Higher Mythology

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “We want to show you the spread of where your campaign ads are being placed,” Paul said, walking beside her. “I’ve got a complete timetable, stations, programs, the works. We’d like to do more, but we’ve done the best we can with the budget.”

  Another hint for money. Mona, groaning inwardly, carefully put him off. “For now, let’s do what we can with what’s already on the table,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Maybe around election time I’ll authorize more.”

  “Maybe,” Paul said practically, “but then you’re competing for air time with the big boys and girls. No offense, but this is a presidential election year, too. Early name recognition can save you big bucks later. You don’t want to be just one of the names in the pack.”

  “I’m depending on you to make me stand out,” Mona said confidently, and passed through the door he held open. She stopped in mid-step, staring in shock.

  Keith, rising as the guest arrived, stared back. Mona Gilbreth stood in the doorway gaping at him like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. He probably looked as surprised as she did. Mentally, he cudgeled himself for forgetting that when he interviewed her she had said something about coming in this Monday. He’d even mentioned it himself when he left Gilbreth. He felt like an idiot. She wouldn’t see him as an ally any more, not after the last time she’d seen him, staring at her through a broken factory window stealing back an elf baby.

  On the tip of his tongue was a demand that she tell him where Dola was, and why she had kidnapped the children in the first place, but he quashed the impulse at once. He needed urgently to get her aside to talk.

  “My latest crop of interns,” Paul was saying, swinging a hand toward them. The supervisor pulled out the chair at the head of the table for his guest. She remained standing, so he moved away from her side to the foot. “Four of the brightest young minds ever to set foot in PDQ. I’d like to keep them on deck during our discussion, if you don’t mind. Dorothy Carver, Brendan Martwick, Sean Lopez, and Keith Doyle.” Each of the students nodded in turn.

  “How do you do?” Ms. Gilbreth said, her voice weak at first but quickly recovering. “So you’re Paul’s next creative team?”

  “They’ve been reviewing your accounts, Ms. Gilbreth,” Paul said. “They’ve been eager to meet you. The rest of your team will be here in a moment. We’re planning to cover both of your campaigns this morning, the political and the commercial. We shouldn’t waste an opportunity while you’re up here in our neck of the woods. Can I offer you coffee? Pastries?”

  “Why, yes,” Mona said. She was careful not to look back at Keith. “That would be lovely.”

  “I’ll go,” Keith volunteered at once. Paul nodded at him, and he shot out the door toward the cafeteria.

  Thankful that Keith had removed himself, Mona took a few deep breaths. She knew he was connected not only with Hollow Tree Farm but with PDQ. Why had seeing him struck her so hard? She ordered her pounding heart to slow down. The boy was not likely to blurt out in the middle of a meeting that she had kidnapped his young cousin, or whatever relation the girl was to him, and that she’d demanded money for her safe return. Or was he? Mona couldn’t guess how he had figured out the child was concealed there. Was he working with the police? Had there been a tap on the phone line? Perhaps he had observed some trace of the children while he was visiting the factory, and arranged for the raid three days later. The thought made her uncomfortable. She realized that Paul and the young people were staring at her. She shook off the uneasy sensation, and with the air of a practiced stumper, Mona set about getting to know the other students.

  It was more for practice than anything else, since none of the young people lived in her constituency. Dorothy sat at the table glancing up at her, and going back to her sketchpad, drawing something. Mona watched for a moment as Dorothy swept long, undefined lines onto the paper that suddenly took on the appearance of a handsome minimalist portrait, and began to add detail. Mona met her eyes and smiled. The black woman smiled back, and opened her lips tentatively, as if she was about to speak, but nothing came out. Mona smiled again, nodding. Abandoning Dorothy for more interesting prospects, Mona moved on to the two other young men, who were still on their feet beside their chairs.

  “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gilbreth,” Brendan Martwick said, enveloping her hand in both of his and pumping it once as he looked deeply into her eyes. His own were a compellingly intense blue, something she always found attractive. “I’ve been studying your product line, and I think we have something new to say about fertilizer.”

  There was a muffled snicker from the girl at the table, and Mona turned her back on her more firmly. She resented anyone making fun of her product. It was hard enough to be taken seriously by the people who actually bought it. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Sean Lopez,” the other youth introduced himself. His handshake was jerky and awkward, but his smile was more brilliant even than Martwick’s. She was struck by how handsome he was, like a young Tyrone Power. “My grandfather is a wheat farmer outside of Springfield. He uses your products.”

  “I’m very happy to hear that,” Mona said. “I’d like to hear more, but will you just excuse me a moment?” She parted from her two admirers and took Meier aside. “That boy. Keith Doyle.”

  Meier’s forehead wrinkled. “Something wrong with him? I know you met him last week.”

  “If you don’t mind, Paul, I don’t want him in here with us.”

  “Eh?” Paul asked, puzzled. “Keith is very creative. He’s a fine student, and has a real knack for ideation. He could be a real boon to this session.”

  “He looks … well,” Mona struggled for an excuse, “like he might … vote Republican, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re the boss,” Meier said with a shrug.

  Brendan Martwick came over to show her a handful of oversized art cards. She glimpsed the black-framed storyboard format on at least one of them. “Ms. Gilbreth, while we’re waiting, perhaps we can show you some of the ideas we’ve been working on.”

  Meier, allowing Brendan a chance to prove himself, backed off a short distance. Mona smiled at Brendan as he turned over each card and looked up, seeking her approval. She liked the attentive attitude of this young man, and his dashing blue eyes.

  “I know it’s irregular to have input from college interns, but consider,” Brendan said persuasively, “just consider the image of associating yourself with ‘America the Beautiful.’ ‘O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain,’ your image appears, and then music under the ad copy, then the plug, ‘Gilbreth Feed and Fertilizer, for a healthy future.’ Wholesome, environmental, and appealing to patriotism, too. Can you picture it?”

  Mona experienced a sense of exaltation. “Yes!” she said. “That’s good! That’s exactly the image I want. Did you come up with that? What a talented young man you are.”

  Brendan glanced back at the table to see if any of the others could overhear him. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, begging the question of whose idea it had been. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Oh, I do. I like the idea of associating Gilbreth Feed with ‘America the Beautiful.’” Mona looked at him, and wondered if she could consider him an ally. “In fact, I’d say you have a future in this business.”

  “I hope so,” Brendan said sincerely. “PDQ is giving me a chance to prove myself. I hope I can.”

  “I’ve been a client for a long time,” Mona informed him. “I know how the program works. Have you any idea whether you’re being favored for the job offer?”

  Brendan glanced over his shoulder at the young woman at the table, then at the door. Mona guessed that either Dorothy Carver or the young Doyle stood ahead of him. “As much as anyone,” he answered at last.

  “Well, the word of a client does have some weight around here,” Mona said. “If I liked your work I could insist that you be the one given the job.”

  Brendan smiled, giving her that intense stare.
“I’d be glad to put in extra time to please such an attractive client, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure you’d enjoy the work,” Mona said. “That young man who left …”

  “Keith?” Brendan asked. He glanced over his shoulder again to make sure no one had heard the surprised exclamation.

  “Yes, Keith. You think he’s a little ahead of you in the running?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Brendan demurred.

  “If you helped me, I could see him removed entirely from the race.”

  “With pleasure,” Brendan said in a low voice, but never losing his edge of smooth persuasiveness. “He hasn’t got his mind on his job right now, and I have no idea why. You know,” he added conversationally, “there’s no place for a scatterbrain in this business. The more on the ball we are, the better it is for you, our client.”

  Mona let Brendan babble on. Reminded of the child shut up in her summer cabin, Keith’s ‘niece,’ Mona felt a twinge of guilt but pushed it down again. She was here to help create a presence for her product and herself, but mostly herself, and to protect herself from Keith and his cronies at Hollow Tree Farm. The campaign was too important to let even worried environmentalists cause her grief. And money was becoming more scarce.

  “I want this ad campaign to increase business,” Mona insisted out loud, for the benefit of Paul and the others. “I’ll be in favor of whatever it takes to raise my receivables.”

  “How’s the bottom line been?” a man asked, coming into the room, and shaking hands with Mona. She remembered that his name was Larry Solanson, and he was her account executive. He’d clearly heard her last statement. “Will you be able to increase your budget slightly this season?” he asked. “The prices for all kinds of ads are going up, and television commercials are going off the scale. In an election year we have to compete for production house time. We could get better saturation of your voter spread with, say, $15,000 more in the kitty.”

  Mona’s heart sank. Not more talk about money, not when she was worrying about whether she was going to be hauled away to jail in the next half hour. Young Doyle had been gone a long time. Was he getting the police? Her worry must have shown on her face.

  “Ssst, sst, sst,” Paul said, with a concerned glance at her. He made damping down gestures. “Tact, Larry.” Solanson smiled his apology for being tactless. He pulled out Mona’s chair for her.

  “Sorry,” he said diplomatically. “I always want to do more. I forget not everyone shares my enthusiasm.”

  The door burst open, and Keith came in, a cardboard tray laden with small cakes and coffee cups balanced between his hands. There was a solid metal coffeepot hooked over his wrist. Gingerly, he set the bottom of the pot down on the table and worked his arm free without jostling the cups. “Sorry for the delay. We were out of doughnuts, so I ran down to the bakery.” He started to approach Mona to offer her some, but Paul gestured to him to put the pastries on the table and to sit down. Keith complied promptly, and plunked into the only empty chair at the table, which lay at the far end from Mona. She was relieved that he hadn’t come back with police, but he’d attempted to get close to her, and that worried her.

  “Very nice. Everyone help themselves. All right,” Paul said, after a woman and another man had arrived and taken their places at the table. “We’re all here. Mona Gilbreth, you know Suzy Lovett, our staff artist, and Jacob Fish, who’s on your creative team.” Mona nodded to them, and Meier beamed. “Ms. Gilbreth, it’s getting crowded in here. Would it be all right with you to keep one of my students around? Teach them how it’s done? They’ll understand if you need your space.”

  It was a tactful lie. There was still plenty of room, but he was giving her an out to avoid having Keith present. The interns looked dejected but resigned.

  “Well, I don’t mind one. A single observer won’t crowd things too much,” Mona said, and the students brightened, each hoping to be chosen. “After all, voters are voters.” She smiled at them, her gaze lingering longest on Martwick, who gave her an enthusiastic grin and nod. Meier didn’t miss the silent exchange.

  “Okay, Brendan, you stay.” Keith goggled, and raised his hand. “Nope. Room for only one. Everyone else, I’ve got assignments for you, too. Dorothy, you go help Ken Raito in Art with the prelim sketches on that first Judge Yeast layout. Sean, they’re doing studio shots for Dunbar Tyres. I meant to tell you, they loved ‘the Brain.’ They want to talk to you.” Meier nodded to Lopez, who looked suddenly jubilant, setting his big, dark eyes glowing. “Keith, Becky Sarter’s going to be here pretty soon for a meeting. She especially requested you be in on the meeting. Go and wait in the lobby for her, will you?”

  “Sure, Paul,” the red-haired youth said, rising. He smiled at the table. The other two young people rose and followed him out. Mona let out a breath of pure relief when the door closed behind them.

  Keith trotted down the hall toward the lobby, his head whirling. There was no point in lingering if Mona Gilbreth didn’t want him there, but he wished he had some way of changing her mind. He had sensed conspiracy when Paul suddenly sent the other interns away. Well, she had no reason to welcome his presence. He knew too much, and she didn’t know what he was planning to do with his knowledge. Keith wasn’t sure if he would trust himself, if he was in Ms. Gilbreth’s position. He was capable of embarrassing her, or worse.

  All the way to the bakery and back, he had been trying to think how to approach her about Dola. He felt a little ashamed of himself for his subterfuge of going in to the Gilbreth factory to get information on hidden scandals, but more ashamed that he had missed the most important thing there, the children, until the sprites led him back. Now that he knew Gilbreth’s secret, and she knew he knew, she was afraid of him. He didn’t blame her, but he had to make her see reason. If she would let him act as an intermediary, maybe he could get her to release Dola in exchange for some consideration from the elves. She had let some man do the talking for her over the phone. The terms she had demanded through him were outrageous. Some middle ground had to be reached, and soon. It was a good thing the baby had been returned to her mother. He’d seen how the elves were aroused when one of their own was threatened, and feared that delays on her part would only provoke a more serious response from them. Dola, if she wasn’t in any real danger, could take care of herself pretty well. As her mother had said, it was possible the girl was finding her captivity to be merely an adventure and an inconvenience, not life-threatening. He’d had a call from Frank, saying that the air sprites had gotten on to him while he was giving rides in the Skyship Iris. He’d gotten images that showed they’d found Dola’s new hiding place. It had been too rough to balloon since, so the sprites were keeping an eye on her until he could get someone from the farm up there with him to track down the location.

  “I guess this is what they meant in the song ‘Someone to Watch Over Me,’” Keith had said impishly. Even if her family didn’t know where she was, she remained safe and well.

  He wondered if the woman had any idea of the truth about Dola and her folk, and if she planned to expose them to the world. Keith swallowed. The thought of having to hide ninety elves while he found them a new, safer haven, while being under observation himself, would be really tough.

  Passing the receptionist’s desk and noticing the interoffice mail on the ledge, Keith thought of sending a message in a courier envelope in to Ms. Gilbreth during the meeting, asking to rendezvous later. She’d probably show it to Paul, who would misunderstand, which would get Keith bounced out of the program.

  The team was planning to talk to Gilbreth until 12:30, when they would take her to lunch. Keith saw that window as his last opportunity to take her aside before she went away again. In the meantime, Paul had given him an assignment, and he didn’t want to do anything else that would jeopardize his internship.

  He had fun with Becky Sarter, who dressed in sloppy sweats but had a sharp mind and a cheerful disposition, a refreshing change from the business-suited
executives who came to PDQ to be amused by their willing servants in the creative department. Becky, as she asked them both to call her, had no unreasonable expectations, and got a visible kick out of humor and genuine creativity. The executive on her account sat back and listened most of the time, stopping her to interject current market data that she didn’t have, and making Keith go back to analyze the ads he had designed for the demographic range. They talked about limited markets and the frequencies of the ads needed to approach each of them. Keith learned a lot, and came back to the conference room in a good mood. As he reached for the handle, the door was flung open, and Mona Gilbreth emerged. She met his eyes with the same panicked startled look, then turned away and headed down the hall, Meier and Brendan Martwick loping behind her like puppies.

  “I think the ‘amber waves of grain’ approach is very good,” Ms. Gilbreth was saying. “Very clever of you to use it for the company ads, and then my November campaign spots. The tape brought together all the images I cherish about my company. Very good.”

  “They’ll associate your good business values and integrity with your run for the House,” Brendan said, almost gushing. “It’s a natural. America the Beautiful, and Mona Gilbreth.” Mona glowed, and Brendan looked very pleased with himself.

  “Hey, that was my slogan,” Keith said, standing in the doorway.

  “It could mean real percentage points in the polls,” the tall blond man walking with them said warmly. None of them appeared to hear Keith. Heralded by its bell, the elevator arrived, and all of them piled into the car behind Ms. Gilbreth. The door slid shut.

  “Brown-nosers,” Keith muttered, giving up and turning back to the conference room.

  “Don’t you be talking down on brown noses,” Dorothy said, pointing her own nose at the ceiling, with a disapproving eye on Keith.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sighing. He slumped into a chair. “I didn’t mean the kind you can smell with. I mean the kind Brendan has that’s always stuck up someone’s rear end.” He glanced significantly toward the door, and Dorothy shook her head, smiling slyly.