Deborah sat down on the love seat and motioned Ray to a club chair facing her. He sat, feeling a little like a school kid facing a very tough lesson. She looked at him with sad eyes for a long time, “As I told you, I feel that I owe you an apology. For a long time, I didn't see it that way. For many years, I was very, very angry with you. It seemed to me that at the most important moment of my life, you shut me out and turned your back on me. I was hurt and angry for a long time. Only after I married Carl and learned about the give and take of communications in a good marriage did I realize the terrible thing I did to you when I simply assumed that you would turn your back on a long and very successful career and follow me, without ever discussing it.
“It only gradually dawned on me that we were both wrong. I should have talked to you about my ambition so we could have decided together the best way to reconcile our divergent career paths. I think we could have worked something out if we had talked about it. But we didn't. I assumed you would follow me. You assumed I would leave you, and you made the decision to let me go without a fight. Today as I sit here, despite the happiness I have found with Carl, I believe with all my heart there had to have been some kind of middle way for us if we had made the effort to find it.
“The sad fact is that we didn't talk about it at all. I was ready to go charging off to Denver at the first invitation. You could never live that far inland. We each made assumptions without talking it through. We wronged each other terribly. I am able to say today that I am sorry for making the assumptions I did. I am sorry I simply assumed you would ditch a career, into which you already had invested a couple of decades, to follow me across the country to a place where you would have shriveled up and died. I loved you with my heart, soul and body, but my mind couldn't get past its own ambition. I couldn't look at my big career opportunity from your perspective. I am sorry. I really am.”
They were both quiet for a while. Ray was battling tears. Deborah seemed far, far away.
She continued with difficulty, “As much as it was difficult and as much as I think we could have done it differently, maybe it was just as well. You've had a wonderful career. Who would have imagined a print reporter from such a small market would end up with two Pulitzer prizes?! My God, Ray, you have no idea how big a deal that would be to almost every reporter in the world except you!
“I've had a fair career, but I've had an even better personal life. I love Denver! I got involved in the community from the first day I arrived and have sunk my roots more deeply with each passing year. I met Carl about ten years ago. We married five years ago, and have adored each other every minute of every day since. He has two grown children who have produced four grandchildren since we've been married. I highly recommend grandparent-hood! I skipped the responsibilities and pains of parenthood, and went straight for the enjoyment of being a grandma. It's been wonderful.
“Anyway, I've had a more or less fantastic life in Denver. That doesn't make me any less regretful for the way I hurt you. I needed to say that.
“I needed to see you and to have this conversation now because I am very sick. Correction: I am dying.
“A few months ago I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. There is very little the doctors can do for my kind of cancer. We've tried radiation and chemo, with no improvement. There is nothing else to be done. I've switched to what they call palliative care. That means I only take pain medication, no therapy. I'm simply living my life as fully as I can until the time comes for me to die.
“I have good days and bad days. The bad days are increasing in frequency and in intensity. The doctors say I don't have much longer to be able to be out and about. We have made arrangements for hospice care when that time comes. I think that time may be coming sooner than I ever imagined.
“That's why I wanted to see you now. I wanted to apologize, and I wanted to say good-bye.”
Ray had listened to her and had, somehow, managed to maintain eye contact without dissolving into tears. When she was finished, he contemplated throwing himself on the floor and screaming. Instead, he moved over next to her on the love seat, and put his arms around her. She was nothing but skin and bones. He held her very gently to avoid hurting her. She didn't cry. He knew enough people who had died from cancer to understand that she had probably cried herself out already.
She had reached the point where she was slowly withdrawing from life. She seemed very detached from the whole conversation. He tried to control his reaction, but without success. His tears soaked the shoulder of her shirt before he could bring himself under control.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and took her hand, “Thank you. Thank you for telling me this in person. I can't imagine how upset I'd have been if I had read about it in the obits.” He paused to compose himself, “I truly wish we had taken the time and effort to have talked about our future. I agree with you that if we had done that, we could have worked something out.
“I didn't want to stand in the way of your success. I was so very proud of you and I wanted you to go as far and as fast as your unbridled ambition would take you. Unfortunately, I didn't want to go with you. I've never stopped loving you or missing you. I couldn't go with you, but I didn't want to hold you back. I can see how you might have interpreted my response as turning my back on you. You're right: We should have talked about it. I guess talking to each other was not our strong suit.” They were both quiet for a while.
After a few minutes, he said, “You must be tired. I should be going.”
She didn't argue with him. Before he got up from the couch, he let his lips brush her cheek. Then he stood to go. She started to get up as well, but seemed to think better of it and sank back down on the couch. He said, “Would you like to lie down?”
She clearly wanted to say no, but she hesitated. He helped her up and she leaned on him as he half led her, half carried her to the bedroom. He flipped back the bed spread and helped her stretch out. He covered her with the blanket, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead and whispered, “Good-bye, sweetheart.”
She touched his cheek and fell asleep, exhausted.
He walked out into the sitting room and collapsed into tears. Soon he composed himself enough to leave.
As he stepped off the elevator, Carl was waiting to go back to the room. He paused and asked Ray, “How is she?”
Ray said, “She's asleep. I tucked her in for a nap.”
“Did she eat anything at lunch?”
Ray shook his head. “She pushed her food around and tried to make it look as though she ate something.”
Carl looked at him, dry-eyed but with a look that was full of raw grief and nodded.
Ray said, “Thank you for giving us a few minutes.”
Carl said, “It was very important for her to see you. I hope the conversation went well.”
“It did.” Ray reached in his pocket and handed Carl his card, “If you need anything, call me. In any case, call me when....” His voice broke.
Carl tucked the card into his pocket and said, “I will. You should know that she doesn't want a public funeral. There will be a private interment only. I'll let you know after it's over.”
Ray had to clear his throat several times before he could say, “Thank you. I would appreciate that. She told me she loves you very much and she's been very happy in these last few years.”
It was Carl's turn to clear his throat before speaking, “Thank you for telling me. I guess I know that to be true, but it's somehow comforting to know she feels it strongly enough to tell other people, especially you.”
They shook hands awkwardly, and Ray headed for the parking lot. He sat for a while staring off into space trying to compose himself before trying to drive home through the nightmare of Orlando traffic. Whatever he may have expected of the day, Deborah's actual announcement was far, far worse. He felt as though she had left him all over again. The old wound that had never completely healed had been ripped open. He focused on his breathing to avoid hyperventilating. E
ventually, he regained some control and pulled out of the parking lot, heading home, alone.
He arrived on Siesta Key just before sunset. He stopped at a mini-market and bought a six pack of what had once been Deborah's favorite beer. He drove to the beach and, taking two bottles of beer with him, sat cross-legged in the beach, sipping a beer and watching the sun go down. How many times had he and Deb sat in this very spot, drinking the same beer and watching the sun sink into the Gulf in all its molten glory? As empty and bereft as he felt at that moment, he also experienced his usual primal sensation of awe and dread when the sun sank into the water. He took a sip from the second beer, and then poured the rest out onto the sand, a libation to the gods in gratitude for the love that had been lost, almost found and soon to be lost again, this time irretrievably and forever.
Chapter 8
Fortunately for Ray, his lunch with Deborah had taken place on a Friday. On Thursday, he had turned in his feature for the Sunday paper, and notified his editor he would be out of town on Friday. His initial plan had been to go fishing over the weekend, probably in Lake Okeechobee.
After the wrenching encounter with Deb, however, he felt the need to hole up at home where he felt safe, and where her spirit still somehow lingered. Even after the weekend passed, he did very little for several days beyond cranking out the bare minimum number of articles he was expected to produce in order to collect his paycheck. Once he had done that, he hid out in his house.
His research on Marcella Wilson stalled. He didn't have any other good stories in the pipeline. He was frustrated and bordering on depression. He worked best when he had at least two or three things in varying stages of development. Since he had almost concluded there was no story in the Wilson saga, he found himself, for the first time in his career, with exactly zero stories in the pipeline. That scared him.
He trolled around all the usual haunts where stories might lurk: the police station, a couple of bars where cops hung out, a couple of bars where reporters hung out. Coming up dry there, he cast a wider net, and ventured out into other local establishments, including barbershops, and bait shops. He touched base with all his usual sources of information, a vast network of amazing people he had met over the years including not only the typical bartenders, cabbies and cops, but also a couple of pimps, a caterer to the local Society, the guy who operated the news stand at the courthouse (who was also the biggest bookie in Sarasota) and a nun who ran a shelter for homeless men and a companion shelter for runaway children.
He put the word out to everybody he knew that he was looking for a story. Several people gave him some ideas that seemed worth looking into, but none of the ideas excited him. He had learned to trust his gut reactions to stories. He knew how to excite others with stories that excited him. Everything else was just filler. He pumped out a whole lot of filler articles, including a couple of stories about children drowning in pools, for the benefit of the Yacht Club Auxiliary – meaning, Victoria.
He wrote a lot of straight news stories, hoping to get extra credit for handing in more inches of copy than was required of him. He wrote up a number of short feature articles and put them aside. He could dole those out one at a time to help get past his dry spell if it continued any length of time.
One day, on a whim, he called Victoria. She surprised him by inviting him to come to her house for coffee. He drove to her house immediately. After they chatted for a little while, she said, “You know, Mr. Bailey, it isn't any of my business, but I am wondering if anything is wrong.”
“Why would you ask that?”
She shook her head, “I have no reason, other than I have noticed more articles over your byline in the paper than usual, but none of them are up to your usual standards both in terms of subject matter and, even more noticeably, in terms of writing style. Forgive me. Early in my life I studied to be a school teacher and I'm very picky about writing. My son, who is a newspaperman in Chicago, says I am a frustrated city editor. I do not mean to pry.”
He smiled at her and said, “First of all, I don't consider your concern to be prying. You're right. I've been turning in a lot of crap lately. I have a quota of articles I have to submit. The new ownership of the paper doesn't give a fffff.....fig about quality. They just want lots of articles to stick in between the advertising. I typically try to give them my best simply because I have been used to doing that for my whole career up to now. I guess their lowered standards have tempted me to let myself slide. Thank you for the warning. I'll watch it. Even if the editorial staff of the paper doesn't care, I owe it to the readers who actually do care about those kinds of things to do a decent job.”
He paused, “I guess I've been distracted.”
“With?”
“Partly with my temporary obsession with Marcella Wilson, but I think that's over now. And partly with a personal situation that cropped up.” He paused again, and then decided to see if he could say it out loud without going hysterical, “My ex-wife, from whom I have been divorced for a long time, but whom I apparently never stopped loving, has terminal cancer. She visited me recently to say good-bye, this time permanently. I guess that experience has set be off my game a bit.”
She stirred her tea and put the cup down on the coffee table. She didn't look at him for a long time, but she scooted ever so slightly closer to him on the couch. When she did look up at him, she met his eyes and held them in an eye-lock that all but forbade him to look away. Then she opened her arms, pulled him toward her and hugged him tightly. He sobbed almost uncontrollably on her shoulder for some time. When his tears subsided, he pulled away. She handed him a handkerchief, which he used to wipe his face and blow his nose.
She took his hand between hers, “Before you say anything, I want to tell you that what just happened is private, between you and me. I will never tell anyone. Secondly, I want you to know that I find the fact you are so able to express your grief to be a mark in your favor, not a sign of weakness which many people believe. I am honored that you feel you can trust me that much. I will do my best to merit your trust.”
She added, “I remember Deborah Richardson. She was a lovely woman and, I thought, a very decent reporter. I met her a few times and liked her. Actually, I remember when you got married. I didn't know you at the time, but Deborah was covering a Daughters of the Confederacy event and she kept messing up her intro. She finally turned to me and laughed, saying, 'I'm so sorry. I'm just too distracted for this. I'm about to be married to just the most wonderful man and I can't seem to concentrate.' We talked for a while. She babbled on about how wonderful you were and I listened, amused. I was sorry to hear she left and you stayed here. I suppose I understood why you stayed here. What I never understood was how she could have left if she felt that way about you.”
Ray blurted, “You and me both.”
They were quiet for a while, and then Victoria continued, “She's from a different generation than me. In my day, women hitched their wagons to their husbands' stars. Ms. Richardson was cut from a different cloth. She wanted to make her own way.”
Ray nodded. “You're absolutely right. I guess I come from somewhere between the two of you. In my head I think that women should have their own careers and their own lives. In my heart, I wanted us to move forward in life together, but I couldn't bring myself to sacrifice my career.”
Victoria patted his hand, and poured him more coffee, “Those two things are not incompatible. They are just difficult.”
“I think both Deborah and I came to that same conclusion independently. Unfortunately we arrived at that realization long after our marriage crashed and burned. We could have done it differently, but we didn't because it would have been difficult. I guess that's a huge regret I'll always have to bear.”
Victoria put her hand over his as he reached for his cup, “I think she forgave you, or she would not have made the effort to see you. I also think it was her way of apologizing for her part in the breakdown of your marriage.”
He nodded and swallow
ed with great difficulty, “I think you're right.”
After a very long pause, she cleared her throat and said quietly, “Losing the person you hold dearest in the world is the hardest thing there is.”
Ray knew her husband had died more than twenty years before. People said that she had never so much as gone out on a dinner date with another man. It was Ray's turn to take her hands between his. Her bejeweled fingers trembled slightly for a moment. When she pulled away and picked up her teacup, however, her hand was perfectly steady.
They drank their tea and munched on scones together. After a while, Victoria said, “This is changing the subject, but I'm wondering why you have abandoned the Marcella Wilson story.”
He shook his head. “I haven't so much abandoned it as I have run up against a dead end. I'm supposed to have dinner with Marcella when she comes back from a trip, and I intend to keep that date, partly because I have nothing better to do and partly in the hope she'll tell me something I can use. I'll need to get it from her because I've come up with nothing in my research.”
She was quiet. It seemed to him she was contemplating whether or not to continue. Eventually she decided to forge ahead. She said, “You said you have turned up nothing on Mrs. Wilson. Don't you think that's odd?”
He nodded and breathed deeply. He was glad she had switched gears. He was back on familiar turf. He chewed his scone slowly, with appreciation. “Yes, I do. There are a lot of weird things about it. Internet searches do not come up with anything about her other than stories related to her marriage. I have found no references to her maiden name. Ray thought that was odd. Most women, even those who do not routinely use their maiden names after their marriage, use those names occasionally. Google 90% of married women and within a few minutes you'll come up with a maiden name and/or place and time of birth. I have spent hours running searches on her and have come up with absolutely zilch.
Baiting & Fishing Page 7
