Do You Want to Know a Secret?

by Mary Jane Clark

  Lucille, the makeup woman, appeared, signaling that it was ten minutes until air. Eliza continued voicing her copy while Lucille contoured, powdered and lipsticked. A last spray to Eliza’s brunette head and Lucille disappeared.

  “Ten seconds!” shouted the stage manager.

  Eliza thought of Bill Kendall one last time as she heard the KEY Evening Headlines fanfare begin to play. Raising her head and looking into the camera in anticipation, she felt the run zip the rest of the way up her thigh.

  Chapter 7

  In an expensively decorated library in a brick colonial in suburban Washington, D.C., an impeccably dressed, flawlessly manicured and coiffed woman sat sipping a San Pellegrino. On the TV screen a hair coloring commercial proclaimed, “Forty isn’t fatal.” That’s the truth, thought forty-one-year-old Joy Wingard. And if I have my way, fifty, sixty and seventy are going to be all right, too.

  Wife of Senator Haines Wingard, Joy had good reason to believe that she would get her own way. She was tall, blond, thin, beautiful and well-maintained. Penciled into her weekly calendar were standing appointments at the hairdresser, manicurist, facialist, personal trainer and masseuse.

  She watched intently as President Grayson and his wife, Angela, appeared on the large color television screen. The Graysons stood and congratulated outstanding American volunteers being honored in the White House Rose Garden.

  Joy Wingard observed every shot of the first lady. She noticed Angela Grayson’s well-cut suit, what she did with her hands, the way she gracefully brushed back a loose strand of hair. Joy had studied Angela Grayson for years and her fascination had not faded.

  She remembered she had seen the first lady just last month. Congressional families were routinely invited to the annual White House Easter egg roll. Though their husbands were on opposite sides of the political spectrum, Joy had recognized empathy in Angela Grayson’s brown eyes. On her way back into the White House, Mrs. Grayson had stopped, smiled warmly, squeezed Joy’s hand and said, “Good luck to you.”

  God, I need it, thought Joy. She hadn’t had any idea how grueling this race would be. And what really worried her was that the tough stuff was only just beginning. The making of President Haines Wingard was a long, hard battle.

  By any standard, Haines Malcolm Wingard Jr., the forty-six-year-old senator from Michigan, had experienced an impressive rise. Though from a wealthy family, Wingard, as his campaign biography was quick to point out, paid his own way through college, Wingard Sr. believing that it would build his son’s character to be responsible for his own schooling. Eighteen-year-old Win had taken the news in stride. Athletic and bright, he had secured a partial scholarship to Michigan State University. Blessed with good looks and welcomed into one of the most prestigious fraternities, Win’s social ascent at college was assured. The four years passed quickly, Win managing to keep up an impressive grade point average while waiting tables at Dooley’s twenty hours a week without missing a frat party.

  Family tradition had dictated that he follow his father and grandfather, and go on to law school. Good grades and excellent scores on the LSATs led him east, to Yale. In New Haven, a new world opened up to Haines Wingard. He quickly caught on to the fact that for many of his fellow law school classmates, attending Yale Law was the fulfillment of long-held dreams. Even before enrolling in their first courses, they understood that the degree awarded them in three years would define the balance of their professional and, often, personal lives. In addition to the education and pedigree of the institution, Yale graduates were rewarded with the access without which little else mattered.

  Until Yale, Win had busily lived in the moment, enjoying school, friends, sports. He had taken for granted the country club his family had played and socialized at throughout his growing-up years, in fact he had groaned at having to spend so much time there as a kid. The piano lessons, the sailing lessons and the dresser drawersful of expensive sweaters and polo shirts were givens as far as young Win was concerned. He had taken for granted the summers spent at the family’s vacation house on Lake Michigan. Though he grew up less than thirty minutes from Detroit, Win just hadn’t really noticed what went on outside of affluent Bloomfield Hills. When he went to Michigan State, he had been rushed by a fraternity of young men who also came from well-to-do families. They did not spend very much time pondering the problems or inequities of the world. Their immediate world was just fine.

  What really opened Haines Wingard’s eyes was another Yale law student named Nate Heller, a young man from a background much different from Wingard’s, a man who, some twenty years later, would become campaign manager of the Wingard presidential effort. Physically small and often picked on as a boy, Heller was a scrappy, driven young man whose father had deserted his family when Nate was eight years old. His mother had struggled, poor and alone, raising Nate and his brother.

  Nate lived his early life as an underdog. By sheer force of will, through endless part-time jobs, merit scholarships, and study at every available moment, Nate had had to work his way through Yale. Win listened, wide-eyed and fascinated, to Nate’s stories, astounded by his own ignorance of the consequences of poverty and powerlessness.

  Nate, in turn, idolized good-looking, popular Win. His friendship with Win opened a new world for him as well. Always an outsider in the past, Nate, by association with Win, was permitted grudging entry into his study partner’s crowd.

  It wasn’t long before Win realized that Nate was a little too needy of their relationship, a fact that he came to use to his immediate advantage. Through the grueling law school years, Win leaned increasingly on Nate to help him with the enormous work load. Nate was willing to help, eager to maintain and strengthen their tie. Though the future presidential candidate would put his name to them, he had not written every graduate school assignment himself. Both men also shared the secret that they’d gotten an advance look at the essay questions for the bar exam, Win having wooed the secretary in the law office of a bar examiner. Getting the questions ahead of time insured the study partners had thoroughly researched the cases before the exam.

  Nate wasn’t about to be telling the press that.

  The friendship had lasted through school, law clerking, private practice and into politics. Wingard had the attributes, Heller had the drive. Win, after one congressional term, had run for and won an open Senate seat. Nate, who plotted, coached and rooted every step of Win’s successful way, was the one who had convinced the junior senator that he could win the presidency.

  By April Fool’s Day, with a win in February’s New Hampshire primary and a strong Super Tuesday outcome, Haines Wingard was his party’s front runner. And the party was very pleased to have him.

  Wingard was intelligent and good-looking. Though he was lacking somewhat in the wit department, the party regulars felt that was only a minor debit. Best of all, he did not fool around. Politics was his mistress, and he could not get enough of her. There were no worries of “bimbo eruptions” during the campaign.

  Joy was staring intently at the television set tuned to the KEY Evening Headlines when she heard voices in the front hall.

  “Mrs. Wingard is in the library,” drawled Trudy, the housekeeper.

  Moments later Wingard appeared in the doorway, closely followed by his bantam campaign manager.

  “Have we been on yet?” asked Win urgently as the two men took their seats in butterscotch leather armchairs, the same color as the Dewar’s in the glass waiting untouched beside Joy.

  No hellos, no how-are-yous, no polite kisses on the cheek, noted the candidate’s wife. “Not yet.”

  “Great,” said Nate Heller, leaning forward eagerly in his chair, his eyes riveted to the screen. “I really want to see how KEY plays yesterday’s results. How ’bout a beer?”

  Make yourself at home, thought Joy as she walked over to the mahogany butler’s table. The ice cubes clinked in the crystal glass while, on the screen, the space shuttle Endeavor displayed missing tiles on its underbelly. Joy p
oured Win’s usual cranberry juice and club soda. From the tiny, built-in refrigerator, she pulled a green bottle, uncapped it and handed it to Nate. She knew from experience he wouldn’t want a glass.

  If Win had tried, he couldn’t have cast a more predictable type for campaign manager, Joy reflected. Heller was all business, all energy, all let’s-get-it-done attitude. He also had a keen mind, and strategy was his passion. He took pride in the fact that while other students were reading The Catcher in the Rye, he had devoured Machiavelli’s Prince and Plato’s Republic. To this day, he referred to them, borrowing and amending ideas for his purposes. He approached politics as ground battle.

  Nate was boasting, “JFK Jr. himself called me today. Wants to do a feature article on me for George. We’re on a roll, Winboy. Semanski’s really our only threat, and I only say that because I don’t want to take anything for granted. We can’t be too cocky, but God, I’m feeling good about the nomination. Then we’ll only have Grayson to beat in November and the White House is ours. We’re already getting calls from people wanting jobs in the Wingard administration.”

  The senator listened and nodded, barely looking up as his wife handed him the clear red drink. He was engrossed in the television images of the young royals.

  Eliza Blake appeared on the screen and teased to the upcoming candidate status reports. Both men silently admired the good-looking face that stared out at them, but it was Heller who asked, “Where’s Kendall tonight?”

  The senator’s wife felt her throat tighten and she inconspicuously clasped her hands in front of her to steady their trembling.

  Chapter 8

  Eliza felt her muscles tense as the stillness of the studio during the fourth commercial break of the Evening Headlines was shattered by the red phone buzzing urgently at the anchor desk. The angry ringing of the direct line from the Fishbowl during the broadcast could mean anything, from the notification that a piece of videotape was not ready, to the announcement that a head of state had been assassinated. Whatever the reason, a call on the hotline signaled that some fast changes were going to be made in the show.

  Her pulse quickening, she reached for the receiver with trepidation, uttering a silent prayer that whatever it was wouldn’t be too horrible, too brutal, too ghoulish. She was still reeling from a story she had reported on the previous week about a man who strangled children and ate them. Please, not another nightmare.

  She instinctively swiveled her chair around and looked in the direction of the Fishbowl. Range was not looking at her. He was bent over his desk, one arm holding the phone to his ear, the other arm hugging his stomach. She could tell it was bad.

  “Range?”

  He didn’t answer her. He kept staring down at his desk. Through the glass wall, Eliza could see Yelena Gregory rise from her seat and lean over the table toward Range. Yelena shook his arm.

  “Range! What is it?” Eliza demanded in hushed tones, feeling her heart beating through her chest wall and the color rising in her cheeks. In the weeks to come she would remember the fear that she felt in those moments before Range told her, the anguish she felt afterward.

  Yelena was still shaking Range’s arm. The executive producer looked up at Yelena and suddenly seemed to snap out of it. He turned in Eliza’s direction and their eyes locked across the studio.

  “Eliza . . .” Range Bullock paused.

  “Tell me. Tell me. What’s happened?” She was trying to stay cool. She knew that whatever Range would tell her, it was going to take all of her professional skills to deal with it live on national television. The sooner she knew what it was, the better.

  Range tried again. “Eliza, it’s Bill,” he rasped. “Bill’s been found. Dead.”

  “What!” She gripped the phone in her hand.

  “He’s dead. That’s all we know. God, he’s my best friend.” The producer’s voice cracked and Eliza watched as his free hand pushed his hair back from his temple. His face was contorted, the face of someone who had taken a body blow.

  “Oh, my God. Range, no! This can’t be.” Even as she was uttering her unbelieving response, she knew that, yes, it could happen. Unfathomable things, tragic things, terrible things happened quite often. She had learned that firsthand. You didn’t get used to the big losses in life but, with experience, your brain assimilated them more rapidly and efficiently. And the pain set in quicker.

  Even as she took in the enormity of Range’s words, she was aware that the seconds were passing, the commercials were rolling to a close and the camera would be coming back to her. She had frequently marveled that human beings were able to go on a sort of automatic pilot during emergencies, focusing on the immediate task at hand, temporarily pushing aside the magnitude of a giant event in order to deal with what had to be done at that moment. She wanted to cry but she could not allow herself that luxury. Not yet. Everyone there tonight was depending on her to carry this off. Later there would be time, too much time, to take in and feel the pain of what had just happened. Right now, and quickly, there were decisions to be made.

  The executive producer knew that, too. Eliza watched and appreciated a real pro as he pulled himself together.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” said Bullock, his words precise, deliberate. “We come out of commercial, you lead to the Democrats today followed by the Republicans. That will give us four minutes to grab some video of Bill that you’ll have to ad-lib over after you make the announcement. We’re sure we’re not competitive on this. We are the only ones who know, so none of the other nets will beat us. We can spare the four minutes to get organized.”

  “Fine.” Eliza didn’t say anything else.

  “Five seconds,” boomed the stage manager.

  Oh God, help me.

  Eliza led to the political pieces. When the video package began to run, Bullock came out to her desk. Eliza felt that she was watching the whole scene, not a part of it. Herself sitting there, the monitor showing first the candidate reaction to the primary outcome, next the graphics illustrating the delegate votes garnered, then the citizens making their observations on the presidential hopefuls. The studio was dead silent save for the click of the computer keyboard of the writer who sat on the side and beneath her, quickly typing some copy for the announcement of Bill’s death.

  Focus, she thought. Focus.

  Eliza heard the executive producer’s voice. “We’ve sent McBride, a crew and a microwave truck over to Bill’s apartment, so we’ll have a live shot for the West Coast update. But as far as this broadcast is concerned, the file tape we’re pulling will be the only visuals we’ve got. In the meantime, read this.”

  Bullock pushed a copy of the company biography of Bill Kendall in front of Eliza. She quickly read that the KEY anchorman, the man who lunched with presidents, arrived for dinner in millions of American homes and made more than seven million dollars a year, was born in Omaha and graduated from the University of Nebraska with a double major in journalism and history. His work on the campus radio station led to a first paying job at a Lincoln, Nebraska, station. What the bio failed to mention was that Bill Kendall had done triple duty there as a reporter, weather forecaster and commercial seller. KEY biographies only focused on the appropriate activities of KEY correspondents. Selling commercial time at any journalistic juncture was not a plus. Kendall had mentioned his weather and commercial selling days to Eliza at the correspondents’ Christmas party. She thought of him now, his eyes smiling when he considered how far he had come. She felt her throat tighten. Don’t think about Bill now. Don’t think about how much you cared for him. Don’t think about how wonderful and comforting a friend he was. Don’t think about how he helped you when you most needed it.

  Eliza forced herself to focus on the outline of Bill Kendall’s life. It listed a succession of radio jobs, each time in a larger market, bringing him to Chicago. It was during the coverage of a mass murder case there, a case that permeated his life and the news for months, that Kendall made his break into television. The Chicago
station’s television news reporter assigned to the story had suffered a heart attack twenty minutes before air. Kendall was called from the radio department to fill the local anchorman in on what had happened, and a quick decision was made to have Kendall tell the audience the developments in the case himself. Kendall performed admirably and an offer on the television side presented itself soon thereafter.

  Kendall developed star quality. He was observant, a quick study. His looks were of the basic, clean-cut, all-American sort common to most of the TV reporters of that time. But Bill Kendall’s best physical quality was his eyes. As the directors were fond of saying, Kendall’s eyes held on and didn’t let go. They connected through the television screen and grabbed the audience. They were eyes that could be trusted.

  The networks took note. Within a few years, Kendall received offers from all of the networks’ news organizations. He had chosen KEY.

  Range Bullock and Mary Cate Ryan, one of the show’s brightest producers, stood before Eliza, their faces gray and strained. Range was twisting the red hair on his right eyebrow.

  “Tell Eliza what you’ve got,” Range said tersely.

  “Thank God for Jean,” Mary Cate began nervously. “She’s been gathering video for a surprise reel for Bill’s fiftieth birthday this summer. We’ve got Bill reporting from all over the world, Bill at the fall of the Berlin Wall, Bill riding into Kuwait City during Desert Storm, Bill in Russia, in China, in Somalia, in Haiti, in Israel, in Egypt, in Bosnia, Bill holding a retarded baby in a Romanian orphanage. We’ve got some stuff from the early Chicago days, Bill at every major natural disaster this country has seen over the last dozen years, Bill standing chest high in flood waters, Bill picking his way through earthquake devastation. We’ve got Bill interviewing President Grayson and each of his two predecessors, video of Bill at a White House dinner last year honoring the Special Olympics—”