by D. M. Barr
“Ya este siha manma’pos para i taihinekkok na mina’sa’pet, lao i manunas para i taihinekkok na lina’la’…”
Camarin sat up, dizzily trying to make out Monaeka’s silhouette in the dark of the dining room, which had been outfitted with two portable cots. “Mon? Mon?” she whispered, but her voice was drowned out by the growing volume of the unexpected nighttime tribal concerto. Rubbing her eyes, she slipped on her bathrobe and slippers and wandered, still drowsy, toward the chants, now in English.
“And these shall go away into everlasting punishment, but the righteous into life eternal…”
Even half-asleep, Camarin recognized the biblical passage from Matthew 25:46. Suddenly, she flashed back to the last time she’d heard chanting like this—the night two years ago when her aunt had tried to exorcise the seizure demons from Monaeka’s body. Oh God, not again! She snapped to full consciousness and sprinted down the hall toward the commotion.
Her aunt’s room was filled with the sickening scent of burning basil. Just as last time, Monaeka lay tied to the four posters of the bed frame, clad only in her pajamas. Feathers were stuck between the toes of her right foot. She struggled, trying to break free, wide-eyed and clearly terrified by the spectacle. From just outside the room, Camarin watched in horror, sympathetically experiencing her twin’s dilemma—the tightness of the bindings, the panic of the predicament.
A ring made of salt ran along the periphery of the bedroom, Inside the ring stood Aunt Sirena and several of their neighbors—all immigrants from their native Guam. Arm-in-arm, they swayed back and forth. Leading their chanting was Husto, their community’s suruhånu, or traditional healer. He was joined by a priest Camarin had never seen before, dressed in black robes with a large crucifix hanging from his neck. It matched the one he held high above her sister’s head.
Camarin silently stepped inside, her entrance unnoticed by all but Monaeka, who gave her the look she knew all too well: a silent, imploring help me; get me out of here. Camarin nodded, trying to figure out how to calm her frantic sister while conjuring up some way to stop the ceremony.
“Be gone, Demon of Gluttony,” intoned the priest, taking over from the healer. “For as we learn from Corinthians 6:20, your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you and was given to you by God. You do not belong to yourself, for God bought you with a high price. So, you must honor God with your body.” He started to walk away and then turned around, pulled a sharp knife to Monaeka’s throat, and added, “And put a knife to your throat if you are given to appetite. Proverbs 23:2.”
A terrified Monaeka started to scream, and Camarin knew there was no more time to contemplate potential strategies. She pushed her way through the circle and jumped onto the bed, stunning the priest, who retracted his knife.
“She’s not a glutton. It’s the pills the doctors gave her. The ones for the seizures.” She looked straight into the priest’s eyes and then back at her aunt. “They made her gain weight. That’s what my mother says. And she’s a nurse, so she should know!”
Camarin’s words fell on deaf ears. Aunt Sirena tried to pull her from the bed, but Camarin dodged her, carefully trying not to step on Monaeka in the process. The priest again took up the cross and held it high above the bound girl’s head.
Desperate, Camarin did the only thing she knew would grab the crowd’s attention. She stuck her pointer finger down her throat and regurgitated every ounce of the delicious beef tinaktak they’d enjoyed for dinner. The spew hit the priest right in the face, and he backed off, cursing and spluttering as he wiped the vomit from his eyes.
Camarin caught Husto trying unsuccessfully to stifle a chuckle. That broke the mood. The rest of the chanters joined in, laughing at the spectacle. The priest violently shook his head, mumbled something about Camarin’s own demonic possession, and stomped out of the room, Aunt Sirena running after him.
Camarin wasted no time untying the scarves that held her twin’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts. The two clung together, sharing a long, uninterrupted hug as the crowd dispersed.
“Don’t worry, Mon,” Camarin whispered, trying to calm Monaeka’s whimpers. “I’m here to protect you. You can always count on me.”
Camarin sprang awake, shaken by the memory and overcome with the same nausea she’d felt that night and every instance over the past decade since that night when she’d repeated that authentic, heartfelt promise to her sister. It was one she’d grown to resent as time went on.
Monaeka had been a pure, sweet spirit of light. She didn’t deserve what life had dealt her—the epilepsy, the struggle with weight. Camarin, on the other hand, had been blessed with dark Chamorro beauty and good fortune, along with the ingenuity to adopt surreptitious ways to remain thin and in her family’s good graces. The disparity had ultimately been the wedge permanently dividing the two.
The acid churning in Cam’s stomach was evidence that her body still wouldn’t stomach what her mind refused to acknowledge. How she’d tried to break free of her familial obligations after arriving at college, grab a life for herself. And how her sister had despised her for it, finally cutting off communications. Her fall from defender to pariah. But even the expanse of the country hadn’t distanced her from the guilt surrounding her betrayal and abandonment of Monaeka just when her twin needed her the most.
Brrrrrrrrrr! Her cellphone alarm screamed out 7:00, sparing her from further introspection. She had to get up and embrace life’s next big adventure. Camarin Torres, investigative reporter.
Chapter 7
At 9:00, Camarin found herself challenged by something greater than the nervous excitement of starting a new job—the unyielding behemoth of an entranceway that fortressed Trend magazine from the outside world. Unlike the morning of her interview, today she was simultaneously attempting to open the door while steadying a tray of Starbucks coffee—one caramel macchiato, one café Americano, and one iced vanilla latte. She had thought it would be a nice gesture to treat Fletcher and Rachel to coffee on her first day of work, and prayed she’d guessed right at what they might enjoy. But she’d forgotten about the heft of the doors and hadn’t counted on having to perform caffeine acrobatics to gain access to the office.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re back. I thought you might have come to your senses,” chirped Rachel as Camarin moved her balancing act into the foyer.
“No such luck,” Camarin volleyed back, resting the tray on Rachel’s enormous desk. “I’m just moonlighting as a barista until Mr. Fletcher hands me my first assignment. So, take a coffee before I magically transform myself into the miracle worker you wished for a few weeks back.”
“Well, thank you kindly. But you’d better get busy channeling your best Annie Sullivan. Fletcher’s got two visitors in the war room, and he told me that when you arrived I should send you right in.”
“There’s three of them in there? Ugh. I don’t have enough for everyone. Do you mind…”
“Yeah, yeah, no worries. You can treat me some other time.”
“Thanks, I owe you. Hold all my calls, okay?” she joked.
“Uh-huh. Sure. Who knows, you might get one this decade.”
Feeling comfortable in their budding friendship, Cam winked and stuck out her tongue. Rachel reciprocated and then, out of an apparent pang of mercy for Camarin’s lack of a free hand, she squeezed out from behind her desk and opened the door that led to the inner offices.
“Second door to the right, though there’s not really much of an opportunity to get lost,” she whispered to the recruit.
Outside the war room, Camarin sucked in a deep, calming breath, determined to make a good first impression. Balancing the coffee tray in one hand, she pulled at the handle with the other, attempting to open yet another door heavy enough to ward off the invasion of Normandy.
As she entered, she tripped on a loose fold of carpet and stumbled forward, causing the café Americano to go flying over one of the visitor’s heads and onto the papers spread out in the middle of
the boardroom table. Camarin lurched over, attempting to catch the errant container, and in the process, dropped the tray holding the other two drinks, which tumbled to the floor. Covers dislodged and coffee of differing hues merged to form a large taupe puddle on the office’s prized imitation beige Berber rug.
Mortified, her body frozen in place, she silently berated herself for what she had already nicknamed the Caffeine Cataclysm of 2018. Before uttering a single word, much less revamping the magazine’s editorial calendar, she’d managed to embarrass her boss in front of two potential advertisers and put her job at risk. She bit her lower lip, torn between terror and laughing out loud at the slapstick of it all. She searched the room for any sight of napkins—there were none—and watched helplessly as the stain continued to rapidly increase in diameter.
Fletcher pressed the intercom, breaking the awkward silence. “Ms. Thorsen? Could you please come into the conference room with paper towels and carpet cleaner? There’s been a…slight incident we need attending to.”
“Certainly, Mr. Fletcher. I’ll be there in a moment.”
He walked over to Camarin and put his hand on her arm. She felt every nerve ending spring to attention, waiting to be chewed out for her inelegant entrance.
“Ms. Torres, why don’t you sit down and join our discussion? This may be something we’d like you to be involved in.” He led her to the far end of the table and, like a true gentleman, pulled out a chair for her. His compassion warmed her, reassuring her that perhaps joining Trend wasn’t such an unwise decision after all. As she watched him return to his own seat, directly opposite, she silently vowed to repay his mercy and make him proud.
“I’m so sorry about that,” she said with a shake of her head. “I guess it’s clear why I opted for journalism over hospitality.”
“No need to cry over spilled Starbucks,” said one of the visitors, inordinately pleased at his own cleverness. His colleague joined him and together they began to howl with laughter, humiliating her even further.
She forced a polite laugh, unwilling to concede to her disgrace.
As the uproar died down, Camarin attempted to ignore the last few drops of coffee still dripping from the boardroom table and instead concentrate on the others at the meeting. First, Lyle, looking dapper in a charcoal-striped suit accented by a periwinkle shirt. To his left, a disheveled-looking gentleman whose arched eyebrows reminded Camarin of a barnyard owl. And across from Hoots, the second visitor: a hard-looking, middle-aged woman whose brunette bun made her face appear even more unforgiving.
“Camarin,” started Fletcher, “I’d like you to meet Declan McManus and Emma Galan. They represent Live Happier Liposuction, with twenty-three offices throughout the tristate area. They’ve run a few small campaigns with us in the past and are now considering an increase in their advertising spend.”
Camarin noted that both clients’ expressions were now devoid of emotion. Though they represented everything Camarin hoped to spend her entire career eradicating, she sucked back her disdain. “That’s wonderful,” she said, forcing herself to brim with enthusiasm. “How can I help?”
Fletcher lifted an eyebrow at her Pollyanna tone. “I was telling them about our proposed, more serious editorial direction. Perhaps you could share a few examples of the types of stories you’re planning?”
Talk about being put on the spot. Camarin grappled for something to say as Emma gave her the once-over, breaking into an incredulous sneer. “She’s a bit young, no?”
“You want someone young,” Fletcher countered, championing his newest hire. “You want someone who can interview people without making them feel threatened or overwhelmed.”
“Young works for me,” said McManus, winking at Camarin the way that old drunks leered as she walked past them on the subway platform. She tried to squelch her growing revulsion toward the duo.
The door opened, and in walked Rachel, armed with carpet cleaner, a sponge, and towels. She threw a teasing glance in Camarin’s direction as she sopped up the spilled coffee from the boardroom table before attacking the stain on the carpet before it could set.
The interruption bought Camarin time to rack her brain for article topics. She nervously scratched at the handbag set on her lap, trying to ignore her galloping pulse and Galan’s foot, impatiently tap-tap-tapping against the oak of the table’s leg. Coming up short, she was about to admit defeat when Rachel’s unexpected groan triggered a memory.
“I do have a few ideas,” she improvised. “There’s been a murder of a Blubber Be Gone owner in Chicago. Whoever carved up the woman made it clear he or she was none too happy about being judged as fat. Maybe that’s a line of thought we could examine.”
She could feel Rachel’s glare but refused to look over at the receptionist as she departed the boardroom. McManus and Galan fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats.
“You do realize that we’re in the same business, correct?” said Galan. “We use liposuction, not to judge anyone, of course, but to make people feel better about themselves.”
Fletcher intervened. “It’s important to understand that we’re not going to pursue that particular story. But we do plan to target more sobering topics in the future, focus on the issues that keep our readers up at night.”
Camarin looked over at her boss, shocked at how quickly he had thrown her under the bus. But rather than meet her gaze, he stared down at the unsigned advertising contract on the table. She knew that if she allowed her ideas to be fluffed off on day one, she’d never be taken seriously by him or anyone else at the magazine. She dug deep, eager to save face while still preserving the company’s crucial revenue sources.
“I don’t see you as being in the same business,” she countered, feigning a degree of confidence that even surprised her. “Blubber Be Gone is frequented by people who are pressured to work hard to lose their excess pounds. Weekly weigh-ins, limited diet, daily exercise. Your product is the exact opposite, isn’t it? Walk in heavy, walk out thinner, no effort involved. The Blubber Be Gone Butcher, so to speak, is really an advocate, shining a spotlight on your better solution. And I believe that the people I choose to interview for the story are all going to agree.”
She felt queasy promoting her point. She hadn’t fought her way through Trend’s enormous doors to campaign a cause in direct contrast to her own personal beliefs. Plus, she’d directly contradicted her boss to argue her case. But glancing at Fletcher, who was now aglow with pride and hope, she knew she had found the right approach.
McManus leaned over and whispered into Galan’s ear. She listened intently and shook her head. Then she turned back and addressed Fletcher.
“If you are telling us that your intended direction could benefit us in this way, we’ll sign the contract. But if anything changes, we reserve the right to pull out before the year is over.”
Now it was Fletcher’s turn to clear his throat. “This entire line of editorial can absolutely be expanded, but it will take some time. Bearing that in mind, I’d like to extend this agreement to a full twenty-four months. Of course, as you say, you can always back out after we’ve had sufficient time to switch course. Perhaps a year.”
Nice counter, thought Camarin. Before Fletcher could spring any other unexpected requests, she rose from her chair. “If you all would excuse me, I have an interviewee waiting in my office.” She summoned up every ounce of bravado she had left and firmly shook each client’s hand before taking her leave. If fake it ’til you make it was the firm’s motto, based on its mammoth doors and reception desk, she could certainly adopt it as hers as well.
She headed out to the cooler in the reception area, trying not to dwell upon how she was going to write articles premised on viewpoints she found highly objectionable. She poured and quickly downed a cup of icy water, trying to drown her trepidations.
“Well, you were quite the tea in there,” quipped the receptionist.
“I’m sorry?”
“Cockney rhyming slang. Let me translate. Tea leaf.
Rhymes with thief. You stole my idea.”
“I know. I apologize. He took me by total surprise, and I had nothing. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Glass of wine one night after work?”
“You got it. Thank you.”
“Eh, we millennials got to stick together. When you meet the old Nazi that Fletcher just hired as second-in-command, you’ll understand. Hope you’re up for the occasional read.”
“Read?”
“Read and write. Fight. The guy can be downright nasty.”
“Indeed. Well, I’ll do my best to slug it out,” answered Camarin, a concept slowly forming. Why stop at a story that suggested a mere undercurrent of dissatisfaction? Why not uncover the actual BBG murderer and find out the real motivation behind the crime? Then Fletcher wouldn’t be so quick to override her editorial suggestions or backtrack on his promise to overhaul the magazine’s format.
“Can you show me to my desk?” she asked Rachel. “I need to get started researching. I may have just figured out how to set this whole situation straight.”
Chapter 8
Rachel piloted Camarin into the writer’s/editor’s bullpen and pointed out her cubicle, where she was practically tackled by the alleged Nazi, who introduced himself as Hans Wynan, the executive editor. He was a tall, eccentric-looking thirty-something with a Dutch accent, dark-rimmed glasses, and blond hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. He pulled her into Trend’s only unoccupied private office, desk piled high with accounting ledgers, and asked her to have a seat. He remained standing, pacing, a commander addressing his troops.
“I’m not sure why, but for some reason, we didn’t meet during the interviewing process. Nothing goes into the magazine without my approval. Did you bring your resume and clips so I can review them?” He picked up a pencil and tapped it repeatedly against the side of the desk.
