by Pam Jenoff
“So,” Maureen says, as we merge onto the M4 motorway. “How’d I get so lucky?”
Typical Maureen, right to the point. I take a sip of tea, then set the cup back in its holder. “Lucky?” I repeat, stalling for time.
She nods. “To get you here. It was no accident. The Twerp would never give you up voluntarily. How is he, by the way?”
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to laugh aloud. The acrimony between Paul Van Antwerpen and Maureen Martindale is legendary in the department, the cause a great source of speculation. Both are highly successful diplomats with more than twenty-five years of service. Some say that their feud stems from competition for a promotion or key assignment years ago. There is also a rumor they were once romantically involved, a passionate affair that ended badly. I like to believe that they are too professional to let either of these explanations, if true, affect their working relationship, preferring instead to think of it as a difference in style: Maureen is a brash Texan whirlwind, Van Antwerpen meticulous and precise.
“The Director’s fine,” I manage at last. “He sends his regards.”
Maureen snorts. “I bet he does. Anyway, I know he wouldn’t let you go if he could help it.” She takes a sip of tea then sets the cup down again, a half-moon of pink lipstick visible on the rim. “So what gives?”
I hesitate. I’ve known Maureen for nearly a decade; she’s the closest thing I’ve found to a friend in this business. Still, the first rule of intelligence is ingrained in my psyche: never admit to having a life outside work, much less talk about it. I clear my throat. “It’s personal,” I find myself saying for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
But Maureen is not Van Antwerpen, and will not be dissuaded. “Come on, what is it? I’d guess a guy, but I know you too well for that. Friend in need?”
“Excuse me?” I reply, startled. Maureen always could see right through me, but how could she possibly know?
Maureen smiles. “Just a lucky guess. I know you went to grad school over here and that you haven’t returned since. Hard to think of what else could make you come back.”
“Yes.” I slump in my seat, relieved. Then I relay the story about Sarah and her illness. “I don’t know how long she has, but I’m here to do whatever I can for her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Maureen says softly. “I had a cousin with Lou Gehrig’s. That disease is a bitch.” Had. I wince inwardly. Mo is not one to sugarcoat the truth, and I have not heard anything hopeful about ALS from anyone.
Maureen does not speak further but reaches in her purse and pulls out a BlackBerry, too new to be government-issued. I study her out of the corner of my eye. She has to be around fifty, I calculate. As ever, her strong features are flawlessly pulled together, a symphony of eyeliner, mascara, rouge. But her jawline has softened with time and her cheeks sit a bit less high. Do I seem changed to her, too? More seasoned, I hope, self-assured. I smooth the black wrinkle-free travel pants that had not quite lived up to their name, then wipe a smudge from the sleeve of my khaki jacket.
The motorway ends and we merge onto the A4, soon reaching a roundabout. A street sign, thick white writing on green, diagrams the spurs off the circle, eleven o’clock for Chiswick, one o’clock for Central London. The traffic light changes to yellow and red together before turning green. We continue through the roundabout, past Fuller’s Brewery, pulling around a red Royal Mail truck as we exit onto the Great West Road. A row of brown brick houses, identical except for a few odd-sized satellite dishes, sits close to the street. Tiny green buds dot the low hedge that runs along the sidewalk in front of the houses, and daffodils sprout from the narrow grass median. I gaze ahead at the tiny cars, the unfamiliar street signs. Everything looks so different here, picturesque, almost storybook. A warm feeling rises inside me, pushing up against the fear and dread, reminding me that there was a time when I loved it here more than any place on earth. I’d forgotten, I think, touching the glass with my fingertips.
“Forgotten what?”
I turn to find Maureen looking up from the BlackBerry, head tilted. I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud. “Sorry, nothing. So, any idea what I’ll be working on?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
Her expression turns serious. “I can’t say much here; it’s classified. We’re meeting tomorrow with the rest of the team. I’ll brief you fully then.”
“Tomorrow?” I was hoping, as is department custom, I could take the day to unpack, get over my jet lag, see Sarah.
But Maureen nods, not noticing or choosing to ignore my surprise. “Oh-eight-thirty in the Bubble.” The light changes and the car begins to move again, more slowly now in the traffic. “I thought we would drop you off at your flat so you can get some rest,” she says a few minutes later, her tone light once more. “See your friend if you’d like. You lucked out on housing, by the way. We had an unexpected departure.” She lifts her eyebrow as if to indicate a juicy story that she would share later out of the driver’s presence. “A unit in Hammersmith opened up.”
My breath catches. “Hammersmith?”
She nods. “It’s gorgeous, and a great location. Normally you would have been up in Maida Vale or St. John’s Wood.”
I do not answer but look out the window again. Hammersmith is right on the river. I see myself seated in the stern of the boat, facing Chris and the seven rowers behind him as they come forward in their seats, struggling to catch and bury the spoons of their oars in the choppy Thames wake. A faint wave of nausea rises in me.
Enough. I force the image from my mind as the car turns onto a wide thoroughfare, bustling with shoppers. The stores here are familiar chains: the drugstore Boots, a Tesco Metro grocery. Farther along, the wide windows of Marks & Spencer department store offers an end-of-season special on hooded jumpers while touting short skirts for spring. I am surprised—in my mind, I’d still seen the clothing here as loose-fitting and dark, the mid-nineties grunge I loved so much. But the outfits worn by the mannequins are snug and brightly colored, more Posh Spice than Pearl Jam.
We pass a bakery and a flower shop before turning onto a street lined with stately brown brick homes, compact cars packed tightly along both sides. At the end of the road, perpendicular to the main street, sits a row of ill-fitting modern town houses, a pub nestled in the corner. “This is it,” Maureen says as we slow before the modular brick units. “Yours is on the far right end.” Between the houses and the pub, there is a low hedge, a swath of unbroken blue sky behind. My flat is, quite literally, on the river.
She reaches for the door handle. “Let’s get you settled.”
“Mo, wait.” She turns back and looks at me. I hesitate. I do not want to appear rude, but if she comes in and stays to talk, it could be hours. “You don’t have to take me inside. If you want to give me the keys…”
Maureen raises her hand. “I get it. You want to go see your friend, right?” Not waiting for an answer, she leans across the front seat and hands the keys to the driver. “Harry, please put Ms. Weiss’s bags in the flat for us.” She turns back to me. “We can drop you at your friend’s house.”
“That won’t be necessary. It’s all the way up in Notting Hill. I can take the Tube and…”
“Nonsense,” Mo interrupts. “We’ll swing round the park and drop you off.” I sink back in my seat, knowing that it is pointless to argue. “What’s the address?’ Mo asks when Harry returns a minute later.
“Pembridge Crescent, number thirty-nine. Just off Bayswater, not far from the Tube station and Portobello Road.”
“Love the market there on Saturdays,” Maureen remarks as the car begins to move. “We’ll have to go sometime. Anyway, I need to give you a few things.” She hands me the keys that Harry gave back to her. She pulls a briefcase out from under the seat and opens it. “Here.” She presses a cell phone into my palm. It is smaller than any I’ve ever seen and black, with no manufacturer’s markings. “It’s the latest model. Satellite technology, you can make a call from anywh
ere, access e-mail, the Internet, texting, whatever. It has global positioning so you can find your way.” And so they can find me. I look at Maureen quizzically. “You’re going to be out in the field a lot on this assignment,” she explains. “We need to be able to reach you at all times.”
My curiosity rises. I was expecting a desk job, maybe supervising some junior officers. But if Maureen notices my surprise, she gives no indication. “This is yours also.” She pulls out a small case and hands it to me. Inside is my pistol, the Glock I left behind in the vault. “The Director sent it in the overnight pouch.” I didn’t think that I would be allowed to have my gun in England, a country where most of the police generally do not carry them. I lift the automatic from the case, check the chamber. It is unloaded, of course. The grip in my hand feels like home. There is a bond, I heard once, between a person and a gun fired to save one’s own life.
Maureen passes me a folded piece of paper. “This is your permit. You’re authorized to carry that concealed everywhere. I don’t want to tell you the strings I had to pull with the regional security officer to get that level of clearance.”
Why, I wonder, did she go to the trouble? She wouldn’t have called in a favor with Diplomatic Security just to be nice. I push the questions from my mind as we reach Notting Hill, nostalgia tugging hard at my stomach as we pass Portobello Road. The street was legend in my mind as a child, immortalized by Angela Lansbury in one of my favorite childhood films, Bedknobs and Broomsticks: “Portobello Road, Portobello Road, streets where the riches of ages are stowed…” I came here often during my years at Cambridge, poring over old books and costume jewelry at the crowded stalls that lined both sides of the street on Saturdays. The market chaos is absent this weekday morning, only a few well-heeled shoppers walking unhurried among the chic cafés and antique shops.
As we turn off the main street onto Pembridge Crescent, I place the gun back in the case, then tuck it, along with the permit and phone, into my bag. The Victorian houses here are tall and wide, porches with pale stone columns behind low iron gates. “Thanks, Mo,” I say as the car pulls to a stop. I reach for the door handle. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh wait, I almost forgot.” I turn back. “There’s a reception at the Ambassador’s residence tonight. It would be good if you could be there.”
Inwardly, I groan. I hate the niceties of diplomatic life overseas, the endless receptions and formal events, almost as much as the bureaucracy of Washington. I want to take a bath, unpack and sleep. But I can tell from Maureen’s tone that this is not a request. “Sure. No problem,” I reply, mentally scanning the clothes I packed to determine if I have something appropriate to wear.
“Great. Starts at seven. See you then.” Maureen smiles. “And Jordan, it’s good to have you here.”
I watch as the car pulls away, then look up at the row of stately houses that stand a few feet apart, their brick fronts painted various shades of faded white. Crossing the pavement to number thirty-nine, I hesitate at the base of the steps. The house is less well-tended than its neighbors, the gate handle hanging from its hinges, the window-trim rotting. I do not recall it being so dilapidated the last time I was here. The house, left to Sarah by her grandmother, had been in her family since before World War I, subdivided into flats in the fifties. The family kept the ground-floor apartment for its own use while renting out the others. Making my way up the cracked marble steps, I wonder if the rental income is no longer enough to pay for upkeep as well.
I study the row of buttons to the right of the front door and press the one farthest right, hearing a faint ringing inside. When there is no response, I turn the door knob and step into the musty foyer. The décor has not changed since my last visit. An aged chandelier casts the entranceway in dim yellow light, revealing worn blue-flowered carpet and gray, peeling paint.
I walk past the wide staircase, pausing before the door to Sarah’s flat, wondering about her condition, her reaction to my unannounced arrival. I knock once, then push the door open. “Hello?” I call into the darkened room. “Sarah?”
“Jordie…?” Sarah’s voice is filled with disbelief.
“It’s me.” I step inside and adjust my eyes. The room is large, with a kitchenette in the left corner and a hallway leading off the far side. Sarah sits in a wheelchair by the back wall, the thick curtains behind her drawn. The floorboards creak as I cross the room.
Drawing closer to Sarah, my heart sinks. She was always thin, but she seems to have shrunk in half since the last time I saw her. All of her muscle tone is gone and as I bend to hug her, I can feel her shoulder bone protruding. Her skin is cool and clammy as I kiss her cheek. Her hair, a dull brown cap, shorter than I remember, smells of fresh soap. “What on earth are you doing here?” Sarah demands, her Durban accent crisp.
“Oh, I happened to be in the neighborhood.” I step back, noticing how her right hand hangs limply by her side.
“I can’t believe it’s really you.” Sarah’s voice cracks. This surprises me more than anything else. She was always stoic, unemotional. “The Rock,” I used to call her. She was the strong one. How can this be happening to her?
I pull an old wooden chair from the kitchen table and bring it to her side, sneaking a glance around. The high ceilings and crown molding belie the house’s elegant past, but the plaster is cracked now, the paint pocked with brown water stains. The furniture is sparse, a worn brown sofa and chair on a faded print carpet. The room is clean, though, dishes stacked neatly in a rack beside the sink, the air smelling faintly of rubbing alcohol and lemon polish. Someone is caring for her, I realize with relief.
Sitting down beside her, I draw back the curtains to reveal a small grassy patch separating her house from the row behind. “You have night vision now?” I tease, gesturing to the book that lies in her lap.
Sarah looks down, dazed, as though she had forgotten the book was there. “I must have dozed off a few hours ago, after the nurse left.”
“How are you feeling?”
She shrugs. “Some days are better than others.” I make a mental note to ask the nurse about Sarah’s condition. “When did you arrive?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Where are your bags?”
She thinks I’m visiting. “I had them dropped off.”
“Where? You didn’t book a hotel, I hope.” Her voice grows brisk and commanding, the take-charge Sarah of old. “I have plenty of room.”
I shift in my chair. “No, at my flat, actually.”
“Your flat?” She blinks twice, eyes wide. “How long are you staying?”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “About two years.”
“You mean…you’re moving here?” I nod. “Why?”
“It’s a good career opportunity,” I begin. Then, seeing Sarah’s skeptical expression, I stop. I have never been any good at lying to her. “Okay, the truth is, I have this sick friend…”
“Jordie…” Sarah’s jaw drops. “You came for me? But I’d never ask you to uproot your whole life.”
“I have no roots, you know that. Anyway, you didn’t ask, I offered. It was a good excuse to get out of Washington.”
“But, how are you going to be able…I mean…” Sarah does not finish the sentence. She was there with me ten years ago. She knows exactly what I went through, what it has taken for me to come back again.
“I don’t know.” My eyes fill with tears. Stop it, I think, mortified. I’m not the one with a reason to cry now. “I’ll manage,” I say when I can speak normally again, not meeting her gaze. “Do you need anything? I can go to the store for you or make you something to eat…”
“No,” she replies quickly, then clears her throat. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted that you’re here, that you’ll be close by.” She raises her chin defiantly. “But I won’t have you treating me like a child, at least not now, while I can still manage on my own. The nurse leaves me what I need, and the rest I can do on my own. Just be my friend, the same as you
ever have. I’ll tell you if I want something more.”
I nod. She’s setting the terms with her illness, I realize, as much as with me. “I understand.”
“It’s gotten so gray,” she remarks a moment later, gesturing with her head to the dark clouds that have gathered above the chimneys, blowing away the blue sky with mercurial ease.
“Sunday weather,” I add. She nods in agreement, a shared reference. Sundays at Cambridge always seemed gloomy and repentant, dark clouds gathered close and somber over the courtyards. It was the gods, we joked, frowning down upon us for the excesses of the previous night.
Neither of us speak further. A minute later, I look over at Sarah. Her eyes are half closed. “Are you okay?” I ask, placing my hand on top of hers.
“Yes. There’s a medicine I take for the symptoms. It makes me tired sometimes.” Sarah smiles weakly. “I’m glad you’re here, though.” Still holding her hand, I gaze out the window at two boys kicking a soccer ball farther down the grassy patch, open winter jackets flapping awkwardly as they run and play. When I turn back, Sarah’s head is tilted sideways and her eyes are tightly shut. I can tell from her long, even breaths that she is asleep. Protectiveness rises in me. Maybe I should move in to help take care of her. But she’s too proud for that. I’ll just be close by instead. I pull out my new cell phone and scribble down the number on a small tablet on the coffee table. Then, I reach down and lift the cotton blanket that has fallen to her feet, pulling it up and tucking it around her.
As I stand to leave, a framed image above the fireplace catches my eye. I walk over and lift the picture from the mantel. It is a photograph of hundreds of college students, taken from above. The students, dressed in tuxedos and gowns, are looking up at the camera, their wineglasses raised. My breath catches. The May Ball. In the far right-hand corner, I can make out Jared’s face between Chris’s and my own. His dark eyes seem to leap from the paper, demanding to know what I am doing here, why I have come back. My finger trembles as I touch the image, the last picture of him ever taken. Hours later he was gone. I thrust the picture back on the mantel, as if it were hot to the touch. Then, tiptoeing carefully so as not to wake Sarah, I walk quickly from the apartment.
