by Sally Quinn
She had her hand on his crotch. She unzipped his fly and began to caress him.
He had his hand up her skirt, inside her underpants, softly stroking her.
“Oh God, I can’t stand this,” he said finally. He stopped to pull off his trousers.
“I don’t know how to ask this,” she whispered, frantic with need. “I’m embarrassed. I’ve never asked this question before. Have you got a condom?”
“A condom? I haven’t used one of those things for years.”
“Well, we can’t… I mean, what are we going to do?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he gasped looking down at his priapic state.
“Oh God, I’m sorry, Sprague. But I just can’t take the chance.”
“I don’t fucking believe this.”
He was panting heavily. He leaned his head back against the seat.
“I think I understand date rape for the first time,” he said, looking at her with a feeble grin.
She was leaning her head back against the seat, too.
“I can’t bear it,’ she said. “I just can’t bear it.”
He reached over and pulled up her skirt, yanking off her underpants. Then he leaned his head down toward her lap and before she could say anything, he had his mouth on her, his tongue in her.
She was satisfied almost instantly and wordlessly she pushed his head away and bent down to take him in her mouth.
“Oh God,” he said when it was over. “I don’t think I could have survived a bad case of blue balls at my age. And you know the worst thing about this experience?”
“What’s that?” she asked. She was nearly asleep in the crook of his arm.
“I’ve developed a new fear, worse than any of my others.”
“I give up,” she said, too drowsy to play.
“Fear of not having a condom.”
* * *
“Hi, Bryan, c’mon in.”
Allison motioned to the young metro reporter who had peered into her office. It was the last week in August, the Republican convention was over with, the campaigns were on hold until after Labor Day, and the office was like a ghost town. She was delighted to have a little diversion.
Bryan came in shyly, then looked over his shoulder.
“Do you mind if I close the door?” he asked.
“No, please.”
She waited until he was seated.
“What’s up?”
“May I speak to you confidentially?”
“This sounds promising. Of course.”
The poor guy looked so uncomfortable that Allison wanted to help him out of his misery. He was a thin, frail young man who had a rather gaunt look about him. He had only been with the Daily for a few years but had done some perceptive reporting on the homeless, actually living in shelters.
“I haven’t told anyone at the paper this but I…” His eyes welled up with tears. “Oh God, this is harder than I thought it would be…. I have AIDS.”
“Oh, no, Bryan. Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea, I… are you sure? I mean, have you had several tests? Do you actually have AIDS or do you just test positive for HIV?”
He laughed a rather macabre laugh.
“I wish,” he said. “No, I’m afraid I have a full-blown case of AIDS. I don’t expect to live more than a few years. In fact, I’m in an experimental program at the NIH, at the National Cancer Institute. Dr. Michael Lanzer, the head of the institute, is overseeing my case. I’m being treated with AZT.”
“What can we do for you, Bryan?”
“Nothing. I’ll try to work as long as I can. I have no idea how long that will be. I’ve been doing better on the AZT but you never know.”
“Right.”
“That’s not why I came to see you. I’m here because I discovered something incredible while I was a patient out there last spring. I was admitted because of a serious bout with pneumonia. I didn’t tell anyone here. Anyway, one night I was restless and I just decided to go for a walk. I was going down one of the empty corridors and I saw this man in a wheelchair go into one of the examining rooms with Dr. Lanzer. The man looked familiar but I didn’t recognize him right away. It was only afterward that I realized who he was and why he was wearing a disguise. I’m pretty sure it was the President.”
“The President of what?”
“How about the United States of America.”
“That’s what I thought you were going to say. You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I wouldn’t be in here if I thought it wasn’t true.”
“Why didn’t you tell us right away?”
“I don’t know. I have AIDS and I know how important it has been to me to keep it confidential and I’m just an anonymous reporter. I could only imagine what it would be like to be the President and have AIDS or have tested positive. I had this notion that I should protect his privacy. I’ve never agonized over anything as much in my life. But finally, after watching this whole election and the drug stories about Foxy and the people he surrounds himself with, I decided that his concealing his health problems was just another scam and it was irresponsible. I know what I feel like a lot of the time, and I don’t think someone should be President if he has AIDS. I think it would be too traumatic for the country. Maybe not now in the early stages, but if he got really sick… I mean, who needs it?”
“You don’t mind if we go in to see Alan and Walt, do you?”
He sighed. “I guess not. It had to come out sometime. I just wasn’t quite ready to be a pariah.”
“We’ll keep it confidential, I promise.”
“Allison. I’m a reporter. Now who’s kidding?”
All she could do was shrug. He was right. Once more than one journalist knew something it might as well be on the wire service. Something happened. Information was like yeast. It never just stayed the same. It had to grow. Even though both parties would swear they had never mentioned it to a soul, a secret owned by two journalists was no longer a secret. It was written.
She took Bryan in to see Alan and Walt.
“Holy shit!” they both said.
It was definitely that kind of story.
“Does he have AIDS?” asked Alan.
“All I know is what I told you,” said Bryan. “The guy was in disguise. But I’m sure it was the President.”
“How sure?”
“Positive.”
Alan looked at Bryan hard, taking in his measure. Then without saying a word, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“This is Alan Warburg of the Daily,” he said to the person on the other end. “I’d like to speak to Manolas, please.”
There was a pause.
“Manolas? Warburg. I’m calling to request a meeting with the President on a matter of the highest national security. Today. Just me. Nobody else.”
Walt, Allison, and Bryan exchanged incredulous glances.
“Fine. I would appreciate that very much.”
He hung up the phone and looked at them.
“There’s one way to find out. Ask.”
* * *
It was right before story conference, around six-thirty, when Alan came back from the White House. He called the other three into his office.
“Blanked,” he said. “The little fucker just stiffed me. I got nothing.”
“Who else was in there with you?” asked Allison.
“Only Manolas. It’s my guess he doesn’t know anything. He was genuinely outraged.”
“What about the President?”
“My gut feeling? The guy’s lying. I think he was there at the NIH and I also think he is not well. He was as nervous as a cat. He was perspiring. He kept jumping up and down and making excuses. Too many excuses. He was protesting too much. He was not convincing.”
“So what now?” asked Allison.
“How can we find out more?” asked Walt. “When are you going back there?” he asked Bryan.
“Next week.”
“Hang around,” said Walt. “Don’t just go
in and out. Make friends with the nurses. Find out who the lab technicians are. His chart is obviously in the computer but under an assumed name. See if you can get information on that. Talk to everyone. Go to their houses. Keep going back and back and back. Do a Sprague Tyson on them. Somebody knows something and somebody will talk if you’re persistent enough. We’ve only got two months until the election.”
“I’ve always thought there was something fishy about Freddy’s announcement that his AIDS test was okay,” said Allison. “It took such a long time and then he made the announcement himself with Blanche standing by him holding hands. It seemed a little like overkill.”
“Jesus, if this is true…” mused Alan. “This is really something. ‘President has AIDS.’ Can you see the headlines? Bryan, do you need anybody else? Can you use some help?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I’d like to keep this thing between us, if that’s okay…”
“And we don’t want the story to get out in the newsroom. Somebody else might get ahold of it.”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” said Alan. “This will be totally confidential.”
Allison and Bryan looked at each other and smiled.
“Right,” said Allison. “Totally confidential, Bryan. You can count on it.”
* * *
The campaign would be heating up for good after Labor Day. Then it would be nonstop until the election in November. She knew she should take a break but she had no place to go. Jenny had a small rented house on the Eastern Shore in St. Michaels. She had invited Allison down there but she was having a bunch of single journalists, strays, she called them, and Allison just wasn’t in the mood. Des had written her a note offering her the log cabin in West Virginia, but she was scared to go up there alone and it would be too depressing anyway. She hadn’t seen Des since that night at the convention. She had tricked Jenny into telling her that Sadie had invited Des up to Easthampton for the long weekend. She tried to concentrate on how it made her feel but somehow her self-protective mechanism had gone into full gear and she was feeling nothing. Rien. Nada. Zip. It was weird.
She debated volunteering for the duty that weekend but the fact was that she was bone tired. She had been working twelve- to sixteen-hour days and weekends without a break since Kay Kay had died. She had the sense that she would unravel if she didn’t at least rest for a few days. Still, she might not have taken a break if Alan and Walt hadn’t insisted on it. They claimed they had given instructions to have her thrown out of the building if she tried to come in to work those three days.
She had finally decided to just stay home, sit out on her patio and read mystery novels, take walks around Georgetown, rent movies and go to bed early. Total quiet. No phones. No people.
Part of her was looking forward to it. Part of her was scared to death. On the one hand, she was so tired that she didn’t even know how she would make it home that night. On the other, she was absolutely terrified that with nothing to do, nobody to talk to, no distractions, she would do nothing but think about her baby.
Three months ago she would never have attempted this. Now she felt she was ready. Unfortunately, she had no contingency plan. It was sink or swim.
Sprague had been traveling since the Democratic convention. He had left immediately for Florida, New Orleans, and Mexico, then come back while she was at the Republican convention. When she got back from that he had left on vacation to spend time with Jane and Melissa. They had exchanged funny notes but hadn’t actually seen each other. He was supposed to be back the day after Labor Day.
She tried to concentrate on how she felt about him and she came up blank. She would only allow herself to feel lust. In the word association game Sprague equaled passion. She spent hours fantasizing about making love to him. It was a great distraction when she had a few minutes to herself. It helped her fall asleep at night without having her mind wander into the dangerous territory occupied by Des and Kay Kay.
The idea of loving him was not in the equation. She didn’t want to love anybody. She couldn’t. So she focused on his body. Which she had never actually seen entirely since they were both partially clothed during their little episode in the front seat of his Cadillac. That could keep her occupied for at least the fifteen or twenty minutes it took her to fall asleep. But the Friday night before Labor Day weekend it only took five minutes flat, visions of Sprague Tyson’s muscular thighs dancing in her head.
The doorbell woke her up Saturday morning. She thought she was dreaming at first until it became so insistent she opened one eye and peered at the clock. It was after eleven.
When it kept ringing she got up and went to the intercom and called down to see who it was.
“It’s me,” said the husky voice in a decidedly Southern accent.
Sprague.
“I’ll be right down.”
* * *
Tippety Wichity was a tiny island, a wooded acre at the head of St. Mary’s River, a tributary where the mouth of the Potomac gave into the Chesapeake Bay. Behind the island was a small bay into which a creek flowed, the inception of the St. Mary’s River. The river was so shallow behind the island that one could walk across when the tide was low. Set in the midst of the trees on Tippety Wichity was a one-bedroom pale-green cottage facing south. There was a rickety old pier in front of the house, big enough to accommodate a few small boats.
Sprague kept his motorboat at the pier down the road from the Glen Mary Stables off Route 5. They left the car there and piled the groceries and bags into the small boat for the short ride across the river to the cottage.
It had to be the most beautiful day of the year, eighty degrees, clear blue sky, no humidity, heavenly breeze. It was the kind of day that made you think that life might actually be worth living. It felt good to be outside in the sun, completely away from everything. She couldn’t imagine how she could have thought it would be a great idea to stay home by herself for the whole weekend.
They unloaded their boat on the pier next to his twenty-three-foot sailboat, which he called Bonaventure, and proceeded up the winding path to the cottage.
There was a large room with a kitchen at one end, a round pine table in the middle, sofas, chairs, and a stone fireplace at the other. Then there was the bedroom and connecting bath. The bedroom had one queen-sized bed, a chair, and a dresser.
She looked around self-consciously, her purse and her overnight bag in hand.
“Just put your stuff anywhere,” said Sprague, as he unpacked the groceries.
She stood there for a moment, then realizing she had no choice, she put her bag on the chair in the bedroom.
“You might as well change into your bathing suit now,” he said, “so we can swim off the boat. The jellyfish have miraculously disappeared. I don’t understand how they know it’s Labor Day.”
She went into the bathroom and changed quickly, pulling on a pair of white cotton pants and a T-shirt over her bikini. She hadn’t been in a bathing suit all summer, in fact, not since she’d had Kay Kay. She was extremely self-conscious about her body. Her stomach had stretch marks and she still hadn’t lost all the weight she had gained. Having been so slim all her life it was a shock to see and feel herself one size larger.
He changed after she did, putting a T-shirt over his bathing trunks. They had gotten some sandwiches and salads from the American Café and some soft drinks and they took them down to the sailboat.
Allison had only been sailing a few times in her life and then on large sailboats where there had been several people to crew. She had never jibbed a mast or tacked a sheet or cast a rope or whatever those sailing things were. She enjoyed sitting on a boat and letting the breeze blow her hair, getting a little sun, having a little picnic. Her one concession was getting out of the way when the boom moved back and forth so as not to get hit in the head. It seemed that sailboats required a lot of work and she found that boring. She did not, however, find Sprague boring and she had been amazed to hear herself tell him at her front door that morn
ing that she “adored sailing.”
They cast off around three with a plan to sail up to the mouth of the river and around on the Potomac up to Carthagena Creek and the Dennis Point Marina. Sprague had a little nine-horsepower outboard motor on the back of his boat to get started, much to her relief. There was also a small cabin with two bunks. Allison sat in the cockpit as Sprague explained a few things to her about how to sail, most of which escaped her. The sea breeze was southerly and they were heading right into it.
“We’ll have to tack all the way to the Potomac,” said Sprague. “I’ll trim the mainsail and steer the boat. You trim the jib sheet.”
“Oh, great,” said Allison.
If he detected a note of caution he ignored it and patiently showed her how to pull in the rope of the small front sail.
They did this for almost an hour and a half as they sailed up the river past the beautiful old campus of St. Mary’s College, the historic village of St. Mary’s City, and several historic houses that dotted the banks.
Much to her surprise she was enjoying it. The air was so clear and perfect and the day so spectacular that she felt an exhilarating sense of freedom out on the water like that. Sprague had taken off his shirt and looking at his trim muscular body made her even more exhilarated. Anything felt possible.
They sailed over to the Dennis Point Marina and a bit beyond, up the creek where they anchored in a little cove near a wonderful old farm with a big red barn. She felt a thousand miles away from her life.
They swam and ate lunch, drank beer and told stories to each other about their childhoods. They were in that heady period at the beginning of a relationship when everything is new and fascinating, the prospect of discovery tantalizing.
Allison talked about spending three years in Japan when her father was a spook, how she spoke Japanese as a child, was taken care of by Japanese nurses, and had always been drawn to the culture of that country ever since.
This information took Sprague completely by surprise.
“I have something interesting to show you when we get back to the cottage,” he said.