Ask Aunt Agatha

That really came in handy the day we received an email from a younger reader.Dear Aunt Agatha, I'm fourteen years old and I don't know who else to turn to. My friends and I have been sniffing gasoline to get high. At first it felt kind of good, but then I started throwing up and now I often feel really dizzy. I'm scared and I don't know what to do. My Mom and Dad told me they'd send me away if they ever caught me messing with drugs or anything. Please help.
Alone in Alexandria

"How damned stupid can parents get?" I raged when Mandy showed me the email. "Their daughter could have serious medical problems and they've cut off all lines of communication with her."

Then another scary thought occurred to me. "What if she's in really serious shape? We can't wait to post a response in the paper. There has to be some way to get to her right away."

Mandy quickly gave me a dose of reality. "We don't have her phone number or address, and the email account she used was almost certainly fictitious."

"There just has to be some way to find out who she is and where she lives," I replied in frustration. "You do some research to find out where this girl needs to go for help, while I go talk to Amir. Maybe he knows some way we can reach her."

Amir was our in-house techie. If there was something he didn't know about networks, computers and the Internet, no one had yet to find it. When I tracked him down and explained the situation to him, he scratched his head in contemplation. "That's a tough one," he said. "Email typically goes through so many servers that the original point of origin is virtually impossible to find. But I've got a good friend who works at the NSA; if anyone can do it, they can."

I urged him to do whatever he could to help and went back to see how Mandy was doing. She'd found a free clinic in the Alexandria area that specialized in working with teens with substance abuse problems. Realizing we weren't likely to find our fourteen-year-old's location right away, we decided the best we could do was reply to her email and hope that "Alone" would check her mailbox and see Aunt Agatha's answer. Then we ran the same answer in the newspaper as a back-up. All we could do now was hope she saw one of them and got help before it was too late.

Nothing happened for the next two days, and both Mandy and I were pretty depressed. Then everything happened at once. Amir came bounding in waving a sheet of paper in his hand. "I've got it!" he said excitedly. "My buddy came through."

No sooner had he given me "Alone's" home email address than Mandy came in holding a print-out. "She got your advice," she yelled, and we quickly read the email.Dear Aunt Agatha, I went to the place you recommended and they helped me a lot. I stopped throwing up and I'm not dizzy now. In fact, I'm feeling so much better that I'm going to try to convince my friends not to use heroin any more. Thanx!
Not Alone in Alexandria.

I just looked at Mandy and shook my head. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at this latest development. "But at least we got to her," Mandy reassured me. "At least your column is doing a little good." I hoped that she was right.

A few weeks later, the boss came in my office, his usual scowl pasted on his face. "I don't know if you're good, kid, but you're definitely the luckiest sonofabitch I know."

I'd come to expect such outbursts by now, so I just looked up and said, "Okay, what have I done now?"

"For reasons I can't understand, your little piss-and-moan column has attracted a lot of attention. Your readership numbers are going through the roof, and some other papers apparently caught wind of it. The bottom line is that your silly column is going to go into syndication. As soon as the paper's attorneys can work out the details, a dozen other papers around the country are going to start running Ask Aunt Agatha!"

As I sat there stunned, Mandy walked in and asked the big question: "What about the money?"

The boss just rolled his eyes. "We got a very clear policy on that: any writer whose work is syndicated splits the revenues fifty-fifty with the paper," he explained with a pained expression. "If you can keep it up, you're about to start making the kind of money normally reserved for the big boys."

Many squealed and through her arms around my neck. We were both yelling and dancing around the room while the boss looked on in disgust. After he left the office, Mandy gave me a big kiss on the cheek and said, "Oh, Casey, congratulations! This is so wonderful. I always knew you were special!"

"We're a team," I told her. "I couldn't have done this without you."

She smiled and gave me another kiss. "You're sweet to say that, but you were the one who took chances and shook things up. You were the one who put your stamp on the column. And you're the one who deserves all the success you're going to get."

I was so excited on the way home that I couldn't wait to tell Nicky the good news. But she was very late getting home, and when she finally arrived, all she wanted to talk about was her Congressman boss. It seemed that the party was actively looking for a new face for the upcoming convention, and Congressman Clean's name was being noised about as vice-presidential material. Nicky kept going on and on about what a wonderful VP he would make and the role she would have in his campaign.

I tried to listen with interest, but I was beginning to feel like a second violin in Nicky's orchestra. "Hey," I said, only half-joking, "don't forget about me while you're making all your plans."

She gave a little flip of her hand. "You're just a copy editor," she said dismissively. "He's going for the gold. He could be President of the United States some day."

She must have seen the reaction on my face, because she quickly tried to make amends for what she'd said, "I mean, I'm sure what you do is important to the paper, but after all, it's not likely to wind up in the history books."

That really hurt, and I turned to walk away before I said something ugly. She reached out to stop me, but before she could do so her phone rang. When she answered, it was someone from the Congressman's office, and she was soon caught up in the conversation.

I went outside and took a long walk around our neighborhood. I realized, of course, that what she'd said was true. If her Congressman actually did actually make it to the White House, he would become famous, and deservedly so. But that didn't give her the right to disparage her husband the way she had.

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that Nicky's respect for me had noticeably declined ever since she moved into the Congressman's inner circle. I could understand her enthusiasm for her job, but not her lack of enthusiasm for her husband. Given the way she thought about me, I decided to say nothing to her about my syndication. After all, it might be several months before the deal was finalized, and even then it still wouldn't be as exciting to Nicky as a vice-presidential nomination for her boss.

When I returned from my walk, Nicky tried to act like nothing had happened, but we were polite rather than loving towards each other.

No matter how unhappy I might be about the state of my marriage, I still had a column to put out every day. But it was inevitable that my home life would leak over into my work. I found a hopelessly romantic email in the inbox a few days later, and, in my sour mood, I decided to come down hard on the writer.Dear Aunt Agatha, I've fallen in love with a wonderful guy at my office. He's smart and funny and caring, not to mention good-looking. The only trouble is he's married. Should I tell him how I really feel about him?
His Secret Admirer

Dear Secret Admirer, read my lips: keep your feelings to yourself. No matter how true your love, you don't have the right to mess with this guy's marriage. Unless and until he becomes single, you're going to have to keep your feelings to yourself. If that's too painful for you, find another job.

Aunt Agatha caught a little grief from the romantics in her audience who wanted to give the secret admirer a chance, but I'd had enough of outsiders messing with marriages at that point, and wasn't about to back down.

Conditions at home continued to deteriorate. Nicky's work kept keeping her later and later at the office, and her travel increased so much that the only way I'd know when she'd be home was by checking the copy of her itinerary that she'd leave in the home office. She was constantly jetting off with the Congressman to attend fundraisers or participate in strategy sessions with party sages. When she did manage to come home, she was so worn out that she did little besides sleep and eat. And when I say sleep, I mean just that; any other bedtime activities became very rare indeed.

As if my married life weren't dour enough, things started going downhill at the office as well. Mandy, who'd always been the most cheerful and upbeat person I knew, suddenly went into a funk. It was clear to me that something was eating on her, but no matter how hard I tried, she wouldn't open up and let me try to help. I thought it was pretty ironic that I could help strangers but not someone I knew and cared about.

Between Nicky's coldness and Mandy's blues, my days became pretty stressful affairs. I turned into a bit of a curmudgeon myself, and I'm ashamed to admit that I even snapped at Mandy once or twice. I didn't mean anything by it, but I guess my remarks must have had a bigger impact than I realized, because one morning she walked into my office and laid her letter of resignation on my desk.

"You can't do this, Mandy," I said in a panic. "You know I didn't mean those things I said the other day. Please forgive me and stay. I need you."

"What you said didn't bother me, Casey. I knew you weren't trying to hurt me."

"Then don't go," I said hastily. "If you can forgive me, then please stay."

I saw her waver for just a moment, but then a look of determination washed over her face. "I'm sorry, Casey, but I just have to go. It's better this way."

And before I could protest or think of some clever argument that might persuade her to change her mind, she turned on her heel and left.

I wanted to cry. Why were all the women in my life pulling away from me?

That afternoon I tried to call her at home to see if I could talk her into coming back, only to find that she'd moved out and disconnected her phone. Her cell had been cancelled as well. In fact, when I asked around, I found that neither Human Resources nor any of her friends knew where she was. Damn!

With Mandy gone, I began to appreciate even more how much she had done to make our little operation work effectively. HR got me a temp to help with the administrative work, but the guy they found was no help at all as far as making decisions about the column. And as for replacing the friendship and camaraderie I'd had with Mandy, forget about it. Damn!

Then something happened that was so bizarre I forgot about Mandy temporarily. One day an email came into Aunt Agatha's account that really set my teeth on edge.Dear Aunt Agatha, my husband is a nice guy, but he's never going to go very far. In the meantime, I've gotten into a hot relationship with a man who's destined for great things. Now that I've got a chance to trade up, I'm not going to pass it up. Any suggestions on how to break the news to my soon-to-be-ex?
Going for the Gold

At first I prepared a snarky response and put it in my file of items to run next week. But something about the wording of the email sparked a memory, and I pulled it out to look at it again. After a couple of minutes I took a walk to the other end of the floor.

"Hey, Amir," I greeted my friend, "any chance your buddy at the NSA could track down another message?"

"Is it important?" he asked me. "I hate to bother him with trivial stuff."

"If I'm right, it could be very important," I told him.

A couple of days later, Amir walked into my office with a big smile on his face. "Ask of Amir and it shall be granted," he said grandiosely. "My buddy found the source of your mystery correspondent. It was sent from an account in Bethesda." He handed it to me. "Here's the billing address for the account. Mean anything to you?"

I looked at it. Oh, yes, it meant something to me. It was my home address.

I couldn't believe that Nicky could have been so stupid as to send an email like that to an advice column. But then I didn't know why any of the writers would seek the advice of a total stranger. More importantly, I couldn't believe Nicky would be so stupid as to have an affair with Congressman Clean, or vice versa, for that matter. He was supposed to be happily married, and worse, he had built his whole image around family values and morality. Now he and my wife were cavorting together on the campaign trail? What hypocrisy on his part; what treachery on hers!

My anger grew with every passing second. So she was going to dump me unceremoniously to trade up for another man? Whatever happened to "for richer, for poorer, forsaking all others," and all those other vows? I knew at some point down the line I was headed for a spell of deep depression, but right now the only emotion I felt was a thirst for payback. I thought about it for a while, and then I made my decision.

My first step was to pay a visit to Sam Winston. Sam was the newspaper's chief political writer. He was an old pro who knew his way around Washington very well indeed. He'd been very kind to me when I first came on board, helping me learn the ways of the news room.

"What can I do for you, young Casey?" he asked with a smile when he saw me.

"Actually, I may be able to do something for you this time, Sam," I told him. "What would you say if I could give you a story on Congressman Clean's secret love life with one his aides?"

"A story like that could be worth a Pulitzer prize," he said. Then he gave me a wolfish grin. "But even if it wasn't, I'd still love the chance to expose the feet of clay of that sanctimonious hypocrite!"

Then his face got serious. "So what makes you think the good Congressman is doing the dirty with one of his aides?"

I looked at him evenly. "Because the aide he's doing is my wife."

He blinked. But when he saw that I was serious, he leaned forward and gave me an intense look. "Let's talk," he said.

Catching your everyday adulterer is fairly easy; they tend to be unimaginative and careless. Catching an elected official is a different matter. Office holders are usually already under a degree of public scrutiny, so they tend to be more devious. But a newspaper has considerable resources at its disposal once it decides it's worth it to use them. And after Sam made his pitch to the Managing Editor, all those resources were put at his disposal.

I wasn't part of the investigative team for obvious reasons, but I was able to jumpstart Sam's efforts to document the Congressman's peccadilloes because I had Nicky's daily schedule. "Follow Nicky" I told Sam, "and you'll find the Congressman there."

Sure enough, two weeks later Sam came into my office and closed the door behind him. "We got him," he said, when I looked at him inquiringly. "'Congressman Clean' has definitely been doing the dirty with your wife."

I think that deep inside I had harbored some hope that this was all a misunderstanding and that everything could miraculously go back to the way it was. But after Sam's words, I knew that possibility was gone. Hope dies hard; when it does, I discovered it's replaced by bitterness.

"When are you going to lower the hammer?" I asked. "How soon do I need to get my divorce in the works?"

"Don't worry," he said, "you've got time. We need to get some more on Congressman Vickers so we can show conclusively that this is a pattern of behavior, not just a one-time thing. And we also want to wait till it's closer to the nominating convention because the impact will be greater then." Sam smiled but his eyes got harder. "I hate hypocrites. When the Congressman goes down, he's going to go down hard."

I felt an involuntary shudder, and I almost felt a little sorry for what was going to happen to Nicky at the same time. Almost.

If my marriage had been strained before, it now became icy. Nicky was almost never home, and when she did make an appearance we acted more like roommates than spouses. Tellingly, Nicky never even noticed the absence of intimacy. Her thoughts were clearly someplace else and on someone else, I thought.

Like Nicky, I was spending ever more time at the office. Work was the only escape I had from my pain. But even there I couldn't find relief because everything in the office kept reminding me of Mandy. I would have given anything to be able to unburden myself about my troubles to her sympathetic ears and ask her advice. But it was as if she had vanished from the planet; no one seemed to know where she had gone or how to reach her. I felt terribly guilty about the role my surliness might have played in driving her away.

In the office I deliberately avoided Sam Winston's area. I was intensely curious about what was happening, but I figured the last thing he needed was a pathetic cuckold pestering him with questions. Nevertheless, as the convention drew nearer and talk about Congressman Vickers' chances for the VP slot heated up, I was dying to know how Sam's investigation was going. So it came as a relief when Sam called me one Monday and asked me to come over to the conference room in his area.

When I walked in, he motioned me to close the door behind me. "It's all going to go down in the next few days," he told me. "He's going to be staying at the Hay-Adams hotel on Wednesday night, and we're going to confront him on Thursday morning. The story will hit the paper on Friday morning, and then all hell is going to break loose."

At that point, all I felt was relief. My sham of a marriage was finally about to come to an end and I could quit pretending to my friends and family that everything was alright between Nicky and me.

"There's something that I think you need to hear," Sam said, breaking my little reverie. "We managed to book the hotel room adjoining your wife's room a week ago. We've got some new recording devices that are extremely sensitive, and the two of them weren't particularly discrete."

He gestured to the MP3 player on the table, then got up and left the room.

As I put the headphones on, I steeled myself to hearing the equivalent of an amateur porn session starring my wife. What I heard was a little different.

Oh, there was plenty of sex with all the grunting and moaning you'd expect. But what really struck me was how needy the Congressman was and how Nicky kept trying to reassure him.

"I'm much bigger than your husband, aren't I?" he demanded at one point.

"Oh, yes," she purred, "you're twice as big as he is." ("Yeah, right," I thought, "the dude has a footlong cock? I don't think so.")

"Tell me how much better I am than Casey," he ordered her. "He never made you feel the way I do, did he?"

"He never came close, baby," she kept reassuring him. "You're the best I've ever had." ("Wow," I thought, "can this guy really be that insecure?")

But the most telling thing came later. After extended foreplay -- which apparently consisted of her sucking his cock and stroking his ego -- he climbed on top and began to pump away. "Oh, yes, baby," she moaned, "you're so good, you do me so well, oh, oh, oh!"

I was astonished: she'd faked her orgasm! I knew what she sounded like when I got her off, and that wasn't it. Sam wouldn't have needed sophisticated listening devices if Nicky had really reached her peak.

At first I felt a little masculine pride that the Congressman was such a pathetic lover. But after thinking about it, I felt even worse. Nicky wasn't dumping me because she'd found a lover who sent her into ecstasy, she was leaving because she'd found a ticket to her own dream. "She doesn't love this guy," I realized, "she wants to be the First Lady." How could I have ever loved such a flawed, selfish woman? My bitterness hardened: I was glad I'd soon be ending my marriage.