Mid-Life Friends and Illusions

by Jeffrey Freeman

  There was only a cell phone number listed in the administrative address book. Howard dialed it. He reached a recording. “The number you have reached is not in service.” He added her number to his list of contacts in his private phone.

  At nine-thirty and again at ten her tried calling her with the same result. He called Samuel.

  “Chief, we have a missing person,” Howard said, trying to inject some levity into a puzzling situation.

  Samuel pressed the office cell phone to one ear and stuck a finger in the other. “What?” He stood and slowly walked around the inner office at campaign headquarters until he got better reception. “Say again.”

  Howard spoke louder. “Beth has not come in and I cannot raise her on her cell.”

  “Not a good way to promote job security.”

  Betty could not hear the conversation but the image of Samuel behind the glass wall, his head bent, a finger in one ear, a scowl on his face, and yelling into the cell phone was too much. She giggled. She slapped a hand over her mouth. It didn’t help. She couldn’t control the giggles. She turned away but the image kept the giggles coming.

  The outer room was a quarter staffed. Apparently rumors over the weekend had divided loyalties. Some volunteers had returned, others had not. One-by-one they looked at Betty, surprised, and then at Samuel. In moments, the room was flooded with laughter.

  They might not be able to hear Samuel but he heard them. He looked, bewildered. “I’ll call you back,” he told Howard.

  He opened the inner office door and stood there trying to figure out what was so funny. The laughter subsided as people went back to work; the smiles and an occasional giggle remained. “Betty,” he called, drawing out her name like a teacher summoning an errant child for disciplining.

  She rose, trying her best to suppress her grin. She slipped past him into the inner office. He glanced around the room. Everyone pretending to be working, avoiding direct eye contact. He closed the door. More subdued giggles.

  A couple minutes later, Samuel opened the door and Betty walked out. He stood in the open doorway, nodding his head, a smirk on his face, acknowledging being the butt of the joke. One-by-one they all looked at him. Someone laughed. He laughed. The whole room broke into laughter.

  Word spread. By early afternoon, the room was nearly filled with volunteers. The average person likes a politician who can laugh at himself.

  But there was no laughter in the Washington office. Beth Ware was still among the missing. Then the door opened. Everyone turned to look.

  Beth, about to break into tears, faced them. She was a mess. She looked like she had been through a war. All the curls were gone from her blonde tresses. A red welt was prominent on her left cheekbone. Her dry-clean-only-gray pants suit looked like it had been pulled from the washer and air-dried. There was a rip at the right knee. She was carrying her shoes in her hand, one missing a heel. Her black Gucci handbag slung from her shoulder like a soldier’s backpack.

  “My God!” Jean exclaimed. She rushed to Beth, taking her by an arm and gently guiding her to a chair that Howard pushed toward them. “What happened?”

  Tears flowed. Odd, Howard observed, her mascara wasn’t streaked. Permanent? Did women still do that?

  “My car,” she explained between grasps for air. “It died on the beltway.”

  Susan offered a box of tissues. Beth grabbed a handful. She patted her wet eyes, then blew. Howard slipped a wastebasket next to her so she could drop the sopping wad.

  Calmer now, Beth went on, “No one would stop.”

  “Rush hour,” Jean injected.

  “Yes,” Beth said. “I tried to call a tow truck but my cell phone died before they answered. So finally I got out. I walked away from the car on the shoulder and then the grass, just like they tell you to. In case someone runs into your car.”

  They all listened intently, nodding at each new fact.

  “But it was raining.”

  “Not a lot,” Howard corrected her.

  She shot him an indignant look. “It was on the beltway. Cats and dogs. And there were puddles. And someone splashed me. And I broke a heel trying to run.” She held up her shoes. More tears, more tissues.

  “I was there for hours,” she said, sniffing back her running nose. “Well, not really.” She blew again, depositing another wad of tissues. “But it seemed like hours. After the rain stopped, I saw a tow truck coming. I was waving my arms and yelling and running.” She pulled her pants leg with the rip. “I fell.”

  “You poor girl,” Jean empathized.

  “After he towed my car to a shop, I asked if I could use his phone to call. You know, to tell you I’d be late.”

  Howard, Jean, and Susan smiled in spite of themselves.

  Beth tried not to smile. “Well, it wasn’t funny at the time. Anyway they said they needed the car all day to fix it.”

  “Did they say what was wrong with it?” Howard asked.

  “No,” Beth said, looking at him incredulously. “It wouldn’t run.”

  “Right,” he replied. “So how did you get here? Did they give you a ride?”

  “No. The driver, he was nice but he left. You know, to find more business, I guess. The man at the shop wasn’t so nice. Kind of older and fat and greasy. He did let me use his phone but I couldn’t remember the number. It’s number three in my contacts.”

  This time they all chuckled, including Beth.

  “I was going to call a taxi but then I remembered I was going to stop at the ATM to get cash.” She opened her handbag, dug for her purse, and pulled out two one-dollar bills. “I had four.”

  “So how did you get here?” Howard repeated.

  “I hitched,” she answered.

  Eyebrows shot up, eyes went wide in horror. Susan clasped a hand over her mouth.

  “Are you insane?” Howard asked without thinking.

  “You could have been killed,” Jean added.

  “Well it wasn’t like I was standing on the highway or something. It was a guy picking his car up from the shop. The greasy guy seemed to know him.”

  Relief.

  “Still, Beth, good golly,” Howard said.

  “He was very nice. Kind of like a father-figure or an uncle,” Beth explained.

  “That’s what they all say,” Susan said, anger evident in her tone and face.

  “He dropped me at the metro. And here I am,” Beth concluded.

  “We have to get you cleaned up,” Jean asserted.

  “One of us will drive you home,” Howard stated.

  “You don’t have a car,” Jean reminded him.

  “Yes, I know, but one of us,” Howard said a bit timidly for having been rebuked.

  “I can do it,” Susan offered. “My car’s at the Falls Church station.”

  Beth made a sheepish look.

  “What?” Howard asked.

  “My keys. I left them in the car,” Beth explained.

  “Don’t worry,” Susan offered. “You can borrow some of mine. They might be a little large but we can find something.” She looked at Beth’s face and hair. “At least we can get you looking presentable.”

  “Gracias,” Beth said. “Can we stop at the ATM? I have to bring cash to get my car.”

  Howard’s eyebrows squeezed questioningly. “How do you know how much to bring?” he asked.

  “Oh,” Beth answered, “he said it would be two hundred dollars.”

  “Without knowing what’s wrong with it?” he questioned.

  “He said something about a flat rate,” she responded.

  “Maybe I should go,” he said.

  “So I’m supposed to handle the office solo?” Jean asked.

  “Good point,” he conceded. “What time does the repair shop close?”

  “Five-thirty,” Beth said.

  “And where exactly is it?” he asked.

  Beth pulled a smudged business card from her wallet and handed it to him. “Arlington,” she said.

  He looked at the addr
ess. “Okay, I know about where this is. Why don’t I meet you both at Falls Church about four-thirty, quarter-to-five? We should be going against traffic. Should be plenty of time.” He looked at Jean for confirmation of the plan.

  “Fine,” she said coldly.

  After Beth and Susan had departed, Howard stepped into Samuel’s office to call him. “Everything is all right,” he said. “Beth had a little accident. … No, she is fine. Just a little shaken. … Long story, Chief. …Yes, everything is under control. … Yes, she is.” He put the phone on hold and stepped to the doorway. “He wants to talk with you,” he said to Jean.

  Howard waited for Jean to hang up. When she went back to her computer instead of acknowledging him, he asked, “What did he want?”

  She looked at him, annoyed. “He wants me to send him a copy of the Czeiler file.” She gave him a look that could only be interpreted as meaning, “Is that okay with you?”

  At Metro Center, Beth and Susan walked across the concrete platform to change trains to the Orange Line. As the stepped into the car, Susan asked, “Do you know him?”

  “Who?” Beth responded.

  Susan pointed down the platform but the doors closed before Beth could see whom she meant. Susan described him as, “Older guy, brown suit, no tie. Kind of tall, creepy-looking. And he was holding his arm funny, like it hurt or something.”

  Beth swallowed, shook her head. “No. He was probably just staring at the way I look. Did he get on the train?”

  “Why, if you don’t know him?”

  “I don’t want some creepy guy following me.”

  “No, of course. I’m not sure.”

  “How far is your car from the station?”

  “Near the back of the lot.”

  “Oh, great. Let’s not waste any time when we get there.”

  “It’s the middle of the day. You don’t think he’d follow us, do you?”

  “It’s Washington.”

  “Technically, Virginia but you’ve got a point.” Susan rummaged in her purse until she found a can of mace. She held the purse open so just Beth could see into it. “Just in case,” she said.

  The train lurched rounding a corner, throwing Susan off-balance. Beth grabbed her. “Got you.”

  Susan smiled, still holding the mace in her purse. “Guess we’ve got each other.”

  Beth slipped a hand into her purse feeling for something. Whatever it was seemed to calm her.

  Promptly at four-thirty, Howard began pacing in the parking lot outside the Falls Church station. The women arrived at four-forty.

  “You might as well call it a day,” Howard told Susan.

  “You aren’t going to dock me, are you?” she replied with a smile, knowing that after three-thirty it would be considered a full day according to federal government guidelines.

  Beth climbed into the passenger seat clutching a plastic bag with her soiled and ripped suit. Her hair looked a little less messy and make-up covered her bruised face.

  Howard seemed to notice it for the first time. “How did you get the bruise?” he asked.

  She touched her cheek. “I guess when I fell.”

  “Oh, right,” he said as he carefully pulled out of the lot. He tried visualizing how she could have fallen to rip the trousers on her right knee and bruise her left cheek.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A week before the great debate, Samuel’s campaign office was a beehive of activity. It seemed all had been forgiven, at least by more than enough locals to keep the office staffed to capacity twelve hours a day and a little less so for a few hours more. Efficient scheduling went out the window. Samuel wore the tires off the Subaru speeding from the Canadian border to the Massachusetts line for whatever group wanted him to speak, from Rotary Clubs to six people in a living room. He was up by five, out of the house by five-thirty, and usually not home again until nine, sometimes ten. It was simultaneously exhausting and invigorating.

  This morning began the same. Just before six a.m. he was knocking on the door of a single constituent as requested.

  “Door’s open,” came Hugh’s voice from inside.

  Samuel swallowed, put on his best campaign smile, and entered the modest, pristine home.

  “In the kitchen,” Hugh called.

  “Morning, Dad,” Samuel said energetically as he walked in.

  Hugh, striped pajamas sticking out of his Pendleton plaid wool bathrobe, sat at the table, coffee cup in hand. “Coffee?” he asked, pointing with his cup at the pot on the stove.

  “I’m good,” Samuel replied and sat down across the table.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  Samuel was surprised. “Excuse me? You asked me to come.”

  “Between you and Jane. Breakfast the other mornin’. Sunday dinner. You two looked like actors in a bad movie.”

  Samuel’s smile melted. He rose and poured himself a cup of coffee. The familiar feel of the plain white mug felt comforting.

  Hugh leveled his stare directly on Samuel’s eyes. Samuel might be able to fool the voters but his eyes always betrayed the truth to his father.

  “Let me guess,” Hugh said in his crotchety morning gravel voice. “Forty-four. Mid-life. Changes. Possibly career, wife. Buy a little red sports car yet?”

  Samuel sank to a chair under his father’s gaze. He sipped the hot coffee in silence.

  Hugh’s voice softened. “Thought so. It’s natural. Did the same thing myself at your age. No, that ain’t right.” He thought momentarily. “Couple years younger.”

  Samuel’s head came off his chest. Roles reversed, he saw the truth in his father’s eyes.

  Hugh slid his coffee cup across the table. Samuel picked it up and him poured fresh coffee.

  “Spent damn near my whole life on that blessed farm,” Hugh said in a monotone. “Never cared for it the way my father did. Wanted somethin’ different. Times was changin’. Wanted somethin’ more excitin’.”

  “But you stayed,” Samuel protested.

  “Ayaught. But I made changes. Henry could see I needed it, just like I can see you.” He often referred to his father by name, even when he was alive. It was some sort of unspoken way to remain unsentimental in their relationship, a process passed down from father to son. Samuel had consciously tried to avoid following in those footsteps.

  “Told Henry I wanted to start doin’ the buyin’ and sellin’ livestock,” Hugh went on. “He agreed.” He took a slow sip of coffee, reflecting. “He never particularly liked that part of farmin’ anyways.”

  Samuel wanted him to get on with his story so he could get on with his day but he knew better than to interrupt. It wasn’t often his father shared worldly advice. This morning was going to be memorable.

  “Made us a lot of money,” Hugh continued. “More money than Henry had ever seen. Thought about goin’ into business fur myself. Getting’ a sedan instead of drivin’ that ratty old pickup. Maybe tradin’ in your mother for a younger model.” He looked hard into Samuel’s eyes, watching for a hint of confirmation. He saw it, just a momentary glint.

  Hugh went on. “Knew you didn’t like farmin’. That was clear from the time you was ten. College was the right choice for you. Go buy the sports car or whatever you’re a mind to but fix the rest of it. Understand?”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Samuel replied, dropping his eyes.

  “Feelin’ trapped, are ya?” The harshness came back.

  “Sort of.”

  “It passes. Drink more and I don’t mean coffee.”

  “Is that what real men do?”

  “It is, by God.” His voice softened again. “That passes, too.”

  The whole scene suddenly struck Samuel. Dispassionately, he saw this old man sitting alone in his bathrobe in a small house, isolated. The chill of the morning, or the sense of looking at his own future, he couldn’t be certain which, sent shivers down his spine. He wanted to ask questions, get details, but he didn’t.

  “Now go away,” Hugh instructed.

/>   Samuel stood. “You’re coming for Sunday dinner?”

  “Ayaught. Tell Jane whatever she’s fixin’ is my favorite.” He looked up at Samuel, finished his coffee, and banged the cup down on the table. “Yours, too.”

  Samuel took a long, slow drive on the country road, going nowhere. By eight, his customary arrival time at campaign headquarters if he was not scheduled elsewhere, things were in high gear. He put on the campaign smile.

  “Morning, Ed,” Samuel called cheerfully upon opening the door. “Morning, Winter people,” he yelled at the volunteers.

  A chorus of energized male and female voices answered, “Morning, Senator Sam!”

  Ed, the latest poles and financials in hand, walked at Samuel’s elbow as he made his way through the room, shaking hands or touching the shoulder of each person, all the while smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “Ya need ta look at these,” Ed cautioned, whispering in his ear.

  In the glass-enclosed inner office, Samuel sat behind the desk. Ed lifted the stack of papers and dropped with as much force as possible in front of him.

  “We’re fifteen points down by some accounts,” Ed warned. “Everythin’s ridin’ on next Thursday.”

  Samuel skimmed the poling statistics and put them aside. He picked up the financial report.

  “Your gonna have ta pay for the new tires outa your own pocket,” Ed informed him. “Ain’t nothing left, ‘ceptin’ Bensen’s check.”

  Samuel’s smile turned quickly to a frown. “I thought I told you to return that.”

  “You did. I ain’t done it. Been holdin’ it fur just such an emergency.”

  “We’ve been over this.” Samuel’s jaw was so tight his lips barely parted. “There is no legal way to use it. I won’t go down like that Virginia governor. I’d rather lose than be thought of as just another bought-and-paid-for-politician.”

  “It’s yur funeral,” Ed reluctantly agreed.

  “Send it overnight express. I want it receipted. If it ever comes to light, I can say I was tempted but didn’t give in.”

  “Won’t much matta ifn ya don’t git in.”

  “Today. This morning. Now.”

  Ed stuck the envelope back in his jacket pocket and walked out. Samuel watched him turn in the direction of the post office.