Life in a Fishbowl

by Len Vlahos

  Ethan breathed a silent sigh of relief. For a moment he had been afraid that the board was going to cancel the show.

  “Okay, Roger,” Ethan began again, careful to talk directly to the chairman and not to Thad. “I understand. But at least let us conduct some interviews with the family. We need to get some footage in the can about the incident, for when we go back live.”

  Stern looked at Thad, who nodded his approval. That more than anything stung Ethan. He was no longer in control, if he ever had been.

  “And Ethan,” Stern said, leaning in close.

  “Yes, Roger?” Even Ethan withered a little under the tycoon’s glare.

  “Don’t let another fuckup like this happen again.”

  Ethan nodded, making a mental note that truly powerful people didn’t need to include an “or else.” At that level the threat was de facto implied.

  ***

  After her father left, Jackie opened her phone again, this time ignoring the Facebook news feed and going straight to the chat. Max was already there.

  Max

  Solnyshko, I am so sorry. I do not know what to say.

  Max already knew what had happened. Jackie wasn’t surprised.

  Jackie

  How did you find out?

  Max

  It is all on the Internet.

  Jackie

  Of course it is. Why shouldn’t it be?

  Max

  Solnyshko, do I say something wrong?

  Until that moment, Jackie had been feeling worn out, beaten. But now anger was starting to creep in around the edges of her resignation.

  Jackie

  No, Max, it’s not you. It’s me.

  Max

  For how long will your show be off the air?

  Jackie

  What?

  Off the air? This was news to Jackie.

  Max

  The Internet is saying that Life and Death will be on hiatus. I have to look this word up.

  Jackie

  Max, I haven’t left my bedroom since it happened. You know more than I do. What else did it say?

  Max

  You wish to know?

  Jackie

  Yes.

  Max

  The man who does this to your dog, he is very wealthy man. Billionaire. Sherman Kingsborough. I have heard name.

  Jackie had heard the name, too, though she didn’t know much about him. Something about climbing Mount Everest and getting in trouble with police in some Asian country.

  Jackie

  I am so sick of this whole thing, this whole stupid television show. I wish it would just go away.

  There was another long moment of silence. Jackie, who was thinking about Trebuchet, just watched the screen, hoping Max would say something to make her feel better.

  Max

  Tell me, Solnyshko, you do not like being on television?

  Jackie

  No.

  Max

  But doesn’t everyone in America want to be on television?

  Jackie

  Not everyone, Max. But that’s not the point. It’s the show. It’s awful. They edit it to make my dad look more confused than he is, and … and it’s so hard at school now. I wish I was dead.

  Max

  No, Solnyshko, you must never ever say this.

  Jackie felt bad. She wanted Max to like her, but she was doing everything she could to make herself thoroughly unlikable.

  Jackie

  You’re right. I’m sorry.

  Max

  No. You must promise me you will never say this again. “Max, I promise you I will never say this again.”

  Jackie

  Okay, Max, I promise.

  Max

  Good. This is good.

  Jackie

  But it doesn’t help me. I’m still stuck here.

  Max

  If you do not like their television show, make your own.

  Jackie

  What do you mean?

  Max hadn’t meant to type that, but now that he had, an idea was starting to take shape, a devilish idea that would help Jackie and would bring the two of them closer together.

  Jackie could sense his fingers, eight thousand miles away, working across the keyboard like a tsunami. She could feel his excitement building, and that got her excited, too.

  By the time they were done chatting, Jackie, in a completely unexpected twist of fate, actually found herself smiling.

  ***

  Sherman Kingsborough woke up in jail, disoriented. He was the only tenant of a small cell with a cot, a sink, and a toilet. He couldn’t remember where he was or how he had come to be there. This was not an uncommon feeling for the young billionaire. The only thing he knew with certainty was that his bladder was about to burst.

  After relieving himself and splashing some water on his face, Sherman sat down and reconstructed the events of the previous evening. Every time he pictured that poor dog—he could still hear the sound of its death wail—his stomach and throat filled with bile. Sherman liked dogs. He liked them a lot.

  In one sense, he was relieved that he hadn’t killed Stone. And he was relieved that he was incarcerated. The weeks’ long nightmare of his murder quest had finally come to an end. He likened the experience to what athletes called “roid rage,” a stupefied, mindless sort of aggression brought on by an overuse of steroids. Only Sherman hadn’t used steroids. He wasn’t sure what to make of the whole thing, but at least it was over.

  He had a vague memory of meeting with both a district attorney and a defense lawyer before being dumped in the jail cell. He knew he was being charged with attempted murder in the first degree, breaking and entering, criminal trespass, and cruelty to animals. He also knew the DA was requesting that Sherman be held without bail, and that the defense lawyer thought it likely the judge would go along. The combination of his money and the depravity of his actions made him too great a flight risk.

  But rich people, he believed, had a way of staying out of trouble.

  Right on cue, the guard approached his cell.

  “C’mon, dog killer,” the guard said.

  “Is my lawyer here?”

  The guard snorted. “Lawyer? Way I hear it even the public defender don’t want your case, and he ain’t got a choice. No, we’re moving you to a more secure location on account of the death threats.”

  “Death threats?”

  The guard snorted again as he opened the door. “You’re not what the world would call a popular man, Sherm,” he said.

  And with that, Sherman Kingsborough was removed from his Portland jail cell and from the life of the family Stone forever.

  ***

  Jared was in a stupor as he munched his Cheerios. His mind, overwhelmed by the events of the past few hours, had more or less shut down. What was left of Jared’s brain ceased conscious activity. Still seated at the table, Jared’s chin dropped down to his chest, and his breathing became even and regular.

  For Glio, this was like a sunny Sunday morning sitting on the front porch with a good book and a mug full of oolong tea. He loved nothing more than watching and experiencing his host’s dreams.

  As is often true of unconscious thought, the dream seemed like a broken reproduction of the real world. It reminded Glio of a Picasso painting he had once consumed as part of an afternoon Jared and Deirdre spent at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. All the pieces were there, but they were jumbled, placed out of order, and then reassembled in a grotesque hodgepodge that seemed to mock reality.

  In the dream, Jared was telling his family that he had cancer.

  In real life—in the memories already imbibed by Glio—Jared and Deirdre had two separate conversations: one with Jackie, one with Megan. Where Jackie had been stoic, quiet, and shell-shocked, Megan had been dramatic and full of questions. “What does cancer feel like? Can the doctor see it? Can’t they just operate and take it out of you? What will happen to me? Will Mommy remarry?” That last one made Jared laugh and Deir
dre cry.

  Glio had marveled at these twin memories, at how he could feel not only Jared’s tension and anxiety but that of his family as well. It was as if some kind of alpha waves were emanating from his wife and daughters, allowing them to convey emotion without verbal communication. It was fascinating.

  But that was reality.

  The dream took those two scenes, combined them, and turned them on their head. In it, Jared didn’t have cancer, Jackie did. She sat calmly, smiling, her face lit as if by an Oscar-winning cinematographer. “So the doctor told me that I have four months to live. But don’t worry, everything will be fine, don’t ya think?” Jared felt a pounding in his chest he was sure everyone could hear. He looked in terror at Deirdre and Megan, but both sat mute. As he watched, their faces—first their mouths, then their noses and eyes—faded from view.

  “I’m dying, Daddy, how does that make you feel?” Jackie was sneering at her father. Jared’s pounding heart became so loud that he was only picking up every third word. “Isn’t … hilarious … dying? … It’s … Won’t … be … without … ?” Then Jackie laughed. Deirdre and Megan kept fading while Jackie laughed. Dream Jared screamed real Jared awake. He was panting, and he was crying, his cereal and milk spilled all over the table.

  Glio stopped eating. His appetite just wasn’t there. The emotion had overwhelmed the hunger.

  ***

  Ethan Overbee was on the next plane to Portland. He seethed in his first-class seat as he thought about what had happened. Everything he’d ever wanted was in his grasp, and this lunatic, this Kingsborough, had taken it away.

  No, he thought, that’s not right. Kingsborough didn’t take it away. My staff did. My goddam staff did! How the hell did this happen?

  When Ethan arrived on the set of Life and Death, the entire crew was lined up and waiting for him. What he couldn’t understand was why, to a person, they were all smiling.

  In the center of the gathering stood the third-shift director, who’d called the police, and James, the PA, who was first on the scene when they saw Sherman Kingsborough outside Jared’s office door. The rest were gathered around them like a proud extended family at a high school graduation.

  Holy fuck, Ethan thought. Do they think I’m here to give them some sort of medal?

  “Holy fuck,” he said, looking around the room, making eye contact with as many of his hired hands as he could muster. “Do you guys think I’m here to give you some sort of medal?” He could feel the air go out of their collective sails.

  He spent the next thirty minutes taking them to task, talking about the unprecedented lapse in security, the lack of attention to detail. He talked about the trauma to the Stone family, how America was counting on Life and Death to help heal wounds, and how they, the crew, let America down, how they let the network down, how they let him down.

  By the end of it, at least two staff members were openly sobbing. Not because their feelings were hurt, but because they had let Ethan Overbee, deputy executive in charge of programming for the American Television Network, down. He was that good.

  When he was done with the crew, Ethan asked the Stone family to assemble in the living room. He had thought about how to handle this conversation all the way up on the flight from L A. He needed them to buy into what would come next.

  “Deirdre. Jared. Jackie. Megan.” He said each name slowly, looking at each one in turn, burning a hole in their souls with the intensity of his gaze. “I am so sorry about Trebuchet. Everyone at the network is just sick over this. Roger Stern has asked me to personally convey his deepest condolences.”

  The Stone family was the breathing embodiment of its motionless, wordless name. Somewhere nearby a cricket chirped. Ethan pressed on.

  “Of course, we’re going to pull the show off the air for a couple of days. Give everyone a chance to catch their breath and regroup. Allow you to grieve in private. We’ll do a few interviews with the four of you during the downtime, but the schedule will be very light.”

  “Ethan?”

  “Yes, Deirdre?”

  “What if we don’t want to continue the show?”

  Ethan had worried about this and planned for it. He didn’t miss a beat. “If that’s what you really want, we can talk about it. But think about it, Deirdre, imagine if your family was on the other side of that TV, if you and your girls were viewers of Life and Death. Wouldn’t you want them, wouldn’t you need them, to have some closure, some resolution after this episode?”

  Deirdre didn’t answer. She just stared at Ethan. Jackie stared at her hands, and Jared stared out the window, his attention drifting. It was Megan who whispered “yes.” It was sotto voce, but emphatic.

  Ethan smiled. Not the smile of a victor, but the smile of a paternalistic older brother. Deirdre managed a small nod, indicating that her question had been withdrawn.

  “I also want to assure you,” Ethan continued, knowing that he was just getting to the tricky part, “that we will never let anything like this happen again.” He waited a beat before he continued, like he’d rehearsed in the back of the town car on the way from the airport. “We’re going to tighten security.”

  Jared and Megan each breathed a sigh of relief, literally exhaling the tension from their bodies.

  “That’s great, Ethan,” Jared offered. “Thanks.”

  Deirdre sat still. She blinked a few times. She looked lost.

  “What do you mean by security?” Jackie asked.

  No one expected Jackie to talk, so everyone turned to face her. This made her cheeks flush and her brow furrow. “I mean, I’m just wondering is all.”

  “No, no, Jackie,” Ethan continued. “It’s a great question. All the cast and crew will be searched each day before entering the house.”

  “But aren’t we the cast?” Jackie asked, her voice cautious and tentative.

  “Yes, yes, you are. We need to make sure nothing harmful to the show, to your family, gets slipped into a backpack or purse. This is as much for your protection as anyone else’s.”

  “But the man who broke in, Kingsborough, he wasn’t a member of the cast or crew,” Deirdre offered.

  “Good observation, Deirdre. Yes, to protect against another Mr. Kingsborough”—here Ethan made quote signs with his hands—“we’re building a perimeter around the house.”

  “Perimeter?” Deirdre asked.

  “Yes, a seven-foot fence completely surrounding the property. Without proper identification, no one will be able to get in.”

  “Or out,” Jackie muttered, her head down, her chin practically touching her chest.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” Ethan asked.

  “A seven-foot fence?” Deirdre interjected, hoping to stave off a confrontation between Jackie and Ethan. “That seems kind of extreme, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Ethan answered. “We’ll plant hedges on either side so it won’t be an eyesore.”

  “Still …”

  “Just think about poor Trebuchet,” Ethan said, playing what he hoped would be his trump card.

  At the mention of Trebuchet, Jackie got up and left the room. No one stopped her, and Ethan thought this was a good thing. The girl had been trouble from the start, and she wasn’t adding anything positive to this conversation. He was holding back from playing his actual trump card; the contract Jared signed allowed the network to pretty much do as it pleased. If the show stayed on the air, Ethan Overbee was the master of this domain. But as it turned out, he didn’t need to play that card.

  “I guess,” Deirdre offered, like a reluctant friend being dragged to a movie she really didn’t want to see. “I guess it’s for the best.”

  Jared patted her hand and said, “I need to go lie down.”

  And just like that, without any vote of cloture, debate ended.

  Later that afternoon, construction started on what everyone involved would come to think of as “The Wall.” Ethan was regaining control.

  ***

  Max�
�s plan was simple. He and Jackie would create a shadow version of Life and Death and post it on YouTube. She would shoot video with her iPhone and send it to Max. He would edit it into a finished product and upload it. They would do it “down below the radar” as Max suggested, for as long as they could.

  Jackie

  It’s “under the radar,” Max. And why would we need to do that? Do you think people will really want to see our video?

  Max

  Solnyshko, do you not know that you are television star?

  Jackie didn’t know how to respond. While she knew in her heart of hearts that Max was right, she didn’t want to admit it. But it was getting harder and harder to deny.

  The week after the premiere aired, Jackie received a stack of mail that was more than fifty times the sum total of all the mail she’d received in her life.

  “Fan mail,” the show’s producer had said when she dropped the stack on Jackie’s bed. It was heavy enough that it caused the comforter to wrinkle and bunch around it.

  “For me?” Jackie asked wide-eyed.

  “Of course it’s for you,” she answered.

  Jackie moved the pile of mail, along with the five that followed it, to the floor of her bedroom closet, unopened, untouched. Now she wondered if she should read them.

  When she was four, with her mother’s help, Jackie wrote a fan letter to Steve, the easygoing host of Blue’s Clues. She nearly fell over when she got not only a letter in response but an autographed photo of Steve, Blue, Tickety, and Side Table Drawer. Now that she was older, she realized that Steve hadn’t actually written the response; it, along with the photo, was a form letter. But it didn’t matter; for that one day in her four-year-old life, the world was perfect.

  Jackie made a mental note to start going through the stacks of letters. Besides, she knew it would bore the director to tears to watch her open mail, and that meant Jackie would be largely out of the next episode.

  She turned her attention back to Max.

  Jackie

  Do you think they’ll let me film them?