in the wind

an age-old story of infidelity

As Deborah closed the door behind her quietly, she glanced around the seedy motel room grimly. This was certainly not the way she had intended to spend her summer. Throwing the cheap sunglasses onto the bed, she walked over to the tiny corner billed grandly on the motel marquee as "fully equipped kitchenette" and opened the refrigerator to stash her diet soda, yogurt and apples. The air from the fridge had that stale, ugly smell that little-used refrigerators tend to have, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"Yuck," she muttered aloud, "what I wouldn't give right now for a jazzy lunch at some trendy little French bistro?" she laughed sharply and suddenly, "yeah, with my hot honey sitting across the table, telling his lies!"

After retrieving two packs of Marlboros from the plastic grocery bag, she rummaged in the drawer of the night stand beside the bed. She chuckled as she found a book of matches and lit a cigarette.

"Well, this Jewish chick has no use for your Gideon Bible, dude."

The cigarette smoke made her cough. Deborah was not normally a smoker. She only did it now because it helped her to pass the interminable time and because it made her feel as if she was defying something or someone, and that was satisfying to her.

As she crossed the room to flip on the television, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and it startled her. After living with long and very dark hair since she was a little girl, the image of the woman in the mirror, the woman with white-blond hair cut extremely close to her scalp, was still a shocker for her. She thought it made her look older.

"Good," she said coldly. "I feel older."

Flipping on the television, she found CNN and retreated to the bed with the sagging mattress to curl up and smoke her cigarette. The top of the hour was fast approaching, so she knew she would be able to catch the latest details soon. And indeed, she was again the lead story.

Authorities were holding out little hope of finding Deborah Aaronson alive or ever finding any trace of her at all. Seemingly they had searched every inch of Washington and found no hint of what had happened to the young, promising government intern. A little smile played on Deborah's face as she watched images of the befuddled Chief of Police and the hassled Congressman's spokesperson, each deflecting queries with weary gestures and looks of frustration. Then there was some footage of her mother, looking wan and pleading for news of her daughter.

"Yeah, Mom, this really f***s up your bridge and Junior League schedule, doesn't it?" Deborah growled. "Where's Dad? Golfing, no doubt, or already hammered at the club."

She turned her attention to smashing the Marlboro into the little glass ashtray that was garishly emblazoned with the name of some local bar. Quickly lighting another cigarette, she realized that the great man himself was now on the television, fielding questions brusquely, and behind him, quietly, devotedly, stood his demure little wife Susannah.

As his words protesting his innocence filled the air, Deborah watched Susannah's eyes, the same eyes that had stared into hers on that night two months ago, the same eyes that Deborah had searched for any hint that Susannah might be lying.

Deborah had been preparing for her flight, choosing clothes to pack for what she intended to be a short trip home. In her elated state, she envisioned telling her parents of her plans and what they would probably hear on the news about their daughter and a certain powerful and handsome Congressman. Her mother's jaw would drop, and her father would pour himself another scotch. How satisfying it would be to finally have their attention. She smiled softly, remembering how she certainly had Grant's attention earlier that day. Together they had happily spoken of marriage and children and an idyllic future together. Grant assured her that his wife was only interested in money, and he could buy her off easily.

Then her packing was interrupted by the doorbell. Quickly she ran to the door, holding a lacy bra against her body as she opened the door. Susannah's smile was wry as she glanced at the bra.

"Ah, sexy underwear," she said, "only single women can afford the luxury and illusion of sexy underwear." She paused, allowing Deborah a moment to deal with her shock. "May I come in, Deborah -- may I call you Deborah?"

With difficulty, Deborah willed her voice to pry its way through the paralyzed muscles of her throat.

"Certainly," she stammered, stepping aside and opening the door wider, "please -- c-come in, Mrs. Coidy."

Susannah walked into the apartment and gave a cursory glance around the room before heading to the sofa and seating herself. Deborah only spent a moment trying to rein in her runaway emotions before sitting down in a chair across from Susannah.

"I know you don't have much time tonight, Deborah, so I will try not to waste any of it."

Deborah nodded silently; her mouth was so dry that her tongue felt like it was sticking to the roof of her mouth. Susannah pulled from her handbag a bundle of what appeared to be letters and placed them on the coffee table between them.

"I spend most of my time back in our home state, you know -- I have for years." As she spoke, Susannah smoothed her skirt over her knees again and again. "Grant and I have been married for thirty-five years. Despite how young Grant looks, he is a grandfather." Susannah smiled a small, tight smile. She looked up at Deborah with implacably gray but not unkind eyes. "You aren't the first, Deborah."

"What -- what do you mean?" Deborah's words were hollow.

Susannah gestured towards the bundle of letters.

"Read them," she said, weariness in her voice. "Girls like you are his hobby."

"No," Deborah refused sharply, "This is just a ruse to keep him tied to you!"

Susannah chuckled.

"My dear, I am not tied to this man by anything but a marriage certificate, and after what I have been through, that piece of paper is hardly sacred to me. If you want to run off with Grant, I wish you well, but I want to warn you first. He will not sacrifice his power and position to be your husband. He will dump you, as he has dumped others, and he will remain married to me because he wants to be re-elected."

"Well, why do you stay married to him if it is like you say?" Deborah demanded, her voice shaking.

"Because just the semblance of normalcy can be addictive, my dear. We live in a small town, and such an event would traumatize my children, even though they are grown with their own families. As long as Grant is here most of the time, I am content. One learns to overlook his peccadilloes just to promote that semblance I spoke of. Besides, I am old enough to have a more realistic, albeit quieter, expectation of life than a 20 year-old girl. And this is enough."

Stubbornly Deborah pushed the bundle of letters back towards Susannah.

"I w-won't read somebody's private correspondence," Deborah countered. Susannah retrieved the letters and returned them to her handbag. Her gray eyes looked into Deborah's dark ones.

"Then ask your friend Elise."

"W-what? What do you mean, ask Elise?"

"Grant had a summer affair with Elise two years ago, made all the same promises to her. She thought they were running away together over the Independence Day break, and foolishly, she became pregnant during their little idyll in Vermont. Six weeks later, Grant changed his phone numbers and locks and sent her a cashiers check for an abortion."

Deborah felt as if a cold, hard stone was sitting on her chest. She had spent hours on the phone with Elise during those difficult days after the abortion, and Elise had never identified her lover. Elise had spoken bitterly of promises and the happy trip to Vermont. But Elise had also been the one who introduced her to Grant when Deborah had first come to Washington.

"No," Deborah whispered, "I won't call her."

After a moment of silence, Susannah spoke briskly.

"Well, you are an intelligent young woman, Deborah, and I thought that perhaps you would be the one to help me teach Grant Coidy a lesson."

"A lesson --?"

"Yes. I have a plan."

And so they planned Deborah's disappearance. Susannah had anonymously enlisted an attorney to rent cars and rooms all the way to rural Canada, using the ruse of a recluse celebrity's idiosyncrasies. Susannah gave her a bank card with the name of Natalie Bishop on it. Together they planned for Susannah to leave Deborah's apartment building alone. Deborah would leave on her bicycle a half-hour later, riding towards the nearby gym where she worked out often. They would meet in an alley two blocks from the gym.

Later that night Deborah stashed her mountain bike in the back of Susannah's van. After midnight, when driving across Chesapeake Bay, Susannah stopped the car on the bridge and struggling together to lift the bike, they threw it into the water. Then as Susannah drove, Deborah spread plastic trash bags over her lap and cut her hair with kitchen scissors. When Susannah found a rest area beside the highway, she pulled in and finished the job of shortening Deborah's hair to a Susan Powter look and assisted in the bleaching of her hair. The hair was stuffed into the trash bags and discarded at the rest area. They slept for a couple of hours, and then Susannah drove her to a nondescript motel where a rental car, the first of six, awaited. Two suitcases filled with clothes and toiletries were already in the car.

Susannah handed her a woman's wallet. Deborah opened it to find picture ID, a West Virginia drivers' license and even a social security card.  Deborah was stunned.

"You've thought of everything. How -- how did you get this stuff?"

Susannah smiled.

"Well, I'm not a Congressman, but even the proximity to power has its benefits." She shook her head and added, "There is a passport and visa with supporting documents in the car also. I'm sure most people are totally ignorant of the forces at work in our capital. There is great darkness there -- great cynicism, great megalomania and great darkness."

In the end, the Congressman's wife gave her maps, money, an 800 number to call for more money and any help she might need.  And when they parted, she gave her a hug.

"Let him twist, Deborah -- let him twist in the wind," Susannah whispered in Deborah's ear as she hugged her.

And now, Deborah thought as she inhaled deeply on the nasty tasting cigarette, he is truly twisting, twisting in the wind. External pressures had finally forced him to admit their affair. His constituents back home were getting restive and talking recall. His comrades in Congress began to keep their distance. All kinds of Barbie dolls began to emerge from their obscurity to claim fifteen minutes of fame by detailing their affairs with Grant Coidy.  Even her friend Elise had made a statement to the press.

Everybody thinks I'm dead, Deborah thought, dead at the hands of a United States Congressman.

"Not dead," she said aloud, waving an airline ticket at the TV. "Nope, flying to France in two days for a new life! Voila!"

And she laughed as she threw the nasty tasting cigarette at the TV screen, and she could have sworn that Susannah Coidy winked at her as she stood silently, supportively at her husband's side.