Bob changed tactics and honed the fine art of spinning bad news into good—how ALLPower was different from other plants in the country. He would sweeten the plant’s image and reign in the skeptics, a challenge he liked.
He had had plenty of practice. ALLPower purchased the plant a year before Bob was hired. It was a risky deal because the plant was one of the oldest in the country, with faulty, aging components. The company spent millions of dollars on upgrades, but it was an endless chase to fix everything: as one new repair was crossed off the list, something else would break down. Bob became adept at issuing a press release about some malfunction at the plant that read like a straightforward information bulletin. Nothing was wrong, nothing to worry about. We are doing our job and letting everyone know what’s happening. We’re your trusty utility company selling you electricity you can’t live without.
The local newspapers and TV and radio stations reiterated Bob’s press release verbatim, no questions asked. Nuclear power was just too complicated to explain, and if the plant officials said things were okay, they must be okay. Why alarm the public if there was nothing really bad going on?
Schmoozing with local community groups made Bob feel like he was infiltrating the enemy. He ventured out to activist meetings, sometimes anonymously, just to keep tabs on their strategy, if they had one. He was undercover, spying, and even though he hoped to go unnoticed, at times someone would recognize him. On a dime, he jumped into the PR role of the paternal, well-intentioned ALLPower spokesman who was truly involved with his community. What were they were afraid of? What were their concerns? He’d reassure them, make them rest easy.
Bob would surprise the few suddenly disloyal politicians who had padded their campaigns with ALLPower dollars but were now giving lip service to shutting the plant down. He loved to pounce on these guys—in their face, working a handshake that pumped a sardonic edge, his wink more than a subtle reminder of money and political clout.
And then there was the fun, occasional flirting with the women activists. They were way too serious, and he couldn’t help joking about their fears. Did they really know how nuclear power worked and how safe it really was? It was verbal sparring that flexed the muscle of his male prowess.
Between the evening meetings and the regular workday, Bob arrived home late at night and left before dawn. At first Morgan seemed okay with it; the money was good, the sacrifice seemed worth it. She had an independent spirit and would keep busy and stay healthy. She desperately wanted to get pregnant and purposely chose a house in an up-and-coming bedroom community on the other side of the Hudson River to start a family. It was a long commute from the plant, but Bob wanted Morgan to be happy.
Making a baby started out being fun. But it wasn’t as easy as they thought it would be. After two years with an unproductive womb, Morgan became desperate. She checked in with one fertility specialist after another, cursing them for being “useless witch doctors” as successive attempts to help her conceive failed. After a few years of riding the emotional roller coaster of hope and disappointment, the couple’s enthusiasm waned. They pretended it didn’t matter, but secretly each hoped for a miracle. Bob plunged into his work and inwardly wrote off parenthood. Morgan grew unhinged and needy, and tried to balance it with volunteer work for an organization that helped disadvantaged children.
Now, sitting at his desk reading the story about young Kaylee Elery, Bob fought back a sob for the girl and her mother. How impossible parenthood must be. Maybe it was just as well he wasn’t a father. Shaking off the emotion, he checked the memo about the trophy ceremony at the local high school that evening. Secretly he was glad to go to an event that celebrated youth rather than some stuffy gala.
It was afternoon when Lou banged out a rough story about the high school game he would cover later that evening. When the game was over, he would fill in the blanks and file the story just before deadline. It would be a story parents and teachers would jump to, anxious to see a picture of their kids and their name in print. His phone rang.
“Padera here. On deadline. Can I call you back?”
“Have you figured out how that young girl really died?”
A woman’s voice.
“Who is this?”
“Check out stuff leaking from the old nuke plant. That will give you a clue.” Click.
Lou glared at the phone. He quickly punched a code to trace the call, but the number was blocked. What was that about? He returned to his story and wrote some formulaic wrap-up that he could change depending on who won the game. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on his phone, his mind picturing the two plant domes on the river’s edge.
Chapter 4
Diana Chase wiped the tears from her face. She slowly folded up the newspaper and put Jen Elery’s story out of sight. As the assistant principal of an elementary school, she mustn’t be seen crying, especially for the next ten minutes as she greets kids bouncing off the school bus and funneling through the halls to their classrooms.
She regained her composure and pulled a mirror from her desk drawer, swishing back her straight, dark auburn hair from her angular face, her features a striking composite of her Irish mother and her Asian father. Her dark brown eyes were still red and blotchy, nothing some eye drops and a quick brush of mascara wouldn’t fix.
Outside her window, Diana could see the morning procession of school buses pull up the front drive, their yellow hulks casting a golden hue over the brightly lit office. She kept the room sparse. Except for her computer, a neat stack of folders on a file cabinet, and a single shelf of books, Diana allowed herself only a few personal items: a large aquarium by the window for her box turtle and a long, colorful dragon kite arching a far corner near the door. On her desk was a small picture of her shih tzu, Lin, next to a slightly larger, years-old picture of her parents, her mom’s flaming red hair tickling the cheek of her smiling dad.
Diana stood up and did a quick yoga stretch and headed out into the reception area, where she could see directly into the office of the principal, Jane Bigley. Jane hired Diana five years ago, and the two women ran the school like clockwork. Jane was considerably older than the thirty-eight-year-old Diana, and except for butting heads a few times over school policy, they got along. Ultimately, both women were professionally committed to the students; in the great educational complex, the kids came first.
The reception area was large, with two desks for secretaries and one for a receptionist. Two of the desks were empty; one secretary was out on maternity leave and the receptionist had taken early retirement. Diana’s morning station was traffic control in the school lobby; stopping the running and pushing, saying hi to the kids she knew, checking their energy—who was excited, who was sickly, who would get in trouble that day. It was the faces of kids streaming past her each morning that inspired Diana and fueled her dedication.
“Hey, Jimmy! Remember your lunch today?”
“Sure did, Ms. Chase!”
“Don’t drop your violin, Meghan!”
“I got it, Ms. Chase.”
As the parade thinned out, Ricky Elery walked in, his gait slow, eyes to the floor. Diana fought the tears and looked away. Suddenly Jane was by her side and stepped up to the boy.
“Hi, Ricky. Are you competing in the fifth grade readathon this month?”
“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Bigley. No. I’m just not up to it this time.”
He looked at Jane and Diana, sensing their pity.
“See ya,” he said, turning toward the stairs to his second-floor classroom.
Diana turned to Jane.