"What shows are you producing?" he asked again.
"Bight now, just the news. I'm thinking about game shows, interviews, soaps, sitcoms, whatever it pays us to do. Sometimes ifs cheaper just to buy them. We're trying different things with our new shows; would you like to see one? I brought a tape, in case you cared about what I was doing."
Nick smiled sUghdy. "How could I refuse?" He opened a door in a rosewood-paneled wall along one side of the library, revealing a stereo, television set and video cassette recorder. When the tape was running, he returned to his chair and watched the opening: a swift succession of pictures in a montage of world figures and events as background for a boldly designed tide—"The Victors"—that looked like a newspaper headline.
"A strange name for a news show," Nick observed.
"You'll see," Sybille responded.
The round, cheerful face of Morton Case, whom Nick had last seen
skewering a guest on "The Hot Seat," appeared on the screen, announcing the sinking of an excursion boat oflfthe coast of Mexico. But nothing of the tragedy was seen by the viewers. Instead, a film appeared, narrated by Case, showing a lovely young girl swimming toward shore, struggling against high waves and approaching sharks. It could be seen when she rose out of the water that she was nude, having torn off her clothes, said Case, before jumping from the doomed ship. She was tired, slowing down, her eyes filled with fear, when a boat appeared behind her, racing at top speed to reach her before the sharks did. Just in time the young man at the helm cut his motor, reached down and lifted the girl into the safety of the boat. He wrapped her in a colorfiil blanket, poured brandy from a flask, and put one arm around her, holding her close. The two of them looked at each other in a way that made it clear that this was a beginning for these two, not just an isolated rescue. The young man restarted the motor and raced off toward shore, and a cheering, waving crowd awaiting them.
Nick marveled at it. He remembered the story: over two hundred people had drowned. But Sybille had transformed the tragedy into a banal romance. There was nothing to mourn; on the contrary, there was every reason to be joyful. Love had triumphed, death was invisible.
"You staged it," he said.
"Of course," Sybille replied. "We filmed it the next day. But there had been a girl who swam from the boat; she even took off her clothes before she jumped. Her skirt, anyway. And she was picked up by a boat. We were told it was a fishing boat, with some old man on board; somebody we couldn't use. We didn't change the story, only some of the details. The response to that segment was very good."
Nick thought of apes in the engineering building. He watched as a new segment began, this one on a flood in India, the scenes focusing on families who were reunited, and a baby boy, orphaned by the flood, taken in by neighbors who had always wanted a child of their own. It was followed by a similar mini-drama, and another and another, a relentless parade of joy snatched fi-om disaster.
They watched in silence. At first Nick had found it amusing, but as the hour neared its end he found himself bored and repelled. It was not as bad as "The Hot Seat," though it showed the same contempt for viewers, and he was not as upset as he had been when they had watched that show together; he was not married to Sybille now, and so what she did was no longer a reflection on him and his judg-
ment in marrying her. Still, when the tape ended and he was rewinding it, he could not think of anything to say.
"You don't like it," Sybille said accusingly.
"If s not my kind of news show," he replied. "You knew that before you showed it to me. I suppose some people would like it."
"A lot of people. The ratings are the highest of any we have."
"How long has it been on the air?"
"Three months. I know what people like, Nick."
"So it seems." He handed her the tape. "I wish you luck with it."
The words echoed in the room from an earlier time, when he had walked out after seeing part of "The Hot Seat." Everything he had now was different from that time: his work, his relationship with his son, his friends, the women he knew. The only thing that had not changed since he left Sybille was his memory of Valerie. He had never found anyone to take her place. Valerie. That short, ma^fic time. She made me believe in magic.
"Have you seen Valerie since college?" he asked. The words were out, before he thought about them.
Sybille's face froze and then, almost immediately, became bland. "No, have you? I haven't thought of her for years; do you know where she is?"
"No." He was shaken by that brief, frozen look. "I'll say good night—"
"Of course she always did flit about so much it was hard to keep up with her. She was so childish; never settling down or being serious; I wonder if she ever managed to grow up. You haven't written to her or talked to her at all?"
"No. I'll say good night, Sybille."
"But it's early! What time is it? Midnight! Is it really? But that isn't late, Nick; stay and talk."
"I have an early meeting tomorrow. When is your plane? Maybe I can drive you to the airport."
"Ten o'clock. You'll be in your meeting. If you really have one."
"We start at seven. I'll call if I can't be back in time to pick you up."
"Oh, Nick." She sighed as she stood near him. "This has been won-derfiil. I have no one to talk to in Washington. Or anywhere. It's very lonely, with just the business to run, and nothing else. All I have is Quentin, and he's dying. I was too young when we were together, Nick, I was selfish and stupid; but I've learned so much, and what will I do with it when Quentin dies? He'll die, Nick, and then it will all be
gone, all the love and companionship he and I had... and I have no one else to keep the loneliness away."
She had learned to look appealing, Nick thought; she was much more polished at it than she had been in college. "Fm sorry," he said, knowing it would be foolish to talk about the help she might get from friends. She had made no friends in San Jose.
"May I go upstairs and kiss Chad good night.>" she asked. "I'd like to kiss his father good night, too, if he wouldn't mind."
"Chad will be enough," Nick said easily, holding in the dislike that rushed through him. "Of course you can go upstairs; I'll wait here."
Angry and frustrated, she met his eyes. There was nothing to do but go upstairs. She was back in a few minutes. "Sound asleep," she said. "Do you remember how nice it was to go to sleep at night without any problems?"
"Chad has his own problems," Nick replied. "Perhaps you've forgotten how important they are, at five."
She shot him a look. "I hate it when you're clever," she said, and Nick remembered that too from the years of their marriage.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and watched her retrace her steps up the stairs, picturing her walking to her room at the other end of the hall from his. He stood in the library, thinking again how much he had changed in the years since they had lived together. He could not imagine, now, desiring Sybille, pitying her, living with her, thinking, even for a moment, that she could be to him what he dreamed of He tried to remember the needs and false image of himself that had led him to marry her. It had to do with Valerie, he knew that; but it also had to do with his youth: he was so certain that he could change Sybille into the kind of woman he wanted her to be; he was so sure he could achieve whatever he wanted if he just concentrated and worked hard enough at it. He knew better now. He knew there were some goals he might never attain, some dreams he might never bring to reality.
He heard Sybille's bedroom door close, and he went through the downstairs rooms, turning off lights. He stood at the foot of the stairs filled with the longings that never left: him: for love and laughter, a hand reaching out to his, an unquenchable joy and curiosity to match his own, a readiness to share whatever lay ahead. Once he thought he had found those things, and the promise of more, with Valerie. But not since then. He had tried—at least he believed he had tried—but sometimes it seemed to him that he held back with other woman, relucta
nt somehow to give up the memory of Valerie; as if he would
lose something irreplaceable if he ever let her go enough to commit himself to someone else.
He had Chad, he had enormous success, wealth and prestige, he had friends who loved him. He had a good life. But the longings were there, and he knew they would never be satisfied until he accepted the past as a dream that had ended, and woke to embrace someone new.
And it was a dream, he knew that. He went for long stretches without thinking of Valerie; she was no part of the life he had built. But then something would bring back memories that made him ache with a loss as painful as the day they parted. Then he would begin to fantasize about her, about the two of them, about the chances of meeting, any day now, on a street corner or in a theater or at a dinner, seated together by a hostess who had no idea...
But then what.> Why would he think they would do any better now than before? He might have changed in some ways, but he was still as serious, still as disciplined and involved in his work as ever, and those qualities were what she had most disliked in him. And Valerie— wealthy, fun-loving, lighthearted, ruled by her own pleasures—was surely no different now; why would she have changed any more than he had? What had come between them once, would again, and in Nick's controlled life there was no room for a second wrenching loss with the same woman.
He had to let her image go. He was thirty-two; it was past time to stop clinging to a dream that probably had become exaggerated and prettified through the years. Fll have to change some more, enough to stop wanting what I remember. And Fll have to keep looking. Just possibly, I might find another Valerie.
He climbed the stairs to go to bed. He didn't really imagine, after all this time, that he could stop wanting what he had loved so deeply and remembered so vividly. Or that he would find, and love, another Valerie. But still, he thought, looking in on Chad before going to his own room, I owe it to both of us to try. And he promised himself, once again, that he would.
Chapter 14
died within
uentin Enderby died diree years after his first stroke, at the age of eighty-three. Lily Grace and Rudy Dominus were at his side. They had been talking about the low ratings of "The Dominus Hour" when he had another stroke, his fourth, and minutes. It was Dominus who called Sybille with the
news.
For the past year, Enderby had seen almost no one but Dominus and the nurses, and Lily when she was home from school. Sybille stopped in once a day, but she would leave after a few minutes, as soon as they began to quarrel. She was impatient and irritated at his stubborn reftisal to die, and her anger was ignited whenever he would suddenly have a spark of interest in the cable network and demand that she bring him up-to-date. Most of the time he seemed uninterested— in fact, he seemed almost to have forgotten it—but then, without warning, his head would come up; he would square his shoulders and become alert and forceftil, sending for paper and pencil, gesturing broadly as he expounded ideas, loudly pressuring Sybille to do nothing until she cleared it with him. He would look at the books and make
scathing comments about the amount of money she was spending, and challenge her to justify it; and when she grew defensive and said it took time to make a floundering network profitable, he would shout her down, saying she'd had a year, two years, three, and nothing to show for it but a steady outflow of money. Sybille refused to discuss it. "I'll make it the biggest there is," was all she would say. "I just need the right mix of new people and new programs, whatever it costs; then
ru—"
"It isn't more money you need; it's brains!" he would roar, and at that she would storm out of his room.
His fury of activity might last for as long as a week, and then vanish, and once again his days would blur into each other in a numbing routine of watching television with the glazed look of someone who really saw and heard none of it, or sitting in his chair beside the window overlooking the Potomac, or half reclining in bed, dozing as Do-minus read the Bible to him or Lily sang folk songs. And Sybille would return to the routine she considered rightfully hers, of running the network without answering to anyone or being pestered by meddling comments and questions.
And then Enderby was dead. He died on a cold, gray December afternoon, and two days later Sybille dressed carefully in a black suit trimmed in black fox for the fimeral. She had decided there would be only a graveside service, conducted by Rudy Dominus, who had begged for the honor and in any event was the only minister she knew. She had sent a notice to the press, and everyone at the network, announcing the date and time of the fianeral, and coffee at her apartment afterward. It would be done properly; no one would be able to criticize her for not being a good wife, or widow.
It was cold at the cemetery, with leafless trees stark against a lowering sky. But there was a crowd at the gravesite and that was what Sybille cared about: they were all employees of EBN, but to the reporters it would look as if she and Quentin had dozens of friends. And then she saw, at the back of the crowd, Valerie, bundled in fur, arriving just as Dominus began to speak.
Sybille paid no attention to what he said. Scraps of phrases floated to her, but, as always, she was bored with anything she could not see or buy. Quentin's soul was between him and Dominus; it had never had anything to do with her. She half turned from him, bringing the crowd into view while seeming to gaze mournfully at the coffin suspended on a frame over the open grave. Beneath lowered lids, she scanned the faces. No one was paying attention to Dominus, she
noted, which was why his ratings had been bad from the beginning: he had never been able to make anyone care about being saved by him. In fact, Sybille thought bitterly, he had the same problems Enderby had accused her of having when she was trying her damndest to prove herself on camera. He could not connect with an audience. But En-derby had not seen that in Rudy Dominus, or had turned a blind eye, and so Dominus had his show, while Sybille had been robbed of hers.
Her gaze reached Valerie. Of all of them, she was the only one really listening to Dominus, her face intent and curious. Faking it, Sybille thought; trying to act pious. Why does she bother? And why is she here at all.> Because she danced with Quentin a few times .>
"He has finally attained the peace we all long for in our sinful lives," Dominus intoned. "And thinking only of forgiveness in his last moments, he showed us the way to find our own." He fell silent, his head bowed. Behind Sybille, the others looked around for clues, then they too bowed their heads.
"Quentin was our friend," Lily Grace said into the silence, and her high, cool voice made everyone look up. "He loved us with the love of a good man who discovers that he has more to give than anyone ever asked of him, much more than he would have thought he could give. Quentin learned that very late in his life, when he was mortally ill, but he found it in time to treasure it with the joy of self-discovery. Quentin learned to trust himself, to believe in himself, to like himself. What more could any of us ask than that: to see, as if a curtain had been pulled away, the riches within ourselves? Quentin closed his eyes for the last time with the peace of a man reborn, who finally believed that he was truly good."
Her voice, small but true, rose in a French folk song. Looking again at the people behind her, Sybille was astonished to see some of them dab at their eyes and spontaneously bow their heads. And Valerie was watching Lily with admiration. Sybille's eyes narrowed and she turned back to Lily, studying her as she sang, wondering what she had missed about her. The girl was dressed in a black wool coat that came to her ankles; she wore heavy boots and black cotton gloves, her small features were pale in the cold air, and her hair fell straight, covering her shoulders like a white-blond veil. Ordinary, Sybille thought; very young, incredibly badly dressed; as simple as a farm girl.
But Valerie had seen something to admire. A familiar bubble of rage began to form inside Sybille. What had Valerie seen in Lily Grace that had been invisible to Sybille? Something, something, something. It hammered inside her: She saw it; I missed it. She s
aw it; I missed it.
So, for the first time, she began to think about Lily as a person separate from Rudy Dominus. Dominus, of course, was no longer with EBN; Sybille had canceled his program the day after Enderby died. That meant she no longer had a God show. At one time she would not have given that a second thought, but the climate in the country had changed since Enderby bought the network; God was big business now, and the people who had gotten in early, like Oral Roberts, Jimmy Swaggart, Billy Graham, Jerry Falwell, and Jim and Tammy Bakker, were cleaning up. Lily Grace was no competition for those big hitters, but maybe, as someone's assistant, she could add something different, if Sybille could figure out what it was.
I'll think about it later, she decided; there's no rush. She'll be tied to Rudy's apron strings until somebody cuts her loose. And I can do that anytime, if I want to.
The coffin was mechanically lowered into the grave, moving silendy downward within the steel frame. Sybille watched it absendy, thinking of the network and what she would do with it. She wasn't sure she wanted to keep it. It was a constant drain, and brought her no pleasure; it hadn't even brought her prestige, because it was small compared to others, especially a network like CNN. But there were those figures Quentin had held out tantalizingly that night at La Chaumiere —all those dollars, all that influence and power—when he spread the whole glittering prospect of cable television before her and talked her into plunging into it with everything she had.
A Ruling Passion Page 29