Shari Cohen’s greatest achievement in life was graduating cum laude from Georgetown University; a strong second was being selected as class speaker and representative for the highly touted group of scholars making their way into the real world. Although many graduated as physicians, attorneys, and business prodigies, Shari’s proficiency was in International Studies and Strategic Counterterrorism. Upon graduation, she was actively recruited by the NSA, the CIA and the FBI.
She started in the FBI, like most agents, tarrying around the bottom rung until she was able to prove herself. But with perseverance and determination, she rose steadily through the ranks until 9/11, when her knowledge and skills immediately triggered a meteoric rise. Now, as head of the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team, she had served as lead in dozens of scenarios in which her tactical negotiations and innovative thinking had saved numerous lives. In time, her strategic methods would become departmental protocol, helping the Bureau keep pace with evolving ideologies, especially when dealing with the Middle East.
In the living room of her brownstone, as Shari picked up her daughter’s books that were scattered across the living room floor, CNN was reporting on the death of Maryland’s First Lady, Darlene Steele.
Since no statement had been made by the political brass, CNN offered baseless theories about her death gleaned from “inside” sources, who informed the news media more out of speculation than fact. The end result was a constant looping of assumptive news that became monotonously redundant as she picked up books by Dr. Seuss and Mother Goose and began to stack them into the bookcase.
Gary Molin entered the room wearing a cooking mitt on one hand and holding a two-pronged fork in the other. He was tall and slender with olive-colored skin. His eyes were battleship gray, a drab color that paralleled the dreariness of his humor. For months he and his wife had been growing apart, each talking “at” each other instead of “to” each other. When they hugged or kissed or expressed any type of physical affection, it felt obligatory, insincere, even vulgar. But the true mystery was that neither could remember when they started to drift apart. There was no specific argument or event or act of lascivious impropriety that drove a wedge between them. It was something quite simple, really. The romantic glow of infatuation was simply going away, the once-burning flame barely a smoldering ember. Worse, they both knew it. Nevertheless, each tried to hang on to the other with futile gestures, such as cooking candlelit dinners with fancy French names, with chilled bottles of wine sitting in an ornately-styled silver ice bucket. Then they would sit in awkward silence as they ate, the conversation hard to come by, their passion as elusive as the proper words to initiate a simple thread of discussion.
Tonight Gary was making Greek lamb with spinach and orzo, a favorite of Shari’s during their honeymoon in the Greek Isles several years earlier. It was an effort to bring back the times when they were star-struck just to be in each other’s company, to hear each other’s voice.
He stepped further into the room, the smell of baked meat wafting behind him. “Anything new?”
“It’s still guesswork at this point,” she said. Her tone was flat and withdrawn as she continued to place the books onto the bookshelves.
For a moment Gary’s eyes appeared saddened. Her tone seemed to confirm that their marriage was as artificial as their attempts to communicate.
When breaking news from CNN interrupted the current programming, the anchorwoman reported that a White House spokesman was about to take the podium in the Brady Press Room.
A balding man with Botox lips and a soft appearance stepped to the podium and faced an audience of reporters. Something about his demeanor evoked the impression of a troll, and he spoke in a high-pitched whine. This was not the image Shari would have presented to a world audience, a mistake on the part of the White House staff. But as Shari expected, the first words spoken were of condemnation for the terrorist regime and the obvious call for justice. Then the spokesperson slid neatly into what everybody was waiting to hear — that the Soldiers of Islam were responsible, and there was now an international effort to bring these terrorists to justice and to acquire the safety of Pope Pius the XIII. Nothing was ever mentioned of the terrorists’ identities.
As the spokesperson elaborated, the phone rang. Shari backed up with her eyes on the television and reached blindly for the phone on the wall. After talking briefly in hushed tones, she slowly placed the receiver back on the cradle. “That was the attorney general,” she said. “He wants to see me right away.”
Although Gary showed no emotion, she could tell he was seething underneath.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I know it was important to you that we have dinner together tonight.”
He shrugged. “Yeah… well, whatever.”
She appeared wounded; the tone of his voice was deliberately biting. “Gary, this is my job. This is what I do. I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
In a quick display of warring emotions, his face transitioned from anger, to pain, and then to a semblance of understanding.
“He said the president wanted to see me right away.”
Realizing the lamb was wasted, Gary removed the cooking mitt and tossed it on the sofa. “I understand,” he said. But his voice carried the flatness of someone too hurt to care.
“Look, Gary, I’m sorry. You know I wanted to spend tonight with you.” This was a modicum of a lie and Gary knew it. Lying was not her forte. But he knew that she wanted desperately to believe that her marriage wasn’t failing. Shari Cohen never failed at anything in her life.
He stepped forward and looked into her eyes. “Shari, seriously, help me understand what’s happening here, with us. Are you losing interest? Is it because I’m a stay-at-home dad? What? Help me out, will you?”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Gary.” She pointed to the TV, maintaining calm. “You see what’s going on. You know what I do for a living.”
He hesitated before speaking, and then softly he said, “I know you’re a mother and a wife. And I know I’m your husband. And I know you’re running away from me.” He rounded the sofa. “You wouldn’t even take my last name when we married. I know, I know, “professional” reasons. But I guess I can’t help thinking you just didn’t want to be associated with me.”
She let her hand fall. “Gary… ” She let her words trail because she knew he was right. She was running away. Even using her maiden name wasn’t escape enough.
Shari moved before her husband and leaned into his embrace. She didn’t feel any sense of love or passion, but an overwhelming sadness that brought her to the brink of tears. “You are without a doubt, Gary Molin, a good man. And don’t you ever forget that.”
He drew back and feigned a smile. And then with the back of his hand he caressed the strands of hair off her forehead so that her hairstyle completely framed her beautiful face without errant locks interrupting her features. “I’m not angry with you, honey. I’m just scared of where we’re going.”
“We’ll talk,” she said. “I promise.” There was no smile, not even a false one. And then she placed a hand over his heart. She could feel the moderate beats against her palm. “I know you’re disappointed, but I have to go.”
“I guess when your wife is the head of the Hostage Rescue Team, then this is to be expected, right?”
“Thank you for understanding,” she said.
He shrugged. “What else can I do?”
“I just need time, that’s all.”
“What we need is time to talk. And I mean talk.”
She remained forcibly calm. “Right now, Gary, there’s a lot on my plate and the attorney general is calling me. Please understand the pressure I’m going through right now because it’s obvious to me that I’m heading into an impossible task. I need to believe that I can do this.”