Stillwatch (16 page)

Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors)

BOOK: Stillwatch

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She had a long, tranquil face with a generous mouth and pale hazeleyes. Her hair was sandy with traces of gray. There was an air of totalself-confidence about her. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, andher lips parted to reveal strong, perfect teeth. She told Pat that whenshe was a girl her ambition had been to get a job in television. “Andinstead”—she laughed, looking up at her husband—”I had no soonerlet go of the daisy chain at Vassar than I found myself married.”“I was smart enough to grab her before anyone else did,” thePresident said. “Pat, I’m glad to meet you.” It was a palpable emotionto feel the solid handshake of the most powerful man in the world.“They ’re good people, ” Sam commented as they acceptedchampagne. “And he’s been a strong President. It’s hard to believehe’s completing his second term. He’s young, not sixty yet. It’ll beinteresting to see what he does with the rest of his life.”Pat was studying the First Lady. “I’d love to do a program on her.She seems comfortable in her own skin.”“Her father was Ambassador to England; her grandfather was VicePresident. Generations of breeding and money coupled with a diplomaticbackground do have a way of instilling self-confidence, Pat.’In the State Dining Room, the tables were set with Limoges china,an intricate green pattern, rimmed with gold. Pale green damask clothsand napkins with centerpieces of red roses and ferns in low crystalcontainers completed the effect. “Sorry we’re not sitting together,”Sam commented, “but you seem to have a good table. And pleasenotice where Abigail has been placed.”She was at the President’s table between the President and theguest of honor, the Prime Minister of Canada. “I wish I had this oncamera,” Pat murmured. She glanced at the first few items on themenu: salmon in aspic, suprême of capon in flamed brandy sauce,wild rice.Her dinner partner was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.The others at the table included a college president, a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, an Episcopal bishop, the director of Lincoln Center.She glanced around to see where Sam had gone. He was at thePresident’s table directly across from Senator Jennings. They weresmiling at each other. With a twinge of pain, Pat looked away.

Near the end of the dinner the President invited everyone toremember in prayer the Vice President, who was so seriously ill. Headded, “More than any of us realized, he had been pursuing arduousfourteen hour days without ever considering the toll they were takingon his health.” When the tribute was completed, there was no doubtin anyone’s mind that the Vice President would never resume hisduties. As he sat down, the President smiled at Abigail. There wassomething of a public benediction in that glance.

“Well, did you enjoy yourself?” Sam asked on the way home. “Thatplaywright at your table seemed quite taken with you. You dancedwith him three or four times, didn’t you?”“When you were dancing with the Senator. Sam, wasn’t it quitean honor for you to be at the President’s table?”“It’s always an honor to be placed there.”An odd constraint came over them. It seemed to Pat that suddenlythe evening had gone flat. Was that the true reason Sam had gottenthe invitation for her—so that she’d meet Washington people? Didhe simply feel he had a certain obligation to help launch her beforehe withdrew from her life again?He waited while she unlocked the door, but declined a nightcap.“I’ve got to get in a long day tomorrow. I’m leaving for Palm Springson the six-o’cock flight to spend the holiday with Karen and Tom athis family’s place. Are you going to Concord for the holiday, Pat?”She didn’t want to tell him that Veronica and Charles had left fora Caribbean cruise. “This will be a working Christmas,” she said.“Let’s have a belated celebration after the program is finished.And I’ll give you your Christmas present then.”“That’ll be fine.” She hoped her voice sounded as casually friendlyas his. She refused to reveal the emptiness she felt.“You looked lovely, Pat. You’d be surprised at the number of peopleI heard commenting about you.”“I hope they were all my own age. Good night, Sam.” She pushedthe door open and went inside.“Damn it, Pat!” Sam stepped into the foyer and spun her around.Her jacket fell from her shoulders as he pulled her to him.Her hands slipped around his neck; her fingertips touched the collar

of his coat, found the cool skin above it, twisted his thick, wavy hair.It was as she remembered—the faint good scent of his breath, thefeel of his arms enveloping her, the absolute certainty that theybelonged together. “Oh, my love,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you so.”It was as if she had slapped him. In an involuntary movement, hestraightened up and stepped back. Dumbfounded, Pat dropped her arms.“Sam . . .”“Pat, I’m, sorry . . .” He tried to smile. “You’re just too damnattractive for your own good.”For a long minute they stared at each other. Then Sam grasped hershoulders. “Don’t you think I’d like nothing better than to pick upwhere we left off that day? I’m not going to do it to you, Pat. You’rea beautiful young woman. Within six months you’ll have your pickof half a dozen men who can give you the kind of life you shouldhave. Pat, my time is past. I damn near lost my seat in the last election.And you know what my opponent said? He said it’s time for newblood. Sam Kingsley’s been around too long. He’s in a rut. Let’s givehim the rest he needs.”“And you believed it?”“I believe it because it’s true. That last year and a half with Janiceleft me empty—empty and drained. Pat, it’s hard for me to decidewhere I stand on any issue these days. Choosing what tie to wear is abig effort, for God’s sake, but there is one decision I can stick to. I’mnot going to foul up your life again.”“Have you ever stopped to think how much you’ll foul it up bynot coming back into it?”Unhappily they stared at each other. “I’m simply not going to letmyself believe that, Pat.” Then he was gone.

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Glory was different now. She had begun setting her hair in themorning. She had new clothes, more colorful. The blouses had highruffled necks instead of button-down collars. And recently she hadbought some earrings, a couple of pairs. He’d never seen her wearearrings before.Every day now she told him not to make her a sandwich for lunch,that she would eat out.“All by yourself?” he’d asked.“No, Father.”“With Opal?”“I’m just eating out”-and there was that unfamiliar note ofimpatience in her voice.She didn’t want to hear about his work at all anymore. He’d trieda couple of times to tell her how even with the respirator, old Mrs.Gillespie was rasping and coughing and in pain. Glory used to listenso sympathetically when he told her about his patients and agree whenhe said it would be a mercy if the angels came for the very sick ones.Her agreement helped him carry out his mission.He’d been so distracted with Glory that when he delivered Mrs.Gillespie to the Lord he’d been careless. He had thought she wasasleep, but as he pulled out the respirator plug and prayed over her,she opened her eyes. She had understood what he was doing. Herchin had quivered, and she had whispered, “Please, please oh, . . .sweet Virgin, help me . . .” He’d watched the expression in her eyeschange from terrified to glassy to vacant.
And Mrs. Hanck had seen him having Mrs. Giespie’s room.
Nurse Sheehan was the one who’d found Mrs. Gillespie. She hadn’taccepted the old woman’s death as the will of God. Instead she’dinsisted that the respirator be checked to make sure it had been

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functioning properly. Later on he’d seen her with Mrs. Harnick. Mrs.Harnick was very much excited and pointing toward Mrs. Gillespie’s room.Everyone in the Home liked him except Nurse Sheehan. She wasalways reprimanding him, telling him that he was overstepping. “Wehave staff chaplains,” she would say. “It’s not your job to counsel people.”If he’d thought about Nurse Sheehan’s being on duty today, hewould never have gone near Mrs. Gillespie.It was his worry over the Senator Jennings documentary that wasconsuming him, making it impossible for him to think straight. Hehad warned Patricia Traymore four times that she must not continueto prepare that program.There would be no fifth warning.

Pat simply wasn’t sleepy. After an hour of restless tossing, shegave up and reached for a book. But her mind refused to becomeinvolved with the Churchill biography she had been looking forwardto reading.At one o’clock she shut her eyes. At three o’clock she wentdownstairs to heat a cup of milk. She had left the downstairs foyerlight on, but even so, the staircase was dark and she had to reach forthe railing where the steps curved.
She used to sit on this step just out of sight of the people in thefoyer and watch company come. I had a blue nightgown with flowerson it. I was wearing it that night . . . I had been sitting here and thenI was frightened and I went back up to bed. . . .
And then . . .” I don’t know,” she said aloud. “I don’t know.”Even the hot milk did not induce sleep.At four o’clock she went downstairs again and brought up thenearly completed storyboard.The program would open with the Senator and Pat in the studioseated in front of an enlarged picture of Abigail and Willard Jenningsin their wedding reception line. Mrs. Jennings senior had been editedout of the reel. While the film of the reception ran, the Senator wouldtalk about meeting Willard while she was attending Radcliffe.At least, that way I get something in about the Northeast, Pat thought.

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Then they’d show a montage of Willard’s Congressional campaignswith Pat asking about Abigail’s growing commitment to politics.Willard’s thirty-fifth birthday party would highlight the pre-Camelotyears with the Kennedys.Then would come the funeral, with Abigail escorted by JackKennedy. They’d eliminated the segment that showed her mother-in-law in a separate car. Then Abigail being sworn into Congress inblack mourning attire, her face pale and grave.Next came the footage about the embezzlement of the campaignfunds and Abigail’s commitment to airline safety. She sounds sostrident and sanctimonious, Pat thought, and then you see the pictureof that scared kid, Eleanor Brown. And it’s one thing to be concernedabout airline safety—another to keep pointing the finger at a pilotwho also lost his life . . . But she knew she wouldn’t be able to persuadeLuther to change either segment.The day after Christmas they would shoot Abigail in her office,with her staff and some carefully selected visitors. Congress had atlast adjourned, and the shooting should go quickly.At least Luther had agreed to a scene of Abigail in her own homewith friends. Pat had suggested a Christmas supper party with shotsof Abigail arranging the buffet table. The guests would be somedistinguished Washington personalities as well as a few of her officestaff who could not be with their families on the holiday.The last scene would be the Senator returning home at dusk, abriefcase under her arm. And then the wrap-up: “Like many of themillions of single adults in the United States, Senator Abigail Jenningshas found her family, her vocation, her avocation in the work she loves.”Luther had written that line for Pat to deliver.At eight o’clock Pat phoned Luther and asked him again topersuade the Senator to allow her early life to be included in theprogram. “What we have is dull,” she said. “Except for those personalfilms, it’s a thirty-minute campaign commercial.”Luther cut her off. “You’ve examined all the film?”“Yes.”“How about photographs?”“There were very few.”

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“Call and see if there are any more. No. I’ll call.You’re not very high on the Senator ’s list right now.”

Forty-five minutes later she heard from Philip. Toby would beover around noon with photograph albums. The Senator believed Patwould find some interesting pictures in them.Restlessly Pat wandered into the library. She had jammed the cartonwith the doll under the library table. She would use this time to gothrough more of her father’s effects.When she lifted the doll from the carton, she carried it to thewindow and examined it closely. A skillful pen had shaded the blackbutton eyes, filled in the brows, given the mouth that mournful twist.In the daylight, it seemed even more pathetic. Was it supposed torepresent her?She put it aside and began to unpack the carton: the pictures of hermother and father; the packets of letters and papers; the photo albums.Her hands became soiled and dusty as she sorted the material into piles.Then she sat cross-legged on the carpet and began to go through it.Loving hands had kept the mementos of Dean Adams’ boyhood.Report cards were neaty pasted in sequence. A-pluses, A’s. The lowestmark a B-plus.He had lived on a farm fifty miles from Milwaukee. The housewas a medium-sized white frame with a small porch. There werepictures of him with his mother and father. My grandparents, Patthought. She realized she didn’t know their names. The back of oneof the pictures was marked

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