Woke Up Lonely

by Fiona Maazel

  My darling girl, is there anything else I can tell you? Have I documented every stop along the plummet to this day? Should I buss your toddler socks and press them to my cheek? Will you think on me more kindly if I say I have the dried columbine of your mother’s bridal bouquet in my safe?

  I only had you for a year into life, but I still have memories that come upon me all day long. You in turtle pose, a month old, staring at the fuzzy dice I’d bought you myself. You swaddled in a ladybug blankie and wanting out. Your Mohawk hair and your arms thrown overhead as you slept. Your cactus pose. Your Jesus pose. Your seal and ostrich pose. The distended belly. Six rolls of fat per leg. The day it was five. You wobbling on all fours, going nowhere. Your callused little knees once you got going and never stopped.

  I know you don’t know me, and that you never did. You’ve grown so much. I was in D.C. a couple weeks ago, and I saw you. You were walking in green rubber boots with a frog face on each side. Soon you will need a new pair. I bet you look just like your mother. I hope you listen to her in all things, even though you are getting smarter all the time. If one day you ever wonder about your dad, please know that you are all he ever thought about from the moment you were born.

  V. In which some women bat their eyes, others sit down and write. Guided by voices. The inconsolable child.

  V. In which some women bat their eyes, others sit down and write. Guided by voices. The inconsolable child.

  ESME WAS CONCUSSED AND LOCKED IN A HOTEL BATHROOM. There was dusk out the window, bullfrogs in one ear—no, both—and a bellows whumping through her brain at three-second intervals. She’d been passed out the entire afternoon, and, for the girth of the swell atop her skull, she guessed Jim had whacked her hard. The irony of getting knocked in the head while giving head was not lost on her, though it was also not top on her list of ignominies that needed undoing.

  Jim had left her bag but no wallet or phone. No one was likely to come up to this room uninvited. The window was too small to get through, and even if she could, it was eight floors up. The lock had been jacked; she would be in this bathroom until Martin got a clue. Tick-tock.

  She rinsed her face and showdowned with the loony in the mirror. By now, she knew, the siege was being broadcast worldwide. The thinking: We need to appear as though we’re doing everything in our power to get our people released and to hold accountable the delinquent who sent them there. We. Ha. There was no we. There was just her and her madness and a break from the certainty that had floated her for years: that she would figure this out, hatch a plan, marshal the weaponry at her disposal against the anomie of love. The anomie of love! Who still pines for the same man nine years later?

  One of her pupils was bigger than the other, as though to render the distribution of wherewithal that characterized her inner life. Much passion, no hope. Bold moves, no endgame, though the sequence of events that had gotten her here had been nothing if not a great match ranged across the board.

  She sat on the floor. The tile was cool under skin. Even if she got to Cincinnati in time, what could she make happen? A guy who detains four federal employees has no intention of coming out alive. So for starters, her job would be to change intent. What she needed was a rhetoric of persuasion. How to spellbind in five minutes, because that was about all the patience the feds had left for this. Frank Spearman, who tried to talk down Randy Weaver at Ruby Ridge, wrote out what he was going to say on index cards. So that’s what she would do.

  She found a pen in her bag. Checked her watch. She numbered her pages. She wrote:

  1. Lo, if I’m reading this out loud, it’s because you still haven’t come out and time is not on your side. But I’m not sure what to say. You think you screwed up? Is that the problem? Let me tell you about screwing up. Maybe it will help.

  2. I am an eavesdropper and a snoop. This you know. But what you don’t know is how it all started for me. It started when I was a kid. My dad had been in the Arctic in ’58, so I read everything about the International Geophysical Year and also a Time magazine article about a daring rescue—twenty scientists stuck on Drift Station Alpha as it broke apart, this mile-long ice floe, maybe 150 feet deep, that meandered around the North Pole while guys like my dad took notes on zooplankton and also on what the Russians were saying to each other from one submarine to the next. In ’58, six years after the NSA came to life and eight years after its predecessor failed to predict the Korean War or the PRC’s intervention, no one was messing around. SIGINT, COMINT, ELINT, were the order of the day, and so my dad spent months adrift in the Arctic Ocean, where there is no horizon, no color threshold between earth and sky, just the white-ice pageantry of one lonely day kissing its way into the next.

  3. Some families have a swing set in their yard; we had an octoloop. A giant antenna, looked like a stop sign, three-quarter-inch copper pipe and telephone cable with gimbaled support beam through the middle, used to snatch VLF sound waves from the universe. Schumann resonances. Tweeks, whistlers, sferics—the low-frequency din life makes beneath our capacity to hear it. The physicist Schumann, who predicted the resonance of lightning emissions, was not related to the German composer of the same name, but I find it no small coincidence, the one a conjuror of some of the most arresting melodies on earth and the other sensitive to music of the earth’s devising. My dad used to amplify what came through the loop—think fat in a hot skillet—and listen to it like opera while I did my homework on the carpet. Our soundtrack? The world’s underbreath, one breath at a time.

  From there it was easy to augment my fixation with voice. Voices in code, voices out loud, voices in whose timbre were hints of regret for everything the speaker hadn’t done or said now that it was too late. Who wouldn’t want to listen to that?

  4. After the air force, my dad worked for Disneyland, which you probably remember. Back then, I was at the age when everything your parents do seems lame, but I didn’t mind the Horseshoe Revue and even got to like it after I spied my dad with Slue Foot Sue, costar of the revue, with her breast poised above his mouth, and him on his knees, going for it like a circus seal.

  I watched the scene play out. And realized, with some measure of shock, that I would not tell my mother or confront my father, but that I wouldn’t suffer the isolation secrecy brings it its wake, either. Quite the opposite. I felt closer to my dad for knowing he was in pain. I also felt closer to knowing what I wanted to do with my life.

  5. Maybe I’m not doing a good job of this. But how can I explain my choices without explaining it all? God knows I didn’t tell you much when we were married. So, first my dad had an affair; then came my brother’s surfing accident. About that part, my family’s grief was private, even as its furnishings were hard to miss. We never spoke his name. I don’t know how it happened, but from one day to the next, his name was taboo. His photos vanished from the fridge, his trophies and gear, and all were deposited in his room, whose door stayed locked. I figured my parents had fondled each item and packed it gently in a box while I was at school. But no, they had hired a moving company to shove it all in a few plastic crates and pile them in the boy’s closet. That’s what it said on the order form I saw tacked to the fridge—The boy’s closet. After that, I figured they crept into his room at night, or maybe while I was at school, to go through his stuff and whisper his name. I tied a length of thread from the doorknob to the frame so that if it opened even an inch, the thread would break. Then I checked this thread, which never broke, every day for five years.

  My mom took up with someone who worked at Disney’s rival amusement venue, Knott’s Berry Farm, while my dad kept on with Slue Foot. I bought books about satellites and radio waves. My dad lost his arm to a crossbeam in the theater where he worked; Disney paid him millions. My mom left Knott’s, and then it was like a contaminant had settled in the house. Something dark and horrible that confined us to our own lives and made it impossible for us to talk to each other ever again.

  6. Any idea how hard it is to get security clearance wh
en you have no fingerprints? It took months, and in those months I could have gone to grad school, changed paths, started fresh. Instead, it was three years of Korean and a year’s worth of NSA interviews, whose gist ranged from scenario to psych. A thousand questions. A thousand million. Your boyfriend threatens to break up with you unless you tell him what you did today; how do you respond? Do you think that family is more important than work, and if so, would you compromise your work to protect them? Already, these people seemed to know the grim stuff of my ambition.

  7. My first job: Middle of nowhere, Australia. Eight hours a day listening to the North Koreans. Most tracking stations are remote, for the obvious reasons of privacy and uncluttered airspace, but what really matters is being within the footprint of a satellite’s broadcast range. Hence: Nowhere, Australia, under Intelsat 2, stationed over the Pacific Ocean and handling the equivalent of 1,100,000 pages of text per second. It was grueling work, and peculiar for its mix of boredom and anxiety, both of which verged on the unbearable.

  8. When you eavesdrop, you have to probe what you hear for nuance and sarcasm, doublespeak and lies. You have to wonder if they know you’re listening. You don’t have the pressure of an analyst, who has to slog through what you’ve translated and decide what’s important, but you do have the problem of making sure you transcribe accurately the intent of what you hear. Old friends and colleagues share a language no one can fathom without initiation. It took me three years of listening to North Korea’s vice foreign minister before I could diagnose the timbres of his voice, because the man never said what he meant, and I mean never.

  9. There are so many ways to die, it boggles the mind. But the thing that’s really going to get us, and what people don’t talk much about since the end of the Cold War, is nuclear proliferation. I was sixteen when The Day After aired; it wrecked me for months. Me and everyone else, though apparently the movie’s premise—that there would actually be a day after nuclear holocaust—was supposed to gladden our response to the prospect. It didn’t. In 1983, the Non-Proliferation Treaty was thirteen years old. Its gist: countries that have weapons should not help countries that don’t to acquire them, but if you do help, not much harm will come to you, because the NPT has no teeth. Join the NPT regime and you can leave anytime without consequence. If it’s in the interest of Consarc, Hewlett-Packard, and Honeywell to sell “dual use” nuclear equipment to the highest bidder, go right ahead. The International Atomic Energy Agency can inspect only nuclear facilities that declare themselves, and need permission from the host country to inspect anything else, and, on the crazy chance anyone gets upset about the nine thousand ways you have violated the treaty, it doesn’t matter, because the UN will not vote to impose sanctions for fear of reprisal. In short, Iran, Libya, Algeria, North Korea, Pakistan, India, South Africa, Israel, and Iraq—not to mention all the states that tumbled out of the Soviet Union—either had the bomb and weren’t talking about it or were getting there quick. There were some successes—Libya and South Africa, for instance—but all it takes is one North Korean twink with pompadour, and wham: the day after.

  10. In 1994, things got hot in North Korea. That was the year they’d defuel the core of their reactor at Yongbyon, unload enough plutonium for about five nuclear bombs, and threaten war if the UN Security Council imposed sanctions. It was looking very bad, very scary, and all of us on the line were listening hard. And getting nervous.

  11. Need some context for all this? I’ll give it to you. Two years before, things were on the up: North and South Korea were about to sign a denuclearization agreement for the peninsula. The North had agreed to the IAEA’s safeguard protocols; the South had agreed to suspend Team Spirit (which is, ridiculously, a series of war games between the South and the U.S., designed to flaunt their ordnance). The U.S. withdrew all nuclear weaponry from the region and had gotten past the flirting stage and into the first high-level talks with the North in forty years. An accord seemed likely.

  But no. Delicate are the overtures between nations that hate each other. Suddenly, the South wanted access to all of the North’s nuclear facilities. The North balked. The South threatened to reinstate Team Spirit; the North balked. The IAEA insisted on special inspections of two undeclared sites; the North balked. Team Spirit went on as scheduled, the North announced plans to withdraw from the NPT, and everyone was screwed. What did North Korea want? Were they bluffing? Maybe the thing to do was to let them drop out of the NPT, because, though they had signed on in 1985, they didn’t seem to have much regard for the international condemnation that ensues when you are found in flagrante. Also, they were making the NPT look weak and setting a bad precedent for other countries inclined to violate the regime on the sly. Possibly they were just stalling while they worked on their weapons program. Maybe they were just testing the lengths to which the U.S. would go to keep them in line.

  Do we reward misconduct with high-level talks? Isn’t that like negotiating with terrorists? Do we ask for help from the international community and watch it defang every resolution that comes out of the UN? What is the point of asking for things nicely? What is the point of making threats? If I were leading the free world, I would blow my brains out for indecision.

  12. By early ’94, forget accord—now it looked like war was imminent. A year’s worth of talks down the drain. The South running hot and cold, the North swathed in the most useful ambiguity I have ever seen, and the U.S. quartered by the hawks and skeptics, the people who thought Pyongyang had the bomb and the people who didn’t. Meantime, the IAEA’s director general was making noise about more safeguards being broken and was told, essentially, to can it, because at this point, bad news was not helping. The director was nonplussed, but how do I know for sure? Because we eavesdropped on him, too. The director general of the IAEA, and we were listening. I guess every diplomat knows he is being spied on—that his privacy is not inviolate, no matter the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations or the UN’s Convention on Privileges and Immunities—but I was shocked. Was there anyone we weren’t listening to? As a matter of fact, yes. No one was listening to me.

  13. At the base, when you weren’t prodding the sky for news of vital international importance, there was nothing to do but drink and fuck. Or so I’d been told, since I’d yet to see the salacious component of our tenure. The guys on duty for the three-month siege at Waco? They drag-raced their tanks from sniper hive to home base at the end of each shift. It sounds appalling, but I get it. In boredom, you will turn to anything. Me, I just doubled down on my work.

  One day, I spent hours listening to the DPRK’s negotiator, who was scheduled to meet former president Carter for a last-chance dance. The man liked to talk to himself. He was ripped with stress and grieving the loss of his mistress, who had fled to South Korea. Mostly he was shocked. Did he really want to send in the goons to haul her back? Was he really so unappetizing that she’d crossed the border to escape? Bound up in this self-pity were plaints about the negotiations. He resented his new orders—if he’d been a better man and more expert in snatching advantage from the enemy, he would have never gotten the orders—only I couldn’t tell what the orders were without listening several times over, the words coming out muffled and broken, possibly because he was speaking them into a pillow. I’d listened to him well into the evening. When my shift was over, I passed on what I knew to the next guy and called it quits.

  14. I went to the pub. I took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the negotiator. What was he talking about? Why so down on the new orders? Why so emasculated? I decided to flush my mind with the night air and get ready to listen again. I would block out everything I’d translated already, home in on the rest, and find meaning in the carnage of this guy’s self-esteem.

  I went to the cave, which is what we called a mostly neglected listening room in the basement. You went there primarily to do what I had in mind, which was to recue a tape and try again.

  15. The door was unlocked, a
nd inside were four cryptanalysts I’d seen around but never talked to. They were gathered at a work-station-turned-bar and were playing cards. I said I had some reviewing to do and not to mind me, though I was glad for the company. It’s true I kept to myself and that I liked reclusion, but this did not militate against the loneliness of just breathing in and out and all the other fundamentals you do alone each day.

  I sat with my back to the room, put on my headphones, and cued up. Okay, now pay attention. I listened once just to get back into the zone, twice to access my guy’s headspace, and a third time to parse content from emotion. By the sixth listen, I had completely tuned out his whimpers and clamor of self-disgust, but I still could not make sense of the rest. I pressed my headphones into my ears and thought: Listen.

  16. Meantime, the others were kissing. I’ll just say it: they were kissing. Not that the card game had escalated into strip poker or spin-the-bottle, just that the four had tired of one pursuit and moved on to another. I went back to the tape. I knew that this was important and that if I missed something big, I’d get fired, and that I was running out of time. And so, wouldn’t you know it, the tension that should have spurred me on to greater facility instead began to manifest in a libidinal stir whose accomplice was the knob of denim pressed against my vulva. Under the circumstances, orgasm didn’t seem like the worst idea, albeit rough, given the knob of denim and on this occasion it being the cave at a tracking base in the middle of the desert, where—what do you know—two of the four, the two who were boys, had found their way to each other.