Sherelle hung up and collapsed on the bed, half numb and fully disgusted and ashamed she'd set out to ruin Lennie’s career. Haunted by her selfishness, she refused to sleep.
###
On Friday, Sherelle drank three cups of coffee and chased them down with hot water before the first staff member arrived. The caffeine had thrown her into a nervous frenzy. She paced her office so many times she became nauseated. She vomited once in the bathroom, then again in the trash can. Not only had she overworked her body with fluids, she also had a headache and a backache. Last night she hadn’t slept. When her parents phoned, she hadn’t answered. She returned their phone call at midnight and left a message pleading with them not to call back for a couple of days.
She walked the floors all night, worried how she’d tell Randall she had no story. Matter of fact, she never had a story.
As soon as Randall’s office lit up, she barged in.
“I can’t do the story,” she exclaimed, wringing her hands, her voice louder than intended.
Randall hung his coat on a hook behind the door, amazed at Sherelle’s high anxiety so early in the morning.
“Why not?” Randall asked.
“I just can’t.”
“Sit down and tell me about it then I’ll decide.” Randall eased in his leather chair, unbuttoned his suit coat, and tugged at his tie several times before casting Sherelle a peremptory glance.
“I can’t sit down.”
“You know if you don’t come up with a story of your own, we have to go with the Cairo rescue, don’t you?”
Sherelle folded her arms and bowed her head.
“Is there something about the rescue I should know? Are there parts that haven’t been revealed . . . parts you’re afraid will come out?”
Sherelle slid all ten fingers through her hair and kept shaking her head.
“What is it then? I’ve never seen you like this. What’s wrong with you?”
Sherelle covered her face. “Randall, I—”
“Sherelle, sit down. You’re scaring me. I mean it. Sit!” Randall locked his office door then returned to his seat. “I’ve never seen you this emotional about anything.” He spread out his arms. “This . . . This is something else. What is it?”
After a moment, Sherelle dried her eyes and sat straight, looking dazed and afraid. “It’s nothing. Really.” She stood and walked to the door. “Randall, I’m tired. That’s all. I’ve acted unprofessional. I apologize.” Sherelle squeezed the doorknob, straightened her back then took in a deep breath. “I’ll do the interview.”
“Just like that?”
Sherelle nodded. “Who’s conducting it?”
“I’m putting David on it.”
“I want Elizabeth to do it.”
“Oookay. It goes to print on January 30th and hits the streets February 1st. You ready for this?”
“Sure.” Her response, weak and pathetic.
Randall grabbed Sherelle by the arm. “Come with me.”
“What are you doing?”
He stopped outside her office door. “Get your things.”
“Are you firing me?”
“You need time off. You look scared out of your mind.”
“But Randall, I’ve got several stories I need to run by Monday.”
“I’m the boss here and I say you’re going home. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re on the brink of a nervous breakdown. I need you fresh for that interview. You need to calm down before you relive that nightmare.”
“You should have thought of that after you came up with this ludicrous idea.” She yanked her arm away. Randall grabbed Sherelle’s coat and helped her into it. “Randall, this isn’t making any sense. It’s late November. We have plenty of time to—”
Randall turned Sherelle around and squeezed both her arms. “I want you to go home and I don’t want to see you until the Christmas Party on December 20th.”
“But Randall—”
“Out!” Randall stood in the middle of the office and clapped his hands. “People, listen up! I don’t want one phone call patched to Sherelle. Is that clear? Not one. Not until I say so!” He turned to Sherelle. “Get some rest. You look awful.” Sherelle inhaled to further challenge him, but he blurted out, “One more word and I’ll have you pack all your things and you won’t have to worry about coming back. Have I made myself clear?”
###
On the train ride home, Sherelle sunk in the seat. Frightened, she now had to approach Lennie for an interview. Neither of them wanted to relive the escape. And to encounter him after she’d almost ruined his career for a second time seemed too much to bear. But even under these extreme circumstances, she’d give anything to touch the dimple in his chin or smell his cologne. He had no idea how bad she missed him. Not seeing the way he pushed his head back in laughter after one of her ridiculous statements made her miss him even more. If she had one more chance, she’d wrap her arms around him and not let go. But Sherelle knew she had no right. Lennie in no way belonged to her just as she hadn’t belonged to him.
Sherelle scrambled to retrieve her cell phone from her purse. “Hello.”
“I got word I’m conducting the interview. Interviewing a hero is so exciting. Are you excited?”
“Elizabeth, why are you whispering?”
“Randall told us not to call you, remember?”
“Oh . . . that.”
“Sherelle, what’s wrong?”
“Do you know how traumatic this is for me?”
“I don’t think any of us know how traumatic it was for you. Was it really that bad?”
“Ever been shot at, Elizabeth?”
“We had a shooting in my apartment building many years ago. We were all scared out of our minds. The police had the building locked down for nearly eight hours.”
“Try being crouched down in a jeep with gunfire streaming above your head or pipe bombs blasting outside your window. Or not knowing how many students will show up for class the next day or how many you lost in the last bombing.”
“Sherelle, I had no idea.”
“That’s the problem. No one does.”
“Did you ever see Major Williams again?”
“Look, I have a lot to do," Sherelle responded, avoiding the question. "I’ve got to clear my head so I can be fresh for the interview.”
“When you want to do it?”
“Two weeks out.”
“Want me to call Major Williams?”
Sherelle sighed. “No, I’ll do it. Won't he be surprised to hear from me?” she mumbled.
“What time?”
“Eleven o’clock at the Ritz Carlton on 22nd Street. Elizabeth, have you done your research?”
“No, but I promise I’ll be up to speed before the interview. You want to see my outline before then?”
“I trust you.”
Chapter 16
Eric and Charlotte Lindsey refused to spend another day in Seattle for the Christmas Holidays without their daughter. For months they had lengthy talks regarding Sherelle’s unwillingness to come home for a visit, and her refusal to permit them to come to Washington. After her returned phone call at midnight on Thanksgiving, they knew things had turned for the worse. Despite her best effort, Sherelle couldn’t disguise her despair. For that reason, and their desperate need to know if she was as bad as she sounded, Eric and Charlotte made plans to arrive in D.C. unannounced.
Chapter 17
Sherelle hated Randall had forced her inside her cramped studio apartment to face her wretched ways head-on. Her darkness had layers and she didn’t have much stamina to fight through them. Thoughts of seeking a managing editor's position with another newspaper waned. She didn’t want to craft another story, look at another layout, perform another interview, or scramble to meet another deadline. With her energy spent, her professional career at a standstill, and her personal life in shambles, she thought of escaping to a remote island. No
chance of that.
By her second week off, she appreciated Randall’s wisdom. Finally able to sleep, she would only wake to go to the bathroom, order take-out, eat, and return to bed.
With newfound energy in her third week, Sherelle began to write again. She sat in the middle of her bed and put together a story of a teenage boy abandoned by his relatives. She encountered the story several months ago while investigating a superintendent’s alleged mishandling of school funds. The young boy had slept in an empty warehouse for nearly a year. On more than one occasion, his teacher smelled a foul odor coming from the fourteen-year-old and reported it to the principal. When the young man couldn’t give a valid home address, the principal phoned the Department of Human Services (“DHS”). Sherelle had conducted several interviews with the principal and DHS by phone.
She struggled with a catchy ending to the story when someone knocked on the door. Dressed in a black tee-shirt, no bra, flannel pajama pants, and clad in thick fuzzy socks, she felt clothed enough to at least crack the door open, if necessary. She checked the time on her cell. Five p.m.
“Who is it?”
“Eric and Charlotte Lindsey,” a voice boomed from the other side of the door.
Sherelle hurried and pulled at latches, unlocking and locking and unlocking the door in a rush to open it. She stayed in their embrace for what seemed ten full minutes before either of them let go.
“Can we come in?” Charlotte asked.
“Of course. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“Because you’d have talked us out of it,” her father said. Eric looked around. Identifying that foul odor in the room was the first order of business. He rolled his eyes at three pizza boxes underneath a trash bag and a sink full of Styrofoam boxes, paper cups, and plastic utensils.
Charlotte took off her gloves, looked for a place to lay her mink hat and coat. She drew a sudden breath. Three one-liter ginger ale bottles sat in the bedroom window. Piles of clothes lie in separate corners.
“What happened here?” Before Sherelle spoke, Charlotte made her way to the bed and gaped at the bare white walls then meandered through the short hall and peeked in the bathroom before returning to the front door. No dining room table, no chairs, no dresser, no pictures on the walls, no curtains. No plants anywhere.
During Charlotte’s examination, Eric mustered enough courage to open the refrigerator then the pantry. He found nothing edible. Eric shoved his hands in his pockets and settled his weight against a wall.
Charlotte stared at Eric’s disgruntled face. His lower lip firmly fixed atop his upper. His mind doing somersaults, Charlotte concluded, and voicing, assuredly, his disgust at the sight before him. Charlotte touched Eric’s arm then faced her daughter. “Baby, we need to run a few errands. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Wait. I can explain. You see, I’m working long hours and haven’t had time to clean.”
Charlotte patted Sherelle’s face. “We’ll be back. You shower and get dressed.” She leaned closer to her daughter’s face and whispered, “And put on a bra.”
While her parents shopped, Sherelle managed to take a shower, straighten her bed, put out the trash, and wash and dry two loads of clothes. She had no dish soap; a broom, but no mop.
When Eric and Charlotte returned, they brought with them two men, all of whom had tons of groceries, wall hangings, lamps, rugs, dishes, even a thirty-seven inch television, a cheap end table, two body pillows, and a Christmas tree.
After the men placed groceries on the floor, Eric tipped them enough to compensate for their time and fill their tanks. Eric then took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and scrubbed the cabinets, cleaned the refrigerator, and put groceries away. Afterwards, he and Charlotte switched places. Charlotte lit a lemon-scented candle and prepared dinner while Eric swept the floors.
“Momma, why don’t you let me cook?” Sherelle asked.
Charlotte nodded toward bags sitting along the wall. “In that yellow bag on the floor you’ll find nails and a hammer. Hang those pictures wherever you like. Before I forget, help your father out by digging under your bed for anything that’s found a home. I’d like to get the floors mopped before dinner. Whatever you do, don’t disturb the fresh bed linen.”
“We could skip all this and go out to eat. Besides, I don’t have a table and chairs.”
“You see that ugly, green, square thing against the wall . . . that disgusting card table with four chairs. Well, that’s our dinner table.” Charlotte patted her daughter’s arm. “Before we land in Seattle, promise me that you’ll get more furniture in your apartment.”
Sherelle buried her head in her mother’s chest. “Momma, I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.”
“Who else have you disappointed?”
Sherelle pushed away and wiped her eyes. “I better get started,” she said, avoiding the question. “There’s a lot to do.”
As soon as they finished dinner, Eric slid two body pillows across the floor. He removed his shoes, loosened his belt, and got comfortable. Charlotte and Sherelle sat on the bed, turned on a lamp, and watched Eric squirm until he found “his spot” as they called it. Then he nodded off.
“Where did he get the pillows?” Sherelle whispered.
“From a store chain we’ve never heard of. You should’ve seen him stuffing those monstrous things into the cab.”
“Daddy’s just not one to miss his nap after he eats, is he?”
“Can you girls quiet down?” Eric mumbled.
Charlotte lowered her voice. “He’ll never change.” Charlotte grabbed her daughter’s hand and looked at her hard and long. “What’s going on with you, Sherelle?”
“What do you mean?”
Charlotte reached for her purse and pulled out her compact mirror. “Look.” Sherelle turned away, but Charlotte insisted. “I mean it. Take a look.”
Sherelle studied her dry skin then pulled at her brittle hair. Though she’d pinned it up, her mossy strands looked like bales of hay gone bad. Charlotte didn’t give Sherelle time to explain.
“What are you doing to yourself? What is a career if you’ve run yourself into the ground?” After Sherelle explained her boss had given her several weeks off from work and she’d committed to rest, Charlotte reached for Sherelle’s laptop. “You call this resting? This is what you do with your time off? I bought you two bottles of bubble bath. I want you to get in the habit of drawing a bath and sitting in it until it gets cold. Stop taking so many showers and always being in a hurry. You need to learn how to relax. And I don’t want to hear any excuses.”
The doorbell rang. Everyone looked toward the door then at each other.
Sherelle had a doleful look about her as she made her way to the door.
“Who is it?”
Eric raised his head. “There isn’t a peephole in that door?”
“There is,” Charlotte responded.
“Why doesn’t she use it?”
“I wonder why she doesn’t do a lot of things, Eric.”
They heard Sherelle open the door and watched as she talked to someone in the doorway.
“It was nice of you,” they heard, “but I can’t accept this. I didn’t buy you anything.”
“I didn’t expect anything, Sherelle. You do have a problem with accepting gifts, don’t you?” the voice sounded.
Charlotte and Eric looked at each other. Charlotte stood and straightened her clothing as Eric whispered his opposition to her interference. Charlotte swept hair from her eyes then strode across the room in her bare feet and stepped in front of Sherelle.
“Good evening. I’m Charlotte Lindsey, Sherelle’s mother.” Charlotte reached to shake the gentleman’s hand and pulled him inside. “And you are?”
“Lennie Williams. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lindsey.”
Eric sat up and furrowed his brow as he rehearsed the name over and over again in his head. “Majo
r Williams?”
Lennie looked toward the other side of the room and saw an older gentleman standing next to the bed. The men walked toward each other. “Yes sir,” Lennie said, extending his hand.
“Charlotte, this is the man who rescued Sherelle in Cairo.”
“Are you serious?” A stunned look appeared on Charlotte’s face. Before she stopped herself, she turned and stared at Sherelle, who, to her dismay, stood with her hand still gripped to the door handle.
“Does he have anything to do with the disappointment you spoke of earlier?”
Sherelle ignored her mother and closed the door.
Eric grabbed another pillow and invited Lennie to sit. They rehashed the rescue, spoke of Sherelle’s foolish decision to remain among the hostility, and Eric poured out praise for Major Williams’ service and rescue of his only child. Afterwards they talked sports, Lennie’s parents, and of Lennie’s childhood. For a lack of anything else to do, they unpacked the thirty-seven inch television and placed it on the cheap end table and scrambled to find a sports channel.
Sherelle, on the other hand, tried to avoid most of her mother’s questions. She became too preoccupied with Lennie showing up without calling first and overly concerned with the gift she had placed on the counter.
Lennie startled her when he asked, “Aren’t you going to open your gift?”
“Christmas is tomorrow,” she said.
“But looks like you guys are celebrating today.”
Charlotte winked at Eric and within five minutes they had gathered their things and left, kissing Sherelle goodbye and promising to return in the morning. With a keen sense of what had transpired, Charlotte asked Lennie to help Sherelle decorate the Christmas tree.
“You promise?” she had asked.
“I promise,” Lennie had said.
Now alone Lennie thought of telling Sherelle how much he’d missed her.
“I like your mother.” Lennie thought that was a good opening to help ease tension.
“I like yours, too.”
Sherelle had overheard stories Lennie told her father. One of Lennie’s brothers had gone on a two-year missionary journey to Italy. Another still lived in Paris. One planned to move his family to D.C. soon. Two worked as teachers. And another had plans to run for governor. His mother and father had retired and traveled across the world at least six months out the year. She also learned his mother had sang to him at bedtime until he turned thirteen. And for Christmas every year, she sent each child a scrapbook page of pictures from their youth.