Chapter 47
It was nearly three in the morning by the time Jack brought me home. “My grandmother is going to kill me if she’s still awake.”
“I have a feeling she’ll be singing a different tune when she sees your name in print this week.”
I hoped he was right. The article was strong.
Jack was going to mark up our copy in the morning with fresh eyes, and then I would retype it and return it to him—we could get away with a few rounds of that at work—with plans to meet at lunch for a final revision before we turned it in.
I was confident my mother had a bottle of ipecac because of Betty’s kids, but if not, we could grab one on the way back to the office after lunch.
And then . . . glory or ruin. There was no in-between.
Exhausted as I was, I doubted I would be able to sleep, and it had nothing to do with all the coffee I had drunk. My future rested in the lines on the papers Jack had tucked in his coat pocket.
“Listen, Judy,” he said, cutting the engine. “About what I said earlier—running away—”
I shook my head. “It’s late. We don’t need to do this.”
He looked away, down the street. “What if I want to?”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “What if you want to . . . what? Run away together?”
He turned back to me. “Not run away, but—I know we were . . . pretending . . . for your family. But after the story is done, what if”—he gestured to the space between us—“this . . . wasn’t done?”
I could feel my chest rising and falling rapidly, but it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the car.
In the neighborhood. In the world. Yes, I thought.
But also no. That future led to marriage and babies and me tending house while Jack went off to break stories and do all the things that I wanted to be doing while my typewriter gathered dust in a closet.
I had never met someone who understood me. Who saw me. But I knew how this ended. It wasn’t fair. He would give up nothing by being with me. I would have to give up everything. Except him. And I didn’t know if that was enough.
But it was late. And I was tired. Hell, a Cuban assassin had me pinned against a hotel bathroom door just a few hours earlier. I shook my head and covered his hand with mine. “Let’s talk about . . . that . . . later. After the article is done and in. Okay?”
His eyes held mine, searching for something that I couldn’t yet give. “Okay,” he agreed.
He didn’t try to kiss me as I got out of the car. And once I was inside, I sank down against the softly shut front door, wrapped my arms around my knees, and wondered why I couldn’t be like every other girl, who could just say yes, and be happy as a wife and mother.
Morning came all too soon, and I studied myself in the mirror after I washed my face.
I didn’t understand how the changes that had occurred this past month weren’t visible from the outside.
Though that was a good thing—I had a bottle of ipecac to steal after all.
I poked my head into my parents’ room to make sure it was empty, then crossed quickly to their bathroom, found the brown bottle, and sloshed it to make sure there was enough.
I was in luck—it was full. I had no idea how much a grown man would need to ingest without knowing he had drunk it, but I had to hope this worked.
If it didn’t, we had one more day before we were out of time to get this printed and stop the plan from happening.
And if they refused to run it even without Pullman because it made the vice president look bad, well . . . we would have to try our luck walking into The Washington Post. Either way, I would type a second copy of the final draft just in case.
“You’d better work,” I whispered to the bottle as I returned to my bedroom, slipping it into my purse.
I was too anxious for breakfast, grabbing only a piece of toast, most of which I hid in a napkin when my father stood from the table saying it was time to go to work.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he said as we headed down Sixteenth Street. “Everything okay with that fella of yours?”
“Yes. Just tired.”
He patted my arm. “Things will calm down once Betty is back from the hospital, and the kids go home.”
For us, I thought. Betty was going to have her hands full with three little ones.
We eventually pulled up in front of The Digest building. “Thank you for the ride,” I said. I hoped it wasn’t the last one.
He grinned and patted me on the shoulder. “Knock ’em dead. You’ll be writing stories before you know it.”
I tried to imagine him reading the story on the front page the next morning, his mouth slowly dropping open as he realized the implications.
Then his eyes drifting up to the byline and seeing Jack’s name and .
. . mine. He would look across the table, holding the paper up for me to see.
If they got permission to use Burt Glinn’s photograph, Alejandra’s face would be staring back at me.
And my father’s mouth would stretch into a proud smile.
Or I would be unemployed and potentially facing charges for poisoning a federal agent. That was always a possibility too, and one I shouldn’t discount.
But there was no turning back now. And I needed to get up to the seventh floor before Mr. Pullman arrived.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, hurrying out of the car.
Jack was waiting in the lobby, and Frank inclined his head toward him, then winked at me.
Jack raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question, and I nodded.
We were doing this. He took a deep breath and nodded back, then pushed the up button for the elevator.
Once inside, he pushed five and seven, and the two of us rode up to the newsroom where he got out. “Good luck,” he whispered.
I was going to need it. The door opened on seven, and I stepped out, glancing around nervously. The women at desks looked up, then back down, disinterested, except for Florence, whose eyes widened. “I thought you’d been fired,” she said quietly as I approached her desk.
I shook my head. “Can we talk—privately?” Florence looked wary, but she followed me to the kitchenette where the coffeemaker was. “I need your help.”
“With what?”
“I just need to—” Another secretary walked in, crossed to the coffeemaker, which had already brewed a pot, poured a cup, and left.
Florence looked at me, expectantly. “Do you remember when you told me not to go into a room with Mr. Pullman with the door shut?” She nodded. “Were you speaking from experience?”
For a long time, she didn’t react. Then she slowly nodded.
Good, I thought. He deserved what we were about to do to him. “I need to slip something into his coffee.”
Florence shook her head. “I can’t help you.”
She turned to leave, but I put a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Look, I can’t tell you why. You don’t even have to do it. I’ll do it. But it has to be today.”
When she looked back at me, something was different in her face. It had hardened. “Is that why you aren’t up here anymore?”
It wasn’t. But I wasn’t above telling a white lie if it got us what we needed. Lives were at stake here. “Yes,” I said.
She finally nodded. “I can’t do it. But I won’t stop you.
” The elevator dinged, and men’s voices drifted into the kitchenette.
“Hurry,” she said, grabbing a mug. I pulled the bottle from my purse and uncapped it, dumping some in.
High heels clacked down the hall, and there was no time to measure.
Florence grabbed the coffeepot and filled the mug, leaving just enough room for cream and sugar.
“He’ll taste that,” she said, noting the bottle I had used.
“An extra sugar?”
She nodded, adding three and the cream, then stirring it as a leggy blonde walked into the room.
“Here,” Florence said, holding it out to her. “I got you started.”
“Well aren’t you just the sweetest?” the woman said, taking the cup, her voice a nasal Southern twang. She turned and left the kitchenette.
“Get out of here before he drinks that,” Florence said, giving me a small shove. “Take the stairs. Fewer witnesses.” She was right. Peeking out into the hall, she gestured to me. “Coast is clear. Go now.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
She shook her head. “If anyone asks, I haven’t seen you since you worked up here.”
“I’ll say the same.”
“See that you do.”
She gave me a half smile, then shoved me toward the stairs. I went down two flights, then checked my watch. Miss Kelly was going to be mad. But I had always been early before. I would just have to hope that bought me enough good grace for one day of showing up three minutes late.