by Bunn, Davis
Shirley Wainwright said, “The banks will hire a high-powered television presenter to grill their man before he goes on air. They go over and over every conceivable question. He is coached to smile and gesture smoothly and respond with warmth. A team of PR types sit in a circle and feed their man the most damaging possible responses. Terry got prepped like this a couple of times a year.”
Elena did not respond. Her attention remained tightly focused on the screen. The former secretary’s eyes were colored a clear washed gray and held nothing. Every time the camera shifted from Lawrence back to this man, Elena felt enveloped by old smoke. It coated her nostrils and her tongue. She felt it seep down the back of her throat until she feared she might gag.
Lawrence Harwood said, “Today the major US banks spend one million dollars per day to lobby and influence Congress. Foreign banks together spend another million dollars per day. In Washington. That is collusion. That is how important they consider this legislation. That is how worried they are about my commission.”
“I’m sorry, Lawrence, but you’re wrong on that point as well.” Easton Grey dismissed his opponent with a smile. “Our system already has sufficient oversight in place. And far too many laws, as everyone watching this program knows firsthand. Another commission will only add further strain to an already overburdened financial system.”
Larry King asked a question Elena did not bother hearing. Her attention remained fastened on Lawrence Harwood. He wore the grim expression of a man who already knew he had lost, but fought on because he had to.
Lawrence Harwood said, “One hundred and twenty-five former members of Congress and White House cabinets are now employed by the banking industry and their lobbying affiliates. This revolving-door policy has been copied from the military-industrial complex. And we all know how much that has cost the American public. Decades of cost overruns, lax oversights, boondoggling, it’s all part of the banks’ plans. Their version of the five-thousand-dollar hammer is just around the corner.”
The former Treasury secretary laughed out loud. “This is just too rich. There is no secret collusion going on here. I sacrificed five years of my career and over three million dollars in lost salary in order to serve my country. The President called, and I went. The President chose me because where else would the administration find the talent to run the nation’s finances than inside a successful financial institution? The last time I checked, this was still a free country. Run on sound business principles.”
Larry King thanked each of his guests and the program switched to a commercial. Elena cut off the set as Shirley rose slowly to her feet. “I’ve been filled with sorrow and helpless anger since Teddy died. I keep hoping …”
Elena nodded slowly, her eyes on the empty screen.
“Lawrence didn’t land a single blow,” Shirley said, and opened the door. “I wish I hadn’t seen this. I wish …”
Long after Shirley departed, Elena remained where she was.
Elena lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The drapes did not close fully. Every passing car sent a ribbon of light flickering across the ceiling. Her cell phone vibrated on the bedside table. She rolled over and checked the readout, wishing her heart did not race with anticipation that Antonio might call. Even this late. As though she were a teenager again. But the phone showed a US number she did not recognize. Elena assumed it was a friend of Miriam’s family and was tempted not to answer. But with the memorial service the next afternoon, she knew she had no choice. “Hello?”
Sandra Harwood asked, “Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“I’m not surprised, with what you’re facing. I’m so sorry I’m not there for you.”
“You’re where you need to be.”
“Can we talk? I know this is a terrible time. But I’m so worried.”
Elena rose from her bed and pulled open the drapes. The street beyond the motel parking lot had emptied. The night was slick with rain. Water dappled the window. “About Lawrence?”
“He is devastated. He feels like whatever he does, they are ready for him. He spends his days pounding on locked doors and losing every battle. Those are his words.”
Elena angled the chair so she could watch the night and the rain. She hugged her knees to her chest, slipped her nightgown over her legs, then tucked it around the edges of her toes, like a tent. It was a habit from childhood and still brought a measure of comfort.
Sandra went on, “He’s been through tough times before. My role has always been the same. I play the wise woman. He comes to me with his problems. I’m able to see what he can’t. The opposition’s weakness, the offer that will turn things around, the unspoken desire, the one point that no one has addressed.”
“It’s your gift,” Elena said.
The city night sounded very different from her home. A London taxi trundled along the wet road, its motor making an unmistakable sound, like a metallic bullfrog. A car trunk lid slammed shut. Footsteps and voices drifted up from the parking lot. Elena saw a shadow flicker past the motel’s front entrance. She assumed it was Charles, off on another nightly patrol.
Sandra was saying, “I spend my days sitting inside a Washington hotel room. I watch Lawrence get ready for another meeting. He feels he’s lost before he leaves. Nothing I say makes any difference. I feel …”
Elena turned and stared at the empty sheet of paper lying on the desk beside the television. The words she was supposed to speak at the memorial service still had not come. “I understand.”
Sandra asked, “Is it possible to feel something so intense you can’t either name or describe it?”
Elena replied, “You feel as though your days are wasted. You feel as though you have lost your center of gravity. You know you should be doing something, but you don’t know what. You feel guilty that you don’t feel closer to God. You know he is in control but you don’t understand what role you’re supposed to play. All you feel is lost and alone, and you’re too honest with yourself to pretend otherwise. You are afraid that you’re not getting anything right. That maybe God has spoken to you, and you missed it. And that leaves you feeling even guiltier than before.”
The only sign Sandra Harwood gave that she was crying was the lingering silence. Finally she asked, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Let’s pray together,” Elena replied. “Maybe God will answer us both.”
33
SUNDAY
Elena spent Sunday morning with her parents. Over a late breakfast, her father announced they were taking the evening flight back. Elena glanced at her mother’s wan features and knew it was a bad idea. But she also knew her father was ready for what would be another futile argument. She could already hear the reasoning, how her mother had not slept well, how she was better off in familiar surroundings. The truth was, her father felt unable to control things here. Elena simply said she was certain he would do what he thought was best.
The weather cleared around noon. Antonio never called. As she checked out of the hotel, Elena wished there was some special formula she could use to make herself not care.
The memorial service took place where Miriam had worshipped. The parish church stood inside a waist-high stone wall that bordered Hampstead Heath. The meadows and the springtime trees glowed with a promise of new beginnings. The church was Norman and dated from the very earliest days of the twelfth century. The doors leading to the squat tower were open, and Elena watched the bell ringers toll a timeless welcome. The nave’s ancient stone and stained-glass windows glowed with a honeyed warmth in the afternoon sun.
If Brian Farringdon found anything unusual in Elena’s decision not to say anything, he gave no sign. He spoke eloquently about their departed friend, spent a few minutes at the reception afterward at Miriam’s home, then rushed back to Oxford for the evening service.
Charles drove Elena and her parents to Heathrow. Shirley Wainwright remained a silent presence in the f
ront seat. At the terminal, Elena hugged her parents and waved them through the security line, wishing she could put more heart into her farewells.
On the return journey to Oxford, Shirley said, “Gerald received a call from Nigel Harries. He wants to talk with me tomorrow afternoon.”
“How does he know about you?”
“I have no idea. I suppose Sandra must have said something.”
“Nigel is part of our group. And a very good man. Isn’t that right, Gerald.”
“The best there is in this game, ma’am.”
Shirley said to her side window, “I’ve had my fill of police who repeat their questions a hundred times and don’t listen to a word I say. They think I’m crazy to even suggest Teddy had anything other than just a normal heart attack.”
“Nigel isn’t like that. If he says it’s important, I think you should talk with him.” When Shirley did not respond, Elena continued, “I want you to come stay with me.”
“That’s very kind. But to be frank, I’m beginning to think my daughter may have been right. That I came for all the wrong reasons.”
“I can’t say anything about that. But as long as you do stay, I want you to be my guest.”
Shirley turned from her surveying of the side window. “Why?”
“We are all in this together,” Elena replied. “Maybe all that connects us is a lack of clarity and our fears. But we still need to rely on one another.”
Shirley nodded slowly. “I see why Sandra speaks of you as she does.”
Elena had turned her home’s two extra bedrooms into an exercise room and study. As she made up the sofa with sheets and a blanket, she felt the home’s currents move in odd directions. She wished her guest a good night and retreated to her own room. As Elena settled into bed, she decided inviting Shirley Wainwright to stay with her had been the right decision. She had been alone long enough.
Elena felt as though she had just managed to fall asleep when the phone rang. She fumbled around the bedside table before she managed to snag the receiver. “Hello?”
Antonio said, “I’m sorry to bother you. But I had no one else to call.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve had another dream.”
Elena rose from the bed and padded into the bathroom. She washed her face and slipped on her robe, then returned and picked up the phone. The bedside clock read one in the morning. “All right. I’m back.”
“I haven’t contacted you for days. I was not able to join you for the memorial service. Now I wake you. Only when I need you do I call.”
It was precisely what Elena had been thinking. But she replied, “I’m glad you did.”
“It is just, when I woke up, I was filled with an utter certainty that phoning you was very important.”
“It is.”
“I’ve missed you, Elena.”
She drew her robe more tightly against the sudden tremors. “Why haven’t you called me?”
“Things are not good. In fact, they’re terrible.”
“Where are you?”
“Brussels. A hotel room. As alone and worried as I have been since I lost Francesca.”
Elena had an impression of the man sitting up in a strange bed, a pile of pillows plumped behind his back. His tousled hair, his worried gaze, his drawn and weary expression, it was suddenly so vivid that she felt as though she were seated beside him.
Antonio went on, “After our meetings and prayer times, I have felt so certain of everything. But the opposition I face, you can’t imagine how hard they are attacking. I have given a number of interviews. At the time, what I said felt right. But afterward, I have doubted …”
“Everything.”
“Yes.”
“Even me,” she said. “And what I represent.”
“I’m so sorry, Elena.”
“Do you want to tell me about your dream?”
“It came and went in a flash. That was what I thought when I woke up. That I had been struck by lightning. Twice.”
“The dream has come two times?”
“Once just after I went to sleep. Another time just before I phoned. Both times I felt I had to call you. As though the need to call you was the last portion of the dream. Is that normal? I mean, feeling this way.”
“We are all in new terrain here. If we were discussing dreams from your own subconscious, I would tell you that each framework is new and derived from a specific emotional issue.”
“I’m so glad we’re talking, Elena.”
“Describe what you saw.”
“I am standing in a formal chamber, like so many I have visited over the past days. People swirl around me. I stand before a man whose face I cannot see. He raises a gun and I stare down the barrel. The opening grows as big as a cannon.” Antonio’s accent strengthened with the tension. “He shoots me. In the mouth. I fall to the ground. I leave my body and rise up. I look down but I cannot see myself. The man whose face I cannot see leans over me. Other men and women without faces come forward and crowd around him. They look down at me and pat the shooter’s back. Finally they draw back and I see myself. Then the dream starts over again.”
Elena felt a hum circulate through her, an energy vibrating far above the range of normal senses. It grew with each word Antonio spoke, as if they were both hooked into a high-voltage charge. “The exact same dream repeats itself?”
“The same but not the same.” Antonio’s breathing became harsh, rasping. “It is the same man and the same gun. I am shot. I rise up. The faceless people gather. Only this time, when I am able to see the body lying on the ground, it is not me. It is Lawrence.”
Elena fought against a force that now locked her chest up tight. “Something is happening.”
“Elena?”
“They are gunning for you both. They are going to silence you.”
“You sound … different.”
“Call Lawrence. Tell him the dream. Tell him I said …”
“Yes?”
She gritted her teeth and shook with the effort required to say “They’re coming.”
“What do we do?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“But we stand to lose everything.”
She clenched her eyes shut so tightly that she saw stars. And something more. “This is not your battle.”
Elena sat for a time staring out the rain-streaked window. Twice she saw Charles’s shadow pass from left to right, walking her home’s perimeter. But she remained too captured by the power filling her room to concentrate on anything else.
Eventually she shifted to the desk and opened her laptop. Elena drew up the image from the book of dreams, then opened her Bible to the passage of First Corinthians she had been studying. The power she had felt during her conversation with Antonio had not so much faded as leveled off. The burning intensity remained with her still.
Elena read a passage that appeared rimmed by fire. “For the Kingdom of God is not a matter of words, but of power.”
For the first time, Elena saw everything she had been enduring as a period of preparation. The hollow days and futile hours, even her doubt and false cravings, all had played a vital role. She saw that clearly now.
It was all part of God’s plan.
She lowered herself to her knees and spoke the tersest prayer in years.
“I’m ready.”
34
MONDAY
I want to help. I need to.”
Elena sat across the desk from Brian Farringdon. The vicar of Saint Aldates sipped his first cup of coffee. He glanced at his watch, clearly drawn to whatever Elena’s unexpected arrival had pulled him from. She found herself vaguely jealous of the man and his busy schedule. Other than the five-minute gathering at noon, she had one patient that day. One.
Brian picked up his phone, dialed, and said, “Ask Janine to join us, please.” He listened a moment and said, “I’ll be a while yet. Why don’t you start …” He listened, then said more sharply, “What has come up is important too.
I’ll be there when I can.”
Elena winced at the force he used to replace the phone. “I’m so sorry—”
“Stop right there.” He sipped from his cup. “I’m the one who needs to be apologizing here.”
“What are you talking about?”
There was a knock at his door. He raised a finger to Elena. Wait. “Come in.”
Janine opened the door. “You wanted to see me?” She sounded very cross.
“Join us. Please.”
She slipped into the chair beside Elena. She glared at Brian.
Brian said, “On the way back from the memorial service yesterday, Janine and I had our first true quarrel.”
Jane interrupted, “Really, Brian. Could that possibly be of any interest to her?”
“Actually, yes.”
“I hardly think now is the time for us to bring in a relationship counselor.”
“I did not call Elena. She came on her own.”
Janine crossed her arms. Waited.
Brian nodded at Elena. “Be so good as to repeat what you were telling me. Start at the beginning.”
Elena hesitated.
“This is important, Elena. For all of us. Please.”
“I feel as though I had another message from God last night. I know Brian says I should set doubt aside at these times, but I can’t. I’m afraid of a lot of things right now, most especially getting a divine message wrong, or hearing the wrong voice. I have my own desires, and they are so fierce that I often want to claim they are God’s desires for me as well as my own.”
Janine glanced across the desk. She uncrossed her arms.
Elena said, “I have watched one bit after another of my former life peel away. And I hate it. It’s painful. I feel like I’m living inside a vacuum. What’s more, I don’t feel that there’s any role for me in this new work. It’s not enough for me to lead these brief daily meetings and occasionally pass on a divine message. I spend hours and hours doing nothing at all. I hate it. Maybe I shouldn’t use that word. But I do. I loathe this feeling of wasted days.”