by Gail Bowen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Nova and I walk through the front door of CVOX, the hearse is waiting at the curb. Nova looks at me questioningly.
“That’s our ride for the evening,” I say.
Nova cocks her head and gives me her crooked smile. “Is this a joke?”
“Nope. When I was on my way to work tonight, the driver of that vehicle ran a light and hit me and my Schwinn. My Schwinn didn’t make it.” I shrug. “I did. I guess it wasn’t my night to die.”
Nova lifts her face to mine. “Thank God for that,” she says. I look into her eyes. The steadiness in her gaze has anchored me for the past three years.
“I do,” I say. I’m surprised at the catch in my voice. And then, another surprise. “Nova, I want to stick around. I want to see what happens next.”
The fog has lifted. Above us the red lips and Mick Jagger tongue that form the O in the CVOX call letters blaze in the night. Nova slides her arm through mine.
“I’ve never ridden in a hearse before.”
“I guess tonight’s your lucky night.”
“I know it’s my lucky night,” she says.
For a woman in a caterpillar suit, Nova moves quickly. She reaches up, draws me to her and kisses me.
“Let’s go to my place,” she says. “Let’s see how this story unfolds.”
For Finn, a boy who stands in no one’s shadow
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
When the sun goes down, the only people on the streets of the neighborhood where I work are people who have something to sell. The women who stroll in skimpy outfits and platform shoes with five-inch heels sell love. Or what passes for love in the dark. The tattooed men in wife-beater shirts, ripped jeans and scuffed black combat boots sell drugs that take their clients up, down or out. Wherever they need to go to dull the pain of being alive.
I’m in the pain-dulling business too. What I offer is a voice that helps people get through the dark hours. My name is Charlie Dowhanuik. I host “The World According to Charlie D”—the late-night call-in show on CVOX radio (“ALL TALK/ ALL THE TIME”).
I started out as the midnight deejay. When people began phoning in to talk about their lives, my producer and I decided to cut down on the tunes and focus on the voices.
It was a solid decision. Now we just use tunes to fill the gap between stories. I’m not a shrink or a social worker. The only special skill I have is that I know how to listen. People are hungry for that.
Most nights I ride my bike to work. But the city is in the middle of a heat wave, so tonight I’m on foot. The pavement beneath my feet is soft with heat. The stench of rotting garbage hangs heavy in the air. It’s not a pleasant walk, but this is my neighborhood. And as I pass by, the hookers and drug dealers mumble greetings. I mumble back.
One of the girls calls out, “Happy Father’s Day, Charlie.”
“I’m not a father,” I say.
“If you ever decide you want to make a little Charlie junior, I’m available,” she says. Her laugh is a bray.
The first fingers of a headache reach up from the back of my neck into my skull. Aspirin time.
Our local drugstore is grim. Its windows are crisscrossed with protective bars. Several signs announce security cameras and warn that there is minimal cash on the premises.
Tonight there’s something new: a sign with a picture of a fancy set of golf clubs and a reminder that says Don’t forget Dad on His Special Day. Ours is not a neighborhood where people have reason to remember Dad on his special day. Or on any other day. Most people in this part of town would be hard-pressed to identify their dads in a police lineup.
But inside the store, the greeting-card racks are bright with images of fathers and sons doing what fathers and sons are supposed to do together—play baseball, shoot hoops, catch fish, golf. When I try to remember if I ever did any of those things with my own father, I come up empty. My eyes move to the metal security mirror overhead and I see myself. For thirty-three years, I’ve lived with the wine-dark birthmark that covers half my face. Mirrors have never been my friends, but my image, distorted by the shiny convex curve of metal, stuns me. I look as if I’m wearing a blood mask. My reflection has caught the attention of a child whose mother is checking out the greeting cards.
The boy is perhaps four years old. He stares at the security mirror for a few seconds, and then his gaze shifts to me. His eyes widen, and he draws near to get a better look. His mother is a dishy redhead with a tennis tan, very brief white shorts and a white T-shirt that showcases her considerable assets. Everything about her shouts money and privilege. What she’s doing in this store is a mystery.
When she notices her son staring at me, she hisses, “Don’t stare at the man. It’s not appropriate.”
“He’s got blood all over his face,” the boy shouts—his voice is high and piercing.
Quick as the flick of a snake’s tongue, the mother reaches out a perfect hand and slaps her son’s cheek. He howls.
I meet her gaze.
“That wasn’t appropriate,” I say. As I walk over to the cashier and take my place in line, I feel the perfect redhead’s eyes boring a hole in the back of my head.
There’s a stack of local newspapers on the counter by the cashier. I pick one up. For once, there is something new in the news. Two photos share pride of place on the front page. The first is of a man and a woman in evening clothes. His name is Henry Burgh; her name is Misty de Vol. They are beaming at one another with the satisfaction of two people who have found what they want out of life. He is a tough-looking old bird of eighty-three; she is a curvy blond of twenty-five. The photograph is their engagement picture.
The second photograph is of a man with a three-hundred-dollar haircut, hard eyes and a snarl for a smile. His name is Evan Burgh. He owns the network of which CVOX is the crown jewel. Henry, the groom-to-be, is his father.
For the past month, there’ve been whispers that before Henry has a chance to make Misty his bride, Evan Burgh will attempt to have the courts declare that his father’s “best before” date has expired. The headline above the pictures tells the tale: DAD’S IN LA-LA-LAND SAYS SON. It appears that Evan’s first kick at the can is to go public. I’ve locked horns with him enough times to know that he’s a prick, so I’m on the side of young love.
The paper’s other stories are the usual—a gang murder, an armed robbery, the threat of a garbage strike. There’s a shot of the rising star in the political party my father led for many years. Rising Star is barbecuing ribs for his family. The wife and kids look as if they’d rather be eating ground glass than sharing a family moment with Dad. Mrs. Rising Star’s smile is frozen. The faces of the two pretty teenage daughters are grim. And the third child, a boy on the cusp of adolescence, is staring down at the picnic table, his face expressionless.
Only Leader Dad is beaming, clearly oblivious to his wife and kids. Although he has proposed slashing programs for youth at risk, single mothers and the working poor, he is being packaged as a proud protector of families. Not my kind of guy. But I look hard at the picture, especially at the boy.
My father, Howard Dowhanuik, was a politician—a successful one. I grew up being dragged into family publicity photos. Nobody wanted a gap in the picture where the third child should be.
The camera was not kind to the supporting cast of the Dowhanuik family. My activist-mother always looked as if she couldn’t wait to break away and do something meaningful. My beautiful sisters flashed smiles that were clearly fake, and my birthmark made me look as if I belonged to some bizarre face-painting cult. But the camera loved my father. Bathed in the glow of the successful politician, he always loo
ked great. And why not? Howard Dowhanuik was the king of the castle, the people’s choice.
I pay for the paper and the aspirin and leave the store. When I turn at the corner, I see the fluorescent call letters on the roof of the radio station. The O in CVOX is an open red-lipped mouth with a tongue that looks like Mick Jagger’s. It may be cheezy, but it’s the beacon that leads me to the place that is the closest thing to home I know.
As I step through the glass doors that open into the station’s foyer, my cell phone vibrates. I check the caller ID. It’s my father. He makes an effort to contact me three times a year—once each on the anniversaries of the death of my mother and of the woman I loved, and once close to Father’s Day. After a life in politics, Howard knows how to turn the knife.
I drop the cell back in my pocket, pass through security and make my way down a hall hung with over-sized photographs of CVOX’s heavy hitters. “The World According to Charlie D” is our station’s top-rated show, so my picture, taken in profile to feature my “good side,” is front and center. I’m proud of our show. I think we do good work, but there are nights when I feel as if I’m swimming upstream. I look again at the newspaper in my hand and my spidey senses begin to tingle. That’s when I know that even though it’s still ten minutes to showtime, I’m already in over my head.
CHAPTER TWO
When I enter the brightly lit control room of Studio D, Nova Langenegger, who has produced the show since the beginning, is keying something into her computer. She has a phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder. In the year since her daughter, Lily, was born, Nova has started running. I thought she looked fine with a few extra pounds, but she didn’t share my opinion.
She’s my age, but tonight, with her blond hair tied up in a ponytail and her runner’s body in a tank top and shorts, she looks about seventeen. Nova never wears makeup. She doesn’t need to. Her skin is creamy and taut, and her eyes are the intense blue of an Alpine sky. Her steady gaze has rescued me more than once over the years.
Nova is not easily rattled, but she can’t take her eyes off whatever’s on her computer screen.
“Look at this.” She points to an email.
I lean over her shoulder and read the words aloud. “For all of us, being dead would be better than living with him. When Charlie said ‘no man is a man until his father dies,’ I knew what I had to do.”
“No name,” she says. “Just an email address. [email protected].”
There’s a coldness in the pit of my stomach. After ten years, I can tell when someone is about to cross the blood-red line. I keep my voice even.
“Did I say that?”
Nova’s fingernails are already chewed to the quick, but she slides what remains of her thumbnail into her mouth and nods.
“You did. I checked through the tapes for the last six weeks and found the exact words.” She adjusts the elastic on her ponytail. “The topic was guilt. The caller’s name was Brian, and he was beating himself up because his father died, and all he felt was relief.”
“I remember,” I say. “That voice is pretty hard to forget. Brian sounded as if he was being torn apart by the hounds of hell.”
“It wasn’t any easier listening to him the second time,” Nova says dryly. “I jotted down the key points of your conversation.” She picks up a scratch pad and begins reading. “Brian said, ‘A man’s supposed to cry for his father, but I can’t cry. I just keep feeling relieved that he’s finally gone.’ You tried a couple of approaches, but you weren’t connecting. Finally, you reached into your Tickle Trunk of a brain and came up with something that worked. ‘Fathers cast long shadows,’ you said. ‘It’s easy to get lost in them.’”
“That’s when Brian started listening,” I said. “I told him about an article I’d read. The writer believed fathers become an audience of one for their sons.”
Nova reads from her scratch pad.
“‘Fathers teach their sons how to throw a ball, and then they watch and cheer. A boy grows up knowing that his dad’s always going to be in the stands, watching.’”
“Which is great unless the boy becomes a man who is still always trying to please that audience of one,” I say.
“And that’s where the fatal quote came in.” Nova consults her scratch pad again and reads. “‘The son who is always trying to please his father will never be a man until the father dies.’”
I rub the back of my neck. The aspirin has not yet worked its magic. I watch Nova’s face carefully.
“Would you interpret that as me giving someone license to kill his father?”
Nova’s smile is thin.
“No. I’d interpret that as you telling Brian that he isn’t a monster—that other people have reacted to a father’s death the way he has. But people hear what they want to hear.”
“And loser1121 wanted to hear that he’d be justified in killing his father.”
Nova’s face is tense. “Not just his father. The email reads ‘For all of us, being dead would be better than living with him.’ Charlie, I think loser1121 is planning to kill everyone in his family, including himself.”
I feel as if someone just dropped a large barbell on the back of my neck.
“So where do we go from here?” I say.
“Your decision,” Nova says. “Since I came to work tonight, I’ve had two hangups. I usually take that as an indication the caller wants to talk to you.” Her brow furrows. “Do you think it’s time to alert the police?”
I shrug. “We might as well cover our asses. But I can tell you right now what they’ll say. ‘The World According to Charlie D’ is broadcast coast to coast. All we have is an email address. Loser1121 could be anywhere. No police force in the country has the time or the resources to search for a needle in a haystack. Then they’ll say we have to get loser1121 to call in so we can either talk him down or trace the call.” I rub my skull and wince.
Nova narrows her eyes. “Your Father’s Day headache started early this year,” she says. “While we’re on the subject… your father called. He’s across the street at Nighthawks. He wants to come over after the show and take you for coffee.”
“Not going to happen,” I say.
After ten years together, Nova and I know each other’s stories. Her mother died of cancer when Nova was five. She had two younger sisters. Her father ran the farm, cooked, ironed the girls’ church dresses, and when the time came, he sat them down with a box of sanitary napkins and explained menstruation. When he died at fifty-two, he left behind three smart, self-reliant young women who still mourn him.
Nova’s eyes search my face. Clearly, she’s concerned about what she sees. “I have something for you,” she says. “I was going to give it to you after the show, but you look as if you could use it now.” She reaches into her backpack and takes out an eight-by-ten-inch photograph of her year-old daughter, Lily. Lily is wearing overalls and blowing the fluff off the dandelion she’s clutching in her hand.
I look at the photo for a long time.
“She is so beautiful,” I say.
“Agreed,” Nova says. “Medical student number seven must have been a hunk. First time at the sperm bank, and I hit the jackpot.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” I say. “Lily’s like you in many ways.”
The picture has been professionally framed. To set off the photograph, Nova chose a navy mat that matches Lily’s overalls. There are tiny white handprints on the navy mat.
“How did you get Lily’s handprints on there?” I ask.
Nova rolls her eyes.
“With white paint and great difficulty,” she says. “There’s a verse on the back, but don’t read it while I’m around. I don’t want to watch your opinion of me take a nosedive.”
She glances at the big clock above the glass that faces my studio. “Two minutes to air,” she says. “There are some notes for the opening on your screen. I’ll call the police, but I think you’re right about their response. They’ll need more to go on, and
we’re the only ones who can get it. I’m going to answer loser1121’s email—urge him to give us a call on air or off. But, Charlie, you’ll have to be the point guy on this.”
I nod agreement. “And I’ll have to tread lightly. This guy is hanging on by his toenails. The last thing we want to do is freak him out.”
I pass from the bright light of the control room into the dark coolness of my studio. I slide into my seat at the desk and pick up my earphones. Nova’s notes for the intro are on my computer screen, but I don’t read them. I turn over the photograph she gave me and read the verse written on the back.
You sometimes get discouraged because I am
so small And always get my fingerprints on furniture and wall.
So here’s a final handprint so that you
can recall How very much I loved you when my hands were just this small.
My throat closes. When we’re at our desks, Nova and I communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. I don’t trust my voice, so I give Nova the thumbs-up.
She leans forward and switches on her talkback. “Don’t get emotional,” she says. “It was either you or medical student number seven.” Her tone is ironic, but her crooked grin would melt a heart harder than mine. She holds up five fingers and counts down. We’re on the air.
CHAPTER THREE
Our theme music, “Ants Marching” by the Dave Matthews Band, comes up. When the music fades, it’s my turn.
There’s an old joke: “He has a great face for radio.” In my case, it’s true. I started doing radio because it allowed me to be somebody I wasn’t. Like everyone in my business, I’ve developed a voice that works for my audience. Charlie D’s voice is deep, intimate and confiding—the voice of the man women want to go home with them after midnight. The voice of the man other men wish they could be.
It was a kick when the fan mail started. Reading that a woman found listening to my voice like being bathed in dark honey was an ego boost. But when people began to write that my voice was all that got them through the night, I knew that “The World According to Charlie D” wasn’t about me. That’s when I started taking the show seriously.
