Part Seven: Blair
BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAY
I sit in the plush red seat of the private airplane, absolutely paralyzed. This is the first time I've been alone, completely alone, in ages, and I'm... okay, I'm spooked. I keep on looking around for Jim to talk to, or Mura, or hell, even Kurali. But I'm on my own. Just me and my thoughts. My scattered, frazzled, terrified thoughts.
Okay, time to calm down. It's not like I'm totally alone. I know the pilot and co-pilot are up in the cockpit -- well, I hope they're up there. I'm in big trouble if they're not, since I never got my merit badge for flying airplanes. Hell, I could never even keep a kite in the air for longer than a few minutes --
Geez, what is wrong with me? I even babble without an audience. How the hell did Jim manage to put up with me?
Forcing myself to relax, I pick up one of the magazines from the seat next to me and try to read it. I drop it after a few seconds and remind myself that pacing on an airplane probably isn't a great idea.
The plane lurches and drops. So does my heart. Fortunately, my lunch stays where it is... barely. The intercom crackles: "Just a little turbulence, Mr. Sandburg. Everything okay back there?" It's the co-pilot -- she doesn't sound worried.
Okay. You've got a set of vocal cords, why don't you give them a try? I clear my throat and say, "Yeah, I'm fine. But... could you, like, not do that again?"
She laughs. "You got it." The intercom goes dead.
Oh, great. We're going to crash again. I'm going to go down into another godforsaken wilderness, maybe Arkansas or Missouri this time -- I'll be taken in by a tribe of hillbillies who think I have a purty mouth.
Why is this my life?
I really, really wish I had Jim here with me. Even if he didn't want to fool around, it'd be comforting to have him sitting next to me. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I asked him to hold my hand while we were plummeting to the ground.
God. I've got to get a grip on myself. The plane isn't going to crash. It'll stay in the air until we reach the airport in Boston, at which point it'll begin a gentle, easy, completely routine landing that I probably won't even notice. I'll unbuckle my seat belt, take comfort in the fact that I won't have to go track down my luggage (because I don't have any luggage, other than the bag with my notebooks), and I'll get off the plane and....
And I'll see my mother.
When I think about her, my stomach starts flopping again. Why am I so frightened? This will probably be a lot rougher on her. I mean, as much as I missed her, I was sure she was okay except for missing me. But for over a year now, she thought I was dead, splattered all over the Peruvian landscape.
I've got so many things I want to tell her. And there are so many things I can't tell her.
Jim was right. We can't tell anyone about Vaughan coming back to the village. I don't suppose there's a good way to tell my mother, "Well, it went pretty well, except for the time the psycho madman kidnapped me and tried to rape me -- but one of the tribal elders killed him, so it all worked out for the best." I don't want to think about what people would say to that.
Closing my eyes, I put my seat back and will myself to fall asleep. It doesn't work. Too much has happened in too short a time, and my mind is tumbling around in circles.
I had a close call with the doctor this morning -- he kept asking about my tattoo. I gave him some bullshit about how it was a tribal custom, and I made up something about adoption into the tribe. I can't say that he believed me, but at least I confused him to a point where he stopped asking questions.
Questions....
There are going to be so many questions I won't be able to answer. I'm going to tell Mom about Jim, I never considered not telling her... but how much do I tell her? That we're lovers? Sure, that's the first thing. In fact, if she ever found out that I was in love and I didn't tell her, she'd be so hurt.
But I know Naomi. She's going to ask a lot of questions about how it started, and I don't think she'll be satisfied with a vague, "Well, Mom, one thing just led to another" kind of explanation. And there's no way she could understand.
I don't understand it either -- but then, I don't need to understand. There's nothing I can understand, because there's nothing at all rational about what I feel for Jim. It just is. I need to breathe. I need to love Jim. I can't give up the second any easier than I could give up the first.
But I'm going to be holding my breath for a couple of weeks.
It's so hard to be away from Jim. That's what's really bothering me, isn't it? For over a year, he was at my side almost constantly. There were only two times that he was more than a few minutes away from me. The first time, I ended up getting sick and almost dying. The second time Jim was gone....
I'm not going to think about the second time. Not unless I have to. I'd rather just think about Jim.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm holding the business card that was waiting for me when I got on the plane. Steven's phone numbers -- home and business -- are printed on the front and there's another number, hand-written, on the back. There was a note with the card, from Steven. It said to call him, or his office in Boston, if I need anything. The other number... the note says that's where Jim will be when he's done with his debriefing.
I talked about Mom a lot while Jim and I were living with the Direma. I'm surprised he didn't get sick of hearing about her. But he never mentioned anything about his own family. And I -- well, I just decided not to push. I figured there was some kind of bad blood or something, or maybe he just missed them too much to talk about them.
Steven seems okay. We didn't do a lot of talking, but he seems okay. I'd bet good money that he's figured out what's going on between me and his brother -- all the same, he can't be too freaked out about it. He made a point of making sure I'd have a way to contact Jim, didn't he?
I won't be able to do that for a while, though. Jim told me that he'd be tied up with debriefings. That's okay. I can wait. I can hold out a couple days, or a couple weeks. Sure. No problem at all....
"Mr. Sandburg?"
"What?" I sit up straight, blinking the sleep out of my eyes. I was asleep? I don't remember falling asleep....
Over the intercom, the co-pilot says patiently, "We'll be landing in just a few minutes. Are you buckled in?"
Struggling with the seatbelt, I look out the window. "...Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks." Okay, Blair, this is it. Have I got my lines down? Is my foolproof "Hi, Mom, I'm back from the dead -- what's for supper?" speech ready to go?
Maybe if I ask real nice, the pilot will circle the airport for a few hours while I think of something to say.
Unfortunately, the plane is descending before I can get to the front cabin to run that idea past the flight crew, so I just sit tight and think fast. I keep thinking as to plane touches down, and as I'm being told that it's safe to unbuckle my seatbelt, and as everyone is saying buh-bye and thanks for flying Air Ellison, and as I'm getting off the plane and going into the terminal and being shown to a private lounge -- you know, there is definitely something to be said for the perks that go along with a private jet --
"Blair! Oh, my God -- oh, my baby...."
And then I've got an armful of my mother, and I don't need to think any more.
It's a full day before either Mom and I can manage to say three consecutive sentences to each other without her bursting into tears. Of course, by that time I'm teasing her that I should call Steven and tell him to corner the market on Kleenex.
"You like him, don't you?" In spite of her red, swollen eyes, Mom is smiling.
"Steven?" The question takes me by surprise. "Well... yeah, I guess. I know that a big part of the reason he helped me was because of Jim, but still, it was pretty generous of him to let me use his plane."
"Yes, it was. Sit down, honey." She pats the bed beside her, and I sit down obediently. We're in her hotel room -- it's not much different from mine, but it seems -- friendlier, somehow. "You've been talking about Jim a lot."
No point in beating around the bush. "I love him, Mom."
"I thought so." She puts her arm around my shoulders and leans her head against mine. "But, Blair... do you think, maybe -- Oh, sweetie. What if you'd met him somewhere else, under different circumstances? Do you think you'd be together if you didn't have the experiences in the jungle tying you together?"
Good question. I can't say I never wondered the same thing. I've had moments when I was convinced that if we'd met on a street corner somewhere, Jim wouldn't have looked at me twice. Choosing my words as carefully as I can, I say, "I don't know. There's no way I can know that, Mom. All I can be sure of is the way I feel about him."
"I know, honey. But I don't want you to be hurt any more than you have been -- "
I interrupt her gently. "I love him, Mom. Believe me, I've thought through the implications, and whether it was just a situational thing...." I search my mind, trying to think of a single definitive example to justify my feelings. In the end, all I can say is, "I love him. And he loves me. We'll figure out the rest of it as we go."
"Oh, Blair...." She manages a laugh. "All those years I told you to follow your heart, no matter what the consequences, and here I am trying to talk you out of it."
I kiss her on the cheek. "That's okay. You're allowed."
"Well, thank you."
"You're welcome." After a few moments, I say, "You know, you always told me that there's one perfect match for everyone -- there's a whole lot of people who come close, and a lot of them you can actually make a good life with, but they're still not the one. Well... I think Jim is the one."
Mom's arm tightens around me. "Sweetie, sometimes.... You say that you love him, and I hear you. Can you be sure that he really loves you?"
"He told me. You have to understand, Mom -- Jim doesn't say a whole lot. But he meant what he said."
Automatically, Mom says, "And he said what he meant?"
Grinning, I put both my arms around her slender body and hold her close as I complete the old Dr. Seuss rhyme. "An Ellison's faithful, one hundred percent."
"He'd better be. I'll break his kneecaps if he's not."
"Whoa. What happened to Naomi Sandburg, Super Pacifist?"
"She's been replaced by Naomi Sandburg, Defender of Her Child." Sighing, she sits back from me. "I feel so guilty, thinking about poor Amanda."
I look at her, confused. "Poor who?"
"Oh, you know, honey. Doctor Vaughan's wife. I can't even imagine what it's like for her, knowing that you made it and her husband didn't...." Her face creases in concern when I don't say anything. "Blair? What's the matter?"
It's not easy, but I manage to keep my voice fairly calm as I ask, "Vaughan... was married?"
"You mean he never told you? He must have talked about her -- "
I shake my head mutely. Wife. Vaughan. Vaughan's wife.
Nope. Doesn't make any sense to me....
Mom looks as baffled as I feel. "Oh, that's impossible. Amanda and I -- well, I can't say we're friends, but we spent a lot of time together those first few months. All she could ever talk about was poor Harold."
I finally find my voice. "He... never mentioned her."
"That's so strange.... Well, there must be a good reason for that."
There is. There's a real good reason why Vaughan never talked about his wife.
And it's one that I'll never be able to tell anyone.
A few days go by. I spend most of the time on the phone, trying to convince the university administrators -- and my friends -- that it's really me. My friends take the news better than the administrators.
Even as busy as I am, I find the time to be miserable -- I miss Jim, for one thing. That's the main thing. I keep on thinking of something to share with him, only to remember that he's on the other end of the continent. It's so hard, not being able to talk to him, but I promised myself that I wouldn't call until his debriefings were over. It's almost painful, not being able to talk to him, but I don't want to pester him while he's taking care of official military-type things.
I'm a little surprised, but Mom doesn't press me about Jim. She lets me decide how much to say about him. I can tell that sometimes she's forcing herself to be nonjudgmental, but she's willing to give Jim a chance to prove himself to her. And maybe I'm just fooling myself, but it seems that the more I tell her, the less reluctant she seems about my going out west to be with him.
Unfortunately, Mom keeps telling me about Amanda Vaughan. About her plans to memorialize her husband. About how much she wants to meet me, so I can tell her about her poor husband's tragic last days....
On top of that, the people dealing with my grants and my student loans are giving me hell. Not for much longer, though....
"I still think I ought to come with you, Mom," I say as we stand on the sidewalk. The cabdriver slouches behind the wheel -- he doesn't look happy about waiting, but one stern look from my mother was enough to keep him from saying anything.
"Don't be silly, sweetie." Mom reaches up to cup my face. "Believe me, I know how to talk to these people. When I get through with those bankers, they'll stop being so materialistic. I should be done with them by three or so -- do you think you'll be finished here by then?"
"Yeah." I lean over to kiss her on the cheek. "And if I'm not done, come on up anyway. Kerwin always liked you."
She smiles at me, blinking back tears. "I know. He's going to be so... so...."
"He will, won't he? I couldn't have put it any better." I stand back and hold the door of the cab open for her; when it's out of sight, I gather my courage and go into the apartment building.
Oh, man. Same rickety stairs, same ugly green paint, even the same -- if slightly larger -- mildew stains on the third-floor landing.
It's absolutely beautiful.
I raise my hand to knock, but my knuckles never touch wood before the door is yanked open. "Sandburg! Jesus H. Fucking Christ, man -- " And without further ceremony, I'm grabbed and pulled into a pair of powerful arms.
"Hi, Kerwin," I mumble around a faceful of blue sweatshirt. "Good to see you. You mind if I start breathing now?"
Kerwin lets me stand back, but he keeps his hands on my shoulders. "I always knew you could talk your way out of anything, but coming back from the dead? That's something, even for you."
I get my first good look at him, and I'm speechless for a few seconds. When I can talk again, I say, "What happened to your hair?"
"Long gone, buddy." He keeps an arm around my shoulders as he pulls me into the apartment and shuts the door. Running a hand over his gleaming, mahagony-brown scalp, he grins at me. "The ladies seem to like it."
"I didn't think you needed any help in that department." I dump my jacket on the end of the couch and look around. "Of course, considering what a mess this place still is, I can see where you might need an edge."
"Every little bit, right?" His face grows serious as we sit down. "When your mother called me up and told me you were coming back... gotta be honest, man, I thought she'd finally flipped. Of course, when you called, I thought I was the one going crazy."
Shoving my hair out of my eyes, I say, "Yeah. I wish there would have been a better way of breaking the news to everyone, but...." I shrug. "I wasn't really thinking about that."
Kerwin nods. "Yeah. I can imagine -- well, no, I can't." Sitting back, he looks at me curiously; I can see the scientist in him struggling with the friend. "What was it like? She said you lived with a tribe down there -- you get anything useful out of it?"
I hesitate. "Yeah. But... I don't think I'm going to be using it." He stares at me, dumbfounded, and I struggle to express myself. "Kerwin, it's not -- I can't look at the Direma as subjects for a paper anymore. I lived with them, and I knew them, and I... well, I don't think I can distance myself enough to do an honest paper on them." Not exactly the whole truth, but it's definitely not a lie, either.
"I guess...." I'm not sure if Kerwin understands, but he seems willing to let it go. "Can't see Vaughan agreeing with you there -- " He breaks off and looks at me. "Your mother never said. Did Vaughan make it?"
"No."
"Too bad."
The lack of sorrow in Kerwin's voice catches my attention. "You don't sound too sorry about it."
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. He won't look at me as he says reluctantly, "I knew how bad you wanted to be his assistant, Blair, and I figured you could take care of yourself. So I never said anything, but... you hear things, you know?"
It's hard to talk -- to think. But I make myself ask, "What kinds of things did you hear about him?"
He searches my face before answering. "He tried something with you, didn't he?"
Oh, God. "...Yeah."
"But you didn't...."
I shake my head. "No. Not for lack of trying on his part, though."
Kerwin closes his eyes for a moment. "Shit."
"You know, man, it might have helped if you'd mentioned some of this before I got on the plane with him." My voice is wobbly, but I'm lucky to be able to say anything at all. "How many others?"
That's not the most eloquent question, but Kerwin figures out what I want to ask. "Before you left, I knew of three students he'd hassled -- one was a teaching assistant of his, and the other two went on expeditions with him."
"Which TA?" My heart sinks. "Oh, geez. It wasn't Mary?"
He doesn't say anything for a few seconds. "Yeah." Mary Dubois had been a good friend of mine -- of Kerwin's, too. I'd always suspected he knew why she'd transferred to another university. Taking a deep breath, Kerwin goes on, "I didn't know the other two personally. And, well, you know -- "
I want to be angry -- hell, as soon as the shock wears off, I probably will be. But I know as well as Kerwin does that some professors are just considered, well, handsy. And Kerwin probably heard as many stories as I had about grad students who even criticized professors, let alone accused them of criminal acts, only to face ostracism as everyone closed ranks around the offender. He probably didn't know how far Vaughan was willing to go... and there's always the possibility that while he was in the civilized world, he was just a harasser. Maybe he did snap in the jungle. Maybe if we hadn't crashed --
That's something I can't ever know. So I just nod and say, "Yeah. It's... okay, man. You couldn't have known how bad it would get."
Relieved that I'm not freaking out, Kerwin starts talking again. "But when word got back that your plane had disappeared... well, people started talking a little more -- men and women. None of them want to go on the record, but he was pretty -- insistant."
So. Men and women. Vaughan was an equal-opportunity rapist. Where did his wife fit into all this? Did she know, or did she care? If she didn't know what her husband was like, I sure don't want to be the one to tell her. And if she did know, would telling her do any good?
It makes me feel better -- in a twisted, morbid way -- to know that I wasn't the only person Vaughan ever targeted. It's nice to know it wasn't just me. And he paid for it, right? So I can let it go now. I can stop thinking about him....
Trying to lighten his tone, Kerwin asks, "So what are you going to do with yourself?"
I snort. "Depends on what the financial aid people decide."
Kerwin grimaces. "Ouch."
"Tell me about it." I hesitate, and then take the plunge. "Actually, I'm probably not going to be back here permanently." I hurry on at the alarmed look on Kerwin's face. "I don't mean I'm giving up on my degree, man. But there aren't many open slots in the graduate program, and I'll probably be transferring somewhere else."
He doesn't look too happy, but he seems to understand. "You have any idea where?"
Depends on where Jim ends up. But I don't say that out loud -- yeah, Kerwin was always cool about me being bi, but telling him about my relationship with Jim is something I want to ease into. "Not yet. Maybe the west coast somewhere."
Trying to sound optimistic, Kerwin says, "Lots of good schools out there. They'll probably snatch you right up."
"They'd be idiots not to, right?"
He breaks into a full, rich laugh. "Good to see nothing happened to your ego over the past year. Come on." Standing up, he pulls me after him. "Got something to show you."
"What?" I follow him down the hallway into my old bedroom. He opens the door with a flourish. I look inside... and I freeze. "Oh, man, you're kidding. Tell me you're kidding."
"Nope." He's beaming down at me. "When your plane went down, I thought about shipping all this to your mom, but I decided it'd be too hard on her to have to go through everything. So I just.... I kept on telling myself I was nuts, keeping all this stuff. Finally decided I didn't care if I was nuts or not." He pushes me into the room gently. "I'm going to make some calls -- we are going to have ourselves a party, my friend."
I'm too stunned to answer as he goes back down the hall, leaving me alone. I take a step inside, then stop. The room's full of boxes, but there's enough still left out to let me know that everything's here. My stuff. Kerwin kept everything.
I can't help myself. When I see the stacks of boxes, and think about him keeping everything just in case....
I take a deep breath. Mom said she'd be here by three o'clock, and I don't want to keep her waiting. Kneeling down, I open the first box and start rummaging through it.
Oh, man. Clothes. He saved all my clothes. And my books, and my CDs....
It's like my birthday, only ten times better. I can't believe how much it means to me, seeing all of my old things. I've always prided myself on not being attached to material objects, but looking through all these things that belong to me -- to me -- well. The wave of avaricious possessiveness that washes me isn't something that I'll be sharing with anyone. Why spoil my reputation as a spiritual kind of guy?
Coming into the bedroom, Kerwin leans against the door and grins down at me. "I got hold of Max and Priscilla, and they're calling everyone they can think of -- party's on for tomorrow night, man. Of course, most everyone is going to think it's a joke."
"An extremely sick joke."
"Nah, for a sick joke, I'd haul up a coffin and have you lie in it all night."
Grinning, I turn back to the boxes. "If you do that, you're nursing the hernia you'll get on your own." I pull out a pair of jeans. "You really saved all my stuff."
"Yeah. Well." He glances away from me. "I tried to give your clothes away, but who'd fit in them?" Before I can decide whether or not to thank him anyway, he walks out of the room. Over his shoulder, he says, "Got some more phone calls to make. Wonder what the maximum occupancy is for this dump?"
Lifting my voice, I call out, "Hey, we never worried about that before, did we?" And I return to my materialistic gloating.
"You shouldn't have tried to leave me." The breath is hot and moist on my skin. "You belong with me. Not him. Never with him." Vaughan runs his hands up and down my chest. They're wet, and sticky, and red... they're covered with blood. And I know it's Jim's blood. Because Jim is dead. Vaughan killed him. I know Vaughan killed him.
I want to scream, but I can't. I can't scream, and I can't move. I shouldn't be frightened by my paralysis. That's a typical nightmare response, right?
So if I'm dreaming, why can't I wake up?
The coarse, slimy hands lift to caress my face. "Shhhh. It's all right, Blair, everything's going to be all right." Vaughan's face. Jim's voice. But Jim is dead, he's dead because he came after me. It's my fault, everything is my fault --
"I'll take care of you -- "
Somehow, I manage to throw off the weight that's pressing me to the bed. Vaughan's face disappears, and all I can see is nothing, and all I can feel is the sick, hollow thumping of my heart as I finally wake up.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I rock back and forth. As the freezing sweat pours off my body, I listen for movement from the room next door, for any sign that my nightmare woke up Mom -- nothing.
Thank God, thank God....
I clutch a pillow in my arms and bury my face in it. When I feel brave enough to look up, I reach out and switch on the bedside lamp, blinking against the onslaught of artificial light. I stare around wildly. There's nothing -- no one -- in here but me. Of course there isn't.
There's no reason to believe that anyone is in my room. So that's why it makes perfect sense to climb carefully out of bed as soon as I think my legs won't buckle under me to check out the bathroom and closet? That's why, in a complete regression to childhood, I force myself to kneel by the side of the bed and look underneath?
Congratulations, Sandburg. You're an official basket case.
Dragging the bedspread toward me, I pull it off the bed and wrap it around myself to sit huddled on the floor. It takes me forever to stop shaking. While I wait, I do my best to figure out what the dream meant.
It could all be symbolic. Yeah. Sure. That makes sense. The subconscious frequently chooses fragments of real-life experiences as a representational paradigm that illuminates underlying conflicts --
Nice try.
I tuck the bedspread more securely under my feet. That dream means one thing, and one thing only -- it's not over.
It's never going to be over.
Jim and I were wrong. Telling half the story won't be enough to keep anyone from asking questions. There'll always be people who are suspicious, who can see that all the pieces don't fit together.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I've taken the phone off the nightstand. I stop myself when I've pushed the first four digits of the number Steven had given me -- and just when had I memorized Jim's phone number? -- and put the receiver down.
What am I doing? I'm seriously considering making a cross-country phone call in the middle of the night just to tell Jim I had a bad dream?
I can't let this be my response to everything. He can't shield me from all the unpleasantness in the world, and it's not fair to expect that from him. It's bad enough that he thinks he has to do it. If I call him now, I'll just be admitting that I'm too much of a coward to handle my own problems.
What the hell happened to me? I used to be the poster boy for self-sufficiency. And now I'm looking to Jim to handle my emotional crises, and my mother is handling my paperwork, and Kerwin is the one who broke the news to all my friends -- my friends -- and hell, I don't even know Steven but I let him take care of my travel problems... I can't let this go on. I've got to start taking care of myself, dammit.
Even though that's what I'm telling myself, I can't put the phone down. I need to hear Jim's voice. I need to talk to him and know he's okay. I need....
I need him.
Telling myself I'm being childish, and selfish, and just plain inconsiderate, and hating myself for all that -- and completely unable to stop -- I punch in the number. The phone rings, and rings again, and again.
And again.
So he's not in. Steven said that was where he was going to be, but he didn't say when -- and hell, the man doesn't have to stay home and sit by the phone just in case I decide to call at some ungodly hour --
"Hello?" Jim, his voice thick and irritated. As soon as I hear it, I can feel myself calm down.
Mission accomplished, right? I know that he's home, safe, and cranky. I could hang up now. I could preserve some of my self-respect and let him just think it was a prank call. That would be the smart thing to do.
Naturally, I don't do the smart thing. I wasn't raised that way. "Jim?... Hi."
"Blair?" A few seconds of silence, broken only by the creaking of a mattress as Jim either rolls over or sits up; right on cue, he asks, "Do you know what time it -- what time is it out there?" I have to smile as I imagine him looking at a clock and doing the math.
The smile disappears when I hear the worry in Jim's next words. "Blair, what's wrong? Are you all right?"
"Yeah." I try to force back the guilt, but it rises up to smother me. "I'm sorry, Jim. I just -- it's nothing."
"People don't usually wake up in the middle of the night over nothing, sweetheart."
Sweetheart.
He just got jerked out of a sound sleep, I was apparently the last person he'd expect to call at this hour, and what's the first thing to pop into his head? Sweetheart. The casual endearment makes it hard for me to think of anything rational to say to him. I blurt, "Oh, Jim. I miss you so much...." Great. You woke him up so he can hear you get all mushy and sentimental. This is going so well.
"Same here." There's not a hint of anger or irritation in his voice now; just concern and... love. I hear him changing position again. I imagine him sitting up in bed -- bare-chested, leaning back against pillows, a sheet pulled up to his waist, or maybe not -- I wonder what he looks like? "Come on. Tell me what's wrong."
When he says that, I lose what little resolve I have and everything comes pouring out -- everthing. My reunion with Mom. The hassles with the university and the banks. My friends throwing me a "Hey, Blair's not dead anymore!" blowout. That last part makes him laugh -- I'd join him if I didn't know what was coming next.
I guess there's no way to ease into it, so I say the words with as little emotion as I can. "And... I found out that Vaughan was married. His widow wants to meet me."
"Vaughan was what?" A few seconds' silence. "I didn't -- I never -- "
"Me, either." All of a sudden, the bedspread isn't enough to keep me warm, but I don't want to get up -- I don't want to break my connection to Jim. Pulling the cover a little higher around my shoulders, I say, "Jim, it never occurred to me that he was married. He never mentioned her while I was applying for the position as his assistant -- and the way he was after the crash...." I can't say the rest of it.
That doesn't matter, because Jim understands what I'm getting at right away. "The way he went after you, nobody would have thought he was married."
I swallow hard. "Yeah. And it gets better. Since I got out alive, she wants to mount a full-fledged rescue attempt in case he's still down there."
"Oh, God," Jim groans softly.
"Uh-huh. And even if someone talks her out of that, I'm still not off the hook. She wants... Jim, she's talking about putting together some kind of memorial service -- you know, an exhibit with a retrospective of his research, people getting up and saying nice things about him, agreeing that his death is a shattering loss to the world of anthropology. And since I was the last one to see him, she wants -- " My throat's too dry to go on.
"No!" I know the fury in Jim's voice isn't meant for me, but I flinch anyway. "Blair, you don't have to do that. You're not going to do that."
It's nice that one of us is that certain. "Believe me, that's the last thing I want to do. But if I don't -- " I hesitate, struggling for words. "Jim, people are going to start asking a lot of questions. Dead or not, the guy's still got a good reputation. If I don't make some kind of public statement about him, people will wonder why."
"Let them wonder." Jim's voice is a low growl. He's quiet for a few seconds. "There must have been -- Blair, men like that usually have a history of harassment. There'll be other people who know what he was really like."
I consider telling him about what Kerwin told me about the other students, but I decide against it. I can't tell anyone else's secrets without getting their permission first. "Maybe I was the first. Maybe I was just irresistable." I want that to come out as a joke, but it doesn't. I hurry on before Jim has to say anything. "Whether or not he ever... did something to another student doesn't matter now, Jim. You know what it'll sound like if I start telling the truth about him. I've got to find a way out of this."
Jim answers at once. "There is a way."
I manage a laugh. "What's that? The witness protection program?"
"No. Just... don't be there. Be here instead."
My heart flops over. "You mean 'here' as in...."
I can hear the smile in his voice. "As in with me."
"You really want me out there? With you? I mean... with you?" I hate how weak and surprised that sounds, but the words are gone before I can stop them.
There's a brief silence. "I've known you a long time, Blair. And that's the single stupidest thing you've ever said." He doesn't sound a bit angry.
"Jim, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I just --"
He interrupts me. "You can explain later. When we're together."
I relax against the wall. It doesn't seem quite as cold in here anymore. "Okay. I've got all the loose ends here as tied up as they're going to get. I can leave Monday -- I want to spend a little more time with Mom."
"Blair -- I didn't mean to rush you. If you need to spend more time with her, stay out there until both of you are ready -- "
He sounds so worried.... "Jim, it's fine. Really. She's got to get back to work after this weekend, anyway."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure. It's going to be hard to wait that long, though."
He doesn't answer for a few seconds, and I start to think that I went over some line I didn't know existed... dammit, I sounded way too clingy. But then he says softly, "I know. I'm going insane, not having you here with me."
I relax when I hear that. Monday, I'll see Jim on Monday. A little shyly, I add, "I know what you mean. And Mom really wants to meet you."
"She does?" Now Jim's the one who's surprised. "You mean you told her about us?"
"Well, of course I told her. She can fly out to Washington sometime next month... if that's okay with you?"
He answers at once. "Any time that's good for her, Blair -- it's fine with me."
"Great." I hesitate before asking my next question, which is just plain stupid. I mean, if I'm going to be living out there, it'd be stupid not to ask -- even if I don't care where I'm going, when I go to buy the ticket, they'll want to know where I'm flying to. "Jim -- where are you?"
He laughs. "Washington state -- the woods near Cascade. My family's had a cabin here since I was a kid, but no one's used it much in the past ten years or so. It was Steven's idea to stay here."
"Really? How come?"
"He says... well, we weren't exactly close as kids. Then I left to join the Army, and we've barely seen each other since. He says he wants another chance to be brothers."
"That's great... isn't it?" Jim's voice is reserved, like he doesn't entirely believe what his brother is telling him.
I can almost hear him make an effort to hide his concerns. "Yeah. It's just taking some getting used to. Actually, he's floating an idea that I should join his company."
"You're kidding. I mean, no offense, man, but you really don't strike me as a suit."
My worries fade a little as I hear him laugh again. "Wearing a suit isn't really part of the job description. It's... well, I can fill you in on the details when you get out here."
"Okay. How did your debriefing go?"
"Don't ask." His voice closes up again.
"That bad?"
"Yeah."
Is that all he's going to say about it? He doesn't seem to want to talk about the subject, but I still ask, "Was Oliver happy with your answers?"
He's quiet for a few seconds. When he starts speaking again, his voice has turned softer. "Yeah. He was satisfied. I don't want you to worry about him."
"Okay...." I don't have time to say anything more before I yawn.
Jim chuckles. "Go to sleep, Sandburg."
"Still bossing me around, huh?" Keeping hold of the phone, I get to my feet and climb back into bed.
"That's right. I can't wait to do it in person. When you're ready to go, call Steven -- he can give you directions to get here. And Blair?"
"Hmmm?"
Jim takes a deep breath. "I love you."
"I love you, too," I whisper.
"Sleep good. I'll see you soon." He hangs up without waiting for an answer. I'm glad -- if he left it up to me, I wouldn't have been able to get off the line.
Monday. I'll see him Monday. I can wait until Monday. I can. Sure I can.
I curl up on my side, still cradling the telephone against my chest, as I wait for sleep to come.