Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  She smiled. “Well, my friend, you’re not exactly the classical study Jack is.”

  “Damn,” he winced. “I’m not in bad shape. I didn’t have any trouble holding you down, remember?” He saw her blush and said, “But let’s stick to business. One shot of your old man, clothed if you please. So, is it a deal? You’ll do the pictures?” She hesitated, and he pointed, “There’s a parking garage.” She turned on the signal.

  Chapter 21

  The pub was quiet that early, and they each ordered sandwiches and cokes. Sam never drank before an interview. “Well?” she asked as she snapped open her napkin. He raised his eyebrows and brought the burger to his mouth. “What, or perhaps I should ask who, was the last straw?”

  Sam spoke around the food in his mouth. “I didn’t catch his name.”

  “Oh,” Tess’s eyes widened. “I figured …”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what you thought.”

  “And you …” She felt an unaccountable surge of outrage. “After all the years you played around, she steps out and you …”

  “She threw me out,” Sam broke in. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t really pin it on her new guy. She was done with me quite awhile back. She let me hang on, probably hoping I’d finally go on my own accord. And she didn’t want any distractions while she helped her mother. But it didn’t take her long after the old lady went to cut me loose."

  Tess inclined her head unable to disagree. “Are you OK? You seem a awfully scattered.”

  He shrugged and sipped his coke. “I should have seen it coming. Let's face it; women leaving are sort of the story of my life, from my mother on. But to be honest, the end caught me by surprise.” There was embarrassment in his smile. “We’d struggled along for so long, it never occurred to me she’d find someone else. Stupid, huh?”

  She didn’t answer, asking instead, “I always wondered, Sam, did she know about us?”

  He nodded. Dropping her eyes, she pushed her plate away. “Well, we weren’t exactly subtle, were we, Toughie?” he asked softly. She didn’t say anything, and he went on. “I dread the hassle, you know? Attorneys, settlements, court dates and all that shit. I hope it’ll shake out pretty simply. Lord knows I’d never fight her in court. She’s too damn good. She’s already on me about finding a lawyer. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Ask Johnson.” It was a good idea. Steve Johnson was in his third marriage. “So where are you living?”

  “I found a place on the Hill, not too far from where you used to live. O’Brien’s is still going strong.” She looked up with a crooked smile. “I still go over it, you know.” At her questioning look he explained, “That last night, at O’Brien’s. I walked out of there thinking we’d settled things, and we were going to be together.”

  She sighed. “I told you Sam, that meeting with Baxter the next day …”

  “That bullshit’s insulting, Tess.” His tone was the same one he used when he caught a source in a lie.

  Her eyes widened. “Insulting? For God’s sake Sam, we were so blatant my boss had to step in. Do you have any idea how humiliating …”

  He was shaking his head. “Come on, I know you better than that. You’ve got enough chutzpah for 20 photographers. If I had been what you wanted, you’d have told Baxter to stick it, and don’t pretend you wouldn’t.”

  “Not want you? Sam, I put my conscience aside for …”

  “Look, I’ve had a hell of a long time to think about this. And it’s pretty clear. We both were in love. I was in love with you, and you were in love with being seduced.” She caught her breath, grasping for words, but he went on. “Not that I minded,” his smile took on a ghost of his familiar leer. “Seducing you was always a pleasure. And God knows I got to enjoy it over and over. Me chasing you, that was the game, all the way. I loved you and I didn’t give a shit who knew it. You were the one just fucking around. That’s why your skin crawled every time someone new caught on. Kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

  She looked stricken. “That is not true. I …”

  “As soon as you knew for certain I would really leave Judith, you ran. Taking me on for the rest of your life was not in the plan. And Baxter’s timing gave you the opening you needed.”

  “Leaving broke my heart, but, I wanted, I needed …”

  “A stand-up guy like Jack Westphal?” She only stared at him and he laughed a low, bitter sound. “Well, if that’s what you have to tell yourself.”

  Anger was her refuge as she brushed her hand over her eyes. “I chose Jack. And if that’s too hard for you to believe …”

  “Not at all,” he shrugged. “As much as it pains me, I have a real clear picture of it. You took one look at that, how did you put it? ‘Classical study,’ of a body and couldn’t keep your hands off it.”

  Her jaw set and her face took on the insolent look that always intensified their arguments. “I didn’t have to marry Jack to get my hands on him. But maybe you’re right. Maybe I really didn’t want to take you on, because if there was one thing I always knew about you, it was that you were a lousy husband. So you tell me, if it wasn’t different with Jack, then why did I end up with him?”

  He seemed to mull that for a second, and then said, “I figure he turned the tables on you. Somewhere along the line, the guy managed to give you the idea that he could walk away. Whether it was by design or accident, I’m not sure. He doesn’t look that much smarter than me, so I tend to think he probably just lucked out. Like the saying goes, even a blind pig roots up a truffle now and again. Whatever, I’m just sorry I never thought of it. And when he went flying off the interstate after spending the night with you, well, Toughie, that was almost the ultimate way to leave, wasn’t it.” She could only stare at him, open-mouthed and flushed, until he pointed to her plate and asked, “Are you going to eat those fries?”

  “Take them,” she shoved the plate hard at his, causing them to clack together loudly in their quiet corner. “And take your own fucking pictures. I don’t need this crap.” She started gathering her things, but his laugh straightened her spine, stopping her.

  “See what I mean? Now you’re going to run, and I'm supposed to chase you. It’s true …”

  “It’s not true …” Her voice rose.

  “Really?” Reaching for the ketchup, the lines of his face fell into the caustic look that always made her want to slap him. “OK, if I’m wrong, then you tell me, why did you marry him? Because it’s mighty hard to picture Farmer John keeping you happy out on the South 40.”

  “I married him because …” she lowered her voice, her face hot. With a sour look, Sam dipped a fry, waiting. “Because I …” She damn well knew better than to rise to this bait, knew the only way to stop an escalating argument with Sam was to shrug his outrageous statements off. But she couldn’t back down. “I was overwhelmed by you, Sam. When we were together I was lost. But with Jack, I finally remembered who I was.”

  Something close to a wince wrinkled around his eyes, and with a mean little grin he muttered, “Very poetic.”

  “Sam, the first time we went out, Jack looked at my work and told me I was an artist. You can’t know how much I needed to hear that. The more time I spent with him, the more I saw myself the way he did. And there was a lot to like.”

  Sam’s snide smile faded slowly and the edge left his voice. “No, Toughie, there’s a lot to love.” She didn’t respond, and he rolled his eyes. “Aw, hell, I’m tired of this. We could spend all day ripping each other up, when none of it really matters, does it?” Taken aback by his sudden shift, she watched him cautiously. He shrugged. “It’s not like we’re ever going to see things the same way. That was rare even when we were sleeping together.”

  Her eyes narrowed dubiously, wondering where he was maneuvering. He grinned, reading her look. “Since we’re not lovers any more, let’s try being good friends and just let it go.” He downed another fry, watching her watch him. “We could try talking about something else, you know.” And he pushed t
he plate back toward her a little. “Come on, kid, you love fries. They’re still warm.” She took one, but didn't eat it. His smile spread, and he jutted his chin at her phone on the table. “That’s the newest iPhone? You like it?”

  If he was really willing to leave the subject, she knew better than to belabor it. “It's a little faster than your model. The camera is better, not that I ever use it. I'm surprised Politifix doesn't keep your equipment up to date.” She ate the fry.

  He popped another with a shrug. “Hell, I've barely got a grasp on all the functions, and I've never downloaded an app. It’s good enough, if I could only keep it charged. Besides, if I had your version they’d expect me to take pictures or shoot video, and I like to see Rick Higgins keep getting Politifix’s freelance work. He’s good, and he needs the money.”

  “I never thought they’d whack Rick. My God, the cuts have gone to the bone.”

  Sam snorted. “News was always a shitty business, but now the suck factor is 20 times when you were in D.C. The Tribune’s staff is down by nearly 25%, and those who are left must feel like they’re with Hitler in the bunker.” She shook her head, and Sam added, “At least your old man owns the Journal. He’ll be there until they cut off the lights.”

  At the mention of her husband, Tess asked, “What did Swede say about Jack?”

  “If you were curious, you could have stayed and listened,” Sam answered.

  She shook her head, taking another. “Too weird.”

  “Well, you’re just going to have to wait and read my story for all of it. But he denied fixing Speed Racer’s tickets.”

  “Jack’s tickets are small potatoes, and you know it.” The fries were going fast.

  “Can I quote you on that?” he laughed, and she finally gave him a grudging smile.

  “Do you still write before you finish the reporting?” It was a technique he used: going through a story again and again incorporating each interview as soon as possible after it was done. He liked getting things down while the conversations were fresh. It helped him spot holes in the story, and he always had something to show his editors.

  He nodded. “Yeah. And I got to tell you Erickson’s starting to look a little dicey.”

  “You got anything besides speeding tickets to back that up?”

  “Little red flags here and there. But you’re pretty close to him, after all, you call him ‘Swede’ in his own home.” He mocked the way Erickson had chided her to use his nickname that morning. “What do you think?”

  She looked a little sheepish and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m grateful for everything he did for Jack, but sometimes I just get an uncomfortable feeling …”

  “Like when you read John Boy's column about Erickson’s father?” Sam broke in.

  She sighed. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about Jack anymore.”

  “No, we weren’t going to talk about our past anymore. You were the one who brought up Hoss and the candidate, which reminded me. That column was as big a shill as I’ve ever seen, and if you think Erickson didn’t order it up, living in the country has given you mad cow disease. I found it offensive, as a journalist. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t too.”

  She sighed, “OK, Jack’s going to have to go onto our conversation moratorium list if you want those pictures. I’m not going to defend that column, but I’m not picking it apart with you either.”

  “Fair enough,” Sam conceded, and looked at his watch. “Speaking of work, we’d better get at it.”

  At the Jeep, he hopped into the passenger’s seat as she walked around. Glancing down, he spotted his electric razor and quickly reached down, shoving it between the console and her seat before she got in.

  He was unusually quiet, riding back to the hotel after the interview. While Tess talked about some of the shots she was pleased with, and went over when Politifix should expect the Lindsborg photos, Sam only nodded his head. “You tired?” she finally asked.

  “Yeah, a little, I guess.”

  She looked over with a little frown of concern. “You feel OK?”

  “Sure, just anxious to blow this burg. The small-town reaction finally kicking in, I suppose.”

  “Well, nothing new there,” she said with a challenging grin, but he only nodded again. “You leave tomorrow?” Again the nod. “Early?”

  “Ungodly.” After a pause, he asked quietly, “You going all the way back to Lindsborg tonight?”

  “Yes, but I’m still going to do some Christmas shopping before I leave. Tell them to send my check quick, because I’m spending the money today.”

  “Careful, Toughie. You know the freelancer is always the last one paid. This was good, working with you again. We always did have it down to a science, you know.” She smiled. “You and Hoss really going to New Hampshire, like Erickson said?”

  “That’s the plan,” she said. “It’ll be a clusterfuck,” Sam’s mouth turned up slightly at her use of the word, “but Jack wants a taste of campaign. Will you be there?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Johnson says they’ll put Bundy on Erickson out there.” She wondered why, but didn't ask. They were quiet again.

  Finally, she drew a deep breath and said, “Sam, when I email these shots in, I’m going to ask them not to use a credit line.” She pulled over in front of the Marriott and killed the engine. He was silent. “It’s too much, after all those other stories we did together, you know?”

  “Fine.” She waited, but Sam didn’t say anything more.

  “It'd get the whole Tribune newsroom talking again, not to mention the ex-Triblets all over the country. Bundy would have a field day, another Waterman story with Benedict pictures. I don't want …”

  “Look, Tess,” he broke in. “Do whatever you want. I really don’t give a damn. I wasn’t kidding before. The subject of our past is starting to bore me shitless.”

  “Oh,” she was flustered by his bluntness and embarrassed that she’d pressed him with an explanation. “I just thought I should mention it, in case someone asks you for the credit.”

  “I’ll remember. No credit line.” He popped the door open. “Be careful driving home.” He started to get out, and then leaned back, just for a second, his hand closing over hers on the gearshift, and gave it a squeeze.

  She watched him go into the lobby, and then pulled away.

  It was dark, almost eight, when she got into the Jeep, but her Christmas shopping was nearly done. Leaving a downtown store called Sticks, she’d just spent two hours picking the color scheme and design for a custom-made storage unit for Jack. She was particularly pleased with the words, “Seize the Day, Relish the Night, Follow Your Heart,” that would be carved across the top. Dreading the long drive back, she flipped the ignition, and reached down to plug in her iPhone, noticing for the first time that something was jammed beside the console. With a frown, she picked up Sam’s razor. Tempted to chuck it into the trash, she just stared at it. And she remembered how many times she'd watched him shave his heavy beard on the fly.

  She grabbed her phone, found the number for the Marriott and rang his room. The line was busy. For a long moment, she just looked out the windshield, realizing she’d thought about him on and off the while she shopped, picturing the slump of his shoulders as he walked away. She remembered he’d said his room number was 412, and she put the truck in gear.

  In his hotel room, Sam sat comfortably at the desk, his shirt untucked, his sleeves rolled up, and the hotel phone tucked under his chin, listening as Steve Johnson discussed the draft of the profile he’d sent in an hour before.

  “I don’t know, Sam. This stuff about Westphal and those speeding tickets, well, there’s some question of conflict, considering that you were, well, that you had a … a connection with her.”

  Sam had been nodding the whole time Johnson was struggling to delicately spit out his concern. “Yeah, I know. But with the source from the Highway Patrol, it’s nailed down pretty solid. If I didn’t put it in, wouldn’t it look like I was cutting
Westphal a break because of her?”

  “Maybe,” Johnson sighed. “I probably should have pulled you off the profile as soon as you mentioned Westphal’s her husband." Sam didn't bother responding, knowing it was too late for them to pull him now. "Does she know you’re onto this?”

  “She knows I was asking about it.”

  “Did she ask you not to use it?”

  Sam laughed. “Come on, Steve, she knows better than that. She expects it to show up in the profile someplace, and so does he.”

  Johnson sighed again. “OK, move it down in the story, near the bottom.”

  “No problem.” And then Sam asked, “So, am I set for New Hampshire? I’d prefer to stay on Erickson. He looks like the frontrunner.”

  “I told you last night it was a go. Dodson signed off on the plan this morning, and he mentioned specifically that he wanted to keep you on Erickson. There’s no reason to think Westphal’s going to be a factor there, right?”

  “Right.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Sam frowned, thinking someone had the wrong room. He got up and went to open it while Johnson asked, “How much reporting do you have left?”

  “I want to get to some sources on the Hill; a few lobbyists and Harkin, of course …” He swung the door open, and his eyebrows shot up. Tess was on the other side. For a moment he just stared at her, then pushed the door wider, covering the receiver and saying with a grin, “Just like old times.”

  “What?” Johnson asked.

  Tess hesitated, the razor in her hand, and Sam grabbed her arm and pulled her in, saying into the phone, “Look Steve, I think that covers it. I’d better get off this hotel line. You know how expensive it is,” Sam was talking fast, anxious to get off before Tess headed back out the door.

  “What?” Johnson asked again. “Wait a minute. I still …”

  “OK, then,” Sam hung up. Tess silently held out the razor. “Ah, damn it, I’m sorry.” He took it with a wince. “It was good of you to come all the way back with it. I suppose it would have been awkward to explain to Stretch if he’d come across it, huh?” She just raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been forgetting shit everywhere these days. I still haven’t bought a new charger for my phone. Johnson says I have to pay for it.” He put the razor and the phone back on the desk.