Gathering String (13 page)

"Being with me makes you unhappy?" His eyes drilled into her. She looked down. His fork clanked against the china plate as he dropped it. “Answer me. I make you unhappy?” Her silence was an admission, and she caught her breath. "Well, Toughie, I don’t understand that, because the noises you were making the last time we were together seemed to indicate otherwise."

She started to bolt, but he grabbed her arm.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered it softly, looking down. "That was lousy, OK? Don’t, just don’t go.” She jerked away but stayed in her chair, and his bloodshot eyes came up. “How do you expect me to react when you tell me you’re unhappy? I’ll be damned if I …” His temper almost slipped again, and his eyes glittered with tension as he said gruffly, “Just tell me. What do you want?"

"What are we doing?” she whispered. “It's been a year and we're still right where we started. If it’s not just screwing then where …"

He broke in, shaking his head. "Where are we going? Tess, if I knew what you wanted, I'd make it happen." She only looked at him. "I can't even get a fucking apartment key from you. That makes me a little uncertain that you intend for us to have a future." She still said nothing.

"What. Do. You. Want?" He asked again slowly, emphasizing each word. Still silence. "You want me to not be married?” She looked away, and he snapped impatiently, “Do you want me to leave her?"

Tess couldn’t meet his eyes. "Don’t ask me to pull the trigger for you. If you wanted to leave her, you’d have done it."

He sat back, looking hard into her face. At last, he said, “Untangling the marriage isn’t something I’m dying to take on. She and I have an unspoken pact not to disturb each other. But if I’m what you want, tell me, and I will get out of it. Jesus, Tess, what do I have to do for you to say it?” He drew a deep breath and asked again, “Do you want me to leave her?”

“I …” she finally looked up, her deep blue eyes full of love and misery, and she couldn’t force another sound out.

The lines around his mouth softened, and he leaned forward, taking her hand again. “I'll tell her this weekend. So you'd better go out, and get another key made, because I'm going to need a new place to live." She nodded, but her throat felt tight, and she thought for a moment she was going to be sick.

She never had a key made. The next morning, she met with Arnie Baxter, the photo editor. And when Sam went looking for her late in the day, she was gone.

A year later, during a round of buy-outs, his friend Steve Johnson tapped him for a spot at Politifix, and he went. Everyone was shocked, but no one more than Sam himself. He hated "digital first." He scorned "community engagement." He was appalled at the idea of building a "personal brand." And leaving print felt like he was amputating his own arms. But maybe she wouldn’t haunt him there.

*****************************************************************

His cigarettes long gone, Sam was stretched out on the bed at the Tall Corn Inn, arms behind his head, the muted TV the only light in the room. Staring straight ahead, his eyes didn’t even register the crazed, machete-armed slasher making bloody hay on the screen. But when the faint beeping sound from the alarm on Higs’ phone seeped through the thin walls, he drew a sharp breath, shook himself, and reached for the remote to hit the off button. He knew it would be just a minute or two before his own alarm went off. In a half hour, he’d meet Higs out front for the drive back to Des Moines. By mid-afternoon he’d be back in D.C.

But he knew now that change and distance didn't matter. Just like the St. Francis medal still in his pocket, he carried her with him wherever he went.

Tess Benedict slowly pulled herself up the wide stone steps of the
Journal
building. Eyes shielded from the bright sunshine by dark sunglasses, she fought the low throb at the base of her skull and the rolling queasiness of her first hangover in years. Glancing through the bay window, she could see her husband at his desk, talking on the phone. If Jack had been surprised by her hardy indulgence last night, he’d also been amused and gentle, driving her home and helping her to bed. He hadn’t asked any questions about the cause of her bender, but then, he’d left early this morning while she was still asleep.

She knew that Sam certainly had left by now too. Probably he was already back in D.C. With a wave of guilty relief, she smiled as Jack caught sight of her and waved. Even with the sparkling sun, Tess welcomed the warmth of the fine old building, shivering as she made her way down to the old-fashioned darkroom. Would she ever get used to the bitter Iowa winters? It had been cold the day they met too.

*************************************************

It had been almost a year since she left D.C., the
Tribune
and Sam. A lonely year. In those first, devastating months, she told herself to put her mind on only one thing: keeping her job. For months she didn’t accept any dates, and even now she still kept things casual, spending more time with her friends than any one guy.

Legend had it that a snowstorm always blew in the March week of the Iowa state girls’ basketball tournament in Des Moines, and tradition was being honored. A 45-mile-an-hour wind drove six inches of snow into the city in less than two hours. Predictions of total accumulation were close to a foot.

Tess stood at the top of the auditorium, looking down at the court. In spite of the filthy weather, the arena was nearly packed. Iowans took their basketball more seriously than any snowstorm. The Lindsborg Trojans were playing the Farragut Admirals. Two Cinderellas, the
Record
cheered, hyping the big game, from tiny towns on the north and south ends of the state. Both beat the odds, overwhelming teams with bigger and more experienced girls, to reach the title game. It didn’t hurt that one team also happened to be from the governor’s hometown.

She studied the layout, even while she tried to ignore her own irritability. Tess always got great basketball shots, and the championship game would put her work on Page One. But lately, she had to talk herself up for any shoot. The fact was she had grown tired. Tired and sad.

The vitality that had so captivated Sam Waterman failed her now, and she moved through her days by rote. There’d been too many furloughs, too many layoffs, too many friends fired or moved on to greener pastures. The industry was falling apart, and although she survived so far, her optimism had not. She still loved making pictures, but going to work wasn’t fun any more. At least she didn’t have to juggle stills with video at this game. The athletic association sold video rights to a state TV network, so other media were not allowed to shoot video. And as she hurried down the steps, she told herself to shoot, not think. In just a few hours she would be finished and could go home.

It was a close game, and the noise was deafening. The teams came into the last two minutes trading the lead back and forth. It was perfect timing when Tess, on her knees near the north goal with her camera following the action, saw the blocking foul coming. With a sharp intake of breath, her finger moved on the shutter, just as a wall of gray moved in front of her lens.

“Damn it!” she groaned, and lowered her camera to find she’d taken a picture of the back of a very tall man in a gray sweatshirt, stepping in to catch the same action. Putting her fingers between her teeth, she let out a sharp whistle. He turned, and she shouted, “Get back!” He shook his head, unable to hear. “Clear out,” she made a sweeping motion with her arm, and even though her voice was lost, he grimaced and leaned back.

She thought she saw him form the word “Sorry,” but she pulled her camera up, sliding on her knees a little closer. Frame after frame, she recorded the fierce battle for the free-throw rebound. She was aware that he had moved behind her now, also on his knees and easily shooting over her head. In the closing seconds, the Admirals took possession, down by one. They had only enough time to get the ball in and maybe, with luck, make it to the outskirts of the key at the opposite basket. At the inbounds toss, Tess scrambled madly to keep the ball handler’s face in her field. Following the player rather than the ball, Tess didn’t see the astounding shot that banked against the backboard with a pop like a gunshot, the ball winging around the rim and then tipping through.

But she did nail the girl’s face as the ball went in. In the uproar of the buzzer and clearing benches, and fans boiling out of the stands, she smiled with satisfaction, while several Farragut boys hoisted the game-winner onto their shoulders. Tess didn’t surge with the crowd. Other
Record
photographers were there, and they would shoot the post-game while she posted action shots from the pressroom. Turning to go, she plowed right into the gray sweatshirt that had blocked her picture. “Sorry.” She looked up and caught her breath.

Thick blond hair falling across a high forehead, narrow straight nose, dark eyes above high cheekbones; his face was cut in lean, clean lines, and the first thing she thought was, “Sculpture. He looks like a sculpture.”

“No, I keep getting in your way,” he shouted back, in a deep baritone. She smiled up at him dumbly, and he jostled a little as the crowd moved around him.

“No problem,” she finally croaked out. He obviously didn’t hear, but caught the general tone. Aware that she was staring stupidly, she closed her mouth, and looked away to move toward the edge of the floor, but against the crowd, there was no opening to take a step and she only shuffled in place.

“Here,” he leaned down so she could hear, and she felt goose bumps rise. “I'll run interference for you.” Moving in front of her, he made better progress, his size and grace parting the tide. She followed closely. At the concourse the crowd thinned.

She was able to move alongside him, and was shocked to find she had to stifle a giggle when she looked up at him again. “It’s clearer now, but thanks for your help. I was a little overwhelmed down there.”

“My pleasure. Sorry about your shot.”

“Don’t worry about it. I got some good stuff.” He smiled again, and she noticed his full lower lip. He gave a little nod and started back down, and she blurted, “Hey?” He turned and looked back, face to face even though he stood several steps down. “You aren’t coming back to the press room?” She wanted to disappear with that lame question, but his grin widened, and she saw dimples at either side of his mouth.

“I’ll be along. I just need to get the award stuff.”

In the pressroom, she set up her laptop at one of the long tables, keeping her camera bag and computer case on the chair next to her. It had been a long time since she’d felt such attraction after just looking at a man. She smiled ruefully into her screen, embarrassed at her overheated response. Her sex life had clearly languished too long. Shaking her head, determined to focus, she dug into processing several shots.

She had just brought up the picture of the girl who made the winning basket when she saw him come through the door. She cleared the chair next to her, quickly looking back at her screen. He came straight over. “I knew this place would be jammed. Thanks for saving me a spot.”

She closed her eyes, feeling a blush creep up her neck, then turned with a smile as he began setting up his equipment. “Did you get what you need?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s always a crapshoot. Sometimes I luck out and get something that’ll work. Other times …” he shuddered. When he looked over again, he saw what she was working on. “Now, that’s a great shot.”

It was. The girl’s face was streaked with sweat, threads of hair loose from her ponytail stuck to her face, anxiety still in her eyes, exhaustion and jubilation in her smile as she watched her shot drop. Beside her head was the blur of her arm as it shot up to pump the air.

Tess nodded. “It’ll do.”

She watched as he slowly set up his equipment. He was awkward with the connections, and when he looked up he seemed apologetic. “New equipment. I still have to think about what I’m doing.”

He was from a small operation; that much was clear. “What’s your company?”

“The
Lindsborg Journal
,” he said as he sat down. “Jack Westphal.”

He nodded. “I’ve seen your photo credit in the
Record
.”

She gave him a skeptical look, thinking it was a pretty sorry line. “Come on, no one notices the credits.”

He bent a little as he looked down into the laptop screen. “I do. You just had a picture of some guy lying on a scaffold repainting the stenciling inside the Capitol dome. It looked like you had to be hanging off the railing to get it.”

“That’s exactly what I did. It was a little uncomfortable.” She was impressed.

He smiled, still concentrating on the screen. “And last spring, you did a series of pictures after that big tornado hit Shenandoah.”

“Do you memorize everything that’s in the
Record
?”

Looking around, Jack came to his feet. “Hi, Gary,” he shook the man’s hand, then turned to indicate Tess. “Tess Benedict, Gary Markie, ‘the Voice of Iowa Basketball.’” This last was said in a credible imitation of the radio slogan that ran before every game. She smiled, but Markie just gave a vague nod in her direction, and said to Jack, “Too bad about your team. That was a tough break. I always hate to see the best team lose.”

Jack glanced back at Tess, irritated by the man’s dismissal of her. “Well, at least they put up a hell of a fight. And there wasn’t anything to be done about that last shot. Sometimes you just can’t stop them.”