Interlude (4 page)

“Who was on the phone?”

“A reporter from the Associated Press.”

“You're going to have to change the message on your answering machine. Don't answer the phone any more. Just screen your calls, talk to whoever you want and forget the rest.”

Betty nodded mutely.
What if Jon calls and I don't answer?
She knew he couldn't call, but what if somehow, some way he tried and couldn't get through? Sorrow weighed heavily against her chest. Suddenly she missed him more.

“I'm going out there now, Jim. Why don't you come with me?”

“Do you know what you're going to say? Do you need to write something down?”

“No, I'm fine, Jim.”

She was startled at the sight of several dozen men and woman standing on her patio. Videocam lights bathed her in an unearthly glow. Motor drives whirred. Shutters clicked.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jim said, “this is Elisabeth Casey, Jon Surrey-Dixon's fiancée. As I'm sure you can imagine, she is facing a staggering tragedy and has only been aware of Jon's kidnapping for about three hours. She will make a brief statement, and she may answer a few questions.”

Jim's strong, calm voice brought a sense of order to the impromptu conference. He nodded to Betty, indicating that she should go ahead.

“I'm Elisabeth Casey.” She looked into eyes intently focused on her face. Nervousness made her hands tremble and her voice waver.

“At four-thirty this morning I received a call from the State Department advising me that my fiancé, Jon Surrey-Dixon, had been kidnapped in Beirut. We were to be married Saturday, and as you can imagine, I'm devastated by this news. I don't know anything about Lebanon, or the hostages, or anything else. I just want to ask people to pray for Jon and for the others too. I think there are six or seven other hostages? That's all I have to say. Please pray for us all.”

A flurry of questions followed.

“Where are his parents?”

“Jon's parents are dead.”

“Are there other relatives?”

“He's never . . . not that I know of, at least not here.”

“What is the U.S. government doing to get him out?” “Are you sure he's alive?”

“What about the rest of his family?”

The reporters were all shouting at the same time. Muddled by all the confusion and unsure about how much she should say, Betty thanked them all, excused herself quickly, and fled back inside her home. Joyce was watching the television. “You were live on all three networks, Betty. You did a great job.”

The phone rang and continued to ring incessantly all day. Nearly every major newspaper in the country called, along with several wire services and television news programs. Betty desperately tried to limit her comments to as few as possible, and again and again she found herself saying more than she wanted.

Why on earth would journalists be asking for her opinion about U.S. foreign policy? Or Middle East politics? Or Israeli human rights violations? The flurry of inquiries frightened and exhausted her. And, in the midst of it all, the horrifying picture of Jon's bruised and battered face continued to play in her memory over and over again.

“Somehow, Joyce, I've got to find time to cancel the wedding.” She shook her head sadly. “I don't even know where to begin . . .”

Joyce turned to Jim, “What if I stay here with Betty today? The office can survive without me. I'll help her get things or-ganized. Maybe you'd like to bring us some lunch around noon. I don't think Betty's going to feel much like going out, and neither am I.”

Jim grinned. “Of course I'll bring lunch. I've been chief gopher for OMI long enough to know my place.”

Jim left and the calls gradually diminished. Betty wanted to keep tuned into CNN, in case there might be some change in Jon's situation. Somehow she kept dragging her feet about canceling the wedding.
Maybe they'll decide to let him go and he'll be back by Saturday!
It was an absurd hope, but she clung to it fiercely.

Joyce watched her friend carefully throughout the day. Perhaps her own illness had made her especially sensitive to other people's pain. Or maybe she was just intuitive. But she quietly said, “Betty, I think you should turn off the television, turn the phone down so it doesn't ring, and rest for a while.”

“What if someone calls about Jon? What if Jon calls?” Betty was becoming obsessed with the idea that he might suddenly emerge from his ordeal.

“Okay, I understand. Look, I'll answer the phone, and I'll wake you if there's any word about Jon. But you have got to get some rest. You're on the edge, Betty. Where is your wedding file? I'll make some calls for you. I have a feeling everyone's heard about Jon by now.”

The phone rang again. This time it was Harold, Betty's father.

“I just saw you on TV.” He sounded uncharacteristically gentle. “Betty, I'm sorry about this hostage mess Jon's gotten himself into. I really am. I'm going to call some of my old Marine buddies and see if they know anything. A couple of guys are still on active duty.”

“That's a good idea, Daddy. The man at the State Department sure didn't have much to tell me.”

“That's because he's a paper pusher. He doesn't know anything himself. Haven't you ever heard about bureaucrats?”

In his own way, Harold had softened toward Betty since his wife Lucilla's death. And now, oddly enough, his words had a quieting effect upon his daughter. After his call, she went to her room and drifted off to sleep, soon dreaming of the heartwarming times she and Jon had shared.

An hour later she woke suddenly, a monstrous thought overshadowed her mind. Was God judging her and Jon for their intimate liaison just days before? Had her moral lapse somehow led to Jon's abduction? Were they paying the piper for their tender dance?

“Oh God, I'm sorry,” she murmured as feelings of guilt engulfed her. “Please—don't punish him. It was my fault. I should have said no!”

In the three days that followed Jon's kidnapping, Betty appeared on ABC, NBC, and CBS national news. She was interviewed by Larry King, Ted Koppel, and the “Good Morning, America” team. Makeup was blotted on her face, wiped off, and sponged on again as she went from interview to interview.

Her sudden loss seemed to catch the imagination of people all over the country. From Wednesday through Saturday her phone rang continuously, photographers came and went, and friends stayed by Betty's side. The tale of the tragically canceled wedding was the coast-to-coast human-interest story of the week. She hardly had time to mourn, consider her personal guilt, or even think about Jon himself. Ceaseless distractions anesthetized her, but when she slept the image of Jon's injured face awakened her several times a night.

Then, without warning, the focus of the news media shifted to other world crises. To the stock market. To Russia. To Saddam Hussein. Betty's phone fell silent. Her friends had to go back to work. “I'll be fine,” she assured them with a smile.

But she was not.

She awakened Monday morning with no place to go and nothing to do. Her leave of absence was still in effect at OMI, and she couldn't have concentrated on writing even if she'd gone back to work. At 10:00
A.M
., after scouring every page of the
L.A. Times
for the vaguest reference to Jon, she went back to bed, pulled the covers over her head and tried to sleep.

She rolled and tossed for an hour. The phone rang. Hope stirred inside her, and she leaped to her feet to answer it. “Hello?”

“This is the
Los Angeles Times.
”

“Yes?” Again, a surge of hope.

“Would you be interested in a three-month subscription . . .”

She angrily slammed the receiver back down.

I've got to get dressed and do something with myself.
She took a shower, wrapped herself in a towel and went to the closet to find something to wear. As she moved the sliding door, there was her beautiful pale blue silk wedding dress, covered with plastic, awaiting the ceremony that had never come. She reached for it, about to hang it in some out-of-sight corner. Then hope teased her.
Leave it there . . . maybe he'll be back this week.

She looked at the diamond on her hand. At the dress in the closet. At the picture of Jon on her bureau. An overwhelming sense of powerlessness gripped her. Trying to shake it off, she reached for a pair of jeans and an old shirt.

A sense of impotence persisted. Jon had been there with her—right there in that room—just a week before. And surely he was alive somewhere, right now, at this moment, today. He loved her. She loved him. But there was nothing in the world she could do to reach him. No letter could be delivered. No phone call could be connected. No telex. No fax. Nothing.

Angry and downhearted, she pulled on her jeans and buttoned her shirt.

When she thought about Jon, she realized that he was far more helpless than she. From what she'd been told by the journalists who had covered the hostage situation for years, Jon Surrey-Dixon was chained to a wall in some filthy basement in West Beirut. He was blindfolded and stripped to his underwear. He was allowed one trip to the bathroom every day. He was fed stale pita bread, cheese, and olive oil. He wouldn't see the sun, moon or stars until the day of his release. He wouldn't smell flowers, feel the wind, or hear the rain.

Betty crumpled to the floor. “Oh God!” she cried out, “Are You there? I feel like You've left me here all alone. I can't bear it, Lord. Haven't I been through enough in my life without this? Please—do something quickly about Jon. You can do anything. Can't You just set him free? And what about me? Can I do anything? Lord, please . . .”

A thought interrupted her frantic prayer.
Be still and know that I am God.
It was a memory verse from some long-ago Sunday school lesson, and seemed incongruous in the midst of all her pain.

“God, what are You going to do about Jon?” Her voice was demanding.

She grabbed a hairbrush and tried to pull it through her wet hair. Clicking on the television, she watched CNN just long enough to see that “Moneyline” was on. She began to flip through the other channels. When she came to channel 40, she paused.

Some pompadoured preacher she didn't recognize was smiling at her, saying something incomprehensible. She turned up the volume. He had an exceptionally strong Southern accent.
Good grief, Christian programming can be so predictable.

“‘Be still and know that I am God.' This is God's message to you today, dear friend . . .”

In spite of her sardonic attitude, Betty couldn't help but listen.

“‘Be still.' That means quiet your mind, Sister, and silence your frantic thoughts. ‘Know' is more than believing, Brother. It's accepting something as fact. And what does ‘I am God' mean? It means that Somebody bigger than you and I has your life in His capable hands. ‘Be
still
and
know
that
I am God
' means ‘relax, let go, and let God take care of everything.'”

Betty stared at the television preacher. His well-rehearsed smile annoyed her almost as much as his Southern drawl. But she couldn't find fault with his words.

She turned off the television, got up, and started walking aimlessly around the house.

Be still.

Know.

I am God.

The message was clearly intended for her. An answer to her demand for help? What was she supposed to do with it?

I won't do a thing today,
she decided after a few minutes.
I'll relax as much as possible. If God wants me to be still, I'll be still. Besides,
she confided in the remarkably haggard face that stared back at her from the bathroom mirror,
I can use the rest.

The doorbell rang Monday afternoon and awakened Betty from a deep sleep. The postman was on the porch holding a container filled with mail. “I've got so much stuff for you, I can't get it all in your mailbox,” he said. “By the way, I saw on TV what happened to your boyfriend. I hope they get him out soon!”

“Thanks. So do I. Boy, that is a lot of mail, isn't it? Why don't you dump it on the table?”

Once he was gone, she began sorting through the cards and letters, pulling out those with handwriting she recognized and opening them first. She was touched by the outpouring of good wishes, most of which were from strangers who had simply addressed them to, “Elisabeth Casey, Pasadena, California.” The postal service had been kind enough to find her.

She heard from several old friends. Woody and Sharon, schoolmates on sabbatical from their mission in Africa. Irina Mandaley, her mentor from years before. Leah, her fellow fashion model. Even her ex-husband Carlton had sent a thinking-of-you card, signed “Best Regards, Carlton Casey.”
Well, at least he took the time to write.
She felt somewhat gratified by his courtesy.

There was a note from a woman in Seattle who said she prayed for the hostages every day. A letter from a New York Jesuit priest who expressed his concern as well as his rather curious political insight.

I wonder if I'm supposed to answer all these letters?
The thought of going out and buying thank you cards and stamps, and responding to each communiqué made her feel utterly weak.

An elegantly embossed blue envelope caught her eye. She opened it to find a note from a classmate from Los Angeles Bible College. The note said, “You may find it surprising to learn that I am married to Kenneth Townsend, a priest in the Episcopal church. Our parish in Orange Hills is very involved in addressing social concerns and humanitarian causes.

“When Ken and I saw you on television, we talked about what we could do to help. We decided to invite you to a small dinner party with some key people from our church. Perhaps we could pray with you about providing support for you during this crisis.