What Changes Everything (7 page)

       Again, Clarissa felt dizzy.

       "Well, hopefully not," Jack said. "And that‟s not really what I‟m saying, for the record."

       "There are those," Bill Snyder continued, "who theorize it is better—safer—to stick with negotiations, rather than get impatient and launch a rescue attempt."

       Clarissa exchanged a glance with her brother—
how do I process this? "What do yo
u advise?" Mikey asked the agents.

       "I‟ve spoken to Amin once already this morning," Bill Snyder said quickly. "You‟ve heard Todd talk about him, Clarissa, probably hundreds of times. He has experience and connections, and I have complete trust in him. Besides, he feels extremely responsible toward Todd. He‟s pursuing leads from his end. I‟d like to give him at least a few hours."

       "By all means," Jack said. "In fact, it‟s wise to have locals appear to be leading any negotiations. It keeps the price tag a bit lower. But with American civilians, the U.S. government likes to have the rescue permission lined up, at the ready if it‟s needed. A two-pronged approach."

       "And the decision is Clarissa‟s?" Ruby asked.

       "It‟s a family decision, of course, but we need the okay from her, yes," Jack said, his voice careful.

       Clarissa felt Bill Snyder watching her, holding himself back from saying something more. She felt Ruby‟s gaze as well. "It‟s so early, so much is vague. Can‟t you ask me this when

you know more?" she asked. "Then we can discuss it?"

       Jack tilted his head to one side thoughtfully. "The men on the ground will certainly tell us the particulars, if there is time. But often, things break quickly. That‟s why they want your permission on file, as it were."

       Clarissa looked at Ruby, then at her hands. She turned toward Jack, examining his face, as if she might find something there. His expression was bland, noncommittal. They were all waiting. "I want Todd home," she said. "But I want him home safe."

       "We want that, too," Sandy said. "A rescue is only attempted if they feel confident of success on the ground."

       "But sometimes in the past, that confidence has been misplaced, hasn‟t it?" Bill Snyder asked. "Then the hostage can be killed by friendly fire."

       
…humans are delicate so keep it safe humans are impermanent so take the risks…

       Jack spread open his hands. "It‟s a war. But our guys succeed more often than they fail."

       Bill Snyder shook his head, but said nothing. Clarissa took a deep breath. She needed some time. "No military rescue attempt for now." She touched her fingers to her lips as soon as she spoke, almost wishing she could pull back the words, and then lowered her hand to her lap. "Not until we think this through," she said, making her voice more decisive. "Or until we get a little more information about the best way to get Todd home."

       Jack looked displeased but managed to shrug. "You‟re still digesting the information. I understand that. We‟ll revisit it later. One more thing. In general in these cases, the lower profile, the better." He looked at Ruby, and then glanced at Angie. "It‟s important to keep it out of the media, and we need your help, too. Don‟t blog about it or Facebook it, of course. Try not to tell anyone. We‟re keeping it as quiet as we can so if a journalist calls, decline comment and refer them to us. The less frenzy, the more time we have to negotiate, and to try to pinpoint his whereabouts exactly."

       "What else can we do?" Ruby said.

       "It may be hard, but try to keep your life as normal as possible. It will be better for you than spending the whole day worrying about what‟s happening."

       "What else?" Ruby repeated.

       "As soon as they reach out again, we‟ll try to push forward the negotiations," Jack said.

       "Shouldn‟t Clarissa be a key part of negotiations?" Bill Snyder asked.

       "She‟ll be intimately involved, of course. But we do have experienced people both in the states and on the ground."

       "I appreciate that experience. On the other hand, Todd‟s family and colleagues will have his interests at heart in the most uncomplicated way," Bill Snyder said. "You guys," he jabbed his chin toward Jack, "have many issues to consider that don‟t have to do with Todd."

       Jack and Bill both turned to Clarissa. Their disagreements clearly carried a subtext Clarissa couldn‟t follow. She was being asked on the spot to make decisions that could have a direct impact on the outcome of this kidnapping—specifically, on whether or not Todd lived. At the same time, she was being given no tools to help her decide, not even two contacts who agreed on how to proceed. It would be unnerving to speak directly to Todd‟s kidnappers, she imagined, and equally unnerving to have others speaking to them with her left out of the process. Beyond that, the broader implications escaped her. Still, both men waited.

       "I need to at least confer with whoever would be negotiating on our behalf," she said. "Beyond that, I need a little more time to think about it." She sipped the water that Angie had brought for Ruby. "Can you be specific about what you will be doing next?" Clarissa looked at

Sandy, who struck her as more the planning type than Jack.

       "The government is aware of what has happened, at the highest levels," Sandy said, emphasizing the word "highest."

       "Executive, Defense, State, all three," Jack added. "Right now, we pursue two paths. We try to use intelligence on the ground to locate them."

       "And we wait for them to make the next contact," Sandy said.

       Contact. That word again. It sounded so sterile, more distant than a handshake. What Clarissa wanted was for someone to fly now to Afghanistan, do whatever was needed to find her husband, put a supportive arm around his shoulder and bring him home. She didn‟t want to think about opening a process of negotiations, or whether Todd would be safe in a rescue attempt.

       They kept talking—about where they would route any call from the kidnappers, and who would have to be informed—but Clarissa lost her train of thought. Then Jack was reaching toward her, and she backed away before she realized he was handing her something.

       "Sorry. I guess I‟m jumpy."

       He hesitated a moment, then extended his hand again. "No problem. Here‟s my card," he said. "Call if you need us. And we‟ll check in with you tomorrow, let you know where we are. Though there may not be any change that quickly."

       Clarissa didn‟t respond to this forecast. She rose to show Jack and Sandy to the door. Before leaving, Sandy surprised her by giving her a quick hug.

       Back in the kitchen, Ruby was already at the stove, preparing a fr
ittata for everyo
ne to share. Ruby, who Todd said had insisted on only fish-sticks and apple slices for breakfast, lunch and dinner for five months when she was eight years old, had become a gifted chef at a Brooklyn restaurant. She prepared dishes Clarissa couldn‟t pronounce, patient with slow boils and constant stirrings and recipes so complex that Clarissa would have put them through the paper shredder if they‟d ever found their way into her kitchen. Ruby went for sauces. Coquille St. Jacques. Foie de veau. Canard roti à la framboise. Ruby lived with Angie in an apartment crowded with two dogs, garden tools, even a canoe in the living room, and Todd had described her as perpetually disorganized, the kind of person who missed meetings and went out in mismatched shoes. But to her work as a chef, she brought awe-inducing precision.

       The doorbell again. Joel Bass, her department‟s dean, in a suit, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He hugged Clarissa.

       "Joel. Did I call you?"

       A smile swept briefly across his face like a bird uncertain of whether to land—was Clarissa joking? "Remember? You told me you couldn‟t come in today, and then you told me— what had happened, Todd and all, oh, but Clarissa, this is natural. What a morning you‟ve had. What stress you are under."

       "Yes, of course, sorry, come in," Clarissa mumbled, embarrassed, and led Joel in to the kitchen. Joel knew Clarissa as so capable, so solid with details. And in fact, she‟d always had a shockingly good memory, the kind of memory that sorted and stored facts, faces and figures while she looked the other way. Now, though, she apparently couldn‟t recall a phone call she‟d made a few hours ago.

       They all greeted this newcomer, everyone speaking in hushed, serious voices, even as Ruby offered some coffee and said a fr
ittata
was coming. Joel sat next to Clarissa and leaned close. "As long as you want. You know that, of course," he said, and Clarissa had no idea what he was talking about, so couldn‟t respond.

       "A leave of absence. We‟ll fill out the paperwork later," Joel added after a moment.

       The job, Clarissa realized at last; they were talking about her job at Columbia, and the FBI agents had said to keep things as normal as possible, but Clarissa couldn‟t imagine going into work right now, standing in front of the students, who would surely know—was it even possible to keep secrets these days? And then Clarissa either breaking down and discussing everything, which the FBI would frown upon, or pretending nothing had happened. Which was impossible. "Yes," she said, "that sounds good; that sounds right. Thank you."

       Then Ruby was bringing the food to the table, and there seemed to be a lot of it; Clarissa didn‟t even think she had enough ingredients for all this so maybe someone had gone out to the bodega while she hadn‟t been looking? She couldn‟t stand the thought of eating. In fact, even with the scent of food, she felt an intense, dull pressure growing in the middle of her chest, reaching toward her belly, and she thought she might throw up. Then someone held her by the elbow—it was Bill Snyder; was he s
till here? "Are yo
u okay?" And the kitchen grew quiet as they waited for her reply. Against her will, she‟d become a delicate piece of porcelain they all feared breaking.

       And at that point, something did break. "Thank you all for coming," she said. "But now I really need, I need to
think. S
o kind, but now I need to ask you…"

       "Are you all right, Clarissa?" Ruby asked. "Do you want to go upstairs and rest? No one would—"

       "No, no, I just need, I need some quiet so I can think. Maybe I can—" She took a deep breath. "Ruby," she said. "Would you help me get everyone out?" She realized, as soon as she finished the sentence, that her voice emerged a little more shrill than she might have wanted, and that the sentiment sounded rude. But she also knew she had no desire to retract it.

       "Yes, yes, of course," Bill Snyder said, and Mikey was also on his feet. Ruby looked

dismayed, and a little angry, and frightened; Clarissa could pick out these emotions and wished to ease them, and she saw milder versions of the same emotions imprinted on other faces, especially pity and surprise. But as much as she wanted to help Ruby, help them all, a part of her knew that what she wished even more, desperately needed in fact, was for everyone to go.

       Joel and Bill Snyder left together. Mikey bent to kiss her. "I‟ll stop by tomorrow." She held his arm for a minute; part of her wanted to cling to Mikey, but clinging to Mikey would be acknowledging how frightened she was by what was happening, and she couldn‟t acknowledge that, not in a full-sized bite, not yet, so she let go.

       "I‟ll clean up a little then," Ruby said, but Clarissa shook her head.

       "No. Leave everything. Please."

       The words were as restrained as Clarissa could make them, but she knew the tone was tough and Ruby caught it.

       "Would you like me to bring you some dinner?" Ruby asked, her face pale.

       "Ruby, that‟s kind of you. I‟ll be fine, though. I just need a couple hours to gather myself, to think."

       Angie seemed most comfortable, and perhaps even relieved, to be kicked out. She squeezed Ruby‟s arm gently. "You‟re doing the right thing," she said softly to Clarissa. "You all need time to absorb this."

        Clarissa nodded, though she couldn‟t manage a smile, and she watched as the last of them walked out the door. Then she closed it behind her. Leaning against it, suddenly aware of deep exhaustion, she sunk to the floor.

       The bells dangling from the top of the front door made a tinny, strident sound. Stela knew she should welcome since it meant a potential customer, but these days she found it mainly intrusive. Chekhov stirred slightly and glanced toward the door. Stela, less hospitable, looked up more slowly from the paper on which she was writing to see Yvette waving cheerily. "It‟s KLOVE‟S afternoon of praise. Positive, encouraging K-Love. Send us your blessed stories by phone or—"

       "P
lease t
urn off that Jesus talk, Stela, for God‟s sake. I can‟t stay long—dentist appointment. Coffee on?"

       "Help yourself," Stela answered as she reached to turn down the radio. No need to bother arguing that the radio station wasn‟t that bad, and that when hope went on short supply, one had to overturn the dusty furniture and look in every dank corner. She‟d just listen later.

       Yvette picked up a yellow coffee cup and surreptitiously inspected the inside.

       "It‟s clean, Yvette."

       Yvette flushed, then smiled.

       "I‟m not a crazy, unkempt cat lady yet."

       "I know," Yvette said. "I know that."

       Chekhov rose languidly, arched her back, hopped off the counter, and disappeared behind

the third row of shelves. Yvette poured herself a cup. She set it on a table across from Stela‟s counter and gingerly pushed Pushkin out of the armchair. "Shoo," she said. Stela slid two books waiting to be shelved—a dictionary of symbols and a children‟s tale—on top of what she‟d been writing. She could tell by the way Yvette‟s eyes narrowed that in hiding the paper, she‟d only served to draw attention to it. Yvette stared as she took a loud sip of the coffee, but she let it sit for the moment. "Anything new for me?" she asked.