Interlude (8 page)

“Thanks, Vince.” Betty wasn't feeling particularly beautiful at the moment, and she seriously doubted his sincerity.

Don't come on to me, pal. I'm in no mood.

“Look, can I buy you lunch? I'd like to tell you a little bit about our trip.” Vince was fidgeting with a pen, trying to attach it to a notebook.

They left the Capitol grounds, walked past the Supreme Court and toward Union Station. “Vince, do you know a man named Mike Brody?”

“Never heard of him.” He was still struggling with the pen.

“That's funny. He knows you—he just pointed you out to me. He was asking me about Jon's friends in Lebanon.”

Now she had his full attention. “Hmmm. Must be a spook. I don't know anybody named Brody. The only friends Jon mentioned to me were the Badr brothers. They were a couple of guys he'd met there on another assignment, from the Bekaa or somewhere. He thought they might help us find some good human interest stories.”

“When was Jon in Beirut?”

“Probably in '82, during the Israeli invasion. But I'm not sure. In any case, I just wanted you to know that he talked about you all the time and was really excited about the wedding. The last thing he said, or shouted as they were taking him away, was ‘Tell Betty I love her.'”

“He said that while they were taking him?” Betty's hands covered her face. Her eyes closed. She was trying very hard not to visualize a scene that might never again leave her mind.

“I heard him call it out while they were tying him up, before they gagged him. He was already blindfolded, and he just sort of shouted it toward us. He wanted one of us to tell you.”

Betty was unable to speak. Nausea was creeping into her stomach. “You know, Vince,” she finally said, “I'm not at all hungry. In fact I'm really not feeling well. Would you forgive me if I took a rain check on lunch?”

Vince looked at her sympathetically. She was white as a ghost. “I'll hail a cab and help you get back to your hotel safely. You must be emotionally exhausted.”

Yeah, and pregnant.

“Thanks, Vince. That's nice of you. Is there anything else I should know about your time with Jon?”

Vince hailed a cab, and they both climbed into the back seat. “One Washington Circle,” he instructed the driver. He turned to Betty, “Jon just said a lot of nice things about you, that's all. I guess I've never seen a man more in love.”

“Well, I'm in love with him too. I just pray this story has a happy ending.”

“Oh, they stopped murdering hostages years ago. He'll make it. By the way, did you say this Brody guy pointed me out to you?” By now Vince was fussing with a wad of dollar bills.

“Yes. He said, ‘That's Vince Angelo.'”

Vince looked up at her sideways. “Was Jon messing around with the CIA, Betty?”

“Jon?”

They stared at each other blankly. In some ways, Vince knew more about Jon than she did. The fact was, she hadn't had time to really find out about his past. They had talked a lot about feelings, but very little about incidents. Maybe he was involved with the CIA. If so, would he have told her? Probably not.

The cab pulled up at the hotel. When she tried to pay, Vince wouldn't let her, peeling off several one dollar bills for the cabbie. “Thanks so much for tracking me down to tell me all that, Vince. I know Jon will appreciate it.” He kissed her on the cheek as they parted.

She took the elevator to her room, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed on her bed. Why was she so tired? Was fatigue a symptom of pregnancy? Her back was still unusually sore and for that matter so were her breasts. She stared at the ceiling in horror, fear assaulting her from all directions.

Why was she marrying a man she didn't really know all that well? Was he some sort of a spy? Did he have a weird, secret life, carefully hidden from her? It was entirely possible, considering how little time they'd spent together.

Or, like her father's friend Red had said so unkindly, was Jon just an ignoramus—a foolish man who would trade his future with her for a dangerous job and a little excitement?

Was she about to marry a man who wasn't really the person she thought he was?

Worse yet, was she carrying his baby?

As the minutes passed all her uncertainties gave way to the echo of his words, shouted to anyone who might hear. “Tell Betty I love her.” She loved him too, even in the midst of this present crisis, and longed to somehow convey that knowledge to him. There was an unexplainable link between them, no matter what transpired.

Will it last?
The familiar question resurfaced in her thoughts.

This time, however, there was a reply. The still, small answer was unmistakable.

It's up to you.

4

B
etty awoke feeling disoriented and depressed. She had slept fitfully—ambulance sirens approaching the hospital across the street had awakened her several times. And, once again, Jon's battered face had invaded her chaotic dreams.

Her lower backache continued, aggravated by a night of tossing and turning. Her breasts were still tender. She flipped on the television, trying to distract herself from all thoughts of pregnancy. A news anchorwoman reported:

A demonstration by a group of Christian fundamentalists intended to close down an abortion clinic in Southern California, was interrupted by police late yesterday. A spokesperson for Planned Parenthood said . . .

Off went the television.
Abortion clinics. That's just what I need to hear about. Planned Parenthood . . .

Suddenly, a panic-inspired idea flashed. Impulsively, she grabbed the yellow pages out of a nightstand drawer.

Let your fingers do the walking,
she grimly consoled herself as she leafed through the P's.

She dialed a number. The person who answered referred her to another number. She immediately called it.

“Yes. I'm interested in finding out if I'm pregnant. Can you help me?”

Her call was transferred to a counselor. Quite unrehearsed, Betty blurted out, “It's been six weeks since my last period, my boyfriend's away for an extended time and I'm afraid I'm pregnant.”

“We can schedule an appointment for you today, Miss, if you'd like to come in.”

“If I am pregnant, do you, uh . . .”

“We can discuss your options when you come in.”

“If I were to want an abortion, would I be able to do it today?”

“I'll have to check our schedule. Probably so, but first let's find out whether you need one. What is your name?”

“Uh . . . Fuller. Beth Fuller.”

“Okay, Beth. Can you be here at 11:00
A.M.
?”

“Do I need to bring anything with me in case we go ahead with the . . .”

“No, it's an out-patient procedure. Just be sure someone is with you to drive you home.”

“I'll be coming in a cab. Will you take an out-of-state check?”

“Yes, of course. We'll see you at eleven.”

Betty hung up, her thoughts racing.
I'll just get it over with and think about it later. God, I'm sorry, but I can't face this. I know You'll forgive me. It's just too much.

She checked the clock. It was 9:00
A.M.
This time tomorrow she'd be on a plane home. Or would she? Could she fly less than twelve hours after an abortion?
I don't dare ask them. They'll say no.

Betty paced around the room. She opened the sliding glass door and looked out at the passersby strolling along the sidewalk below.
Nobody knows. Nobody cares.
She slid the door back in place and clicked the lock. Absentmindedly, she made herself a cup of coffee in the little kitchenette.

Some people say it's murder. Is it murder?

She plopped herself in a chair, spilling the coffee on her nightgown.

It's a late period, that's all. Just a late period. I wouldn't murder a baby, but I'd go to the ends of the earth to start my period about now.

Two things troubled Betty. Although the morality of abortion had never been of interest to her, she knew very well that some people were wild-eyed fanatics about the subject. Did they know something she didn't? Her thinking process was riddled with confusing fears, but she still had enough presence of mind to wonder just what it was she was about to do.

The other matter was a practical one. What if she was bleeding heavily tomorrow morning? Or in intolerable pain? Or faint and sick to her stomach? She had to use that ticket to get home—it was unchangeable, nonrefundable. And the last thing she wanted to tell Doris and Henry Walker was that she had to pay an extra fare to take a later flight because of a trip to an abortion clinic.

God, I'm so scared. I'm so scared.

She took a shower and got dressed. It was 10:00
A.M.
by the time she was ready to go. Conflicting thoughts raged in her mind. Religious thoughts. Logistical thoughts. Romantic thoughts. Sentimental thoughts. Tough-minded thoughts. Sorrowful thoughts.

I need to talk to someone.
Not a single person came to mind. Only Jon and how dearly she needed to be in his arms.

If only . . .

She scribbled the clinic address on a hotel notepad, grabbed her purse, and rushed out the door. It was a little too early for her to go to the clinic, but she was far too restless to stay in her room. She strode determinedly into the elegant hotel lobby. “Good-bye, Ms. Casey, have a good morning,” the woman at the desk said cheerily.”

“Can I get a cab for you?” said the doorman.

She nodded.

He motioned to a waiting taxi.

“Where are you going, Miss?”

“Uh,” she glanced at her watch and at the crumpled paper in her hand. “I'll explain when I get in the car.”

He nodded, smiled, and closed the door behind her.

“Yes mum?” said the cab driver, who had a heavy East Indian accent.

She paused. Looked at the paper. Looked out the window. Should she go to the clinic now? Should she go at all . . . ever? Betty fought off some new tears, and shook her head sadly and in resignation.

Jon's baby. It's all I have left of him. I can't go through with it . . .
Finally she said, “Take me to the Smithsonian, please.”

“Yes, mum. The Smithsonian. You will like it very much, Mum. I think you will spend the whole day there.”

Betty looked out the window again and then at the cabbie's kind face in the rear-view mirror. “I'm sure you're right. I'll probably stay there all day.”

Next morning, as Betty was checking out of her room, the clerk at the desk handed her an envelope. Inside she found a silver-colored bracelet, bearing Jon's name and the date of his kidnapping. It also bore the inscription “Hebrews 13:3.” An enclosed note said that it had been left for her by a representative of some organization called Friends in the West.

“It's a prayer bracelet,” the note explained. “Hebrews 13:3 says ‘Remember those in prison as if imprisoned with them.' We want you to know that the hostages are being remembered in prayer by people all over the world who are wearing these bracelets.

“I'm sorry I couldn't give you the bracelet in person, but I have to be in Virginia today and tonight. In any case, be assured that you are not alone.”

The note had obviously been written in a rush and the signature was indecipherable. Betty squinted at the name—it looked like it began with an L. The rest was a scribble. Finally she shrugged.
What difference does it make? It's the thought that counts.

And it was a kind thought, to be sure. But beyond the significance of the bracelet, which she immediately squeezed around her left wrist, a single phrase from the note meant more to Betty than anything else.

“. . . you are not alone.”

Never in her life had she felt more alone. God, Who had been a close companion during some of her most painful days, seemed remote and even nonexistent. It occurred to her that while other difficulties had been thrust upon her without her consent, this set of circumstances was different. This time she could claim responsibility. This time she had done “something wrong.”

Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”
Lucilla had enthusiastically quoted that inflexible little passage a few hundred times when various church folk and relatives got trapped in their own tangled webs of misbehavior.

Oh, yes, Betty had heard all about the unconditional love of God. But she'd rarely had the heart to believe in it. The love she had experienced in her childhood had been conditioned on good behavior. Betty could not grasp the fact that any love, especially from a righteous, holy God, could be forgiving and unchanging, no matter what she did.

She glanced at the note again. “. . . you are not alone.” She clung to the phrase as if it were some mystical fortune-cookie message from heaven. Could God remain beside her through a time like this? He'd seen her through a divorce, and that was pretty disreputable. But this? This was inexcusable.

At least I didn't have an abortion.

When Betty left the hotel, the doorman hailed a cab and helped the driver with the luggage. Tipping him as he helped her into the taxi, Betty smiled more than a little appreciation to him for helping her change her mind the day before.

The cab driver artfully maneuvered them from the hotel to National Airport. Betty fingered the bracelet absentmindedly. She'd seen enough of Washington.

Fortunately her plane was on time.

As she took her seat and buckled in, the lyrics of an old hymn drifted across her mind. It was the same hymn she'd remembered while driving home from Erica's house weeks before.

The protection of His child and treasure
Is a charge that on Himself He laid . . .

Betty knew she was God's child, at least theologically. But His treasure? Surely He only tolerated her. Naturally He had real treasures—missionaries and ministers and sweet Christian housewives who'd never done anything wrong in their lives. But she was no treasure to God.