by Webb Hubbell
My thoughts had begun to drift when Clovis laughed at something Micki said, and she put her hand behind my head, surprising me with a firm kiss.
“I’m not complaining, but what brought that on?” I asked, grinning.
“Because it’s so damn much fun working with you. I wish you were staying.”
I wished Eric were leaving.
Clovis chortled, “I’m not about to kiss you, Jack, but it is good to have you back. With your permission, Micki, I’ll get my people to work, starting tomorrow. I’ll give you an estimate. If it’s a problem, we’ll work something out.”
“You’re on. I’ll run it by Liz, but money doesn’t seem to be a problem.”
Speak of the devil—my eye caught Liz posing in the doorway, dressed in a bright red St. John suit. Unmistakable, even to me. I hadn’t seen her in years, but she was hard to forget. Same confident manner, same undisciplined blonde hair, but not a man in the bar was looking at her hair. Her glossy red lips were as shiny as her jewelry, and she wore incredibly high heels. How do women walk in those things? She crossed the room deliberately, clearly aware of the impression she made. Reaching the bar, she ordered a double Manhattan and sauntered to our table.
Clovis and I stood. She gave me a quick hug and planted an unexpected kiss on my cheek. I introduced her to Clovis. She greeted him like they were high school sweethearts, leaving a smear of lipstick behind. Micki nearly choked on her wine and for the first time since I’d known him, Clovis turned brick red.
The bartender brought over her drink, and I took a deep breath.
“Liz, it’s really good to see you after so long. You look terrific! I sure wish the circumstances were different. I spoke with Doug this afternoon. He said to tell you he loves you and he’s doing okay. They didn’t let me stay long, but I’ll see him again tomorrow.”
“Of course he’s okay. He’s right at home with a bunch of guys watching basketball on the tube, while I’m doing all the work. I almost missed my Pilates session because the real estate agent took forever to draw up the paper work.” Liz took a large sip of her cocktail, asked the waiter to bring the table some “munchies,” and went on with barely a pause.
“You’d think this Dub character would have some sympathy. After all, the woman does have cancer. But enough shop talk. Jack, you look as handsome as ever, and I’m dying to know all about Clovis here.” Liz squeezed closer to Clovis on the banquette.
Clovis looked as nervous as a hooker in church. I bit my lip trying not to laugh. Micki was not amused.
“Liz, what’s going on here? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Look, I took a few hits while I was getting dressed, but I’m not stoned. Joel, he’s my Pilates instructor, worked us extra hard today—I could hardly move. A couple of hits always help me loosen up. What’s the big deal? I’ve got a medical use card.”
I watched the scene in silence. Micki kept a poker face as she carefully explained that Arkansas did not recognize medical use, nor did the Federal Government, which currently had her husband locked up for cultivation, possession, and distribution. Perhaps Liz would consider whether she would enjoy watching sports from inside jail as much as her husband did.
Turning to Clovis, she said without a trace of humor, “Mrs. Stewart is going to give you the key to her room. Please dispose of whatever unnecessary products you may find there. We’ll wait to order dinner until you return.” Liz gave her a truly dirty look, then took Clovis by the arm and whispered in his ear. He blushed again and left the table abruptly. Liz shouted across the room for another Manhattan. It took all my self-control not to laugh outright.
A sulking Liz listened as Micki carefully explained the risks of her misbehavior. I could almost read her mind, already trying to figure out how to get around Micki’s code of conduct for unindicted spouses. Clovis returned, but chose to pull up a chair rather than slip in beside Liz in the booth. I suggested we get dinner–Liz clearly needed some food. I had hoped to try out the newly re-opened Bruno’s, a great Italian I remembered as a kid. But as Liz threw down her second Manhattan and ordered another, I opted for the hotel restaurant.
We were seated at a good table where we could hear each other rather than the noisy bar chatter or the racket of waiters and dishes. I tried to lighten the mood.
“Liz, I had no idea—when did Doug leave NIH? Why, for that matter? And why did you two move to Little Rock, of all places? Did you know I went to high school and college here? I would have thought he’d return to Ann Arbor. How’d you land here?”
Liz perked up, slightly. “Oh, it was all Doug’s idea. After Angie died, Doug told me he needed to find someplace where he could have the freedom to do pure research. He loved teaching at Michigan and the students loved him, but there were too many strings attached to their job offer. Lots of schools recruited him, but Doug loved the idea of coming back to Razorback country. I finally gave in, so he contacted Fayetteville, Stafford, and UALR.
“They all wanted him, but a wealthy alum heard about Doug’s interest and donated big bucks to create a special chair in Chemistry at UALR. Doug was given carte blanche and full funding for his research; he only has to teach a couple a classes a semester. Plus, he gets to own his own patents and his research. He loves Fayetteville, but I think the ownership issue was what finally swayed him. UALR wasn’t too happy about the terms, but agreed in the end.”
“What kind of research?” Micki asked.
“Don’t ask me. I barely eked out a ‘C’ in high school chemistry. Whenever we have to go to one of those faculty receptions, I hang out with the grad school bartenders. They’re a lot more fun than a bunch of professors trying to impress each other. Doug hates those things as much as I do. He’d much rather go to a sports bar.”
I watched her idly as the waiter brought our salads, wondering how much of her bravado was an act. The few times Angie and I had gone out with Liz and Doug, she didn’t play the role of the devil in the red dress, but she could be outspoken, and I remembered how quickly a room could turn silent when she got rolling. Doug had a way of touching her arm or hand lightly if she went too far, and she’d immediately tone it down. Not a word passed, but a clear message was conveyed.
They were such an unlikely couple. She’d grown up in Memphis, my hometown until the tenth grade, but our paths never crossed. Her family was in cotton—which means her dad, and his dad, and his dad before, had been cotton brokers. If you were a doctor in Memphis, it was natural to be asked about your specialty–pediatrics, orthopedics, etc. If you practiced law, you might be asked about the area of practice–antitrust, tax, and personal injury. But if you were “in cotton,” no further questions were asked—it meant money, very old money. If you had to ask what it meant to be “in cotton,” you didn’t need to know.
Surprisingly, Liz didn’t go to either Ole Miss or Tennessee. She rebelled against the wishes of both her father and Memphis society, and left for Arkansas. In her senior year, a sorority sister fixed her up with a jock who turned out to be Doug, and the rest is history. Liz can almost look him in the eye, and is as effusive as Doug is reserved. Yet somehow it works. I didn’t buy the “C” in chemistry story. Doug told Angie that Liz graduated summa cum laude from Arkansas with a double major in psychology and philosophy. While Doug was at Michigan she also earned a Masters and a PhD. In DC, she worked for a small, below-the-radar think tank—something to do with the application of psychology to public policy. In reality, there were two Dr. Stewarts. Both blended into their environments in different ways, but hidden behind Liz’s affectations was a very intelligent woman.
WE WERE ALL ravenous and ate our meals in friendly silence.
Finally, looking sheepish, Liz pushed back her plate and said, “Okay, y’all, I’m sorry. I apologize. This mess has me totally bummed out. I’m behaving badly, and I know it. To tell you the truth, I’ve never fit in in Little Rock. Now my husband is in jail, my so-called friends won’t return my calls, and I can’t even go to my own bed and have
a good cry.” She took a sip of the Cabernet I’d ordered for her.
“Jack, I can’t believe you’re here. Thank you. Micki, I promise to behave. No more dope. I promise. Damn this suit–it itches and pulls in all the wrong places.” She squirmed.
I was ready to kiss and make up, but before we could take a deep breath Liz morphed back into the siren.
She grabbed Clovis by the arm. “You know, you are one gorgeous hunk of man. I’m a married woman, but you better watch yourself if I don’t get my husband back pretty quickly.”
Liz had found Clovis’s Achilles’ heel. He had no idea how to react. An amused Micki rescued him as we waited for coffee and dessert.
“Liz, Jack and I both think there has to be more to the story than your unique garden or a batch of ginger snaps. Doug may not have been selling dope, but he clearly grew a whole back yard of the stuff, and thanks to Dub Blanchard, most people think he was selling it to school kids. We want Clovis to do a little investigating. He’ll give us a cost estimate, but I need your approval.”
“I keep telling you, do what it takes. My husband would never have sold drugs to his students or anyone else. I know the man, and I know he’s telling the truth. Doug doesn’t even smoke the stuff. I use grass to make a few ginger snaps and to calm down, but that’s hardly anyone’s business. Hell, if he thought what he was doing was illegal, why did he tell the Feds he was growing?”
“What?” Micki’s voice rose in surprise. Doug had told me the same thing, but I hadn’t been listening.
“Doug wrote all kinds of government agencies to let them know he was growing for his research. I know he wrote to the Drug Czar, the DEA, the FDA, and the Department of Justice–maybe more. He showed me the letter before he sent it. I thought I told Debbie.”
Liz dug into her flourless molten chocolate cake.
I asked, “When was that? Did they respond? Do you have a copy?”
“You really need to take a bite of this cake.” She stuck a loaded fork in my mouth. I didn’t resist; it was chocolate heaven.
“It’s a little fuzzy, but it must have been as soon as we moved here, maybe even before. He started growing seedlings in the flower shed and the garage almost before the moving van left. He’s a regular Gregor Mendel. Every afternoon, he’s grafting, pruning, and planting. He was always trying to develop new strains of the plant. I have no idea if anyone responded to his letter. He must have kept a copy of the letter—it’s probably with the files the government seized. I’m telling you, the Feds have known about Doug’s research all along.”
9
LIZ’S CASUAL REVELATION was a stunner. Alerting the authorities before committing a crime doesn’t make it any less of an offense, but neither did it make it the crime of the century. I stared at Liz blankly as she ordered brandy for the table along with another piece of cake. I was too dumbfounded to argue. Maybe the cake would keep her on her feet a little while longer.
We peppered her with questions, but she either had no answers or chose to give none. I glanced at Clovis as Liz downed her brandy. Time for her to go to bed. She made no objections as Clovis stoically offered to walk her to her room. Better him than me.
“What do you think? It looks like Doug knew he was crossing the line before he started. I wonder what he was up to,” Micki mused, twirling her brandy.
“I haven’t got a clue. But I’m sure of one thing—the next few days should prove interesting. Besides all the obvious questions about why he notified them and what he actually told them, we have to wonder why they waited until now to shut him down. And what was he doing with all that grass if he wasn’t selling it? Liz has to know more than she’s telling us. Either she’s a fine actress, which means we’re getting conned, or she’s a well-educated airhead. I don’t know which is worse. Speaking of Liz, Micki, you’ve got your hands full.”
“Not just me. Did you see Clovis’s face? He looked like a preacher in a strip club.”
Right on cue, Clovis returned to the table, shaking his head.
“That woman is big trouble. I’ll admit it: she’s more than I can handle. She was asleep before I could open the door. If she’d shown up in this bar alone, stoned and thirsty, there’s no telling what would have happened.”
“I take it you don’t want to be her bodyguard?” I joked.
Clovis shot me a look I hoped I wouldn’t see again. He and Micki left me to finish my brandy and pay the bill.
I wasn’t sleepy when I got back to my room, so I turned on the TV in time to hear that Dub would make the rounds of the Sunday morning talk shows. I texted Maggie to record tomorrow’s shows, turned the channel to Saturday Night Live, and tried to let go, but my mind wouldn’t settle.
I hoped Doug would clear everything up tomorrow. Angie was such a great judge of character—it was a struggle to believe Doug had become nothing more than a glorified dope dealer. But Angie had died almost four years ago. Maybe something had snapped in Doug’s brilliant mind. He wouldn’t be the first scientist who burnt out early in life.
After med school at Georgetown, internships, and residency, Angie had chosen to work in cancer research at NIH. Like many others in her field, her hope was to find “the cure,” but the disease got her first. The last year of her life was consumed by chemo, radiation, exhaustion, and pain. Sitting alone in my room, memories of those dark days thundered in my skull. Thank God for friends like Maggie and Walter, and Angie’s indomitable spirit.
Meeting with Doug this afternoon and remembering the promise I had made brought Angie back front and center. When the cancer got to be too much, I tried to get her to quit work, to devote all her energy to fighting the disease, but she would have none of it. Despite the exhaustion and pain, she glowed with enthusiasm. I could hear her say, “Hey! It takes time, but we’re making progress.” I should have paid more attention, asked her to tell me more about her work, but I didn’t. I was afraid that if I pushed her into explaining what she meant by progress, we’d both have to face that any “progress” would be too late for her.
One night when we were curled up on the sofa she’d tried to explain. “Most days I don’t have the strength to do what I need to do, but I’ve come to grips with that. I’m not the person I used to be, but I’ve had my hard cry, and I’m thankful I can keep working, even for a little while. Don’t pity me, Jack. I have you and Beth and I have my work—I’ve had so much life. I’m going to do what I can do for as long as I can. You can never understand, but I am a happier person now than before the cancer.” God knows, she was right: I would never understand. I just knew I was going to lose her.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as I reminisced: our first meeting, our first date, and the wonderful years together before cancer’s poisonous bite. She was always only a moment away; I could bring her back in an instant. I could still see her, hear her voice, and speak to her from my heart—her spirit surrounded me. I finally managed to put my memories back in the box where I kept them, and let my mind drift to Little Rock and how odd it was to be here again—again with a friend who needed help, and again with so many unanswered questions. Suddenly sleepy, I clicked the TV off and fell fast asleep.
SUNDAY
April 20, 2014
10
WHEN I CAME down for breakfast, Liz was already seated at a table by the window, looking fresh as a daisy in workout clothes, part of her hair hidden beneath a Michigan baseball cap. The waiter had just brought her oatmeal, scrambled egg whites, and some kind of green smoothie.
“Come sit down,” she smiled, patting the chair next to her. I sat across the table and asked for coffee.
“I have a full morning, Pilates and hot yoga—then a massage—I’ll need it. After that, I’m meeting with the decorator. It’ll take a lot of work to get the rental livable, especially if the government won’t let me have my furniture. Doug and I will have to stay here at the hotel for a while. Like it or not, I still have a party to host. Maybe it would be simpler to just have it at the Club.” She t
ossed back the green concoction as though it were a shot of tequila and asked, “So how long will you be here?”
My poker face deserted me. How could she be so blithe; why no hangover?
“I don’t know yet. A lot depends on what we learn from Doug this afternoon. You seem to be in pretty good spirits, all things considered.”
Stirring her eggs with a fork, she didn’t respond immediately. When she looked up I could see tears brimming in the corners of her eyes.
“It’s all an act, Jack. My whole life has been turned upside down, but I have to keep it all in, never let it show. Southern women raised you. You know what’s expected. I’m scared to death. What will I do if he goes to prison? I have no idea when the next shoe’s going to drop. But it was drilled into me—no matter what, don’t let it show—act like tomorrow is just another day.
“So, I’ll do my duty. I’ll act the airhead, work out like Jane Fonda, furnish a house I can’t imagine living in, and meet with a caterer to plan a party for a hundred of my dearest friends, friends who’re all talking about me behind my back and probably would rather drop dead than be seen with me. My mother would be proud.”
I couldn’t argue with any of it, so I retreated, asking her to meet me at the hotel around four o’clock.
She rose, gave me a cool kiss, and walked away, leaving her eggs untouched.
I ordered breakfast, glanced at the Democrat, and dropped it on the seat next to me. Anything I’d read about Doug or my press conference would piss me off. I turned to the New York Times, which thankfully didn’t contain a word about Arkansas, much less about Doug.
My thoughts turned to what Liz had said. My mother was a Vietnam War widow. Until she remarried and we moved to Little Rock, we lived with my Grandmother Louise in Memphis. I understood exactly what was expected of Southern women. And yet, when I think about women from stark New England, American Indians, or British women in World War II, I think of their stoicism, their strength. Women in general, come to think about it. Maybe it’s not the place—maybe it’s just the ingrained strength of the fairer sex.
