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I took a deep breath. “Sadie, I want you to listen to me. Very carefully. Are you awake enough to do
that?”
For a moment there was nothing. Then I felt her nod against my upper arm.
“It’s now early Tuesday morning. This standoff is going to go on for another three days. Or maybe
it’s four, I can’t remember.”
“What do you mean, you can’t remember?”
I mean there’s nothing about this in Al’s notes, and my only college class in American History was almost
twenty years ago. It’s amazing I can remember as much as I do.
“We’re going to blockade Cuba, but the only Russian ship we’ll stop won’t have anything in it but
food and trade goods. The Russians are going to bluster, but by Thursday or Friday they’re going to be
scared to death and looking for a way out. One of the big Russian diplomats will initiate a
backchannel meeting with some TV guy.” And seemingly from nowhere, the way crossword puzzle
answers sometimes come to me, I remembered the name. Or almost remembered it. “His name is
John Scolari, or something like that—”
“Scali? Are you talking about John Scali, on the ABC News?”
“Yeah, that’s him. This is going to happen Friday or Saturday, while the rest of the world—
including your ex and your pal from Yale—is just waiting for the word to stick their heads between
their legs and kiss their asses goodbye.”
She heartened me by giggling.
“This Russian will more or less say . . .” Here I did a pretty good Russian accent. I had learned it
listening to Lee’s wife. Also from Boris and Natasha on Rocky and Bullwinkle. “‘Get vurd to your
president that ve vunt vay to back out of this vith honor. You agree take your nuclear missiles out of
Turkey. You promise never to invade Kooba. Ve say okay and dismantle missiles in Kooba.’ And that,
Sadie, is exactly what’s going to happen.”
She wasn’t giggling now. She was staring at me with huge saucer eyes. “You’re making this up to
make me feel better.”
I said nothing.
“You’re not,” she whispered. “You really believe it.”
“Wrong,” I said. “I know it. Big difference.”
“George . . . nobody knows the future.”
“John Clayton claims to know, and you believe him. Roger from Yale claims to know, and you
believe him, too.”
“You’re jealous of him, aren’t you?”
“You’re goddam right.”
“I never slept with him. I never even wanted to.” Solemnly, she added: “I could never sleep with a
man who wears that much cologne.”
“Good to know. I’m still jealous.”
“Should I ask questions about how you—”
“No. I won’t answer them.” I probably shouldn’t have told her as much as I had, but I couldn’t stop
myself. And in truth, I would do it again. “But I will tell you one other thing, and this you can check
yourself in a couple of days. Adlai Stevenson and the Russian representative to the UN are going to
face off in the General Assembly. Stevenson’s going to exhibit huge photos of the missile bases the
Russians are building in Cuba, and ask the Russian guy to explain what the Russians said wasn’t there.
The Russian guy is going to say something like, ‘You must vait, I cannot respond viddout full
translation.’ And Stevenson, who knows the guy can speak perfect English, is going to say something
that’ll wind up in the history books along with ‘don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.’ He’s going
to tell the Russian guy he can wait until hell freezes over.”