In the House of Mirrors (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

I awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. It may have been the late-night conversation with Robert, but I finally had some energy and motivation, something I lacked since my arrival. I was anxious to start job hunting. As soon as I got up, I flipped my laptop open and Google-searched “Red River newspapers.” I found four within a five-mile radius. There were two publications in Red River (one being an Internet exclusive), one in Carver's Grove, and one in Treebound. I tried
The Red River Press
first
.
I dialed the number the website provided, and a woman picked up on the second ring.

“
Red River Press, how may I direct your call?” she answered.

“
I'm calling to see if there are any jobs available.”

“
We're currently hiring delivery drivers to work part-time from midnight to four in the morning.”

I hung up without inquiring any further. Next, I shot an email to the online paper, asking if they were hiring any staff writers. I received a reply almost instantly. It read: WE'RE SORRY, WE ARE NOT CURRENTLY LOOKING TO EXPAND OUR STAFF. The message also told me to keep checking back.

I closed the email and looked at the last two choices. Carver's Grove was further than Treebound was, but judging from their website, it looked like a bigger publication. I checked the website and dialed the number for
The Shoreline.

“
Hello?” a raspy voice answered.

“
I'm sorry,” I said, thinking I may have dialed the wrong number. “Is this
The Shoreline?
The newspaper?”

“
It was, up until a few months ago,” the man replied. “Paper ran out of funds. We were forced to shutdown.”

“
Sorry to hear that. Your website is still running, you know that?” I asked.

“
Yeah, haven't had a minute to take it down. Got a lot on my plate lately.”

“
I understand.” I was about to wish the man good luck on future endeavors, but I figured it couldn't hurt to ask about the area, and more importantly, where I could find a fucking job. “I hate to pester you, but I recently moved back to the shore after living in Georgia for the past few years. I worked as a staff writer for a major newspaper. You wouldn't happen to know where a good place to find a steady job that doesn't involve freelance, do you?” I expected him to laugh. Or hang up. Or both.

“
It's tough out there for writers, son.”
Tell me something I don't already know,
I almost said. “There's a new online publication in Red River, I think.” He sighed into the phone deeply. “Unfortunately, the Internet is the way everything is going. Won't be surprised if that's the only place you'd be able to read the news in a few years.”

I didn't disagree with him. The print industry has been on the chopping block for years now.

“Already tried them. No luck.”

“
Shit.” He paused. “I guess you could try
The Treebound Tribune.
Small paper. Their editor used to work for me, a few years back. Sheldon Daniels was his name. Tell him Colin Gregory sent you over. May help a little.”

“
Thank you, Mr. Gregory. Thank you very much.”

“
Yeah yeah. Don't mention it. Keep your head up, kid. It's a crazy world out there. Eat you alive if you're not too careful.” I pictured the man on the other end of the phone tying a noose around his neck as he talked to me. “I didn't catch your name, son.”

“
Ritchie Naughton.”

“
Well, Ritchie, tell Sheldon that
The Shoreline
went to shit after he left. He'll get a kick out of that.”

“
I most certainly will.”

I thanked him one more time before hanging up. I was hoping I wouldn't have to read (or write) that man's obituary.

Rather than calling
The Treebound Tribune's
office, I decided to go there. I figured the worst thing they could do was throw me out. I needed to get out of the house anyway. The moldy smell of the basement was finally starting to agitate me. In the time since I've been back, I barely found the time to explore the town, with the exception of hitting the grocery store and Waldo-Mart.

I layered my clothing and headed outside. February at the Jersey Shore was bitter and cold, not to mention windy. I had second thoughts about leaving once I stepped out into the frigid atmosphere. Good thing I bought a winter jacket my first day back. There was never really any need for one back in Atlanta, even in the heart of winter. Weather in the north was completely different. The warm weather was different, and so was the cold. Jersey cold seemed to cut right through you, finding its way into your bones.

I drove to Treebound with the heat blasting. I saw a sign for the town when I first came back. As I stated before, I've never really spent time in Treebound. I remember my mother wasn't particularly fond of it, and on more than one occasion I remember her taking detours around the town, rather than passing through. It wasn't a big town, so going around it was no trouble. Anyway, she never explained why she did this.
Just don't like it,
she said, and that was my mother's way of telling me that I wasn't privileged enough to know. I never gave my mother's opinion of Treebound much thought until that moment when I crossed over the border and into town.

A strange feeling came over me; it felt like I was always being watched. As if there was a man hiding in my backseat, waiting to make an appearance in my rear-view mirror.

The feeling followed me all the way to the paper's office.

2

Downtown Treebound wasn't anything to be excited about. There were a few antique shops (if you're into that sort of thing), a library, a city hall, a police station, and a few places of business (such as two rival diners, a barbershop, and a coffee bar). I noticed an off-track betting parlor next to the barbershop, and I was oddly intrigued. I'd never been much of a gambler, but the idea of betting on horses from a bar interested me. A used bookstore also called my name, but once I spotted the paper's office, I refused to let myself get sucked into the black-hole that was downtown Treebound.

The office looked small from the outside, which didn't do the inside justice. I opened the glass door,
The Treebound Tribune
professionally lettered across it, and stepped inside. There were several desks on both sides of the office, and only a few of them were occupied. There were a few small offices in the back, but they were enclosed, most likely belonging to the editor and other management staff. There was a conference room next to them surrounded by walls of frosted glass.

A pear-shaped woman—a few years younger than I—sat at the receptionist's desk. She was hunched over her desk, vigorously working the pen in her right hand. Her name was Dana Jorvis, according to the name plate on her desk. Upon my entrance, she lifted her mop of red hair from the envelope she was addressing, and stared at me. Smiling, she asked, “Can I help you?”

“I'm here to speak with Sheldon Daniels,” I said confidently.

“
Do you have an appointment?” she asked, slightly dubious.

“
Um, no. Actually, Colin Gregory told me I should swing by and talk to him.” I sighed. “About a job.”

“
About a job,” she repeated, as if she were asking a question. She kept that same confused look on her face while she picked up the phone and punched three numbers. “Yes, hello, Mr. Daniels. Sorry to bother you, but—” she paused, “yes, I know you're busy. But there is a man here to see you. About a job.” She listened. “I have no idea. He said his name was...” she looked to me for verification, “Gregory?”

I shook my head. “My name is Ritchie Naughton. Colin Gregory referred me.”

She repeated what I said into the phone.

I took a gander around the office while Dana sorted things out. There were newspaper clippings hanging from the walls, encased in picture frames. One of the most notable news stories was one that dated back to the seventies (before my time), when the Red River South basketball coach, Johnny McKinley, drowned his starting five in the infamous river. It was a crime that shocked the community, although, the town was no stranger to murder and bloodshed. The town was built on blood, and it's actually how it got its name:
Red River.
The founding British settlers were found slain near the river (the one that dissects the town in half, North and South) in 1768, by—if you go by legend—an ancient forest spirit. According to the tale, the forest spirit was pissed that they had come to chop down trees and build homes from the earth's appendages. However, most folks believe that the savage act was committed by Native Americans, after the intruders had threatened them with violence. In any case, the next wave of settlers found their friends butchered, hacked up into little pieces, most of their remains thrown in the river, thus dubbing it the Red River. The first settlers' heads were found on spikes, their open-mouthed expressions inspiring horrific versions of the same tale. The basic story is deemed true, even by most local historians. It's just a matter of which version you believe. People have wasted many hours arguing both sides, mostly over beer and wine. No conclusion has ever been drawn, no tale ever officially accepted as the truth. They just remain stories. Stories which have proved to be a powerful tool in keeping children from wandering too far into the woods by themselves. When I was growing up, the ghost of Johnny McKinley stalked the woods surrounding the Red River, or so we were told, and that was enough to keep my friends and I from venturing into the unknown. Some used to say, that late at night, you can hear the starting five of Red River South's 72' team screaming their last screams.

But those are just stories.

“Mr. Daniels will see you now,” Dana said, snapping me out of my twisted reverie.

“
Thank you, Dana.” I followed her finger to the back, where Sheldon's office awaited me.

3

“Very impressive,” Sheldon said, as he thumbed through my
résumé. He glanced up, and looked me in the eyes.

I took pride in figuring people out by catching a certain vibe, and usually, with minimal exceptions, I was right. I'd been told I'd be a damn good poker player, had I the desire to learn the game. For example, Dana Jorvis seemed slightly dimwitted, but in a cute, funny way I'm sure people adored. Trying to figure out Sheldon Daniels, however, was like trying to understand hieroglyphics. I couldn't catch a vibe from him, and if he threw me one, I missed it. He appeared nerdy, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and slicked back hair with too much gel. A plum-colored birthmark shaped like Louisiana graced his cheek. His stone-face expression suggested that he took things too seriously. But then his lips would twitch a certain way, like someone wanting to smile and stopping themselves, and everything I prejudged him on quickly evaporated. Quirky was perhaps the best way to describe him; the man had to be full of quirks. It might have been unfair, but I pegged him as a middle-aged virgin. There was no basis for this conclusion, maybe it was the gold-rimmed spectacles that brought the notion on. I did determine, almost instantly, that he was a person I wouldn't normally become friends with. He acted like a boss, someone who maybe enjoyed his powerful position far too much. He was no Mark Chaney, phenomenal editor, and close friend.

“If Colin sent you, then you must be good,” he said, over his glasses. “Tell me, how do you two know each other?” He scanned my work history, his mouth twitching as he did so. “I don't see where it says you worked for him.”

“
I never did.” I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. “We have mutual friends. We ran into each other recently, at a party,” I lied, “and I asked him if he could hook me up with a job, since I just moved back home and don't know a lot of people.”

“
Hm,” he said, as if he knew I was full of shit. “Mutual friends, yet you just moved back home and don't know a lot of people...”

Shit,
I thought.
This is going well.

“
I'm confused, Mr. Naughton,” he said, his stone-cold face finally breaking, forming a smile.

“
He knew an old high school buddy of mine.”

“
Who?” he snapped.

Shocked, I couldn't answer immediately. I tried my best to quickly come up with another white lie. “Uh, Dan. Torres.” I never knew a Dan Torres. Nor heard of one.

“Hm,” he grunted. He knew I was lying. He had to. “Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Naughton, we don't hire very many staff writers. We only have two, and that's all we really need. We're a small publication, you see. There are a few local writers who contribute on a freelance basis, which you are more than welcome to submit commentary articles, or anything you feel is print-worthy. I can guarantee our staff will read them, I can't guarantee that any of it will be printed.” He frowned, although I hardly believed his sincerity. An emptiness overcame me. I had a really good feeling entering Sheldon's office, despite dropping Gregory's name. “I'm sorry, I wish there was more I could do. I'm not sure what Colin told you—”