“In his grief,” Hansen said, “the general wasn’t thinking clearly. While he correctly determined that Mr. Slater and Ms. Gillette were responsible for Major Talbot’s death, he tragically mistook the role of Mrs. Harris. Based on Lieutenant Santos’s investigation, I can state unequivocally that neither Mrs. Harris nor her husband had any involvement in the murder of their nephew. The blame for Major Talbot’s death and the four others rests solely at the feet of Mr. Slater and Ms. Gillette. Many of you have heard of the videotape that was shown by General Baldwin prior to the shootings. There is no denying that Mrs. Harris was a flawed human being. Despite her faults, she was someone who loved this country and had dedicated herself to its service. If you must judge her, do it in totality of her life, weighing the good with the bad. I also ask you to remember Congressman Harris in your prayers. He is as much a victim as those innocents who perished. At some future date, the congressman will announce the status of his campaign. That’s all I have, ladies and gentlemen. There will be no questions—”
Amanda turned down the volume, looking more resigned than angry. In the mirror, I saw her watching me.
She said, “Simon warned us. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised.”
“No…”
“And they kept the club out of it.”
I nodded.
“Guess you can’t have someone who was almost in the White House turn out to be a multiple murderer.”
“Apparently not.”
She kept looking at me. “You’re still upset.”
“Very.”
“General Baldwin?”
“Damn right. People will think he killed Teresa Harris without cause. I can’t believe Simon went along with it.”
“What choice did he have? He was ordered to go along.”
I eyed her in the mirror. “Simon had a choice. He let them use his name to justify the conclusions. He had a choice.”
She was forming a response when her phone rang. Checking the caller ID, she said, “Speak of the devil…”
Into the mouthpiece: “Hello, Simon. Yes. We saw it. Oh, yeah. He’s plenty pissed. Huh?” She squinted, listening. “Okay, I’ll tell him.”
Clicking off, she said to me, “He knows you’re angry. He says he had to endorse the statement about Mrs. Harris because it was the only way to get something General Baldwin wanted. He said there was an unforseen problem in the initial arrangements and that someday you would understand.”
I tapped the brakes. “Problem? What kind of problem?”
“That’s all he would say. Is that the Baldwin house?”
I nodded and turned into the driveway of a large ranch-style home.
It had been less than ten minutes since the press conference ended. As I walked up to the front door, I held out hope that maybe Sam’s parents hadn’t heard yet.
But when no one answered the bell, I knew they had.
I kept fingering the buzzer. Finally, an attractive, silver-haired woman opened the door. She blinked at me through misting tears, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“Marty,” Sam’s mother said. “I…we…we can’t really talk to—”
“I only came here to give you a letter from Sam.” I held it out to her.
Her face went blank, as if she was confused by what I’d said. She gazed dully at the letter. “Sam?”
I nodded.
As she reached for it, a voice called out sharply, “No, Loretta. Don’t take it.”
Mrs. Baldwin jerked her hand away, startled. Looking past her, I saw a lean, graying figure standing in the middle of a carpeted living room. Except for the hair, General Samuel Baldwin III was a dead ringer for his son.
I said, “General, it was Sam’s last wish. He wanted you to read it.”
“We’re not interested, Marty. Please take the letter and leave.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Sir, I’m only asking you to—”
“We have no son,” the general said. “Not any more. Now leave us alone. Please.”
He turned his back on me and ducked through a sliding door onto a covered porch. When he disappeared from view, I looked at Mrs. Baldwin. She was staring at the letter in my hand, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Marty.”
She shut the door in my face.
I tried. I’d done what I could. I should respect their wishes and leave.
But as I stepped away, I felt myself getting angry. Sam was their son and he was dead. All his life, he had done what they wanted. What the entire family wanted. He’d been a good son, the perfect Baldwin. They owed him the courtesy of reading his letter.
They didn’t have to understand what was in it.
They didn’t have to accept his explanations or his motives.
They could even toss the letter in the trash, for all I cared.
As long as they read it first.
I returned to the door and rang the bell. There was no answer. I slowly walked around the side of the house, scanning the windows for movement. No one appeared. As I approached the screened-in porch, I saw the solitary figure of the general, seated in a high-backed chair. His body was angled away from me and I could tell he was staring out across the backyard.
I started to call out to him, when I noticed his head bend forward. He began rocking back and forth, saying Sam’s name, softly at first, then gradually louder. His voice shook with pain and anguish, as he called out for his dead son. After a while, the general broke down and buried his face in his hands.
I stood there frozen, my eyes dropping to the letter in my hand. As I slowly backed away, I pocketed it, feeling ashamed.
Someday the general would read the letter…when he was ready.
On the way home, I had one more stop to make. It wasn’t something I’d planned, but we were in the vicinity and it seemed a fitting way to attend to the loose end that Simon had mentioned.
After I parked the limo along the side of the road, Amanda and I went down a dirt embankment and stood for a while, gazing out across the dark blue waters of Clayter Lake. Toward the opposite shore where the campground was located, we saw a ski-boat full of young men, towing a skier.
Amanda asked, “How many times did you and General Baldwin come here?”
“Fifty, sixty.” I shrugged.
“Been back since you graduated?”
It took me a few moments to realized I hadn’t. “No.”
The skier wiped out spectacularly. His buddies in the boat were pointing at him and laughing.
“Must have been fun,” Amanda said.
I smiled at the memories. “It was.”
Over to the right, we saw another ski-boat coming our way. “Better do it now,” Amanda urged, “before they get too close.”
Using both hands, she offered up the stack of four videos. One by one, I flung them as hard as I could, far out into the water. After the last one splashed in, I watched the sunlight dance off the spreading ripples.
“You thinking about General Baldwin?” Amanda asked.
“Yeah. He should have told his father the truth.”
“About his homosexuality?”
I nodded. “Sam died believing his father would have rejected him. I think Sam was wrong.”
“Fear of rejection,” she said quietly, “is a powerful deterrent. It keeps a lot of people from doing things they should.”
Her eyes held mine; inviting a response.
“And saying things,” I replied.
A tired smile. “C’mon. Let’s go, Marty.”
As she turned to leave, I said it. Those three little words I’d wanted to tell her for years. Timing is everything and mine couldn’t have been worse. At that moment, the ski-boat roared by close to shore, drowning me out. It must have drowned me out, because Amanda continued up the embankment without looking back.
Not even once.
55
It was hard to believe I’d been gone only twenty-four hours. It felt more like a week. If time is judged by the intensit
y of one’s experiences, it could easily have been a month.
The sun perched like an orange ball on the horizon as I turned down the long gravel drive toward the rustic farmhouse my parents left to me when they moved to Florida. Since Dad had been a crop duster, the house included twenty acres and a grass airstrip that doubled as my front yard. Amanda lived in a modest brick one-story several hundred yards behind me, on a couple acres she’d sweet-talked my Dad into selling her.
Dad liked Amanda…a lot.
Approaching my house, I saw my daughter Emily step out onto the front porch, and throw up a tentative wave. I’d phoned earlier, telling her when to expect me.
“What are you going to say to her?” Amanda asked.
I read the concern in her voice. “Relax, I won’t overreact.”
“Since when?”
Ouch.
I continued down the road toward Amanda’s. As I came to a stop, she shook Enrique, who was still sleeping. He groaned and rolled over.
“I’ll wake him later,” I said. “There’s something I want to say to you.”
Her eyes crawled up to mine, as if she sensed what was coming.
“I’ll walk you to the door.” I gave her a smile and reached for the latch.
“I heard you, Marty,” she whispered.
It took me a second. I twisted around and stared at her. “I see.” After a beat, I heard myself say, “Bob? You’re still going to marry him?”
“This has nothing to do with him. It’s about you.”
“Me?”
“This isn’t the time for you to make this kind of decision. You’re hurting. You’re emotionally vulnerable. One of your closest friends died and you were almost killed. You’re only doing this because—”
“I love you. I know I love you.” The words came out easily this time.
Amanda’s eyes caressed mine. “Why now, Marty? After all this time, why now?”
“I wasn’t…ready before.” It sounded lame, but it was the truth. It had always been the truth.
“And you’re suddenly ready now? Today? This minute?”
“Yes.”
She studied me without speaking. “Tell me,” she said softly, “if Sam hadn’t died, if I wasn’t engaged, would you still be telling me this?”
The yes was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t lie to her. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
She smiled sadly. “You still aren’t ready, Marty. You know it and I know it.”
My left hand was curled on the seat back. She glanced at my wedding band and shook her head. Opening the door, she paused, looking at me. “In some respects, it’s better this way. I could never have been sure. I always would have felt I forced you into it.”
“Forced me how?”
But she’d climbed from the limo and closed the door. I watched her slowly walk toward her house.
“She means the movie,” a voice said suddenly.
I spun around, saw Enrique ease upright. He blinked at me sleepily. “You know you’re crazy if you let her get away.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
He crawled up to the fridge, took out a beer and killed about a third of it. Stretching back, he gave me a long look. “You want to know about the movie?”
“Please.”
Instead of talking about the Sleepless in Seattle connection, he first explained about Bob. Afterwards, I felt relieved and extremely foolish.
I knew Bob well.
Enrique passed on my offer of dinner, saying he needed to get back. As he drove off, I turned to my daughter who was standing beside me on the porch. She looked at me anxiously, waiting for the shoe to drop.
I smiled away her concerns. “It’s almost time for dinner, honey. Tell Mrs. Anuncio I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
Getting cleaned up was only one of the things I felt compelled to do. After grabbing a quick shower, I dressed in front of my bureau and spoke to Nicole’s picture. It was a test; I had to know whether I really was ready. When I finished saying what I had to say, I stood there for several minutes, waiting for the guilt to come.
It never did.
During dinner, Emily continually shot me furtive looks and squirmed in her chair. I made small talk, asking her about school, the dance, her studies…everything except what happened last night. She responded like a prisoner of war under interrogation, suspicious of every question and volunteering nothing. It didn’t make for great dinner conversation, but at least I didn’t have to deal with her hormonal, teenage princess attitude.
After dessert, I made a drink and announced I was going out onto the porch. Emily watched me leave with a look of astonishment. I heard her talking to Mrs. Anuncio, asking what was wrong with me. Sliding into my battered rocking chair, I barely swallowed my first sip before Mrs. A’s stocky frame materialized before me. She bluntly asked whether I was going to “poonish” Emily.
Her English was improving. I told her I didn’t think I was.
“Why change? Always, you punish.”
“That’s not true.”
“True. You soldier. No change.”
Logic I wasn’t sure I understood. I sighed, “Well, I’m not going to punish her now.”
Mrs. A withdrew, grumbling. I heard her say the word “loco.” She was mistaken. I wasn’t crazy; I was scared. Sam had scared me.
As I nursed my drink and contemplated the dark, I thought about how fearful Sam had been of sharing his secret with his family. They were the one group in the world he should have felt he could trust. Since Emily and I were all we had, it terrified me that she might feel that way about me. Was it wrong not to punish her for drinking? Probably.
But right now, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything else.
Rocking slowly, I replayed the events of the past twenty-four hours. I thought about the ambition that could drive a beautiful and talented woman to kill her own nephew. I thought about her husband and how he’d almost reached the pinnacle of power, only to be brought down by her treachery. I thought about the twists of fate, which led to the death of the innocents at the rectory and the guilty in the auditorium. Finally, I thought about Sam and the tragedy of a life defined by fear. Not only the fear of being found out, but also the fear of not measuring up to his legacy. At times, the combined pressure must have been unbearable.
At least that was over for him now. Sam was through being afraid.
Gazing at the stars, I raised my glass in a silent toast to him. As I did, I noticed Emily framed in the doorway.
“Something wrong, Em?”
“I can’t take it, Dad. Shout. Yell. Do something.”
“Why?” I asked mildly.
“I got drunk.”
“Did you intend to get drunk?”
“No. I mean I knew the punch tasted funny—”
“Will you do it again?”
Her pretty face twisted into an exaggerated scowl. “No way. It was disgusting. I was sooo sick.”
“It seems to me you’ve learned your lesson.”
Her face untwisted, pausing at a suspicious squint.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re not going to restrict me or anything?”
“Nope.” I tried to reassure her with a smile.
Apparently, it wasn’t reassuring enough. She promptly deposited herself in the chair beside me. “Dad, why are you doing this? Why are you letting me off so easy?”
I almost didn’t tell her the truth. Then it occurred to me I wasn’t giving her enough credit. She was thirteen, more adult than child.
So I told her about Sam. Our history together, the secret he kept. I told her everything except the part about the killings.
“He believed his parents would be ashamed of him?” she said.
I nodded.
She got quiet, thinking this over. “It’s kinda sad, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
Her big eyes focused uncertainly on me. “Would you ever be ashamed of
me, Dad?”
Something wrenched inside me. “Never, honey. You’re my proudest achievement. Nothing you could do will ever take that away. You know that, right?”
A nod. She shifted in her chair, biting her lip. “Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Anything.”
Twice she started to speak, but held back. She avoided my gaze and I could see she had her guilty look. I asked gently, “Does this have to do with the party last night?”
“No. It’s something else. It…it’s sort of a confession…”
“Sleepless in Seattle.”
Her eyes popped wide. “You know?”
I nodded.
She jumped excitedly from her chair. “Amanda. She must have told you. It must have worked. I knew it would ’cause—”
“Not so fast, Em. Nothing’s been decided yet.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion and disappointment. “Don’t you like her?”
“Very much.”
“She likes you.”
“I know.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
I sighed. “We’re adults, honey. Silly adults who don’t know any—”
I stopped when I saw Emily’s eyes darted past me. When her face lit up, I realized who it was even before I turned around.
“Hello, Bob,” Amanda said.
56
When Emily saw Sleepless in Seattle on HBO last month, her romantic teenage mind latched onto the idea of orchestrating her own matchmaking attempt. Emily concluded that the only way to stir me to action was to make me jealous. Enter the very fictitious and extremely wealthy fiancé Bob, a name Emily had chosen as an ironic little joke, since Robert was my middle name.
In my defense, the reason I never made the connection was because no one had ever called me Robert or Bob in my life. Hell, I barely even knew I had a middle name.
An excuse Enrique never came close to buying.
“It won’t flush, Marty. We were dropping hints all over the place.”
A Slow Walk to Hell Page 33