Interlude (5 page)

“Please call me and we'll make the arrangements. The Lord be with you, Betty.

“In Him, Erica West Townsend.”

Betty had always liked Erica in spite of the fact that she had been a straight A student who always looked wonderful. Betty could recall running into her in the girls' dorm and thinking that Erica even looked perfect in her jammies. In those days Betty had been anything but a fashion plate, and could not imagine having a neat-as-a-pin appearance, if her life had depended upon it.

It occurred to her that Erica hadn't seen her since her skin disease had vanished. Erica would also realize that Betty was divorced—she'd known her as Betty Fuller, and the newspapers and television stories were talking about Elisabeth Casey. Betty always felt uncomfortable seeing old friends who hadn't heard the bad news about her first marriage—especially now that her postponed second wedding was an international story.

Maybe Episcopalians aren't as concerned about divorce as the Baptists I grew up with. They're too busy ordaining homosexual priests to care about such minor details.
Betty smirked at her own brand of judgmentalism while dialing Erica's number.

“Hello, Erica? This is Betty Fuller—or Elisabeth Casey if you're watching television.”

“Betty, how are you? I've been so worried about you! Are you all right?”

“Oh, I don't think I'm really all right at all. But I appreciate your concern, Erica. It was so nice of you to think of me.”

“How would you feel about coming to a dinner party?”

“I'd be honored, of course. Are you sure you want to go to that much trouble?”

“It's not trouble at all! It's a pleasure . . .”

The dinner was planned for the following Friday night. Betty hung up feeling both curious and apprehensive. She remembered all too well her mother Lucilla's attitude toward those of religious denominations other than her own. Generally speaking, Lucilla felt they had all missed the narrow way into heaven by several thousand light-years.

Oh, what difference does it make? They want to pray for me and support me—there's nothing wrong with that, is there? Besides, Jon's Catholic, and that's even worse than being Episcopalian, at least by Mother's standards.

Friday night found Betty driving down the 57 Freeway toward Orange Hills. She followed Erica's precise directions and parked in front of a large contemporary house with a broad lawn. She was just a few minutes late. When the door opened, she found herself in the company of four couples and three single women.

Erica embraced her affectionately. “Betty, you look wonderful! Your face . . . what is it that's so different? You used to have some sort of rash, didn't you?”

“Yes, to put it mildly. But that's another story for another day, Erica.”

“Well, you look absolutely wonderful,” Erica repeated and introduced her to the others, who greeted her warmly. She was led into a well-appointed living room, given a glass of chilled white wine, and surrounded by the others. There was no question about who was to be the center of attention that evening. Betty, her plight, and her needs were all anyone wanted to discuss.

After a buffet dinner, while the guests were still seated around the huge glass-top table, Ken Townsend said, “Betty, before we go to the other room, I'd like for us all to join hands and pray for you. Would you be comfortable with that?”

“Of course I would. I need your prayers very much.” She looked at the kind faces of the people who sat around the table. They didn't appear to be an overly affluent looking group, but they had obviously dressed up for the evening—for
her
evening.

“You know, it's been hard for me to pray since Jon was kidnapped . . .” her voice broke unexpectedly. “I feel like there's something wrong between God and me. Maybe He's not there or He's angry. I don't know . . .”

Again the mental image of her final, intimate night with Jon came to her mind, and with it came the usual ambivalence. She sighed and looked at the table.

“Betty, I can promise you that God isn't angry, and He's not only
with
you, He's
in
you.” Ken's voice was gentle and kind.

“Well, I've done some things I'm not proud of . . .”

“Haven't we all?” Everyone at the table laughed. Betty looked around at them gratefully.

A woman spoke softly, “I have a sense that you're blaming yourself somehow for Jon's kidnapping, Betty. I don't know you, but I feel in my spirit that you should reject any guilt you're feeling and believe that God has a higher purpose in this situation than anything you can possibly understand. ‘My ways are above your ways,' the Lord says. You mustn't feel responsible, dear.”

In a way she barely understood, Betty felt a release in her spirit. No, God wasn't punishing her for making love to Jon.
If God handled premarital sex that way, Lebanon wouldn't have room for all the hostages!
She almost laughed out loud at the thought.

“Thank you,” she said to the woman, whose name she couldn't even recall. “I think, at least I hope, that you spoke for the Lord. I needed to hear that.”

Ken nodded. “Let's join hands and pray together.” One by one, each of those people, strangers to her until that occasion, took Betty's heavy burden upon himself. Each one prayed about some aspect of her separation from Jon. Not one man prayed for himself; not one woman expressed concern for her own needs. They gave of themselves wholeheartedly in prayer, and when they were finished they offered their time, their money, their homes—anything they could think of that might alleviate Betty's suffering. She could hardly believe her ears.

Just before the evening ended, a distinguished looking gentleman spoke to his wife quietly and the two took Betty aside. “I work for a news syndicate with a large bureau in Washington, D.C. I've seen something on the wire about a hostage family gathering in Washington in early January. Once I've confirmed the fact that it's really happening, Doris and I would like to pay your way there and also take care of your hotel accommodations. From what I understand, it's quite encouraging for the various hostage family members and friends to meet together now and then, along with some of the ex-hostages. Would you like to go?”

Betty looked at him in amazement. “I . . . I've never been to Washington, D.C.”

“Well, I'll see that someone meets your plane and gets you to your hotel. Don't worry about that. And we'll try to make some preparations for you to meet people like Peggy Say and some of the other family members.”

“Who's Peggy Say?”

“She's Terry Anderson's sister, and she's been a spokesperson for the families since 1985.”

After a moment, Betty said, “Your offer is so generous that it's hard for me to accept it. But yes, I think I should go. At least I won't be sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring.”

“Betty,” the man spoke kindly, while his wife wrote down her phone number and address, “you may be waiting for the phone to ring for a long time. Some people have been waiting for more than half a decade. But you're not waiting alone. From now on every person here will be waiting with you.”

Betty looked around the room. The dinner guests were putting on their coats and saying their last good-byes. “You know, I feel like I've known you for years,” she said to Erica, Ken, and all the others.

Erica smiled, “Well, there's a Psalm that says ‘God sets the solitary in families.' We'll be your family if you'll let us.”

Christmas lights sparkled along the streets and freeways, and the night wind blew cold and crisp. As she made her way home across the Orange County suburbs, Betty's eyes swam with tears from time to time. For the moment, it was not sadness that flooded them. Something else was stirring inside her—a strange, inexpressible emotion. There were no words to explain it, no theology to define it. But unexpectedly, in the presence of those benevolent Episcopalian people, she had glimpsed the tender heart of God.

Suddenly some long-forgotten lyrics to a well-loved hymn came to her like a voice from heaven, affirming the embrace of the Father.

3

Every day the Lord Himself is near me
With a special mercy for each hour;
All my cares He fain would bear, and cheer me,
He whose name is Counselor and Power.
The protection of His child and treasure
Is a charge that on Himself He laid;
‘As thy days, thy strngth shall be in measure,'
This the pledge to me He made.

T
he envelope was from the Golden Bay Hotel in Larnaca, Cyprus. Betty ripped it open with shaky fingers.

Dear Betty,

I'm the writer who was assigned to the Beirut story with your fiancé Jon, and I was with him when he was kidnapped. I found your address and phone number in his diary and thought I should write you. He and I were traveling together and of course he had told me that you and he were to be married on the following Saturday. His luggage and camera equipment were in our car, so I kept it. I'll be shipping it to you when I get back to the States—it's very heavy and too expensive to ship from here.

Although I am still on the road covering a couple of other aspects of the Beirut story, I will be back in the U.S. in early January. I will try to telephone you then and tell you in detail about the kidnapping.

Don't give up on that wedding—Jon cares for you very much. Please accept my sincere sympathy about the tragedy.

All the best,
Vince Angelo

Betty's hands were shaking even more by the time she finished reading the letter. For the first time she was confronted with a violent scene that had actually happened—an occurrence she hadn't allowed herself to think about before. Someone had witnessed the abduction. He had seen firsthand the abuse Jon had suffered. Heard his words. Seen his fear. Vince Angelo had escaped, free and unharmed. Jon Surrey-Dixon hadn't.

I don't know whether I want to meet this guy or not. I wonder if he knows anything that could help Jon? Surely the Army or the Navy or somebody has talked to him by now. I wonder who's in charge of this case, anyway? I sure hope it isn't George O'Ryan at the State Department. If he's running the show, I'll never see Jon again!

The letter immobilized Betty for several hours. She reverted to her old, helpless pattern of sitting in her chair, turning on the television, turning it off again, trying to read, and finally staring straight ahead. This time, after a catatonic hour or two, she picked up the phone and dialed her father's phone number.

“Hi, Daddy, it's me.”

“How are you doing?”

“Oh, fine, I guess.”

“Any news about your boyfriend?”

“Not really. That's why I called. Listen, did you ever get a hold of any of your old Marine buddies like you said you would?”

“Yeah, in fact I called up Red Jeffrey yesterday. He's stationed up Seattle way, and he knows an officer there who was over in Beirut when the Marine barracks got blown up back in '83. He's gonna talk to the guy and see what he knows.”

“Daddy, who's in charge of getting the hostages out? That's what I want to know.”

Harold paused. “You mean which branch of government?” “I mean what person is responsible. Who's at the top?”

“Well, the president, I guess, at least now that Ollie North's gone. People complained about Ollie, you know, but he's a no-nonsense Marine, and he got more hostages out than anybody ever has, before or since.”

“Right. Semper Fi.” Betty closed her eyes, awaiting a further tribute to the U.S. Marine Corps from her father.

Instead he said, “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“I can't even think about Christmas.”

“Well you'd better think about it. It's less than three weeks away. Why don't you come up here?”

“I'm afraid to leave the phone, Daddy. What if Jon gets out?”

“So you're going to sit there alone all day? Why don't you get one of those machines . . . ?”

“You mean an answering machine? I've got one.”

“Well, then, use it. Come on up here and I'll see if Red can come by and meet you. I think he's going to be around here during the holidays. You can talk to him about who's heading up the hostage detail.”

Betty tried to fight off a vague fear that she shouldn't leave the house—staying home had become almost a fixation. “I'll think about it, Daddy. And if you talk to Red again, tell him I'd appreciate anything he can find out.”

She hung up the phone trying to remember everything she'd ever heard about the Lebanese hostages. She faintly recalled the bombing of the French and American barracks in 1983. Since that time an odd assortment of hapless victims' faces had paraded across television screens. She recalled seeing Terry Anderson, Anglican envoy Terry Waite, and a couple of others whose names eluded her.

But what she wanted to know the most she understood the least—who in the American government had the job of getting the captives out?

Preparing to go to Oregon for Christmas gave Betty something to do, but she had no enthusiasm for the trip. She picked up the phone several times to cancel, but she couldn't bring herself to tell Harold, “Sorry, I just can't make it.”

She was trying to establish her relationship with her father on more solid ground. Closeness with him had evaded her all her life, and it seemed that this present crisis had somehow given them common cause. And besides that, she couldn't help but wonder what his Marine friend Red would have to say.

Betty suspected that Red Jeffrey was a right-wing know-it-all, but she still wanted to talk to him. She certainly wasn't about to call the State Department for information.

She hadn't yet found the courage to contact other hostage families either, although she had their phone numbers. Her plight seemed so insignificant compared to theirs. Some of them had been waiting for five or six years for a release and couldn't even be sure their loved ones were still alive. Why on earth would they want to hear from her?