by Mimi Johnson
“Not comfortable? Oh, that’s a relief. Not comfortable. The woman I married used to sleep with a married man, but it made her uncomfortable.”
“I know,” she struggled to keep her voice from rising, “it has to be upsetting to find out that, that I …”
“Upsetting? For the first time I’m standing here looking at you and wondering who you, who my wife …” his voice cracked with anger.
“Stop it,” she broke in, rising to lean over the desk, “Please don’t do this. You need me to say it was wrong? Of course it was wrong. But please …”
Jack couldn’t hold still any longer and began pacing in front of the wide bank of windows. “I need to know why,” the words throbbed in the quiet room. “I need to understand how it happened. And I really need to know why you never told me.”
She pulled herself up straight. “Jack, you were crystal clear that there wouldn’t be any discussing our pasts. No talking about who or when or how."
"That's an excuse, and you know it …"
"No, it is not. You told me you never wanted to hear a word about him …”
“That was before you let him into our home.” His voice was a whip, snapping with pain.
“I didn’t,” she gulped. “I didn’t let him in. Don’t you remember? It was you, Jack. You let Swede talk you into that interview. I told him not to come …”
“That’s who you were talking to the night of the Chamber fire, wasn’t it? You were yelling over the phone at someone that night, when I came in. You said it was an old friend. He called from the Sheraton. He was there covering Swede.” He nodded as he spoke.
She didn’t need to confirm it. Gripping the edge of the desk, she said defensively, “You do not get to change the rules now. You were the one who made them. When it was your past, your women, there was no need for any explanations …”
“But none of them,” he leaned over the other side, “not one of them, ever, was married.” The last word was a cry.
She took a step back. “Yes! You’re right. It was wrong, so of course I didn’t want you to know. You are the morally superior one here, Jack, OK? Is that what you need to hear?”
“And when you were alone with him in Des Moines? When you were working with him again? I finally understand why you didn’t want the photo credit. You got back so late that night. You said you were Christmas shopping. Jesus Christ," he hesitated, looking down at the desk his face dark, "did you take our vows as lightly as you took his?”
“No,” it was a bitter whisper, and she swallowed, trying desperately to catch her temper and despair. “I almost told you so after he left here, I really did. But, Sam,” she forced the name out, “was finished gathering string …”
“You almost told me, then you knew,” both their voices rose, tumbling over each other.
“… I thought he wouldn’t be back again. There didn’t seem to be any point …”
“No point? For god’s sake …”
“… I can’t undo it, Jack, and it was over so long ago …”
“Like hell. I’ve watched him and you …”
Anger became her defense. “You were the one who said you wouldn't explain your single years. You were the one who said you never discussed one lover with another. But now that I …”
“What happened? When he moved on, the way men like him do, what did you do? Pick yourself up and go looking for the complete opposite? He’s the big time writer, journalism’s prince of darkness that has all the politicians running scared, so you what? Picked the small-time guy? The hack from the back country who …”
“What happened between Sam and me is none of your business.” There was a hardness to her face he’d never seen before. “Besides, that’s not the real problem here and you know it. Be honest, Jack and admit …”
“Honest? How can you even say the word?”
“The problem isn’t that he was married; the problem is that you're jealous of him."
"Damn straight. He nailed my wife and she …"
"I wasn't your wife then. You're in a rage because he showed you up with that profile, and this gives you an excuse to let it out. It’s still stuck in your craw, and you should ...”
“I should have known about him and you. You had opening after opening to tell me. But you let me sit here with him like a fool …”
"No, not a fool. Even Sam said, …” She stopped abruptly, her mouth slightly open, sickened by her own traitorous tongue.
He caught his breath, his face going stark white, the muscles so taut the bones beneath seemed to threaten to break through his jaw line. “What did Sam say?” It was a thin, vicious whisper.
Trapped, her anger broke, furious with herself, with him, with Sam for being so careless, and she snapped, “That telling you wouldn’t be a favor.”
His arm sent the desk lamp flying into the corner, shattering the fragile glass shade, shards skittering across the shining hardwood floor. She cried out and jumped back, her arm going up, the shining medal and chain falling from her hand. With a gasp, he pulled his arms in, across his chest, his hands tight against his ribs. In the abrupt quiet, they watched each other, the only sound their ragged breathing.
And then, he pointed a shaking hand to the floor, where St. Francis gleamed up at them. “That meant something to me. And now I’m wondering how many more are out there.”
She shut her eyes, the flush of anger draining from her face. “There’s only the two,” she said it softly, almost gently, and she ducked her head away, not wanting to face him with tears as she bent down and picked it up, “It was a gift, sincerely given.”
“To which one of us, Tess?”
She still didn’t look at him, but he could see her set her chin to keep it from trembling, her voice nearly inaudible, “Both.” She cleared her throat. “I need to step out Jack. I can’t …” She broke off, and walked quickly toward the kitchen and the front door. He didn’t stop her.
At the Des Moines airport, Swede Erickson stopped in the hallway of the VIP lounge, making sure he was alone. Pulling out his special cell phone, he punched the speed dial.
“Webster.” It was the judge’s deep voice that answered.
“I have a little job for you, your honor,” Erickson said softly. He explained all he knew about Sam Waterman’s soon-to-be ex-wife, her employment as Frederick Morton’s chief counsel on the Finance Committee and her quiet relationship with his campaign manager. “I want you to pick up the phone and spill it all to the general manager at Politifix. His name is Michael Dodson. If you can’t get to him right away, ask for Steve Johnson. Tell either of them to call,” he checked the note from Max, “Justin Alumbaugh. He’s a clerk for the committee. The kid will insist on staying anonymous, but he’ll confirm that Waterman’s wife is boinking Carlin. Stress over and over that you know she’s pulling Waterman’s strings to conduct this smear campaign.”
“You think this is enough to call him back home?”
“Probably, but I’ve got another small iron in the fire. You might also mention that you’ve had a few calls from a woman named Annabel Morales, at the New York Times. Tell the boys you’d rather not call her back. Tell them it’s not your intent to make an issue of this in the press.”
“Will we? Put it out there, if they don’t call him off?”
“Waterman’s already looking at jail. I’m betting this will fall under the category of ‘who needs it’ for his bosses. It’ll be easier to have a different reporter covering my campaign than buying more trouble for a site where they're trying to build a solid reputation.”
When they hung up, Erickson switched phones and immediately hit another speed dial number. Carly Taylor’s little-girl voice drifted over the line. Swede told her to release to the reporters from the New York and LA Times that Tami Fuller was dropping out and swinging her support to Erickson.
“I thought we were holding on to this until the right moment.” Carly was confused.
“The right moment is here. And Carly, I hope
you noticed I didn’t include Politifix.”
“I noticed. Waterman’s in Iowa right now, and I have his number. We can reach him easily. Why stiff him now when…”
“I’ve got my reasons,” Swede’s voice was gruff, and she swallowed any other protest.
“Got it, Boss.”
After she left, Jack sat in the study, staring out the windows at the growing dark for a long time. Then he got up and cleaned up the broken lamp. He couldn’t keep his mind from the image of Sam Waterman, in this very room, knowing he’d spent time alone with her here, knowing now what they talked about. He remembered Waterman roaming his bookshelves, picking up the framed pictures. Jack’s eyes fell on the one of him and Tess on their honeymoon, and suddenly he scowled, the look on Waterman’s face coming back to him clearly, as he muttered, “Pacific Rim,” through white lips.
Jack went up the stairs two at a time, and then into Tess’s workroom. Keith had told him Tess had gone to Vancouver Island right after the plane crash, saying, “She just needed a little time.” He stared at the empty space on the wall where her picture, her first painting, the one of Tonquin Park, used to hang. What had she told him about that? She hadn’t said she’d sold it. She’d told him, “Tonquin Park went today,” and he assumed, with some surprise, that she had sold it. But he knew now what she’d done.
She kept all the original prints of her work in a file cabinet in the corner of the room, and he pulled open drawers until he found the thick file labeled “Vancouver Isl.”
He’d seen many of the pictures before. They were all beautiful, and she’d used several for paintings. He came across the original of Tonquin Park, but the vague figure wasn’t any clearer in it. But then, sifting to the very bottom of the stack, he confirmed what he already knew.
There was the picture of Sam Waterman in the rain, his wet hair slick to his head, laughing and looking happier than Jack would have ever imagined him capable.
He was in bed, wide awake, at nearly one in the morning. The window was open, and it was so quiet he could hear the engine of the car approaching long before it drew close, slowing to make the turn into the drive. He heard her key in the door, and a sleepy yip from Rover in his basket in the kitchen.
He waited. But she didn’t come in. She didn’t even come up the stairs. He lay flat on his back, his hands behind his head. Waiting. After a very long time, he got up, and padded down the stairs. Everything was dark. He flipped on the hall light, and went to the study, but she wasn’t there. He went back the other way, and cracked open the door to the downstairs bedroom.
She was asleep, fully clothed on top of the bed, her arm over the dog curled next to her. Rover lifted his head as he came closer, and whimpered guiltily, knowing Jack never allowed him to come any further into the house than the kitchen. When Tess opened her eyes, he could see they were red and swollen in the dim light from the hall.
“I was afraid,” he started, but had to clear his throat. “I was afraid you weren’t coming back.”
“Of course I came back.” Her voice was muffled and thick. She rolled onto her back, and Rover slipped down to the floor and scuttled out the door.
“Where did you go?”
“I drove around for a long time. Went out to the lake. When it got late I went to the darkroom at the Journal,” she shifted a little, and sat up. “No one was there. No one saw me.”
He shrugged. “You, ah,” he cleared his throat again. “You don’t want to come up?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought, maybe it would be better if we both got some sleep.” It was a whisper.
“I wasn’t, I couldn’t,” he clenched his jaw to try to keep the tremble from his voice. “I lost my temper, Tess. I frightened you when the lamp … That was an awful thing and I shouldn’t have … I would never hurt you. You’ve got to know I would never …” his voice broke, and he hung his head. He hadn’t cried since his parents died.
She came to her knees. “I know. But it had to stop.”
He nodded. And then slowly, she put her hands on his shoulders, and allowed him to pull her close. He buried his face in her curls and whispered, “He was in Tofino with you.” He felt her nod. “That’s him, in the background of the picture.” Again, she nodded. “And you sent him your painting.”
This time, when she nodded, he drew her so close and tight he felt her tears roll down his neck. “I needed to give it to him,” her words came slowly, broken. When she finally pulled back and looked at him, her swollen eyes met his without flinching. “I needed him to have it.” She could see that he didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, but he stayed silent, his eyes miserable. “Jack," his name was a sigh, “he is a fact of my life. For good and bad. So are you."
Instead of going back upstairs to their room, he climbed onto the bed without releasing her. Exhausted, there were no more words. They fell asleep, troubled but close, both aching with guilt and blame, remorse and forgiveness.
Chapter 33
Sam got the call to come back to Washington the next morning. They put Bundy on Erickson. She’d cover him for the California primary, which now, with Fuller’s support, looked likely Erickson would take, putting the nomination in his hands. If that was the way it went, Sam would still be part of the convention coverage team, but in a lesser role.
“You know this is exactly what the dickhead wants you to do,” Sam snapped at Johnson and Dodson the evening he got back. They were in Dodson’s office, and Sam could see several of his colleagues glancing through the windows from time to time to check out what was going on.
Johnson nodded. “Probably. But it does look bad, Sam. Webster could make a hell of a case that this is a smear campaign. Judith’s your wife …”
“Not for …” Sam started, but Johnson shook his head.
“The divorce notwithstanding, she’s connected to you. And she’s got a vested interest in seeing Morton …”
“Yeah, yeah, but let’s keep our eyes on the fucking ball. If there was nothing behind this, do you think Webster or Swede Erickson would give a flying fuck? That cocksucker Westphal caught on to what I was looking into, and less than 24 hours later, I get called back home.” At Westphal’s name, Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “Jesus, how can this not smack of collusion to you two? Westphal ran to Big Brother Swede, and probably told him who my ex is and who she works for …”
“Wait, how would Westphal know Judith Sampson’s your wife?” Dodson asked.
“Well,” Sam looked away, the lines of his face pulled down bitterly. “He …”
Johnson broke in, “Does it matter? It looks bad, Sam. You know that.”
“So what are you saying? You both want to give up on getting to the bottom of Webster’s stinking appointment? Because I’m telling you it was a payoff. And don't think for a minute Erickson isn't dangling come kind of a carrot in front of that putz Tami Fuller to keep her harping on the autopsy investigation. Jesus, she's even stopped getting my name wrong."
"Oh come on, Sam! You honestly think Erickson's pulling even Fuller's strings?" Dodson's laugh was caustic. "Your ego really is out of hand."
Sam's face was livid. "So you're sold on knuckling under to Webster's fucking threats? Well, here's a flash for you; He wouldn't be making them if there were nothing to find. Back at the Trib, that call alone would have brought a whole investigative team right down on him."
"Maybe a long time ago. But you're not at the Trib any more and you work for me," Dodson's face went hard, and his eyes flashed to Johnson, who held up his hand.
"Just hear him out, Mike."
“OK, Sam,” Dodson sighed, catching his temper and setting his jaw, “Stop barking and swearing, and let's go over it.” Sam shut his mouth and jammed his hands in his pockets, flipping the St. Francis medal over and over between his fingers, bracing for Dodson’s push-back. “Your nearly ex-wife works on Morton’s committee?”
“Yes …” Sam started to go on, but Dodson waved his hand.
“She was
the one who tipped you about Webster?”
“Yes, but …”
“Twice?”
“Yeah.”
“And she’s sleeping with Carlin?”
Sam sighed. “I don’t know.”
“But you knew there was someone?”
Sam nodded. “I knew there was someone. That’s why I left … well, why she threw me out. But she didn’t name names.”
“Well, Capitol Hill scuttlebutt has pretty much pinned the tail on that donkey. It didn’t occur to you that following her tips might put our news site in an awkward position?”
Sam looked uncomfortable. “It was small stuff. I didn’t think it would track back to her.”
Dodson shook his head irritably. “It sure as hell did, and pretty easily too.”
“I’m telling you …” Sam paused, struggling to lower his voice. “Judith may have had her own reasons for tipping me, but there’s something to it. Something is seriously screwed with Erickson and Webster. Webster helped Erickson’s old man out of a jam somehow, I’m sure of it, and …”
“Tell me about that,” Dodson pointed to the chair next to Johnson. Sam sat down and went over the details of what he’d found, trying not to squirm as he talked. Even to his own ears, they didn’t add up to much.
Dodson sighed, and sat back as Sam finished. “So, what we have here is an off-the-record doctor recalling the ramblings of an alcohol-ravaged old man, and some dead shrink’s notes?” Sam didn’t answer. “You went through the court records of Webster’s cases?” Sam nodded. “Find anything there to connect him to Erickson?”
“No, but …”
“And you didn’t find one bloody thing to connect the old man to a fire, at his goddamned grocery store or anywhere else in Lindsborg, did you?” Sam had to shake his head. “Sorry, Sammy, this doesn’t cut it.”
“Mike, the doctor said the shrink made a handwritten note in the margins saying the old guy was obsessed with Webster’s appointment to the bench.”