Alexandra Waring (42 page)

Sitting next to the director was the technical director, who operated the video switcher, a vast array of banks, buses, buttons, knobs and fader bars with which he or she carried out the director’s every visual command. As the audio engineer was responsible for all sound, the technical director was responsible for all visuals, including special effects.

The assistant director, also sitting at the long desk, kept track of time and—

At this point the little tour group turned around to look at the Petersons, between whom a furious bout of whispers had broken out. Langley, looking embarrassed, murmured apologies, and then Belinda, looking pale and glassy-eyed, threw her arm out, saying (in a voice far too loud), “We’re reeeal sorry. Yah just go on and we’ll be as quiet as mice back here.”

Cassy led the group into the studio, where the crews had already pushed back the audience seating for “The Jessica Wright Show” and had closed off Studio B. Jessica’s living-room set was dark; but here, on the other side of the studio, the work lights were on for the three connecting sets for DBS News: Alexandra’s set, the in-studio correspondents’ set, and the weather stand-up set.

Cassy asked them to take special note of the background of Alexandra’s set

“Take note of what?” Belinda Peterson said, too loudly again, making everyone look at her again. “Oh, stop it, Langley!” she said, shaking his hand off her arm. Langley looked as though he wanted to die. “Thank you,” Belinda said, turning back to Cassy and plunking one hand on her hip. “Now what were you saying?”

Cassy repeated that she wished them to take special note of Alexandra’s set because over the course of the newscast it would appear to change. Their video switcher—which they had seen in the control room—could make the color of the set absorb the image of another video signal, so that they could, for example, make Alexandra and her desk appear to be sitting in front of the newsroom—which was, as they could see, actually way over there.

“I’ll do whatever I want!” Belinda said to Langley. “I own the place, don’t I?”

Everyone in the studio—Cassy, the tour group, stagehands, technicians—fell silent.

Langley said something to Belinda, trying to pull her to the side. I’m sorry,” he said to Cassy, “she’s not feeling very well.”

“If I’m sick, then ids—isss because, because…” Belinda said, her voice trailing off. Belinda did not look at all well now. She brought her hand up to her face and Langley rushed to her side, and this time she did not object to his holding her.

“Bozzy,” Cassy said, waving him over. “Show them the sets and then take them back to the newsroom, okay? I’ll see you back there,” she added to the group, walking over to Langley and Belinda.

“I’m sorr—” Belinda was mumbling, slumping against Langley. “I don’t know whaddatiz.”

“Let’s take her to one of the dressing rooms,” Cassy murmured, taking her other side.

“Id must be da flu,” Belinda said, slurring badly.

Kyle appeared out of nowhere. “Cass?”

“Doctor,” Cassy whispered to him.

“No,” Langley said, leading them along. “It’s okay. It’s happened before, it’ll pass.”

“Lang?” Belinda said, her voice sounding weak.

“I’m right here, honey,” he whispered. “Just walk with me. We’re just going to go somewhere you can lie down for a little while.”

“Lang?” she said again, sighing. Her eyes were closed, her head resting against Langley’s shoulder and she was—

If Cassy was not mistaken—and she wasn’t because she was four inches from Belinda’s face—Belinda was
smiling
. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Belinda was drunk. “Is she diabetic?” she asked Langley as they came through the studio doors into the corridor.

“No, but it’s sort of like that,” Langley said.

“You better get Jackson,” Cassy said to Kyle.

“Yeah,” he said, bounding off.

They took Belinda into one of the spare dressing rooms and laid her down on the open-back couch in it. Langley sat on the edge, holding his wife’s hand, and by the time Cassy came out of the bathroom with a glass of water for her, Belinda was asleep.

“She’ll be okay now,” Langley whispered, gently brushing the hair back off Belinda’s forehead with his hand.

“I’d feel better if we had a doctor take a look at her,” Cassy whispered, putting the water down on the dressing table.

Langley looked up at her. “It’s a nervous condition. She has these, uh, periods
…
”

Cassy was about to say, “Like what, schizophrenia?” but thought better of it.

“It’s something like manic depression,” he continued, looking back down at his wife and taking her hand. She murmured something, moving slightly, and then was still again, breathing peacefully. “But it’s not. She’s seen a lot of doctors, they’ve done blood workups and everything, but she’s not manic-depressive, they say. It’s not like that.”

The door opened and Jackson came in. “Is she all right?” he whispered, going to her.

“Yes, she’s okay,” Langley said.

Jackson went down on his knees next to the couch, by Belinda’s head. “Baby B, are you okay?” he whispered.

Belinda murmured something and turned over on her side, away from them, tucking her hands under her head to use as a pillow.

“She’ll be fine,” Langley said, looking at his watch. “She’ll sleep, for about a half hour or so, and then I’ll take her home.”

Jackson looked up at him, bit his lower lip, patted the side of Langley’s knee twice and got up. “Anything I can do?”

“Call outside and tell them to have the car ready,” Langley said. “Other than that, no. I’m just going to sit here with her. She’ll be fine.” He turned to look at Cassy. “You won’t need me tonight, will you?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” she said, stepping closer and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I just wish I could do something for you. Call a doctor…”

“You could just go back to work,” he suggested, smiling slightly. “You know—the show must go on and all that.”

Cassy looked down at him-at his worried face behind those serious glasses—and, before she thought about it, leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “If you need anything, call us here. You know to do that, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Thanks.” He looked to Jackson. “Just leave us, Jack.

She’ll be fine now.”

Jackson nodded and then looked over at Cassy. He gestured to the door; she walked over to it, went outside and he followed. Closing the door behind him, Jackson turned to her. Then he sighed, fell against the wall and stayed there, looking into her eyes. “Well,” he finally said in a low voice, averting his eyes then, “now you know one of our many family secrets.”

“How long?” she murmured, so that no one passing by could hear.

“Hmmm?” he said, looking back at her.

“How long has she
…
?”

He bit his lip, looking somewhere past her, thinking. “I don’t know—on and off, I guess, about five years or so.” He met her eyes. “It could have been earlier. I wouldn’t have known—there was a period I wasn’t around much.”

She didn’t say anything.

He sighed abruptly, looking back at the door. He blinked several times in rapid succession, swallowed and then looked at her again. “My sister Cordie says it might have started when my wife died. My wife, Barbara. She and Belinda were real close. And then I wasn’t there for a while.” He looked away, eyes following an intern going by. “We don’t do well with death in our family. None of us.” Then he took a breath, looked as though he might say something else—but didn’t. He just yanked at his tie, pulling it loose as though it were strangling him.

“Come on,” Cassy said, touching his arm. “Why don’t you come to the newsroom with me? We’ll call for his car from there.”

“No,” he said, stopping. “If you wouldn’t mind—would you call? I think I better stick around here.”

“Sure,” she said, lowering her arm.

“Thanks,” Jackson said.

They stood there, looking at each other.

“Okay,” Cassy finally said, touching his arm again for a moment and then walking on.

“Cassy?” he called a second later.

She turned around.

“Later—” He stopped, looking around at all the people coming and in the hall. He walked over to her.“Later—do you think I could watch the newscast from the control room with you? If I promise—”

“Of course,” Cassy said quickly. She smiled. “And I would really like it if you did.”

His face brightened and he ran his hand over his jaw once, backing away. “Great,” he said. “I’ll see you later then.”

“Later,” Cassy said, smiling still. And then she turned around and walked briskly down the hall, wondering if her face was as red as it felt.

30
DBS Unveiled
Part VI- Alexandra

After she had escorted Jessica to the studio for her show, Alexandra attended the editorial meeting, at which they finalized the story lineup for the newscast. It was a holiday and there was not much hard news, certainly not domestically, but they had expected that and so, as planned, each of the in-house specialty correspondents would get on tonight. When the meeting was over Alexandra went out into the newsroom with Dan, the senior news editor, and Kyle, talked with some of the producers and writers, and then she went over into the corner with her notes, sat down at a computer terminal and worked on the copy she would be reading on the major stories, and read through all the copy filed by other correspondents and writers thus far.

When she was finished she went to the satellite room to see what kind of Memorial Day footage they were getting in from the affiliates to make a closing piece for their “elder statesman” and editor-at-large, Chester Hanacker, to do. And then, at Chester’s request, she joined him and Hex and a segment producer in editing to work on the piece, and when they had a good sense of it she went back to the newsroom with Chester to bang out some notes. Then Alexandra passed the notes—and Chester—on to Shelley, one of the writers. Someone handed her a copy of the newscast rundown sheet on her way out, and Alexandra took it with her into her dressing room. Later, as she scooted across the hall to makeup, Kyle intercepted her, giving her a revised rundown sheet and pointing out some changes.

A few minutes before eight Alexandra walked into the studio and took her seat on the set. A script was waiting for her there. On the connecting set, an inverted V-shaped desk for two (which they could use for in-house correspondent reports or as the setting for in-studio interviews), the government and politics correspondent, John Knox Norwood, and the sports editor, Dash Tomlinson, were sitting. On the third connecting set, sitting at a small desk, next to which was the large blank wall of the set, was Gary Plains, the meteorologist. Sitting in chairs just off the sets were Dr. Helen Kai Lu, their health and science editor; Paul Levitz, their business and economics editor; Brooks Bayerson Ames, their razzle-dazzle arts and entertainment correspondent; and, finally, their editor-at-large, Chester. They ran through sound and lighting checks. They ran through the transitions, the openings and closings. Okay. Okay. Okay. Everybody knew where to go and how. Everybody could read the TelePrompTers okay. Everybody could see the program monitors okay. Everything
is
okay, right?

At eight thirty-eight Alexandra took off her microphone, stepped down off the set and walked to the newsroom. She opened the door and stood there, smiling.

If Alexandra Waring was beautiful, then she was never more so than at that moment—when the clocks hit 8:39 P.M. on Monday, May 30, 1988—standing in the doorway in a soft blue-gray dress that matched the color of her eyes. All activity in the newsroom momentarily stopped.

“I think it’s going to be wonderful,” she said.

And then all newsroom activity resumed and Alexandra walked out, closing the door behind her, going back into the studio to take her place on the set.

“Ten minutes to air,” Lilly, the floor manager, said, hearing the cue from the control room through her headset.

The studio work lights went out.

Alexandra sat down at her desk. Her microphone was reattached and a small beige earphone was inserted into her right ear. A glass of water was brought to her, which she took a sip of and then placed on a small shelf down under her desk. Cleo touched her up with some powder and blush, fiddled a little with her hair, and then held a mirror for her as Alexandra applied fresh lipstick. An assistant leaped onto the set, exchanging a page of her script with a new one, which Alexandra scanned before stacking her copy neatly in front of her.

“Dick says no more running around,” Lilly told her. “They need another sound level.”

“
‘We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union,
’
” Alexandra said, picking up her pen and twiddling it,
“
‘establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the—
’
”

“Okay,” Lilly said, making a cutting motion under her neck.

“Yes,” Alexandra then said, smiling, holding her hand up to her right ear, “I can hear you fine, Kyle. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s only when you say things I don’t want to hear that the earpiece doesn’t work.”

“Five minutes to air, five minutes to air,” Lilly announced.

Cassy walked out of the darkness, stepped up into the glare of lights on the set and leaned over Alexandra’s desk, smiling. “Feel good to be back at work?”

Alexandra’s smile was a very happy one. “Sure does.”

Cassy nodded, still smiling. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Alexandra said.

Cassy stepped down and disappeared into the darkness. Alexandra lowered her eyes to her copy, quickly flicking through the pages.

Time passed, time signals were given. Kyle flew in, said something to Dash on set 2, and then flew out again.

“Two minutes to air, two minutes to air,” Lilly announced, moving over by the middle camera that was facing Alexandra. “Quiet on the set!” And then she added, in a quieter voice, “We’re going to open on 2, Alexandra,” pointing to the camera beside her.

Alexandra nodded, gathered her copy together, tapped it in line on the desk, and then placed it down flat in front of her. She moved her pen an inch to the side and left it there. Then she took a very slow, deep breath, drawing the air in through her nose, clasped her hands in front of her on the desk, pulled herself up tall in her chair and leaned forward slightly, closing her eyes and slowly letting out the breath. Then her eyes opened.

“One minute to air, one minute!” Lilly said, holding her index finger high in the air.

The studio was dark, the lights on the set brilliant. Alexandra’s earrings sparkled, as did her eyes. She unclasped her hands, settling them on the desk on either side of her copy.

“Forty-five seconds,” Lilly said. “We open on 2.”

Alexandra’s eyes glanced at the program monitor—on it was some sort of commercial—and looked back at camera 2, over the lens of which her copy could be seen on the TelePrompTer.

“Thirty seconds,” Lilly said.

On set 3, Gary dropped his pointer and it clattered off his desk, off the set and down onto the studio floor. “Shit,” he said.

Alexandra did not blink.

“Twenty seconds,” Lilly said. She was facing Alexandra, standing by camera 2, pointing at it with her left hand and holding her right arm straight up in the air. “Fifteen seconds—stand by.”

Through the headsets of the camera operators they could hear a lot of verbal action going on in the control room. On the monitor there was a station I.D. running for WST, the New York affiliate.

“Ten—nine—eight—” Lilly said.

Alexandra’s eyes moved to the monitor and then back to the TelePrompTer over camera 2.

“—seven—six—five—four—three,” Lilly said.

The studio was silent.

Alexandra’s eyes were on camera 2.

On the monitor, unfolding in eerie silence, was the opening. The screen was black and then a blue dot appeared, growing brighter, which then started to move as a line, quickly outlining the continental United States, Hawaii and Alaska. Seventy-three red dots appeared within them and then suddenly each red dot sent a white line streaking toward New York and when they met there was a flash of white light, clearing to show the full-color DBS NEWS AMERICA TONIGHT lettering and logo, glowing, against a backdrop of little boxes; inside of each a film was running (children playing, construction workers, white-collar commuters, farmers, bingo players, Washington tourists, truckers, and on and on). The glow of the letters grew bright and the screen flashed out in a blaze of blue light, clearing to show
WITH ALEXANDRA WARING
just under the montage, only for the screen to blaze white again and then fade down to the original map of the United States, outlined in blue on black, red affiliate points twinkling, white lines leading to New York.

Lilly’s right hand came down to point at Alexandra just as the red light on top of camera 2 came on.

“Good evening,” Alexandra said, eyes sparkling. “This is Memorial Day, May 30, 1988. For the DBS Television News Network in New York City, I’m Alexandra Waring, and this is the news in America tonight.”

Outside, under the lamplight, one of the night custodians was wheeling his cleaning cart across the square when he stopped, cocking his head as if he heard something.

Yes, there was something, a roaring sound, and he looked up at Darenbrook I to see a whole bunch of people going crazy up there in the cafeteria, jumping up and down, carrying on like the devil.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeee—” Jessica was calling from on top of one of the cafeteria tables, “
haaa!
” as the audience from her show danced around, echoing her sentiments.

In Jackson’s office, in front of the big TV, Ethel, Randy, Claire, Adele and Chi Chi were throwing popcorn in the air.

In Gordon’s office, Gordon was pounding the arms of his chair, yelling, “Yeah!” while Betty and others from the miniseries group were applauding.

Out in the carport, the drivers—huddled around the TV sitting on the roof of Alexandra’s limo—cheered.

Out in the guardhouse, grinning at the tiny TV sitting in front of him, the guard nodded, saying, “That’s our girl, guys, that’s our girl.”

In the control room, Cassy was leaning against the back wall, smiling, eyes glistening; Dr. Kessler was standing next to her, looking very proud; and Jackson was sitting in the corner, smiling from ear to ear.

Alexandra was finishing the intro into the lead story. “
…
in a public clash over civil rights, where Mr. Gorbachev complained about President Reagan’s—quote—sermonizing. With a special report for DBS News, we go live, now, to Moscow, where Eric Benter of the British International News Service is standing by outside the Kremlin.”

“Take satellite 3,” the director, Dick Gross, said. “Ready to go to a split screen with camera 2. Make sure Alexandra can hear him.”

It went along beautifully. After Benter’s report Alexandra was able to look at her monitor and talk with him and ask him some questions. They came back to the studio and Alexandra led over to John Knox Norwood, who “anchored” a six-minute segment of reactions and analyses of the day’s events in Moscow with political and academic figures, and then they broke for a commercial.

When they came back Alexandra went into a story about the Memorial Day services in Arlington Cemetery and similar services being held around the country; a cemetery strike in San Francisco disrupting a service; a veterans’ protest held at a cemetery outside Chicago; and a smattering of short items from around the country. Then Alexandra led over to Paul Levitz for the business and economy report (which, since it was a holiday in the United States, had no “breaking” news): an anticipated rise in short-term interest rates by the Federal Reserve; growing support in the U.S. for the proposed Canada-U.S. free trade pact; and a business profile of Robert Muse Bass. Alexandra promised they would return with sports after a break.

While they were in commercial Jimmy Hallerton ran into the studio with a last-minute final on a baseball game, leaped onto set 2, landed wrong, twisted his ankle and went crashing down, snapping Dash’s microphone floor connection as he did so.

“Sound’s out on Dash—they want you to skip ahead to the DC-9,” Lilly said to Alexandra, waving the stagehands on to carry Jimmy away. “Fifteen seconds. Coming up on camera 1. Ten, nine, eight
…
”

Alexandra was reorganizing her copy. When Lilly hit three, she looked up into camera 1 and there, on the TelePrompTer, was the copy for Dash’s sports report. Her eyes went back down to her script for a second and then came back up just as the red light went on. “Dash Tomlinson isn’t called Dash for nothing,” she said, smiling into the camera. “He just ran off with our sports report. But he promised he’d be back in a moment with the latest breaking scores and finals.”

Through the headsets of the crew, laughter in the control room could be heard.

“A fast-thinking pilot of a Continental DC-9 averted a midair collision near Cleveland this afternoon,” Alexandra went on to say, glancing down to read from her copy. Kyle, in the meantime, in Alexandra’s earphone, was telling her to go straight into the next story when she was done reading this one. She did and, as soon as they cut away to the film report that accompanied it, Kyle told her that she was to lead back to Dash and, after his segment was done, that she was to skip the beach in Miami story and go straight to commercial—which she did. During the commercial she was then told to move the beach in Miami story to the following segment, where the DC-9 story had been, and to cut an item on recycling. (She nodded, slashing a downward arrow through the story on her script.)

When they came back Alexandra went over the top stories and then led over to Gary for the weather. Gary, in real life, was standing next to a blank wall. On the monitor, however, he appeared to be standing next to a highly detailed topological map of the United States. (He had to watch himself on an offstage monitor to do his pointing on the map.) His footage of the day: a sudden hailstorm in Vermont (with ice balls an inch big), occurring after a series of very warm days. After he explained the mechanics of cold-front heat-wave collisions, they cut away for the local forecasts, followed by a graphic that said that the weather segment had been sponsored by KlapTrap. And then the first regular commercial rolled (in which four six-foot mosquitoes attacked a family cookout), followed by three more commercials from other sponsors.