“You should have told me beforehand.”
“I tried, but for some reason, Mr. Hoyt, you weren’t answering your phone. And you told me earlier that if need be, I should act on my own. So I did. So unless you have anything else to tell me, give it a rest.”
More breathing. He says, “By this time tomorrow, we’re going to leak out that she’s missing. Get the news media and the public involved.”
“Ah,” she says. “Try to flush her out of whatever hole she might be hiding in.”
“That’s right.”
“And my job?”
“Same as before … but to be clear … we’re looking for a final solution.”
“How German-like of you. Okay.”
“Are we done?”
“For now.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asks.
She wonders for a moment, and then decides to make it all clear. “I just want you to make sure that you remember I’m a professional. And you don’t last in this business by being an amateur. And a professional has something in hand to guarantee one’s safety. So if there’s a funeral next week for the First Lady, there better not be an FBI contingent breaking into my apartment with an arrest warrant the day after. Clear?”
A long, long delay, and she’s sure he’s trying to keep control of his temper. “You’re threatening me.”
“No, I’m setting expectations. Pay me, keep your end quiet, and my end will be quiet as well.”
Then he loses it, calls her a number of names, and then hangs up.
Marsha shrugs, sees that once more, she’s successfully recorded this call from the chief of staff, and happily goes back to watching the documentary on snipers, which makes her smile in amusement for the next forty minutes.
CHAPTER 49
ON THIS DAY, the worst of days, I’m like an actress in some play, not knowing my lines or responsibilities, just being gently pushed along by those in the know. The day has been a jumble of images and sights, and now, I’m in the final act of this performance, a cloudy and cold day in a Jewish cemetery near Capitol Heights, Maryland, holding Amelia’s frigid hand in my own as the rabbi speaks over Ben’s open grave.
It’s been just a day since I last saw my husband, dead in my bedroom, but because of my in-laws’ religion, he’s being buried this afternoon. Esther and Ron Miller are standing on the other side of the dirt pile, holding each other. Both are wearing black, and Ron is wearing a yarmulke. My father-in-law just stares and stares at the plain pinewood casket, but every now and then my mother-in-law looks at me with her eyes full of restrained fury and pure hate.
I make no excuse for that look, for I can see that from her point of view, it’s fully deserved. Ben wasn’t particularly observant and he never pressured me to convert, but his mom would drop hints the size of boulders whenever we came to visit, especially after Amelia was born. Now she’s staring at me, a Gentile with a Gentile daughter, and with her familial line cut off with the remains in that casket.
Other members of Ben’s family are lined up in solidarity, and there are coworkers of his from the Department of the Interior. I spend a few dreary seconds trying to decide whichever interns over there might have slept with my husband. My side—God, the horror of having sides at a graveyard ceremony—consists of me; Amelia; my deputy, Scotty; and one of my two sisters, Gwen, who works for the NSA and is standing at my left. She’s five years younger than me and about five times as smart. My other sister, Kate, is flying home from a GAO conference in Seattle, and my parents—last I knew—were trying to get flights north from Florida in the middle of a tropical storm.
I squeeze Amelia’s hand, but she doesn’t squeeze back. I haven’t slept. I’ve been consumed with making the necessary phone calls; watching the coroner’s team remove that heavy black plastic bag containing the man I had loved, lived, and laughed with; and above all, being with my daughter once I told her that her daddy was dead and that she would never, ever see him again.
The long wails, sobs, and cries from Amelia yesterday cut at me and cut at me, like somebody coming after me with a large knife for hours, until finally she fell into a slumber. By then we were in a motel room, and I was on the bed with her, not sleeping, watching the sun eventually rise and trying so desperately not to think of anything.
For the past hours, from the motel room to the synagogue to here, Amelia’s been quiet, as if being a good little girl will somehow bring her daddy back. Her face quivers and her eyes are wide and red-rimmed, and I glance at her every now and then, seeing she’s no longer my daughter from the day before. Oh, she is and will forever be my Amelia, but something deep inside of her has broken, and when it does heal, it will heal crookedly, with bumps and ridges and memories, and she will be a different daughter.
The rabbi continues his prayers. He’s one of the most gracious and generous men I’ve ever met, and I’m ashamed to say that I’ve forgotten his name. But he knows the family status and tensions, and does his best with his soothing and reassuring voice to bring some sort of closure and completeness to this horrid day.
Oh, Ben, I think, I never …
I never what?
I … never.
Just that.
The rabbi—dressed in a baggy gray suit and holding a small leather-bound book, with a yarmulke on his head—makes some sort of gesture and my husband’s casket is lowered into the ground by two tired-looking cemetery workers dressed in jeans and gray sweatshirts, and Esther, Ben’s mother, cries out and her husband squeezes her shoulder.
When the casket is finally lowered into the ground, the rabbi steps forward and speaks to us all. Near him are two battered cardboard boxes filled with old books, and he explains that these old Jewish books are going to be buried with Ben as a sign of respect and honor. There is also a mound of dirt with a shovel, and the rabbi explains that those who wish to can come up and deposit a book into the open grave and then toss dirt in with the shovel.
“But to mark our mourning,” he says quietly, “we are to use the reverse side of the shovel to show that what once was is now turned upside down.”
There are sobs and some whispered conversations, and one by one, Ben’s friends and relatives come up, and when there’s a pause, I lead Amelia to the pile of old volumes. She picks one up and carefully places it in the open grave, and then I take the shovel and—following the lead of others—toss in three shovelfuls of dirt, the blade upside down.
I then bring Amelia’s hands up, and with a sharp whisper she says, “I can do it by myself,” which breaks my heart again, and clumsily, but with strength I didn’t know she had, she matches my three shovelfuls of dirt with her own.
Then we step aside.
A dual line forms and mourners pass through, and most ignore me, although Amelia does come in for some special attention. I’m dreading going back to the synagogue, for a large meal has been prepared, and I must continue to play my part as the evil grieving widow. My sister Gwen, as loyal as ever, sticks with me as the mourners dribble away, and then Scotty comes up to me with a grim look on his face.
“Boss … I hate to do this to you, but we need to head back to the White House.”