Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  She had avoided going to any of the AIDS commission meetings when she knew he was going to be there. She had also been trying to avoid Blanche. All Blanche wanted to talk about was Freddy’s health. She was understandably obsessed but she kept wanting to get together with Sadie and Michael. She needed the relief of being able to talk about it with someone who knew. Sadie was finding it more and more difficult to dance around that one. She had come up with so many excuses why she couldn’t get together with Michael that she had almost run out.

  The campaign was going badly. It was not at all sure that Freddy would win, which also had Blanche in a state. To her credit, Blanche was as conflicted about it as Sadie was. Part of her was hoping he would lose. Yet his opponent was totally unacceptable. Sadie had refused to do any campaigning. Happily her convention appearance seemed to have satisfied them. Practically everyone she knew was out on the campaign trail or writing or broadcasting about it. Washington in an election year was a ghost town. Nobody was around, nobody saw anybody else. People who were in town didn’t like to go out for fear of being seen and considered unimportant.

  Des was working extremely hard. Sadie had not considered, when they began seeing each other again, that his hours wouldn’t exactly be conducive to a great relationship. He usually went into the office around four in the afternoon and never got home before one-thirty. Though he was not actually living with her, he did spend weekends at her house and tried to see Willie as often as he could. This left Sadie with a lot of time alone.

  Des had encouraged her to start writing again, as she had when they first began seeing each other, when Rosey was the Vice President, and he first offered to help her edit a short story. That was how they started. He thought she had talent. She was trying to expand a short story into a novel and was about halfway finished when Rosey was killed. Now Des had talked her into pulling it out of the back drawer and taking another look at it. She was surprised that she still liked it. To her delight, the characters and the story held up. For the past six weeks or so she had holed herself up on the third floor of her house, away from her office downstairs. She tried to write for at least several hours each day. It gave her a sense of accomplishment and distracted her from her many problems. Not the least of which was Des.

  What was she going to do about Des? About her and Des? There was no longer any passion there, no excitement even. They were comfortable with each other. Their lovemaking was caring and considerate.

  They spent most of their time with Willie on the weekends when he was not on the air. Des had a cabin in West Virginia, a very rustic cabin. He loved it there and so did Willie. They often took Willie with no nanny, now that he was older. She wasn’t really crazy about being there, but she was able to read while Des took Willie out in the woods, so it was pleasant. Pleasant. That was one of the problems. Her time with Des was pleasant.

  The other problem was that they were never alone, Allison and Michael were always with them. Uninvited but not unwanted, preoccupying their thoughts, distracting them, challenging their feelings for each other. They never mentioned their phantom visitors. They didn’t have to. It was as obvious as if Allison and Michael had driven into the middle of the living room in a bright red Mercedes convertible and parked between them.

  “Would you like another glass of wine?” Des would ask.

  “No thanks,” Sadie would respond.

  “Actually, I’d love it,” Allison would interject.

  “Shall I put on some Mozart?” Sadie would ask.

  “No thanks,” Des would respond.

  “Actually, I’d love it,” Michael would interject.

  When it happened they each knew it. One would recognize the distraction in the other’s face, as though someone were whispering to them from backstage. Then they would resume the conversation as though nothing had happened. But it was never the same after that. Not for the rest of the evening, anyway.

  Des was drinking too much. She only saw him drink on weekends but it worried her. She was afraid he might start up on the job. She didn’t know how to broach it to him. She didn’t want to put him on the defensive and she understood why he was drinking. The stress of mourning his child, feeling sad about Allison, and his relationship with Willie was enough to make anybody drink. Still, she didn’t like it and she could see it was becoming a problem.

  The fact was that she wasn’t happy. Neither was he. They were taking it day by day but it wasn’t wonderful. The main reason, she had to admit, was that she missed Michael. She missed him terribly. She wanted to see him.

  * * *

  Sid and Judy were taking Michael to services the morning of Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Remembrance. On Rosh Hashanah one’s prayers were supposedly answered. It was obviously a good time to strike.

  They would be out by twelve-thirty. Lunchtime.

  She had a plan.

  At twelve-thirty sharp her car pulled up in front of the Washington Hebrew Congregation off Massachusetts Avenue, her two agents in the front, she in the back. Temple was just letting out. She waited until she saw the three of them leave and walk down the street toward the Solokows’ car. She had hers follow them until she came up beside Michael. She rolled down the window. He turned to see who it was. She lowered her dark glasses.

  “Get in,” she said.

  He looked momentarily surprised, then smiled in spite of himself.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He didn’t move for a moment. He was thinking it over. She opened the door. He got in. They drove in silence. He didn’t ask where they were going. The agent headed down Rock Creek Parkway, around the Lincoln Memorial and toward the Jefferson Memorial and the Tidal Basin. They turned off to the side when they got there and parked. She got out of the car and he followed. They started walking toward the monument, around the now leafless cherry trees. He walked beside her. It was hot. Indian summer. He took his jacket off and carried it over his shoulder.

  “What do you want to talk to me about?”

  His tone was hostile. She could tell he was angry. After all, it was she who had written saying she didn’t want to see him again. He would be feeling rejected even though he had actually rejected her.

  “Lunch,” she said. “I’m starving.”

  There was a hot-dog vendor in front of them. She walked up to him and asked for a hot dog. He did the same and paid. A dollar each. Two sodas. They took their hot dogs and kept on walking along the water’s edge.

  “I lied,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to you about lunch.”

  She turned to look at him, to force him to look at her.

  “I wanted to see you again. Because I love you.”

  He looked shaken, disarmed. She didn’t take her eyes away from his.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “I don’t understand you. I didn’t expect to see you again. How the hell am I supposed to deal with that? What do you want from me?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “I miss you,” she said finally. “I just wanted to know how you were. What you’re doing.”

  “I’m afraid my life is rather boring, compared to yours,” he said. “I’m just working a lot, trying to spend some time in the lab, going to meetings, giving lectures, writing papers—the same stuff.”

  “How are the kids?”

  “They’re great. Both doing well. One is graduating this year from Harvard, summa. The other wants to be a lawyer. They’ll be coming here for Thanksgiving.”

  “Do you hear from Giselle?”

  Her heart beat faster as she asked the question. She cared more about the answer than she thought she would.

  “Not much. We’re trying to come to some amicable settlement.”

  He was quite terse. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Did that mean he still loved Giselle?

  “How about you? How have you been? How’s Willie?”

  His curiosity had got the better of him.


  “Willie’s fine, totally recovered from his accident. But I’m sure you know that. I’ve been writing again. I’ve gone back to my novel.”

  “What inspired you to do that?”

  “Des encouraged me.”

  “Des?” He asked a little too quickly.

  “Yes, Des. He, uh, he, well, I’ve been seeing, I mean, he and Allison split up and…”

  She was being a little disingenuous. She knew he would go crazy at the idea she was “seeing” Des again. She did it partly because she wanted to make him jealous. She was aware this game carried big risks. Every other man she had ever been involved with had responded to competition normally. They would fight for what they wanted. She wasn’t at all sure about Michael. For him it might well be confirmation of his worst suspicions. She was just another WASP bitch who trifled with men’s feelings. She didn’t care. She had wanted a rise out of him. She had got it.

  “I understand perfectly,” he said.

  He was trying to be cool but she could see his face redden. She decided it would be fruitless to pursue the conversation even though he had started. She had made her point.

  “What about Freddy, what do you think?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “I think he’s in danger of getting AIDS, what do you think I think?” He really was pissed.

  “I meant, what do you think he’ll do?”

  “I’m not exactly his political confidant, but my guess would be he’ll resign sometime after the election citing health reasons without being specific. I’m sure you know that’s what Blanche wants him to do. He’s been sick again. I think he may get sicker a lot faster than we thought.”

  “Jesus.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” he said.

  She started to laugh. At least he had not lost his sense of humor.

  They had walked almost around the reflecting pool.

  “There’s an old Rosh Hashanah tradition,” he said, a little warmer now. He liked making her laugh. It pleased him. “It’s called Tashlich.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re supposed to cast off your sins, symbolically throw them into a body of water.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “When we were kids we’d picnic by the lake, then save crumbs from our sandwiches to toss.”

  He gave her a corner of his hot-dog bun.

  “Tear it up in bits,” he instructed, “then think of your sins and throw a piece of bread in the water for each sin you want to cast off.”

  “You go first,” she said. “What are your sins?”

  “I only have one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You.”

  With that he picked her up and walked to the edge of the Tidal Basin pretending to heave her into the water.

  She shrieked and her two Secret Service agents ran at Michael, practically tackling him to the ground.

  “Call off your dogs, lady,” he told her. “It’s only a joke.”

  He put her down. She persuaded the agents she was safe and sent them away.

  “What now?” he asked, after they were alone again.

  “What do you want?” She threw it back at him.

  He looked at her solemnly.

  “I would like to be friends, I want to keep in contact with you. I don’t want to be separated, isolated from you the way we have been.”

  It was quite an admission from him. Not much. But a start.

  “Fine,” she said. “Then call me.”

  She was surprised and a bit suspicious of his response.

  “I will,” he said.

  So. The Des thing had worked. He was not immune to jealousy or competitiveness. Despite everything he said, this man was not so different after all.

  * * *

  “Sadie?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Sprague.”

  “Sprague?”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you?”

  “I need to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t discuss it on the phone.”

  “When?”

  “How about now?”

  “Come, then.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Goodbye.”

  * * *

  Sprague Tyson. The name still gave her chills. She closed her eyes, her hand still resting on the receiver. Why did he want to see her again? How had he gotten her private number?

  Allison, of course. She would have had Sadie’s number from Des. Sadie knew Allison and Sprague worked together, though she and Des had never discussed it. Des refused to talk about her, which upset Sadie. Sprague’s name came up a lot because of all the drug stories. Every time it did she saw Des bite his lip, a nervous habit he had when he was agitated.

  Could Sprague possibly want to talk to her about Allison? No. That was definitely not his style. What could it be?

  She had only seen Sprague once briefly since he’d come to Washington, at that awful dinner at the Colombian embassy. He had been with his wife, Jane, and they hadn’t even spoken. Before that it had been almost twenty-five years ago in Savannah.

  Sprague had been the mascot of their group growing up, six years younger but old and wise for his age. He admired Sadie’s boyfriend Danny O’Neill. Everybody did. Danny. Black hair and blue eyes. Gorgeous and charismatic. Clever and reckless. He thought he was invincible. He wasn’t. Sprague was in the car with Danny when Danny was killed in a drag race on Victory Drive one summer.

  On the first anniversary of Danny’s death Sprague and Sadie went to St. Bonaventure Cemetery to visit his grave under the moss-filled live oaks. They necked and petted heavily and nearly went all the way. Sprague was only sixteen. They never saw each other again.

  Now he wanted to see her. After all these years. She still felt embarrassed, ashamed, guilty when she thought about it. She always would. But it had been so long ago. She rarely thought about it anymore.

  It was close to four-thirty when he arrived. Typical gloomy Thanksgiving weather. She took him into the bright yellow library. Asuncion brought tea and cookies. They sat opposite each other, next to the fire.

  She studied him while she poured the tea and offered the cookies.

  He had been incredibly handsome as a boy, his childish face just about to carve itself into adult definition. His good looks had been enhanced by his polite, self-contained manner, his stoic countenance. He had had remarkable self-control for someone his age, he was unimpressionable, and he kept his own counsel even then. As much as he had liked Danny, he never did what Danny or the older boys told him to. He would just as soon walk away from them as do something he didn’t want to do. She had always been a little in awe of him. That made her uncomfortable, even resentful, especially since he was much younger than she was. That made it all the more shocking to both of them when it happened. They hadn’t loved each other, hadn’t really liked each other.

  Had he told Allison about her? She was certain he hadn’t. Allison would never know. Neither would Des. For that she was grateful.

  She still found him good-looking, compelling. Yet there was something unreachable and cold about him. Maybe it was the fact that he was a WASP. She had been so brainwashed by Michael that anybody who wasn’t Jewish or at least Catholic seemed bloodless to her.

  No. There was nothing there. Certainly not for her. And she didn’t think for him either. He had another agenda. She couldn’t wait to find out what it was.

  She offered him another cookie and they chatted about the election.

  Yes, it had been close, he allowed, but then it was inevitable that Freddy would win. The other candidate had been too extreme.

  Yes, his stories had hurt Freddy, but he hadn’t really been able to nail anyone in the administration before the election.

  Yes, there was more to come.

  Yes, it was dangerous for him, working on the story, and that’s why he had sent Jane and Melissa back to Georgia.

  His moth
er was fine. Doing as well as could be expected after his father’s death.

  They chatted about her family. Their parents were friends.

  Her mother and daddy were fine, too.

  Yes, Outland and Annie Laurie had graduated from college. They would both be coming home for Thanksgiving. Outland was working for a producer in Los Angeles making documentaries and Annie Laurie was working at the art museum in Richmond.

  Yes, Willie was fine. The accident had turned out to be minor. He was a little hellion.

  Did he know about Willie and Des? She studied him carefully. She doubted it. No matter how angry or hurt Allison might be, she didn’t believe she would ever betray Des or hurt Willie by telling anyone.

  Yes, her work with AIDS had been extremely rewarding and time-consuming. She was very involved, and so was Blanche, and through Blanche, Freddy.

  She was giving him a sell job, not suspecting that she was walking right into it.

  “Actually,” he said, taking another sip of tea, “that’s why I wanted to see you.”

  She felt her stomach drop.

  She poured herself another cup, avoiding his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t have come, but you’re the only person we… I could talk to.”

  She didn’t say anything. Let him do the talking.

  “I might as well come right out and ask you. We have information that the President has tested HIV positive.”

  “Oh, no!”

  He ignored her exclamation.

  “And if anyone would know, it would be you. You’re close to the First Lady and you work closely with Dr. Lanzer.”

  Dear God. Could he know about her and Michael, too? You never knew with these damn reporters. Especially an investigative reporter like Sprague. You just suspected that they had a basement full of files, some of it about your private life.

  “Sprague,” she said carefully. “You’ll have to ask them.”

  “Then you’re not shocked to hear it?”

  She was trying to be too cool.

  “I really have nothing to say about this.”

  It was getting worse.