Challenge: Favorite Song
A Day in the Life by The Beatles
September 1, 1989
Park Avenue, New York
"So, sweetie. . ." Ted Morgan said with a cough. "I guess you saw this morning's Times?"
His young wife rolled onto her side and opened one eye. Ted stood there in the bedroom doorway, wringing his hands around the newspaper. Her eye flicked to the clock radio. Two-thirty, and she hadn't moved from the bed except to get another Valium at noon. Her foggy brain tried to figure out what Ted would be doing home, decided on "afternoon delight," and moved her hands down to the waistband of her underwear. Not that leaving the office of the firm named after his great-grandfather in the middle of the day, just for sex, was much like Ted. Still, it proved a man could be trained. Because what was the point of having a trophy wife -- or being one -- without the occasional nooner? "Now honestly, darling," she purred, pulling the duvet aside, "Why on earth would I be reading the Times?"
He didn't smile, didn't even seem to register her naked body, just walked forward and handed her the paper. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes traveled down. "Germany invaded Poland?" she said blankly. No, that was an anniversary column, of course. "I know how it ends, darling. I'm pretty sure the good guys win." Her husband didn't speak. His thumb just slid down the opposite column until she saw the name. "Col. James David Richey, Ret."
Two hours later, she was on a plane to Washington.
*
September 15, 1989
Georgetown, Washington DC
"Stop worrying, Peanut," her father said. That made approximately a thousand times in two weeks.
She crossed her arms and glared. "I'm twenty-two. Don't call me 'Peanut.' And when your name is on the front page of the Times and the Post and the International Herald Fucking Tribune, next to 'scandal' and 'treason' and made up words that end in 'Gate? Your family gets to worry." Lightly she added, "No one will ask me and Ted to the good parties anymore."
"Baby, I'm sorry." His tired eyes widened, as though this were really a worry. Then he shook his head and sat down at the desk. For the first time, she thought her father looked old. "It's being handled."
"By these lawyers?" She picked up the card. "I've never heard of them."
"West Coast firm," he said tersely. "At least, the U.S. branch is."
"So they're not in all this mess?" She said hopefully. "Good. You can be sure they're on your side."
"Sure, Peanut." And at his reassuring smile, her heart sank. She determined to do her homework on this Wolfram and Hart firm. Whoever they were, they were in it, all right.
Speaking of homework. . . She reached in her bag and took out a stack of manila folders. "Here are copies of all the FOIA requests I made, a few precedents I found off Lexis-Nexis and . . ."
"I'll pass them on. Just remember, you're not a lawyer."
Well, thought Beatrice Lillian Richey Morgan, Maybe I should be.
February 15, 1990
Chicago, Illinois
That was a time you could still escape from the twenty-four hour news cycle. It would end, a year later, when the Gulf War went live. A decade after that, everyone who wasn't a purely willful Luddite would have a cell phone on their person at all times. But, on the morning of her interview at the University of Chicago, Beatrice Lillian Richey (she had dropped the 'Morgan,' along with the wedding band and the banker, when Ted dared to suggest she prepare for the possibility that her father might be even partially guilty) didn't have much trouble avoiding the news.
She walked into the admissions office, wearing the very first business suit she had owned in her life, and heard two young secretaries huddled over the day's paper.
"I wonder if he, you know, blew his mind out in a car. Like the guy from the House of Lords, in the song."
"What song?"
"The Beatles, dumbass. Though, really, I bet he did it in his study, with his service revolver. They all watch the same movies."
"What's a service revolver?"
"Unless they had him killed, and we're just supposed to think --."
"Who they?"
"You know. They. The CIA. The Pentagon. The right-wing assholes with the black helicopters. Now they can blame it all on the dead guy."
Beatrice cleared her throat. "I hate to cut into Conspiracy Chat but -- "
"Oh, God, sorry!" Paranoia Girl scrambled for her appointment book. "I'm not a regular here. We're totally understaffed."
"Who died?" Beatrice asked with forced lightness. She had told the hotel not to send her any messages. Now don't get paranoid yourself. They're probably talking about a soap opera.
"Nobody died," the friend answered. "We're just understaffed. Interviews."
Paranoia, understanding the question, spoke at the same time, and it took Beatrice a moment to be certain she wasn't hearing voices in her own head. "James Richey. The guy from the Pentagon that they say --"
Years later, when she recalls the moment, James Richey's daughter wants her throat to be dry, her heart to be racing. Yet all that hit her, in the moment, was a feeling of finality and calm, as though this was a nightmare she had dreamed through, again and again, and finally living it could only be a relief.
"I know who he --" and she didn't even miss a beat " -- was. Well." She smiled. "One less right-wing asshole, hmm?"
"Sorry about the swearing," Paranoia apologized. "The dean is ready to see you, Ms. --" Her eyes widened. "Richey."
"No relation," the man's daughter reassured. "In fact --" She raised her left hand to show a bare finger. "This is a little embarrassing, but you should have gotten an update to the application. I'll be changing all my paperwork back to 'M-O-R-G-A-N.'"
"Right." The girl, now utterly baffled, frowned at the much-altered, handwritten schedule, and read out the middle name by mistake. "First name L-I-L-I-T-H?"
The name's owner opened her mouth to make a correction, but Beatrice-Lillian-Lilith-Morgan-Richey-Morgan no longer felt sure of what or who or where or when she was, except that she felt more like Adam's succubus bitch of an ex (first time around, bad prototype, God started over, made an Eve from scratch, why should she do less?) "Close." She reached over the table, took the secretary's pen, and printed five letters in an order that she liked; letters that, seconds before, had meant nothing but from this day forward, would form a hieroglyphic that stood for her. "There you go." She handed back the pen, and told a lie that would soon become truth. "Everybody calls me Lilah."
September 1, 1989
Park Avenue, New York
"So, sweetie. . ." Ted Morgan said with a cough. "I guess you saw this morning's Times?"
His young wife rolled onto her side and opened one eye. Ted stood there in the bedroom doorway, wringing his hands around the newspaper. Her eye flicked to the clock radio. Two-thirty, and she hadn't moved from the bed except to get another Valium at noon. Her foggy brain tried to figure out what Ted would be doing home, decided on "afternoon delight," and moved her hands down to the waistband of her underwear. Not that leaving the office of the firm named after his great-grandfather in the middle of the day, just for sex, was much like Ted. Still, it proved a man could be trained. Because what was the point of having a trophy wife -- or being one -- without the occasional nooner? "Now honestly, darling," she purred, pulling the duvet aside, "Why on earth would I be reading the Times?"
He didn't smile, didn't even seem to register her naked body, just walked forward and handed her the paper. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes traveled down. "Germany invaded Poland?" she said blankly. No, that was an anniversary column, of course. "I know how it ends, darling. I'm pretty sure the good guys win." Her husband didn't speak. His thumb just slid down the opposite column until she saw the name. "Col. James David Richey, Ret."
Two hours later, she was on a plane to Washington.
*
September 15, 1989
Georgetown, Washington DC
"Stop worrying, Peanut," her father said. That made approximately a thousand times in two weeks.
She crossed her arms and glared. "I'm twenty-two. Don't call me 'Peanut.' And when your name is on the front page of the Times and the Post and the International Herald Fucking Tribune, next to 'scandal' and 'treason' and made up words that end in 'Gate? Your family gets to worry." Lightly she added, "No one will ask me and Ted to the good parties anymore."
"Baby, I'm sorry." His tired eyes widened, as though this were really a worry. Then he shook his head and sat down at the desk. For the first time, she thought her father looked old. "It's being handled."
"By these lawyers?" She picked up the card. "I've never heard of them."
"West Coast firm," he said tersely. "At least, the U.S. branch is."
"So they're not in all this mess?" She said hopefully. "Good. You can be sure they're on your side."
"Sure, Peanut." And at his reassuring smile, her heart sank. She determined to do her homework on this Wolfram and Hart firm. Whoever they were, they were in it, all right.
Speaking of homework. . . She reached in her bag and took out a stack of manila folders. "Here are copies of all the FOIA requests I made, a few precedents I found off Lexis-Nexis and . . ."
"I'll pass them on. Just remember, you're not a lawyer."
Well, thought Beatrice Lillian Richey Morgan, Maybe I should be.
February 15, 1990
Chicago, Illinois
That was a time you could still escape from the twenty-four hour news cycle. It would end, a year later, when the Gulf War went live. A decade after that, everyone who wasn't a purely willful Luddite would have a cell phone on their person at all times. But, on the morning of her interview at the University of Chicago, Beatrice Lillian Richey (she had dropped the 'Morgan,' along with the wedding band and the banker, when Ted dared to suggest she prepare for the possibility that her father might be even partially guilty) didn't have much trouble avoiding the news.
She walked into the admissions office, wearing the very first business suit she had owned in her life, and heard two young secretaries huddled over the day's paper.
"I wonder if he, you know, blew his mind out in a car. Like the guy from the House of Lords, in the song."
"What song?"
"The Beatles, dumbass. Though, really, I bet he did it in his study, with his service revolver. They all watch the same movies."
"What's a service revolver?"
"Unless they had him killed, and we're just supposed to think --."
"Who they?"
"You know. They. The CIA. The Pentagon. The right-wing assholes with the black helicopters. Now they can blame it all on the dead guy."
Beatrice cleared her throat. "I hate to cut into Conspiracy Chat but -- "
"Oh, God, sorry!" Paranoia Girl scrambled for her appointment book. "I'm not a regular here. We're totally understaffed."
"Who died?" Beatrice asked with forced lightness. She had told the hotel not to send her any messages. Now don't get paranoid yourself. They're probably talking about a soap opera.
"Nobody died," the friend answered. "We're just understaffed. Interviews."
Paranoia, understanding the question, spoke at the same time, and it took Beatrice a moment to be certain she wasn't hearing voices in her own head. "James Richey. The guy from the Pentagon that they say --"
Years later, when she recalls the moment, James Richey's daughter wants her throat to be dry, her heart to be racing. Yet all that hit her, in the moment, was a feeling of finality and calm, as though this was a nightmare she had dreamed through, again and again, and finally living it could only be a relief.
"I know who he --" and she didn't even miss a beat " -- was. Well." She smiled. "One less right-wing asshole, hmm?"
"Sorry about the swearing," Paranoia apologized. "The dean is ready to see you, Ms. --" Her eyes widened. "Richey."
"No relation," the man's daughter reassured. "In fact --" She raised her left hand to show a bare finger. "This is a little embarrassing, but you should have gotten an update to the application. I'll be changing all my paperwork back to 'M-O-R-G-A-N.'"
"Right." The girl, now utterly baffled, frowned at the much-altered, handwritten schedule, and read out the middle name by mistake. "First name L-I-L-I-T-H?"
The name's owner opened her mouth to make a correction, but Beatrice-Lillian-Lilith-Morgan-Richey-Morgan no longer felt sure of what or who or where or when she was, except that she felt more like Adam's succubus bitch of an ex (first time around, bad prototype, God started over, made an Eve from scratch, why should she do less?) "Close." She reached over the table, took the secretary's pen, and printed five letters in an order that she liked; letters that, seconds before, had meant nothing but from this day forward, would form a hieroglyphic that stood for her. "There you go." She handed back the pen, and told a lie that would soon become truth. "Everybody calls me Lilah."