Interlude (10 page)

“But they really can't help that much?”

“Well I'm sure you'd agree that there isn't a whole lot anyone can do apart from quiet diplomacy, enormous ransom payments, or an all-out rescue mission.”

“How would these people get my phone number?”

“It's not that difficult. Most of the news agencies have it, don't they?”

“Yes, they sure do. Every newspaper and television station in the country must have it.”

“Well, there you go. Look, let me check this name out and I'll be in touch. Thanks again, Betty. You're a gem, you know that?”

She had a sudden afterthought. “Mike, do you know anything about an imminent hostage release?”

“It's from an unreliable source, Betty. Don't get your hopes up. Take care now and have a good day.”

Betty smiled as she hung up the phone. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she enjoyed talking to Mike Brody. For one thing, he was the first person she'd met, apart from the hostage families and her friends, who appeared to be even mildly concerned about the captives. Besides, he was an attractive man who thought she was nice. Whatever the case, Betty felt better after conversing with him.

She automatically turned on the television. After a few other stories, the one she was waiting for replayed.

“An imminent hostage release is being predicted by some sources in Lebanon,” the anchorman said. “An unconfirmed report in a Beirut newspaper states that at least one hostage will be released by sundown Sunday.”

Betty tried not to get too excited, but it was impossible not to dream. She called her father. “Daddy, have you heard the news?”

“Yeah, I heard. And I've been hearing the same thing for years.” Harold hadn't missed a newscast in two decades. Even without CNN he managed to stay painfully well-informed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean these rumors get started every few months and nothing ever comes of ‘em. You better turn off the TV and go look up that Psalm I read you at Christmas. You'll learn a lot more from that than from some cockeyed raghead newspaper.”

Betty's return to Overseas Ministries International felt like a mixed blessing, more good than bad. She had to tear herself away from her telephone every morning, from the oft-fantasized call that never really came. Naturally, she'd included OMI's phone number on her outgoing message just in case “the call” actually materialized. Meanwhile, she had to get out of bed, get dressed, and be at the office on time. This required more self-discipline than she cared to exercise some mornings.

But all in all it was good to be back among caring people, most of whom she dearly loved. She was soon busy on Jim's new project—an orphanage report about Uganda. As she worked on it, her memories often carried her back to Kampala, to the hot, humid days and the charcoal-scented nights of that equatorial city. She hadn't fully recognized it while it was happening, but she and Jon had first fallen in love in Kampala two years before, while working on a book together. The memory of those days was bittersweet indeed.

Maybe some day we'll go back there together,
she tried to tell herself.
And next time, we'll be married. I'd love to see those precious children again. How they must have grown!
It seemed like an eternity since she first traveled there to meet Jon.

Her trusty OMI typewriter had been replaced by a brand spanking new computer. Friday morning she was trying to simultaneously compose her report, remember word processing commands, and not lose any important thoughts in the bowels of the machine. A frown of intense concentration was etched across her forehead. Mercifully the phone rang.

“Elisabeth, this is Claire Evans at ABC television. Sorry to track you down at work, but I'd like to schedule a guest appearance for Sunday afternoon if possible. Can you appear on our ‘Pacesetters' broadcast? We're going to be featuring two or three individuals who are working their way through a crisis.”

Betty had grown weary of television appearances, but she couldn't think of a logical excuse. “Um . . . what time do I have to be there?”

“Two-thirty. We'll send a limo to pick you up. I understand you're a writer. If you've written anything about your fiancé's captivity, we'd like to have you bring it.”

“Well, yes, I do have a poem.”

“Wonderful. That's just the kind of thing we want.”

Betty shrugged. “Okay, why not? What time will the limo be at my house?”

“Two
P.M.
Please don't wear blue or white, and no busy patterns.”

“I know. Thanks, Claire.”

“Thank you, Elisabeth.”

Jim walked in the door just as she hung up. “Who was that?”

“Oh, it was ABC television. They want me to be on ‘Pacesetters'. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, I think so. It's personality profiles or something, isn't it?”

“It's sort of a
People
magazine on the air, I guess. Anyway I told them I'd do it, although I'm not sure why I said yes.”

“It can't hurt to ask people to pray for the hostages, Betty.”

“I guess you're right. It can't hurt a thing.”

Sunday afternoon Betty dressed herself in her usual “television suit.” It was taupe wool, this time accented with a jade green scarf. Betty examined herself in the mirror. Her face seemed to be aging from moment to moment. Every day more tiny lines seemed to be forming around her eyes, beneath which were ubiquitous dark circles.

Jon won't even want me when he sees me,
she thought to herself, only half in jest.
This ordeal is taking its toll.

Santa Ana winds had blown all the pollution out of the L.A. basin, and as the black limo cruised down the Pasadena Freeway, she couldn't help but enjoy the fresh, breeze-blown scenery. The skyline of Los Angeles soared upward against a brilliant blue sky. Freeways wound around like endless serpents, bejeweled with colorful vehicles.

Jon would love this day.
Again the almost physical pain of missing him stabbed at her chest and rose in her throat. She fought it off. It was a futile sensation.

The studio was situated in Hollywood on Prospect Avenue. Betty was escorted into a dressing room, where a rather effeminate makeup artist bustled around theatrically. “God, what marvelous cheekbones!” he gushed, wielding a massive puff and sending billows of face powder heavenward.

The two other guests on the show were in the backstage “Green Room” when Betty walked in. One was the husband of a woman who had been on a life-support system for five years. The other was a woman whose husband was MIA in Vietnam. She spoke to them politely, wishing desperately she had stayed home.

What could she possibly say in response to any questions? She didn't want to talk about politics. She didn't know anything about Middle East affairs. Her personal life was nonexistent since Jon's kidnapping. All she could do was parrot Harold Fuller's orders: “Pray, wait and don't blow your top.”

“Be sure and look at the camera, not at Mr. Phillips, even when he's asked you a question,” an officious production assistant warned. Marvin Phillips, the host-interviewer was a benign sort of television personality who seemed genuinely concerned about each person he spoke to—until the cameras were off and he and his smile vanished without a trace.

The MIA wife was eloquent. She had done an admirable job of preparing her discussion about the Pentagon's apparent cover-up of Southeast Asian MIA and POW evidence. She was obviously angry, but self-controlled. And she made a strong case for the independent investigation that she felt needed to be launched. “I want my husband back!” she said firmly through almost clenched teeth.

The audience roared its approval.

The husband of the dying woman spoke simply but powerfully about the ethics of euthanasia and about his own feelings toward his wife. “You always hope for a miracle,” he explained quietly. “Even when they say there're no brain waves and no hope for recovery, you just never know what might happen. You always remember what she was like in the old days, before she got sick. I'm not pulling no plug, Mr. Phillips, I'll tell you that.”

Again, the audience responded enthusiastically.

“Elisabeth Casey's fiancé is a hostage in Lebanon. As I'm sure you know, he was kidnapped just days before their wedding last November. We all watched while this little lady's world suddenly fell apart.”

Phillips paused to ask Betty a couple of rather superficial questions, which she answered without elaboration.

“Now nearly three months have gone by since the tragic interruption of your beautiful love story. So tell me, Elisabeth, as a writer are you able to express your pain in words? Have you been able to write about your fiancé or your feelings?”

Betty found herself looking directly at Phillips, forgetting the production assistant's instructions.

“Well, yes, I've written a poem . . .”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone wildly motioning for her to look at the camera. Awkwardly, she turned her head. It seemed unnatural and impolite not to be talking to Phillips when he was talking to her.

“Would you read it for us?”

Betty was obviously nervous. Now where should she look? At the paper, of course. She had to read the words—no way would she remember them in front of a live audience. She was extremely uncomfortable and wished with all her heart that she were home or suddenly invisible or otherwise missing in action herself. Nevertheless, she began to read.

“First came the smile, then came the laughter . . .” She read the few verses without a great deal of animation. She set the paper down in her lap when she finished. The audience was silent for a moment, as if they weren't quite sure whether she was finished or not. Finally a smattering of applause began just as the director cut to a commercial.

I never meant for anyone but Jon to hear it anyway!
She tried to soothe herself in the face of such a frosty audience response.

“Thank you, you were all wonderful!” Phillips beamed and glowed. With the help of the crew, the three guests found their way out of the glaring lights and away from the crowd.

Never again!
Betty vowed angrily to herself.
Never again will I subject myself to this kind of embarrassment.

She felt like a runner-up in a talent show—a failed amateur. She chided herself for being such an absolute fool, for having exposed her most personal thoughts to the world at large. What did anyone really care about her heartaches? In that humiliating moment, as far as she could see, the people in the “Pacesetters” audience were nothing but bored voyeurs trying to inject some sort of intensity into their mundane lives.

Without a word, she gathered her belongings and all but crawled back to the limousine, grateful for its smoked glass windows. She coldly thanked the driver when she got home and unlocked the door to the sound of the ringing phone. She grabbed the receiver before the machine could pick up the call.
Maybe it's good news.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Elisabeth Casey?”

“Yes, it is,” she sighed. Once again “the call” had turned out to be an inquiring stranger.

“Ms. Casey, I'm Brian Demetrius. I'm with a band called ShakeDown. I just heard you read some lyrics on Marvin Phillips' show.”

“Yes, I just got home from there.”

“Would you consider letting us work on a tune to go with your lyrics? You may not have heard of us, but we've had two singles hit the charts in the last two years, and we want to do something for a humanitarian cause. Somebody up there's been looking out for us, you see, and this is our way of saying thank you.”

“I don't understand what you want to do with the song. What would be humanitarian about it?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't make myself clear. We'd like to dedicate the song to the hostages in Lebanon and give a percentage of the proceeds to some of the organizations that are trying to help them. How would you feel about letting us use your lyrics? You'd make some money on the deal. And who knows, maybe your boyfriend will hear the tune played in his cell. They get to listen to music sometimes, I think.”

“Well, I can't think of any reason to say no. What kind of music do you play anyway? ‘ShakeDown' sounds pretty wild to me.”

Brian named a couple of songs Betty had never heard of. Then he mentioned another—a song she actually liked very much. “You guys did that?”

“That's us!”

“I guess I never noticed the name of the band. So do you want me to mail these words to you?”

“Do you have a fax?”

“I can fax them to you tomorrow morning from my office.”

“Great. Put your address on there too. Our attorney will be sending a contract. Thanks a lot, Elisabeth.”

Betty was utterly drained when she hung up the phone. She collapsed in her chair in a weary daze, staring at the diamond on her hand. She loved the way light played with it, forever striking a different facet and surprising her with an unexpected burst of color. The effect was almost hypnotic, and she was exceptionally sleepy.

When she woke up, it was three o'clock in the morning. To her surprise, she was still wearing her television suit and jade green scarf.

This kind of thing has got to stop. I have to go to work tomorrow!

Clumsy with fatigue, she undressed, washed the makeup off her face, and gratefully slipped into bed. Just before sleep captured her again, she spoke aloud the three-word prayer that never really left her mind.

“God, deliver Jon,” she murmured, vaguely aware that the weekend was over and no hostages had been released.

Simultaneously, halfway around the world in a dark, sunless room another prayer was spoken aloud. It was offered up by a man who had all but lost his faith and yet continued to pound on the gates of heaven anyway.

“God, take care of Betty,” Jon whispered. “Keep her safe. Give her rest. And please, whatever else You do, keep her loving me.”