by Lela Gilbert
“What’s wrong with Lava soap?” he shot back. “I think maybe I’ve got some Boraxo somewhere.”
“Never mind . . .” Betty sighed again and rummaged around in her overnight case until she found a small bar of hotel soap. This could be a very long, very hot visit, she thought to herself. And then she smiled. In fact she almost laughed. On the wall of the bathroom was a miniature plaque that said in tiny pink letters,
BE STILL AND KNOW THATTHAT I AM GOD
Harold Fuller wasn’t about to pay for cable television, so Betty was without her faithful companion, CNN. The only thing she could tune in on her father’s venerable radio was an annoying combination of static and country music—not one all-news station could be found anywhere on the dial. ABC’s “World News Tonight” was her sole source of daily information. Jon seemed farther away from Oregon than from Los Angeles.
Days passed with a penetrating sameness. Finally, after an uneventful week had come and gone, Red Jeffrey appeared on Christmas Eve. He blew in with a mighty gust, bearing a foil-wrapped object under his arm.
“Venison,” he announced as he dropped it on the table. Red was aptly nicknamed. His ruddy face was crowned with a ring of graying auburn hair. He wore a red-and-blue plaid wool jacket, jeans, and workman’s boots.
“You’re Betty? I’m Red. Got any coffee?”
A man of few words, Betty noted as she plugged in the percolator. She scrounged up some ancient, crumbling cookies, put them on a plate, and took them into the living room.
“It’s hotter ‘n hell in here, Fuller,” Red complained, yanking off his jacket and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his flannel shirt.
Harold chuckled and glanced at Betty. He leaned back in his recliner and after a few USMC amenities said, “Well, Red, what can you tell us about the Beirut hostages?”
Red pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Best bet for those suckers is a commando raid. Otherwise they’re never gonna get out. That officer I told you about, Samuels, he says the city used to be crawling with CIA, but they’ve probably pulled out most of the agents by now. He says the federal government’s washed its hands of the whole damned place. They’ve lost too much blood and screwed up too many times. Nobody wants to touch it.”
Harold scowled. “So who’d stage a raid? Marines?”
“Delta Force, probably, if Bush approved it. But my guess is that the Israelis might like to win some points in this deal. I’m voting for that.”
Is he speculating or does he know something? Betty studied Red’s face. It was inscrutable. He was a career Marine, near retirement age. Who did he know? What had he heard? He and Harold had met when Red was “wet behind the ears,” as Harold described it. For some unexplainable reason, the two men had remained in contact.
Betty wanted more details. “Red, what do you mean the government’s washed its hands of the whole thing?
Do you mean they aren’t doing anything?”
“I mean that the hostages in Beirut aren’t particularly high on anybody’s list these days. Most people won’t say it, but they’re convinced that those guys never should have been in there in the first place. It’s risky business.”
“Jon was promised a Druze guard . . .” Betty said, feeling protective of Jon.
“Yeah, right. So was Terry Waite. The Druze are useless. Their warlord, Jumblatt, is a junkie. Why would anyone trust the Druze?”
Red looked at Betty as if she were a complete imbecile.
In response, her voice grew sharply defensive. “How would an ordinary person know whether or not to trust the Druze? Jon was told by the people who hired him that they would protect him.”
“Well, he should have done his homework before he trusted his life to them. No offense, but guys like your boyfriend put the old US of A in a terrible spot. They make foolish decisions, and then expect somebody else or the government to bail them out.”
Betty was extraordinarily angered by Red’s words, but for some reason she was even more enraged by his arrogance. “Look, Red. You don’t know Jon. And you don’t know any of the other hostages. How dare you sit there and criticize men who are chained to a wall somewhere, and . . .” Her voice was growing loud and shrill.
Red was perfectly capable of rising to the occasion. His face was more florid than ever. “Hey, little lady, don’t you lecture me! I’m the one who’ll end up bustin’ his butt for some little ignoramus like your boyfriend.”
Betty jumped up, grabbed her coat, and stormed out the door. The northern wind cooled her cheeks and ran soothing fingers through her hair. She was too incensed to think orderly thoughts. Red’s insensitivity overwhelmed her. How could he sit there and blindly insult and practically assault the man she loved? Didn’t he understand her grief? Her loss? Oh, God. I would have been in London with Jon right now if this hadn’t happened. For a moment pain knifed through her chest and anguish blackened her senses.
She walked down one country road after another. Twilight was stretching long shadows across the landscape. Brittle ice was forming along the edge of puddles, and the stark silhouettes of pine trees stood black and tall against the silver sky. Her nose and lips were numb with cold. She thrust her hands deeply into her pockets.
What an obnoxious . . . but only obscenities came to mind. Red Jeffrey had managed to breathe new life into a couple of them.
The man’s words rankled, to be sure. But beneath his cruel diatribe, Betty gradually realized some seeds of truth. Drifts of the same sentiment had come her way before, albeit never so harshly: Lebanese hostages were victims of their own poor judgment, or, worse yet, losers in a deadly gamble. As for the government’s posture? Concern for the future of the hostages was expressed in effusive public statements, while in actual policy resolution of the predicament seemed to have been left to the winds of chance.
An even deeper issue troubled Betty, although she’d never mentioned it to anyone. Jon was neither fish nor fowl. He wasn’t an American citizen, but he had an INS green card, which probably indicated to the New Zealand government that he really wasn’t their concern, either.
Did New Zealand have a hostage policy? Was it the same as Britain’s? Was anyone anywhere concerned about Jon Surrey-Dixon’s release besides Elisabeth Casey?
After a couple of hours of cooling off, literally and figuratively, Betty crunched her way up Harold’s gravel driveway. Red’s car was gone. She quietly opened the door. Was Harold upset with her for walking out? Ask me if I care . . . Betty was mentally repacking her bags.
“Hi, Betty. Did you have a good walk?” Harold had plugged in the lights on the little Christmas tree, plainly a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry about Red. He’s a Marine, and that means he’s got a mind of his own.”
She sat down and looked at her hands, absently watching the reflected Christmas lights dance across her diamond. “Do you agree with what he said, Daddy?” Because if you do, I’m leaving here, right this minute, Christmas or no Christmas.
“Betty, I’ll tell you how I feel. I think Jon is in God’s hands. You know I’m not the Bible scholar your mother was, but I want to read you something I read this morning. I think it’s something to hang onto for him.”
Pages rustled as Harold fumbled through his well-worn Scofield Bible. His thick fingers tried to turn the delicate, gilt-edged pages. He cleared his throat, and read,
I called upon the LORD in distress: the LORD answered me, and set me in a large place.
The LORD is on my side; I will not fear; what can man do unto me?
The LORD taketh my part with them that help me; therefore shall I see my desire upon them that hate me.
It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man.
It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in princes.
“That’s verses 5 through 9 of Psalm 118,” he said as he raised his eyes and searched his daughter’s face. Was she listening or had she tuned him out?
“Betty, you’re going to hear a lot of opinio
ns, a lot of rumors, and a lot of political nonsense as long as Jon’s over there. And the fact of the matter is, there’s nothing you can do except pray. And wait. And try not to blow your top.” He closed his Bible, got up, and walked over to throw some more wood on the already raging, snapping fire.
“Daddy,” she waited to see if she had his attention. She did. “You may not have bought me anything for Christmas, but you just gave me the best present ever.”
Their eyes met, for once mirroring unhindered love and understanding. The moment was almost too much for Harold.
“What do you mean, I didn’t buy you anything for Christmas?” he barked. “You’ll get your presents tomorrow morning, just like you always did.”
Betty returned home to piles of mail. Tired after the long drive from Oregon, she tried desperately to concentrate as she leafed through dozens of envelopes. A large manila one had come from the couple she’d met at Erica’s dinner party. Doris and . . . what was his name? “The Walkers” said the return address.
The note read,
Dear Betty,
Here are the things you’ll need for the trip we promised you. We sincerely hope you’ll find it to be an encouraging and helpful time. The gentleman whose card is enclosed will pick you up at the airport—he works for Henry’s news service.
Henry . . . that’s right. Henry and Doris.
Enclosed in the envelope, along with the note and the business card, were a United Airlines ticket to Washington, D.C. and a confirmation memo from One Washington Circle Hotel. Betty was to leave January 6 and return four days later.
Jim Richards had agreed to take her to the airport. Just as they were going out the door, the telephone rang.
“Let it go . . .” Jim suggested. “We don’t want to be late.”
“I’ll just see who it is . . .” Betty never ceased to imagine that Jon was somehow going to call her.
“Hello, is this Betty? This is Vince Angelo. Did you get my letter about Jon?”
Vince Angelo. Vince Angelo. Oh yes, the writer who was with Jon in Beirut.
“Yes, thanks, I did . . .”
“I’m calling you from Washington . . . D.C.”
“Vince, as a matter of fact, I was just going out the door to catch a flight to Washington. How long will you be there?”
“The rest of the week. Where are you staying?”
“At One Washington Circle.”
“Shall I call you there?”
“Yes. Of course. I’d love to talk to you.”
After making the arrangements to meet, Betty hung up and headed out the door. Something troubled her about the call. For some reason she didn’t want to hear the details of Jon’s abduction. Yet, logically, she ought to be willing to sit down with the last person who saw Jon, to hear what he might have to say. She sighed loudly enough for Jim to notice.
“Betty, don’t worry. You’ll enjoy your time in Washington. It’ll be good for you.”
“Jim, all of this is so unreal. It’s like a long, long nightmare. I don’t want to go to Washington. I don’t want to be on television. I don’t want to talk about the hostages or think about the hostages or hear about the hostages. I just want to wake up and find Jon here, beside me.”
Betty surprised herself by crying. In recent days tears had seemed to be forever spilling out of her eyes. She hadn’t really laughed in weeks. And there was no relief in sight.
Catching her flight out of LAX, she dozed on and off during the flight. She awoke to find the aircraft banking over D.C. Although it was dark, she quickly recognized several buildings and monuments that were bathed in floodlights. The Jefferson Memorial. The Capitol building. The White House. An incurably proud American, Betty was exhilarated at the sight of such beloved landmarks.
I can’t believe I’m here!
It was about 7:00 P.M. when she deplaned at National Airport. Betty scanned the crowd until she saw a young man holding up a sign bearing her name. She waved to him. “I’m Elisabeth Casey.” He immediately took her bag and introduced himself. “I’m Derek Davis. Did Henry Walker by chance tell you that you’re invited to a dinner tonight?”
“No, he just said you’d meet me.”
“Well, it was sort of a last-minute decision. We happened to check with Peggy Say, and there’s a dinner at a downtown restaurant for the hostage families. She’s invited you to join them if you aren’t too tired.”
Betty was, in fact, exhausted. But she’d come all this way to meet the others. She was especially anxious to meet Peggy, and feeling slightly troubled that she’d not answered her kind note.
“I’ll go,” she said. “But I’d like to drop my stuff off at the hotel first, if it isn’t out of the way.”
“Not at all, Ms. Casey,” Derek smiled at her, picked up her luggage, and they were on their way.
When they arrived at Le Petit Chat, a crowded café several blocks from the hotel, Derek led Betty to a woman whom she immediately recognized from television. Peggy Say glanced up, blew a plume of smoke over her shoulder, and smiled. “Hi, I’m Peggy.”
“I’m Elisabeth Casey—from California.” Betty extended her hand.
“Sit down! We’re just talking about the usual insanity at the State Department. I’ll introduce you once everybody’s here.”
Betty listened for the next two hours to an ongoing conversation that nearly left her breathless. Her not-so-positive reaction to George O’Ryan of the State Department had been mild compared to what she was hearing. Several hostage families were represented at the table, and not one of them could find a kind thing to say about O’Ryan.
“I think he’s history,” Peggy commented amidst clouds of blue-gray smoke. “I hear there are changes coming. There’ve been so many complaints about him, he’s being transferred—out of the country.”
“The farther away the better. Just as long as they don’t replace him with another spook,” someone muttered and everybody laughed.
Betty looked at Peggy in bewilderment. “What’s a spook?”
“CIA. Be careful who you’re talking to,” she chuckled.
On and on the free-ranging conversation went. Betty listened as closely as possible. Most of these people had been at the heart of the Lebanon hostage crisis for years. They weren’t afraid to name names disrespectfully, from the president of the United States on down. They weren’t reluctant to criticize—even condemn—U.S. policy. They had survived Irangate, heard every excuse, seen every cover-up, and come up without their loved ones in the process. But, in spite of it all, they were able to laugh, even in the face of such horrendous circumstances.
The more Betty listened, however, the more unclear she was about one particular matter. Who was responsible for getting the hostages out? It sounded to her like the State Department was at odds with the Justice Department on the subject. And the Justice Department wanted no action whatsoever from the Defense Department. And, although the President seemed to be sincerely troubled about the matter, he was committed to no direct negotiations. Although a handful of congressmen were expressing continuing concern, Congress itself was irresolute on the subject.
Who was responsible for the hostages? Everyone, it seemed. And no one at all.
When the dinner ended, Betty shared a cab back to the hotel with Peggy. “I want to thank you for writing to me at Christmas. Betty pulled Peggy’s handwritten message out of her purse. “I’ve been carrying it around with me since the day it arrived. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. You wouldn’t believe the pile of mail on my desk.”
“Oh yes I would,” Peggy laughed. She took Betty’s hand and looked at her diamond. “I’m sorry about your wedding. But I have a feeling Jon will be out long before Terry is. You just hang in there.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I think he’s being held by a different group of captors, and they aren’t as hardline as the guys who have Terry.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been around this hostage business for a lon
g time, Elisabeth . . .”
“Why don’t you call me Betty.”
Peggy nodded as she lit another cigarette. “I hear a lot, and I know a lot of people, Betty. You hang in there and keep praying. God’s going to take care of both Jon and Terry. You’ve got to keep the faith, not just for yourself, but for Jon. Know what I mean?”
Betty nodded. She looked at Peggy in amazement. Again and again Peggy had ridden a heartless roller-coaster from soaring hope to crushing disappointment. She’d lost both her father and a brother since the kidnapping and was forever hearing the promise that Terry might possibly be coming out “this weekend.” She had spent endless months and years waiting for a phone call that never came. And now, here she was, encouraging Betty to pray.
“You’re a remarkable woman, Peggy,” Betty hugged her as they said good night.
Peggy laughed. “Be in the lobby at nine-thirty. There’s a hostage remembrance service at the Capitol building at ten. I’m going to have to leave town after that, but call me when you get home, okay?”
“Okay.”
Betty unlocked her room, undressed, and got into her nightgown as quickly as possible. She clicked on the television, requested a wake-up call, brushed her teeth, and started to get into bed. Suddenly a peculiar thought struck her. Perhaps it was because her lower back was aching with fatigue. Or maybe it was inspired by the feminine hygiene product commercial that had just graced the television.
How long had it been since her last period?
Had she had one since Jon left?
Had she had one since . . .
She caught her breath. It had to have been at least six weeks. She stared at herself in the mirror, shivering with a new fear. Again, tears. Maybe she was emotional because . . .
Betty got on her knees beside the bed. Was this a nightmare within a nightmare? Did God care about her? “Keep the faith,” Peggy had said.
Oh, Lord. Please. By now she was crying so hard that she could hardly speak. It had been many years since she had felt so utterly, helplessly alone.
