with the story, with pictures of Foxy, surrounded by lawyers, dashing from his limousine into the White House to confer with the President. The President was said to be conferring with White House lawyers, spin doctors, p.r. people, DEA officials, and Colombian embassy types.
Meanwhile, there were no pictures of Freddy, who, Sadie knew, was getting sicker by the day. The press were having a field day speculating. Delegations of senators and congressmen were making trips to the White House in vain, trying to talk the President into taking some action, making some kind of statement, anything. Freddy was just hiding out. Nobody could get to him except a few close aides and they weren’t saying anything. Blanche was on the phone to Sadie several times a day. Freddy was scarcely talking to her anymore. Sadie had spoken to Malcolm and Abigail. They had also heard all the rumors, but Freddy had shut Malcolm out and Sadie couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth. Michael was at the White House every day, more for moral support than anything medical he could do. Even though the HIV story hadn’t broken, it was rumored everywhere, and the fact that he had closeted himself only made it worse. Plans were going ahead for all of the inaugural balls and members of the administration were trying to carry on as though everything was normal. The presidency was embattled. The nation was rudderless. There was a funereal pall over the city, over the country, which affected everyone and everything. There was no doubt in her mind that Freddy would have to resign. The only question was when. The world really was falling apart.
The state of the world might have been a metaphor for her own life. The tension between her and Des was mounting rapidly. She used to talk to him three or four times a day on the phone. Now it was once a day at best. Their relationship, which had been warm and protective, was beginning to fray around the edges. Their nerves were shot and they took it out on each other. Des was working at least fourteen hours a day and living at his own house. He had started doing the Sunday show as well, which meant he would have to get up at dawn to go to Mass first. They hardly saw each other.
Des was interviewing Sprague now. Sprague came across as cool, intelligent, and convincing. Des was respectful and challenging. Only she could tell there was an extra edge between the two. She knew Allison would be watching. Did she want Des back? Was she in love with Sprague?
She couldn’t watch anymore. It occurred to her that this whole situation was untenable. Somebody had to do something to stop it. If nobody else did then she would have to be the one. She clicked off the TV set and picked up the phone. She got Des’s producer on the line and left a message for him to call when the show was over. He called twenty minutes later.
“Sadie. You called? Did you see the show? How do you think it went?”
“I called, I saw the show, it went fine. I need to talk to you right now. Can you come over?”
“Is something wrong with Willie?”
“No. I just think we need to talk.”
“Can it wait until the weekend? I’m really beat.”
“No, I’m afraid it can’t. I need to talk to you now.” This was the third time she said it. He got the message.
“I guess you need to talk to me. I’ll be right over. I hope you’ve got some Irish.”
When he got there she was waiting for him in the library. She had thrown on a pair of sweats, lit a fire, closed the curtains, and fixed herself an Irish whiskey, which she never drank.
It was bone-chilling cold outside. As if everything wasn’t bad enough, it was one of the coldest winters on record. Des was red-faced and shivering by the time he got up the stairs and let himself in. She made him a drink and he sat next to the fire. She stood in front of it, warming her hands behind her as she gathered her thoughts.
He took a long swig and rested his head against the back of the sofa. He let out a deep sigh. He was exhausted and clearly apprehensive of any kind of serious talk.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “The whole fucking country is going to hell in a handbasket.”
“And so are we,” she said.
He didn’t respond right away. He sighed again.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. What do you mean by ‘we’?”
“You and me.”
“Oh Sadie. Do we have to talk about the relationship tonight. I’m so goddamn tired I can hardly think.”
“We have to. I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t live this lie another day. Des, don’t you feel the same way? I know you do. Why do you want to keep on doing this?”
“Sadie, please, I just can’t—”
“Can’t what? Des!” She was practically shouting. “We don’t love each other. We don’t love each other.” She stopped in shock. She hadn’t meant to say it. Certainly not like that.
He sat up in his chair as though he’d been electrocuted.
They looked at each other in horror, the dreadful secret finally exposed.
He sat back again, put his hands over his face, rubbed his eyes, and muttered, “Oh God.”
She knelt in front of him.
“Des, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… it’s just that I had to… someone had to… please don’t be angry…” She could feel her eyes blur.
He lowered his hands and looked at her.
“We go through the motions, Des. We kiss each other and say ‘I love you.’ We act as though we’re a married couple. We play parents to Willie. We even used to make love to each other. But it isn’t there. It isn’t real. It isn’t working. We’re just acting out roles. Our hearts aren’t in it. Our souls aren’t either. We’re like two dead people.”
She put her head on his knees and held on to him.
“Oh Des. I’m so sorry. I wanted it to work. I know you did, too. For both our sakes. For Willie’s, too. But it doesn’t. I care about you. I always will. But this just hurts too much. I can’t do it anymore.”
She was crying softly now.
“How could I be angry with you for having the courage to speak the truth,” he said, his voice cracking.
She lifted her head and looked at him.
“Oh Des,” she said.
He pulled her up onto his lap and she buried her head in his shoulder.
“What are we going to do?” she asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know, Sadie, my Sadiebelle. I just don’t know. I wish to hell I did.”
“You still love Allison, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Does she still love you?”
“I… can’t say. I don’t think she knows her own mind. I think she’s still grieving. And I think she’s been confused by that prick Tyson.”
“Have you seen her?”
He looked taken aback. He hesitated. “Once,” he said. “At Thanksgiving.”
“And?”
“Nothing was reso
lved.”
She got up and walked over to the bar for a tissue. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and fixed both of them another drink. She handed him his drink, then stood again with her back to the fire. They sipped their drinks quietly, listening to the wind outside and the crackle of the fire. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two.
“What about Michael?”
“We’ve seen each other once, briefly, in September. We’ve exchanged two letters.”
“And?”
“Nothing. He wrote me. I wrote him back. I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Bastard.”
“I guess that takes care of him and Sprague,” she said, giggling slightly. Des chuckled, too.
The confessions, the tears, had served to relieve the tension.
Des got up and came to her. He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her back and forth.
“Oh Sadie, Sadie, my beautiful lady. I do love you, you know. It’s not right to say I don’t love you.”
“I know, Des,” she said, putting her arms around his waist. “I love you, too. What I meant is that we’re just not in love with each other. And we’ve been killing each other trying to pretend. That’s all.”
He kissed her on the forehead.
“We need each other, Sadie. The whole world is coming apart at the seams. We need each other now.”
“Why can’t we be friends, then?”
“We can. But this friend is draggin’ ass. So c’mon upstairs, ole buddy, and let’s get some shut-eye.”
He started to take her hand.
She pulled away.
“I don’t know, Des. Do you think it’s a good idea?”
Making love was the last thing she had in mind. She wasn’t in the mood and she thought it would be disastrous.
He turned and put his hands on her shoulders, looking straight into her eyes.
“All I want to do is get in the bed with you, put my arms around you, and hold on to you as tightly as I can all night long.”
She smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
