Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  He knew exactly the first hilltop where he could spot the lights from the farmhouse. He scanned the inky horizon and smiled with relief when he caught the first twinkles from the wide living room windows.

  The wind was even fiercer, here on the high hill. Tess hadn’t bothered to leave the yard light on, and he took that as a sign that she was still angry. But the slick, dark sidewalk was no problem for Jack, familiar as he was with every crack, every chip. With a grin, he even slid the last few yards, arms outstretched like a kid. Jumping up the steps, he almost slipped, thudding into the front door, prompting Rover to a wild fit of barking from the kitchen.

  “Hey,” he muttered as he came in, “stop that.” Rover sat down, looking up at him solemnly, his tail thumping the floor. “She upstairs, fella?” The stereo was wailing Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle,” another ominous sign. The dog cocked his head, as Jack tossed his coat over a kitchen chair. “Better lay low, buddy.”

  He stopped to flip off the music, and in the abrupt silence heard the distinct sound of his wife’s voice raised in anger. With a concerned frown, he started up the stairs, though he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. In the upstairs hall, he caught the words, “I don’t care what you tell him. Just get out of it.” Poking his head around the bathroom door, he saw her click the button on the cordless receiver and plop it down on the floor next to the huge claw-footed tub where she was soaking.

  “Hey there, bathing beauty,” he gave her his most winning smile. “Who you talking to?”

  “An old friend,” she frowned down at the phone, distracted.

  “Really?” Jack came on into the room, enjoying the scent of her fancy French soap and the sight of her covered in foaming bubbles. “You didn’t sound very friendly. I thought you were really pissed.”

  The winging loufah sponge caught him on the side of the head, splattering his face and soaking his shirt. “I am. I’m pissed at you, and you know it. Who the hell did you think you were tonight? Superman?”

  He picked up her towel. “Superman?” His voice was muffled as he mopped his face.

  “You know, faster than a speeding bullet, leaps fire barriers in a single bound, and interferes with women who are trying to work. Jesus, what a ridiculous rescue!”

  He dropped the towel on the floor. “Well, poor old Clark Kent got a little nervous. You were getting in there way too close. It was a big fire, and you could get a great view of it from behind the barricade.”

  “I wasn’t taking a picture of the fire. I was taking a picture of a fireman. And it was a good one. I emailed it to the Record and they bought it for their site and the late print edition. I know what I’m doing, Jack, and I know when to get back.” Her eyes glittered dangerously.

  “So I got scared. So shoot me.” He gave her a small grin and a shrug. “The bullets just bounce off anyway.”

  She still glared at him, but he knew he was winning her over when she asked, “Do you have a big red S on your chest too?”

  “Wanna see?” She watched as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off, and then pulled the insulated T-shirt over his head. The light caught the St. Francis medal around his neck, as his fingers trailed through the water. “I sure am cold. And your bath’s still warm. Interested in sharing with a misguided superhero?”

  “Would there be any point in saying no to a man with X-ray vision?”

  He stripped off the rest of his clothes, and slid down behind her, the scented bubbles rising to the very edge of the tub. Tess settled back against his chest, and he rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Do you always make crank calls while soaking in the bath?” he chuckled.

  “I think I broke my cell phone when some jerk dropped me on my ass. I brought the phone in here in case you had trouble getting home in the storm. I wish I hadn’t picked it up when it rang.” He smiled at that. Pissed as she was, at least she still wanted him to get home safe.

  “Who was it?” he asked again.

  “Just an old friend from the Trib.” She sighed as his hands moved over her under the warm, soapy water, but she didn’t elaborate.

  Jack stroked her back. “Let me guess. ‘I don’t care what you tell him. Just get out of it.’ I’m betting that means one of your girlfriends has gotten mixed up with a married man. Right?”

  “Close enough,” it was a murmur, as she wriggled against him. “I’d rather talk about the amazing transformation that seems to be going on back there. And you’re not even in a phone booth. Am I going to have a personal demonstration of the ‘man of steel’?”

  With a laugh as a reply and a splash that sent water all over the floor, he rolled over her, pressing his mouth against her warm, pink skin.

  It was Jack who sopped up the floor later. With a curious frown, he carried the cordless receiver back to their bedroom where Tess was now sound asleep under the covers. Putting it back on the cradle, he pressed the ‘review’ button on the caller ID to the last call received. And his frown deepened. It was from the Sheraton Downtown in Concord, New Hampshire. He’d taken a call from the very same place late in the afternoon at his desk at the Journal. That was where Swede Erickson was staying.

  Chapter 14

  Sam had picked up Erickson at the New Hampshire Bar Association near the State Capitol in Concord and spent some time just watching the man work. He was surprised to find such a skilled campaigner. Looking more like a pro golfer than an Iowa grocer, with his fair hair and hearty good looks, Erickson was upbeat and genial, appearing completely relaxed, the conspicuous attitude of being “on” for the press utterly missing. He laughed easily, often at himself, and when he was serious, his concern was expressed more as good sense than drama. Straightforward, his stump speech was laced with keen intelligence, a pointed contrast to Tami Fuller's screeched catchphrases or Frederick Morton's pompous pronouncements or the also-ran candidates just clamoring for attention. And the crowds were eating it up.

  After lunch, Erickson stopped at a high school to talk with a group of seniors in a government class. Calm and unflappable, he fielded their questions with frankness and humor, then pursued some of their ideas by asking questions of his own. He seemed delighted with the lively, sometimes argumentative discussion, allowing it to take its own course, never pressing or working it around to stress his own talking points.

  The same thing worked well at an afternoon meeting with the Daughters of the American Revolution. Such occasions usually consisted of the candidate delivering a predictable "few words" and posing with the matrons for pictures. But again Erickson engaged the group in a conversation, trusting the points he wanted to make would come up naturally. Sam noticed that with this more reserved group Erickson adjusted his style. At the high school, he’d been direct and challenging. Here he was deferential and encouraging. Later, when the picture session did come, he was so courtly that some of the formal, staid ladies became positively flirtatious. Sam had no doubt it was all a carefully crafted, finely tuned public image rather than the genuine man, but that was what made the Governor so fascinating to watch.

  When he started to write, back in the hotel room, Sam tried to incorporate some impression of Erickson’s style into his story. But reading back through it, he found it to be, to his surprise, disturbingly flattering, a problem he’d never had in his writing before. Sam shook his head, talking to himself as he rewrote. “Reads like that fanboy Westphal wrote it.” That was what reminded him that he’d intended to call Tess.

  He tried Rick Higgins first, but Higs didn’t have her cell number. There was a listing on Switchboard for John R. Westphal, and of course there was the number for the Journal, but Sam hesitated to call those. Finally, late, finding his cell phone battery dead again, he forced himself to pick up the hotel phone and dial the home number.

  “Hello?” It was the same hushed, hesitant way she always answered the phone.

  “Hi.”

  The single word was enough to make her catch her breath. “Sam?”

  “I
s this a bad time?”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  It was the coldness in her voice that made him set his jaw, his own tone becoming direct and businesslike. “I need to fill you in on something, a story they’ve got me working on. If you can’t talk, then give me a number where I can reach you later.”

  “That’s not a problem. Just tell me.” Quickly he explained about the profile and the editors' interest in having him talk to Jack. “This is some kind of joke, right?” Her voice rose over loud rock music in the background.

  “Sorry. Johnson knows it’s awkward, of course, but Dodson’s clueless.” Sam sighed. “And to be honest, I’d prefer he stay that way. But I figured I owe you a heads-up before I get to town.”

  “You don’t seriously intend to interview Jack?” Her voice rose even more.

  “Tess, you know how this works. I’ve got to at least ask him for the interview. I’ve got editors who’ll ask if I talked to him.”

  “Johnson won’t, because he knows it’s a goddamn conflict for you to use Jack as a source.”

  “Maybe. But Dodson’s right. Westphal would be good for the story. So I will be calling him. If you don’t want your old man and me to sit down together, then call the Norse god off. Because I’ve got to ask.”

  He heard the music cut off, as she fairly shouted, “Don’t pull that shit with me.” She lowered her voice and hissed, “I watched you work long enough to know you call the shots in your own stories.”

  His voice lowered too, but any regret he’d felt at upsetting her had been swamped by his own anger. “Maybe I did once, while I was still at the Trib. But now I’m in a whole new ballgame, and I have to impress the front office. I’m going to call him. If I don’t, what do I tell Dodson when he asks why he’s not in the story?”

  “I don’t care what you tell him. Just get out of it.” And then she hung up.

  Sam slammed down the receiver, and muttered, “Fuck,” to the empty room. Then he picked up his key card. It was late, but maybe the hotel bar was still open.

  Riding down in the elevator, Sam wondered how he could have stopped the conversation with Tess from becoming so heated so fast. It wasn’t his intent to hurt her any more. But his editors were right. Her husband had a unique perspective on Erickson. Westphal would be good for the story. And keeping the people in charge happy had kept Sam in the business. Besides, the more he saw of Erickson, the more Sam’s interest was piqued. The guy was too smooth. Who the hell was lurking under that seamless facade?

  With his Glenfiddich in front of him, Sam closed his eyes and tried to relax. For a few minutes his mind was blank, too weary to worry about his job, his story, Judith or his situation with Tess. He almost jumped when a voice came from his shoulder.

  “Sam Waterman, isn’t it?”

  He opened his eyes to find Swede Erickson’s communications director, Patrick Donnelly, standing next to him, his hand extended.

  “That’s right.” Sam shook his hand, and indicated the seat next to him. “Sit down. After a day like today, you could probably use the rest.” He was always glad to have a drink with a potential source.

  “You look a little done in yourself.” Donnelly took the seat, saying, “Just a draw,” to the bartender, then nodded at Sam’s glass. “Can I buy you another?”

  “No thanks, it’s fresh. I’m on expense account anyway.”

  “Don’t want to be seen being bought off by the campaign?” Donnelly took a sip of his beer.

  Sam smiled. “That along with the story I wrote tonight could get my editors wondering. Your boy looks real good in print,” and then with a tired waved, Sam acknowledged his throwback error. “Excuse me. I mean online.”

  Donnelly laughed. “He looks real good everywhere. His getting in makes this a whole new race. Now you’ve got somebody to write about.”

  “As long as there are politicians, I’ll have someone to write about, whatever the medium. Keeping Swede newsworthy is your job.” Sam sipped his drink, then snorted, “Why the hell does he call himself Swede anyway?”

  “You gotta be kidding. That name is priceless. It says, ‘I know who I am, I know where I come from.’ It’s down-home. It’s small town. It’s …”

  “Obnoxious,” Sam finished for him. “Come on. Swan August Erickson is ethnic enough. You’d be offended if people started calling you ‘Mick’ Donnelly. And I wouldn’t take ‘Hebe’ Waterman from anyone.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Donnelly conceded. “But think what a contrast it is to Frederick Morton. I mean that rich old bastard actually calls himself ‘Frederick.’ Not ‘Fred,’ not ‘Freddy,’ only ‘Frederick.’ Now, which name are average Americans going to relate to? One sounds like the guy down the block, the other like the snob at the yacht club. You tell me who’s going to be perceived as one of the gang?”

  “Ah, well,” Sam finished his drink, “I always think it's a good idea for the President of the United States to be a cut above the average schmo, but that's just me. Is that all the competition you’re going to give Morton? A down-home name?” He signaled the bartender for another.

  Donnelly grinned. “Why does that sound like a play for information?”

  “I’m not known for being subtle,” Sam grinned. “Morton’s been whining for Erickson to join his debate with Fuller ever since word leaked out that your guy was going to announce. Is he going for it?”

  “I believe that was dealt with in the press release you got this morning. Officially, Swede is ‘considering it.’”

  “How about unofficially?”

  Donnelly shot him a sharp look. “Not for publication?”

  Sam sighed, “I’m not gonna sit on my hands with a piece of news and wait for it to be announced. Come on, it’s not that big of a fucking deal anyway.”

  “Oh. Well, if it’s no big deal, then it won’t bother you to wait to find out like all the rest.”

  Sam shrugged. “Sure, I can wait. But I’d rather have it first. That kind of thing keeps my bosses happy. Now, you’ve already indicated Erickson’s decided, and after watching him today, I’d say the man is no fool. He’s got to know he’ll make Morton look sick. And as for Fuller …” Sam snorted a laugh. “So all I’m waiting for is a nod of your head, and I’ll go with it.”

  “How will you attribute it?”

  “To you, of course. I don’t use unidentified sources.”

  “The hell you don’t.” Donnelly looked perturbed. “What a load of crap.”

  Sam grimaced but his eyes were shrewd. “Well, maybe I can get ‘a source high in the campaign’ past my editor.” A small smile turned up the corners of Sam’s mouth as he murmured, “Come on, man. I already know anyway.”

  Donnelly hesitated a minute, then nodded.

  “When’s the announcement?” Sam grinned.

  “Soon. Maybe the end of the week. The more insistent competition becomes, the better it’ll look when Swede beats them.”

  Sam tossed back the last of his drink, stood, and slapped Donnelly on the back. “Thanks. This was better than any drink you could have bought me.” He signed his name and room number to the bar tab. “Sorry to rush, but I need to file a new lede.”

  He rewrote quickly, opening the piece with the debate, and sent it in, then called Sarah to look it over and post it on the web. She was gone, so Sam waited until Steve Johnson finally came on the line, sounding tired and hassled. “Why the hell are you calling on the hotel line, Waterman? Christ, that costs a fucking fortune. What’s wrong with your goddamn cell?”

  “Battery died.”

  “Jesus, can’t you remember to juice it now and then? Our profit margin is thin enough, and it would help if you weren’t always hosing the travel budget. If you’d just think ahead …”

  “Are we going to run up the phone charges while you rag at me, or can we talk about my story?” Rubbing his eyes, Sam felt his headache returning.

  Johnson sighed. “It’s already up if you’d just take a look. It doesn’t look like anyon
e else has the debate thing. But I’m not real comfortable that Donnelly isn’t on the record. It’s not like he told you about a plan to break into the Watergate.”

  “Yeah, I know. I tried, but Donnelly wouldn’t let me push him into attribution. I get a feeling Erickson’s going to run a real tight-lipped campaign. Have you had a chance to read over the whole thing?”

  “Sure. Sarah was pretty keen to get out of here tonight. She took off after you sent the first draft. Must have had a hot date with that Marine she's been seeing.”

  “Let’s hope. It might improve her mood.” Sam waited for Johnson to speak, then added an impatient, “So?” He could hear Johnson’s keyboard clicking and knew he was working on something else.

  “Yeah, she’s usually mellower after a good night,” he responded absently.

  “Christ, not Sarah! The story. I’m asking what you thought of the fucking story.”

  “Oh that. It was a good read. Why?”

  “I just wondered if it seemed balanced to you.”

  “Sure.” For a second Johnson paused, then he added with amusement, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Waterman. Just because you didn’t rip out Erickson’s throat doesn’t mean it’s not a good story. Jesus, you’ve gotten bloodthirsty. So what if it’s a little soft.” This last was said with a trace of a laugh.

  Sam frowned into the phone. “Soft?”

  Johnson laughed out loud. “I’m kidding, you poor schmuck. It was fine. What’s stuck in your craw?”

  “I don’t know, Steve.” Sam sighed and relaxed a little. “I just didn’t want to make him look too good. There’s something about this guy, he’s too smooth, too in control.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I watch him, and he's so bloody confident. It's like he's used to having things turn out the way he wants them. I swear to God, he comes across like he's already President. No one should be that self-confident. I'm telling you, the guy puts on one hell of an act.”