The Global War on Morris (12 page)

THE DISTINGUISHED TERRORIST FROM MASSACHUSETTS

FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2004

“T
his is not funny!” Jon Pruitt growled into his phone from his office at the Department of Homeland Security. A group of senior DHS officials stood around him, nervously shifting their feet.

He heard the uncontrollable squealing of Scooter Libby on the other end. “It's actually hilarious! You couldn't make it up! I'm about to brief the Vice President and he'll love this! He needs a good laugh!”

What Libby found funny was that day's disclosure that Senator Ted Kennedy had been detained at airport security five times because his name was on the terrorist watch list. Which, in some quarters of the White House, was not a snafu. It was probable cause. This was Ted Kennedy, after all.

Pruitt felt that twinge in his stomach as if Cheney's mysterious grip on almost everything in Washington somehow included his
intestines. He wondered whether this was an innocent mistake or one of those Cheneyesque power plays.
If we can't beat Ted Kennedy at the polls, let's strip search him at the Delta Shuttle!
He took a breath, scanned his desk for some Tums, and sought to control his voice. “I don't think you appreciate the problem here. This reflects poorly on our entire system. The American people must have confidence in the ability of their government to tell the difference between a Senator from Massachusetts and a terrorist from Afghanistan.”

Same difference,
thought Libby. But he saw Pruitt's point. “Okay, okay. So what do you propose we do? Maybe the President should ask for a Joint Session of Congress so he can formally apologize to Ted Kennedy. Is that it?”

“No. But Asa Hutchinson will apologize. Publicly. Today.”

Libby was fine with that. Hutchinson was a former Republican Congressman from Arkansas who jumped from anonymity in the House to anonymity at the DHS. His title was Undersecretary, so as a matter of Beltway protocol, this wasn't actually an apology. It was an under-apology.

“Hutchinson's fine. Just make sure he reminds the American people that we are trying to protect them from the enemy. Terrorists. Jihadists. Liberals!”

The last thing Pruitt heard was a burst of laughter, and the click of the phone.

PART TWO

THE SHIVA

THURSDAY, AUGUST 26, 2004

J
udaism's traditional period of mourning, the shiva, is seven days. But God created the world in six. So it was that Rona Feldstein mourned for a full six and a half days after Morris confessed the death of their marriage.

After the confession, an angry storm had settled into a desolate silence punctuated by curt exchanges of necessity. For example, “Take out the garbage, Morris.” The week had featured news reports about high-level American military leaders who permitted torture in an Iraqi prison. The prison was named Abu Ghraib. While Morris paid little attention to the news, this topic interested him. He felt as if he were living in solitary confinement, broken only by Rona's spontaneous sobs, and her deep and heavy sighs, and her refusal to accept his apology. There was also the matter of the Mets. They had swept the doubleheader on the night of Morris's visit to the Bayview.
But then dropped six of the next seven. As if God were sending Morris some kind of sign. Through Hillel. Morris sinned and the Mets suffered.

Then, on Thursday night, the mourning ended. Shiva was over.

They sat in the dining room, listening only to the scraping of their forks against plates containing take-out from the Great Neck Greek Palace.

Then Rona broke the silence.

“Morris. I made a decision, Morris.” Her voice was heavy and strained, as if she were about to render either the death sentence or mercy for the husband who betrayed her.

Morris lifted his head from his plate. This moment was the first time he had made prolonged eye contact since he had returned from the Bayview. And it was the first time that Rona seemed to show her age. Her slender body was slumped in her chair. Her hair, normally fiery red and cropped close to her head, was tousled and fading into a bland orange. Her lips usually formed a slight overbite that accentuated every syllable; now she pursed them as if she was sucking on every word. And her eyes were puffy from a week's worth of crying.

He was grateful to hear more than an angry grunt from Rona, but wary of what would be said. He tried to swallow his food, but felt his throat begin to tighten and his stomach gurgle.

Rona sighed. “I don't want to end our marriage, Morris.” The words came laced with anguish. “What you did was wrong. Terribly, completely, unforgivably wrong. You made a promise to God and broke that promise. And not just to God. But to Jeffrey and Caryn.”

It was a direct hit, and Morris winced.

Rona continued. “But maybe I bear some responsibility.”

“No, Rona—”

“Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,” Rona sputtered as she waved her index finger. “Let me finish. Maybe you're bored, Morris. Maybe we have a boring life. You sell pharmaceuticals all day. You come home. We bring in dinner. We eat. You go to the den. You watch your sports.
Day in. Day out. That's our routine.

“You know something, Morris? Guess what. I'm bored too. How do you like that?” She slapped a hand on the table and the containers and plates of Greek food jiggled. “Of course, I would never find a man and cheat on you to relieve the boredom, God forbid. For me, watching Wolf Blitzer is just fine, thank you very much.

“Anyway, I think we need a change. We're suffocating, Morris. Our marriage is stifling.”

“What kind of change? What do you mean?” Morris asked, the words catching at the back of his tongue. “Maybe a nice vacation?”

“Not a vacation, Morris. Vacations don't save marriages. They kill time. We did the Alaska cruise. Big deal. You schlepped me to Europe. We froze in Canada. We
shvitzed
in Israel. And we came back, to what? Did those vacations make you happy with our marriage? Obviously not. You had to go to a motel with Vanessa—”

“Victoria.”

She glared.

Morris felt his chicken souvlaki sitting in his stomach, with a generous heaping of guilt.

“We need something more than a vacation, Morris.”

“What?” he asked helplessly.

For dramatic effect, Rona pushed her plate forward. “Morris. I want a change of scenery. I want a place in Florida.” There, she said it. Those were her terms, laid out on the dining room table, right there along with the aluminum containers of pita and hummus and souvlaki.

“You want us to move? To Florida?”

“No. I want to buy a second home. I want to go to Boca. For long weekends. And winter. With a golf course—”

“Since when do we play golf?”

“God forbid we should learn something new. God forbid we should go to Boca, like the Deutsches, the Sterns—”

“I thought we don't even like the Sterns. We always like it when
they leave for Boca. And leave us alone here in Great Neck.”

“But they're happy, Morris. They're happy! Who the hell stays in Great Neck after Yom Kippur? It's like Anatevka here. A wasteland. A barren wasteland. No wonder our marriage . . .”

Her lips began to tremble and Morris felt panic. “Rona. Rona. Okay, I didn't say no. We'll research it—”

Rona reached under her chair, and then plunked an oversized high-gloss folder on the table. It unfolded into an accordion display of slick photos: a diversity of smiling, happy, white-teethed couples on a beach, in front of a sunset, swinging golf clubs, ordering at a restaurant, sipping frozen drinks at a pool, even cooking meals in gleaming kitchens.

“Listen to this,” Rona said, perching her reading glasses on her nose and clearing her throat. “ ‘Now you're home in Paradise. The legendary Paradise Hotel and Residences at Boca.' ”

Rona Feldstein, certified social worker, therapist, and victim of her husband's infidelity, became the best salesperson that Paradise Global Ventures LLC ever had.

“ ‘The hardest part of visiting a Paradise Hotel and Residences is leaving,' ” she read, enunciating every word as if reading Morris the directions on how to connect the TiVo. “ ‘Until now. Because now, you are home at Paradise. Announcing The Residences at Paradise at Boca. Fifty-two highly anticipated luxury condominiums. And a world-class resort at your doorstep.' ” She raced through the background on how fifty-two units at the sprawling Paradise Hotel and Residences at Boca had been converted to full-ownership condominiums; how each proud owner receives all the privileges of resort membership. Then she slowed down, highlighting for Morris the key selling points.

“Four lifestyle swimming pools, Morris. Four. ‘The Main Pool. Plus, Meditative, Fitness, and Family Fun. And a golden private beach,' ” she read.

Since when do we go to the beach?
Morris thought.
She hates the
sand.

“ ‘A twenty-four-hour, state-of-the-art, world-class fitness center,' ” she read.

We've never been to a fitness center. Why do we need one open twenty-four hours?

She looked up at him. “Now, Morris. There's bad news and good news. I'll give you the bad news first. They're sold out. I called a few days ago.”

“Ohhhhh. That's too bad.” Morris mustered as much disappointment as he could.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah. Now the good news. The girl called me today. The designer model they sold—it fell through. So it's available. It's fully furnished, Morris. We wouldn't have to buy a thing. Listen to this . . .” She pulled a glossy eight-by-ten from the folder and began reading again. “ ‘. . . Emeril Signature gourmet kitchen . . . cherrywood cabinetry . . . subzero freezer . . .”

Since when does she cook?

“ ‘Walk-in closets . . . breathtaking ocean view . . . thirty-two-inch wall-mounted plasma television with satellite service—”

“What did you say?” Morris asked, suddenly intrigued. “It must cost a fortune.”

“It won't cost us a thing to look. It's free.”

“How could that be?”

“They faxed me a ‘VIP Invitation to Paradise.' For qualified buyers only. All we have to pay for is the airfare. They even pick us up at the airport. We get to stay at the resort. A private VIP tour, a free VIP dinner-slash-briefing at the . . .” she peeked inside the brochure, “at the top-rated Paradise Grille. Breakfast buffets. And, we get a ‘free gift bag.' ”

“And everything is free?” Morris asked.

“The whole weekend. This weekend, Morris. It's a beautiful weekend package. We leave tomorrow and come back Sunday night.”

“Tomorrow? It's Friday. I have to work. I can't—”

Rona's face began to fall. “So you'll call in sick. For once. What's
the difference?”

“Call in sick? I've never done that. It's not right—”

“Not right?” She looked at him, first with an angry flash, and then her eyes seemed to fall and her lips trembled and her nostrils began to quiver. She tapped her fork against her plate and her eyes glistened. The silence that had tormented Morris for a week returned.

“They have satellite TV?” he asked.

And there was peace.

THE THREE-DAY WEEKEND

FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 2004–SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2004

T
hat Friday morning, Morris screwed-up his courage, called his district manager at Celfex, and lied as best he could about “a stomach flu or something, some kind of bug I must have caught. Maybe something I ate.” Then he and Rona drove to LaGuardia Airport.

Morris lugged two suitcases, some light reading, and an excessive amount of guilt over calling in sick to Celfex. The terminal echoed with the plunking and rattling of plastic bins and the occasional beeping protests of metal detectors, the barks of TSA agents for “bag check” and “male secondary” and the repeated and urgent directions on the basics of air travel. Because in a nation of frenetic multitaskers, a nation derived from restless immigrants who managed to leave their villages and cities and cross vast and roiling oceans a world away, today's Americans have trouble removing their shoes, placing their belongings on a conveyer belt, and walking ten feet through a metal
detector.

Morris was not a nervous flyer. But when he arrived at the small podium at the front of the line, and saw the strange reaction to his boarding pass by the guard from the Transportation Security Administration, his nerves activated, bringing small beads of sweat across his forehead. The guard's eyes widened in seeming alarm the instant he saw the boarding pass. They darted from Morris's flushed and perspiring face, to the driver's license, and back to the boarding pass. Which made Morris sweat even more. Which made the guard sweat also.

Something's wrong
, Morris thought.

“Uhhhhh, Mister Feldstein, I'm going to need to call my supervisor over for a moment,” the guard reported.

Supervisor? Morris hated supervisors. They were authority figures, and authority figures intimidated him. It didn't matter whether it was a Celfex district supervisor, or a supervisor at the Bloomingdale's shoe department when Rona returned merchandise, or a TSA supervisor. When a supervisor was called into a situation, there was a situation.

This particular supervisor happened to be about seven feet tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to extend about the length of three airport gates, and a scalp so cleanly shaven that it refracted the bright overhead lights, making Morris squint. And when he examined the boarding pass, Morris could swear he saw some frothing on his lips.

His voice was deep and officious. “Sir, we're going to need you to step aside for secondary screening.”

Secondary screening? Terrorists get secondary screening! Criminals! Not Celfex employees who tell white lies about a stomach flu.

“Male secondary!” The supervisor bellowed. Which fingered Morris to the entire line in back of him. Like a picture in the post office.

He was mortified. And behind him, Rona whispered, “Oh my God, Morris, now what did you do?”

Something told him to turn around, right then and there, and
go home. Go home and pick up the phone and tell Celfex, “I am feeling much better now, it must have been a twelve-hour thing, and I'm starting my sales call right this second.” He wanted to drop his luggage and relieve his guilt and forget the free weekend vacation offer at the Paradise. But he couldn't, because the hulking TSA agent had already clasped his humongous fingers around Morris's elbow and tugged.

The supervisor led Morris to a screened-off “privacy area,” which offered all the privacy of the stage at Radio City Music Hall.

Morris Feldstein was a highly private man. Men who guard their privacy generally don't like removing articles of clothing in public, having scanners waved in front of their genitals, and then feeling the palms of strangers pressing and squeezing against the insides of their thighs. But Morris did what he was told: standing and sitting, holding his arms outstretched and resting them at his sides. He watched as they swabbed his luggage to test for explosives.

Finally, he was freed. “Have a nice flight,” said the supervisor. Morris detected a tone that said, “We're watching you, Feldstein!”

As he and Rona rushed to the gate, Rona said, “I heard on the news that Senator Kennedy got stopped five times at the airport because his name was on one of those lists. Maybe you're name is on one too, Morris.”
That's what it must be
, she thought. A no-fly list of terrorists, United States Senators, and adulterers.

T
he plane lifted off the runway. Morris craned his neck and watched the vague outlines of Long Island slip away. He felt relieved. As if he was leaving the tsuris behind.

Later they arrived in the Palm Beach International Airport terminal, searched for the luggage carousel, got lost, and found their way; met a cheerful young man with bronze skin and blond hair in a yellow shirt and khakis holding a sign that said,
WELCOME TO PARADISE, MR. AND MRS. FEINSTEEN
; drove with him in the yellow Paradise Resorts courtesy van; settled into their room; watched TV until they fell
asleep; woke up on Saturday to a complimentary VIP breakfast at the Paradise Grille; watched a ten-minute
Welcome Home
video; boarded a yellow golf cart and enjoyed a private VIP tour of the grounds followed by a sales presentation at dinner. On Sunday they inspected the designer model, peered into the subzero freezer and cooed at the walk-in closets; nodded their approval at the twenty-four-hour world-class gym; tentatively dipped their toes in the lapping turquoise waves of the Atlantic, sat for two minutes under a yellow-and-white Paradise Residences beach umbrella, and wiped the sand from Rona's sweater; repacked their bags, which now included a yellow-and-white complimentary Paradise Resorts carry-on; flew back to LaGuardia, and drove home to Great Neck.

And when they plunked their luggage down in the front hall, they were the proud new owners of nine hundred square feet of paradise, with a nice view of the ocean and the Major League Baseball upgrade on satellite television.