Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Turkey, Cameroon, Yemen, and she’s never really sure. Often she’s not told but lives the anguish of knowing that whenever he boards a military transport jet or lands on an aircraft carrier she may never see him again. Her life has been Briggs and nothing but Briggs, and if she doesn’t want someone to access him, that person won’t, including me. Depending on what’s at stake, if he doesn’t want to deal with me directly, it’s Ruthie I hear from.

So I’m accustomed to her mediation, her triangulation, and now and then it tests my patience. But she sounds unusually raw and emotional in the message she’s just left, and I can’t tell if she’s been crying, drinking, is sick or maybe all of the above. I play the voice mail again. Then again, pausing at intervals, listening carefully, trying to determine if something is wrong with her or if she’s simply feeling bad about the reason she’s calling. I’m pretty sure I know what it is. I’ve been expecting it.

“Kay? It’s Ruthie Briggs,” she begins in her slow Virginia drawl, and she sounds tired and congested. “I’m hoping you’ll pick up. Are you there?” she says stuffily. “Hello, Kay?” She clears her throat. “Are you there? I know how busy you are but please pick up. Well when you get this please call me. I want to make sure you’ve been told …”

But her voice is muffled, and then it’s as if she’s swallowed her words and I can scarcely hear her. It occurs to me that she might be holding something, perhaps tissues in front of her face, and that she’s turning away from the phone as she speaks.

“For the next little while I’m at this number, then … Well as you can imagine there’s a lot to do, and I just can’t believe …” Her voice quavers. “… Well please call me as soon as you can.” In her befuddlement she leaves her phone number as if I don’t have it.

And the voice mail abruptly ends.

IF WHAT I SUSPECT has come to pass, there’s no reason for Ruthie to be upset. It couldn’t be helped, and at least the cancellation isn’t as last minute as it could have been.

All along I’ve been primed for getting a call literally right before Briggs and I are supposed to be onstage at the Kennedy School. At least I’ve been given almost twenty-four hours’ notice, and it’s not like I haven’t been warned repeatedly. He’s told me from day one that he might not be able to appear with me tomorrow night. It all depends on the mood at the Pentagon and NASA, he’s said, and he’s apologized in advance for what’s probably just happened.