Interlude (18 page)

“Sad to say, I'd trust Mike. Or better yet, Brian Demetrius. He looks flakier than all the rest of them put together, but his heart's sure in the right place.”

The clouds gradually lifted from Betty's spirit. Unwelcome as hope was, she inhaled it in small doses with every trembling breath she took. She accomplished very little at work that day, while Joyce and Jim fielded the calls of countless journalists who persistently tied up the office lines. By nightfall the crisis seemed to have passed. The phones were quiet. The sidewalk was empty of reporters.

When Betty drove home that night, she scanned the street and courtyard for intruders before she parked the car. To her amazement, the entire answering machine tape was full. She erased it without listening to a single message.

For the first time in months she failed to turn on the television.

Death threats. Release rumors. Interviews with frantic hostage relatives. Commercials. Why bother? Let somebody else ride the roller coaster tonight. I'm going to bed.

By eight-thirty Betty was sitting on the side of her bed, brushing her hair. She chose not to be jarred awake by another unwelcome phone call and planned to connect the answering machine to the kitchen phone and turn down the volume when the phone rang.

“Hello? . . . Oh hi, Daddy.”

Harold sounded more than a little tense. “Why didn't you call me back?”

“Did you call earlier?”

“I called three times today.”

“I'm sorry, Daddy. The tape was full when I got home, so I erased it without listening to any messages. I assumed they were all from reporters.”

“Yeah, okay. So what do you make of these reports, Betty?”

“Well, I'm hearing that it's a bluff—not a real threat.”

“Who told you that?”

“A friend in Washington who kind of keeps an eye on things for me.”

“State Department?”

Betty laughed. “The State Department? I haven't heard a word out of them since Jon got picked up. They couldn't care less about any of us.”

“They're just a bunch of pencil pushers anyway. Okay, Betty. I just wanted to check with you. You all right?”

“Not really. But I'm a lot better than I was this morning.”

“Well, we're all praying up here. Your man's gonna get out of there one of these days. Just don't make yourself sick worrying, Betty. ‘Fret not yourself because of evildoers.'”

He must have been reading the Psalms again.

Feeling a little remorseful about her outburst earlier in the day, she began to write in her journal. A rough poem began to take form.

Sorry for the bitter words
After all You've done for me;
Sorry for malignant doubt,
Cancerous uncertainty.
Sorry for the midnight fears;
Did you yet abandon me?
Sorry for the distance, Lord;
Come, lay Your gentle hand on me . . .

All at once, Betty was overwhelmed with a longing for the unseen companion who had comforted her so many times before. She fell to her knees at the side of her bed. “God!” she cried out in desperation, “I've got to hear from You! You've got to do something!”

She felt herself teetering on some invisible edge between sanity and madness. She wanted to grab the gates of heaven and rattle them with all her might, screaming and shrieking until she got a response.

“Do something! You've got to do something!” She repeated those frantic words over and over, pounding the mattress with her fists. Eventually the beating of her heart slowed and her heavy breathing stilled. Ever so slowly, peace enfolded her, spilling warmly into the places fear had left.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “Lord, I need to hear from you . . .”

Into her mind came the most extraordinary thought.
You will be with Jon again very soon.

Betty's eyes flooded. Had she imagined that wonderful promise? Was she listening to the voice of some temporary psychosis, or had God answered her cry for help? The thought reemerged.

You will be with Jon again very soon.

“Okay, Lord. I'm going to assume that was Your voice. But You're going to have to do something to help me believe. I need to know that he's alive, Lord.”

She wiped her eyes with her nightgown sleeve, wondering if she dared tag on another request.

“And Lord. I'm sorry to ask, but could You somehow, some way let me know that he still loves me? And let him know that I love him too. We've both got to know, Lord. Thank You . . .”

With that, she crawled into bed and fell into an exhausted sleep. When she awoke in the morning she was surprised to see that, in her overwhelming weariness the night before, she'd forgotten to turn out the lights.

Jon was stretched out on a mat, trying to read the Bible his captors had given him. He had been puzzled by the unexplained gesture and finally concluded that it was another divine miracle, not unlike the arrival of Betty's letter and poem.

He'd already read both Testaments cover to cover and had begun his second time through. He was arduously concentrating on Leviticus, on the ancient Hebrew law and the harsh penalties God had instituted for rule breakers.

In the background Jon could hear a radio playing an old Beatles' song on the BBC. “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah . . .” Instead of enjoying the nostalgia, Jon found himself confronted by a series of unpleasant memories.

Guilt had been one of Jon's unwelcome companions throughout his captivity. And now, with the many Old Testament commandments fresh in his mind, past episodes replayed in his memory. Angry words with his mother. Disrespectful encounters with his father. Youthful drinking escapades that took full advantage of young ladies' infatuations. Vitriolic responses to his ex-wife's unpredictable behavior.

Jon was beyond making excuses for himself. He'd been through this accusatory process again and again since his abduction, and even his Christian faith in God's forgiveness couldn't seem to wipe the mental slate clean. He was fairly well convinced that this hostage experience was some sort of overdue cosmic payback.

And he was quite convinced that he deserved every bit of it.

For months he'd thought long and hard about his ill-fated relationship with his ex-wife. Carla had been glamorous and charming when he met her, and he had been intrigued by her enigmatic personality. Although her ever-changing moods puzzled him, he had enjoyed the challenge of trying to make her smile. In those early days, when she was happy, he had been gloriously happy too. Unfortunately, despite their times of bliss, erratic emotional outbursts had begun even before the wedding and had quickly escalated into explosions of broken dishes and bitter accusations.

Sometimes Carla had refused to speak to Jon for days on end. At first he'd tried to draw her out, to apologize, to make things right. But nothing had seemed to reach her. Finally, in his hurt he had simply withdrawn into his work and his own interests. It wasn't many years before the marriage had ended, and by the time it happened they'd both felt relieved—even liberated.

But now, in the damp darkness of his cell, Jon wondered how he could have done things differently. Perhaps something in him was unlovable. She had often said he was selfish and detached. Was he?

He shuddered as he vividly relived the trapped, helpless feeling he'd experienced during that marriage. In all his despair and confusion, maybe he had missed his cues to calm Carla's fears. To quiet her with kindness. To reason with her.

A logical question followed: Would he fail Betty too? Was there an ominous, unresolved self-absorption in his character that had been the real source of his struggles with Carla? Was he really all that different now?

Betty doesn't need any more hurt in her life,
he reminded himself.
She's had her share already. What if I'm incapable of being a good husband?

“Oh God,” he prayed under his breath, “I've been through this a thousand times. I've broken all the rules, and now I'm . . .”

Out of nowhere, a thought burst into Jon's consciousness.
There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus.

Jon was suddenly alert, as if another person were in the cell with him. “Lord, what are You saying?”

Again the message came.
There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus.

Jon clearly recalled having read those words in the New Testament somewhere. Was it Romans? He searched the pages of the Bible until he found it. Yes. There it was—Romans 8:1.

Jon pondered the meaning of the message, trying to apply it to his troublesome thoughts.
No condemnation.
No condemnation.
Did that mean, perhaps, that there was some other reason for his captivity besides God's judgment? Could there be another purpose other than retribution for his past sins?

Jon closed his eyes, trying to grasp the meaning of the words. As moments passed, logic bridled his wild guilt, and the past seemed less significant.

What's done is done. It's forgiven and forgotten,
he finally concluded.
I've got to hang onto that somehow.

But what about the future? What about Betty?

“Lord, I need Your help. I don't want to marry Betty unless I'm the right man for her. I don't want her to end up like Carla . . .”

She's nothing like Carla emotionally.

Jon weighed the thought. “No, she isn't, but maybe I brought out the worst in Carla. Anyway, Lord, I need to hear from You. Is Betty still waiting for me? If she isn't, then I'll have to let her go anyway. But even if she's there for me, I've got to be sure I'm the man she thinks I am. She's never seen me at my worst, and I'm not so sure she'll still love me once she's had to live with me.”

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.

Words from the familiar Shakespearian sonnet crept into Jon's mind, nearly convincing him that his dialogue with the Unseen was somewhat less divine than he'd hoped. He tried to remember the rest of the sonnet, but it eluded him. Would he ever recite it at their wedding? Would there ever really be a wedding?

“God, if Betty's waiting for me, let me know. And if she is, tell her I still love her.”

As Jon slept fitfully, another tune began to play on the radio. He stirred, and opened his eyes, half aware of the lyrics that floated through the fetid air.

First came the smile, then came the laughter,
Hello, here's my heart. Now we must say good-bye.

He opened his eyes.
Pretty song,
he thought halfheartedly, trying to discern the rest of the words. As the music faded at the end, an American voice suddenly spoke into Jon's drowsiness like a comet blazing across a black sky.

Hey Jon, it's time you got yourself out of Beirut and came home, man. Your lady's waiting.

If Jon could have jumped to his feet he would have. How on earth . . . ? Could Betty have somehow had a hand in the recording of the song? Had she written it? Jon wished he'd listened more carefully. Oh, but the words that mattered had come through loud and clear. God had heard his prayer. Within minutes He had answered.

. . . Your lady's waiting.

“Okay. Thank You, God. I believe it. I have to believe it or I'm a fool. But what about the rest, God? How am I going to let her know I still love her?”

He could hardly contain his inner excitement. For the moment he was oblivious to his filthy surroundings. To the chaffed skin under the chain. To the smell of the room, the darkness and the solitude. God was with him. God had heard him. God had the future in hand. Sheer amazement kept him awake for hours.

At last he slept. Several hours later he was roughly shaken by a guard who checked his blindfold and abruptly unfastened his chain. “You come with me now, Mr. Jon.”

Jon's legs were unsteady, and he nearly fell as he tried to stand up. The guard cruelly yanked his arm behind his back and bent it upward until he cried out in pain. To make matters worse, Jon felt the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his head.

“Walk!”

And walk he did. Waves of fear chilled him as he tried to keep his balance. Where was the guard taking him? Was he going to be moved to some other location, or were his captors simply going to kill him? The threat of being summarily executed was not the least bit far-fetched under the circumstances. The miracle of the song he'd heard hours before was forgotten as Jon struggled along.

After several minutes, they seemed to reach a destination. Jon could see light through his blindfold. He was shoved into a chair. His blindfold was jerked off, and a blaze of video lights sent such sharp pains through his eyes that he couldn't keep his eyes open. Words were shouted to him in Arabic. He shook his head and gestured that he didn't understand.

Someone commanded in English, “Look at the camera!”

Obediently he squinted straight ahead.

“Read this to the camera!”

He examined several poorly phrased English sen156 tences that condemned the Bush administration and demanded justice for Islamic prisoners in various locations. Suddenly he remembered his prayer of the night before. Aware that the gun barrel had been removed, Jon took a terrible chance.

“May I ask a question?” he whispered.

The heavily accented voice snapped, “What do you want?”

“After I read the statement, may I send greetings to someone?”

The handful of people in the room murmured to each other in Arabic. “Greetings to who?”

“The woman I'm planning to marry. I want to tell her I love her.”

For some mysterious reason, after a round of heated bickering, the man who seemed to be in charge said, “Yes . . . all right. But only a few words!”

Jon read the statement in a monotone, assuming that anyone who knew him would realize he wasn't enthusiastic about its content. The peculiar sentence structure alone could never have come from an American.