Day Three

by Patricia Spencer

  “To which you say: Good morning, Brenna. I slept fine.”

  “Right. I slept fine while you spent the night in pain.”

  She rummaged through the covers and extracted her pajama top.

  “If you wished,” she said, pulling the top over her head, “you could also add something like: ‘Waking up was very pleasant. Thank you.’”

  “Christ, you’re stubborn.”

  “Listen here, Ellsworth. I make love to a man, I don’t expect him to look at me the next day and say ‘shit’.”

  She watched him try to figure out if she was bantering, or serious. “Now,” she said, taking his face in her hands and planting three successive kisses on his mouth to relieve his bewilderment—or perhaps compound it. “This is the plan. You go upstairs to get ready for work. While you’re up there, you stew in guilt, kick yourself for not having graciously thanked me for waking you up far, far, happier than any alarm clock could have. When you come back down—torn by remorse—you let me wheedle and cajole a major concession out of you. Got it?”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Oh. But first, you drop me off at the bathroom.” Where the pain killers were.

  “I’m confused.”

  She patted his arm. “That’s okay, honey. Just the after-effects of the wake-up call. Here. Help me up.”

  She took his arm, determined not to use the walker. The first step she took, leaning heavily on his arm, she knew he’d said exactly the right thing when he saw her wound dressing. Shit.

  Still. As the man noted, she was stubborn.

  It had gotten her this far in life, she figured it could get her to the loo.

  There was sweat pouring off her by the time she got there. She might have clenched her jaw hard enough to crack teeth. But by golly, she didn’t utter a single groan. She lowered the toilet lid and plopped herself down on it. With some aplomb, she thought, considering where she was. She waved him off, queen-like, from the throne.

  “Off you go,” she decreed. “Remember: Guilt! Remorse! I need you penitent when you get back down here.”

  Mercifully, it took half an hour before she heard his steps on the staircase. By then, the pain relievers had kicked in. Not fully, but enough to take the edge off. Moreover, she was cleaned up. Dressed. Albeit, stranded on the toilet.

  He appeared in the doorway, freshly-shaved, hair wet and combed, handsome as the devil himself in one of his good suits. And if she did say so herself, he looked relaxed. He held up an elegant walking stick. “My granddad’s.” The shank was made of knotty wood. The curved handle was silver. “I know you don’t need it, but just in case you want to dance with Gene Kelly.”

  “Okay. But for now, the elbow. I want to snug my breast against you, remind you how happy I made you this morning. Make you want to return the favor, you know.”

  “What are you up to?” He bent over her, grasped her waist, let her circle his shoulders with her arms and hang on while he lifted her to her feet.

  “Kitchen,” she ordered.

  He led off.

  “I’m fixing you breakfast,” she said. “Properly seeing you off to work.”

  “Fixing—uh-oh. I thought you didn’t cook.”

  “I can pour. Juice. Milk. Cereal.”

  “You sit,” he said, delivering her to the table. “I’ll bring the fixings. You pour.”

  He pulled the chair out, eased her down. But didn’t go. “This…concession…you mentioned. If it’s pretty big, maybe I should run my hands over you a bit more—refresh my sense memory?”

  “Oh, I think you’re refreshed enough.”

  He laughed, trailed an affectionate hand across her shoulder as he went to the kitchen. He started a pot of coffee, asked what kind of cereal she wanted, and started bringing things to the table.

  In a momentary lapse of her usual poor judgment she’d been wise enough not to insist on running back and forth herself.

  “Okay,” he said, finally sitting, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, a glass of orange juice by her, and cereal bowls on the placemats. “Wheedle. Cajole. I’m ready.”

  “First. A clarifying question.”

  “Yes?”

  “You went to Columbia?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you got your degree in—?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “I lost count. Degree in—?”

  “Master’s in Journalism.”

  “Not business. Journalism.”

  “Correct.”

  “So presumably you can string a few words together.”

  “Ahh.” He saw where she was going and turned cautious.

  “War isn’t about facts and figures, Daniel. It’s experiential. What was it like? What did it do to your spirit? What did you do that you never thought you would? How were you changed as a man. The experience, that’s what’s universal. That’s what doesn’t vary from war to war, no matter where in the world, no matter what epoch. Isn’t that the point of the series? The human condition?”

  He blinked rapidly, took a sip of coffee. He was listening.

  “Remember when Geoff Garrett handed you his notebook and told you all you had to do was plug in the names and the dates? To an extent, he was right. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  She stuck her spoon in her bowl of Cheerios and paddled it around, stirring but not eating. “It’s not the who-what-when-where that makes this story. The true account lies between the names and the dates. And that narrative, you know. You were there. You experienced it. You just have to—” She broke off. It was a lot to ask of a man like Daniel.

  “To?”

  She set down her spoon, took his hand, pressed her lips against his fingers, cherishing him, despising what had to be done. “You have to get dirty. Tell the truth, no matter the cost. Not save your dignity. Be human. In public.”

  He took his hand back. Set it on his lap, very still.

  She took a sip of her orange juice. “Have you spoken to Sam yet? About hiring a writer.”

  He shook his head.

  “So this is the concession, the awful thing I ask of you: Go to your office. Close your door. Unplug the phone. And write. Stream of consciousness, first person chaos. Don’t try to make it tidy, or even have it make sense. Just blurt. Put it down like you’d tell someone who’s never been there. Someone you trusted, that you could expose your humanity to. Then. After you find your story—your story—then go look at the footage. I promise you. What you need will be there.”

  He pressed his lips together. Yesterday, he thought he had the solution. Hire a writer. Today, she was asking him to do something infinitely more difficult.

  “Don’t hand it off, “ she said with feeling. “I beg of you.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “I won’t have you reduced to begging.”

  She flashed on Maric in that terrible room. On herself, imploring. Too late, Bub. Already done. She took a deep breath, tried to settle herself. “All right. I ask of you. I wheedle of you. I cajole. You’re exactly the right man to write this. I honest-to-God, stick-a-needle-in-my-eye believe that.”

  “You’re nuts, Brenna.” He froze, horrified by what he’d just said.

  She held up her hand, forestalling a retraction. “Admittedly,” she said. “But not about this.”

  “How can you even—”

  She put her fingers against his lips. “Hush. Kiss me goodbye now, and get going. You wanted to get in early.”

  “I…you…”

  She turned to him, arms out. “Hug. Then scram. I’ll wait up for you tonight.”

  He smiled. It crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’ll be late.”

  “I’ll nap.”

  He gave her a long, warm hug.

  “Buy condoms while you’re out, and lube.”

  “Not on your life, sweetheart. We’re waiting ’til you’re better.”

  “Just to have in the house.”

  “Don�
�t expect to have your way with me all the time.” He grinned and gave her a last kiss. Not brotherly.

  She watched him cross the deck and disappear around the side of the house, hoping he would find the courage to do as she asked. She knew how awful it was to be publicly exposed. She wouldn’t blame him if he opted not to.

  I love you, she thought. Either way. Doesn’t matter.

  Daniel drove to work in a haze, easing the Benz through early morning traffic, reliving the night’s delights in his mind. Brenna’s easy sensuality, her loving hands caressing him. Her contented gaze flowing over him in the afterglow of lovemaking had floored him. He felt like one of those dopey cartoon characters with hash marks for eyes and little birds tweeting in circles around his head.

  Even now, he probably shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery. She had long-lasting after-effects.

  It knocked him out, how loving she could be, how forgiving, how extraordinarily generous to turn her attention to his needs when hers were so much greater. He loved that she had poured breakfast for him, sat with him to see him off ‘properly.’ And he sure as hell had loved the way she had gotten him up. He chortled aloud at the double-entendre. He felt better in his body and in his spirit.

  This morning, seeing the way she had absently run her fingers over his writing on her wrist, he had gotten the perfect gift idea for her. Today, he was going to shop for it, deadline or no deadline. He had a new rule: Life first, work second.

  He pulled into his reserved spot in the garage, surprised he had arrived already. He turned the engine off and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

  His responsible subconscious tapped him on the shoulder. So what’s the plan? He had a work day ahead of him. What was he going to do with it? Hand off, or act on Brenna’s suggestion? If he did as she had asked, went through the exercise, it would take a day at least. A day he could ill-afford, given Sam’s demand for a ninety-minute rough cut by the end of the month. Every minute was precious, even working six-to-twelve and doling out pieces to researchers and editors.

  He sat up, plucked the key out of the ignition, and locked the car.

  On his way upstairs in the elevator, he mulled over Brenna’s idea. Her approach was right on target. The human condition, not the history of the conflict in Kavsak, not troop movements and UN resolutions. What did it feel like. How had it changed him as a man. Why hadn’t he seen that?

  The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and he got out.

  Problem was, if he was honest with himself, the approach scared the hell out of him. Get dirty. Expose your humanity.

  Kavsak had crushed him. Dismantled his illusions about who he was. He wasn’t proud of leaving that woman to be gang-raped. He had cowered on the balcony during the market massacre, afraid of being discovered. He had eaten food intended for starving civilians, stepped on dying men. Above all, he had not protected Brenna.

  Expose that? He didn’t want to think about it, much less broadcast it to 350 million viewers.

  He turned into the kitchenette to get a cup of coffee. Mildred Pearce, his assistant, was there. Even when he was early, she was usually in, too. She was an early-arrive, early-depart kind of gal. She recorded her soaps during the day and liked to get home early enough to stay abreast.

  “You’re a goddess,” he said, seeing the fresh pot she had already brewed. “I don’t know what you do, but the java you make always tastes better than anyone else’s.”

  “Prime beans,” she said, pouring steaming coffee into a mug personalized with pictures of her grandchildren. “Oily, not desiccated. Freshly-ground. Heaping scoops. Cold, filtered water. And a washed carafe. Takes a bit more effort, but why do a job if you aren’t going to do it well?”

  She turned toward the door, carefully balancing her hot mug. “See you in there.”

  He stared after her, looking at the empty doorway long after she had turned the corner. Mildred had a point. What was the point of rushing through a rough cut just to say he had one? Under Sam’s artificial deadline, it was foregone it would be crap anyway.

  He prepared his coffee, ambled past the cubicles where his staff worked. What would Driscoll do to them, he wondered. Screw them as he had screwed Aya? Work them into the ground, then claim their labors as his own?

  He stopped in front of Mildred’s desk, crowded with pictures of her family, thinking about what she’d said about doing a job well.

  He could do the exercise. Write as Brenna had suggested. If he was about to tender his resignation, if his ship was sinking anyway, what was one more breach? “I’ll be writing today, Mildred. Please forward my calls to my voice mail. I’ll check them when I have a break. No interruptions, otherwise.”

  “Shall I order in a lunch for you?”

  “I’m going out for a little while once the shops open. I’ll pick something up to bring back, thanks.”

  He started to leave, but stopped and looked back at her. “Have I told you how much I appreciate everything you do for me, Mildred?”

  “Fresh flowers on my desk, every Monday morning. You set up the standing order yourself. Used your personal credit card. And a big bouquet on Secretary’s Day, from the company.”

  “You think I should send you candy sometimes, too?”

  “No sense in that. I’d eat them.” She looked over her eyeglasses at him. “I need a lap for the grandkids.”

  He chuckled, headed to his office, past the wall of awards, to start working.

  Even though he was writing for himself in ‘first-person chaos’, with no intention of showing anyone his draft, he found the process difficult. He had sat idle as a writer for too long, and it took some coughing and sputtering before the pages began to fill.

  Chaos was against his nature, so he opted for a chronological approach, telling the story as it unfolded. Later, if the process worked for him, he would organize and clarify the recurrent themes, shape them for public view. He wrote long-hand, preferring the immediacy of pen and paper to the intervention of technology, and to avoid having his private thoughts stored on a corporate server. Later, after he’d fashioned a script from it, he’d type it up. He concentrated on relating his impressions and insights about Kavsak, on providing the pieces that a viewer would need to know in order to follow his story.

  It was like writing a journal: personal, confidential, unvarnished. His pen scratched across the legal pad as he dug into his psyche, reconstructing his journey minute-by-minute.

  He was reliving Kavsak.

  His emotions roller-coasted all day, shadowing the terror, elation, and self-reproach he had experienced in the war itself. He wrote, undisturbed, for fifteen hours, taking breaks to check his voice mail, to return phone calls, and to shop for Brenna’s gift.

  By the time he arrived home, emotionally and physically drained, it was nearly midnight. Despite the fat sheaf of yellow pages he had composed, he had scarcely finished writing about Day One.

  The house was quiet. Only one table lamp was lit in the family room. James and Gary had retired for the night. But true to her promise, Brenna was waiting for him, turning the pages of Annie Liebowitz’ A Photographer’s Life on her lap. His grandad’s walking stick leaned against the side of the couch. The walker was nowhere in sight.

  He smiled, felt his heart bump in his chest, just beneath the jeweler’s box in his inner jacket pocket. God she was beautiful, her feet tucked beneath her, elbow on the armrest. Her eyes sparkled as she watched him cross the room. She lifted her face and parted her lips for his kiss.

  He dropped on the couch beside her, clasped her hand in his, and lay his head back, eyes closed.

  “You look as if you’ve been flogged,” she said.

  He turned his face, opened one eye. “I started writing, the way you suggested.”

  She set the book on the coffee table and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Good. I’m proud of you.”

  “It’s crap.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m still proud.”

&nb
sp; He rested a hand on her thigh. “Did the nurse come?”

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “The small stuff is healed. The bigger wound is closing. Poor Gary couldn’t figure out how his and my therapeutic walks creased the wound.”

  “And you said—?”

  “Nothing.” She paused. “Did you buy condoms?”

  “Yeah. But we need to wait a bit, still. Okay?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “No. But you get carried away by how hot I am.” He grinned.

  She leaned against him, resting her hand over his heart. “You’re bumpy.”

  “I got you a present.”

  She sat up. “You did?”

  He opened his jacket so she could reach in.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion,” he said offhandedly. “Just an every-day thing.”

  She tugged the end of the white ribbon, gently separated the teal gift wrap from the tape sealing it, and lifted the top off the box.

  Beneath the cotton batting was a simple gold bracelet. “It’s lovely, thank you,” she said, polite, but bemused.

  He angled it so she could see the inside surface. “It’s engraved.”

  She rotated it, found the block lettering. Daniel loves me.

  “Oh, Daniel,” she whispered, voice wavering.

  “I thought it would look better on you than ink marker. Last longer.”

  She nodded, slipped it on, and let him pull her against his chest again.

  He rested his head on the back of the couch, and closed his eyes as he caressed her, content to the core. His breathing gradually deepened. He was exhausted, falling asleep, his body feeling heavier by the moment. But he didn’t want to move. He wasn’t sure what their sleeping arrangements would be. He wanted to be with her, of course, but didn’t want to presume access to her, or make her feel as if she didn’t have her own space in his home. On the other hand, if he went to his own room alone, she might feel rebuffed.

  “Daniel. Lean forward,” she said. “Let’s get this jacket off.”

  He blinked, barely managing to open his eyes. He sat up, cooperating as she held his sleeves at the wrists and tugged.

  “Scoot up,” she murmured. “Head on the pillow.”