by Mari Beck
“Bren, please . . .”
“What about Callan? You promised him you’d work on his Eagle Scout project . . .”
“I remember.” More silence.
“Brenda, I have to go. I’ll call as soon as I can.”
“Shane. . .please we can't leave things this way.”
"I have to go."
"Why won't you talk to me?" Her heart felt like a lead weight beating in the middle of her chest.
“What do you want me to say, Brenda?" His voice sounded harsh and angry. She winced and for a moment she wondered if he knew. If that was the ‘something else’ he wanted to talk about.
"Tell me what happened? Tell me!” she sobbed. "Please."
"Tell the boys I love them."
“Shane!” The line went dead.
She took a deep breath to prevent the lump from rising in her throat and willed herself to focus on Meagan McGinnis’s face. Her brows were penciled in with a natural brown and the arch had been plucked in such a way that her eyes expressed sincere curiosity rather than stark surprise. But the heavy foundation she wore matched with the dark eyeliner; bright peach blush and deep red lips gave her the appearance of being much older than she truly was in person. It also reminded her of the look worn by another more established and even more popular female journalist working for one of the major cable news shows, Sandra Simmons, who had been the first to request an interview. That interview was scheduled for the following week along with a number of additional appearances she dreaded. Brenda listened as Meagan addressed the camera set up directly behind her, explaining at last the true reason for the interview.
“For those viewers who may not be aware of what I’m talking about when I ask you about “the picture”, she said forming air quotes with her elegantly French manicured middle and forefingers, “I’m referring to that now famous picture taken by acclaimed photojournalist Steve Rappaport, who was part of a documentary crew assigned to the same combat unit as your husband and his comrades and was there on that fateful day. We’ll put up the photo now for our viewers.” Brenda dug her nails into the fabric-covered arms of her chair and waited for the moment to pass. She was grateful that the picture was being broadcast from a remote location so she couldn’t see it in front of her. Seeing Shane’s picture, his final moments captured that way would definitely break her resolve and there would be nothing to keep her from falling apart in front of millions of people.
“It’s a disturbing image but a heroic one too.” The reporter was looking at her now with the appropriate dose of obligatory pity. Brenda held her breath. After another pause she addressed the camera directly again and as Brenda’s stomach began to tighten, described the awful images that haunted her night after night.
“The photograph known the world over as ‘The Rescue,' more air quotes, “shows a soldier running from what looks to be a massive explosion, while supporting a gravely injured comrade and an injured Iraqi child. It is horrific to imagine the circumstances under which the photo was taken but, as I am sure our viewers will agree, equally inspiring to look at.” Meagan McGuinnis turned to Brenda as if seeking confirmation of this fact, but continued without any comment from her “We should also mention that Steve Rappaport, the brave journalist who captured this image was also seriously wounded and ultimately lost his leg in the attack. He is currently recovering at an army hospital and on behalf of all of us here and our viewers at home we send him our best wishes for a complete recovery.”
“Yes, absolutely.” Brenda added the usual smile and nod that demonstrated her expected solidarity. Then, taking a pair of tortoise shell rimmed glasses out from under her legal pad and putting them on, in an effort, Brenda assumed, to appear even more like Sandra Simmons, whom she was obviously trying to emulate, Meagan looked down and began to read from her notes. There was hardly a yellow space not taken over by the blue and black scrawls of a ballpoint pen. The girl was trying hard to play the part.
“I should also mention that there is some controversy surrounding the publication of this photograph. At the time, it was considered an ‘unauthorized’ publication.” Another set of air quotes and this time Brenda couldn’t help but wonder if they were an intentional part of this reporter’s interview style or merely a sign of some important political subtext she was hoping her viewers would catch. It was definitely not part of the other reporter’s repertoire that she could remember from watching her on tv over the years.
“Department of Defense policy dictates that no news regarding the status of any mission or service member including his or her whereabouts or demise may be delivered by anyone, be that a media outlet, other service member or concerned citizen, before that service member’s family is duly notified, and preferably by the branch to which they belong. However, in this case, the photo was ‘leaked’, according to photographer Steve Rappaport, by an unidentified source, possibly while he was still being treated for his injuries in Iraq. He claims that he was separated from his equipment and that he is not responsible for its distribution. Of course, this is still all under ‘investigation’.” Brenda remained silent and absolutely still, giving no indication of how the information affected her either way. In fact, she was relieved that compared to the other interviews she’d given, this reporter had done almost 99% of the talking, leaving her to serve as more of a living prop. She focused on the cameraman,who compared to the frazzled production assistant and the stylish reporter,looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. He complemented the bed head with a pair of well-worn jeans sporting a palm-sized tear in the knee, an old college t-shirt covered with stains from what was probably last night’s microwave meal and a wrinkled long-sleeve red/black plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows and hastily thrown on to complete the look. Lucky man. It obviously didn’t matter what you looked like behind the camera, it only mattered what people saw sitting in front of it. She hoped she looked the part.
“So, Brenda, when exactly did you realize that it was your husband in the picture?” Ah, there it was the question they all asked, the answer they all wanted. They wanted to see her bleed.
I didn’t know.
“Well, Meagan, I’d have to say that even before I saw the picture I knew in my heart that something was wrong.”
I could tell by the sound of his voice.
“So you just. . . knew?” Meagan McGuinnis was looking at her, head cocked to one side; nodding sympathetically as Brenda told the story she had recounted so many times.
I’ve known for a long time that something wasn’t right between us.
“Yes.”
“Some experts claim that there are couples with an inexplicable connection to each other. They just seem to know when one of them is hurt or injured over a distance of hundreds even thousands of miles. Is that how you would describe the connection between yourself and Captain Jenner?”
That was a long time ago.
“Absolutely.” She smiled and Meagan McGuinnis leaned forward, reached out a clammy awkward hand and placed it on Brenda’s arm.
“You must have been devastated when you realized he was the soldier being carried away from the explosion.”
Punished.
“Devastated.” She repeated taking back her hand and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue as the tears fell.
Does she know these tears are real? They’re real every time. It’s the only thing that is.
The reporter shifted in her seat, looking once more over her legal pad of questions.
“How did you find out that he . . .” she paused, “ didn’t ‘make’ it?” Brenda’s heart shrank at the words. This was the part she hated the most in the interviews. She took her time before answering, staring down, swiveling the thin gold band and small diamond solitaire encircling her finger round and round with the fingers of her right hand. Then taking a deep breath, she answered the question.
“I received notification.”
I saw it in his eyes after he reached over to the nightstand and hung up the phone.
> “You mean an official notification of death from the Army?”
They came later that night, but he wasn’t with them.
“Yes.”
How could he be the one to tell me?
“I can’t imagine what you must have felt in that moment.”
Oh God! Did Shane know when he called that night?
“There are no words.”
We laid there in silence. How could I let him touch me after that?
“What did you tell your children?”
I didn’t tell them I couldn’t. It was the last favor I asked of him. They trust you, please tell them their father is. . . gone.
“I told them the truth.”
They can never know about us. Never.
“Of course,” Meagan McGuinnis was saying, “we all saw the funeral that was televised just a few short weeks ago. Hundreds of people attended, including several national dignitaries. How did it feel to see so many people there to honor your husband?”
They were faceless strangers in a dream, a bad dream.
“It meant so much to us.” She said as the reporter tapped her finger on the legal pad only to stop halfway down the page and then slide it back up.
“If I may, I’d like to go back for a moment and talk about the other soldier in that picture.” She placed her fingers up to her earpiece, “Let’s go ahead and put up that photograph one more time for our viewers. There he is. You’ll see him on the left side of your screen. Until recently his identity remained a mystery but we now know that he is Army Specialist Riley Favreau. He’s the soldier who tried to save your husband’s life, isn’t that right?”
But he didn’t.
“Yes, he is.” Closing her eyes briefly she could see Specialists Riley Favreau’s face covered in dirt and blood contorted into a scream. He was lunging forward toward the camera and away from the black smoke carrying a dead man and a frightened child.
“Have you had a chance to speak with Specialist Favreau?”
What would we have to say to each other?
“No.” She replied and Meagan McGuinnis put her fingers up to her earpiece again obviously receiving some new piece of information, “Oh, I’ve just been informed that Army Specialist Riley Favreau is still recovering from his injuries at an undisclosed location and will probably remain there for some time. But. . .” She paused and looked directly into Brenda’s eyes. If you could look right into the camera, knowing Specialist Riley Favreau was watching this right now, what would you say to him?” Brenda took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the arms of the chair. A new set of tears fell from her eyes as she gazed directly into the lens of the camera seeing nothing but her own reflection magnified looking back at her. It took her a moment to form the necessary words.
How could you let him die?
“I would say thank you.”
On cue the reporter’s eyes welled up with tears as she turned to face the camera. She gently dabbed at them with a tissue.
“Yes, so would we and we would also like to thank Captain Shane Jenner’s widow Brenda Jenner, his family and especially our viewers for tuning into this broadcast. Next time we hope to bring you an exclusive interview with the man who attempted to save Captain Jenner’s life, Army Specialist Riley Favreau. Until then, this is Meagan McGuinnis signing off for KZTV News Channel 9 at 9, good night.” The camera lights shut off, the crew of two began to pack up and the reporter stood up, placed her notebook behind her on the chair and removed the tiny microphone from her lapel. Turning to Brenda she stuck out her hand. The tears were gone. Meagan McGuinnis was all business. They shook hands.
“That was great. The camera absolutely loved you. Thank you for doing the interview.”
“Sure.” Brenda made the effort to get up and realized that Meagan still had a hold of her hand. Brenda was forced to sit back down.
“I know you have the interview with Sandra Simmons next week.” A tight squeeze.
“Yes.” The pressure on her hand tightened.
“I can imagine that after doing so many of these you’re getting tired of answering all the same questions.”
“No.” She lied.
“Well, don’t worry it will be a refreshing change for everybody when Sandra Simmons addresses a different topic.” A little more pressure. She could almost feel Meagan’s French manicure dig into her skin.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I have sources that tell me Sandra will be focusing her interview on your private life.”
“Why?” Towering over Brenda, Meagan leaned down so she could whisper in her ear. Brenda could smell the deep floral scent of Red Door perfume emanating like an aura from Meagan McGuinnis. It seemed like an older choice for such a young woman. She couldn’t help wonder if it was also Sandra Simmon’s scent of choice. Meagan McGuinnis was being loyal to every aspect of the performance.
“She’s a national icon, you’re the grieving widow, her show only goes for the big ratings and everything else has already been covered by the smaller media outlets.” Brenda could only stare at Meagan McGinnis and wait.
“Look, Brenda, trust me when I say that she won’t be a friend to you next week.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me spell it out for you. She’s the shark and you’re bleeding in the water. She can smell it and she’s going to devour you on national tv.”
“That’s crazy!”
“Or. . .”Meagan smiled, “you could decide to give that interview to someone who will treat the questions with the fairness they deserve. I could be that person, Brenda. You and I can sit down and talk through the issues and let everyone hear your side of the story.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about!”
“Cancel the interview with Sandra Simmons and give me the chance to tell your story before it’s too late.”
“I don’t have anything to say!”
“Then you better start working on it, because when she asks you those three questions at the top of her show and you’re squirming like a worm on a hook on live tv with your kids, your neighbors and the rest of the world watching, you’ll wish you’d picked me.”
“What questions?” Brenda could hardly believe what was happening. Meagan McGuinnis put up three slender fingers straight up in the air, lowering each one by one as she went down her list.
“One, what exactly is your relationship with Captain Jon Procter, two, did your husband know and three, which in my opinion will be the death blow, have you told your children?” Brenda sat immobilized and chained to the chair by the younger woman’s steely grip.
“I’m not the only one with sources, Brenda. But I am the one that wants to help.” After seeing the way Meagan McGuinnis went out of her way to imitate Sandra Simmons during the interview, she highly doubted it. She could feel her hands begin to tremble. The reporter probably could as well. Brenda stood up, yanked her hand away and ripped the microphone off her lapel shoving it into the younger woman’s hands.
“This interview is over!”
Meagan McGuinnis nodded clicking her pen against her shiny teeth.
“For now.” She agreed, picking up her things off the chair and heading for the door. It was then that Brenda realized that everyone had left. The tired production assistant, the disheveled cameraman, even the bulky equipment and the concierge cart with the pitcher of ice water were gone. She stood in the middle of the room watching Meagan McGuinnis walk the 10 feet to the door as if it were the runaway of a Paris fashion show. Swish, swish, and sway.
“Think about my offer.” The reporter’s voice carried across the empty room. Then, giving her a final nod and a wink she turned off the lights leaving Brenda alone in the dark.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Running Away
She had canceled the interview with Sandra Simmons the very next day. To say the journalist was displeased was an understatement. At least that was the loud and distinct impression she got from Simmons’ assistant. Bu
t what could she do? Everything was falling down around her. Shane was gone, Jon refused to go away and her son Callan refused to acknowledge her presence when they were in the same room. To make matters worse, Meagan McGuinnis, a reporter aspiring to be the next Sandra Simmons, had threatened to expose it all on national tv. Shane’s memory would be tarnished, Jon’s career would be over and she would lose the love and respect of her sons. How could she allow herself to be used as the weapon that would destroy anymore lives? Her mother was right. It was time to go but where? She looked through the shutters in the family room and saw another two media vans were parked on the opposite side of the street. She panicked for a moment wondering if Meagan McGuinnis was hiding in one of them. If what the reporter had said was true and she refused to give her the interview she could very well spread the story herself. But if it was also true that other news outlets had similar leads then it was only a matter of time before the story of her relationship with Jon exploded into the headlines. Then what would she do? How could she protect Callan and Taylor then? The only choice she had was to go and wait until the rumors died down and maybe, just maybe went away. She had wanted to warn Jon about Meagan McGuinnis but she knew that any additional contact between them would only serve to solidify any rumors. Instead, she had kept her distance, ignored the phone calls he made, and pretended she wasn’t home when he came to the door. Brenda was sure that the reporter was probably keeping track of all of Jon’s efforts to contact her, but she wasn’t about to hand Meagan McGuinnis anything for free. If she wanted it so badly she was going to have to scrounge in the dirt to get it. She stepped away from the shutters and thought for a moment. There was some place to go where maybe McGuinness and Simmons wouldn’t follow. Brenda ran upstairs and went to her dresser. In the top drawer she remembered there was a thick manilla envelope full of papers given to her by their family lawyer only the week before. Among them there would be a deed and a map that had been passed down to Shane from his grandparent’s estate after the passed away and he enlisted in the service. Now that Shane was gone the deed, to which Shane had added her name, and the fragile yellowing map belonged to her. It had been a very long time since she had looked at it. Years. If she remembered correctly the deed was to an old farmhouse that belonged to his grandparents. She guessed that the map showed the property lines. She couldn’t help but feel a wave of sadness as she looked at both the map and deed. It had been Shane’s dream to return to the little town in Nebraska where his grandparent’s had lived, to restore the house where he had spent so many of his summers and to make it a place for his own sons to do the same. But in all of the time they had been married she had never been to that town or in that house. She couldn’t even remember the name. Like many of the promises they had made to each other over the years it was one more that would never be kept. She sat on the bed holding the two documents in her hand. Sooner or later she would have to decide what to do with the house and the land that sat almost 1000 miles away. A thousand miles away from all of this! Brenda was starting to warm up to the idea. She could use some time to clear her head, to make decisions to find her way back to her life and her boys. But who knew what she would find there after so many years? The house could be in shambles and the property overgrown. They’d never really thought about it. In addition, what guarantee did she have that Meagan McGuinnis, Sandra Simmons or any other meddling reporter wouldn’t come looking for her anyway? She went to the mirror and coiled her fingers around the long strands of blonde hair she’d spent five years growing out. These would have to go and changing the color would be imperative. But she’d do it all herself in order to escape being discovered. She sighed. Running away like this was a risk wasn’t it? Running away. Is that what she was doing? What other choice did she have? Slowly, she opened the map again fingering the small typeset lettering that spelled out the name of the town where the house and property could be found. The town was called Bess. A tiny town in the middle of nowhere far from Meagan McGuinnis and Jon Procter. It was perfect.