Deadline (26 page)

“You know that incredible ballroom at Floren’s? Diana and Jason—Jason’s her new boyfriend, this hunk that’s a partner at Gleason, Underwood, and Dodge—they decide ‘hey, let’s get some action going here,’ so they call over this waiter…”

Mary Ann was uneasy with gaps in the conversation, and Jake was contributing the gaps. He continued to nod, though he’d lost track of where Mary Ann had been and hadn’t the slightest idea where she was going. Her voice was a distant echo, her words hovering in the air about him. He could grab them from the air when necessary and let them float away when not. Most of them floated.

He thought about sex, since it could be his tonight if he so decided. Even in the pre-herpes, pre-AIDS era, sleeping around was always a great fantasy, but never a fulfilling reality. After sex, the worst part was being in bed the rest of the night with someone you didn’t know but had to pretend to feel comfortable with. There was something terribly sad and lonely about it. He felt so empty and awkward, like a man who’s smoked a pack of cigarettes and has no use for the package. He just wants to toss it. But there it is, in bed beside him all night, waiting to face him in the morning. Would Mary Ann be such a package tonight?

Sex had become more and more a chore. “Are you HIV negative? Are you sure? Who’s the last person you slept with? Do you know who he’d been sleeping with? Did you use a condom? Do you have a condom now?”

So much for the free and spontaneous love without consequences Jake had bought into in the sixties and seventies. It had given birth to the chaos and diseases of the eighties and nineties.

Again, Jake could hear Finney’s voice. “God doesn’t intend us to be promiscuous. All these diseases are just a reminder.”

Not too subtle a reminder.
So far six reporters at the
Trib
had died of AIDS, and others were wasting away before his eyes.

Sex was an anesthetic that for a short time made Jake forget how lonely he was. But every time, as soon as the deed was done, his loneliness deepened. It was fulfilling only for the moment. And he wanted more from life than fleeting moments. But here was Mary Ann. Incredibly attractive. Clearly available. Not just available, but eager. Served up to him on a platter. The kind of woman who would have revved up his engines just a few years ago. She did now, but something was different. Before, he would have been figuring out how to get her in bed. Now he was trying to figure out how to avoid it.

Amazing how my strategy’s changed
, he thought, with some disappointment in himself.

Dessert was served, some fancy thing with a French name. Jake couldn’t tell what it was even as he ate it. Mary Ann said, “Don’t eat too much, Jake. I was thinking we could make some dessert of our own later on.”

She smiled coyly, and it had the desired effect. Why not take her home with him or spend the night at her place? What would it really hurt?

Jake’s mind was flooded with images of Janet early in their relationship. Their idealism, the hopeful and expectant anticipation that each new day would bring a great adventure. The thrill of just being together. The dreams they shared. If only he’d never had that experience. Perhaps then he could be satisfied with the superficial. But he knew better. He knew what it was to love, to laugh, and to dream with the woman of his dreams. But they’d lost it. He’d lost it. It seemed the ultimate tragedy to have your dreams dashed, to watch the wild stallion of love grow old like a broken down mare, ending up a crumpled heap at the glue factory.

They’d been idealistic, unrealistic, he’d decided. The concerns of career and self-advancement, which he told himself were for her as much as him, had overshadowed their love. He became an absentee husband, an out of touch father. The hundreds of photographs of Carly he took when she was a baby dwindled to dozens a year by the time she was in third grade, and virtually none when she reached junior high. Janet, with no interest or talent in picture taking, had become the family photographer, as well as the family everything-else. Jake just wasn’t there. He always intended to slow down at work, spend more time at home, do more with the family, but it never happened. Work was more important than home. He’d said the opposite, even in his columns, but Janet reminded him that his schedule, his choices, didn’t lie. They reflected his true priorities.

Many nights just before dozing off, he’d heard Janet’s quiet sobs, but pretended not to notice. He didn’t want one more late night guilt trip about how much she and Carly needed him. He couldn’t make her understand most women were a lot worse off, and many would gladly trade places with her. She seemed less the girl he had pursued and married than a nervous, frightened, and critical middle-aged woman. He’d given up on the marriage. It took too much effort. The divorce seemed anticlimactic, a funeral taking place years after the death. He’d written a column about how divorce was the honest thing to do and often the best choice and didn’t have to hurt the children. It had been a popular column.

“Jake. Jake, you’re drifting again. It’s okay if you’re fantasizing, as long as I’m in the fantasy.” Mary Ann giggled. “Oh, look. There’s Dr. Henry from the hospital. I’m going to go say ‘hi.’ Don’t eat my dessert!” Mary Ann smiled and swept away.

“I won’t.”

He watched Mary Ann work her way across the room, admiring her walk. He thought of Finney, who years ago had seen a wall coming up between himself and Sue and determined to tear it down. Finney and Sue. How often he’d envied them and the freshness and vitality of their relationship. So had Janet. They offered hope. They sent the message that yes, a good marriage was possible. Marriage could last, marriage could survive, even thrive. But that was Finney. Always different. Always beating the odds.

Janet filed the papers, but it was Jake’s divorce, and both knew it. He wanted out, he wanted the easier life. No commitment, no apologies, no regrets. It was a dignified divorce with all the modern mature no-fault trappings. “We’re still friends, you know.” “It was best for both of us.” “It was best for Carly too.” Yeah, right. He’d even gotten a “Congratulations on Your Divorce” card from Lenny at the
Tribune.
Everyone got a big kick out of it. Lenny had been divorced three times. He was the expert. “Happy Divorce”? Yeah, sure, they were all better off.

Mary Ann returned, talking on and on about this doctor, and how Doc said he was one of the best surgeons in town, and how he owned this incredibly beautiful mansion with an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and how she’d been there for a party once. Jake tried to pay better attention, feeling guilty his mind had been there so little.

When the check came, he put down his VISA, but she reminded him it was her treat and took her billfold out of her purse. Running her finger over the ridges, she selected from the row of cards a shiny American Express. A few minutes later she signed it off, refusing to let Jake even leave the tip. He inwardly groaned at the total, calculating that the tip alone could have paid for two full meals at Lou’s Diner, plus milkshakes and coffee.

As they walked to the door, Mary Ann put her arm in his and pressed up against him, bumping her hip against his. His resolve began to weaken. She suggested since they both had cars he could follow her to her apartment. Her red-lipped smile beautifully framed her white teeth.

Almost ready to say “yes” to the suggestion and all that was sure to follow it, Jake thought again of Janet and Carly and Finney and Sue and Betsy and Doc, and the empty carton of cigarettes and the lonely feeling of waking up next to someone you don’t know or love.

“Listen, Mary Ann. I really enjoyed having dinner with you. Thanks for treating me. Maybe we can do it again some time. But, as you could tell, I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I’m just not very good company right now.”

Mary Ann promised, “I can take your mind off whatever it’s on. Come over. I guarantee I’ll make it worth your while.” The way she said it and the look on her face backed up the claim.

“I’m sure you would, but I feel like I just need to go home alone.”

Mary Ann looked confused and disappointed. “Well, it’s your choice. It was fun being with you. Please call me. I’d love to do it again. You’ve got my number.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

She pressed herself against him and kissed the edge of his lips. “Sure I can’t change your mind?”

Jake swallowed hard. “No. Thanks. I need to go. See you.”

Jake drove home, alternatively hating himself for being such a fool to let her go, then hating himself for being such a fool years ago when he let Janet and Carly go for what Mary Ann represented—pleasure without responsibility.

Jake sat in his recliner drinking hot chocolate and flipping pages in a Grisham novel before realizing he couldn’t remember anything he’d read the last fifteen minutes. He wandered toward bed, turning off the last light. He listened to the steady Oregon rain drubbing the verandah, a sound he usually found comforting. Tonight it only reminded him of his aloneness.

Jake tossed to the right, then the left, and the waterbed shook at his frustrated sleeplessness. A hot tear fell onto his pillow, first one then another. He thought about the stains on the pillow case. No problem. They’d come out in the wash. Besides, if they didn’t, who would ever see them?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
he hearty aroma of dark Colombian coffee permeated Jake’s apartment. It slowly weaned him from a deep sleep. His first regret-filled impulse was to drag himself out of bed and go through the morning shave and shower routine he could do in his sleep, and often had. Then came the oh-so-sweet realization that the coffee wasn’t Colombian after all, it was Chocolate Macadamia Nut, which meant this was Saturday morning and he didn’t have to get up.

Every weekday morning Jake’s automatic coffee maker sprang into action at 6:15. His alarm rang at 6:30, giving the coffee a fifteen minute chance to awaken him slowly, civily, before the alarm rudely took over. But he didn’t set an alarm for weekends. Coffee came on quietly at 8:00. But often Jake wasn’t up till 8:30 or 9:00. The brewing coffee was the only common element of weekends and weekdays. Yet even that was different. During the week it was dark Colombian. On Saturdays it was Swiss Almond or Chocolate Macadamia or whatever struck Jake’s fancy at his weekly grocery shopping, where he selected and ground his coffee.

On a typical Saturday, he lounged around in his underwear or gym shorts till 11:00, postponing his shower until after a workout on his stair-stepper or cross country skiing machine. He’d catch up on his reading, maybe an old Ludlum or Hillerman or a new Clancy, check out a college ballgame or two. He felt the stubble on his face, prickly against his pillow case, and luxuriated in the fact that today no cold steel would touch his face, and no comb would attempt to bring order to the chaos that was his hair. There was no day like Saturday.

Jake turned over, extracting his face from its deep impression in the pillow and breathing deeply the coffee-flavored air. Suddenly a wet nose pressed against his neck. Champ knew it was Saturday too. Jake had little time for him on weekday mornings. But on Saturdays they were pals. The chocolate brown and white spaniel’s nose, pressed up close against Jake’s face, looked like a brown electrical outlet. Champ wormed his way under the covers and joyfully immersed himself in his master’s morning scent.

“Your blood’s getting too thin, fella,” Jake teased. Champ had been spoiled by his inside habits, including these periodic pilgrimages under the covers of Jake’s waterbed. Jake had named this Champ, the springer, after the golden retriever who spent many nights in Jake’s sleeping bag thirty-five years ago, out in the backyard, under the stars. The original Champ, Jake pondered, was the only other being who’d regularly spent time with the three musketeers. That dog accompanied Jake, Doc, and Finney in their wonder years, from about third grade until high school, when he went the way of all dogs.

As he scratched Champ in all the best places, bringing groans of ecstasy, Jake remembered old Saturday mornings. Watching
Sky King
as he ate his Shredded Wheat biscuits. Sleeping in at college. Vietnam, where there were no Saturdays, and the coffee came in one flavor—black and full of grounds, and where the only filter was his own pursed lips. Then there were the Janet years, where the companion in bed wasn’t a spaniel.

It was only thirteen days since that Sunday that had forever changed his life. It was no longer late fall but early winter, having made the transition in a day, like the seasons do in Oregon. The wind howled and cold blasts ruffled the base of the curtains at the sliding glass door to Jake’s patio that came right off his bedroom. It was a houselike apartment, with accouterments that included fireplace and patio, without all the hassles of home ownership that no longer appealed to Jake. He leaned out of bed and pulled back the curtains, surprised and pleased to see a sheet of ice already covered the neighborhood and a dusty snow was falling.

How many times as a boy, on mornings that looked like this, had he hoped against hope the announcement would be made “East Benton Grade School is closed today.” Then he and his buddies would launch into a day of sledding, snow ball fights, and frosty mischief, breaking only for Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup and Ritz Crackers compliments of Mom, who never had a day off.

Champ was now in the kitchen, loudly gulping water from his metal dish. Jake lay in his waterbed, leaning against a padded headrest, covers pulled up under his arms. On his chest lay yesterday’s
New York Times
and a novel Sandy had given him. He knew the
Trib
was sitting out there in that long row of yellow paper boxes. Though five days a week he could get it free at work, he still subscribed. That way he could be more like the average reader, going through his paper-fetching routine, anticipating what awaited him within. He wanted the
Tribune
now, but he wasn’t about to go get it. Not on a frigid Saturday, not yet. He opened the novel instead.

Jake had never been an avid fiction reader until the last few years. He’d tired of the “real world” of nonfiction, with all its senseless tragedies and unresolved issues. When he was younger and idealistic he’d had such hopes for the world, hopes those issues could be dealt with, the tragedies averted. Now the world seemed so dark, with all its kidnappers, rapists, muggers, child abusers, street gangs, drug dealers, and murderers, its endless parade of sadistic abductors and psychopaths, whose exploits were often rewarded with a made-for-TV movie. At least the killings in novels weren’t real, and at least the story usually involved love and courage and ended with purpose and hope and something that could satisfy. Even if, in coming back to real life, one had to face the fact that love and hope were merely an illusion. The world no longer gave him reason for hope. Fiction provided a momentary escape from the nagging futility of life’s purposelessness.

While Jake pretended to be glued to the pages of the novel, the brown spaniel slunk back up onto the foot of the bed, an inch at a time, as if afraid that any sudden move would tip off his master. Jake chuckled to himself.

“Come here, fella. You’re not nearly as subtle as you think.”

Champ’s rich fur was getting thicker as the weather grew colder. He turned circles, getting ready to land, his tail wagging so hard, like a chopper blade, Jake felt the breeze. Just before plopping down he buried his nose into his master’s neck. Neither the drinking water still dripping from his jowls nor the wet cold of his snout repulsed Jake. His presence was the welcome and familiar comfort of an old friend. Even more welcome these last few weeks than before, as friends were in short supply.

What was it about this dog that made Jake feel more comfortable than with most people?
He makes so few demands.
Maybe that was it.
He sees me at my worst and still loves me. No person could do that.
Finney had called it “unconditional love.” He remembered his first Champ.

I could yell at that dog, threaten him, send him into ice water to fetch a stick, and he’d look at me like I’d done him the biggest favor in the world just because I recognized his existence
.

Thoughts of Saturdays, snow, and dogs took Jake back to the old neighborhood, that few dozen square miles of Benton County, vintage fifties and sixties. He lay flat on the big hand-painted blue sled, “the clunker,” with Finney stretched out on top of him, his red gloves clenching Jake’s shoulders, visible in his peripheral vision. After a day of sledding, Jake’s shoulders were bruised and sore from the vise grip of his buddies when they took a sudden turn or hit a bump and went flying. Jake loved the feeling, because he usually engineered it with a quick turn of the rudder. It was fun to be in control, dishing out the surprises to his friends. And the real thrill was when the unpredictable contours of the icy slope reminded him he wasn’t in control after all.

Champ’s rhythmic breathing and occasional contented sigh fueling his recollections, one wild ride in particular filled Jake’s mind. With Finney on his back, Jake was frantically trying to avoid trees as they rocketed down Dead Man’s Hill on the Swenson farm. Everything was a blur, and Jake could feel the frigid sting of icy needles flying into his face. He could see Doc down at the bottom of the hill, his oversized black coat prominent against the winter whitewash. His Polaroid camera in hand, like a war correspondent Doc waited to document what he hoped would be a major crash.

The snow had begun to melt, and there was a light rain, making for furious sledding on the slightest decline. Jake feared Dead Man’s Hill would soon be renamed Dead Jake’s Hill. As he flew down the hill too fast to scream, the icy crust suddenly cracked and his face was buried in the snow. But he still moved forward, plowing through snow as a diver through water. When he came to a stop, he suddenly panicked. He couldn’t breathe. As if underwater, he instinctively pushed up to the surface, only to hit his head on something. In desperation he hit it harder, butting his head into it, and heard it crack. All of a sudden his head surfaced above the ice and he sucked in air. He shook his whole body and it too broke through the ice. He looked back and could see the hole he made when the sled went under the ice. It was at least twelve feet behind him! His momentum had carried him through the powdered snow under the ice.

Finney! Where was Finney? He heard Doc’s shouts at the bottom of the hill. Was Finney hurt? Then he realized Doc was laughing. There he was, on his hands and knees, beside himself. The body with the blue coat—Finney—was sprawled out, hands and legs outstretched, still in motion, moving up the opposite hill, sliding back down to the low point and back up the base of Dead Man’s Hill, losing just a little momentum with each pass. Finney’s efforts to stop himself were futile. The ice had put him into perpetual motion. Finally the laws of physics prevailed, and gravity brought him to an ever-so-slow stop.

Jake wanted to get down the hill to his friends but wasn’t about to get back on the clunker, still buried under the snow. Wanting to be in on the laughter, he stood and started toward them, realizing instantly he’d made a foolish mistake. He fell flat on his backside and headed feet first down the hill. Now he could hear Doc whooping it up again. Then he heard Finney’s voice join Doc’s, equally hysterical. Champ barked wildly, joining in on the fun.

Quicker than he thought possible, Jake was at their feet, streaming past them in a reenactment of Finney’s wild ride. He could see Doc’s red face, contorted with spasms of laughter. As Jake passed him on his next sweep, he kicked out his leg and caught Doc, who was now standing, on his left heel. This slowed down his own ride and sent Doc into a frantic tap dance to keep his balance. Finally, like a circus clown, he fell in a heap.

Now Finney broke into hysterics, so much so that he fell again. Within seconds, all three had settled together at the low point between Dead Man’s Hill and Swenson’s pasture, Champ zealously licking the frost off their faces. They were all three clutching each other, exhausted from the scare, breathless with gut-wrenching laughter. Jake had never felt so close to any friend. That day was one among many that had sealed their forever friendship.

Forever?
Suddenly a gentle tug on his T-shirt brought Jake back to his bedroom. A dog’s soulful eyes gazed at him curiously. Another Champ had taken the place of the first. But Finney and Doc were gone, and there was no one to take their place. There never would be. Jake’s eyes blurred. He felt embarrassed, even though his only audience was a dog. He longed for Doc and Finney days, the innocent adventurous days of childhood. When life was simple, and you knew whose side you were on, and who was on your side. When friendship really did seem it would last forever.

Champ’s eyes seemed a mirror reflection of Jake’s, as close to shedding tears as Jake had ever seen them. Jake saw his own contorted face reflected in those eyes.

“It’s okay, fella,” he said, arms wrapped around the spaniel. “Everything’s been crazy, hasn’t it?”

Jake flipped on the alarm clock radio to his favorite oldies station. “Peggy Sue.” “Rock Around the Clock.” “I Get Around.” From Chuck Berry to the Association, six of the “ten hits in a row” promised by the deejay aroused memories of places and people back in that little Oregon place and time. Nostalgia ran through his blood and warmed his extremities. His friends’ deaths made the memories more painful, yet more rich.

After trying the novel for another ten minutes, he set it down in surrender to the thoughts that first tugged, then yanked at him. The investigation was like looking at all the fragments of a thousand piece puzzle with no master picture as a guide. He felt like he was a character in a novel, along with Ollie and Mary Ann and Sue and everybody on the suspect list. But Jake had no idea where the author, if there was an author, was taking this thing. There was no promise of a happy ending or even a successful one. He might go the rest of his life and not know who killed his friends.

Mary Ann’s information on the doctors was interesting, but had led him nowhere. The patient advocate had been no help. While Doc had his share of complaining patients, the complaints weren’t serious. Certainly nothing sufficient to generate the kind of grudge people killed for. He’d nosed around for leads on a few of Doc’s girlfriends and their husbands or fathers, but nothing seemed very likely there either. The meeting with the abortion protesters at Sue’s was coming up. Maybe he’d get the break he needed from them. He hoped the slowness of this Saturday would allow insight and direction to emerge. He’d try to let all the ingredients of the investigation mix around in the soup and simmer for a while.

Jake got up, walked across his Spartan living room, notably devoid of much-needed feminine touches. Once in the kitchen he poured twelve ounces of coffee in his oversized
Star Trek: The Next Generation
mug, and sank into the recliner. Saturday coffee couldn’t be savored without reading something. He’d left his novel and
Times
in the bedroom. Lazily, he looked around for other options on the lamp table. There was Finney’s Bible, with his envelope addressed to the
Tribune
on top, right next to the television remote control.

He pushed the remote’s power button, then channel surfed, pausing at ESPN, a couple of journalists he knew on a C-Span symposium, more bad news for the day on CNN, and an old
Dick Van Dyke
on Nickelodeon. He flipped a few more channels and saw a religious huckster ranting and raving and proving true the old carny adage that a fool and his money are soon parted. Disgusted, he flipped a few more channels, then pushed off the power. Twenty-nine channels and nothing to hold his interest.