by Clea Simon
“Everything’s copacetic with Cal, isn’t it?” Her husband had always seemed comfortingly stable.
She nodded. “Yeah, it’s more me than him. I mean, I don’t know if I’m ready to give it all up yet.”
I looked around. Right outside our alcove a janitor was mopping the floor, moving slowly to fill these off hours between the lunch and dinner rushes. Despite his efforts the floor was as dull as the rows of empty tables. “Too much excitement?”
“Not the Mail, Theda.” Her voice brought me back. “My real life. The music, the life.”
My longtime friend was being unusually inarticulate, but I knew what she meant. For people like us, the club scene was more than nighttime fun. Bunny, Cal, Violet, and I had all been misfits, more or less, and we’d all found a kind of surrogate family out there. To top it off, six of the eight women in Bunny’s Wiccan circle were in bands, last I checked, the nature-based religion fitting well with the creative music scene.
“We’ll still be here.” That was the wrong phrase; it was Bunny who didn’t want to leave. “And Linda’s a mom, and you still see her.” It was true, at least one of Bunny’s sister Wiccans now had two children.
“Yeah, but…” Bunny’s voice trailed off. I could hear the rest of the thought. Linda had a ton of energy, and, rumor had it, enough money so that she didn’t need to work full time. And Linda was the exception. We’d lost more running buddies to suburbia than I cared to count. Even I, single, childless, felt too tired to go out some nights.
“Well, I’m still here. As is Violet.” I thought of mentioning Tess, but she’d withdrawn from the scene because of her own problems. “In the scene or out, your friends will stay your friends.”
“Thanks, Theda.” A big sigh made the spangles sparkle. “Anyway, it’s not like I have a choice anymore, do I?” She shoved the baggie back into her purse and pushed her chair back. “But you, Theda, may have some decisions to make. Call me after. And good luck!”
***
A brief stop in the second floor ladies’ let me check my teeth for foreign objects and try to calm down my hair. The hint of spring humidity, a relief after a winter of overheated dryness, had brought back its natural curl with a vengeance. I patted one stray lock into place. I was who I was, wild hair and all. Tim had called me, and he’d certainly seen me looking worse. Nothing for it but to head downstairs and over to the management side of the building. I wouldn’t have minded stopping by Living/Arts. Maybe someone in the department would know a little more. Maybe I should touch base with Ralph. But Bunny and I had lingered. I’d have to leave the catching up till later.
The glass-lined Conference Room B ran along the front of the building. From the hall I could see across it and out its wall of windows over the boulevard toward the harbor. Just beyond the windows, a seagull floated on the breeze, and for a moment I considered bolting. But if I could see in, the folks inside could see me. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Tim sat on the far side of the long oval table. Not at the head, I noticed, or what would have passed for the head if not for the lack of corners. That position was held by another chubby, balding white man who, despite his shiny scalp, looked a few years younger than my boss. He glanced up as I came in, but it was Tim who greeted me.
“Hello, Krakow—Ms. Krakow. Thanks for coming in.” I stepped forward and when he nodded took one of the seats on the other side of the table. To my right sat Glenna Rawls, the paper’s managing editor. Next to Tim was Randolph “Randy” Williams. I didn’t know what exact job Randy held, but had heard from Bunny that the women in News took the bearded editor’s nickname seriously, making a point to avoid supply closets and dark corners when he was around.
“Krakow, I mean, Theda.” Tim was nearly stammering and, against my better judgment, my heart went out to him. I nodded encouragement. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to meet Rudy Cash, the new liaison between NewsCo and the Mail.” I hadn’t, and nodded to the stranger. “He’s here more in an advisory position, but he’s very interested in the allocation of resources.”
This is what Bunny had warned me about. I’d known of the sale of the Mail, we all did. But it seemed like the new owners were finally looking in the sack to see what kind of animal they’d purchased.
“So, Ms. Krakow, you write a freestanding feature on local pop music?” The balding newcomer looked up at me, for confirmation. I could see my latest pieces on the table in front of him, and his voice, strangely cool, didn’t sound like there was anything he didn’t know.
“Yes.” I answered anyway, wondering what his game was. “‘Clubland’ is one of the most read features in Living/Arts.” Last year’s “youth initiative” had given Tim the resources to conduct the reader surveys that had saved my little patch of turf—and made my editor realize what a valuable resource I was.
“Interesting.” That voice, and the way he flipped through the papers in front of him, indicated otherwise. But suddenly he stopped and held up one page for a closer look. Probably too vain for reading glasses. “But you’ve done some reporting, too. Drugs?”
I couldn’t help it, I preened. “Yes, I uncovered the source of a new designer drug. My investigation helped convict several of the people involved.” That story had started as part of “Clubland,” since that was where the drugs first surfaced. But this didn’t seem the time or place.
“So what have you been working on lately?” He didn’t mean my music column. “Anything else…substantial?”
I didn’t have anything, not really. But I’d been in the business long enough to have competitive instincts. “Pet food contamination.” I looked over at Tim. I’d been careful to use the more inclusive “pet,” rather than cat, but he’d still winced. He wanted me focused on young readers, not their pets. Cash nodded slightly, waiting for more.
“Isn’t that old news?” Randy broke in. Either he had a favorite in mind, or I was simply too long in the tooth to spark his interest.
“Not if there are new cases. Local cases.” I was spinning this out of nearly nothing, but I wanted to be taken seriously. “Possible poisonings.”
That got their attention. “I’m following something up from a local shelter.” Tim knew of my connection with Violet, but he kept his mouth shut. “The city shelter may be involved.” I gave him a pointed look, and he nodded slightly. This wasn’t just about my friends. “The chief vet is looking at contaminated cat kibble.”
“That sounds more like a story for Metro.” Randy was interested now. “Or even foreign, if it’s the Chinese again.”
“Now, wait a minute.” Tim’s territorial instincts were kicking in. “She’s my writer, the anchor of my weekend section. If there’s a pet angle, we want it. We can play it as a safety story. How to protect little Fluffy, or something.”
“But—” The two of them went at it, Glenna chiming in occasionally about women readers and the most threatened demographics. I let myself relax. Mission accomplished, if all I wanted was to be taken seriously. But would I have to come up with a story? Violet had asked me for help as a friend, and going public with the bad food might have all kinds of repercussions for her tiny shelter. And what about Rachel? She wasn’t implicated, not really. I just needed to find out if the bad food had come through her office, and why. If I had to cover this as a news story, it would create no end of hassles.
No point in worrying now. I made myself breathe in, slowly, and then let it out. Often enough, potential stories fell between the cracks. Leads evaporated, and the news cycle moved onto the next crisis. I waited for the discussion to burn itself out, but Cash wasn’t that patient.
“Gentlemen, Ms. Rawls, I don’t believe there is any reason to argue jurisdiction. This,” he pointed to me as Exhibit One, “is a perfect example of what I’ve been telling you about. Interdepartmental cooperation, work assignments made by pay grade. If we can loosen our outdated sense of departmental boundaries and create more floating positions, we can turn the Mail into a leaner,
more efficient news gathering organization.”
I swallowed, hard, but nobody was looking at me now. I’d come in here today hoping to be offered a job as a writer. But I had just made the case, it seemed, to insert myself as a cog in some new kind of machine.
Chapter Eight
Out on the street, I told myself I could breathe easier again. Of course, as soon as I tried, a truck roared by, spewing gray smoke into the brisk salty air, and I found myself coughing up who knows what. So much for the city waterfront and the illusion of ocean freshness. Not that the air out here was any worse than the air inside. Should Bunny even be working at the Mail in her condition? The printing presses rumbled and shook the entire plant every night, and whatever they cast off probably made that truck exhaust look wholesome.
But the money was good, as I knew, too. Ah well, that was something she and I would tackle in a later conversation, maybe after I had let my own reactions to that interview settle. I’d been too scattered to seek her out again, and had ducked out the side exit so I wouldn’t have to go through Living/Arts, wouldn’t have to greet the writers and editors I’d known for so long. Some of those people were goners; nobody had to spell that out. At least one position was going to be scrapped to make room for the reporter position that had been dangled in front of me. I hadn’t caused it, and I didn’t know if I’d accept it, but that didn’t make me feel any better about the whole deal. What I knew was that I had to think through everything I’d heard.
A writing job. On staff, back here at the Mail. On one side were several plusses. The idea of a steady paycheck was tempting. As was, if I were being completely honest, the validation of being hired, finally, as a writer by the biggest paper in town. But money only went so far, and flattery was a bad reason to commit to anything. If I thought about it objectively, the job had a lot of drawbacks. It wasn’t only music, or even arts, and that whole floating thing sounded iffy, too, like I’d end up working for a bunch of masters, and having no beat to call my own.
Speaking of beats, what did the job mean for “Clubland”? In a way, it might not even matter. Although Tim hadn’t said anything, I knew how these things worked. If I turned down a staff job as a writer and they hired someone else, why should they keep paying me as a freelancer? Why wouldn’t they just give “Clubland” to whomever they hired?
Realistically, I didn’t have much of a choice. Tim, the Mail, and that bureaucrat Cash were backing me into a corner. If I were Musetta, I would growl, the deep rumble starting somewhere back in my throat and my ears flattening against my sleek head. But even as I imagined her reaction, Bill’s face came to mind and I knew in a flash what he’d say.
“Theda, isn’t it possible you’re overreacting? Fear of commitment, perhaps?” He’d be asking as gently as he could, and there would be some truth to what he was saying. But this was a big move. I knew this field better than he ever would, and I had also learned to trust my instincts over the years. They had gotten me some good stories—and even saved my life. No, I didn’t need to go with the flow right now. What I needed was space and time to think things through.
Less than half a mile from the Mail was a city beach. The water, this close in the harbor, wasn’t anything I’d ever want to swim in, but the waterfront itself was pretty. Coarse, tan sand belied its nickname, Gravel Beach, the wide crescent of beach proper bordered by dune grass that would grow waist high by summer. At this time of year, the little park was probably abandoned, and cold as anything. But I turned into the wind and made my way there, even waiting for the traffic light before darting over to the water side. Sure enough, the snack shack was still boarded up, but the sky was open and clear, and the sand made a gratifying crunch beneath my boots. Down at the far end, where a small pier stuck out over the gray water, a young woman pushed a stroller. I wasn’t the only one seeking fresh air and the opportunity to be alone with my thoughts.
A seagull swooped low over the snack shack. Seagulls soared alone. Then again, seagulls ate trash. It squawked, angry that I had no snacks to share. I sighed. My cell phone rang, its old-fashioned ring startling me out of my thoughts. For a moment, I was tempted not to answer, but I recognized Violet’s number.
“Hey.” My mind was still on the paper, and on the ocean. I should come here more often.
“So, what did you find with the receipts? The poison? You should have woken me, Theda, I’m having a crisis here. Can you hear me?” I turned away from the harbor and began walking over to the shack. It would be easier to hear her, and to think, sheltered from the wind.
“Sorry, Vi. I’m down at Gravel Beach. Just came from a meeting at the Mail. ” She didn’t respond, so I kept going. “But I think I found something in those receipts. I’m pretty sure that bag of food came from the city shelter.”
“Rachel, man, I’m not surprised—” The rest was garbled.
“What?” The wind had picked up and I huddled close to the shack’s weathered wood. “I’m having trouble hearing you.”
“Rachel!” Violet was shouting. “I said I’m not surprised that she’s involved! You remember when we were there yesterday?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “The letters about euthanasia? Well, they’re doing it.”
“Vi, I know that.” Nobody wanted to put animals to sleep, even the sick ones. But the spring kitten season was the worst. Too often, shelter overcrowding meant that even healthy animals were euthanized once their shot at adoption had run out. “But you know what they say, ‘For every no-kill shelter….’” I didn’t finish the thought. We’d been over this ground before. In order for a shelter like Violet’s, a no-kill shelter, to exist, there had to be someplace else that would take the overflow—and deal with it as humanely as possible.
“Yeah, but this is new.”
The wind must be making it difficult to hear. “What’s new? I’m not getting you.”
“They’re giving up!”
“What?” I started walking to the road, trying for a stronger signal. “Violet, I don’t understand, and I’m losing you.” I stood on the sidewalk, the cars whipping by adding to the noise.
“Last year, Rachel made a big deal about how they were going for a hundred percent adoption, you know, like that shelter out in California? ‘We will not kill healthy animals, blah blah blah.’ She got a ton of press about it and I know their donations went way up.” I nodded. I remembered the press conference, and the feeling of hope that had brought a new wave of volunteers to the city shelter. “But actually following through? Forget about it. Oh man, this makes too much sense.”
“Wait a minute.” I wasn’t following Violet’s logic. “Back up. How do you know anything about Rachel’s plans? You were half asleep yesterday.” I hadn’t even read the file. Had I passed it over to Violet while Rachel did her thing?
“I’ve got my sources.” It’s true, Violet was connected and I didn’t always want to know how. I thought of all the people who had come down to help the day before, and that led me to another thought: the Helmhold House had virtually no security.
“But, Vi, aren’t you jumping to conclusions? Even if Rachel did donate that bag, maybe someone got to it while it was in your pantry.” I thought of all the new faces I’d seen. “You’ve got people coming in and out of there all the time.”
“Come on, Theda. They’re my volunteers. Why would people who are giving their time want to hurt animals?”
“But why would Rachel? I mean, even if the food came from her place—”
Violet interrupted me. “This raises her profile! You heard her, she’s talking to WellPet.”
“Wait a minute, you think this is about a job?” I couldn’t see it. Rachel was too dedicated to abandon the nonprofit, even for the glossy new animal hospital that had opened downtown. “She’s not leaving the shelter.”
“So she says.” Violet was insistent. “But even if—think of the donations. You heard what she said about new equipment, right? It’s all because of the new no-kill campaign. Word gets out that she’s not sticki
ng to it, she’ll stop getting those nice checks. But if cats are getting sick, or even dying at my place, well, that makes her shelter look pretty good, doesn’t it? I’m the bad news, then, and she’s still the star.”
“I don’t believe it.” The words came automatically, but I couldn’t help thinking about how difficult it was to reach Rachel these days. How slow she was in getting back to me about Musetta and about the bag that held the poisoned food. About that letterhead. Just then a truck flew by and I staggered back from the force of the wind. “I’ve got to get out of here, Vi. I feel like I’m at the Indy 500. As soon as I’m home, I’ll call Rachel again.”
“You do that.” Violet had a head of steam now. “And ask her about those tests she was going to have done. I haven’t heard anything, and I’ve been home all day. Maybe I never will.”
***
In a way it was pleasant to have a distraction. I’d rather think about cats, or shelter politics, than my own confused career. But what Violet had told me was disturbing. A lot of cities were trying to reduce euthanasia rates, and everything pointed to Rachel being in the forefront of what had become a national movement. Yes, she was pulling money in, but that money was going out, too. Only a month before, she’d announced plans for a Spay/Neuter Wagon, a small operating room on wheels that would regularly visit neighborhoods, doing low-cost neuters. Between projects like that and the plans I’d read in her office, the fostering and pet therapy programs, it didn’t sound like money was being wasted.
But I hadn’t seen these plans come to fruition, either. Could Vi be right?
To think that Rachel was giving up was discouraging. Sure, the economy was tanking, but had donations fallen off? Was the goal of placing every healthy animal just too difficult? Another, darker thought hit me. Had Rachel’s PR campaign been just that from the start? I’d heard stories of shelters that claimed not to kill healthy animals, but then stretched the definition of “healthy” to give themselves freedom to do as they pleased. All a dog had to do was have one accident, all a cat had to do was scratch, to be reclassified. In a new and stressful situation, like a crowded city shelter, it would be easy to label even the sweetest former pets as problematical and, thus, not salvageable. No, I couldn’t believe that my vet, who worked so hard, would simply take the money and give up the animals—or use the publicity to leverage a job in the for-profit sector. But I needed to speak with her. Rachel would explain. She had to.
