Julie Clark - The Last Flight

* * *

Outside my locked bedroom door, I hear people in the hallway, their voices a low murmur I can’t make out. I tense, waiting to see if they’ll try to enter, bracing myself for another lecture about locked doors. They can’t do their jobs, Claire, if you insist on locking yourself in every room. Downstairs, the front door closes and Rory’s voice floats up to me. I smooth my hair and count to ten, trying to wipe the anxiety and nerves from my face. I have one night left, and I have to play the part perfectly.

“Claire!” he calls from the hallway. “Are you home?”

I take a deep breath and open the bedroom door. “Yes,” I call.

Twenty-eight hours.

* * *

“How is Joshua doing this semester?” Rory asks our chef, Norma, as she pours our wine at dinner.

Norma smiles and sets the bottle on the table next to Rory. “Very well, though I don’t hear from him as much as I’d like to.”

Rory laughs and takes a small sip, nodding his approval. “That’s how it’s supposed to be, I’m afraid. Tell him I’m hoping for another semester on the dean’s list.”

“I will, sir. Thank you. We’re so grateful.”

Rory waves her words away. “I’m happy to do it.”

Many years ago, Rory decided to pay college tuition for every child or grandchild of his household staff. As a result, they are fiercely loyal to him. Willing to look the other way when our arguments grow loud, or when they hear me crying in the bathroom.

“Claire, try this wine. It’s incredible.”

I know better than to disagree with him. Once, early in our marriage, I’d said, “It tastes like fermented grapes to me.”

Rory’s expression had remained impassive, as if my words hadn’t registered. But he’d lifted my glass from the table, held it in an outstretched hand, and then dropped it to the floor where it shattered, red wine puddling on the hardwood and rolling toward the expensive rug underneath the table. Norma had come running from the kitchen at the sound of breaking glass.

“Claire is so clumsy,” he’d said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “It’s one of the things I love about her.”

Norma, who was crouched down cleaning up the mess, looked up at me, confused about how my glass had ended up on the floor three feet away from the table. I’d been mute, unable to say anything as Rory calmly began eating his dinner.

Norma carried the soggy towels into the kitchen, then returned with another wineglass and poured me more. When she’d gone, Rory set down his fork and said, “This is a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. You need to try harder.”

Now, as Rory stares at me, waiting, I take a tiny sip from my glass, trying and failing to find oak undertones or the hint of vanilla Rory claims are there. “Delicious,” I say.

After tomorrow, I’m only drinking beer.

* * *

When we’re done eating, we move into Rory’s office to go over a few talking points for the speech I’m giving at tomorrow night’s dinner. We sit, facing each other across his desk, me with my laptop balanced on my knees, my speech pulled up in a shared Google doc. This is Rory’s preferred platform. He uses it for everything, since it allows him to access anything any of us is working on, at any moment. I’ll be working on something and suddenly I’ll see his icon pop up on my screen and I’ll know he is there, watching me.

It’s also how he and his long-time personal assistant, Bruce, communicate without documenting anything. In a shared doc, they can say things to each other that they might not want to put into an email or text message, or say over the phone. I’ve only seen and heard little snippets over the years. I left you a note about that in the Doc. Or Check the Doc, I put an update in there you’re going to want to read. The Doc is where they’ll discuss my disappearance, hypothesize about where I went, and perhaps outline their plan to track me down. It’s like a private room that only Rory and Bruce can access, where they can speak freely about things that no one else can know about.

I bring my attention back, asking several questions about the group I’ll be speaking to, focusing my energy on the success of the event. Bruce huddles in his corner of the office, taking notes on his laptop, adding our comments into the speech as we speak, and I watch him on my own screen, a cursor with his name attached to it, the words appearing as if by magic. As he types away, I wonder how much he knows about what Rory does to me. Bruce is the keeper of all Rory’s secrets. I can’t imagine he doesn’t know this one as well.

When we’re done, Rory says to me, “They’re going to ask you about next week’s press conference. Don’t answer any questions. Just smile and bring the conversation back around to the foundation.”

The buildup to announcing Rory’s candidacy has been excruciating. Leaked rumors every few days, tons of media speculation about Rory picking up where his mother left off.

Marjorie Cook had been famous for her bipartisan negotiating skills, her ability to swing the most difficult and conservative senators toward more moderate policy. There had been quiet talk of a presidential run, long before Hillary or even Geraldine Ferraro. But Marjorie had died of colon cancer Rory’s freshman year of college, forever leaving a mother-shaped hole that filled with a potent combination of insecurity and resentment that often bubbled over, burning those who dared to keep his mother in the foreground when discussing his political future.

“You haven’t given me any details about the press conference to share,” I tell them, watching Bruce pack up his desk for the night, tracking his movements from the corner of my eye. Pens in the top drawer. Laptop into its case, then into his bag to take home.

After Bruce leaves, Rory sits back and crosses his legs. “How was your day?”

“Good.” My left foot jiggles, the only indication of my nerves. Rory’s gaze lands on it, eyebrows raised, and I press my heel into the carpet, willing myself to be still.

“It was Center Street Literacy, right?” He steeples his fingers, his tie loose around his neck. I watch him, as if from a great distance, this man I once loved. The lines around his eyes are evidence of laughter, of happiness that we shared. But those same lines have been deepened by rage as well. A dark violence that has blotted out everything good I once saw in him.

“Yes. Their annual fundraiser is coming up in eight months. Danielle should be transcribing the notes and will get them to you tomorrow. I’ll be taking on the silent auction again.”

“Anything else?” he asks. His voice is neutral, but something in the set of his shoulders grabs my attention. My instincts—finely tuned after years of reading the subtext of Rory’s tone and expressions—are screaming at me to be careful.

“Not that I can think of.”

“I see,” he says, and then takes a deep, meditative breath, as if he’s trying to center himself. “Can you please close the door?”

I stand, my legs feeling weak beneath me as I walk slowly to the door, terrified he’s somehow figured out what I’m about to do. I take my time, measuring my pace, trying not to panic yet. When I sit again, I’ve wiped the fear from my face, replacing it with neutral curiosity. When he doesn’t speak right away, I prompt him. “Is everything okay?”

His gaze is cold. “You must think I’m stupid.”

I’m unable to speak, or even blink. I’ve lost before I’ve even begun. My thoughts race, trying to find a foothold, trying to compose myself, to explain away whatever he’s discovered—the clothes, the money I’ve been siphoning off, my meetings with Petra. I fight the urge to throw open the door and run, giving up whatever I’ve gained. I look toward the darkened windows, reflecting the room back to us, and manage to say, “What are you talking about?”