How It Ended: New and Collected Stories (36 page)

“What'd he say?” I ask. “What makes you think he was looking for me?”

“Showed me your picture.”

I'm like, “What'd you tell him?”

“I didn't say nothing,” she says. “I figured if you wanted him to know where you was, you would of told him. Whatever's going on between you-all, it ain't none of my business.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

She shook her head. “Said you was friends. Asked me how to get to the Jackson place.”

I say, “You didn't tell him, did you?”

“Like I said,” she says, “I don't stick my nose in other people's business. I said I wasn't rightly sure where it was. But I saw him talking to Pete over to the BP. I don't know, like I said, it ain't none of my business, but he seemed awful nice. Whatever he done, I'm sure he's sorry.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” I say. “I appreciate you covering for me.”

“You don't have any reason to be scared of him, do you?”

“No, I don't think so,” I say. “Not physically anyway.”

“Tell you what. You take my mobile number,” she says, scrawling it on an old receipt. “You can call me anytime. If he gives you any trouble, my husband'll straighten him right out. Jake's already got his buck, so now he's just sitting around on his big ol' butt waiting for turkey season.”

So I give her a hug and pick up a few groceries and think about who could have followed me here. Back by the freezer case I call Tom, but he's not picking up. Then I call Rob, who says Tom's speaking to a Rotary Club. I fill him in on the situation here. He thinks it might be somebody from one of the other campaigns. If it were one of the tabloids, he says, they would have offered her cash right up front.

“So what am I supposed to do now?” I say.

“Just go back to the cabin,” he says. “If you see anybody, call the sheriff. Then call me.”

There's nobody waiting at the gate and no cars visible at the cabin when I pull up. I'm putting the groceries away when I look out the kitchen window and see a man in a camel-hair coat standing on the back porch. He jerks his head in my direction after the jar of Ragú smashes on the kitchen tiles. The only thing that saves me from a full-scale myocardial infarction is the fact that I recognize him. He's standing out there, not sure what to do, probably wondering what I'm going to do.

When I catch my breath, I walk over and pull open the sliding glass door. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I say. “This is private property, and if you don't get your ass out of here, I'm calling the sheriff.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“What did you mean to do?”

“I just wanted to talk.”

“I already told you. I've got nothing more to say.”

“Yeah, well,” he says. “I wanted to see you.”

“Okay, here I am. Get a good look, and then I'm calling the sheriff.”

“Please,” he says, with this pathetic look on his face. “Can I come in?”

“Hell no,” I say.

“Well, you come out, then. Just give me five minutes.”

“It's freezing,” I say. “Just come in.”

“Thanks,” he says.

I walk out to the great room and plunk myself down in one of the big club chairs with my arms folded across my chest. “What are you doing here?”

“My job?” He shrugs.

“Harassing me is a job?”

“Actually, I'm not entirely sure why I'm here.”

“What does that mean?”

“I wanted to see you again. You wouldn't return my calls.”

“How'd you find me?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Protecting your sources?”

“We all have our secrets.”

“Not me. My life's an open book.”

“Which is why you're hiding out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Not hiding. I just needed some time by myself.”

“Must get a little lonely down here.”

“I was enjoying the solitude. Builds character. You should try it sometime.”

“I don't think I'd like it. I'm a people person.”

“I can't believe you just said that.”

“It was supposed to be funny.”

“It was, trust me.”

“So?”

“So?”

“This is the part where I ask you if Skeet Jackson's a good friend of yours.”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because according to county records, he owns the place.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Skeet's an old friend of the family.”

“So he just lent you his house? Help me out here.
Why
did he lend you his house?”

“I told you. I just needed to get away. Do some thinking. A little writing. Skeet offered.”

“Awfully generous of him.”

“Skeet's a generous guy.”

“He's been very generous to Senator Phipps.”

“Let's cut the shit,” I say. “Why don't you just come out and say what it is you want?”

“I wanted to see you again.”

“Right. And I'm here for the deer hunting.”

Of course, as soon as I say that, I realize I'm sort of dropping the pretense. We both know why I'm here. I first met Frank about six months ago, when I was working on the campaign, at a party in D.C., although I didn't know he was from Below the Beltway at first; some fucking media consultant I turn out to be. I'd had a couple of cocktails and he asked me where I worked and I'm telling him about the senator, and when he finally gets around to telling me he writes a political blog, I'm worrying that maybe I've said a little too much—that I was a little too free and easy about my closeness to Tom, partly because he was cute and I wanted to impress him at the same time that I wanted to keep him at a distance and remind myself that I was totally taken. All of a sudden he asks flat out if I'm dating Tom, and I say, of course not, so he says, “Well, then, will you come to dinner with me tomorrow night?” So I end up having dinner with him just to throw him off the scent, although it's not like it's such a chore, since he's about as hot as a habanero and Tom's been at the lake house with his family the last four days.

I realize if I'm not careful, I could get into a sticky situation, so I have the genius idea of telling him that as much as I like him, I'm seeing someone else. When he asks again if it's Tom, I say, “No, it's another staffer, but I can't talk about it.” He dropped me off that night at the condo I was borrowing and gave me a semi-innocent kiss good night. The next day he posted something sweet about me being the best-looking girl on any campaign staff, and that was that. Except that he calls me every couple of weeks to chat, and then again last month when the
Star
printed this nasty piece insinuating that Tom was having an affair with an unnamed former staffer whose description fit me like a pair of True Religion jeans. Of course I denied everything, and of course he didn't believe me, and then he asked me if we could get together for a drink. I said I didn't think that would be such a great idea, and after that I stopped taking his calls.

“You drove all the way down here?” I say.

“Except for the last mile or so, which I walked.”

“I didn't see your car up at the gate.”

“I parked up the road a little, out of sight.”

“You're lucky you didn't get shot.”

“Folks around here seem friendly enough.”

“If I were you, I'd think about hitting the road before it gets dark.”

“How about a glass of wine before I go?” he says, taking a bottle out of his backpack. “This is the one you liked so much when we had dinner that night.”

It's true, we had an amazingly delicious bottle of wine that night. He hands me the bottle, a 2001 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “I remember,” I say. “The wine of the Popes.”

“Also reputed to have aphrodisiac qualities,” he says.

“That didn't really pan out for you, did it?”

“Hope springs eternal,” he says.

“Although I guess it worked for those old guys. From what I hear, Popes were like the rock stars of their era in terms of pussy. Oh my God, you're actually blushing. That's so sweet.”

“Well, I'm a Catholic. I mean, I used to be.”

Part of me knows I should get him out of here as soon as possible, but another part of me's dying for company. So we open the wine and I put out a rock-hard wedge of Brie and Carr's water biscuits—it's actually kind of amazing what you can buy these days at the Piggly Wiggly in East Jesus—and he tells me about what's going on with the various campaigns. I mean, who knew what a hound that Bill Richardson was, but then again, who knew fucking anything about Bill Richardson? He tells about his last girlfriend, who scarred him for life by sleeping not only with his best friend but also with his best friend's wife; then he asks me about my life. I'm telling him about my year at the ashram, pursuing enlightenment and trying not to lust after my guru, when I suddenly think, Wait a minute. He's getting background for his story. I can, like, visualize the blog post:
The former party girl then sought enlightenment at an ashram run by controversial guru Darpak Lalit. …
“Are you going to write about this?” I say.

“I don't know,” he says. “You do realize it looks kind of incriminating, you staying in a big house owned by one of Phipps's best friends and biggest donors.
Are
you having an affair with Phipps?”

“Why don't you ask me if I'm having an affair with Jackson?”

“Sounds like a nondenial to me.”

I hear what sounds like a gunshot somewhere in the distance and then my text tone sounds, the first three bars of Gnarls Barkley's “Crazy.” I flip open my phone, to find a text from Tom:
Whassup Sugar Plum?

I don't know why, I'll probably always wonder, but I can't decide whether or not to tell him what's going on. I don't want to worry him. I feel like I could go either way. I can see reasons for both. I stare at the screen until Frank finally says, “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I tell him.

I text back:
Blogger found me. Here now
.

Call Sheriff
.

That will b big drama/story
.

Dont say anything
.

I wasnt born yesterday
.

It bothers me, him telling me not to say anything. As if I haven't been the soul of discretion for the last year. Frank is looking at me, puzzled. He glances down at his watch.

Get rid of him
.

Dont worry
.

I decide to turn my phone off. His tone really bugs me.

“I should probably be heading back,” Frank says, downing the last of his wine.

“I guess you should,” I say. “I can give you a ride out to the gate.”

“Thanks,” he says.

When I let him off up by the main road he says, “Don't worry, I'm not going to write about this.”

“I really appreciate it,” I say.

“Call me sometime.” He closes the door, climbs over the gate and walks off down the road.

Driving back to the house, I feel kind of bad for Frank. I mean, he doesn't get the story and he doesn't get laid. He turned out to be a pretty decent guy. And I can't help wondering how far Tom would go to keep us out of the papers. Would he still say he wants me more than he wants to be president? Would he screw somebody to protect our secret? Like, for instance, his wife?

When he calls an hour later the wine's wearing off and the sun is setting and I am sinking into a swamp of doubt.

“What happened?” he says. “Did you get rid of him?”

“Sort of,” I say.

“What does that mean?”

“He's gone for the moment.”

“What did he ask you? Did my name come up? Please tell me you didn't say anything.”

“I told him you fucked like a stallion.”

“Jesus, Alison.”

“Of course I didn't tell him anything.”

“Thank God.”

His tone is really pissing me off.

“Listen,” he says, “I'll call back in five minutes.”

But instead it's Rob who calls back and asks me what happened with Frank. “I handled it,” I say, and when he insists on details I tell him I'll give those to Tom, then hang up.

When Tom finally calls I've had almost an hour to brood.

“Sorry,” he says. “We got a call from Fox and I had to run down to the affiliate for a live feed. So what happened with the blogger? Please tell me we don't have a problem here.”

If he'd just asked about me, or sounded concerned and sympathetic, the conversation might have gone in a whole different direction. “I don't know,” I say. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“He wants to come back for dinner.”

“What the hell? I hope you told him to go fuck himself.”

“I could have, but that would've pretty much guaranteed a highly incriminating post on his blog tomorrow.”

“What the hell does he want?”

“I could be wrong, but I think he wants your girlfriend.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying I think he wants me more than he wants the story.” When he doesn't respond, I go, “Tom?”

“Did he say that?”

“Not exactly.”

“What
did he
say exactly?”

“Well, I can't recount the whole goddamn conversation verbatim. But he made it pretty clear he was interested. And he basically kind of indicated that if I wasn't interested in him then he'd take that to mean I was involved with somebody else.”

“What do you mean, he
indicated
?”