The Parnell Affair (5 page)

“And big girl that I am,” she murmured to the television, “I've come as far as Todd.  Only took seven years.”

Todd stepped in front of the east coast and motioned to graphics of arcing blue arrows.  Sally smiled, closed her eyes a little, and slipped her hand into her jeans.  A sound like a continuous angry howl leapt up from the back yard.  Sally jumped onto her elbows and then deflated at the shoulders.

“Raoul,” she breathed.

Raoul, the pool boy.  A boy still at sixty, come to use a power sprayer on the cement surrounding the pool.  Sally laughed as she kicked her legs out of bed and closed her jeans, walking to the window.

“Just not going to happen today, is it?” she said, looking through the blinds.  She felt relieved in a way: reminiscing about Joe before masturbating usually left her feeling lonely afterward.  “Too bad you had to do that today,” she told Raoul, or the window pane rather.  On other days he'd sing Norteño love songs while skimming the pool with a net.  More than once his ballads had accompanied a quick look at Todd and a bite on the lip.  She fixed her bra and buttoned her blouse, went into the master bath to put her hair in a pony tail, and then found sneakers and walked downstairs.

It was later in the day than usual for her shower and such.  Her younger daughter, Lucy, had an early start with friends so Sally had delayed her run to have breakfast with her.  They almost always breakfasted together, usually biscotti and a couple espressos from the huge machine Joe had bought in Italy.  She'd always been closer to Lucy than to Anna, her older daughter (daddy's girl; now a freshman at Colombia).  Having learned that maybe roles—such as friend or lover or husband or even daughter and mother—shouldn't be lightly abandoned or combined, she'd kept being a mom to Lucy even after she secretly started to lean on her as a best friend.  She watched herself do this, carefully and appraisingly: spy work was lonely work, so perhaps it wasn’t unexpected.

And the impact of her work on her relationship was her primary scapegoat for not having taken a lover, too.  She'd told the DDO (Deputy Director Operations) that her marriage to Joe wouldn't last longer than Lucy's senior year of high school.  Maybe six people in the world knew, but if she started sleeping around—no matter how discretely—the spooks watching her, including foreign spooks who watched Joe, would be taking notes on her liaisons, perhaps even recording them.  That was her best excuse.  She had others.

Sally washed the dishes she'd left from breakfast and found her keys.  Time to go food shopping, she thought.  This time, she mused, why not flirt with some guy at the grocery store?  That's all, how hard is that? She asked herself.  Just chat up some random guy, take the first step—it's okay for you to try to be a little bit happy, you know, she lectured herself.  She opened the door and saw a man in a light corduroy blazer, a white shirt open at the collar, and faded jeans walking up the front lawn from a Chrysler convertible.  An attractive man.

Tobias figured if he got the story from Joe, then no one would bother him about his expensing another car; if Joe wouldn't go on the record, Tobias would never explain why showing up in a taxi at a prospective source's house would set the wrong tone; and so he might as well rent the convertible.  Two days had passed and Tobias had found a copy of Joe’s white paper on Niger’s uranium industry and the visit by an Iraqi trade delegation.  By itself it was a story—and a good one, given its likely effect on any votes for war powers—but he knew Joe had more to say.  Not likely he held back solely for the sake of discretion, Tobias thought.  But if so, I can show him my copy of the white paper and he'll have his excuse to talk.

Mrs. Parnell came out the front door as Tobias cut across part of the lawn to the walkway.  Idiot, he thought, trampling her lawn is a great first impression.  The closer he came to her, the better the impression she made on him; he could feel himself smiling naturally, not the good natured cordiality he usually used.

“Mrs. Parnell?” Tobias said as he approached.  “I'm Tobias Hallström from
The Washington Observer
.”

“Good morning, hi,” She said and took a quick couple steps to shake hands.  He reacted as if he wasn't familiar with the practice at first.  “Call me Sally,” she said.  “Mrs. Parnell will always be Joe's mother,” she said, simply wanting to say something other than that Joe wasn't home.  “Not that she's not lovely,” she added quickly.  “She is, or was,” she said and thought: what the hell are you talking about?  Is
this
flirting? she asked herself.  “But in that old, old school east coast, um—”

“Armless glasses, six-inch cigarette holder sort of way?” Tobias offered.

“That's it,” she said.  He's got a nice voice, she thought.  She took a breath and tried to tie her string of nonsense into something resembling a coherent thought.  “You know, she'd go to the grocery store—if she went to grocery stores—in a satin dress and a mink coat.  I go in denim,” she said, dropping a glance at her jeans.

“It's not an outfit's material but its contents that makes it beautiful,” he said, his head tilting to one side.  What, are you insane? he shouted internally.  Don't flirt with Parnell's wife; Christ, you need him as a source.  “I stole that from one of my MEs,” he said, glancing left and right and lowering his voice.  He shrugged and went on as if confessing: “I was about nineteen and trying to communicate to the 'general reading audience' just why the punk and hardcore scenes were falling over themselves for someone who dressed like Joan Jett.”

“Oh,” she said, not sounding disappointed but thinking how a wedding ring might inhibit a nice man, even during harmless flirting.  “It's a good line, though,” she said with a shrug of her own.

“Yeah,” he said.  “Rather reckless of him to give away dynamite like that to a nineteen year-old kid.”

“Ha, that's true,” she said.  “I had a teacher once, an old, ancient professor, who said the reason he was a lifelong bachelor—he was seventy-eight at the time—was because his grandfather had given him a copy of Marvell when he was ten and he'd used
To His Coy Mistress
to seduce his,” she paused to swallow a laugh, “sixteen year-old next-door neighbor.”

“Oh my god,” he said.  “Yeah, that's why you don't give
carpe diem
poems to kids.  I don't know if that's horrifying or if I want to congratulate the guy.”

“It probably wasn't true,” she said.  “He was getting a little senile.  He was a despicable misogynist in many ways, but it was hard to hold it against him because he was so harmless, so funny.  Like a little crippled Pan.”  They shared a laugh.

“Oh, boy,” he said, shaking his head.  “I'm a bachelor, too: I wonder if that's how I'm going to end up in thirty some years—as a cautionary anecdote.”

“You, a bachelor?” she said, looking him over.  There you go, she congratulated herself; keep going.  “How many divorces?”

“None,” he laughed.  “Really.”

“Are you sure?” she said.

“You think I might be married without my knowledge?” he asked, waited a beat and then dropped his lopsided grin in a feigned look of surprise and fear.  “Christ, you don't think that's possible, do you?”

She laughed the way a woman laughs when happy that a man has tried to make her laugh.  “Well, as long as you were never in Vegas,” she said, “and drunk, you're probably safe.”  He made a 'whew' gesture.

“I guess you came by to talk to Joe again?” she asked.  “He went back to the office today.”

“On a Friday?” Tobias said. “Probably an all email day,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets.

“I can only imagine,” she said, thinking: why did you steer back to work?

“Clearing out from his trip to Niger,” Tobias said.  “Did you go with him?  Oh, and I already have confirmation,” he said quickly, reaching into his jacket and tilting Joe's white paper into view.  “Off the record and all that; just wondering.”

“That's okay,” she said as the NOC perked up her ears.  “I don't think where we go is a secret—he's not with the State Department anymore.  We moved back here so the girls could have a more normal school life; high school's tough enough, wasn't it?”

“Always,” he said.  “For everyone.”

“But I sometimes miss all the traveling we did,” she continued.  “And I don't seem to do as much for my business as I used to.  So whenever I get the chance—” she said and trailed off.

“Right,” he said.  “Did he happen to tell you what we talked about earlier?”

“Yes,” she said, “but I couldn't—”

“Oh, no, of course not,” he said.  “I was just wondering if he was still considering letting me write a little of what we talked about or, I don't know, tell me a bit more?” he said and gave her his lady-killing grin with all the trimmings.  “Or has your husband made up his mind and I ought to just give it up and go write the story I can write?  Which, I have to be honest, is still a pretty darn good story.”

“I don't know if Joe's made up his mind or not,” she said slowly.  “You'll have to ask him.”

“I'll do that,” Tobias said.  “Sorry to take up so much of your time—”

“Oh, no, you're not,” she said quickly.  “I wasn't trying to—I'm just going grocery shopping, nothing urgent, really,” she said and thought: oh, well done, very smooth; I thought Lucy was the teenager.  “I just don't want to say anything about what Joe might be thinking and you print it and it turn out not to be true.”

“I'd never,” Tobias said.  “Can't do that—and not because I'm such a nice honest guy.  If word got around that I was pestering people's wives into making statements,” he said and thought she frowned ever so slightly at the word 'wives,' “no one would ever talk to me again.”

“I'm sure lots of people would talk to you,” she said.  “Do you want me to tell Joe you stopped by or are you going to try to catch up with him at the office, later on?”

“I probably shouldn't bug him when he's up to his ears in email,” Tobias said, looking at nothing for a moment, which wasn't easy while standing in front of Mrs. Parnell.  “The thing is,” he said, stepping closer and lowering his voice, “this is such an important story.  So much is riding on any story dealing with WMD; what with the Administration looking very determined to have a war.  Not that the cable and radio news seem to see it that way,” he said and rolled his eyes impatiently.  “But you know what I mean: it's so important, I don't want to mess it up.”

“I know what you mean,” she said slowly.

“Do you?” he asked gently.

“Of course,” she said.  “No serious person takes war lightly.”

“Maybe I'm way out of line to ask you this, Sally,” he said and she felt a thrill run from her thighs to her throat, “but maybe you could kind of bring it up with him?  I'm not saying make him go on the record: just nudge him a little,” he said and grinned.  She has grey eyes, he thought, how often do you see that?  “Keep it on his mind, you know?  After the way he stood up to Saddam at the US Embassy during the Gulf War, I know he's a man who has the strength to do the right thing, but maybe keeping things fresh in his mind wouldn't hurt?”

“I'm sure it's been on his mind,” she said.  “But I'll bring it up to him.  I guess life runs at a pretty fast pace for newsmen.”

“Ha, during working hours anyway,” he said.  Don't you dare say something about when you're not working and then ask her to have a drink, he scolded himself.  What the hell is the matter with you?  She waited.  “Speaking of which, I better get back to it.”

“Of course, don't let me keep you,” she said, thinking: he was sticking around for me, wasn't he?

“I wish you would,” he said and then thought: fuck, fuck, fuck!  “On a day like today,” he added quickly, stepping backward and gesturing skyward, “the last thing I want is to sit inside all day—but I think my editors may just insist.  Thanks for talking to me,” he said, stepping just close enough to shake hands.  Hers didn't tremble, but did it linger?

A little sweaty-palmed there, fella, she thought: was he nervous?  She smiled brightly and said, “It was a pleasure meeting you.  Drop by any time.”

“Thank you,” he said and beat a hasty retreat before any more foul ups.

As he drove back, Tobias talked to himself (a habit of the solitary).  “Well done,” he growled.  “Why don't you pick up the wives of all your sources?  Maybe sire a few kids on her: I'm sure Joe would like a son.”  Tobias drove on, avoiding the main roads, taking his time.  “It could have been worse, but you almost lost it at the end.  Good Christ, but you could see why.  She is
beautiful
,” he said, gripping the steering wheel.  “And yet, it was almost as if she wasn't used to guys tripping over their tongues to compliment her—a thoroughly gorgeous woman like that!  Don't understand it.  I'd think she couldn't take out the garbage without neighbors popping up over the hedge with offers of a glass of their latest old vintage port and 'Oh, the servants just happen to be away, my dear.'  Surprised she doesn't have a servant to do the grocery shopping for her, on that street.”

Though Joe had grown up with servants in the house, Sally had not and it never occurred to her to hire any when they returned to the states.  Joe had never brought it up, as he was attempting to fashion something along the lines of middleclass normality: hadn't had much success with it, except superficially.  Maybe all normality is superficial.

As Sally drove in the other direction, she ran her mind over the encounter professionally: everything he said, she said, the subjects covered, possible underlying motivations, she considered everything.  Stop, stop, she thought finally, this isn't work.  I'm glad I did it; I forgot how much fun flirting can be when you finally just do it.  She was not unaware of what must have inhibited him and knew very well nothing was likely to come of their conversation.  But the way he'd had to keep a check on himself, and how charming he'd been when he'd slipped, made her feel wonderful.  She felt good about herself in a way the leers of customers in the dry cleaners or fathers at her daughter's soccer games or Mr. Thisleworth across the street could never make her feel.  She didn't walk like a woman just come from a four-mile run as she pushed her cart into the super market.  Her smile was not that of the contented housewife—until she saw Arthur MacGregor comparing foot powders near the pharmacy counter.  He worked for State, an old friend of Joe's, and Sally's intermediary with CIA.  They exchanged pleasantries and Arthur communicated to her the need to make contact with part of a cell she'd created in Pakistan—someone was getting cold feet and it was up to Operations officer Parnell, NOC, to put a fire under them.