Chapter 3: I Saw a Shimmering Light
I'm standing at the briefing podium in only my underwear. The blue
ones and they match the curtain behind me. My skin has risen in waves
of chills. I've dropped my notes, and I see pages and pages piling
around my bare feet. They all say "Qumar." Lumberjack Joe is there
too, standing where Carol usually stands, and he's ogling me.
When he moves, he covers the distance in a single stride and his
fingers close completely around my wrist. The pressure is nearly
breaking my bones and I fight him, but he's stronger, and I am pulled
out from behind the semi-shelter of the podium, and onto what is
suddenly very much like a theater stage. Slowly, though I cry out
and try to break free, I am forced to my knees before him and I
finally give in, and bow my head, half-naked, skin now burning under
unforgiving stage lights.
And then I look out in the audience where my reporters should be, and
there are hundreds and hundreds of women wearing Burkas. I can only
see their eyes, which are full of betrayal and disappointment.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry." And I keep saying it over and over.
I look to the back of the room and Toby and the President are
standing there, and I know all I have to do is to ask them for help,
and they will come forward, and this will stop. But I can't, because
I'm too proud to ask them.
One woman stands up and pulls off her shawl, and both of her eyes are
blackened. Another with a bloody nose. On and on they go across the
rows and then back, one after the other: mutilated, beaten, bloodied.
And I can do nothing, held in place by Lumberjack, kneeling before
the battered, tortured faces of the women of Qumar.
*
I wake up with my heart surging against my rib cage and then back
into my shoulder blades and my breath hitching in my throat. There
are no stage lights, no Lumberjack, no blue curtain, and I am clothed
in the jeans and sweater I have worn all day. Still, in the
irrational grip of the dream, I am frozen for a minute, watching the
yellow line roll toward the hood and disappear under the car.
"Bad dream?" Sam, who is beside me, driving, asks quietly.
I don't answer him just yet. I sweep my hair nervously behind my ear
and breathe deeply for a minute, still waiting to calm down. The
image that jarred me out of sleep stays with me though. All those
women.
Seeking escape from it, I twist to look behind me, and in the
headlights from a passing car, I see that Toby and Josh are sleeping
in the backseat.
It is midnight. There are lightning flashes in the sky, and the wind
buffets the car hard. Sam has the steering wheel in a white-knuckle
grasp, and I'm not so sure he should be watching me worriedly instead
of the road.
"Yeah, bad dream…I was in the briefing room—you know what, never
mind," I say, changing my mind about telling him what I was dreaming.
It just feels too personal.
"Okay," he says in his soothing way as I turn to the window. And bite
back a scream. If my heart was pounding before, now it is driving
into my chest with the threat of breaking through altogether. Because
in an instantaneous flash of lightning I take in a guardrail, and
then nothing but air that drops I don't know how many hundred feet to
the foamy sea below. It's a fall that would be broken only by the
hulking blackness of the rocks jutting from the churning water.
Perhaps I'm a bit slow, but for the first time I realize we're no
longer on a four lane interstate, but on a winding two lane.
"Sam!" I gasp and then add in a whisper. "You turned it off, didn't
you? Where the hell are we? We must have taken a wrong turn
somewhere. There's the ocean out there!"
I point out the window, as if he could have missed it. He starts to
answer, then grows quiet as he maneuvers through a particularly
vicious turn, which is so tight that I begin to think we're going to
end up rear-ending ourselves.
"Yeah. While all of you have been napping, I've been navigating.
There was a bad accident on the interstate back there. So I cut cross
country. This is the Pacific Coastal Highway. It'll take us down the
coast to San Francisco."
"Did you consult Fredrick?"
"Who?"
"Fredrick. It's the name I've decided to give the little GPS guy."
"Okay, now you're aware that it isn't a real guy too, right?"
I shrug; I'm non-committal.
"I've silenced Fredrick. Bound and gagged him, in a manner of
speaking."
"See, it isn't funny when you call him Fredrick," I say.
Sam sighs. "I turned the GPS off."
"Josh wouldn't be pleased."
"Josh is asleep."
"Won't it take us longer?" I wonder.
"Well, not as much as you'd think with the four hour shut down they
were talking about back there," Sam shrugs. "Besides, this is a much
more interesting drive."
"Indeed," I mutter as I risk peering down into the emptiness not five
feet from the car. The massive boulders stand solemnly in the water
like tombstones, and I don't like the comparison I've just made at
all.
We ride in companionable silence. I might have considered going back
to sleep, but first of all, it doesn't seem fair to leave Sam to
himself with the weather turning bad, and secondly, I don't believe I
can sleep knowing that there's a sheer drop-off inches from my right
shoulder.
Suddenly, Sam asks me, "if you could play any instrument which would
it be?" Taken aback, I glance at him and he grins and urges, "come
on. Which one?"
"Fiddle," I say quickly.
"Really?" He asks in surprise and laughs softly. "Why?"
"Ever heard `Devil Went Down to Georgia?'" I ask, by way of
explanation.
"Yes, but it's not something I'm proud of."
"Okay then. Never mind. Your turn."
"Saxaphone."
"There's not one of those in 'Devil Went Down To Georgia.'"
"Thus the basis of its appeal. You go," he says.
"Go what?"
"Ask a question."
I watch another streak of lightning lash at the unruly sea. "Most
terrifying act of nature."
"Tornado. Hands down."
"I'm going to have to go with Volcanic Eruption."
"I don't think that counts."
"Why not? It's an act of nature."
Sam ponders. "I see how it's gonna be. Okay then, you asked for it.
I see your volcanic eruption and I raise you one giant asteroid
slamming into the earth."
I am shaking my head before he's done. "I'm sorry, but I have to call
you on that. An Asteroid is not an act of nature. It's an other
worldly type thing."
"Tidal Wave," Sam substitutes. "Tall enough to kick your volcano's
ass."
"Earthquake to open up an abyss big enough to swallow your tidal
wave."
He thinks hard, then relents. "Okay, you win that one," Sam sighs and
I, of course, gracefully (or otherwise) agree. He asks, "If you had
to lose your hearing or your voice, which would you choose?"
"Oh, we're in the big time now, huh? I'm gonna have to say I'd get
rid of my voice…I can't imagine not being able to hear music. Then
again, I couldn't do my job, which most of the time, I do love,
without my voice…no, but the music…I'm going to say I'd rather lose
my voice."
Sam thinks for a moment and I'm quiet as we follow another hairpin
curve. "I think I'd have to say I'd want to lose my voice too. I
can't imagine not being able to hear my words coming out of the
President's mouth."
"Truth. You're never jealous? Don't you ever have the urge to stand
up there and say the words you write? I don't understand that about
you and Toby."
"I'm not saying I will never give speeches. But it's about the
writing of it for me, not the delivery. It's about the words and the
rhythm and the conviction that is built into the phrases, just
waiting to be brought out by the speaker. It's about the rise and
fall of the sentence and the drama of the pauses. It's about watching
people stand up and clap in the right places, about watching them
smile, about watching tears come up in their eyes. And I get to write
it sometimes, but the hearing of it is when it comes alive. That's
when I love what I do the most."
I smile at him, but he can't see that I do because he's watching the
road and I think that he may be blushing a little bit.
I'm still learning about Sam. He's a generous, sweet man with a
great passion for what he does and a bone-deep conviction that we can
change things. That we can save the world. We think of him as naïve
sometimes, but I wonder if maybe optimistic and determined aren't
better words to describe him.
And occasionally, when I've seen flashes of what I saw tonight back
at the Waffle House, where his anger and protectiveness come forward
and he's suddenly as fierce a man as I've ever seen, I wonder how I
ever thought him as anything but formidable.
"You're an enigma," I tell Sam.
He smiles and says, "Really? I like that."
I feel a gust of wind slam into the passenger side of the car and I
look out worriedly. When lightning flashes in the sky, I can see that
the waves of low-lying clouds are as wind-tossed and restless as the
sea they mirror and meet on the horizon.
"No ice yet?" I wonder.
"They were saying on the radio a while ago that it looks like it may
have warmed up a few degrees with the cloud cover. Now they're
thinking it's just going to be heavy rain, and the front has been
stalled over the ocean for a bit. I think it's coming in now."
"Flip Spicerack?" I ask, because in his talking about weather I
remember his mention of the weatherman's name in the airport.
"Spiceland. Flip Spiceland. Not Spicerack. I mean, come on, CJ. That
would be ridiculous."
I snort softly. "That can't be his real name."
"Well, I've thought about this more than I should admit," Sam
argues. "And I gotta say, I think it has to be his real name. Who in
the hell would choose that name of their own free will?"
"You've got a good point there, Spanky."
"And we're back to Spanky. A name I didn't choose of my own free
will."
"It always comes back to the Spanky," I say helpfully.
We grow quiet again. It's not often that I get to spend time with
just Sam, so this is both enjoyable and unusual. I have a feeling
that he's thinking the same thing.
I ask him quietly, "did I thank you back there for what you guys
tried to do for me?"
"I think somewhere in the middle of the ass chewing you gave us when
we got back into the car, about how you were an independent woman and
how you didn't need us to--and I'm quoting you here--`bring the
Neanderthal,' there was an implied thank you. And there was the kiss,
which I, personally, was grateful for."
"Good. I was right, you know. I can take care of myself."
"And if I didn't believe it before, I sure did after you kicked the
hell out of the guy." Sam laughs out loud and shakes his head, "CJ, I
swear to God, I'll never forget that. It's a high point of my life."
"He deserved it," I reiterate. And wiggle my toes experimentally. Ow.
Seriously. There is pain.
"And worse," Sam agrees. Then looks at me. "You'll have to forgive
Toby, Josh, and me. But we couldn't really just sit there when
someone was messing with our girl, you know." We smile at each other,
and he turns back to the road and wonders, "so, have you had to kick
many other men in the shins over the course of your life, CJ?"
I feel my cheeks heating. "No, that would be the first."
"I'm surprised," Sam replies softly and I smile at the implicit
compliment there. He's lying. I'm very clearly not the sort of woman
that men just flock to for the sole purpose of flirtation, but I
appreciate him for saying it. I'm still flushing, so I change the
subject. "What is the high point in your life?"
"The President's Inauguration." He answers with no hesitation, and I
might have guessed that, considering he carries a picture of it
around in his wallet.
"It took me a little longer for it to sink in, I think. Mine was the
day I walked into the West Wing, and my office, for the first time."
"That was a good day too," Sam agrees. "I remember, I kept half-
expecting someone to come in and tell me that there'd been a horrible
mistake. The votes had been miscounted. Or at the very least, the
President had come to his senses and decided to bring in someone who
knew what he was doing."
I murmur dryly, "yeah, well, I still expect that to happen to me. Any
day now."
"CJ…you may have the hardest job of all of us…except the President,
and I'm still not sure it isn't a toss-up there. You do it better
than we've seen anyone do it yet. And the better you do it, the
harder it gets, because the more they want to push you. You stand up
there and nail it nearly every time. You have to know that."
"Not with Haiti."
"There was no winning with Haiti. We were already bleeding too bad
from the MS," Sam said, shaking his head. There's a note of
bitterness when he adds, "and they all should have known it."
I'm really not fishing for compliments here, but I can't deny that
these words are sort of a balm for my raw ego. I say
tentatively, "you know…Josh told me later that you stood up for me,
even when they didn't. He apologized for it, but he wanted me to
know that you'd stood by me the whole time, in front of them, and in
front of Leo. And I think at the time I was too miserable or too
embarrassed or too something to acknowledge it, but I haven't
forgotten about it."
"You'd do the same for me." He says it with certainty, and I realize
he's right. I would. Toby, Josh, and Leo have brilliant political
minds. So do me and Sam. But we've got some sort of loyalty that runs
a little bit deeper in us than most, I think.
"If the high point was inauguration, what's the low point?" I ask.
"Before this spring, I would have told you the night at the Newseum.
Now, I think it may be when they told me about the MS."
"Mmm." I say by way of agreement, and the terror, confusion, and
betrayal of that moment, sitting before Leo comes back to me. But the
fact that I was lied to isn't why it's the low point. It's the low
point because with it comes the realization that this man that I'm
willing to dedicate my life to for these years, this man who is
brilliant and generous and everything this country has waited for in
a leader for my entire lifetime, is sick. And mortal. And fallible.
Capable of a lie. In danger of falling down. In danger of losing. In
danger of dying.
"Sam, what do you think it says about us that the best and worst
moments of our life revolve around this administration?"
Sam sighs and is silent for so long I wonder if he is going to answer
me. Finally, "I think it means that we're about to fall down hard,
CJ. But it's too late now."
"It's the fall that's going to kill you," I say, recalling a
conversation I'd had with Josh in the days after I'd been told.
It's a moment after that when the bottom simply falls out of the sky,
and rain, which isn't even recognizable as rain in that there are no
individual drops of it, but rather blinding sheets, comes down. Sam
comes to a stop because visibility is very quickly zero.
He searches for and finds the windshield wipers and we sit on the
deserted Pacific Highway for a minute, our headlights illuminating
the water driving upon us in between the fast swish of the wiper
blades.
"So I guess they meant it, about the storm," I say offhandedly.
"Yeah." Sam gets his bearings, straightens up in the seat and starts
to drive very slowly. The radio station he is listening to has been
interrupted by severe weather alerts, and hearing about 75 mph gusts
isn't helping my nerves at all when they are simultaneously rocking
the car. Thankfully, the wind is coming from the sea, so it's pushing
us away from, rather than toward, the cliffs, or I believe I'd insist
on stopping. And tying myself to something on solid ground.
Without consulting Sam, I search for music of some sort. There's only
one channel that I can get with decent clarity, and it appears to be
playing only Christmas carols. Well, that's appropriate. It's
December, after all.
"How can they still be asleep?" I wonder incredulously, turning to
look at Toby and Josh. Josh's head has slipped down a little bit and
is very nearly touching Toby's shoulder. The windshield sounds as if
it may cave in to the force of the rain.
Sam doesn't hear me, because he's too busy handling the car. It
really is a job right now. I sit back quietly and re-cross my legs,
and watch the road wind precariously through the raindrops.
It probably rains all out for forty-five minutes, and it's an
exhausting stretch of highway. Sam is tense and straight-faced and I
don't want to say anything that might distract him. When the rain
lets up, it does so gradually, so that I don't notice that I've
loosened my hold on the console and the door handle, and that I'm not
grinding my good foot into the floorboard anymore.
In fact, when I realize the worst of it has passed, I'm unconsciously
singing `Silent Night' with the radio.
I'm a little surprised when Sam joins me, taking low harmony to my
melody. I would have maybe expected him to be a tenor but he's a
baritone, and his voice has a lilting, full quality that I find
incredible. I'm a second Soprano, and not nearly so talented as Sam,
but I leave the singer on the radio to the melody and take the
harmony above her.
The car is rich with the texture of three-part harmony and at one
point, my throat gets almost too tight for sound and tears rise
against my lower lashes, because this song always moves me, but not
so much as our spontaneous singing of it. Toward the end of the song,
we start losing the station to static and interrupting frequencies,
and without missing a note, Sam turns it off and switches to the
melody effortlessly. He, like me, knows every verse to the carol,
even the original German.
When we are finished, we drive in what is becoming a silent night as
the worst of the storm stalks all eastern destinations of ours, and
smile to ourselves.
Toby's voice, husky with sleep, drifts softly over the
seatbacks. "That was nice."
We are both startled, and simultaneously pleased and embarrassed by
this praise. It is a gentle moment. A peaceful one. And I again think
that I love these people as much, if not more, than I've ever loved
anyone before. I forget that they make me crazy and that they shut me
out and that occasionally, they have boys named Morton leave turkeys
loose in my office. I forget that we're coming up on a very scary
time, and that we don't know how we're going to come out the other
side. And it's just me and my boys.
"What the hell is the ocean doing out there?" Toby asks a moment
later, voice noticeably less sleepy.
"Sam navigated," I explain, a note of pride in my voice because I am
in the know. "And he didn't ask Fredrick for anything at all."
"What the hell?" Toby says, but before I can answer, clarifies, "I
don't care."
I don't know why I'm so sleepy. I've slept more on this car trip
than I do in a night in DC. I'm doing my best to stay awake and
alert and talk with Sam and Toby, but my eyes sting and a yawn builds
repeatedly against the roof of my mouth.
In the backseat, Josh moans and mumbles something that sounds a lot
like Donna, and the three of us sit in freaked-out disgust, but by
tacit agreement, choose to say nothing.
Toby insists that we turn it back to NPR, explaining that as a Jewish
man, one Christmas carol is all he is allowed.
"One a year?" I wonder.
"No. A lifetime," he answers, and I am pretty sure he's making this
up, but I turn it back to talk radio.
