Sweet Love (11 page)

“I’m all grown up, Michael. I’m not Paul’s little sister anymore. I can take it.”

“I know you can take it. The question is, why should you have to?”

“Because it’s exciting.” Isn’t that obvious? “I’ve been cooped up in this same sixty square miles all my life. I would have gone to Washington or New York when I was younger, except I got knocked up when I was twenty-three and all of a sudden my dreams weren’t a priority anymore.”

“
Ohhhh
. Are we having a pity party?”

I could slap him for that. He’d never had children, he was never that courageous. “Until you’ve raised a child, I don’t think you’re in any position to criticize me.”

“Sorry. You’re right. I was out of line.” He leans on his knees and looks off.

Sitting back, I study a flock of gray pigeons eating up our crumbs and try to gather my thoughts. “Why do you care, anyway? It’s not like you and I are friends anymore.”

“And whose fault is that?” He holds up his hands. “Sorry
again.
Didn’t mean to go there.”

“Yes, let’s not.” My shoulder aches, a sure sign of stress and a reminder of what’s waiting for me back at the office. Valerie’s persecution of Rhonda Michak. “I’m sorry, too. You’re not entirely to blame for my snapping. I had a supremely lousy morning.”

Without going into too many details, I give him the lowdown and Michael does a commendable job of listening without offering his unsolicited opinion. This might come from being a consultant where no opinion is offered without establishing a hefty retainer first.

The more I think about Valerie’s course of attack—and attack is definitely the right word—the more I’m bothered. I can’t help but put myself in Rhonda’s position. What if Em went missing for a year and then turned up dead, likely having been kidnapped, raped, and strangled? How would I feel if some young reporter eager to make brownie points with her superiors raised the unfounded issue that I’d been responsible for Em’s death?

Valerie’s intended line of questioning is unfair and cruel and, most important, an abuse of her power as a TV reporter. It’s wrong and she needs to be stopped. The question is . . . how.

Michael looks at me as if I’m a changed woman. “She called you biased? That’s the most hopeful thing I’ve heard about you in years.”

“Oh, please.” I snort and look off, desperate to hear what he has to say. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Are you kidding? It shows you have a soul, that you care about that woman. You’re not an automaton.”

“You can be unbiased without being an automaton.”

“How? Humans have opinions, that’s the way we’re built. There’s nothing wrong with that when it comes to journalism—it’s just that you guys need to recognize your unavoidable biases and go on.”

“Try telling that to my news director, Arnie. He despises any form of emotion. Unless it’s swearing. That’s fine. Especially if you’re swearing at the Sox.”

“I’m serious.” Michael leaps up, energized, the wheels in his brain whirring. This is the man I’m used to, the excited, motivated, inspired Michael on whom I once had a maddening schoolgirl crush. “In fact, I think you’ve got a great opportunity here, Julie.”

The sun’s in my eyes, so I can’t really see the expression on his face. “Do I?”

“You have a chance to show viewers that objectivity is an illusion, that you have feelings, too. Maybe you could do a Point-Counterpoint thing with this other reporter on why this woman deserves our sympathy.”

“Oh, Michael. That’s just . . . impossible.” I could cite him chapter and verse out of the WBOS code and any other boilerplate journalism ethics policy that strictly forbids showing favor. “Acting like a fellow human being could get me fired. Or worse.”

“You sound like a Nazi, some sort of goose-stepping, Brownshirted flunky.”

“
Jawohl, mein Herr
.” And I begin gathering my stuff, annoyed and tired. “I’d love to kick back and plan the Fourth Reich, but I’ve been insulted enough for one day. So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll head to the office, where at least I’m paid to be abused.”

Idiot that he is, he blocks the gate and refuses to let me pass. “Do you know that Frank Zappa song, ‘What’s the Ugliest Part of Your Body?’ ”

“Yeah, your mind. Apology accepted. Okay now . . .”

“In your case, Julie, the most beautiful part of your body has always been your heart.”

I swallow. That’s actually very touching—even if it is supremely goofy. “When did you get so sappy all of a sudden?”

“Look, I remember when you were a little girl and used to sing and dance as if no one were watching. You were adorable. You brought me joy, Julie, and gave me hope. I used to think, how bad can life be if this little girl is belting ‘A Spoonful of Sugar’ at the top of her voice? Seeing you smile, hearing you sing helped make my childhood not so miserable.”

A lump comes to my throat. I had no idea he thought of his childhood as miserable. He always came off as so cavalier, as if he enjoyed growing up with a drunken father and a mother who slept. Period. Just slept. “Well, it was sugar I was singing about, after all,” I say. “You know me.”

“Then what happened?” He’s close to me now, intense, as if our years of animosity have simply disappeared. “You don’t sing anymore. Or, rarely. I don’t think it’s your divorce or family obligations that are weighing you down. It’s that you’re immersed in a profession where you have to hide your best part, your beautiful heart.”

Those words “beautiful heart” hang between us, draining me of snappy comebacks. I feel as if I’ve been given a serious, important gift I never asked for and don’t particularly want.

“Is that what you said to Kirk? That I had a beautiful heart and it shouldn’t be hidden? Because if you did, he must have burst out laughing.”

“Actually, when I returned his call this morning I was much more erudite.”

Putting his hands on my shoulders and looking deep into my eyes, he says slowly, “I told him it was no business of his what my personal relationships were and that he could take his obnoxious question and shove it up his own ass.”

Oh, God. I feel sick. “That’s erudite, all right.”

"Yes,” he says, standing by and finally letting me go. “I thought so, too.”

Chapter Eight

Perhaps Kirk didn’t take offense. Maybe this is the way men banter with one another, lots of swearing and ass jamming. In fact, out of all the answers Michael could have given, this wasn’t so bad, I decide. It didn’t conflict with my statement that Michael and I had had only a platonic relationship and Michael didn’t have to lie.

In retrospect, what he said was pretty darn brilliant.

And then I sit down at my computer, log in, and find this cryptic note highlighted in my inbox.

FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
RE: Michael Slayton
Julie----

Busy in meetings all morning and didn’t get a chance to talk to you
before I left to catch my flight back to D.C. Touched base with
Michael Slayton an hour ago. Some disturbing issues we need to
discuss in person.

Will try to call you tomorrow when I get back. Or sometime this
week.

Kirk

Disturbing
issues? Why would he have disturbing issues? All Michael did was tell him to take his question and shove it up his own ass. How disturbing is that? Answer:
very
disturbing.

Okay, calm down, Julie. The way to get a handle on anxiety is to focus only on that which you can control. In this case, nothing.

Michael has—upon deep reconsideration—
rudely
and crudely told my future superior to do an unmentionable act. But what’s done is done and I can’t undo it until I talk to Kirk. Though I’m not sure what magic words I can summon to soften the blow.

Man, I wish I hadn’t drunk all that coffee. I’m sweating like a pig and my heart is racing so fast, I might be one of those statistical flukes, a woman in her early forties who drops dead of a massive myocardial infarction at her desk.

Where’s Valerie? If I ask whether Kirk interviewed her for the national election team this morning, she won’t hesitate to brag. Then I’ll know for sure if I’m cooked.

Valerie is nowhere to be found. Raldo, who’s heading out to lunch, says she’s off with Jason for the noon news conference on Amy Michak and then she’s going to stake out Rhonda, which means she might not return until after the evening report.

No. This can’t happen. Just when I’m about to call him and ask if he has a minute to discuss this, up pops another email. Speak of the devil.

FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
RE: Campaign finance reports addendum

J--

My calendar says the deadline for filing addendums to the campaign
finance reports is today. I’m not expecting much, but we have
to check in with the secretary of state’s office just in case.

If you have any questions about this, see me. Otherwise stay far
away. Word in the newsroom is you’re in a mood.

A

Arnie ducks when I burst into his office a minute later.

“A mood? That better not be a PMS crack. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that men have moods, too. And not every twenty-eight days, either,” I tell him. “Twenty-four seven.”

He winces. “Did you have to come in here? I nicely asked you not to.”

“With an email like that, yeah, I’m coming in.”

“But I wanna eat my lunch.” He points to a hot dog with sauerkraut and chili sauce sitting on the foil wrapper. “And you might make me sick.”

“Well, if I don’t, then that rancid vendor food will. But go ahead. Help yourself to a healthy dose of bacteria. I’ll wait here.” Throwing myself into his red chair, I clasp my hands and stare him down.

Arnie is my news director and like most news directors, he loathes his job. He’s short, tidy, with Coke-bottle glasses and a receding hairline. You’d never know that inside thrives a big kid, as evidenced by his white sneakers and extensive collection of Red Sox bobbleheads.

The problem is Arnie’s been in the business too long. He’s burned out on ratings wars and pushy general managers and vain anchors and whiny reporters. I am the exception because I take him out for beers and shrug off his occasional acerbic banter and, on my better days, can return a few volleys of my own.

He’s often remarked I would make a great dog, if dogs could run tabs.

Mostly Arnie lives for the Red Sox. The walls that aren’t glass in his office are papered ceiling to floor with Red Sox paraphernalia. Posters of Kurt Schilling’s bloody ankle when he pitched the sixth game in the 2004 play-offs against the Yankees, pennants, a team roster, a signed picture of David Ortiz, framed headlines of major wins, souvenir trash. He should have stayed a sportscaster. He was never happier.

“Dolores tells me you’re taking dessert classes,” he says, licking chili off his lips.

My, such housewifey gossip from a sports nut. “Yeah. That’s why I asked for my Friday night schedule to be changed.”

“Oh.” He slurps his Coke. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Not take off Friday nights? Geesh, Arnie, aren’t we becoming quite the taskmaster.”

“No. I wish you wouldn’t give Dolores more ideas for more food. I’m worried about her heart. By the way, when you were walking across the newsroom the other day I noticed you could afford to lose a few.”

“Like snarky news directors. I could lose a few of those.”

He shrugs and opens his chips. “Just performing a helpful service. Butt monitoring. But I bet that’s not why you’re bothering me on my lunch hour, is it?”

“Nope. I came to harass you about Valerie.” Stealing a commemorative baseball off its nerdy glass stand, I roll it between my hands to bug him.

“That is signed by Papelbon the god. It is not for you mere mortals,” he snaps, snatching it back.

“That signature’s forged and you know it.” I gesture to the red spot on his tie. “Got some chili sauce there.”

“Shit.” He reaches for his dirty napkin and brushes at his tie furiously, only driving in the stain more and adding grease from his fingers. “I knew you’d throw a fit over Valerie getting the Michak murder. I should have told Dolores not to let you in.”

“This is not a fit. A fit you’ll see tomorrow if Valerie goes over to Rhonda’s tonight and asks her why she murdered her own daughter.”

He quits wiping his tie. “You don’t like that, huh?”

“Of course not. Do you?”

Hook-shooting the napkin into a wastepaper basket, he says, “Hell, no. I almost resigned when she told me that. But then I remembered my kids’ college tuition and the more practical part of me wised up.”

“Then why are you letting her get away with this?” I ask, sitting up.

“Not my decision. It’s Owen’s. He’s the one who wanted to test her on this Michak story to see if she had the balls to handle the sharks in D.C. and now you’re seeing the result. Our precious Valerie is trying out her brand-new sharp teeth. Ouch.”

I knew this aggressive line of questioning was somehow connected to the national election team. “Which means Valerie’s the number one candidate for Kirk’s team, isn’t she?”

Arnie gives me a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, Julie.”

Damn. Worst fear confirmed. And why? All because of an unconfirmed rumor. If Kirk weren’t in the air right now I’d call him myself and tell him what a mistake he’s making in Valerie and why he’s wrong about me.

“It’s not your fault, though,” Arnie adds, taking my silence for sulking. “Not directly. If you want my opinion, your boyfriend really screwed you over.”

I have to roll my eyes. “Michael Slayton’s not my boyfriend and you know it. Never has been, never will be.”

“Right. And it’s perfectly normal for ex-managers of a campaign that fell in the toilet six years ago to rip Kirk apart for asking a standard background check question.” He shakes his head. “You can’t help it, you two were in love. But you shouldn’t have lied to Kirk.”