YOU’LL BE IN town, Gin?”
“Absolutely, Sara, and I’d love to see you. You can meet my roommate Kristy, too. She’s a tough-as-nails southern deb. You’ll love her.”
“And I can’t wait for you to meet my friend Judith Fox. I worked for her temporary agency during college. Now she’s a friend. We’re planning lots of shopping, although she’ll case Bergdorf’s and I’m just hoping they don’t charge if you window-shop. Is there a Hit or Miss in New York? Where can I find stylish clothes on a budget?”
“Not exactly. Try Saks—they have great sales. I’ll be your personal shopper.”
“Even better! As you know, I could use the help.” And then, just when we were about to hang up, I blurted out the other reason I’d called. “And, Gin—I’m sorry about Kevin. Most of all that I didn’t know for so long. I feel like an idiot.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad we’re back in touch.”
And so was I. If only the next conversation went as well. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door labeled “News Director.”
“Harvey?”
He barely glanced up from reading the Richmond Times-Dispatch.
“Mmm-hmm?”
“I have a great idea for a story.”
“The drug killings? Already got a series on it for sweeps.”
“Not exactly.” I could scarcely contain my excitement. He would just love this story, I knew it. He just had to say yes. “Actually, this story is in Nicaragua.”
To my consternation, his expression darkened. I cut to the chase. “I want to cover the war between the Sandinistas and the contras.”
“Exactly how does that fit into your beat as Chesterfield County reporter?”
“I know it seems a stretch but there’s a great local angle.”
“A stretch?!”
“Some Richmonders are going down to build houses in the countryside and—”
“No.”
“—I’ve been taking Spanish lessons and—”
“No!”
I backed out, deflated, to find Mary Katherine waiting nearby. MK was a station photographer and yet another new pal.
“Didn’t go so great, huh?”
I shook my head, quiet for a moment, thinking. “I don’t think we’re dead yet,” I offered cautiously before outlining a last-ditch course of action. MK listened. “Think of it as an opportunity,” I pressed.
After a short pause she nodded. “All right, I’m in.”
I charged back into Harvey’s office before MK could change her mind.
“What now, Sara?”
“What if MK and I pay our own way?”
Harvey pushed back his chair, fingertips on the desk, eyeing me. He knew better than anyone that I only earned $17,000 a year. But there was always plastic. “And we’ll even take vacation time to do it.”
At last he nodded. “Just don’t lose the camera.”
I CELEBRATED THAT night with an interesting new man in my life, a documentary filmmaker who worked for a foreign charity organization. Gin’s ex had fame and fortune and traveled to London, Tokyo, Melbourne. The man I fancied was just back from Calcutta. He sported a khaki vest on location, carried a pocket fix-anything tool called a Leatherman, and told me his motto was “Carpe diem.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think it sounds like a great story, Sara.”
“Thank God you understand. My parents aren’t exactly enthusiastic.”
“Do you have everything you need?”
“Got any recommendations?”
“You’ll need good boots, tropical weather gear, a real first-aid kit. But maybe the most important thing you’ll need is permission.”
“Excuse me?” I was headed to a land bristling with guns and it sounded like he was suggesting I get a hall pass.
“Every Third World country is a bureaucracy. Especially when the government is Communist, like the Sandinistas. You’ll need some paperwork covered in official stamps. In case you get—into trouble.”
I shivered in spite of myself. Soldiers in Central America weren’t famous for being great humanitarians.
“And if we do get ‘into trouble’?”
“Just don’t panic. And you’ll have those stamps.” When he smiled, one side of his face creased, and I wondered if he’d gotten the scar fending off bandits in some exotic hellhole.
I couldn’t believe I’d met this guy. It seemed all my high school and college friends were settling down, marrying intelligent, appealing lawyers and doctors and stockbrokers. But I couldn’t imagine setting up house, producing an heir or two. Mr. Carpe Diem—CD—seemed like someone I had invented.
Later that night, I found myself daydreaming as I packed, imagining exploring the world with CD. Then I heard my roommate Lisa coming up the stairs. The weekday coanchor and the best reporter at the CBS station, Lisa was beautiful and fun—up for mountain climbing or a scuba trip or hosting a crab-picking party in our backyard. As my friend LP had predicted before moving to Miami, her former roommate had become my friend, too.
“Hey, Boo-boo! How was the new guy?” she asked, handing me a pair of boots for my backpack.
“Too interesting. What’s wrong with me, Lis? I have no interest in meeting Mr. Right at the moment. I’m only twenty-five!”
Lisa looked alarmed. My only previous obsession had been getting to the network, just like most other young local reporters we knew. We watched Today every morning and the evening news every night, and gabbed endlessly about whether we preferred Tom, Peter, or Dan, Diane or Barbara, Joan or Jane. I worked at an NBC affiliate and had set my sights on the Today show.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Sara, but you’ve been on one date with this man, right? Who said anything about getting married?”
“It’s just that—”
“Just nothing! You barely know him!”
“But, Lisa, he’s perfect! He reads good books, he’s smart, and he travels the world carrying his home with him like—like a turtle!”
“You have a crush on a turtle.”
“Don’t mock me. And did I mention? He’s cute.”
She looked relieved. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Look, Sara, you’re about to do something crazy and go to a war zone. Could you at least concentrate on that?” She gave me a squeeze. “You find it hard to focus sometimes, Boo-boo. I found two more science experiments in the fridge, and have you checked the fern in your room?”
“I know. It’s dead. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, but you’re going in a lot of different directions. Maybe it’s time to slow down a bit.” She grinned. “Not to mention perhaps waiting to see if he asks you out again.”
I realized I’d better get to Nicaragua quickly before I did or said something ridiculous.
MK AND I checked into the InterContinental Hotel in Managua. Once the people here had been ruled by a U.S.-backed dictator who’d followed the standard banana republic strategy of intimidation, torture, and looting the treasury. After a massive earthquake and subsequent revolution, the Communist-leaning Sandinistas had taken power. Now, in 1986, Nicaragua was very much in the news. President Reagan had thrown U.S. support behind the rival Contras, warning that the Sandinistas—with their Russian and Cuban advisers—could pose a new domino threat and spread Communism north, perhaps all the way to Texas. Surveying the rubble known as downtown, it seemed hard to believe the raggle-taggle regime could carry a canteen as far as the Guatemalan border. But those were Cold War days and regional skirmishes carried international implications. Before heading to a government office to get our passes to the war zone, we met the local NBC crew at the network bureau.
“So where are you from again, Sara?” NBC correspondent David Hazinsky asked. I sat up straight, dropped my voice an octave, and attempted to look as experienced as possible, given I was only twenty-five. “The network affiliate in Richmond. Virginia. We’re here to do a story on some locals who plan to drill wells, build houses, help the campesinos—the peasants.”
He gave me a look that told me he knew what campesinos were—and a great deal more than that. “Do you guys have a fixer?” Years later I would learn that a fixer was indispensable—a seasoned local who could troubleshoot problems ranging from bureaucratic hassles to accommodations to terrain, but back then all I knew was we didn’t have one. “A translator?” I shook my head again. We were relying on those in the humanitarian group and my halting Spanish. “Have you been warned about the roads?”
As MK shot a look at me, he appeared increasingly incredulous. “Both sides have laid mines, so be careful.” He paused to let that sink in and I avoided MK’s gaze. “Look, if we can help, we will. You can borrow our crew for an afternoon, shoot some promos. But remember, out there you’ll be in the middle of a war zone. On your own.” I swallowed and must have looked queasy, because his expression lightened. “Look, since you’re here, why don’t you two catch the concert tonight. Peter, Paul and Mary are in town and President Ortega and his wife will be there.”
Which was how it happened that the night before heading to a war zone, MK and I spent the evening in a crowded, sweltering tent in downtown Managua listening to one of the most famous American folk groups from the 1960s. As they broke into “Puff (The Magic Dragon)” we looked at each other. What was so scary about this assignment?
Just as we were about to leave and MK was snapping a final shot to show our friends back at Channel 12, a soldier spied us. With a shout, he hustled over, grabbed her stills camera, and ripped out the film before gesturing angrily that we leave that moment, or else. We had our answer.
That night, lying on one of the lumpy twin beds, I couldn’t sleep. What had I roped us into? Friends Don’t Let Friends Get Killed.
MK wasn’t sleeping either. “So what are you thinking?” she asked.
I was thinking how stuffy the room was. I was thinking how much my stomach hurt. I was thinking of the way Mom’s face had crumpled when she’d realized she couldn’t change my mind about coming, how she’d bitten her lip and how even my ever-the-optimist dad looked grave. I was thinking about how I could still taste the first mango I’d ever eaten, off a street cart that afternoon, about how much fun we’d been having and how beautiful the people had seemed before a soldier stole a roll of film, and before I’d absorbed the words “land mines” and “war zone.” How those words reverberated in my brain, one muffled explosion after another, because I suddenly knew I was just a kid and not nearly as smart as I thought I was.
What I said was, “I think we’ll be okay.”
AS IT TURNED out, trouble found us a few hours into the trip. We’d hooked up with an American who worked with an international human rights group. He had serviceable Spanish, access to a vehicle, and some knowledge of the backwater we were entering, and agreed to give us a lift to the house-building Richmonders, who would bring us back to Managua.
We drove slowly, scanning for land mines. The road was rutted, and every time we struck an especially deep dip I winced, squeezing my eyes shut, half waiting for a rush of air and an explosion. Then I realized that if we hit a mine, I’d never know until afterward, if I found out at all. The jungle was cloying, dark green disappearing to black, impenetrable, unknowable. Which was how it happened that we didn’t see the gunmen until they’d surrounded the car, shouting for us to halt in machine-gun-rapid Spanish.
Were they Sandinistas or Contras? I couldn’t tell, and didn’t know which was worse. Whoever they were, they were young and scrawny, alternately angry and nervous. Clearly gringos didn’t blunder their way every day. My mouth tasted like copper. I realized I was biting my cheek. I was also sweating through the khaki shirt I’d bought for two bucks at the A&N store back in Richmond.
“Mom is going to kill me,” I thought, but some words must have leaked out.
“What did you say?” MK hissed back.
“I’m sorry I got us into this mess.”
“Let’s just get out.”
As the gunmen fanned out, a couple of them searched the back of the vehicle, picked up a few of our canteens, then pointed at me. My ¿Dónde esta el baño? Spanish was hopelessly inadequate. “What are they saying?” I asked our American guide.
“They think we’re U.S. military. Or CIA.”
“What! Can’t they tell we’re journalists?” I huffed. “Just look at our camera gear and notepads!”
“How about look at what you’re wearing! Where did you buy that khaki crap, and those army-issue canteens? Are you trying to get us killed?”
My mouth went dry as my stomach lurched. I made a mental note in this do-it-yourself foreign correspondent training class. Never, ever shop at the Army & Navy store.
The gunmen huddled in conference. I tried not to imagine the options. Kill us? Come up with some imaginative torture? Hold us for ransom? I closed my eyes, then opened them again to escape the image of being buried in the middle of nowhere, disappearing without a trace.
I sought to recover my composure. “Look, show them these.” I shoved forward the permission documents we’d gotten from the Sandinistas. There was a risk, of course. What if these soldiers were Contras? But as they flipped through the papers, paying close attention to all those pretty embossed patterns, I suddenly realized with a start why the stamps were so important. Some of those soldiers couldn’t read. I made a mental note. Rule number two for foreign correspondents—stamps, stamps, and more stamps.
After a few moments that seemed to last forever, they must have decided we really were journalists after all. Or maybe they just figured that live, dumb gringos were less trouble than dead ones. With a disgusted wave, they let us go, then melted into the jungle as quickly as they’d appeared.
I had survived my first trip to a war zone. It wouldn’t be my last.
“SO WHAT HAPPENED when you finally got into the countryside, Sara?”
“I think the Richmonders found their building project incredibly difficult. It didn’t help that we were told to sleep with our boots by the tent flap in case the fighting got too close.”
“It must seem like a million miles from here.”
I looked around at the fancy decor and fancier people in the tony Manhattan watering hole and nodded.
“Well, thank goodness you’re okay. Let’s drink to that.” Ginger clinked my glass. “And here’s to success in your hunt for a new position in a bigger city.”
“I dunno. I wonder if I’ll ever get to the network.”
“Don’t say that. If you want to, you will.”
“Did I tell you I was crazy enough to send a tape to LP’s agent? Some underling there sent it back. Basically: Keep up the good work, but what’s with your hair? Like I had time for a blow-dry just after I shampooed in the stream.”
“You’re only twenty-five, Sara. There’s plenty of time.”
And I thought, For both of us. But I said nothing.
Ginger looked as beautiful as ever, but there was a weariness I didn’t remember and she didn’t explain. In losing Kevin, Ginger had lost a way of life as well as the man she loved. Gone were the days of traveling first-class, of Tiffany baubles and Gucci loafers. She didn’t complain about the tiny apartment, her twin bed with its Barbie-sized dresser in a curtained-off corner of the living room. And I instantly adored her roommate, Kristy. But this wasn’t the life Ginger had expected. The life any of us had expected for her. “Do you ever hear from Kevin?”
“A while ago I got a box with his return address—in a woman’s handwriting. Some things of mine he thought I’d miss.”
“Ouch.”
“It gets better. I called a friend of Kevin’s about it. Know what she told me? ‘Ginger, in a breakup, you have to pick sides, and we’ve chosen Kevin’s.’”
“How unfair!”
Then suddenly Ginger giggled, a sound I remembered well. “But you know what, Sara? Some people like me better without him!” Her laughter was infectious.
“Well, I do, too. And I’m just glad we’re back in touch.”
“Me too. But forget work. I want to hear more about your new guy.”
I paused. I had a strange fear that Mr. Carpe Diem might vanish if I talked about him. Besides, I felt rusty confiding in Ginger. Over the past few years we had lived our lives so differently. Funnily enough, I felt far more comfortable seeing her in New York than I had on that previous occasion, back home in Richmond. We both had careers, and while tennis and television might be worlds apart, the fact that each of us was single, poor, and self-sufficient gave us connections we hadn’t shared when her only job was to be Kevin’s gorgeous girlfriend. Still, the man I cared for was nothing like Kevin and I wasn’t sure what she’d think of my choice. But Ginger had always been easy to talk to, so I took the plunge.
“Well, he carries everything with him—boots, tent, Leatherman—probably his heart. But somehow I’m sure he’s the one. And I actually think he feels that way, too.”
“How long have you known each other?”
I hesitated. “Actually, just a few months. Not even, really, because he’s always traveling.”
Ginger was tactfully silent. Back in high school she would have told me exactly what she thought. But that night we were both finding our way. Although her knitted brows urged caution, all she said was, “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“And I can’t wait to meet your new guy.”
“Well, you won’t have to wait, because here he comes now.” The man who bent to kiss her was well groomed, well dressed, and well heeled. Gin had told me his dad owned several Upper East Side skyscrapers. But I took an instant dislike to Tall, Rich, and Handsome. Gin’s smile glittered but there was a brittle quality to her laughter that alarmed me. I knew she was on the rebound but I didn’t think this man was good for her. He seemed about as deep as a vodka martini. I tried to keep pace with the evening, with the rolling party, but felt clumsy and awkward, the small-town girl who would never be hip enough for New York.
“So what did you think of him?” Gin asked the next morning.
Now it was my turn to hedge. I hardly knew the guy. For that matter, I was just getting to know Ginger again. When in doubt, speak the truth. Or as much of it as you can. “He’s certainly handsome.”
ON THE FLIGHT back to Richmond, I pondered our friendship. It had been a long, long time. While we were back in touch, we weren’t back to where we’d been back then. There were things we didn’t ask, didn’t tell, murky depths still off limits.
I had a new man in my life. I had new friends like Lisa and Linda, with whom I had a career in common. Would I keep up with this old friend? Would she keep up with me? We shared a past, but would our friendship share a future? I hoped so. But we lived in different cities and seemed to be heading in different directions. It was just too early to tell.