M. Forsythe - While Rome Was Sleeping

His minor in Political Science would help him reach his goal, but he knew he needed to go on for a Master’s Degree. That could be costly; he had always worked to help pay for his education, but getting a Master’s would require much more time and energy. He made up his mind to enlist in the Washington National Guard thereby ending the question of the draft, and the Guard would help pay for the Master’s degree. Jack told him he was crazy and argued hard to dissuade him to no avail.

It was 1968 and the Vietnam War had taken its toll on America; students in schools and universities faced the constant turmoil. The protests and disruption sapped the energy from many dreams. Although Andrew had mixed feelings about Vietnam, his convictions were not in support of the protracted and seemingly meaningless continuation of American involvement there. Nothing that Jack had reported gave him cause to change his opinion.

At their last meeting at the airport in 1972, Andrew could still hear Jack urging him to leave Seattle and get into the more exciting aspect of a journalistic career, attempting to convince him of the possibilities of reaching both of his goals by being on site—telling it as it happened. He remembered his own response, largely shaped by his earlier decision, pointing out to Jack the ‘real’ excitement of bringing change into the market place of ideas and domestic policy on home turf.

Andrew occasionally wondered if he had made the right choices. Now to see Jack’s name in a letter from Kelshaw was unsettling.

The connection between Kelshaw and Hubbard puzzled him unless Hubbard was somehow linked to the intelligence community. Andrew found it hard to believe that Jack Hubbard could be. Jack had always been morally and ethically convinced that journalists had to be neutral; for their own good and for the good of the profession; Andrew concurred. That Hubbard might have crossed the line caused Andrew intense discomfort. He realized that now he too was being drawn into a type of intrigue that could conceivably compromise his own neutrality.

Opening his desk drawer he looked at the packet and the envelope for Charlene Thayer. His curiosity about the contents of the packet had cooled considerably after reading Kelshaw’s missive. It would have to wait until he could talk with Ben. The letter to Mrs. Thayer had to be delivered.

10:30 AM

Locating her number was easy. Like Ben said there was only one Paul Thayer.

He was tentative on the approach he would use but decided neutral ground would be best. He would invite her to meet him for dinner. Andrew dialed and waited.

The phone was ringing as Charlene Thayer opened the front door. Struggling with coat, keys and groceries, she dashed to the kitchen wall phone in time to hear a click. “Darn,” she muttered to herself as she moved to the living room, tossing her coat on a chair and dropping to the couch.

It was only mid morning but she was already tired. She had chaired a breakfast meeting at Diocesan House to discuss various ministries that were in financial trouble and of methods to help meet the needs of so many. She thought especially about the Seamen’s Center, but she knew the Bishop would stand behind Father Ben Lee at the budget committee meeting later today.

Her head throbbed as she leaned back and closed her eyes, resting her head on the curve of the sofa back.” I might stay here a year…” she mused. The telephone cut short her moment of relaxation.

As she picked up the extension to answer she heard an authoritative “Hello, is this the residence of Charlene Thayer?”

Before Charlene could answer more than “Hello;” a man’s voice insisted, “let me speak with her, please.” The voice was polished and matter of fact.

She responded cautiously, remembering the call of yesterday. “This is Charlene Thayer. Who is calling?”

The caller responded, “Mrs. Thayer my name is Andrew Kincaid. I write a column for the Seattle Times. You may have heard of me,” he continued. “Father Ben Lee at the Seamen’s Center put me in touch with you.” Clearing his throat Andrew continued cautiously, “I have some information about Colonel Thayer that I would like to discuss with you. Can we get together?” Andrew paused, “Perhaps we could meet and,” he paused again, “and have dinner… tonight?”

Charlene inhaled sharply. Again hearing only ‘information about Colonel Thayer’ sent what felt like a small electric shock through her. “Din-wha-uh I,” she stammered. “You’ve really caught me by surprise. Let me understand this, your name is Andrew Kincaid, you write for the Seattle Times and you’re a friend of Father Ben Lee from the Seamen’s Center?”

“Yes, and yes to your questions; I would like to talk with you about an incident that happened last night outside the Seamen’s Center. Will you be able to join me for dinner?” His voice warmed, “I’m sorry to catch you off guard.”

Charlene responded, “No, no it’s all right, I do recognize your name, but I wasn’t at the Center yesterday at all. What does this have to do with me or with my husband?”

“Only time will tell that, Mrs. Thayer. I’ll answer as many of your questions as I can when I see you. Now about getting together, will you be able to join me for dinner?”

“As I said, I do recognize your name; and since you mentioned my husband, and before I agree to meet you, I want you to understand that I will not participate in any sensationalism of the past. My husband was a soldier and a decent and honorable man who did his job and died in the process. I can not, nor will not, discuss anything that would in any way dishonor him or his memory; do I make myself clear?”

Kincaid was surprised by the defensiveness, “Wait a minute, Mrs. Thayer, I said I have information. I don’t plan to make political comment on the virtue or lack thereof of American involvement in Vietnam. Now, about getting together… would you please be my dinner guest on neutral ground? Say at the Sheraton or some other location agreeable to you and I promise you may leave at any time, okay?”

Charlene softened. “I’m sorry to come at you like that, Mr. Kincaid, but… all right the Sheraton is fine. I’ll be there. What time? How will I know you or for that matter how will you know me?”

“Okay then, about 6:30 in the lobby,” Andrew answered reassuringly,” I’ll find you, don’t worry, Mrs. Thayer, I’ll know you.”

When Ben arrived at the Center at 8:30 on Wednesday morning, he was glad that all three of his volunteers, Sister Ruth, Byron and Davey were there.

“Just the people I need to see.” Father Ben greeted them with a tired smile. Trying to clear his mind of the events of the night before and focus on the needs of the day at hand he said “Ruth, Byron, I know you have been working on this; I need some figures for the budget committee meeting today. We need to concentrate on what we have and what we need.”

“Sure” Byron nodded. “Ruth and I have come up with some figures to go over with you before you go to the meeting.”

“Good! Davey, I need you to run interference for Ruth, Byron and me. Can you answer the phones and greet visitors so that we are not interrupted for a little while? It is an important task, Davey.”

Davey’s face lit up. He was pleased Father Ben was counting on him again today. Father Ben always treated him with respect. That was important to Davey. “Oh yes, I can do that,” he grinned.

As they entered the office, Sister Ruth said in a worried tone, “I have heard rumors that our funding is going to be cut.”

“I’ve heard that too,” Byron added.

“Well, we will do the best we can,” Father Ben reassured them. “I know that we will have the Bishop’s support for the work we do here. Do not worry so much.”