The hearse door snapped shut and Range turned to join the limousine already carrying Louise and William. He wanted to accompany the body at least to the airport. He wished he could go all the way to Nebraska with Bill, but Yelena had insisted that Range stay and produce the KEY Evening Headlines.
Bill would have understood.
Chapter 31
Just as Nate Heller had predicted, Joy Wingard, the candidate’s wife, appeared in the evening news reports of the funeral of Bill Kendall. Nate and Win had been pleased, Win calling from his Senate office just after the story aired.
“Thanks a lot for going today, Joy. I know you weren’t particularly keen on the idea. But your presence there was good exposure for us. You looked great, by the way. I’d also like to think that those journalists noticed you paying your respects. That can’t hurt in the cause of having them on our side.”
“I’m glad I went,” Joy responded quietly. “But don’t think those newspeople could be swayed merely by the candidate’s wife going to the funeral of one of their own. I’m afraid they are a bit too cynical for that.”
“You’re probably right. Still, I’m glad you were there. I caught the evening news. That was quite an event.”
“Oh, Win, it was so sad,” sighed Joy, desperate to let out the emotions of the morning. Bill’s son had looked so lost and bewildered. Joy had ached to go over to the boy.
“I’m sure it was. Joy, I have another call I have to take. I have a few things to wrap up here, I’ll be home around ten.” He was eager to get off the phone.
That’s right, Win. Just tune it out. Don’t let anything in that might hurt a little. You have to give the guy credit, Joy thought as she poured herself a drink. He protects himself. He knows what works for Haines Wingard.
The depression that followed the last miscarriage had been a time of deep introspection. Joy had raked herself over the burning emotional coals. Though it had been an excruciating journey, she had analyzed her life, her motivations and what had led her to that point. She came to realize consciously what she had done and why she had done it.
When she selected Haines Wingard as her husband, Joy had expected that they would have a true partnership. Though she had known going in that Win was focused on his political aspirations, Joy had thought that they’d have a private life as well. Years of repeated excuses, canceled personal plans, and promises made and then broken had left Joy feeling betrayed and alone.
She had gone to Win, telling him that she was unhappy and dissatisfied with the marriage, that she felt a lack of emotional closeness between them. He had looked at her, politely concerned. “Look, you’ve just had a miscarriage. Give it some time. When you get over the mis, you’ll feel better about us,” was his answer.
Joy had immersed herself in charity work and community projects. She spent long hours wandering through Washington’s National Gallery of Art, soothed by the beauty and wonder she found there. Eventually, she did begin to feel better about life. Her thoughts were not always mired in the sadness of losing the baby. She began to feel hopeful about the future. But she still felt estranged from Win. Equally frustrating, Win did not acknowledge her remoteness.
Then she met Bill Kendall.
She went to the back of her closet and pulled out a well-used leather suitcase. From an elasticized compartment inside, she took out her journal, opened it and wrote down her feelings. Then, she braced herself to read Bill’s last letter again. The one that had arrived two days after he died.
Joy shivered. She undressed and took a warm robe and wrapped it around herself. She walked over to the bedside table where her handbag rested. She rummaged through it until she found Bill’s Mass card. She held it, thinking of the funeral. It had been incredibly moving in that place of the Sacred Heart. She wondered how the Cathedral had been selected for Bill’s final ceremony. Had it meant something special to him? He had never mentioned it to her. They hadn’t talked much about religion in their hours together. She concentrated, trying to think back and remember anything he had said about religion or God.
She lay curled on her side on the ivory silk bedspread thinking of Bill, haunted by his suicide. She knew he had been hurt by their breakup. But what else could she have done? It was just too dangerous to continue when her every move was being constantly watched. And Bill himself was not exactly low profile. There had been no choice. Perhaps she and Win had long since lost their emotional connection, but she was not going to blow his chances for the presidency. Or, for that matter, her chance to be first lady. She didn’t love politics, but being the wife of the president of the United States was not something to which many women would say no.
Joy heard the front door close. Moments later, Win was in the bedroom. She answered his questions about who was at the funeral and responded with queries of her own regarding the progress of the day and its effect on the campaign. Win was unaware of her eyes watching him closely as he undressed, so engrossed was he in his recap of the vote on the floor of the Senate. He would remember who had backed his bill and who hadn’t come through for him. But the main thing was, the bill had passed and Senator Haines Wingard had gotten a lot of positive media exposure today.
“And then you showed up in the funeral reports tonight. It was a good day for the Wingard team.”
Win got into bed and immediately put his arms around her, burying his head between her breasts. She stroked his precisely barbered hair. As his mouth covered her nipple, Joy felt a tightening in her throat. She braced herself for what she knew the next few minutes would bring.
Chapter 32
The morning sun forced him to squint to see the monitor.
There she was, talking to him again.
She was standing with a microphone in her hand in front of a building with steps leading up to it.
The homeless man moved a little closer.
Yes. He recognized that building. But it had no knocker.
Why was Eliza Blake telling him to go there? Puzzled, he edged closer still.
Now, Eliza was talking to a man who sat in some sort of office. He concentrated on the man’s face.
Oh. That was it. Eliza told him: “Go and watch this man.”
Chapter 33
“Good piece on suicide this morning, Eliza.”
The day after the funeral, Eliza was summoned to the Fishbowl. Range Bullock sat behind his cluttered desk. Eliza noted that the producer looked beat. The lines around his eyes were deeper, the skin was paler against his red hair.
Range got right to the point.
“Eliza, the decision’s been made that you will take over Bill’s Presidential Personality Profiles assignment. As you know, these longer pieces are time intensive. I think it would be too much to expect Pete to work on the Triple Ps as he is getting used to the anchor job. At the morning meeting, I made my case for handing the reins over to you. The Front Row gave its stamp of approval.”
Eliza’s heart pounded. This was especially gratifying after the Mole mess! Maybe Mack was right. People weren’t paying any attention. She anticipated the executive producer’s next words.
“So you’ll be a regular contributor on the KEY Evening Headlines . . . at least through to the election. Your star is on the rise, Eliza. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you with us!”
“Range, thank you, thank you very much. It’s a terrific assignment and I promise I’ll give it my best shot. I only wish that what’s led up to it hadn’t happened.”
“Me, too. But don’t let Bill’s death diminish your satisfaction. Bill would be happy for you.”
Eliza smiled. Range’s words rang true.
Bill’s takeout pieces got four to five minutes each week. The exposure would be wonderful. Pete Carlson was not going to like this.
Range was going on. “Your first Triple P will be on Haines Wingard. He’ll be a good way to break in since most of the shooting can be done right here in town as he campaigns here next week. With all the shooting here, there shouldn’t
be any conflict with your KEY to America duties. Of course, the future stories will require that you travel, but the field producers will do most of the legwork and advance shooting before you get there. So what I’m telling you is, this assignment does not mean that your America work is lessened. We’re expecting you to do it all.”
Eliza smiled. “I get it. I get it.” All the hard work would be worth it. It occurred to her immediately that, unfortunately, it would mean more time away from Janie. Part of her believed that it was good for Janie to see a mother who was accomplished and self-sufficient. Another part prayed that the child wouldn’t be hurt by her absences.
Range was continuing. “Wingard is planning to spend a lot of time and money here. New York has so much to offer peoplewise, issuewise and videowise, you’ll be sure to get a good story. Let me put it to you this way—if you don’t come up with a winner, you’re going to look like crap.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Range.”
Bullock cracked a weak smile. “Eliza, level with me. Are you sure that you’re up to this? We all have been under a lot of pressure with Bill’s death. You’ve had the extra pounding of that Mole article.”
“Surely, Range, you don’t believe everything you read in the papers.” Eliza tried to joke but it sounded hollow to her ears. “I don’t know,” she continued. “Do you think I should clear it up?”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“I’m not quite sure,” Eliza mused out loud. “Maybe I should talk about it right on the show in the morning. Air the whole thing out.”
Range shook his head. “Eliza, I think you’re making too much of this. Let’s ride it out for a while and see how it goes.” He peered over his bifocals. “But promise me, if it gets to be too much, you’ll let me know.”
“I promise.”
Range nodded. “Go see Jean. She’ll give you Bill’s political notes. As usual, Bill’s work was well researched. God, that guy did his homework. True pro. Never lay back and let it come to him. As big as he got, he never let anyone down as far as I could see. He kept his edge.” The corners of Range’s mouth turned down. Eliza read the melancholy in his eyes.
“I appreciate this, Range.”
“Go do what you have to do.” Abruptly, he swiveled around to his computer terminal.
Eliza wasted no time in getting to Jean and explaining what she was after.
“Life sure does go on around here, doesn’t it?” The secretary shook her head. Opening her desk drawer, she pulled out a gray diskette. “Range told me to expect you. I’ve been downloading Bill’s files for you. This has the ones regarding the campaign.”
Jean slowly rubbed the diskette, then handed it to Eliza. “I hope this has everything you need.”
Eliza reached out and touched the secretary’s arm. “I’m so sorry about everything, Jean. If there is anything I can do for you, will you please let me know?”
Jean nodded, unable to speak and busied herself with the papers on her desk. She didn’t like Pete Carlson taking Bill’s anchor chair and she didn’t like Eliza Blake taking Bill’s confidential notes. It was an invasion of his privacy, leaving his personal thoughts and observations exposed for Eliza to read and interpret. Bill made those notes for his own use, not Eliza’s. He had talked of writing a book someday. His story.
But there were those other files on Bill’s computer, files Jean couldn’t access. They were password-protected. She felt somewhat miffed that Bill hadn’t entrusted his secret password to her.
The secretary watched resentfully as Eliza left the office. Jean didn’t like the new order of things around KEY News. Her king was dead.
Chapter 34
If only they were all that easy. Father Alec smiled at the elderly couple who had stopped him to ask about the history of the west rose window. It was easy to recite facts, pure and simple.
The deep shades of the window were shown to their best advantage in the last afternoon light. The window was called “The Coming of Christ,” and it was thirty-two feet in diameter. It always reminded him of the kaleidoscope he used to play with as a kid. The kaleidoscope had given him hours of enjoyment, often becoming his focus as he tried to block out the sounds of his parents fighting about money again and again. He would go up to the room he shared with his older brother, sit on the floor in the corner and hold the kaleidoscope toward the glaring ceiling light fixture. Deep, rich colors and unfailing symmetry. Beauty and order. All was right with the world.
Twenty-five years later, the rose windows in the cathedral served for Father Alec the same function as that old five-and-ten-cent-store kaleidoscope. When he was troubled or discouraged, he could sit in the deep quiet of the cathedral and study the three rose windows. He had never admitted to anyone that sometimes, when prayer failed, his thirty-two-foot kaleidoscope could do the job of calming and soothing.
Beneath the massive west window there were smaller windows depicting the likenesses of seven saints. John Chrysostom, the preacher with the golden mouth who had ended up a martyr. Monica, the model of Christian motherhood. John Bosco, the founder of the Salesian order. Lawrence, a martyr. Anastasia, another martyr, and Agatha, whose excruciating destiny was to have both breasts lopped off. Agatha was also a martyr. The seventh saint was Nicholas, who died in ecstatic joy, but alas a pious thief had cut off dead Nicholas’s arms.
The distinguished white-haired man in his Burberry jacket and his carefully coifed wife listened politely as Father Alec recited what he knew about the windows. He sensed they wanted to ask him something.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know about the cathedral?”
The silver-haired woman cleared her throat nervously. “Were you here for Bill Kendall’s funeral yesterday?”
Before the priest could answer, the husband hurried on. “We’ve lived in New Jersey all our lives, in Ridgewood, just about twenty miles north of here. Until the Pope came, we had no idea this place existed. And then last night we saw the report on the funeral here. We’ve been watching KEY News for years . . . Bill Kendall was familiar, almost a friend. Heck, since the kids left, Margaret and I have watched him while having our cocktails just about every night. We just couldn’t believe what happened. Just goes to show you never know what is going on in someone’s life.”
“No, you never do,” the priest agreed.
“Now that Frank is retired, and we are always looking for things to do, I said to him this morning, ‘Why don’t we drive down and see the cathedral?’ And here we are.” Margaret paused and looked around the massive church, her mouth slightly opened. Father Alec noticed the good false teeth.
“Well, we’re glad to have you here. If there is anything I can help you with, please ask.”
The young priest made his way around the cavernous, empty chamber and stepped into the pew in front of the small altar at the side of the church. He knelt and bowed his head. If someone had been sitting behind him, they would have noticed his shoulders rise and fall as he heaved a large sigh. Father Alec was thinking about the day he had met Bill Kendall.
Less than two months ago. Sitting just about here, in front of the thirteenth station. The priest had noticed a man dressed in jeans and a navy ski jacket. The man stared up at the vaulted ceiling, an anguished look on his face.
Father Alec had seen many torn faces in his few short years as a priest. Anonymous faces. This time the face had a name and the priest knew it. As he approached the man sitting alone in the pew, Father Alec hoped that his presentation would be just as it always was when he reached out to someone in pain.
“Is everything all right?”
At first, Bill Kendall had just stared at him. Father Alec recognized the look. It said, Yes, I do want to talk, desperately. But the look also asked, Can I trust you?
Instinct told the priest not to say anything. Give the man time to size me up. It was uncanny how someone in pain could make gut decisions very quickly. Moments passed.
“Father, I have AIDS.”
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br /> Chapter 35
“That KEY News crew is sticking to us like glue. I hope they don’t catch me blowing lunch.”
In two hours Haines Wingard had devoured fried chicken, yellow and white rice and fried bananas in the South Bronx, spaghetti with garlic and oil and a cannoli at Angelo’s in Little Italy, and a hot dog followed by a large kosher pickle at the legendary Katz’s Delicatessen. Now Senator Wingard and his campaign manager made their way by car over the Brooklyn Bridge.
“Look, boss, you know the drill as well as I do. Campaigning in New York City requires ethnically and demographically balanced photo ops. Eating the local chow goes with the territory. As for the TV crew, I want them to catch you smacking your lips over every spicy mouthful. I hear KEY is working on a big piece featuring you, scheduled to run the day after the primary. We want you to look good.”
“Who’s doing the story?”
“Eliza Blake.”
New York . . . the city of contrasts. Only forty blocks separated the nation’s poorest (South Bronx) and the wealthiest (Upper East Side) congressional districts. New Yorkers themselves took pride in being a tough audience. They had opinions on everything, which they didn’t hesitate to express. Often, those opinions were expressed right to the candidate’s face at various campaign rallies and appearances. Candidates had to stay on their toes.
So, as the Wingard entourage made its way that balmy May afternoon toward McKinley Junior High School in the heavily ethnic middle-class section of Brooklyn known as Bay Ridge, the candidate and his manager were on their guard even more than usual. New York was a very complicated playing field of ethnic, racial and political considerations. The two men wanted to finesse the game.
“How you handle New York will be viewed as how well you’ll handle the country. You know, like the song says, ‘If you can make it there . . .’ If you bomb here it will be tough to get over.”
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 10
