Drive Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “‘We cannot overreact,’” Josh says, mimicking an almost-British accent. “‘What if our students are involved? We need to deal with this within the Bexter family. Moreover, we must not tell the parents. Otherwise, it would be impossible to keep out the—” He stops.

  “Media,” I finish, nodding.

  “Correct,” Josh says. “That’s exactly what he said. I don’t agree with him, but he’s the boss. And that’s why I asked you about keeping a secret. You can, right?”

  Silence has never been so noisy. How do I answer that? For the past twenty years, my loyalties have been only to journalism. My position never compromised. My goals clear. I stare at my ring again. Somehow, now, the glitter contains a bit of a taunt. I take a tentative step onto the tightrope, struggling for balance. Who’d have imagined a continental divide in the middle of a king-size mattress?

  Pulling myself as close as I can, I link my arm through Josh’s, tucking my head against his shoulder. Trying to close the gap.

  “I’m thinking,” I say. “If there’s a possible danger to the kids, including Penny? There may be a greater good here, more important than ‘keeping the media away from Bexter.’ Doing that could be something you all bitterly regret. I’ve seen it so often, the tragic results when people try to cover up a problem or pretend a threat doesn’t exist. And it’s my responsibility as a journalist to investigate what people are trying to hide. Right?”

  I look up at him, waiting. “Right?”

  Josh’s turn on the tightrope. Are his loyalties to me? To the Bexter kids? To his boss? This is a discussion we’ve never needed to have. Now we’re having it in the middle of the night, naked, when I kind of have to go to the bathroom.

  “Wrong,” Josh says.

  I shiver, though it’s not cold. I need to let him continue. I need to hear this.

  “Wrong,” he says again. “Because it’s your job to—to wait. Until you have all the facts. And we don’t have any facts. I told you something in confidence.”

  He turns to me, face softening, then picks up my hand, twisting the diamond on my finger. “We’re not source and reporter here, sweets. We’re almost husband and wife.”

  He’s right. And I’m right. Is there a right?

  Josh, wearing full Bexter regalia, navy houndstooth jacket, striped tie, corduroy slacks, appears at the kitchen door. He spins a finger by his head, making an exaggerated show of being confused.

  “Weren’t we—talking?”

  “We were indeed,” I say. I hold out his mug of coffee, hesitant to say more. I’m a little bit cranky over last night’s debate. I don’t tell him how to do his job, right? Plus, my brain is so fried, I can’t even tell if Josh is being sarcastic. When I got back from the bathroom last night, he was dead asleep. I’d carefully removed his glasses, and at the time, was relieved. Now it feels as if our conversation is uncomfortably dangling. I’ve confronted corrupt politicians and chased down criminals, all in a day’s work. Nevertheless. Sussing out my husband-to-be suddenly seems more complicated.

  Franklin’s waiting at Channel 3. I’m in my own work regalia, black suit and possibly too-high black suede pumps. But Josh and I have unfinished business here. He’s stirring milk into his coffee as if it requires every bit of his concentration.

  “Listen,” I begin. Might as well get this wrapped up. Penny will be down soon.

  “Charlie,” Josh says. His spoon leaves a milky ring on the granite countertop.

  “Go ahead,” I say.

  “Go ahead,” he says at the same time.

  I love this man. We’re going to be married. And we haven’t touched each other yet this morning.

  Josh sips his coffee, raising an eyebrow. Meaning I’m supposed to talk?

  “Okay, here’s what I think,” I say, treading carefully. I pull a wicker-seated stool up to the counter, its cast-iron legs skreeking on the tiled floor, and try to sit on it without snagging my panty hose.

  “I had wondered whether, maybe, if you knew something confidential—like the Bexter situation—it would be better if you didn’t tell me. Then there would be nothing to decide. You know my job, what it entails. If you thought there would be a conflict, we could avoid it.”

  Josh begins to shake his head, dismissing, but I raise a hand to stop him.

  “But then I thought, you know, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ doesn’t work for a marriage. A relationship can’t grow if there are secrets.”

  Josh pauses, then gives a quick nod. “Exactly. Avoiding a problem is never the answer.”

  He’s just given me a huge chunk of ammunition, but I tuck it away for later. I hop down from the stool, trying to feel connected.

  “Right. So here’s a solution. I’m a reporter. And I’m going to be Penny’s stepmother. Instead of making that a conflict, why don’t we take advantage of it? What if I do some digging? Off the record. Behind the scenes. I could—”

  “Absolutely not,” Josh interrupts. “If you start asking questions, it will be obvious to everyone that the information came from me. And that’s the end of my career at Bexter.” He puts his coffee on the speckled-marble countertop, the ceramic mug clattering on the stone. It nudges the spoon, which falls to the floor.

  We both reach for it. Both pull back. Look into each other’s eyes.

  I don’t want an impasse. I want a solution. But I also want some answers. How would reporter-me handle this? She’s got more experience than fiancée-me. If Josh were a reluctant source, I’d pull back and push forward at the same time.

  “Look, sweetheart, I absolutely promise I won’t do anything without letting you know.” That’s a promise I can keep. I hope. I pick up the spoon, put it in the sink. I can feel Josh relax.

  Now the push forward. His job is important, too, of course, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it. I also can’t do anything to jeopardize mine. Until now, our skirmishes have been brief and simple and social. Low-caliber. A big story conflicting with a Bexter dinner party. But we’ve never had our personal life present a professional conflict of interest.

  Used to be, my only interest was the truth. Now I’m also interested in the rest of my life. This is what they don’t teach you in journalism school.

  “Just tell me this, though.” I fire the first shot. “Who knows about the calls? And what, if anything, are they doing about them?”

  Josh pours another cup of coffee from the glass carafe, then leans against the counter, holding the steaming mug with both hands.

  “Dorothy Wirt knows, of course. What’s she doing? Losing sleep, is what she says. Though she’d probably kill without a flinch if she thought one of her Bexter kids was in danger. Stab someone with her letter opener.” He smiles, looking up briefly, indicating that’s a joke.

  I nod, silently acknowledging I get it.

  “The Head,” he continues his list, “he’s doing nothing, far as I know. Waiting. The bursar came in while Dorothy was telling us the story. So he’s aware. And maybe Dean Espinosa. She’s Dorothy’s best friend. Maybe Dorothy told her. But maybe not.”

  “Some secret,” I say, making a skeptical face. “That’s three, four people right there. Not counting you. And who knows who else each of them ‘confided’ in.”

  I have another thought. “Does Penny know?”

  “Do I know what?” Penny’s flip-flops slap onto the linoleum. She’s clutching Botox, who with one suicidal look at me writhes out of her arms and scampers away. Penny’s wearing red drawstring pajama bottoms printed with what look like Scottie dogs, a ruffled pink camisole and a sideways Red Sox cap. Still deciding on her image.

  “Shoes?” Josh says. He reaches for her hat and Penny ducks out of his way. “It’s the bleak midwinter, pumpkin girl. School vacation doesn’t mean—”

  “My feet aren’t even cold,” Penny retorts. “It’s inside. There’s heat, you know? And Annie wears flip-flops in winter. Her parents let her. She’ll be here soon and I bet she’ll have flip-flops. You’ll see. Charlie Mac, when can we
pick out my junior-bridesmaid dress?”

  “Nice try on changing the subject, kiddo,” I say. I love my nickname. Penny came up with it; Charlie Mac evolving as her eventual compromise between her initial choice, “Um,” and the already-taken “Mom.” It took a year of negotiation and territory marking, but now we’re pals. I’d rather not let her know there’s a tiny bit of tension between her dad and me this morning. She’s resilient, but she’s already handled enough with her parents splitting. And now her new school. New home. And me.

  “Go get shoes, as your dad said. Then we’ll discuss shopping for your dress. We’ll need to get your Bexter uniform, too.”

  Penny hesitates just long enough to prove she’s not instantly obeying me. “Annie wears clogs sometimes, too,” she says. Then she flip-flops out of the room.

  “Good one, ‘Charlie Mac,’” Josh says. He takes a step toward me and I meet him halfway. His arm circles my shoulders, mine slides around his waist. I smell lime and cedar and coffee. “You’re going to be a very successful mom,” he whispers. He kisses my hair with the briefest of touches and the oxygen is back in the room.

  “Though somehow our Penny has promoted herself from flower girl to ‘junior bridesmaid,’” I reply. “Very smooth.”

  “Annie’s idea, most likely. As always.”

  We made it. We’re back. I can do this.

  Penny sticks her head around the corner, her body still in the dining room, her feet out of sight. “Hey. I forgot. Do I know—what? What were you talking about?”

  “Shoes,” Josh says. He points her away, then turns to me as we hear Penny’s footsteps heading upstairs. “Bexter’s not open for student orientation until next week. There’s time. And we’ll have to wait and see. But no secrets. Not for either of us. Agreed?”

  Ah. That doesn’t mean I can’t investigate what may be happening at Bexter Academy. It just means I’ll have to tell Josh when I do.

  “No secrets,” I say. I know I can make this work.

  Chapter Three

  “T ough morning, Charlotte?” Franklin turns his head like an owl and keeps one hand on his mouse, clicking his monitor screen closed. He peers at me from under his glasses, then gestures at the battered wood-framed mirror we’ve got pushpinned to the office wall. “Unless you were actually going for the wet-poodle look. In which case, congrats.”

  “It’s snowing, Franko,” I say, checking the mirror. He’s right. I deposit my waterlogged latte on my desk, then yank open my metal desk drawer.

  Franklin’s file drawer contains files. Mine has a 1600-watt hair dryer, a round hairbrush, hair spray, nail-polish remover, black panty hose, a backup pair of black panty hose, nude panty hose, a backup pair of nude panty hose, contact-lens solution, a bag of almonds, a tin of tea bags, a thing of Tums and several thousand Advil. I pull out the dryer.

  “Take off your coat, then I’ll tell you the news,” Franklin says.

  “What news? Good news?” I ask, peeling off my soggy coat. “Progress on the car thing? Emmy in our future? Story for the February ratings sweeps? We keep our jobs and everyone lives happily ever after?”

  I stash my wet boots under my desk and unzip my black pumps from my tote bag. At least they stayed dry. Now Franklin needs payback for the unnecessary poodle remark. “Oh, I get it. You’re stalling. Because you can’t find anything.”

  With a snap, Franklin swivels back to his computer, clicks his mouse and then taps his keyboard while he talks. “Yes, Charlotte, you’re so very perceptive. But before you find yourself a better producer, feast your eyes on this. May I present to you—” he pauses, apparently savoring his big reveal, “—the good news. The Web site of the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration.”

  “NHTSA.” I say. Nitsa. “It’s all there? All we need? Right on the Web site?”

  Franklin taps a finger to his lips. “Well, yes and no. Yes, I suppose, but in a rather needle-in-a-haystack kind of way.”

  Franklin clicks me through the Web site, me leaning over his shoulder as he mouses through the pages of red, white and blue drop-down menus and links. “Here’s the bottom line,” he says. “The NHTSA site does contain every vehicle carmakers have admitted is defective and have been forced to recall. That’s what I mean by the haystack.”

  “Does it tell how many of the recalled cars have actually been fixed? And which ones?” I turn to Franklin, hopeful for the second time today. What he’s telling me is possibly great news. “Fabulous. Then we can find the ones that’re not repaired. The ones that are still potentially dangerous.”

  “Well, that’s the needle, Charlotte, finding the individual cars,” Franklin says. He’s moving his cursor across the screen. “See? This Web site only shows which makes and models have been recalled. Not what happened after that.”

  “Really? That’s absurd,” I say. I turn away from the monitor and perch on Franklin’s black metal file cabinet. “Car owners get notices when their cars are recalled, right?”

  Franklin nods. “It’s all on computer. Manufacturers find the car owners by looking up the unique Vehicle Identification Number of each car. And after the owners take them to the dealer to be repaired, the dealer checks it off as done, and puts the VIN into the same computer network.”

  “Exactly my point,” I say. “So the feds absolutely know which cars have been repaired and which ones haven’t.”

  And that makes me angry. I wave toward Franklin’s monitor. “So why isn’t all of it public information? The feds regulate all those recall notices, right? I think it’s their responsibility to keep track of who’s still driving a dangerous car. They know it, but they’re not telling? Ridiculous. Who knows how many accidents those cars have already caused? And how many are to come?”

  The system is broken. Maybe we can fix it. This is what keeps me going. I point to the phone. “Call them, Franko. Try it the nice way at first. Maybe they’ll just hand the documents over. And tell them—”

  Franklin’s holding up a hand to shush me. He’s already dialed, and wonder of wonders, apparently a real person has actually answered the phone. Score one for our tax dollars.

  “This is Franklin Parrish, at Channel 3 News in Boston?” Franklin says. He’s using his most polite voice, and a remnant of his mostly erased southern accent. “I need to talk with someone about recalls, please.”

  I can’t stand it. I scrawl instructions on my reporter’s notebook and hold it up. “Pssst,” I say, waving the page. Tell them we got a call from one viewer, no biggie.

  Franklin looks over, reads it, and nods.

  “We’re just researching a little consumer-education story,” Franklin says, his voice still mild and nonthreatening. “We got a call from a viewer, you know? And he just wondered how to find out whether his car has ever been recalled.”

  I nod, this is good. Be polite. Ask an easy question first, and one we already know the answer to. I go back to my notebook while Franklin continues.

  “Oh,” he says, all innocent. “You can look it up online? Terrific.”

  “Pssst,” I say again. I hold up the notebook. Can the viewer find out if it’s been fixed?

  Franklin looks over again. This time, reading my note, he makes a torqued-up expression implying: Duh.

  “That’s interesting,” Franklin says. “But, hey, quick question. If it has been recalled, can our viewer find out if it’s been repaired?” As if the thought just entered his mind. Franklin’s a pro.

  “Pssst.” Say he’s thinking of buying it in a used-car lot.

  This time Franklin’s look verges on exasperated. Then as he reads the note, he gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Yes, he’s shopping for cars, you know. Sorry if I wasn’t clear.” Franklin puts a hand to his throat, mimes gagging. This part of journalism often includes a bit of theater. It’s worth it for a good story.

  And this might be a great one. There could be millions of unrepaired recalls in used-car lots. Like I said, time bombs, waiting to endanger unwitting drivers an
d their families. We have to find those cars. Warn people.

  Get specifics, I write.

  “You know what,” Franklin says, sitting up a little straighter. I can hear his voice hardening. “You must have records of this, I’m sure. Instead of spending time looking for my viewer’s request, why don’t you send us the records for the past three years. All the cars that have been recalled but not repaired. By date, by manufacturer and by model type and year. We’d prefer to have the data sent electronically, not on paper.”

  This should all be public information. I hold it up, and then put it down. It’s outrageous! I scrawl in double-size letters. I hold up my instructions again. “Pssst.”

  Franklin’s glare could curl my hair, if it weren’t already ridiculously curly. He swivels his chair away, all drama, putting his back to me and covering his ear with his free hand.

  An e-mail pings into view. It’s from Kevin O’Bannon. Cue the suspense music.

  Come to my office. ASAP. Confidential.

  Music up full. I glance at Franklin, who’s still deep into negotiations.

  A summons to the news director’s office. A summons I’m not supposed to discuss. And what could be confidential? In an instant, my brain catalogs my recent actions. Do they think I’m taking too many pencils from the mail room? Have they found all the department store orders on my computer? Long-distance calls to my mother in Chicago? E-mails from wedding caterers? Maybe I won’t have to worry about balancing job and Bexter intrigue. Maybe I won’t have a job.

  “Pssst.”

  Franklin turns, wary, narrowing his eyes.

  I give him my brightest smile and point down the hall toward the bathroom.