Alexandra Waring (59 page)

Um—well, as I was saying, people said she cashed in on her looks—

WARING:

I really don’t understand how you feel free to make a statement like that. You make it sound as though she just fell out of the sky into NBC, that she didn’t do any work to get there. She did not just bounce in from a Miss America pageant. This was a woman from very modest means who worked her way up from scratch. There was no head start for her in this life. She started way back there, worked her way up to here, and then—granted—she got lucky and was thrown to the top—if you can call it lucky, considering what happened to her.

HAILER:

But how can you admire somebody who was under-qualified, supposedly a monster to people she worked with, who was taking drugs, had innumerable affairs, some with—

WARING:

Because she was there! Don’t you understand? Jessica Savitch was there for me. She was there anchoring the news for NBC on Saturday night and I wanted to be just like her. I don’t do drugs, I’ve never done drugs in my life, and I would never wish for anyone to feel compelled to experiment with them or even try them once. And yet Jessica Savitch was my idol—and it is because of her that I’m here today. And thousands and thousands of other women my age raised their sights in life because of her too—because of seeing Jessica Savitch on television, seeing that the world was possible for women in a different way than ever before.

HAILER:

Yes, but—

WARING:

So how do you explain that? How do you explain it that a person with so many problems could be such an unfailing role model to me and thousands and thousands of women like me? Jessica Savitch never let me down, me the viewer.

HAILER:

But she went on the air once—

WARING:

And stumbled over some of the words in one of the “News Updates.” Yes, I know.

HAILER:

And?

WARING:

And so imagine what you’d be saying about her if she had stormed off the set and forced the network to go to black for six minutes!

HAILER:

But they say she was on drugs.

WARING:

Yes, that’s what they say—that there was a reason for her behavior. What’s not clear is the reason why it was allowed to go on. She was certainly not the first newsperson to have a problem. But she may have been the first newswoman to, and that probably had a lot to do with it. The flip side, the nice side, is that it need never happen again.

HAILER:

Do you think Dan Rather should have been fired when he walked off the set and CBS went black?

WARING:

No, I don’t. I think people who anchor the news are human beings and are vulnerable to the traits of being human too. I think people who anchor the news are allowed to make one mistake—and not repeat it. And let me be perfectly clear on this, Dan Rather is one of the finest journalists the world has today, and I used that incident only to point out that women and men tend to be judged differently in the first place in this industry. Had it been a woman who had walked off, I’m sure she would have been fired—demoted, certainly.

HAILER:

And you think that Jessica Savitch—

WARING:

I think I’m tired of hearing people tear Savitch apart as if she made no contribution to anyone or anything. She was one of the few to come down out of the ivory tower to meet with young people, for example. She traveled all over the country to talk with us, teach us—she answered our letters, wrote a book. I mean, do you understand the significance of her relationship with viewers? That, regardless of what anyone says, regardless of anything she might have done, Jessica Savitch changed young women’s lives across America for the better? Whether you like it or not?

HAILER:

Yes, but the point is, a woman who was a role model—

WARING:

Is
dead.

HAILER:

Yes, well, of course, she’s dead.

WARING:

And that’s not paying a high enough price for you?

HAILER:

I didn’t—

WARING:

And you know, something else—I still hear people trashing her autobiography. But you know what? That book,
Anchorwoman
, contains the single most important insight about public life in America.

HAILER:

Which is?

WARING:

Jessica Savitch wrote, and I quote, “We don’t just shoot our heroes; we often destroy them by setting up unrealistic expectations.”

“Kyle says the publisher wants to send you flowers,” Will yelled to Alexandra across the Chicago affiliate newsroom, covering the phone with his hand. “Every copy of that Savitch biography was sold out in Chicago by lunchtime.”

Alexandra groaned, hiding her head under the papers in her hand.

“And he asks that you try and refrain from making any further editorials on the state of network television news.”

“Yeah yeah,” Alexandra said, swatting the air with her papers.

“Psst,” a woman said, standing nearby at the editor’s desk.

Alexandra looked over.

“I’m glad you said what you did,” she said. “I’m here because of Jessica Savitch, too.”

The Friday night DBS newscast from Chicago went very well. At the end of it, as a conclusion to this rather wild week of the tour, Alexandra looked straight into the camera (her eyes spectacular), and said, “Reporting from WCO in Chicago for the DBS television news network, I’m Alexandra Waring,” adding, under her breath, with a mischievous smile, “who is very happy to be here, believe me,” and then finished with, in her regular voice, “Good night, everybody. Have a wonderful weekend—we’ll see you Monday in Kansas City.”

At one—thirty in the morning, Central Standard Time, a set of car lights swung over the side of a gray clapboard—and—stone house. A dog started to bark. The car lights turned off, the engine stopped. The car door opened and closed. It was dark.

There was the sound of a low whistle and the dog stopped barking.

It was still.

The silhouette of a person moved along the side of the house and stopped at the steps of a small porch. Shoes were taken off and left there. A pair of stockings next. A blazer.

The figure moved on, floating across the backyard, through the split—rail fence, down through a field, through another fence, disappearing into a row of corn. There was the sound of movement, of the rustling of cornstalks, but it was a quiet sound, hushed with the night. The moon came out from behind a cloud and the field turned blue-gray, bright, under the light. The rustle, the movement of corn, continued down the row. At the far end of the field the figure emerged, slipped through another fence and ran alongside it to a grove of trees. The figure walked through the trees, hesitated for a moment, turned, and then continued on, picking up the pace, moving out of the grove and up onto a grassy rise to another fence. The figure climbed up and over to sit on the top rail.

“Hi Gran, hi Granddad, I’m home,” Alexandra said to the sky.

43
Alexandra’s Visit with Her Parents

Saturday morning Mrs. Waring said she was sorry but Alexandra couldn’t sleep in because April was going to be here before they knew it and Alexandra had to start in on the wedding books. And if Alexandra wanted a wedding dress made by the same seamstress who had made her grandmother’s wedding dress she was going to have to hurry because Mrs. Huddlesmith was ninety-four and, while she wished Mrs. Huddlesmith only good health and happiness, one never knew how long people that age would be around, did one?

As her mother sent the shades and windows flying up, flooding the corner bedroom with light and fresh air, Alexandra—from under the covers of the four—poster bed—murmured something about nearly being shot that week. Mrs. Waring said mothers couldn’t relate to guns and shootings nearly as well as they could relate to weddings, and she was sure that when Alexandra was in her old age she would much rather think back on how lovely her wedding had been than on how much nicer it would have been had she gotten out of bed that morning instead of giving in to those twisted, tormented, sick creatures of God who were determined to spread fear through the world.

Alexandra said only her mother could make sleeping in sound like letting the whole world down.

“And about this nonsense of having the wedding in New York, young lady,” Mrs. Waring said, coming to stand next to the bed, hands on her hips, her own blue—gray eyes flashing.

Alexandra groaned, squirming further down under the covers.

“Your father had to drive into Topeka this morning and left instructions that, if the wedding hasn’t moved backed to Kansas by the time he comes home, he’s only going to have four children. Lexy darling,” Mrs. Waring said, easing herself down on the bed, “you must think of your father—how it would look for him to have his very own daughter be married out of state.”

“But I don’t want a political caucus for a wedding,” came the muffled reply from under the covers,.

Mrs. Waring gave a well—placed spank to the body beneath the covers. “No, you want a New York wedding so we can all be written up in a police report instead of the social section after we all get murdered in the streets.”

Alexandra threw the covers back and sat up. “I thought you just said we couldn’t give in to twisted, tormented, sick creatures of God.”

“That doesn’t include drug dealers,” her mother told her, standing up.

“You’ve got them in Kansas City now, you know,” Alexandra said. “Two gangs, crack.”

“I’m not asking you to get married in Kansas City,” her mother said. “I’m asking you to get married in Haven Wells.”

There were several reasons why Alexandra had to be married in Kansas, according to Mrs. Waring, and she made sure Alexandra heard them all. Even when Alexandra jumped out of bed, threw on a pair of gym shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes, went downstairs, down the front porch and literally ran away from her mother—jogging—Mrs.

Waring slipped behind the wheel of the Land Rover in the driveway and followed her down the dirt access road to the fields.

Besides the fact that her father might run for office again in 1990, her mother told her (as Alexandra jogged and Mrs. Waring drove right alongside her) that, after this awful year of drought and Bob Dole not getting the party nomination for President, the state of Kansas needed her wedding to cheer everybody up. And if Alexandra’s grandparents were alive, it would kill them if Alexandra didn’t get married in Haven Wells.

“Not fair, Mom,” Alexandra said, jogging along, perspiring in the morning sun.

“But it’s true,” Mrs. Waring said, easing the clutch a little to rev the motor and accentuate her point. ( Vroommm. ) (Despite Mrs. Waring’s otherwise thoroughly lady—like demeanor and appearance, she was quite at home in four-wheel drive.)

“Granddad never thought I’d get married in the first place,” Alexandra said. “He always said that.”

“Well, your granddad had a rather cockeyed view of life to begin with, you know that, Lexy.”

And Alexandra knew it would break Dr. Bates’s heart if he didn’t perform the ceremony. He had baptized her when she was a baby, given her a Bible at ten, accepted her into the church at fourteen and had those wonderful talks with Alexandra after her grandparents died. (“And before you even suggest it,” Mrs. Waring said, “I’m quite positive Dr. Bates hates to travel. I don’t think he’s left town in forty years.”) And Alexandra’s brothers and sister hated New York. Mrs. Waring hated New York. Her father hated New York. All of their family and friends hated New York, and so how was Alexandra going to feel when she came down the aisle and saw how much everybody hated being there? (“Mother!” Alexandra said, laughing, breaking stride.)

And, last but not least, Mrs. Waring said she wouldn’t mind rubbing Alexandra’s marriage to Gordon in Tyler Mandell’s face a little.

“Mom,” Alexandra said, “I was the one who broke off the engagement. Tyler didn’t do anything—I keep telling you that.”

Mrs. Waring made a gesture, indicating that she believed this to be utter malarkey, and let her hand drop back down on the wheel. “We all know he was not what he appeared to be,” she said, addressing the horizon.

Puffing now, Alexandra said, “He’s very happily married—with a baby and everything—so I don’t know why—you say that,” and then she turned down another dirt road, losing her mother.

Mrs. Waring stopped the Land Rover, threw it in reverse, backed up, put it in first and went down the road after her daughter.

When Mrs. Waring caught up with her Alexandra stopped running and bent over for a minute, hands on her hips, catching her breath. “Mom,” she said then, straightening up, breathing heavily, perspiration running down her face, “I’ll be honest with you. One of the reasons why I—”

Her mother was frowning, looking down at something.

“What?” Alexandra said.

“Pull up your shirt,” her mother said.

“What?” Alexandra said, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist and looking down. “Why?”

“I want to see your stomach.”

Alexandra pulled her T-shirt up so her mother could see her stomach.

“Lexy,” Mrs. Waring said, raising her eyes, “how much weight have you lost?”

“Oh,” Alexandra said, pulling her shirt down.

“Darling,” Mrs. Waring said, voice softening, “you’re not getting some kind of eating problem, are you?”

“No,” Alexandra said, walking over. She leaned on the Land Rover door, looking face to face with her mother. “Really, Mom, I’m not. It just comes off, the weight, when I’m not sleeping well.”

“And why aren’t you sleeping well?” her mother asked her. She reached out and pushed a strand of moist hair back off her daughter’s face. “Hmmm? Is it too much for you? The work?”

Alexandra shook her head, averting her eyes.

“Then what is it?” Mrs. Waring asked her.

After a moment Alexandra looked at her mother. “I’m not sure if I love Gordon the way I should.”

Her mother smiled slightly. “Of course you do,” she told her.

“Even if I’m
not
in
love with him?”

“But you do love him,” her mother said,

“Yes, I do,” Alexandra said. She sighed, looking over at the field and then back at her again. “But more as a friend, I think.”

Her mother really smiled then and patted her hand. “Then you have nothing to worry about. You’ll probably have the best marriage of the lot.”

Mrs. Waring shared her thoughts on the subject of love and marriage with her daughter for the rest of the day—as they covered the county on wedding—related errands (showrooms, books, catalogs, magazines and leaflets for Alexandra to look through to give her mother some idea of what she was thinking about in terms of wedding dresses, bridesmaid dresses, tuxedos, photographers, flowers, wedding cakes, orchestras, dance floors, caterers
…
)

Mrs. Waring said it was perfectly natural for Alexandra to feel unsure about the marriage because, the older one got, the more fears one got about everything and certainly marriage was one of them. That was why it was so much easier to get married when younger—like she had and Alexandra’s sister had. But Alexandra had been on her own for so long—and she had always been like that, since she was a little girl—and so, at thirty (“Good heavens,” Mrs. Waring said, “when you stop and think that at thirty I was having my fourth child”), of course Alexandra was going to be much more nervous and doubtful about getting married than most.

And regardless of what Alexandra may have heard, marriage was no institution for star-crossed lovers. Marriage was a partnership, and the love that counted in a marriage was exactly the kind Alexandra had for Gordon—because that was the only love that endured everything. Oh, yes, romance came and went—and it did come back, Alexandra should know that and expect that, romance came in cycles and she was just in an out-cycle right now. (“You, my baby,” Mrs. Waring said, patting Alexandra’s knee, “are the product of a renewed romantic cycle in our marriage.”)

Alexandra did not say very much over the course of the day. She just let her mother drive her around the county in the station wagon, smiled at the people to whom she was introduced and nodded, yes, or shook her head, no, when asked her opinion about whatever wedding thing her mother was trying to make up her mind about.

That evening, when Mr. Waring came home and Alexandra’s sister, Elizabeth, and her husband and four children arrived, and then her eldest brother, Paul, Jr., and his wife and the two youngest of their three children arrived, everybody was in such high spirits, no one noticed how little Alexandra had to say. Mr. Waring and Paul and Elizabeth’s husband happily argued economic policies and discussed Mr. Waring’s possible reelection bid in the next congressional race, and after talk sped past DBS and the shooting and landed on The Wedding, Mrs. Waring, Elizabeth and Alexandra’s sister—in—law were into a subject from which they would never return. When Elizabeth went upstairs to find the train of her wedding dress to prove to Mrs. Waring that Mrs. Huddlesmith was wrong, Alexandra should wear a very long one, Alexandra slipped outside to lead her youngest nephew, age four, around by the barn on a pony.

Sunday morning Alexandra went to church with her parents, and Dr. Bates was so glad to see her that he said so in the middle of the service. Afterward, on the steps of the church, he said a little bird had told him they might be having “a little do here in April,” and Alexandra smiled, kissed him on the cheek, told him that her mother would keep him posted and walked away. “We understood, of course,” he called after her, “why you transferred your church membership to New York, but your home will always be here, with us, in our hearts, Alexandra.”

“Where are you and Lisa having dinner?” Mrs. Waring asked Alexandra on the way home, from the front seat of the station wagon.

“The Bristol,” Alexandra said from the back seat.

“That’s the one with the Victorian architecture you took me to once, isn’t it?” Mrs. Waring asked.

“Yes,” Alexandra said.

“Lisa who?” Mr. Waring asked, turning south onto Route 59.

“Connors,” Mrs. Waring told him. “You remember Lisa. Alexandra’s having dinner with her in the city tonight.”

“Oh, that crook Connors’ daughter,” Mr. Waring said.

“Lisa’s not a bit like her father,” Mrs. Waring said. “Is she, Alexandra?”

“No,” Alexandra said, looking out the window.

“You used to love Lisa,” Mrs. Waring told Mr. Waring. “Or don’t you remember?” She looked out her window, smiling slightly. “We remember, don’t we, Alexandra? How your father used to get around Lisa?” She chuckled softly, shaking her head.

“Lisa was a very beautiful girl as I remember,” Mr. Waring said gruffly. “Very nice, very interesting.”

“We still have that painting of hers in the cellar, Alexandra,” Mrs. Waring said. “You don’t suppose she’ll be driving out to see us, do you?”

“I doubt it,” Alexandra said.

“Good,” Mrs. Waring said, “then I won’t have to find somewhere to hang it.” Pause. “Why don’t you take it back to New York with you? You used to like it.”

“Where’s Lisa living these days, Alexandra?” Mr. Waring said.

“Denver, mostly,” Alexandra said.

“I’m glad you’re seeing her,” Mrs. Waring said. “Because remember how she said she’d never get married? And then—boom—she got married, to a nice young man—what was his name?”

“Matt,” Alexandra said.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Waring said, nodding her head. “And what does he do?”

“He’s some sort of a consultant,” Alexandra said.

“About what?” Mr. Waring said. “You have to be consulted about something specific to be a consultant.”

“About resorts, I think,” Alexandra said.

“A consultant about resorts?” Mr. Waring said.

“Well, you know,” Mrs. Waring said, “they do move in those kind of circles. Resorts and developments and the like. The Connors do.”

Connors is a crook,” Mr. Waring said. “That’s what circle he moves in. Lisa’s husband work for her father, Alexandra?”

“Indirectly,” she said.

“She’s not getting divorced, is she, Alexandra?” Mrs. Waring asked, turning around to look at her. “That’s not why she’s coming to see you, is it?”