Using every ounce of phony confidence I can muster, I take a seat in one of Kevin’s fake leather guest chairs. “Do you love it?” I ask, deciding on my tactics. “I mean, do you love it?”
Susannah looks baffled, hearing her own favorite saying tossed back at her. Take that, consultant girl. Her forehead doesn’t even twitch as she tries to frown. I decide to think about that later.
“Seems to me that Oz doth protest too much,” I say. “You think if he wasn’t nervous about the outcome, he’d call you like that? I mean, for someone to call a major market news director, essentially threaten him? Only one reason for that.” I hold up a finger. “Big fear. And that means there’s a big story. Correct?”
This started out as a gambit to take their minds off the specter of the FCC. But as I warm to my theory, I realize I’m right. Why would Oz care so much, if he didn’t think we were sniffing around something he was trying to keep quiet?
Kevin leans back in this chair, crosses one ankle over a knee. He swivels, just a few degrees each way, just enough to register there’s some thought process occurring, then turns to Susannah, silently questioning. Continuing the pantomime, she shrugs.
“See?” I persist. “It makes our story bigger. I’m certain of it. Just let Franklin and me keep going. And there’s more.” I quickly sketch out my theory about Gaylen.
“So your move, obviously, is either to ignore that phone call-” I cock my head toward the phone “-or to call him back and say we’re still in a research phase. Say we always get both sides of the story, we’re eager to do an interview with him when the time comes, and we’ll stand behind whatever we put on the air.” I pause, gauging whether Kevin and Susannah realize the logic of this. Am I the only one in the room thinking about journalism?
Kevin nods. “First amendment. Freedom of the press. Justice.” He rubs his chin, probably trying to channel Edward R. Murrow.
What would Ed do? I send Kevin messages via ESP, and cross my fingers under my suit jacket.
“Two weeks,” Kevin says. He shoots his silver cuff-linked wrists, his engraved initials glistening in the pin-spotted track lights. “You’re on the air in two weeks.”
“GAYLEN’S DISAPPEARED, according to everyone I talked to.” Franklin’s flipping through his spiral notebook as we regroup in our office. He’s just back from this morning’s round of interviews up north. I’ve filled him in on the news director’s ultimatum and both of us are feeling the pressure to produce.
“Question one,” says Franklin. “Was CC her father? Here’s a quote from Myra Matzenbrenner-‘That’s what we all thought.’ And when I asked whether she had any idea where Gaylen went, she said, ‘The girl changed her name and left town.’ That’s the Swampscott scuttlebutt, anyway. As Myra put it, ‘You wouldn’t want to be seen on the streets every day as the girl whose mother killed her father.’” Franklin lifts an eyebrow as he reads from the page. “Then Myra goes, ‘If he was her father.’”
He flips his notebook closed. “She says CC died when Gaylen was about ten. Apparently Dorinda got a phone call from the Navy or whatever, informing her. So that meant CC was out of their lives for good, father or not.”
“But she doesn’t know where Gaylen is now, bottom line,” I say.
“Right,” Franklin answers.
I think back. “Wonder if Poppy Morency knows,” I say, slowly. “Wonder who gets the money if the house sells.”
“Wonder if Tek knows, or Oz,” Franklin says. “They have ‘ways’ of finding people, right? Gaylen was there the night of the murder, obviously. You’d think they might keep track of her.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that now, call Oz and ask.” I put on an ingenue face, and perform my fantasy question to the attorney general. “We’re thinking you all put the wrong person in prison? And, oh by the way, do you guys know where Gaylen is hanging out these days?” I give Franklin a thumbs-up. “That’ll do it. The A.G. will be delighted to help us on this story. Maybe even send Tek over to consult.”
“You know, it’s Tek I’ve been thinking about,” Franklin says. “Did you ever get that witness list he was supposed to send? And that day in the archives-”
My phone rings. I should let it go to voice mail so we can plan the rest of our day, but I can’t resist a ringing phone.
“McNally, News,” I say, yanking a stubborn snarl out of my irritatingly twisted phone cord. Then, suddenly the tangle doesn’t matter.
“Hi, Will,” I say. The sound of his voice makes me sit up straight. My future may depend on this phone call. I look at Franklin, and silently mouth the name, Will.
Franklin holds up both hands, showing me crossed fingers.
Then, as Will begins to list details of what’s necessary to visit MCI-Framingham women’s prison, I grab a pencil and scrawl out the news.
It only takes one word.
YES.
“SO DORINDA KEELER SWEENEY said yes,” I say, closing the door to Mom’s room behind me. “Suddenly the world is a happier place.” Holding a mammoth bunch of starkly white tulips in one arm, I lean over and give Mom a quick kiss on her still-bandaged forehead. “How are you, Moms? Didn’t they say you should be feeling better by now?” I peel away the slick brown paper from around the flowers and scout for a vase.
“Our family heals slowly,” Mom says. “And Dr. Garth is annoyed with me for walking too much. Apparently that’s aggravated my tummy incision, or some such. It’s not closing up quite properly.” She pushes a button on the console beside her bed and a humming motor sits her up little higher. She winces at the motion, a flash of pain crossing her face.
I see her eyelids flutter and I take a step to help, but she waves me away.
“I’m fine, dear. I just keep taking my pills. And I just keep thinking it’ll be worth it, when Ethan and I are sunning our newlywed selves in the Islands, and I’m happy in a bathing suit for the first time in thirty years.” She pauses, considering. “Twenty years. And there’s a vase in the bathroom.”
I arrange the waxy white tulips, their graceful stems and pointed green leaves, in a tall crystal vase as Mom prattles through the latest on her wedding plans. Peonies, Pachelbel, shrimp, choosing someone to officiate. I’m still focused on my Dorinda news. For a day that began inauspiciously in Kevin’s office, things are looking up in Charlie world.
“…and of course, your dress,” Mom is saying. She points to a pile of glossy magazines on one of the nightstands. “And don’t you think I’m right about the leopard-striped leggings and the marabou feather mules?”
“Huh?” I answer. I’ve been faking my half of the conversation with “mmm-hmm” while I think about my Dorinda interview.
“You’re not listening to me, Charlotte dear,” Mom says. She points an accusing finger, trailing her heart monitor wires like some gothic jewelry, but I can see a twinkle in her eye. “Are you thinking about your story? You’re just like your father. I could always tell, back then, when he was off in his own world, wishing he was pounding on that old typewriter of his. Or interviewing some ne’er do well.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. A wave of affection-and memories-suddenly and surprisingly makes my eyes a little misty. I see Dad’s face, his black-framed glasses perched on his head, pencil tucked behind his ear. I thought it was “dorky” at the time. None of the other kid’s fathers wore a pencil. Now I often put one in just the same place, and think of him whenever I use it. I wish he knew that.
“Do you miss him?” I ask.
“Of course, I do, dear.” Mom reaches out a hand, as if I’m the one who needs to be comforted. “Your dad will always be part of me. Close to me. When he died, I was…well, I tried to be strong for you and Nora. Being someone’s mother, that’s a full-time job. It doesn’t stop for disaster. Or when your children grow up.” She smoothes the pink-and-white checked quilt that covers her, almost up to her chin. “You girls, you helped me through it. There were times when I-” She stops. “How did we get on this subject?”