by Lela Gilbert
Betty had grown weary of television appearances, but she couldn’t think of a logical excuse. “Um . . . what time do I have to be there?”
“Two-thirty. We’ll send a limo to pick you up. I understand you’re a writer. If you’ve written anything about your fiancé’s captivity, we’d like to have you bring it.”
“Well, yes, I do have a poem.”
“Wonderful. That’s just the kind of thing we want.”
Betty shrugged. “Okay, why not? What time will the limo be at my house?”
“Two P.M. Please don’t wear blue or white, and no busy patterns.”
“I know. Thanks, Claire.”
“Thank you, Elisabeth.”
Jim walked in the door just as she hung up. “Who was that?”
“Oh, it was ABC television. They want me to be on ‘Pacesetters’. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, I think so. It’s personality profiles or something, isn’t it?”
“It’s sort of a People magazine on the air, I guess. Anyway I told them I’d do it, although I’m not sure why I said yes.”
“It can’t hurt to ask people to pray for the hostages, Betty.”
“I guess you’re right. It can’t hurt a thing.”
Sunday afternoon Betty dressed herself in her usual “television suit.” It was taupe wool, this time accented with a jade green scarf. Betty examined herself in the mirror. Her face seemed to be aging from moment to moment. Every day more tiny lines seemed to be forming around her eyes, beneath which were ubiquitous dark circles.
Jon won’t even want me when he sees me, she thought to herself, only half in jest. This ordeal is taking its toll.
Santa Ana winds had blown all the pollution out of the L.A. basin, and as the black limo cruised down the Pasadena Freeway, she couldn’t help but enjoy the fresh, breeze-blown scenery. The skyline of Los Angeles soared upward against a brilliant blue sky. Freeways wound around like endless serpents, bejeweled with colorful vehicles.
Jon would love this day. Again the almost physical pain of missing him stabbed at her chest and rose in her throat. She fought it off. It was a futile sensation.
The studio was situated in Hollywood on Prospect Avenue. Betty was escorted into a dressing room, where a rather effeminate makeup artist bustled around theatrically. “God, what marvelous cheekbones!” he gushed, wielding a massive puff and sending billows of face powder heavenward.
The two other guests on the show were in the backstage “Green Room” when Betty walked in. One was the husband of a woman who had been on a life-support system for five years. The other was a woman whose husband was MIA in Vietnam. She spoke to them politely, wishing desperately she had stayed home.
What could she possibly say in response to any questions? She didn’t want to talk about politics. She didn’t know anything about Middle East affairs. Her personal life was nonexistent since Jon’s kidnapping. All she could do was parrot Harold Fuller’s orders: “Pray, wait and don’t blow your top.”
“Be sure and look at the camera, not at Mr. Phillips, even when he’s asked you a question,” an officious production assistant warned. Marvin Phillips, the host-interviewer was a benign sort of television personality who seemed genuinely concerned about each person he spoke to—until the cameras were off and he and his smile vanished without a trace.
The MIA wife was eloquent. She had done an admirable job of preparing her discussion about the Pentagon’s apparent cover-up of Southeast Asian MIA and POW evidence. She was obviously angry, but self-controlled. And she made a strong case for the independent investigation that she felt needed to be launched. “I want my husband back!” she said firmly through almost clenched teeth.
The audience roared its approval.
The husband of the dying woman spoke simply but powerfully about the ethics of euthanasia and about his own feelings toward his wife. “You always hope for a miracle,” he explained quietly. “Even when they say there’re no brain waves and no hope for recovery, you just never know what might happen. You always remember what she was like in the old days, before she got sick. I’m not pulling no plug, Mr. Phillips, I’ll tell you that.”
Again, the audience responded enthusiastically.
“Elisabeth Casey’s fiancé is a hostage in Lebanon. As I’m sure you know, he was kidnapped just days before their wedding last November. We all watched while this little lady’s world suddenly fell apart.”
Phillips paused to ask Betty a couple of rather superficial questions, which she answered without elaboration.
“Now nearly three months have gone by since the tragic interruption of your beautiful love story. So tell me, Elisabeth, as a writer are you able to express your pain in words? Have you been able to write about your fiancé or your feelings?”
Betty found herself looking directly at Phillips, forgetting the production assistant’s instructions.
“Well, yes, I’ve written a poem . . .”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone wildly motioning for her to look at the camera. Awkwardly, she turned her head. It seemed unnatural and impolite not to be talking to Phillips when he was talking to her.
“Would you read it for us?”
Betty was obviously nervous. Now where should she look? At the paper, of course. She had to read the words—no way would she remember them in front of a live audience. She was extremely uncomfortable and wished with all her heart that she were home or suddenly invisible or otherwise missing in action herself. Nevertheless, she began to read.
“First came the smile, then came the laughter . . .” She read the few verses without a great deal of animation. She set the paper down in her lap when she finished. The audience was silent for a moment, as if they weren’t quite sure whether she was finished or not. Finally a smattering of applause began just as the director cut to a commercial.
I never meant for anyone but Jon to hear it anyway! She tried to soothe herself in the face of such a frosty audience response.
“Thank you, you were all wonderful!” Phillips beamed and glowed. With the help of the crew, the three guests found their way out of the glaring lights and away from the crowd.
Never again! Betty vowed angrily to herself. Never again will I subject myself to this kind of embarrassment.
She felt like a runner-up in a talent show—a failed amateur. She chided herself for being such an absolute fool, for having exposed her most personal thoughts to the world at large. What did anyone really care about her heartaches? In that humiliating moment, as far as she could see, the people in the “Pacesetters” audience were nothing but bored voyeurs trying to inject some sort of intensity into their mundane lives.
Without a word, she gathered her belongings and all but crawled back to the limousine, grateful for its smoked glass windows. She coldly thanked the driver when she got home and unlocked the door to the sound of the ringing phone. She grabbed the receiver before the machine could pick up the call. Maybe it’s good news.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Elisabeth Casey?”
“Yes, it is,” she sighed. Once again “the call” had turned out to be an inquiring stranger.
“Ms. Casey, I’m Brian Demetrius. I’m with a band called ShakeDown. I just heard you read some lyrics on Marvin Phillips’ show.”
“Yes, I just got home from there.”
“Would you consider letting us work on a tune to go with your lyrics? You may not have heard of us, but we’ve had two singles hit the charts in the last two years, and we want to do something for a humanitarian cause. Somebody up there’s been looking out for us, you see, and this is our way of saying thank you.”
“I don’t understand what you want to do with the song. What would be humanitarian about it?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. We’d like to dedicate the song to the hostages in Lebanon and give a percentage of the proceeds to some of the organizations that are trying to help them. How would you feel about letting us use your l
yrics? You’d make some money on the deal. And who knows, maybe your boyfriend will hear the tune played in his cell. They get to listen to music sometimes, I think.”
“Well, I can’t think of any reason to say no. What kind of music do you play anyway? ‘ShakeDown’ sounds pretty wild to me.”
Brian named a couple of songs Betty had never heard of. Then he mentioned another—a song she actually liked very much. “You guys did that?”
“That’s us!”
“I guess I never noticed the name of the band. So do you want me to mail these words to you?”
“Do you have a fax?”
“I can fax them to you tomorrow morning from my office.”
“Great. Put your address on there too. Our attorney will be sending a contract. Thanks a lot, Elisabeth.”
Betty was utterly drained when she hung up the phone. She collapsed in her chair in a weary daze, staring at the diamond on her hand. She loved the way light played with it, forever striking a different facet and surprising her with an unexpected burst of color. The effect was almost hypnotic, and she was exceptionally sleepy.
When she woke up, it was three o’clock in the morning. To her surprise, she was still wearing her television suit and jade green scarf.
This kind of thing has got to stop. I have to go to work tomorrow!
Clumsy with fatigue, she undressed, washed the makeup off her face, and gratefully slipped into bed. Just before sleep captured her again, she spoke aloud the three-word prayer that never really left her mind.
“God, deliver Jon,” she murmured, vaguely aware that the weekend was over and no hostages had been released.
Simultaneously, halfway around the world in a dark, sunless room another prayer was spoken aloud. It was offered up by a man who had all but lost his faith and yet continued to pound on the gates of heaven anyway.
“God, take care of Betty,” Jon whispered. “Keep her safe. Give her rest. And please, whatever else You do, keep her loving me.”
Jon’s prayer was being answered even as he prayed.
Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing.
5
Betty was slouching over her desk, scratching out a bitter little verse on the back of an envelope. She read it sullenly, and then copied it onto her desk calendar.
No, Hope.
I will find another bridge
From here to reality.
I dare not set foot
Upon your treacherous, unstable span.
I do not trust you.
Despite various media predictions, the weekend had passed without a hostage release. Jim Richards had cautioned her. Her father had warned her. Even Mike Brody had been uncharacteristically direct in saying that rumors were just that—rumors.
So why was it that Betty had allowed hope to creep into some corner of her consciousness and her better judgment? And now came another inevitable Monday morning, and with it the usual letdown. Thick, gray hopelessness clouded her thoughts. Certainly she was exhausted from an unusually stressful Sunday. But the real problem was a lingering, chronic depression that had never really abated since the early November morning call from George O’Ryan.
Betty tried to rouse herself out of her lethargy to stimulate her lagging interest in the Ugandan orphanage project that cluttered her desk. Untidy stacks of research materials, photographs, and statistical printouts littered every inch of her workspace. Very little of that information had as yet found its way into her report.
To make matters worse, Jim Richards had startled her earlier this morning by saying, “I have a feeling we’re going to have to send you to Africa before this project is over. We really don’t have enough stories about individual children, and we’ll never get them unless you go. Everyone out there is just too busy to get the job done.”
Panic seized her. There was no way she could go to Uganda until Jon was free. Any kind of communication was impossible there. Jon could be out on the street for days before she’d know about it. The orphanage had no phone, no radio, no television. Overseas calls from the Kampala post office could take as long as two or three hours to connect.
I will absolutely not go to Uganda—not until Jon gets home. And that’s final, she vowed to herself. It annoyed her that Jim was insensitive enough to suggest such a thing. Didn’t he understand that the telephone and television were her only remaining links with Jon?
Oh, there was God of course. But that particular spiritual link seemed more like a frayed string than a trustworthy cable. Sure, He’d healed her skin years before. And He’d helped her through the pregnancy scare. And He’d taken care of her financially as long as she could remember. But what about the one thing that mattered the most? What about Jon? Their love, their marriage, their life together?
Never in her life had Betty questioned God’s sovereignty. She had a strong belief in His right to do what He wanted with His children. This conviction was rooted in her familiarity with the Old Testament Book of Job and her own somewhat Job-like existence in years gone by.
When phones were ringing, unique opportunities were arising and people were reaching out in encouragement, Betty could envision some obscure divine purpose in it all. But days of unbroken silence were totally disabling. For the first time in her life, circumstances were eroding the core of her faith. She wasn’t just questioning God’s love this time. She was seriously wondering about the reality of His existence. He seemed out of touch, out of reach, and His absence left an aching void in her heart.
Day after day, week after week, life marched on, cruel and disinterested. Even at OMI, where everyone knew and loved Jon, it seemed that he was all but forgotten. And Betty sensed that some of her coworkers were hiding a private disapproval of her heavy heart.
She suspected that, to them, a “victorious Christian” would have handled the crisis quite differently. There would have been a sunny smile. Staunch words of faith and victory. A song of praise, extolling “peace in the midst of pain.” I’ve heard every Christian platitude that exists, she sighed, staring across the parking lot at a gray-green bank of smog. Thick haze obscured the graceful San Gabriel mountains that normally reigned over the valley.
She let out a sigh and booted up her computer. It was time to stop all this philosophizing and get busy. Uganda. Kampala. Orphans.
Her mind was blank.
I’m supposed to care about orphans? Haven’t I got enough troubles of my own?
How could the phone be so silent? Was anyone in the world thinking about Jon besides her? In Washington D.C.? In Wellington, New Zealand? What about heaven?
She glanced out the window again, and a thought popped into her mind from nowhere. The mountains are still there. You just can’t see them. Was it another platitude? Not exactly. For some reason it sounded like the still, small voice she heard in her heart.
She nodded, assenting to some silent lesson.
“Okay, Lord,” she whispered glumly. “You get Jon out. I’ll do the Uganda report.”
There it was again, on the answering machine. The fuzzy, overseas line. The beeps. The voice, “Elisabeth Casey, this is Badr. I have information for you. Please call me.” This time he left a number.
Betty was still at work. As usual, she checked her messages every hour or two “just in case.” Now that she’d heard from Lebanon again, should she call Mike Brody?
Why not?
Should I wait ‘til after work? He’ll be gone by then, and I don’t want to bother him at home.
She dialed the number in Virginia.
“Brody,” he answered sharply on the first ring.
“Mike? This is Betty in California.”
“Betty!” Mike’s voice warmed immediately. “How nice to hear from you! How are you?”
“I’m okay I guess. How are you doing?”
“Can’t complain. What’s going on out there in California, or did you just call to cheer me up?”
Betty smiled, wondering if she really was a bright spot in Mike’s day. “It’s smogg
y and I just got another call from that guy in Lebanon. He wants me to phone him.”
“Why don’t you run the phone number by me . . . just in case.”
Sometimes Betty suspected that everything she told Mike was immediately vacuumed into a gargantuan mainframe computer. She desperately wanted to think he was actually doing something with the information she gave him. But some sort of acumen told her Mike was simply a collector of facts for somebody else, not a man of action himself. Nevertheless she continued to talk to him.
“Mike, should I try to get a hold of him?”
“You can try if you want, but don’t be too surprised if you don’t get through. He’ll probably call back anyway.”
“Do you think he’s trying to help Jon?”
Mike chuckled. “Well, I’d like to think so, Betty. Perhaps he does have a personal concern for Jon. Most likely, though, he’s after something for himself.”
“Like what?”
“Money. Maybe a green card. He might even be trying to set up some sort of quid pro quo.”
“A what?”
“A ransom.”
“So you think he’s actually in touch with the kidnappers?” Betty was starting to get excited.
“That’s not what I said. I said he’s after something for himself, whether he’s in touch with them or not. And even if he is in touch with them, Betty, it doesn’t mean he has the kind of clout to affect Jon’s captivity one way or the other.”
“Could he get a message to him from me?”
“Maybe, for a fee . . .”
“How much?”
“Betty, wait a minute. You’re jumping to conclusions. This man may or may not know the kidnappers. And even if he does know them, he may be nothing more than an old school chum or a distant relative. Everything in Lebanon has a price tag these days. That’s especially true when it comes to anything involving the hostages. And, believe me, Betty, you don’t always get what you pay for.”
