Random Hearts (6 page)

It was not until the middle of the night of the second day
after Lily had gone on her trip that Edward Davis began to feel the full impact
of the void created by her absence. Cold had replaced snow as the inhibitor of
work. Things around the office had become frenetic. Speeches, press releases,
new bills, and the usual avalanche of constituent cases were accelerating. Also
accelerating were absences and excuses: cars that needed jumps, icy streets,
burst pipes, the flu.

Congressman Holmes was a driven man. It was the one quality
that had attracted Edward to work for him in the first place. No sense working
for a politician who did not want the brass ring. As the Congressman's A.A., it
was Edward's job to help create high visibility for the Congressman and
manufacture the correct perception of him in the minds of his constituents. It
was less a question of merit than manipulation. Edward knew it was a game of
mirrors, and although it offended his Iowan instinct for candor and
forthrightness, he quickly learned that that was the least effective policy for
political success. In politics, appearances were everything. Thank goodness he
had his own personal oasis for such deceptions, his Lily.

Without Lily, Edward believed he would have lost all
contact with reality. Politics was not reality. Lily was the voice of reason,
the therapeutic salve to his sometimes badly bruised moral sensitivity.

"I'm just not used to portraying something that I know
is a lie, just for political expediency." If she was sympathetic when he
raised this recurrent theme, she would stroke him like a hurt child.

"Sometimes the truth will hurt."

"Hurt whom?"

"Holmes—his chances, his ambitions, his objectives,
his votes. What else is a politician after?"

"That sounds cynical," he would protest.

"Honest."

When she was too self-absorbed to be sympathetic, she would
say, "Then quit."

"I would, but he's finally getting into a position of
power. The timing would be wrong."

"When will it be right?"

"Never, I suppose."

"See. Always tell yourself the truth."

"I try."

"Not hard enough," she would admonish kindly.

"Besides, I have to scramble like hell to keep up.
He's got his eye on that Senate seat, and he's got a damned good chance ... if
he doesn't kill me first."

"You'll survive."

"As long as I have you beside me."

"You do. You know that."

"I couldn't face it if I didn't have you to come home
to."

Occasionally it was his turn to be supportive, which he
was, of course.

"Me and you against the world," he would say. He
liked that concept. Everybody needed someone.

That day the Congressman had been irritable. Nothing had
suited him, and he had been unusually testy, pressing Edward with impossible
deadlines for draft bills, releases, position papers, and correspondence.

That night he felt the need for an injection of wifely
support. Picking up the phone, he called a number of hotels in Los Angeles, whose names he knew. It was by then 2:00 A.M., but only 11:00 in L.A. Too late
to call Woodies or any of her co-workers. He wasn't exactly sure where they
lived anyway.

"Just a wee crisis of confidence," he assured
himself after he had given up trying to find her. He took half a sleeping pill
instead, and by the next morning he was swept into the affairs of the day,
which went surprisingly well. People were getting used to the cold and ice, and
the Congressman's testy mood had dissipated. He forgot about his anxieties and,
therefore, his reasons for wanting to contact Lily.

He went out for a working dinner with the Congressman and
got home too late to call Woodies to check on the hotel where Lily was staying.
The fact was that he was so tired by then, he simply fell into bed. He didn't
need much help getting to sleep.

In the morning he thought of her, of course, with great
anticipation. She would be home that night, although he wasn't sure of the
time, and they would have the weekend together. Nothing, absolutely nothing,
would interfere with their weekend, he vowed. He was vaguely disappointed that
she had not called, but now that the mild ordeal was over, he forgave her. He
had, after all, survived.

He spent a couple of hours in the morning cleaning up the
house. As always when he was left alone, he had been a slob: Clothes were
strewn everywhere, and an empty pizza box lay on the kitchen table along with
the remains of a bucket of Southern-fried chicken. Disregarding her
admonitions, he had eaten all the wrong foods.

Getting clean sheets and pillowcases, he made the bed, not
without difficulty and with mediocre results. But at least Lily would see his
valiant effort, and she would remake it anyhow. Then he vacuumed the carpets,
tidied up the bathroom, and piled all the rubbish into a plastic bag and put it
into the hallway for collection. Making a mental note to buy a good bottle of
wine and some pâté for a nice welcome-home gesture, he rushed off to the
office. The anticipation of her return made a considerable impact on his
attitude. He felt good. Damned good.

The weather had turned a bit warmer, although the forecast
called for strong winds and possible snow again by morning. Because he wanted
to be home when she arrived, he checked the schedule of the incoming planes
from L.A., assuming she would take the one that arrived by 10:00 P.M.—the only
sensible one if she was to spend any time at all in L.A. It didn't seem logical
that she would take the "red eye." She had never been able to sleep
on an airplane.

The day was an extremely busy one. The Congressman wanted
changes in a speech he was to deliver on the floor the next day. Edward had to
write the speech himself, while Harvey Mills worked on a press release, all of
which had to be run off and be ready first thing in the morning.

It was nearly eleven o'clock in the evening when his mind
was finally able to focus on anything else.

"Damn."

"What's wrong?" Harvey Mills asked.

"Lily!" He felt awful. How could he have
forgotten?

Quickly, he called home and let the phone ring until he was
sure no one was there. Then he called the airport and found that the plane from
L.A. had arrived on time. If he left now, he might make it home before her.
It was then that he discovered he had forgotten all about buying the wine and
the pâté. She sure is right about me, he thought, rushing to his car and
speeding homeward, feeling waves of guilt and sentiment. He felt unworthy of
her.

There were no lights in the windows, which disappointed
him. He half expected her to be home, irritable and tired, waiting to rebuke
him. Well, he deserved it. Returning home after a long journey to an empty
house was always awful. When he confirmed that she wasn't home, he felt a deep
sense of disappointment. He missed her then, really missed her. Scrounging in
the kitchen, he found a bottle of white wine, put it in the freezer, made some
cheese and crackers, and arranged them in a circular design on a plate. At
least he would make it warm and cozy for her arrival, he thought.

When she did not come by midnight, he called the airport
again and got the same story that the plane from L.A. had already arrived. It
occurred to him that she may have taken the "red eye" after all, but
since she had not called the office to tell him that, he partially rejected the
idea. Then he had second thoughts. She might have called, but someone could
have neglected to give him the message. The office was not exactly a model of
efficiency. He had often encountered that problem.

He called Jan Peters at home. Her voice was hoarse with
sleep, her mind foggy. Ignoring her irritated reaction, he identified himself.

"Well, well..." she cracked in a hoarse voice.
"Sooner or later they respond..."

"Nothing like that, Jan."

"At this hour, what then? My bed is cozy, my instincts
sound."

He ignored the coy enticement.

"Did I get any messages from Lily today?"

"Lily!" The enthusiasm went out of her voice.
"I didn't see any. Maybe Mairy took one." She was referring to the
office receptionist.

"She's flaky most of the time."

"That's unkind."

"Forgetting to give me personal messages." He
felt a growing sense of unreasonable anger, knowing he was reacting badly.

"I'll check and call you back," Jan said coldly.

Having already assumed irrationally that someone at the
office had forgotten to give him Lily's message, he felt his frustration
accelerate and started to nibble on the crackers. Most of all he hated
uncertainty, and his anger began to focus on Lily. She had been thoughtless not
to call, selfish. She probably got so involved she simply forgot. The idea
placated him somewhat. He, too, was often forgetful. Still, even if he forgave
her, which he would, of course, the matter would have to be aired. In the
future they could not leave each other hanging like this. It was too worrisome,
and it was not fair. She had no right to destroy his peace of mind. One thing
was certain—he would be spending a long anxious night.

He flicked on the television set with his remote gadget,
changing stations until he found some news. A commentator was talking about the
plane crash that had taken place four days ago. It was no longer the top of the
news, although they were still getting bodies out of the river. Old hat now. He
had hardly thought about it since that first day. He listened vaguely. Yet, in
his present state, the idea triggered his anxiety. Perhaps she had been in a
crash? But there were no reports of other plane crashes. Maybe a car crash on
the Coast? She would be in some hospital, or worse. He dismissed such thoughts,
although he considered them natural. Where the hell was Lily?

Again, his anger focused on Lily, then on himself. They
were too independent of each other, too work-oriented. Their priorities were
wrong. They would have to make some changes in their lifestyle. The telephone
rang again. He picked it up quickly. It was Jan Peters.

"Sorry, Edward. No messages from Lily."

"You're certain?"

"As much as I can be."

"So there is the possibility that she did call?"
He was grasping at straws.

"I doubt it."

"Why should you doubt it?"

"Because..." He sensed the hesitation.
"Because if it was so important, she would have called back."

He mulled it over.

Then Jan said, "Wouldn't she?"

"I suppose," he said lamely, less angry than
frightened. It was damned important, he thought. She could at least have spared
him a night like this.

"Is there anything I can do, Edward?" Jan asked.

"Nothing," he said abruptly, hanging up.

It was nearly one o'clock by then, and he discovered that
he had eaten all of the cheese and crackers. Often, when under stress because
of some nagging problem, he would will himself into complete concentration on a
single issue requiring resolution, isolating the problem from all others. He
could not sit around inactive. His anxiety level was too high. He had to find
out where Lily was.

Calling the airlines, he discovered that the "red
eye" had not yet left. Then he called the agent at the Los Angeles
airport, posing as the Congressman himself, which he had often done, especially
when only intimidation would do the job. He literally ordered the clerk to tell
him if a Lily Davis had made reservations.

"No Lily Davis, sir," the agent answered,
thoroughly intimidated. He probably needn't have been so strong, but he was no
longer concerned about other people's feelings.

"Are you sure?"

He had learned never to assume, always demanding certainty
from an inquiry. It was too easy for a clerk to say no. Less of a hassle.

"It's a common name," he pressed. "Any Davises?"

"Sorry..." There was a pause, and his heart
leaped when the agent's voice came on again. "There's a David. Samuel R.
David."

"What about tomorrow's flight?"

Another silence. The clerk was obviously punching his
computer.

"Sorry. No Davises. No Davids. Nothing even
close."

Suddenly, he got an idea.

"Can you check her departure from Washington? She left
Monday. It might indicate a return time and date. I might have gotten it
confused." He felt himself trying to be ingratiating, as if a better
attitude might get a better result. The possibility seemed encouraging. Lily
always accused him of listening with half an ear. His anxiety receded. Probably
his own fault. She would be coming home tomorrow. Maybe even Saturday. He had
flogged himself for nothing.

The agent's voice came on again. "I'm terribly sorry,
sir. No Davis on any flight all week."

"That's impossible," he exploded. "It's
those damned computers. They drop stuff all the time. I know she was on a
flight that left at noon from Dulles to L.A. on Monday."

"I can only relate what the computer tells me,"
the agent said apologetically. "Are you sure you have the right
name?"

"The right name? She's my wife."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say? What's there to say? Your computers are all
fucked up!" He slammed down the phone. He felt his throat constrict. Again
the brunt of his anger focused on Lily. Why was she putting him through this?
Getting up, he began to pace the apartment, trying to remember the names of her
co-workers at Woodies. He looked through an index file of telephone numbers
trying to recall a name. Halpern, Milly Halpern. He had met her on a number of
occasions, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair. For a moment he hesitated,
looking at his watch. It was 1:30. How awful to do this to someone, he sighed,
but it did not stop him from dialing her number.

A woman's voice, heavy with fear, croaked at the other end
of the connection.