Chapter 6

Manasses, VA – May 27th, 1983 – 11:04 PM

Richard Mathers opened the door to his apartment. He was a little drunk. Not as drunk as he could have been; he had spent a lot more time talking, and bitching, than he had drinking. Mitch tended bar at The Grotto and Richard had known him since high school. He was a good bar tender and a patient listener, and had spotted Rich two shots of tequila. Rich did buy one drink and leave a tip, but he was going to have to be careful with the money. He had enough in the bank to pay rent and bills this month. After that, he wasn’t sure where the money would be coming from.

“Time to start donating blood,” he said to the empty apartment, turning on the light. It was a cheap one room efficiency. It was inexpensive—well, inexpensive for DC—and it did the job. It was sparsely furnished. Julie had gotten most of the furniture.

He went over to his little boombox—an Emerson radio/cassette player he had picked up on sale a month ago at Radio Shack—and turned it on. Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” filled his small apartment.

Richard plopped down in a black beanbag chair—Julie hadn’t wanted that; almost all of Richard’s remaining belongings came under the title of What Julie Didn’t Want—and closed his eyes and listened. He had been thinking about getting a TV. They had had a very nice TV, that had been a lot more money than Richard had wanted to spend on a television set, but had, at Julie’s insistence. Now she had the TV, too. No getting a TV, even a cheap one, for Richard now. He’d be lucky if he had a place to keep the few things he had in a month.

Richard rubbed his eyes. Lord, the fit Julie was going to pitch when he couldn’t make alimony. It wasn’t like her new husband-Josh or Jeff or something; Bishop was his last name—didn’t make ten times more money than Rich ever had. It would just be the idea that he wasn’t doing his fair share. No, that wasn’t quite true. It would be the idea that Rich wasn’t paying. That he wasn’t being punished.

And Julie had dropped hints on more than one occasion that Josh or Jeff or whoever had friends that handled domestic disputes in his firm. Yay.

She would take him to court, too, even if in the end she’d lose the alimony altogether. Even a rent-a-lawyer could make the case that Richard no longer needed to be paying alimony, given her current income, and Richard could probably make a better case for himself than he had during the divorce. She would know she would likely lose the case itself, and still do it, just to take him to court. To let him know again how much she hated him. To make him pay for . . . for what? For not having fixed her life for her? For not having been somebody else? Or maybe she would just do it for the hell of it. For some dark pleasure she derived from it. For some brief relief from some poisonous itch that only hurting him could scratch.

Duran Duran faded as Richard lay back in the bean bag, staring at the brown stains on the ceiling. A DJ came on, with bland patter about the song and the band. It was seventy-one degrees outside. It would be getting a lot warmer next week, but remaining sunny and clear. How nice.

Ads for used car dealerships followed, then a promo for the three radio jocks they had on in the morning—two guys and one girl—that they called “The Morning Zoo” but didn’t seem like much more than adults in their thirties and forties acting like they were fourteen. They would play maybe two songs in an hour. The rest of the time they would fill up with vulgar jokes and crank calls.

Commercials over, the DJ resumed playing all the hits, with less talk: “Now, here’s Hall & Oats. She’s a Maneater. I know she is! Watch out, baby! Here she comes, here she comes! Ouch!”

Rich grimaced, but didn’t get up to change it. It was one of the songs he just couldn’t seem to get away from. Since the first time he’d heard it, it seemed like he couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing it again. Case in point, he had turned on the radio five minutes ago and here it was now.
During the divorce proceeding, the song he had been unable to escape was “Love Will Lift Us Up Where We Belong”, from An Officer and a Gentleman. He had been unable to turn on a radio without hearing it. Now, the gods of FM radio had apparently dropped the humor and had gone on to direct assault. Maneater, indeed.

He closed his eyes. Julie, he thought. Julie, Julie. What the hell had happened? More than a year later, and he still wasn’t sure.

He saw himself walking into the penthouse apartment he had barely been able to afford—he had taken a second shift position at the Post’s printing plant to make ends meet. Granted, he had almost never been at the apartment because of it, but Julie had been desperate for it. He had thought it would be better for them to start out smaller and save—she had been a receptionist at Goldsmith, Goldsmith and Bryant, and he had been busy covering the local politics—the most insignificant, tedious local politics—at what amounted to little more than minimum wage for the Tribune. Put that together with his second shift at the Post’s printing plant, they had almost had a one real salary. And they had still only barely been able to afford a decent meal.

Although, when she had wanted something, Julie had usually managed to come up with the money for it.

It was only after that Richard had realized Julie’s budget hadn’t been so tight because she had been getting money from Jason—and that was his name; not Josh, not Jeff, but Jason. Jason Bishop.

One thing about the Tribune position was that he had often had gaps of open time during the day. That particular day, the day he had walked into his way-too-expensive penthouse apartment and had heard noises, he had had a break because a council meeting scheduled for the afternoon had been canceled. Unsurprising, for a Friday. It had been about two o’clock, so Richard thought he’d swing by, grab some lunch—leave a little romantic note for Julie, trying to keep the romance alive between the arguments—well, between her yelling at him about not making enough money or her sitting, not saying anything, glaring at the television.

When he had parked, though, he had seen her car. She didn’t tell me she’d be home early today, he had thought. The simple, stupid idiocy of the completely oblivious spouse. The reality of a dozen signs he should have seen but hadn’t didn’t begin to settle in on him until he had been there, walking into the apartment, and had heard the noises. Breathing. Thumping. Animal noises.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to sink further into the beanbag. Oh oh, here she comes. Watch out boy, she’ll chew you up. Oh oh, here she comes . . .

Richard had turned the corner, and there she had been with Bishop—both of them, butt naked, on the floor, with Julie going down on Bishop like . . . like . . . well, like she never had with Richard. Hell, she hadn’t even wanted to make out with Richard in the living room. Or in the middle of the day. Both of which she apparently had no problem doing with her favorite trial attorney.

Bishop had noticed Richard first, standing there, mouth agape. Bishop had had to tap Julie on the shoulder, still so busy at her work that she hadn’t noticed that her husband had entered the room, to get her attention. When she had finally looked up, she had smiled. It was the first time she had smiled at Richard, he would think later, in weeks. Maybe in months.

“Well,” she had said slowly. Deliberately. Almost as if she had been waiting for this moment, anticipating it. Almost as if this had been the entire reason, for her. “No point in trying the old, ‘I can explain, I can explain’ bit, huh?” And, pointedly, she had put her head back down and gone back to work.

She had known what she was doing. Backwards and forwards, she had known. Over the following weeks and months, Richard would come to realize how wrong he had been. How much the woman he had married, that he had been so crazy in love with—even though it had gotten awfully hard, that last year—wasn’t just attracted to somebody else. Sure, that was normal. She wasn’t just dissatisfied with married life, with Richard’s career prospects, with the money he brought home—that was normal, too, he figured. Richard would come to realize that his wife had hated him.

She had, too. She had hated him for a year, Richard thought. Maybe two. Maybe since the day they were married. Over the last year, as he struggled so hard to work things out, she had just wanted him punished. She had wanted him to suffer. And not just a little, but a lot. She had wanted him to know she’d gladly do things for her new man, and with him, that she wouldn’t with Richard. She had wanted him to know that the day after he had spent three hours enduring a torturous scream session about what a bad husband he was, or how unhappy she was, or how they would never have enough money—and there were plenty of days like that—she was going out on dates, having fun, and having sex—in short, all of the things she never did with Richard—with Jason Bishop, attorney at law.

Then came the divorce. He was slow to realize how much Julie had hated him, but the divorce proceeding would teach him what it was to be loathed. Despised. Reviled. By someone you had at least thought you had loved.

She did stop short of having him killed. But not by much.

Richard sat up, rubbing his eyes. Stupid dumb-ass, crying like a baby. Just the sort of stupid thing that had made Julie hate him, he was sure.

Richard, tired of his punishment from the radio gods, got up to turn it off when the radio moved on, from Darryl Hall and John Oates to Big Country, singing their eponymous “In a Big Country”.
“I guess that’s not so bad,” Richard mumbled, and left it going. He hated being in the apartment without some sort of background noise. The loneliness just became oppressive. He had thought about getting a dog or something, but now, without a job . . . well, that wasn’t going to happen. So his only companion was the radio.

He went to check his answering machine. Three messages. He pressed the red play button.

“Hey, Jack, is that you? I got some woo, if you know what I mean. Call me.” There was a beep.
Richard had no idea who the person who left the message was, or exactly what “woo” might be, but Rich received a lot of those sorts of messages. Apparently, whoever had his phone number before him had been something of a party animal, and possibly a drug dealer. He wondered briefly if he could sell a story about the secret lives of old phone numbers. No, he thought. Lame, lame. Just the idea of trying to research and write it made him nauseous.

Maybe a career in hospitality service would be a better direction. Certainly, it couldn’t pay worse than working at the Tribune.

Then again, maybe a job as a drug dealer. Or a party animal. Just from the wrong numbers he got, Rich was pretty sure that who ever had had his phone number before him had a more interesting and more enjoyable life.

A click and then a dialtone. Apparently, caller number two did not want to leave a message. Then another beep.

“Rich, it’s Debi. Pick up if you’re there.” A pause. “Okay, I guess you’re not home yet. Call me when you get home, okay? I want to know you’re all right. Also, I might have a lead for you. Love ya, kid. Keep your chin up and all that worthless shit people tell you when life kicks your ass.” Another pause. “Bye.” A click, a dialtone.

Rich sighed. There was a time . . .

He wanted to call her, but not tonight. They’d talk, she’d want to see him, he’d probably go over to her place—certainly, she wasn’t coming here–and one thing might lead to another, and then what? Rich was attracted to her. She was as sweet a human being as one could possibly hope to meet in DC and she was also the only person he had ever known personally who could literally have been a supermodel.

Statuesque was the word that sometimes came to mind when he saw her. Once, when on the phone with an old friend from his days in Alabama, he had been asked who she was—Walt had read a piece by her and been suitably impressed. Richard’s mouth had opened and it had said: “She is a woman of extraordinary beauty.” Which he had followed up with the obligatory: “And the best reporter I know. Smart as a whip. And as nice as they come.”

Clichéd, but it was all true. She was a great reporter. She was as smart and well-read and just plain grounded a person as Richard had ever known. She was also a woman of extraordinary beauty. Raven black hair and silky smooth skin, pale–she didn’t tan; no time, no point, she’d say–but radiant. Her teeth were perfect, white and straight, as if they had been capped with white porcelain. Her eyes were green, but not a regular green—a deep, dark green, almost a forest green. Her lips were full, almost swollen.

She went very light on the makeup—she apparently knew she didn’t need it—and in a maneuver that was maddeningly sexy to Richard, she dressed like a schoolmarm. Blouses came up past the neck, skirts down to the ankles. More dress slacks during the summer, and the occasional short-sleeved blouse or shirt, but always up the neck. She didn’t even wear V-necks. She dressed well, absolutely, but she didn’t use flashing neon to make her point. Richard had always found women who didn’t have to flaunt what they had appealing, even as a teenager.

After the last two years of his marriage, they had become much more appealing. During those two years, Julie had been working out, losing weight, and, he now believed, taking drugs to help keep the weight coming off. She had taken to wearing shirts that dove down to her navel or bared her midriff up to the bottom swells of her tiny breasts. She had started wearing shorts and little leather skirts that left about two-percent-past-nothing to the imagination. She had gone to the tanning bed all the time. She had gotten into the habit of spraying silver or gold glitter into her hair. The makeup had gotten thick. Any trace of natural hair color had vanished. She had become a walking neon sign. One that advertised, he had realized belatedly, how well she could fuck up-and-coming lawyers.

Debi, though. She had in spades the sort of deep and satisfying beauty that people like Julie could only dream about. In the same way Richard Mathers wasn’t ever going to be confused with Richard Gere, Debi was beautiful in a way that few people could ever hope to be. The fact that she didn’t hide it under a bushel, but she didn’t even come close to flaunting it—it was wonderful. Intoxicating. Even on the days that his memories of Julie and his hatred of his job had seemed the most oppressive, Debi could make him woozy. She was as close to perfect as Richard could imagine a woman being. She was beautiful, she was secure in herself, she was funny, she was smart. She was possibly the sweetest woman on the planet. Plus, she could cook like nobody’s business. She’d bring cookies up to the Tribune office around the holidays that he had told her, only half-joking, that he’d be willing to kill for. They were that good.

So, yes, Debi was wonderful.

But Julie had been wonderful. Julie had been sweet. Julie had been a decent cook. She hadn’t looked anything like a supermodel, especially when they had first started dating, but she had been sweet. She had been funny and thoughtful and a very good dancer. She had been interested in politics and social issues. At first blush, he had been intrigued, and then charmed. Then he had fallen in love, hard. He had thought she loved him, and maybe she had thought she loved him, at first.

But he had been wrong. So very wrong. And they had clearly been wrong for each other. They had been bad for each other. The pitch black, venomous hatred that had emerged during the divorce proceedings had devastated Richard as much as coming home and finding her butt-naked and on the floor with Jason Bishop, performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the wrong part of his body. The divorce proceedings, however, had done it in a way that was much, much deeper. This was what being married to him had turned her into. His charming little Julie had become an angry, spiteful poisoned woman. That was what he had brought out in her. Black, bilious poison.

Then there was the effect she had had on him. Before Julie, he hadn’t exactly had his shit together, but he had been ambitious. He had wanted to do things—maybe too many things, but he had wanted to leave his mark. He had played bass. He had tried his hand at writing music. He had been into cars; he had liked working on them. He had loved to read—that was how he had ended up at the Tribune. He had read all the time. He must’ve read a hundred books or more in a year, before Julie. He had loved to check out the local bands and the local bars. Plus, although he hadn’t much liked it, he had tried his hand at the journalism gig and had been pretty good at that, too.

After Julie, there was nothing. That’s what she had left him with. Nothing. No money, no furniture, no television, no life. “Ambitious” was not a word he would use to describe himself. It wasn’t just that he hadn’t liked the job at the Tribune. He couldn’t imagine anything he would like doing. He had hocked the bass two years ago, but he wouldn’t buy a new one, even if had the money. He didn’t want to read anything. He would occasionally stop in a bar for a drink, but he didn’t make it a mission to check out the new bands. He didn’t care anymore. He certainly hadn’t given a shit about reporting on the latest city council meeting or zoning committee decision. That was why he had lost his job.

She hadn’t quite destroyed his will to live. She hadn’t gone that far. But almost. Perhaps it would have been better if she had. Well, better for him. She was probably pretty pleased with the outcome, to the degree anything actually ever pleased Julie.

Richard sighed, looking at the answering machine. He granted that it was an absurd notion that Deb, nice as she was to him, would have any interest in him beyond the humanitarian. He wasn’t exactly a catch. He could barely take himself, most days. Still, he wasn’t going to risk it. He had seen stranger things happen, and Debi did show an awful lot of interest in him. Florence Nightengale Syndrome, he thought. She wants to rescue me, maybe. And I haven’t ever seen the slightest interest on her part, but, tonight, after today, she might try to rescue me between the sheets. And I might let her try.

The Good Lord knew it wouldn’t be the first time a woman had tried to rescue a man from his life or himself in just that fashion. He just wasn’t going to go there, that was all.

She worried about him. He knew she did. She just cared about people; it was how she was. She had seen what Julie had done to him. One night, out at the bar with Debi and Clark and a couple of other guys from the Tribune, he had told her everything. No tears, no screaming. Just what Julie had done, what was going on in the divorce, the sheer hate Julie had for him, the blind rage. How incredibly, unshakably wrong he had been. He had gone on for an hour or two. Debi had listened sympathetically. Patiently. She was a sincerely good woman.

Of course, he had thought Julie was a sincerely good woman, too. Maybe she had been. Together, however, things had gone terribly, terribly wrong. That was not a mistake he wanted to risk making again. Which was why the phone stayed on the hook and calling to confer with Deborah was tabled until the sober light of day.

“To bed,” Richard said, turning off Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” in mid-chorus.

“Yes, yes she did,” he told the radio. “And she did a good job of it.”

Richard ambled to the corner of his efficiency apartment and fell across the twin mattress that stayed on the floor; he hadn’t bothered to get a bed-frame or box springs—what was the point?

As he closed his eyes, he thought of Julie. Again.

She hadn’t just left him empty and aimless. She had left him haunted.

Sleep, although not terribly peaceful, came quickly.

Chapter 25

Washington, DC – Sunday, May 29th, 1983 – 8:25 AM

“Bagel?” Debi asked, peeking through Richard’s half-open door. “Got bagel. Got coffee.”
“Oh, hey,” Rich said, looking up from his atlas. That was twice she had brought him breakfast. Swear to God, she was the best. “Wow, you’re dressed up.”

She smiled and did a slight curtsy. “It’s Sunday. You’re my charity stop before church. So . . . am I invited in?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, sure, come on in, I’m sorry,” Richard apologized, waving her in. “I was just looking at the map. I think I can take 66 up to 81 and then it should be smooth sailing to Knoxville—although I think they are doing a lot of construction on 81 in Lynchburg, so I might want to get off on—well, one of the highways. I guess I should just wait and see how traffic is.”

“Wow,” Debi said, looking side-to-side. “You cleaned your apartment.”

“Yeah,” Richard said, grinning sheepishly. “I—it was embarrassing, you coming over yesterday. The place looked so crappy. I hadn’t mopped or dusted--”

“Or taken any of your stuff out of the moving boxes,” Debi added.

“That too,” he agreed. “Look, Deb, thanks for putting a good word in for me with Robbie. He called me back yesterday afternoon. I think this Capitol Brief story could be a really good thing for me. And—well, it was obvious he was going with me on your word.”

“Good,” she said. “I know you’ll do a good job. You could have done a good job at the Trib if Monk had ever let you.”

Richard smiled. He knew better than to think it would last—he had 12 hours of driving in front of him, and long hours in the car would make his thoughts wander. But he had gone to bed feeling pretty good, couldn’t remember what, if anything, he had dreamt, and had woken up in a decent mood. Now Debi was here, perpetual ray of sunshine that she was, with bagel and coffee, to see him off, on the gig she had gotten him the day after he had gotten the axe. “Thanks. I know you went to bat for me. A lot. Monk doesn’t listen to anybody but Monk.”

“No,” Debi said, handing Richard a bagel and a single-serve of cream cheese. “He can be very frustrating. You know, the thing is, he knew you could do it. He knew you had the chops. But everybody there has to climb up Monk’s ladder one rung at a time. Everybody had to go through the same stupid process—I knew he was going to fire you because you wouldn’t do it. But still, it just ticked me off. You know he waited until I was out of pocket all day before letting you go? He didn’t want me to be there. Because he knew I’d give him hell, which I did, anyway, and he puts up with—” She stopped, the sighed. “It’s just frustrating. He puts up with me because I bring in the stories, but if he would just have let you do what he knew you could do, then you’d be bringing in stories that he’d give his right eye for, but because you didn’t want to shovel shit and clean the toilets first, the way he did, he wouldn’t let you, even though he knew—” She paused and took a deep breath. “People are just stupid,” she finished. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep going on.”

“No, no,” Richard said, smiling. He took a sip of his coffee—it was good. Debi always knew where to get the best stuff. “You’re just reminding me that the only good thing about working at the Tribune is standing in my apartment. I’ve got a decent story, for once, the day after I got canned, and you put that together. You go on as much as you like.”

“Nah, I gotta go, anyway,” Debi demurred. “I usually try and make Bible study before church.”
Richard, holding his bagel up to his mouth, stopped in mid-bite. “Bible study?” he asked, chuckling. “You serious? I mean, I knew you did the church thing—”

Debi smiled. “Every Sunday morning and Tuesday evening, at 6:00 PM, New York Avenue Presbyterian. You’re welcome to come sometime. It’s the church where Lincoln took in Sunday service. Presidents and statesmen. It’s got history.”

“Uh,” Richard stammered. “I’ll think about it.”

“No pressure. Bagels and coffee are entirely string-free. I would’ve asked you before, actually, but I kind of like to keep work and church separate.” She tapped the small gold crucifix around her neck. “That’s why I keep this inside the shirt at the Tribune, or when I’m interviewing. I learned when I was an intern at the Times that there—well, there are a lot of people who don’t think much of us Christian-folk. Some of those people can make work really hard on you. Especially in this town.”

Richard blinked. “Well, yeah, I guess they—uh—could be—”

“The number of people with the Washington press corps that go to church any time outside of Christmas or a funeral—you can count them on one hand. I’m serious. I’ve done it. So I don’t make a big thing about it. And sometimes I want to, believe me. When you were telling me about your divorce, I really wanted to say something then. I really did. Because I’ve known so many people who have been—I’ve seen the difference it has made, in very bad times, for people I’ve known.” She shrugged. “But, I stick to my policy.”

Richard took another sip of coffee. “You’re telling me now.”

Debi laughed. “Technically, I don’t work with you anymore. And, anyway, it’s Sunday. It’s not going to kill you to hear about church for five minutes on Sunday.”

“Touché, touché,” Richard said. “I mean, you’re right, I ran into three or four people at the paper that I think went to church—maybe—but I can’t think of one that took it seriously. I just—it’s a surprise, I guess, I mean. Well, you can bust some balls. You’ve about had some of those guys on the Hill run out of town. You—you just—”

“A good Christian woman can’t bust balls?” Debi asked, smirking. “Ha! I don’t know about where you grew up, but in Fort Dodge, Iowa, that was the very definition of a good Christian woman.” She giggled. “But I feel a little bad talking about busting balls and such on the Sabbath.”

“‘On the Sabbath . . . ’,” Richard repeated. “I’m sorry, it’s just taking me a minute to get used to the idea. I don’t mean to be a heathen. You . . . you just keep it well concealed.”

Debi adjusted her coat and stepped back towards the door. “It’s my job, right now. You know me as well as anybody at the Tribune ever did, and look how you’re reacting. Witnessing and journalism don’t exactly mix.”

Richard had the sinking feeling he had just stuck his foot in his mouth. “Sorry, really, you just caught me off guard—but, yeah, you’re right, it probably wouldn’t hurt me to go to church. Or something.”

Debi stepped out the door, then turned and winked. “Or Bible study,” she supplied helpfully. “6:00 PM on Tuesdays. Or, you can call me and we’ll go together.”

“Uh—“ Richard stuttered. “Uh, okay. Sure. Why not?”

“It’s a date. I know you’re out this Tuesday, so next week?”

“Uh, next week,” Richard agreed.

“Finish your coffee before it gets cold,” Debi recommended. “Bye.” She turned and disappeared, the sound of her heels clacking on the concrete stairs outside Richard’s apartment, and then slowly fading away.

Richard finished his coffee, crumpled the cup, and threw it in the trash. He looked absently out his open door. Had he just agreed to go to a Bible study class? With Deborah Enos, ball-busting political reporter? Who looked like a supermodel? Were women that looked like supermodels even supposed to go to church? Wasn’t that a sin or something? She was such a babe! She was so smart. And she spent her evenings . . . studying the Bible? What the hell was that? And had he missed something, or had he just agreed to his first date since the divorce? Yes, yes he had. He had, with barely a murmur of disagreement, consented to go on a date with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen . . . in a church. Where they would study the Bible together.

It was bad enough that she was so nice, and so very beautiful—a very dangerous thing, beauty; the longest, sharpest knives were always in the most pleasing packages, weren’t they? Scary enough that she could have been a supermodel or a movie star. But she went to church—really went there, not just for Christmas service and funerals like Richard and probably most people he knew that ever made it to church at all, but she actually went regularly. On Sunday’s and Tuesdays.

He sat down. He had figured the excitement and anticipation would wear away during the long drive, and his mood would dampen. He was used to it. But the nearly genuine enthusiasm with which he had woken up was gone already, and he hadn’t even gotten his bags downstairs. He thought he had offended Debi. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed likely, and that made him feel like a shithead. He was pissed off at himself, for having known Debi for almost four years, and never even having noticed something that was clearly important to her. And he was supposed to be a journalist.

Shit, she had even told him. Oh, God, she had told him and he had laughed. They had been out and she had been drinking—no, everybody else had been drinking, Debi had gotten a Virgin Mary. But they had been out together and she had asked how he had gotten into journalism and he had mumbled something about wanting to make a difference—that had sounded better than saying he didn’t know how to do anything else—and then he had asked her why she had gotten into journalism. Only now, in his memory, did he see her hesitation. Only now did he see her slight lean forward. Her eyes watching him.

“I was called by God,” she had told him.

And he had laughed. Loudly. Obnoxiously. In his mind, he heard himself braying like a donkey.

“And I was being punished by God, so we’re both in the same boat,” he had said. He had thought himself awfully witty, but Debi had just nodded slightly. “It’s different for everybody, I guess,” she had said, and excused herself.

Richard slumped backwards. Had he really laughed like that? She had been seriously telling him why she had chosen journalism, and he had laughed and said some inane, self-pitying piece of tripe, thinly disguised as humor. And she had excused herself. Of course she had. He had hurt her feelings, or at least had proved himself unworthy of the tentative trust she had offered him. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

He remembered the night he had unloaded on Debi about his divorce. About Julie. She had listened to him for hours. At one point, she had excused herself to go to the restroom, and when she had come back, her necklace with the simple gold crucifix had been outside of her black turtleneck. For his benefit? Somehow? Probably. And he had completely missed it. Well, he had noticed, but had completely missed the import.

She had even told him, more than once, about going to church, and he had glossed over it—she went to New York Street Presbyterian, and a lot of politicians and political flacks who wanted to keep up appearances went to New York Street. He just figured she was working. She had told him, plain as day, and still, it hadn’t clicked. She was serious about her religion. And she had been trying to drop hints about it to him for two or three years. The only thing that had really, objectively changed today was that she had finally realized Richard was too dense to grasp any form of subtlety and had spelled it out for him. Then he had stuck his foot in it again. And still, she wanted him to go. Wanted to go with him.

He had been worried, Friday, that if he had gone over to her apartment, one thing might have led to another and they might have ended up in bed, corrupting what Richard had come to consider their solid friendship with some sort of “sympathy” sex. Reconsidered from the proper perspective, it seemed like he would have been in less danger of being seduced by Debi and in more danger of being evangelized—or already roped into Bible study this morning, instead of next week.

Richard slowly shook his head back and forth over his remaining half-a-bagel. The thought that it was exceedingly unlikely someone so beautiful and gifted as Debi would want to have anything to do with him had been, in its way, comforting on Friday. Now, there was a moral dimension added. A religious dimension. Not only was she beautiful and talented, she was dipped in Holy Water and touched by God. And Richard had been fretting over the possibility that she might—that they might—well, do something that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell ever would have happened. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

“I’m just her charity case,” Richard mumbled to himself. “Her good deed. Just doing her Christian duty.” Rich sighed. The idea that she was helping him to meet her Good Samaritan quota at church made him feel a little ill. Why, exactly, he wasn’t sure—what had he been thinking before, that she was in it for the money? That she was helping him because of his rugged good looks? In truth, it made her interest in him, he guessed, less suspect and more sincere. Still, it bugged him.

He stood up, picking up the remaining bit of bagel and dumping it in the trash. He picked up his bags and grabbed the atlas and started trudging towards the door. He didn’t know what it was, exactly—why the idea of her religious convictions contributing to her interest in him should bother him so much. How he had managed not to notice, after four years of knowing her. He had known Rajesh was a sincere, practicing Hindu after a few months, and he hadn’t exactly been hanging out a billboard or worshipping Vishnu at his desk. As Richard considered it, he realized he might have stuck his foot in his mouth more times than he even remembered. What had she heard him say, over the years? It made him nauseous just thinking about it. Maybe that was what really bothered him. Or . . .

Richard had a glimmer of something as he put down his bag in the hall, turning around to close and lock the door. The pit in his stomach—he remembered it. From after one of his sessions with Julie. After she would dress him down for something, he had always felt that emptiness. That sick sense of impending doom. Julie could be harsh, even cruel. The terrible vacuum in the pit of his stomach, as tough as it had been to take, had at least made sense. Now, with Deborah—it was back again. And maybe it made sense, too. It was like really good people could make him feel just as shitty as really bad people. Different approaches, same results.

Or maybe it was just him.

He closed the door and locked it, and began slowly down the stairs. He had felt so much better ten minutes ago. It wasn’t Debi’s fault, but . . . damn, he wished she hadn’t come over.
Shaking his head—and trying desperately not to hear what Julie had to say about it—Richard loaded up his scratched and dented 1979 Ford Mustang and headed for the interstate.

Chapter 32

Wytheville, VA – Monday, May 30th, 1983 – 8:47 AM

“So how’s it going?” Debi asked. Richard had been debating calling her, but it had been Julie that had finally decided the issue. She doesn’t want to talk to you. Why are you wasting your time? Have you brushed your teeth yet? Are you really going out with your hair like that? There’s a stain on your shirt. Right at the collar. Are you blind?

Richard thought—or, maybe, just hoped—that Debi could shut her up, at least for a little while. The way HBO had last night.

After seven hours in the car, he hadn’t been able to take it any more, and had been getting punchy, besides. So, though he hated to spend the money, he had stopped at the Holiday Inn at Wytheville to rest, planning to get up first thing in the morning and finish the trip. He had called Doreen to update her, then Robbie Deaton, who hadn’t been in, but Rich had left a message. Then he had showered and settled down to go to sleep. But Julie had been on his mind and in his head: critiquing, commenting, comparing. Nagging. Raising her head from Jason Bishop’s lap, a little smile quirking at the corner of her lips.

He had tried reading the Gideon Bible in the night stand—he was going to be starting, of all things, Bible study, after all—but he had always found the King James’ English tedious to follow. Though Genesis was familiar, nothing in the parts labeled Numbers or Deuteronomy made much sense, and even Exodus, which he generally understood to be about the Jews escaping from slavery to starvation in the desert, was a struggle to read. In the end, he had given up, as it hadn’t been doing anything to help him get to sleep, and it hadn’t done much to quiet Julie, either.

So he had turned to the next best thing—the television. The Holiday Inn didn’t offer much in the way of amenities, but they did have free HBO, and that turned out to be just the ticket. When he had turned it on, it had been in the middle of Deathtrap, with Christopher Reeve and Michael Caine, which he had seen but was happy to watch again; the tangled loops of betrayals and double-crosses were a lot of fun, and not entirely unfamiliar to his own life. After Deathtrap, a movie called Star Trek II: Wrath of Kahn had come on, and though Richard had never been big into space movies or Star Trek, he had thoroughly enjoyed it. It hadn’t helped him go to sleep, but it did manage to shut Julie up. And the guy from Fantasy Island had been great as the bad guy. In the end, Richard had been rooting for Kahn, rather than the dull and self-absorbed good guys in their khaki drab Marines-as-re-imagined-by-queer-Hollywood-guys duds. But the good guys had won, in the end, predictable and dull as it was.

But, it had been fun to watch Kahn kick ass while it had lasted, and Richard had learned a few things. Like the fact that 19th century French author Pierre Ambroise Francois Choderios de LaClos, who originally said that revenge was a dish best served cold, was actually a Klingon. He had laughed over that thought, until the thought that was just the sort of thing Julie would have nailed him for had followed it up. Knowing stupid stuff that didn’t mean anything. Making jokes or saying something about it like somebody else should care. Instead of knowing or doing or saying useful things, like whatever Julie wanted, right then, right there.

After Wrath of Kahn had ended, a movie called The Quest for Fire had come on, and that had been sufficient to help Richard finally fall asleep.

He hadn’t been up long before Julie-in-the-head had started yammering at him: You’re going to be late! Is that what you’re going to wear? How do you expect anybody to take you seriously dressed like that? You look like shit warmed over. You should have gone to bed earlier.

So, now he was on the phone with Debi. “I had to stop, I was getting tired. Still took forever to go to sleep. I’m excited about the story.”

“That’s great,” she said.

“And, I’ve got to tell you, I’m excited about Capitol Brief. I hope something works out there. Robbie Deaton seems like a great guy. And smart as hell, too.”

“He is,” Debi assured him. “I talked to him last night, and he thanked me profusely for putting you two together. He said he thought you were going to be good. And I told him that you had problems at the Tribune, because you were a talent and this was the sort of story you needed to be doing. And Robbie’s smart and young and not mule-headed like Monk. He gets it. I think he gets you. So, as long as you produce—which you will, I know—I think Robbie will have more work for you.”

“I’m going to make it happen,” Richard said. See? Even she thinks you’re going to let her down. Because you will, won’t you? You need a “Bible Study girl”, my rosy red ass. You need a brick upside your head, Dickard, that’s what you need.

Richard knew better—he knew it was his own mind and, at this point, had nothing to do with Julie. But he couldn’t help but answer the voice, at least in his head: At least she can say it nice, in a way that might actually help, instead of constantly trying to tear me down every goddamned day so you can fuck some goddamned lawyer with a fucking pompadour in the middle of our fucking house you worthless fucking whore.

Julie-in-the-head was unfazed. Temper, temper. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Watch what you think, Dick. You might end up saying it. Out loud. To the wrong person.

“Richard?”

“Huh?” he said. Oh, yeah, there was a real, live human being he was talking to, too. “I’ve got an interview with Dr. Tsukishiro Yukito this afternoon. I should be talking to Doreen Edmonds son, Jonathan this morning—I told you all about that. Petersen cancelled on me, but I think I might be able to catch him tomorrow morning, before I leave. I told you I had a call in to the realty company that was showing the house when he bought it, didn’t I? I haven’t heard back, yet, but I may just show up in person. I’ve got some calls into a few of his colleagues in Berkley, but I don’t know anybody up there. But I’m going to see what I can come up with. At least some phone interviews—”

“You sound like you’ve got a solid start,” Debi said. “That’s great. And you know, if Capitol Brief breaks it as a cover story and you get the byline—Monk will choke on his coffee. I guarantee it.”
Richard smiled. Choke on his coffee. That was about as offensive as Debi would get. “Thanks—I mean, there’s no guarantee yet that it’s cover-story stuff. But the thought had occurred to me.”

“When you hit the cover, I’ll make sure I get him a dozen copies, each with your byline circled in red magic marker. With lots of big question marks.”

Richard chuckled. Monk was famous at the Trib for circling, x-ing out, and drawing arrows connected to rows of question marks, on writers stories, usually make an unnecessary and unreadable mess of his copy.

“I don’t want to get too cocky,” Rich said. “It’s Monk’s paper, he ought to run it his way. I just want to do the best job I can on this.” And avoid going insane. I’d like to do that, too.

“Nah, not you. Too cocky? You couldn’t do it if you tried. I’ll be waiting with bells on, to see what you’ve got, when you get back. But, right now, I’ve got some rumors about Bob Packwood that I’ve got to check out. Apparently he has trouble keeping his hands to himself.”

“No kidding. I’ve heard that for years—but Monk won’t touch that story with a ten foot pole. They’re both members of Fauquier Springs Country Club and Bull Run. He’d never run anything bad about Packwood.”

“Maybe not now, but I’ve two women willing to go on record with the story.”

“You go girl,” Richard said. “If anyone can make Monk run it, you can.”

Debi laughed. “And if I can’t, maybe it’ll be running under your byline in the next issue of Capitol Brief.”

“I hope so,” Richard said. “But, you know, you do understand Robbie and I aren’t exactly married yet. He hasn’t even seen a real sample of my work. He might, like, barf when I turn in my story and tell me to go to Hell.”

“Not going to happen,” Debi said immediately. “You’re going to do a great job. Robbie Deaton isn’t Monk. Not by a long shot. He’s smart and savvy and will know good work when he sees it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Richard said. “You’ve convinced me.”

“Miss you, sweetie. Be safe.”

“Uh—you, too,” Richard said, and he was talking to a dial tone.

Richard sighed, putting the receiver softly in its cradle. Richard and Debi, sittin’ in a tree, Julie’s voice sing-songed in his head. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Richard with his divorce lawyer to the unemployment office because he won’t have a job and she’ll see what big worthless loser he is and will always be just like I did.

Richard grimaced, slowly caressing the dark, late ‘60s vintage Holiday Inn nightstand. “Your opinion is duly noted,” Richard murmured. “Thank you. Have a nice a day.”

Isn’t it getting late? Don’t you need to be getting off your ass and getting some work done? You’ve got an alimony check to pay, unless you’ve forgotten. And you’ve got that sorry little piece of trailer park trash whose life you ruined before you got to fucking up mine to see. Oooh, Richard, I’m so excited to see you, I can’t wait until I get to give you VD in return for the way your poisoned touch forever ruined my life. Like you’ve probably ruined the lives of every woman you’ve ever touched. Never wanted to do an investigative report on that, huh?

“Right the first time,” Richard mumbled, standing up and getting his backs together. His back hurt from sleeping on mattresses that were so old there was a detectable depression in the center of them, but that wasn’t such a bad thing. Helped drown out the Julie-voice. At least a little. “Time for me to get going. I’ve got work to do. And this going to work out. Debi’s right. It’s really going to happen this time. This is the start of a whole new life for me.”

Good fucking luck, Julie laughed in his head. That'll be the day. You don’t mind if I don’t hold my breath, do you?

“Please do,” Richard said, then, bags in hand, headed quickly for the door.

You forgot the room key. And your shaving stuff. It’s still in the bathroom. I swear, what would you do without me?

Richard didn’t say anything back to the voice in his head. It had been so long, Richard honestly didn’t know what he’d do without Julie in his life. Without her in his head. He had no idea.
But he desperately wanted to find out.

Gathering up his shaving kit and grabbing the room key, Richard quickly headed for the lobby to check out.