Nowhere to Run (9 page)

The makeup woman was an annoyance but a necessity, thought Gavin Winston as he peered at his reflection on the mirrored wall. He looked terrible this morning. The bags under his eyes were getting worse, and his skin was blotchy and pasty looking. What did he expect? He hadn’t been sleeping well lately.

He’d been hearing the rumblings on the street. And now, this morning, the
Wall Street Journal
article made the rumors a reality. The Securities and Exchange Commission was investigating charges of insider trading at Wellstone, Inc. The investment darling’s stock had come tumbling down, causing thousands of small investors to lose millions of dollars. Yet Wellstone executives and their in-the-know friends had sold in the days preceding the fall, not only preserving their initial investments but garnering mammoth profits as well. Once again, the rich got richer, while the little guys were the goats.

As the beige concealer was dabbed beneath his eyes, Gavin dreaded presenting the Wellstone story in a few minutes. He didn’t relish violating a journalistic principle, reporting on a story of which he himself might be considered a part.

The makeup artist removed the nylon cape that protected Gavin’s tailored English suit. He bent close to the mirror to adjust the knot on his Ferragamo tie and checked his facial reflection one last time.

He had made a nice piece of change on that Wellstone stock, but it sure wouldn’t look good if anyone knew about that.

After the first news block, Constance tossed to Caridad Vega at the weather map.

“Carrie? What will the weekend be like?”

“Well, Constance, winter may actually be a full month away, but those of us in the Northeast are going to be seeing an unusual pre-Thanksgiving snowstorm coming our way.” She pointed to the arrows flowing north to south on the map. “There’s a cold front coming in from Canada that will be arriving on Saturday night, going into Sunday morning, bringing with it lower-than-normal temperatures for this time of year. So get out your scarves and mittens, folks, and your snow shovels too.”

Annabelle wondered, as she listened, if the kids would still fit into last year’s boots. She doubted it.

“The rest of the country can expect seasonable temperatures and mostly sunny skies,” Carrie finished her report.

Lucky them.

“A dazzling new film.”

“Deeply touching.”

“Amazing performances.”

“People will be talking about
Icicle
for a long time to come.”

Coming back to her office to watch the end of the broadcast, Annabelle listened to Russ Parrish toss around the superlatives in his movie review.

Something wasn’t right. The movie was supposed to be a dog. The
New York Times
movie critic had panned
Icicle
in this morning’s edition. So had the
Post
and the
Daily News.

Annabelle clicked the remote, switching her office monitor to another network. At the same time Russ was claiming
Icicle
to be a “must-see,” the reviewer at the CBS
Early Show
was calling it “one of the worst films ever.”

Sure, reviews were subjective, reactions influenced by the critic’s own personal perspective, but how could Russ’s view be so dramatically different from all the others?

With thirty more seconds of commercials left to air, Constance read over the copy she would deliver when the camera came back to her, sitting still as the makeup artist repowdered her face. The red light above the camera flashed on, and the stage manager flagged her to begin.

“It’s been four decades this weekend since President John F. Kennedy was assassinated as his motorcade drove through Dallas. Many have said that it was the day that our country lost its innocence.”

The video package began to roll with a narration Constance had recorded earlier playing over the archive material. The young, handsome president and his stylish young wife getting off the plane, the roses presented to Jackie, the beaming couple sitting in the back of the open limousine. Then the grainy black-and-white film of the school book depository, the speeding police cars, the Texans crying on the grassy knoll, the flowers lying forgotten on the bloodied backseat of the presidential car.

I wasn’t even born yet,
thought Annabelle as she watched the monitor and waited for Constance to come back on camera.

“But for a younger generation of Americans, September eleventh is the day that they will remember as the beginning of
their
loss of innocence. And many still suffer from depression, anxiety, and, for some, post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of the horror of that day.”

Mike is in that number, as if I needed any reminder,
Annabelle noted dully. She had read that almost half a million New Yorkers had suffered from depression directly attributable to September 11. Nearly three thousand people had been killed in one fell swoop. All of those people had mothers and fathers, many had wives and husbands and sons and daughters and aunts and uncles and cousins who were now called on to live with the loss and the savage memories and somehow keep going.

Three hundred forty-three New York firefighters, one out of every thirty-three, all dead. Three hundred forty-three brothers and sisters who had made the supreme sacrifice. The ones who had survived said it was with them constantly, they never forgot about it, missing their buddies. Survivors’ guilt plagued the lucky ones. Why them, why not me?

Once happy to go to work, secure in the camaraderie of the firehouse, these well-trained men had taken satisfaction from performing an important job. Now, they were haunted by the thoughts of their departed friends and lost sleep at night wondering what could have been done differently. If the command structure had been more unified, if the radios had worked, if the buildings hadn’t collapsed. If, if, if.

Twenty percent of Americans knew someone hurt or killed in the attacks, and the ripples were still being felt in the society at large. Many had lost their jobs owing to the attacks, never to reclaim them. Applications to the CIA and the Peace Corps were up dramatically. So were the hate crimes reported to the Council on American-Islamic Relations.

Annabelle knew all this because she couldn’t stop reading about it. If Mike had shut down, she kept thinking, it was important for her to immerse herself. The more she understood, the more she might be able to help him. But each time she brought up anything related to September 11, urging him to talk about it and let it out, Mike would either yell or, worse as far as she was concerned, clam up tight.

Watching the sanitized file tape roll, edited to omit the most gruesome scenes of people actually jumping out the windows to avoid burning to death, Annabelle could only imagine what her husband had witnessed that day. Only imagine it, because Mike refused to share the unspeakable horrors that tormented him.

When the show ended, Annabelle went down to the cafeteria and filled two take-out cups with Starbucks coffee. The milk dispenser was already empty.

“Edgar, I hate to trouble you, but I need some milk.”

“No trouble at all, miss.”

He offered her a fresh container of milk and waited while she poured the white liquid into the coffees.

“Thank you very much,” she said, handing the carton back. “I appreciate it.”

He smiled at her as he began to empty the rest of the milk into the dispenser. That was one nice lady. Not like the others, who didn’t even give him the time of day.

At the salad bar, Annabelle was filling a plastic bowl with sliced fruit when a woman and two young boys dressed in ski jackets pushed through the cafeteria turnstile.

“Uncle Edgar!” exclaimed the slightly smaller one, running to the food-service worker and throwing his arms around the grown man’s waist.

“How’s my Willie?” asked Edgar, grinning and hugging the child. “Happy birthday, my boy.”

The older boy held back but smiled as he stood next to his mother. Annabelle estimated the brothers to be three and four years old. It was rare to see little ones inside the Broadcast Center. When children did venture in, they were treated as curiosities, mesmerizing to watch.

“Take a look over there, boys, and see what you’d like to eat,” instructed Edgar, nodding toward the salad bar. “I’ll go toast some bagels for you.”

As Edgar went to the grill, the mother and her children began to fill their tray.

“I want the pineapple,” said the older boy.

“I want the bananas,” declared Willie. “And grape jelly for my bagel.”

The mother, feeling Annabelle watching, looked up and smiled tentatively. Annabelle returned the smile. “It’s a big treat to come in to visit their uncle, isn’t it?” she asked. “I know my kids are so excited if I bring them into the office.”

The last time Annabelle had brought Thomas and Tara in, Constance had arranged for them to sit on the set with her after the broadcast while the cameras recorded them. The twins still got a big charge out of playing back the videotape of themselves on television. Annabelle wished she could have offered to do the same for Edgar’s nephews, but with the upset at
KTA
right now, that wasn’t a possibility.

Instead, she turned to the younger boy and said, “Happy birthday, Willie. I hope you have fun today.”

Annabelle was waiting when Constance, stunning now in full makeup, arrived back at her office.

“Oooh. Just what I needed,” said Constance, accepting the paper cup of piping hot high-test. She popped off the plastic lid and settled back in her chair. “So how’s it going, honey?” she asked, taking a careful sip.

Annabelle rolled her eyes. “I can’t tell. I think the FBI believed me when I told them I had nothing to do with Lee’s plan. I only hope Yelena did. I need this job, Constance.”

The show host nodded. “How
is
it going at home?”

“I’m still waiting for Mike’s new medication to kick in. It’s been over two weeks now. Of course, he’d actually have to take the medicine in order for it to work.” She sighed heavily.

“I don’t know what to say, Annabelle. It sounds lame, but I know everything will work out. Mike is such a great guy. He will pull out of this. I’m sure of it.”

“I hope you’re right, because the whole thing is really getting to me.” She felt tears welling.

“I don’t know how you handle it all, Annabelle. I admire you so.”

Annabelle managed a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. You? Admire
me
? You’re the one with the stellar career and the face and personality the country loves.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s all well and good and, believe me, I know how lucky I am to be in this position. But I can concentrate on my work with no distractions. I have no one else depending on me like you do.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Constance considered the question. “Neither, I guess. It’s just the way it is. Who knows how I’d feel if I had met my Prince Charming, a man that I loved so much I wanted to get married and raise a couple of kids. But I haven’t so far, and that’s okay with me. I like where I’m at. Which reminds me…” She opened a pharmacy bottle and swallowed a pill.

“What’s that?”

“Cipro. I decided to take it. I’m not taking any chances.”

Annabelle held back from making a judgment. Who knew how she would feel if a tube of anthrax had been thrust in her face?

They finished their coffees, talking about what an idiot John Lee was and speculating on whether, in the end, this episode would be good for his career.

“I’ve got to go meet with him now.” Annabelle moaned, rising from the sofa.

“Good luck, baby.” Constance picked up the telephone. “I’ve got a few calls to make, and then I’m cutting out of here early. I’m flying down to D.C. to see my mother.”

Annabelle stopped at the door. “Please. Don’t tell me you’re not going to Linus’s party.”

“I wish. I don’t really want to go, but I have to attend. Linus would have a fit if I didn’t. I’ll take the shuttle back Sunday afternoon in time to be there.”

“Good. Because I need the moral support,” Annabelle declared.

Constance gave a wry smile and shook her head. “I could use some support too, my friend. How much fun do you think it is to know that I will have to watch Lauren Adams batting her baby blues at Linus? I know full well that she’s salivating for my job and thinks that’s the way to get it.”

“No way, Constance, will Lauren ever get your spot.” Annabelle was adamant. “She doesn’t hold a candle to you and we both know it.”

“Never say never, Annabelle. We both know, in this business, stranger things have happened.”