Interlude

by Lela Gilbert

  “Can I tell him to give Jon my love?”

  Mike missed a beat before he answered. “Don’t tell him anything until you find out what he wants. Check back with me if you hear from him again. And thanks for calling, Betty. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  She hung up, feeling mildly uplifted. Maybe, just maybe, this Badr person actually had access to Jon. If she could just get a message to him, a word of encouragement. An idea dawned. Maybe she could pay Badr to deliver a letter—maybe she’d even send a poem. Jon would like that.

  It’s a million-to-one chance, but it’s worth the try.

  Two days later she had just turned off the eleven o’clock news when the phone rang. As always, she thought it was “the call.” Instead, it was Badr, calling from Lebanon again.

  “I have information for you about our friend,” he told her between the hisses and pops of the long-distance line.

  “What kind of information do you have?”

  “Forgive me, but I cannot discuss this on the phone. I’m sure you understand. Can you meet me in Europe?”

  Betty wanted very much to make a deal with this man, despite Brody’s cautious admonitions. “I have no money to go to Europe.” She paused, then took the leap. “But I will pay you if you’ll do something for me.”

  “What can I do for you and our friend? I am pleased to try.”

  “I’m going to send you a letter and a check. Can you cash an American check there?”

  “Yes. Of course. How much?”

  “I’ll send . . .” Betty tried to mentally balance her checkbook before answering. What could she spare? Nothing really, but . . .

  “I’ll send you a hundred dollars.”

  “This is very kind, Elisabeth. You want me to deliver this letter to our friend, yes?”

  “That’s right. Are you sure you can get it to him?”

  “Of course. Of course. You send it to this address. I take care of everything for you, Elisabeth.”

  Betty excitedly jotted down everything he told her. She zealously double-checked the spelling of each word. Once they’d hung up, she immediately reached for her stationery and began to write.

  Dear Jon,

  I don’t know if you’ll ever receive this letter or not. I’m sending it with a man who says he knows you and that he’ll see that it gets into your hands. I can only hope he’s as good as his word.

  All is well here, for the most part. All your friends are doing fine, except for their sadness in knowing about your ordeal.

  And as for me, Jon, I love you and miss you so terribly. I feel powerless because there’s nothing I can do to help you except pray. But please be sure that my prayers are with you constantly, as are those of so many others all over the world. Someone even gave me a prayer bracelet with your name inscribed on it. I wear it on my left wrist—it’s on the same hand as the beautiful diamond ring you gave me.

  Please be strong and courageous, Jon. Don’t be afraid—God is with you even if you don’t feel His presence. And be completely assured of my love for you. It is written in my heart.

  I’m sending a poem to you. When I wrote it, I meant to give it to you as a little wedding gift. But here it is now—in my heart I believe we are already married.

  I love you, Jon, more than ever.

  Betty

  On a separate sheet she carefully copied the poem. It was the one she had composed months before while sitting in the shadow of the tower at Victoria Beach.

  As, with a cry, I drew first breath,

  This soul began to live,

  And Love was lit within my breast—

  A feeble wick, of no use to the rest.

  Still, burn it did. But why?

  It flickered ‘til it caught alight.

  It warmed my father’s face.

  And on the men who shared my room

  It gleamed and glowed; though futile in the gloom,

  Still burned. It had to try.

  Then spurning seas and spanning worlds,

  You smiled ‘til shadows fled;

  ‘Til Love blazed brighter than the sun,

  Flashed fire, flared hot, and melded us as one.

  Still burn, Love. Never die!

  She read and reread the letter folded and unfolded the poem. Would he understand it? Was it too vague or too arty? At last she sealed them into an envelope. She wrote out a check for $100, and sealed it and the first envelope into a second one.

  I’m a fool to be doing this. And heaven help me if Brody ever finds out. She had smiled at the thought of doing something behind his back. Mr. Information.

  She studied the address she’d printed on the carrier envelope, confirming each number and letter. Then, grabbing her purse, she threw a coat on over her nightgown, slipped on some shoes and ran out the front door.

  Once she was at the Post Office she realized she had no idea how much postage her letter would require. There was no list of overseas charges to be found. Frantically, she bought $5 worth of stamps out of a machine and stuck every last one of them on the envelope.

  That’s enough postage to take it around the world three times.

  She checked the schedule on the mail drop. The next pick up would be at 5:30 in the morning. Trembling, she slipped the precious letter into the slot and heard it softly thud at the bottom of the chute.

  Oh, Lord. Please. Get it to Jon, somehow. I know it’s a foolish request, but I’ve just got to tell him how much I love him. I know there’s no way he’ll ever receive it.

  But God, nothing’s impossible for You.

  The recording studio was located on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. Betty squinted as she searched for the addresses posted on an assortment of nondescript stucco buildings. Finally she spotted the one she was looking for, turned into the lot, and parked the car. She looked around at the rundown area.

  This is a weird neighborhood. What have I gotten myself into?

  As she approached the front of the building, she encountered a locked door with no outside handle. She rang a bell, waited, and rang it again. She was just beginning to wonder if she’d made a terrible mistake by coming on the wrong day, or maybe by coming at all, when a long-haired youth opened the formidable entrance from the inside.

  “Hi, I’m Josh. Are you Elisabeth Casey?”

  “Yes, hi. I’m Betty.”

  “Come with me. The ShakeDown session’s in Studio B.”

  Betty was surprised at the posh interior of the place; it had looked anything but opulent from the outside. Josh led her down a hallway, past a coffee room cluttered with boxes of donuts, and finally to another heavy door. A red light, lettered “In Use,” next to the door was unlit. They went inside.

  Betty found herself in a soundproof booth, monopolized by an enormous 24-track mixer board and several monolithic speakers. Four swivel chairs and a leather couch faced a wall of thick, double windows. Through the windows Betty could see a much larger room where a group of eight ragged-looking musicians were standing around talking. Three of them were white, the rest black. Behind them was a set up of drums, microphones, and synthesizers. There were two electric guitars and a bass.

  An unshaven man seated in the booth looked up and smiled politely.

  “This is Betty,” Josh said with a sweeping gesture.

  “Oh, yeah. Betty. Hi, I’m Dave Demetrius, Brian’s brother. This is Jake Arnold, our engineer. Brian’s out there with the band. I’m producing the album for Libra Records. You did a nice job on the lyrics. Wait ‘til you hear Brian’s song—it’s awesome.” Dave was a fast talker and very much to the point. When he was finished, he fell silent.

  Jake, the heavyset engineer, hoisted himself up to adjust some tape on a reel-to-reel machine behind him. He had several earrings in each lobe, all unmatched. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked in a husky voice. “Have a seat on the couch there, and Josh will get you one. What do you want in it?”

  “Cream and sugar, thanks.” Betty curiously surveyed the studio. It was cluttere
d with tapes, boxes, clipboards, ashtrays, and other paraphernalia. But it was spotlessly clean and tastefully designed. Someone had invested generously in the place.

  Just then Brian Demetrius came into the booth. Brian wore faded jeans, which were ripped at both knees. A brown ponytail cascaded down the back of his faded green t-shirt. He was barefoot. “Elisabeth?”

  “Call her Betty,” his brother interrupted. “She’s cool.”

  “Yes, call me Betty. It’s good to meet you, Brian. I’m dying to hear your song.”

  “Well it’s your song too, you know. What do you hear about your boyfriend?”

  “Not much. Just rumors, as usual.”

  “Yeah, I heard somebody was supposed to be coming out last weekend.”

  “Somebody’s always supposed to be coming out. The problem is, nobody ever does.”

  Brian shook his head. “Bummer, man.”

  Just as Josh returned with Betty’s coffee and a fat, shiny donut, Dave pushed a button and his voice was broadcast all over the studio. “Okay, we’re ready in here. Let’s take one pass on tape and see what we’ve got.”

  The musicians very leisurely made their way to their instruments. Relaxed and jovial, they tuned up for several minutes while Jake did a final sound check on the mikes. Finally Dave hit the button again. “Okay. This is ‘We’ll Never Say Good-bye’. Take one. Tape is rolling . . .”

  There was a pause. Someone counted out a beat. The band began a song that brought tears to Betty’s eyes almost instantly. First a single voice sang a quiet solo. One by one the others joined him. It was just soulful enough not to be saccharine, and it was really, really beautiful. Betty couldn’t believe her ears.

  Even though she’d thoroughly enjoyed one of their other recordings, Betty had assumed that ShakeDown would somehow desecrate her tender lyrics. She had been bracing herself for the worst since Brian had called two days ago and invited her to the recording session.

  But this—this was really breathtaking. The melody had an almost classical sound, and the singers’ harmony was complex and rich, like nothing she’d heard before. Brian had been very sensitive to the words she had written, and his composition reflected it.

  Dave cut in after the last chord. “It’s happening, guys. Sounds good. But the bass is too hot, Phil. Tom, back off a little on the synth until verse two, and then give me a little more reverb. Let’s do it again. ‘We’ll Never Say Goodbye.’ Take Two. We’re rolling.”

  As far as Betty was concerned, the song was perfect the first time. The musical subtleties that troubled Dave were completely inaudible to her. Whatever he was striving for was irrelevant as far as she was concerned. The more they played the song, the more she loved it.

  I can’t wait for Jon to hear this.

  Dave asked for three more passes before he was satisfied. Finally he called the band into the booth to listen. Jake turned the speakers up and started the tape. Everyone fell silent, concentrating on the newly birthed tune.

  When it was over, the musicians didn’t say much. They looked at each with knowing smiles and nods, quietly delighted with their accomplishment. “Yes!” said the drummer, gesturing thumbs up to his friends, unable to restrain his enthusiasm.

  “Are you the lady who wrote the words?” the bass player asked Betty.

  “Yes, I am. I’m Betty Casey.”

  Dave jumped in. “Sorry, Betty, I forgot to introduce you. We aren’t real formal around here. Guys? Betty Casey. Betty Casey, ShakeDown. Betty, we’re going to try and release this tune as a single, and we’re looking into international distribution for it. Maybe your man will hear it in Lebanon. Who knows?”

  Not knowing what else to say, Betty got up to leave. “It’s wonderful. I love it. Brian, you did a super job. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s so much better than I thought it would be.”

  “Do you want me to send you a couple of cassettes once it’s mixed? It won’t be on the market for a few weeks, but I’ll send you some personal copies this week if you want.”

  “Yes, please. Thanks guys.” She waved to the band in the studio. They were making their way back to the microphones, getting ready to record the next song. Several of them waved back.

  Betty smiled at Dave. “I’m really excited about the song.”

  “So are we. It’s a happening tune.”

  As much as she’d enjoyed the music, Betty was glad to be on her way. She’d never been inside a recording studio before or had any contact with musicians. Theirs was a different world, to be sure. And in some ways they were a strange group. Nice but bizarre, she concluded.

  Ah, but the song! It haunted Betty—she couldn’t get it out of her mind. After several days she found the courage to call Brian and ask him the question she’d been rehearsing for some time.

  “Do you think the guys in the band would mind if I played the song at my wedding, once Jon gets out?”

  “Of course we don’t mind. It’s your song, too. Besides all of the guys are feeling bad about you and your boyfriend. We’d like to come to your wedding and celebrate with you!”

  “Well, you’re certainly invited. I just wish I could give you a confirmed date.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s a little tough at the moment. By the way Betty, did I tell you we’re pretty sure we’re going to be getting airplay in the U.K.?”

  “No, you didn’t. What does that mean, anyway?”

  “It means that if we’re on BBC, the tune might be broadcast into Lebanon.”

  “Well, Jon won’t know it’s for him, but he’ll love the song.”

  “I think he’ll know it’s for him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because we decided to tell him.”

  “What do you mean? “ “In the final mix, we decided to add something. At the end of the song, I said, real soft, “Hey Jon, it’s time you got yourself out of Beirut and came home, man. Your lady’s waiting.”

  Betty hesitated. “It doesn’t sound corny, does it?”

  Brian laughed. “No, it’s cool, don’t worry. I’m sending you a demo tomorrow. It’s a love letter, man. He’ll know.”

  As it turned out, Brian was right. The final tag line on the recording worked surprisingly well. It gave a personal touch to the song, and if Jon ever did happen to hear it, he’d certainly have something to think about.

  If he heard it.

  Months had passed since the kidnapping. It was nearly March, and Betty was still alone. Day after day she drove to the office, worked on the Uganda report, checked her phone messages, made small talk with Jim, Joyce, and the others, and drove home again. Her father called every few weeks, but his very evident pessimism about Jon’s circumstances only compounded her distress. He’d obviously been talking to Red Jeffrey.

  Badr hadn’t called for weeks, and Betty hadn’t called Mike Brody. Besides the fact that she had no reason to contact him, she was secretly afraid of what he might say. Suppose her letter to Badr had been intercepted? The check had cleared the bank weeks ago, but anyone in Lebanon could have cashed it and she’d have been none the wiser.

  The only good news she could think of was that ShakeDown’s “We’ll Never Say Good-bye” was on the radio now and then. Oddly, whenever Betty heard it, she felt a strange emotional detachment. Like everything else that was related to Jon, the song had taken on a sense of unreality.

  Jon was beginning to seem like a figment of Betty’s imagination. The diamond on her hand still sparkled in the light. The silver prayer bracelet still curved around her left wrist. Jon’s portrait still adorned her room. But Jon himself was fading from her memory. She couldn’t quite remember the sound of his voice. She wasn’t sure anymore about the shade of his blue eyes. But worst of all she was beginning to wonder about something far more disconcerting. Was Jon still alive?

  From what she’d read, some hostages had vanished and had never resurfaced again. Granted, Jon’s picture had appeared on the day of his abduction, but that was the last word anyone had heard.
Of course Badr had said, “He’s good, very good.” However, Betty wasn’t at all sure of Badr’s credentials as a “reliable source.”

  A poem, written on the back of a church bulletin, was stuck in Betty’s Bible—a Bible that hadn’t been opened for days. The poem read,

  Lost

  Between the warm radiance of your welcome

  And the unthinkable blackness of farewell

  I tremble in a half-light:

  Watching

  Waiting

  Wondering.

  Betty had tried to find something in the Bible to comfort her heart. She’d read Psalms. And passages about restoration in the Old Testament. And words about faith from the New Testament. But nothing reached her heart. Nothing seemed to permeate the heavy sorrow that clung to her.

  One day her friend Erica called from Orange Hills. “Betty, I’ve had you on my mind. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, I guess. I’m still breathing.”

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been sticking pretty close to home.”

  “I can imagine you would be. But, look, we’re having a special prayer service for the Lebanon hostages on Sunday morning. We’d like to invite you to be our guest. After the service, maybe we can all go out to eat and visit.”

  “Oh, Erica. That’s so nice of you. Are other hostage family members coming?”

  “No, it’s not that kind of a service—nothing public— just our usual morning service, but we want to have special prayers for them—and for you. Can you join us?”

  I don’t want to drive all the way over there.

  “Uh, sure, Erica. That’s really kind of you. Did you say it’s at eleven?”

  Chronic depression had all but immobilized Betty, especially on weekends when she didn’t have to be at work. She hadn’t been to church in months. In fact, she had no inclination to get out of bed, get dressed, or see anyone. She was becoming increasingly reclusive, sometimes not even talking to her closest friends when they phoned. Betty was sleepy all the time and dozed off several times a day. A peculiar series of aches and pains were also beginning to worry her. The hypochondria she’d overcome as a younger woman had returned with a vengeance.