Death Watch

by Jack Cavanaugh

  A double beep signaled he did.

  “White, that’s correct!” Skip shouted.

  Junior’s deficit was erased by $100.

  The audience clapped without enthusiasm.

  Skip leaned forward. With a smirk, he said, “Tell me, Junior, now that you have answered correctly, it was obvious you struggled with it. Can you tell us how you figured out the answer to the question?”

  “Well, Skip,” Junior said proudly, “I just thought of the pictures I’d seen of George Washington when I was a kid in school, and in the pictures his horse was white.”

  Josh whispered to Sydney, “Is this guy for real?”

  “You said you wanted to talk,” she replied. Sydney really didn’t want to get into this now, but there seemed to be no avoiding it. She led him to a quiet corner of the studio.

  “Look, Josh,” she said, “I’m going to make this easy for you. I know you’re infatuated with Cori and that when a guy’s in love, his brain freezes up and he does amazingly dumb things. I don’t know what Cori promised you to get you to go along with her twisted attempt to steal this assignment from me, and frankly, I don’t want to know. We’re still friends, okay? Let’s just leave it at that. I don’t particularly like you right now and it’ll take me a few days to get over this, but it’s not going to permanently damage our friendship. Just don’t do it again, all right?”

  “Syd, I got a death watch notice.”

  “Oh, Josh!” Sydney cried. “Are you sure?”

  His eyes were glassy. His chin quivered. Sydney had never seen Josh emotionally distraught before, and it broke her heart. He was the good-natured jock, competitive, occasionally frustrated and angry just like everyone else. But never like this. Never broken. Never scared.

  He reached into his back pocket and handed her a folded sheet of paper.

  Sydney unfolded it.

  An email printout.

  It was addressed to Joshua Leven at his KSMJ address. The wording was word-for-word identical to all the other notices.

  “Confirmation phone call?” Sydney asked.

  Josh nodded.

  Behind them, the game show stadium crowd erupted with cheers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Under blazing studio lights, Cheryl McCormick blinked back tears. She’d pulled within striking distance of Barb Whitlock, but the pressure, the pregnancy, and the looming death sentence had spun her emotions out of her control.

  Since the announcement that she was under Death Watch, she’d become the studio audience favorite. Everyone in the stands was living and dying with each spin of the Wonder Wheel and each breathless second she took to answer a question.

  Meanwhile, Barb Whitlock had stumbled; whether out of greed or a moment of confusion, it was hard to say. Instead of passing and protecting her lead, she took a chance on answering a question.

  “How many yards is an NFL football team penalized for going offside?”

  The risk was relatively low with a dollar value of $13,500. It appeared to be easy money that would put her well beyond Cheryl McCormick’s reach.

  “I’m a big Raider’s fan, Skip,” she’d said. “My husband and I haven’t missed a game in over ten years. The answer is A. Ten yards.”

  “I’m sorry,” Skip cried. “But the penalty for offsides in the NFL is five yards.”

  “Wait! No! I was thinking of holding. You said holding, didn’t you? The penalty for holding is ten yards!”

  But it was too late. Barb Whitlock’s total dropped to $61,100.

  Cheryl won the next spin and the first chance to answer a question.

  “With a question value of ninety-five, and a factor of difficulty of seven, for $66,500 the category is Rocks of Ages.”

  The studio audience groaned. Cheryl had spent most of the show recovering from a wrong answer in this category.

  “Pass or play?”

  Time was running out. Cheryl might not get another chance to make up this much ground.

  “Play, Skip,” Cheryl said.

  “For $66,500, here’s your question: The discovery of the Rosetta stone led to a better understanding of what ancient language?”

  Cheryl shook her head. Another language question.

  “Is it, (a) Paleo Hebrew, (b) Egyptian hieroglyphics, (c) Attic Greek, or (d) Vedic Sanskrit? You have fifteen seconds.”

  Each tick of the clock had a dampening effect on the studio audience until it became so quiet Cheryl would have sworn she could hear the heartbeat of her unborn child.

  “Eight seconds, Cheryl.”

  She remembered something about the Rosetta stone being on display at the British Museum in London. A tour brochure, if she remembered correctly. That didn’t help.

  “I have to have an answer, Cheryl,” Skip said.

  “B, Skip. Egyptian hieroglyphics.”

  It was a guess, pure and simple. But she said it with conviction.

  “Correct!” Skip shouted.

  That’s when the studio erupted with noise, the very moment Josh Leven convinced Sydney his death watch notice was real.

  Sydney and Josh came running. Hunz filled them in. “She’s within $17,200!” he shouted but could barely be heard. “Not much time left, though. One spin left, maybe two.”

  “I’ve never watched this show,” Josh said. “What does she need to do?”

  “They each stop the wheels,” Hunz said. “A combination of factors gives them a dollar number. High number gets first crack.” Josh nodded. As the wheels were once again set into motion, the two men watched with all the intensity of a couple of guys glued to the last seconds of a championship sports event.

  Sydney watched, too, but was unable to compartmentalize her feelings like Josh seemed to be doing. Her emotions battled, and she was a casualty. Cheering Cheryl on, she saw a new friend, a dying friend, an unborn life and soon-to-be orphan, while precious Stacy watched her mother with her head on Hunz’s shoulder. She saw Josh. Young, energetic, all-around nice guy. Josh, distracted at the moment, but hurting. While all around her, people were cheering for a ridiculous game show. But it was more than a game show for Cheryl; it was the future of her children. A future without their mother or father.

  It was just too much. Yesterday morning Sydney’s biggest worry was that she was stuck in traffic and couldn’t make it to a meeting on time. And now she hurt so badly, she felt as though she was the one dying.

  The hands of the three contestants hovered over the buttons that would lock in their choices. The Wonder Wheel theme music began to play.

  Junior locked in his choice.

  Barb Whitlock locked in hers.

  As she did on her first spin, Cheryl watched the wheel as the music played and didn’t push her button until the last beat of the last measure.

  The results appeared on the podiums.

  The audience groaned collectively in disappointment.

  Barb Whitlock had locked in the highest value, with Junior second, and Cheryl McCormick third.

  A total of $17,200 separated Cheryl from first place. She’d spun a question value of twenty-one with a factor of difficulty nine for a total of $18,900. It was enough to win. But she was third in line to get a question. Would she get a chance to play?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Barb Whitlock, you have the highest spin. The category is Royalty Notes, correspondence of literary legends. Play or pass?”

  The leading contestant did not appear as confident as she did when she was sitting on what appeared at the time to be an insurmountable lead. Strands of hair dangled against her perspiring forehead. If she played and won, the game was over. The resulting total would put her out of reach. If she played and lost, it was over for her.

  “Play or pass?” Skip repeated.

  Barb said nothing.

  “I have to have an answer.”

  More precious seconds ticked.

  A buzzer sounded.

  “I’m sorry, but that sound means you’ve forfeited your turn,” Skip said.<
br />
  Barb Whitlock didn’t argue.

  “She did that on purpose!” Hunz said.

  “To run as much time off the clock as possible,” Josh said.

  “Junior Wicker, you have a grand total of negative $39,500. You just spun a sixty-three and an eight for a total of $50,400 which would put you in the black by $10,900. Not enough to win. Your category is Noah’s Nightmares, annoying animals on the ark. Now remember, Junior, even if you answer the question correctly, you can’t win. You’re too far behind. At this point, a gentleman might consider stepping aside for a fellow contestant.”

  “The network wants Cheryl to win,” Sydney said. “Why else would he say something like that?”

  “A beautiful pregnant woman who is about to die is good for ratings,” Hunz said.

  “It’ll make a splash,” Josh said, tongue in cheek.

  “Nah, I’m gonna play, Skip,” Junior said.

  The audience booed.

  Junior took exception to the audience’s disfavor. He said something that was deleted from the live broadcast, possible now since all live shows were delayed five seconds as a result of certain indiscretions at a notorious Super Bowl performance.

  “Very well,” Skip said. His tone was that of a disapproving mother. “For $50,400, here’s your question: What is the smelliest member of the weasel family? Is it, (a) Ermine, (b) Skunk, (c) Otter, (d) Mink.”

  Junior’s eyes gasped as he thought out loud. “I don’t know what an ermine is, so I don’t know if it’s smelly or not. And minks, they’re not smelly, are they? I mean, women wear them. They wouldn’t wear them if they were smelly, would they? Unless it’s a trick question.”

  “Ten seconds.”

  “Skunks are definitely smelly. Ask me, I know. Whooowee. But a skunk’s not a weasel, is it?”

  Time was running out, both for Junior and for Cheryl.

  “Skunk, Skip.”

  “Correct!” Skip shouted.

  The audience gave a smattering of applause. Junior’s tally went from red to black: $10,900. Barb Whitlock clapped the loudest for him. Not only had Junior kept Cheryl from getting another question, but he’d just made Barb Whitlock an extra ten grand.

  Skip looked to the director.

  “Is there time?”

  He was cued to proceed, followed immediately by a wrap-it-up signal. Skip Hirshberg launched into the next question. He spoke so fast each sentence sounded like a single word. •

  Standing in the vomitory, Sydney and Hunz exchanged glances. Hunz shook his head. He didn’t think Cheryl was going to get the question in time. This from a man who was an expert at timing newscasts down to the second.

  Josh was riveted on Cheryl. He was smiling at her with a silly half grin.

  Skip Hirshberg went supersonic: “Cheryl-McCormick-with-$43, 900-you-need-$17,200-to-win-you-spun-a-twenty-one-and-nine-for-a-total-of-$18,900-the-category-is-Say-Ahh-anatomy-/for-amateurs-for-the-win-pass-or-play?”

  “Play,” Cheryl said, right on his heels.

  She looked remarkable. Her eyes flashed readiness, powered by a quick mind. Sydney teared up just watching her.

  Skip gave a quick glance at the floor director.

  He was given the signal to proceed.

  “Here’s-your-question-the-word-Costa-refers-to-which-of-the-following:-(a)-Nerve-(b)-Rib-(c)-Gland-(d)-Muscle.”

  Time had run out. The director was rising to his feet, his hands signaling the cut to commercial. It was one of those moments in life where momentous events occur between heartbeats and decisions are made between ticks of the clock.

  In that instant, that fraction of a second, no breath was taken, no pulse had time to beat, no one lived, no one died. Universal timespace hiccuped.

  And in that hiccup, Cheryl McCormick said, “B. Rib.”

  “Correct!” Skip shouted.

  The television audience heard only, “Cor—”; the second half of the master of ceremony’s word was cut off by a toilet tissue commercial.

  In the studio, the audience was popping and splattering with shouts and applause like water on a hot skillet. Barb Whitlock left her podium to complain to Skip that time had run out. Her protests were drowned out by the celebration of not only the people in the stands but the network executives. In the vomitory, Hunz was jostling Stacy for joy. Josh turned and hugged Sydney, who was crying. On stage Cheryl was smiling. Her podium flashed her total winnings: $134,800. She looked tired.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Twenty minutes after the Wonder Wheel went dark, the hub of activity shifted to the greenroom, a holding area where the contestants could relax before their appearance on the show. Behind the closed door, Cheryl was conferring with studio executives and Skip Hirshberg.

  Sydney and Hunz waited for her in the hallway. Hunz had enticed Stacy into going on a treasure hunt for a vending machine. He wanted to put distance between her and the shouting that could be heard coming from the greenroom.

  The door opened. An exasperated executive, a short man with glasses that were too large for his face, emerged. Sydney could see Cheryl inside seated on a couch, flanked by another executive and Skip Hirshberg.

  “You work for the station, right?” the exec with glasses asked Sydney.

  “Both of us do,” Sydney said, including Josh.

  “See what you can do with her,” said the frazzled exec. “She insists on going back to Illinois. Talk her into staying for one more show. Earn your paychecks.”

  Wiping his brow, he hustled down the narrow corridor to regions unknown. Sydney glanced at Josh. They stepped inside the room.

  The three people on the couch glanced up simultaneously. Cheryl was red-eyed with exhaustion.

  “Let me talk to her,” Sydney said.

  The remaining exec, a portly man with balls for cheeks, got up, straightening the wrinkles in his pants. Sydney took his place. Skip gave her one of those “reason with her, will you?” looks.

  “Alone,” Sydney said. “Josh and I would like to speak to her alone.”

  The station exec bit his lower lip in thought, then said, “We’ll be right outside.” Leaning close to Sydney’s ear, he whispered, “Don’t let her leave this room until she agrees to appear on tomorrow night’s show.”

  Skip stood and lingered a moment. “The station is being more than generous,” he said to no one in general. “They’ve offered her a $50,000 appearance fee. They didn’t have to, you know. She signed a contract. Winners return the next day. Those are the rules of the game.”

  He left, closing the door behind him.

  For a long while, no one spoke. Josh shuffled uneasily, then moseyed over to the couch and sat next to Cheryl, trying to appear nonchalant. He reminded Sydney of a junior high boy trying to summon up the courage to ask a girl to dance.

  They were surrounded by dozens of photographs on the walls of past Wonder Wheel contestants, all smiling. Some held fistfuls of money. Master of ceremonies Skip Hirshberg was in every picture. It was a mosaic of the American dream—go to Hollywood, hit it big, be the envy of everyone in the country. The message to the contestants who waited in this room was clear: This could be you!

  Tonight Cheryl McCormick qualified to have her picture on the wall along with all the other winners. Unlike them, Cheryl wasn’t smiling.

  The strong odor of day-old coffee came from a pot at the far end of the room. Next to it was a tower of white cups, a bowl of pink sugar packets, and a cup filled with red stir sticks.

  “That coffee’s turning my stomach,” Cheryl said. She pushed herself up from the couch with effort. She wobbled.

  Josh jumped to steady her.

  Cheryl didn’t seem to notice. “I’m going home,” she said.

  “I’ll bring the car around,” Sydney said.

  “Don’t do me any favors. I’ll call a cab.” Cheryl’s eyes were cold, her words clipped.

  “Cheryl—”

  “I can manage on my own, thank you very much.”

  Pressing a hand against her
back, the pregnant woman made for the door. Sydney stood and caught her by the arm.

  “Cheryl, let us help you.”

  The response was quick and heated. “I don’t want your help,” Cheryl spat. “I thought we were friends. Chalk it up to Midwestern naivete. I should have known reporters don’t have friends, only news sources.”

  The on-the-air death notice announcement. In all the excitement, Sydney had forgotten about it.

  “My purse,” Cheryl said, scanning the room.

  Josh lunged for it and handed it to her.

  “Can someone tell me where I can find my daughter?”

  “Cheryl, listen to me,” Sydney said. “I don’t know how Skip Hirshberg found out, but I didn’t tell him. You have to believe me.”

  Cheryl wasn’t listening.

  Sydney’s hands fell helplessly to her sides. What could she say to convince her? “If you don’t believe me, ask Skip,” she blurted.

  Cheryl’s hand was on the door.

  “Syd’s telling the truth,” Josh said.

  Maybe it was the quiet way he said it, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t said anything up to now, but whatever the reason, Cheryl listened.

  “I was at the station this afternoon,” he said. “Syd took a lot of heat for not interviewing you. And I heard her tell our assignment editor you wanted to keep the death watch thing quiet. She took heat for that, too. Any other reporter would have screwed you over.”

  Josh looked at Sydney. “I can’t believe Helen would disregard your promise and give out the information,” he said.

  “It was Cori,” Sydney said.

  “Makes sense.”

  This was the first time Sydney had ever heard Josh acknowledge Cori Zinn’s devious side.

  “Why would this woman do this to me?” Cheryl asked. “She doesn’t even know me.”

  “It’s not you,” Sydney said. “Cori is an ambitious, unscrupulous woman. She did it to hurt me.”

  Josh turned to Cheryl. “You have every right to be angry. It was a cheap shot to boost ratings. But let me tell you something about Syd. She’s not like other reporters. She doesn’t play those games. If Sydney St. James said she didn’t tell the Wonder Wheel people about your death watch notice, she didn’t.”