The Unfolding, page 7
Charlotte thinks it’s a perfect sport for a young woman; riding teaches control and posture and the unspoken—that’s what she calls it, the “unspoken.” What she means is communication without language. Meghan thinks that’s mostly how she and Charlotte communicate, a look, a nod, a sigh.
Once they are out in the clear, Meghan leans into Ranger’s neck and they are off, cantering through the cool Virginia air. A flood of the last twenty-four hours comes back. She sees John McCain’s face in front of her. His eyes are a little too glassy, like marbles. In her mind’s eye, she’s charging toward him and he’s glad to see her; there’s a glimmer of recognition. She’s reliving the moment last night when he came into the room to shake hands. But he didn’t make a lot of eye contact. He didn’t linger on anyone; it was as though he didn’t want anyone to see too deeply into him. Previously, when she’d met him at a fundraiser in Washington, McCain looked at her intently. He took her hand in both of his and said how pleased he was to finally meet her. She felt something then, a connection, an inspiration. Now, as she’s riding into the afternoon, she’s feeling that again. She wonders whether John McCain might be relieved that he didn’t win. Is it weird that she’s thinking about what John McCain is feeling? She’s doing the thing that she always does—revisiting what already happened.
It’s late afternoon, the trees are almost bare and a chill is creeping into the air. There is a truth to nature that Meghan admires. Nature doesn’t pretend; it doesn’t hide; it simply is. Trees are expressive. Rocks hold history. These connections are more trustworthy than those with humans, some of whom have either the desire or the skill to conceal their emotions or manipulate. A rock doesn’t do something to get the response it’s looking for. A tree doesn’t shed its leaves because it is jealous of another—but it might grow differently if blocked by another or if a different kind of tree grows next to it. She is pondering this when she realizes she has no idea where she is. Did she go too far? She was on a trail called Western Woods but wonders if she’s gone off the trail. How long was she daydreaming? Using the sky and trees as her guide, she finds the Potomac River on her right. She and Ranger are high up on a ridge above the water; the view is majestic and a reminder that the world is enormous and not entirely knowable.
As the sun begins to set, the woods get darker. Light filtering in from above doesn’t make it all the way to the ground. Up ahead a young fawn’s flick of the tail catches Meghan’s eye. She slows. The fawn stands fixed, looking at her. Something’s not right. She dismounts Ranger and leads him into the woods. A doe is down on the forest floor. Holding Ranger’s reins, Meghan moves closer. There’s a large open wound on the doe’s side and she’s breathing hard. Meghan’s heart races. The doe snorts, making a sound somewhere between a high-pitched oh and a whistle. She pulls Ranger back a bit and takes out her phone and dials 911. Nothing happens. She turns the phone off, turns it on again, and waits for it to power up. She dials 911 again.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I’m on the trail with Ranger and there’s a badly injured doe.”
“You’re a park ranger?”
“No, I am in the park with Ranger.”
“What’s your emergency?”
“Wounded animal,” Meghan shouts, in case volume is part of the problem.
“You were in a motor vehicle accident with an animal? Are you injured?”
“No, I was riding Ranger, and we found the injured animal in the woods.”
“What is your name, Ranger?”
“My name is Meghan Hitchens. I am not a ranger. I am on the back end of the trail. We passed the river on the right and I was heading up the back end and that’s where the injured animal is.”
“Are you in a car?”
“No, I’m on horseback.”
“Horseback?” The woman’s tone is slightly suspicious.
“Yes.”
“And the animal is injured?”
Meghan can’t tell how much of the problem is technological, the cell phone, or the woods. She finds herself getting agitated. “Can you send help? The animal is suffering and I don’t know what to do. I don’t exactly know where I am or how to get out of here.”
“What street are you on?”
“I’m not on a street. I am in the woods, maybe across from Bear Island, maybe near Matildaville . . .”
There is a pause; someone seems to be asking the operator a series of questions in the background.
“I’m going to have to ask you to clarify so we can properly direct your call. You were NOT involved in a motor vehicle accident?”
“No. I am on my horse and there is an injured ANIMAL.”
“I am going to transfer you back to the police department and will remain on the line.”
“Police, what is your emergency?”
“Dispatch, I have a redirect from rescue over to you. The caller is on the line. Are you there, ma’am?”
“Yes. I am here. It’s getting dark.”
“Do you happen to know which trailhead you are closest to?” the police operator asks.
“I’m not really sure; I’m on the back side of Great Falls; I’m pretty sure of that.”
“Are you able to meet the officer at the entrance to the trail?”
“No,” Meghan says. “I’m deep in the woods where the animal is and I’ve got my horse.”
“We don’t just send officers into the woods,” the operator says.
“If I told you I was lost, you wouldn’t send anyone to look for me?”
“Are you lost?”
“I’m deep in the woods.”
“What is your name?”
“My name is Meghan Grace Hitchens. If someone was trying to kill me, I’d be dead by now. I thought 911 was for emergencies.”
“I have to inform you that all calls are recorded and that filing a false report is a crime.”
“I am calling you for help,” Meghan screams; her voice sends the fawn farther into the woods.
“Calm down.” A pause. “We have an officer dispatched,” the operator says. “Can I confirm your phone number is 307-656-7482. And where is that 307 area code?”
“Wyoming, which is where I’m from.”
“You said that you are a student at the Academy?”
“Correct,” Meghan says.
“All right. The officer is en route. Please do not approach the injured animal.”
“Got it.” She ties Ranger to a tree nearby and tries to get closer to the doe without completely chasing the fawn away. She can hear the animal more than she can see her now. The sound of the doe’s breathing fast and hard leaves Meghan feeling helpless.
Twenty minutes pass and she dials 911 again. “It’s getting very dark and cold out here,” she tells the dispatcher.
“Are you in immediate danger?”
“Is there someone actually coming?”
“Yes, they are on the way.” They confirm her name and phone number again.
“I don’t have much battery left. I forgot to charge my phone last night.”
“Keep it turned on if you can.”
Forty minutes after she first called, she sees a light through the trees, distant but moving closer. An officer arrives on a bike. “I keep it in the trunk. It’s a hell of a lot faster than on foot.”
Meghan leads him into the thick woods to where the injured animal is.
“Probably had a run-in with a car,” the officer says.
“Will she be okay? That’s her fawn over there. Is there a vet who can come and help her?” Meghan’s relieved when he takes out a flashlight and moves closer to the deer.
“I’m going to ask you to stand back,” he says.
Meghan steps back, giving the officer room. As he goes closer, the doe tries to lift its head. Meghan thinks it’s sweet; the doe is grateful for the help. The officer fixes his flashlight on the doe’s face. Before Meghan can say or think anything, his gun is out of the holster.
Bang.
Ranger squeals and rears, pulling his reins off the tree and galloping off.
Bang.
Meghan runs after Ranger.
“Fuck,” the cop says, running after Meghan.
She runs faster. “Get away from me.”
“Stop running.”
“I have to get my horse.”
She dives into the woods where Ranger went off the trail. The officer is on his radio requesting backup. Both the horse and the girl have run off, and he can’t see either of them.
“Can you hear me?”
She ignores him. “Ranger, where are you? Come on, sugar boy. Remember the promise we made—never to leave each other?” She is looking for her horse and making deals. “If you come back, I won’t go home for Christmas; I’ll stay with you and we can ride every day. Maybe I can take you on a trip. We could go back to that place down in Florida, what’s it called? Wellington. Remember when we went there and you loved it. Sweet-sweet, where are you?”
She starts singing Christmas songs. “Westward leading, still proceeding.” It’s dark and she is thoroughly lost. She finds Ranger in a clearing between trees, dark against the dark. His saddle is hanging off to the side, like he’s been through a battle. Meghan reaches down and picks up some dry leaves, crumbling them in her hand. The sound is like the wrapper for the peanut butter crackers she buys from the vending machine. Crackers he particularly likes. She can tell he recognizes the noise. “So, it’s about my crackers?” she says, walking toward him, continuing to rustle the leaves. She looks at him square on through the darkness and keeps her eyes steady on his until he lowers his head. She puts her arms around his neck and takes the reins. “You scared me so much.”
She is in a dark field stroking Ranger’s muzzle. “I’m eighteen years old; I voted for the first time; that’s where I was yesterday. I thought I was doing pretty well . . .”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Palm Springs, California
4:47 p.m.
At the exact moment of sundown, 4:47 p.m., Charlotte makes herself a cocktail. One of the nice things about the Palm Springs house is that the walls are glass; she always knows what time it is. Rye, sweet and dry vermouth, bitters, and one maraschino cherry poured into a cold glass. She keeps empty glasses in the refrigerator. The cherry is the one sweet thing she allows herself.
Supper. Usually, they stay home. Usually, he puts a piece of meat on the grill and maybe a pepper or a squash, and they call it a meal. But today he makes a dinner reservation. He feels the need for change, for shaking things up. “I’m taking you out,” he says.
“Oh.” Her expression is bemused.
“I made a reservation at Melvyn’s.”
Because they are concerned with how they’re seen by others, they dress for the occasion. They clean up well. When they find each other in the front hall, each is pleased to see that effort has been made, not just for the world but for each other.
“You look nice,” she says.
“Like an Easter egg.” He’s wearing yellow pants, a pink shirt, a pale blue sweater, and white Gucci loafers. “You smell like a grove of oranges,” he says.
They leave the house at 5:45 p.m. They have become those people, the ones who eat at 6 p.m. and want to be home by 7:30. They don’t like to drive in the dark and they want to get to bed early. Nine p.m. is prime time for bed, to be alone, to have themselves to themselves, to have finished the business of being a couple.
As soon as they are seated at Melvyn’s, Charlotte orders another Manhattan. Then she orders steak Diane. He opts for the scallops and a scotch neat.
She has another drink. He’s surprised she doesn’t appear more inebriated. She’s the size of a matchstick but holds her liquor well. When they were younger, it was something one aspired to.
“What if things had gone differently?” he asks.
“What if?” she asks. “There are a million ‘what ifs’ and only one ‘what is,’ which is where we find ourselves now.”
“I like you,” he says. “You’ve always been practical.”
“Practical is rarely a compliment,” she says. “Challenging has its good qualities. Mesmerizing is hard to sustain over time. But at least you didn’t dip to well preserved.”
“I would never.” He pauses. “We are rather a miracle, aren’t we? We have lived.”
“Have we? I keep thinking, one day my life will begin.”
“No time like the present,” he says. There’s a long pause.
Silence.
“I never meant you any harm.”
Charlotte says nothing.
“I always wanted the best for you. I know I’m no cakewalk.”
“You mean walk in the park?”
“I’m not easy.”
“It’s not all about you.”
“Of course not,” he says. “I see you suffering and I wanted to say something. There’s so much we don’t talk about.”
“It just seems impossible.”
“I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. It’s painful. I know you know.”
“I do. Someday it might come out. It could leak or explode or just be exhaled in a single breath.” She finishes her drink.
“It’s important to me that you take care of yourself,” he says.
“You’re going to be okay.”
“I’m not worried about myself.”
The conversation tightens and chokes itself off. There are years of unexplored history. They each have their own version of the events at the heart of their disconnection. They have stepped back from each other in separate acts of self-preservation, in part out of fear of what might be said or the damage that might be done.
Charlotte signals the waiter for another round. He butters warm rolls for her.
“You always liked hot buns,” he says, laughing.
“You’re making me nervous. You know I don’t eat bread. Just be yourself. What else did Tony say about last night?”
“People are sending out résumés and putting houses on the market. The ebb and flow has begun, but not as much as in the old days. Do you know that since 9/11 the number of ‘top secret’ jobs has expanded by hundreds of thousands? That’s hundreds of thousands of desk jockeys somewhere between Bethesda and Alexandria.”
The waiter appears with his cart of fire and prepares steak Diane before their eyes. It is her favorite meal. What she likes most about it is the smell.
“I’m undone by what happened,” he says, as the waiter adds ingredients in a pan tableside.
“You didn’t see it coming?”
“Apparently not.”
The waiter visibly bristles, then fiddles with the heat beneath his pan.
“We care about our whole country; I don’t think it’s selfish not to want it all to turn to shit.” He shakes his head. “I’ve not served my country well.”
“Well, you were never military material, between the flat feet and the missing kidney.”
“When we first met, we used to talk about who we wanted to be.”
“Yes. You wanted to be Andrew Carnegie, but you felt the time had passed.”
He nods.
“You didn’t turn out so badly,” she says. “You wanted to be rich and powerful and make a call and be put straight through.”
“It’s not enough.”
They pause while the waiter serves them. He stands over the table until they begin to eat. She looks up at the waiter. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”
“Do you know what Tony wanted to be?”
“What?”
“Take a guess.”
“Ambassador to France?” she says.
He laughs. “Nope. I’ll give you a clue. They are most often seen at four in the afternoon or eleven thirty at night.”
Charlotte is confused. “Sportscaster?”
“Talk show host,” he says. “He was always enamored with David Frost and Dick Cavett. He didn’t even try, too worried about what his family would think. Show business and all. They always gave him a hard time for being soft.”
“Funny,” Charlotte says. “When I was a girl, no one ever asked what you wanted to be; they only asked what kind of man you wanted to marry.”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
McLean, Virginia
7:43 p.m.
Deep in the woods, the sounds of radios crackle in the distance. Flashlight beams cut through the trees. “I’m here,” Meghan calls out, worried that the idiot with the gun will shoot her. “Can you hear me? Are you armed? Are you going to shoot me?”
Before they get close, she hears them over their radios. “We’ve got her.” Voices bounce through the woods almost as if the trees were talking.
“I’m Officer Robinson,” a woman’s voice calls out.
“Please don’t shoot me.”
“No one is going to shoot you.” Officer Robinson is getting closer. “They’re coming out with an ATV and I’ll walk the horse back.”
“I’m not leaving Ranger.”
“We can’t let you ride him in the dark. And it’s a long walk,” Officer Robinson says.
“I’m fine to walk,” Meghan says.
After much squawking back and forth, Officer Robinson ties fluorescent green glow sticks to Ranger’s tack and puts a few on Meghan.
When they get to the trailhead, cops form a ring around her. Officer Robinson stands to the side holding Ranger’s reins. Why are they surrounding her?
“A lot of people have been looking for you,” one of the cops says, like Meghan’s in trouble.
