Melanie opens the lacquered box again, lights another cigarette. I can see the flame flicker in her trembling hand. “What if they’re sending someone now? To get them? I don’t have time to shred all this, or burn them,” she says, looking at us helplessly. Her voice rises, and she twists that rock of a ring around her finger. “They could find everything, all these files. I can’t risk—”
“If you still had them,” I say slowly.
Melanie’s expression changes, her chin lifts, and she looks at me through narrowing eyes. “You’re suggesting…I give them to you?” She pauses, then shakes her head. “I think—that’s not the best idea.”
“But if they weren’t here…” I pause, hoping Melanie will fill in the blank. She doesn’t, so I do. “They couldn’t find them. They’d never know. You could protect Brad.”
Melanie taps her cigarette thoughtfully into the ashtray. Taps it again and again. Finally, she almost smiles. “And you’d never tell, of course, if I gave you the files. Reporter privilege, is it called?”
“We never reveal a source, Mrs. Foreman,” I say formally. “And we’ll never release documents. You can take that to the bank.”
“So that’s fantastic,” I say to Franklin, fastening my seat belt. A car arrives at the entrance to Melanie’s driveway, its headlights flashing in our mirror. Must be a relative or someone to comfort her. Good. She shouldn’t be alone. “We get a boxful of documents that could be the key to who knows what.”
“Yeah,” Franklin replies. He steers the car out the landscaped gravel loop of Melanie’s driveway. “We’ll just take these puppies into the safety of our office.”
“And then tomorrow, we’ll try to figure how they connect to the e-mail Brad sent me.”
“Right. What was in that file you had, by the way?” he asks.
The folder’s still in my tote bag. Well, Melanie will never miss it. I yank it out and flip through it. “Spam,” I say, as bewildered as I was when I first saw the papers inside. “Weird.” I flip through them again. “All spam. And all about refinancing. Although the subject line spells it r-e-f-i-g-h. Very weird.”
“Not weird at all,” Franklin pronounces. “Brad was looking to refinance, Melanie said so. So those spams make perfect sense.” He takes the exit toward Boston. “Want me to just drop you at home?”
“Oh, no,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes dramatically. “Drop me at Excelsior. On Boylston Street. I can have a couple of martinis before Andrew arrives. You know, he’s that incredibly handsome and successful first-amendment lawyer I’ve been dating.” I trill a little giggle and fluff my hair.
Franklin doesn’t bat an eye.
“In your dreams,” he says. “Home it is.”
We drive in silence for a few moments, me contemplating my actual evening of frozen no-fat zucchini lasagna and TV. Which, despite Maysie’s urgings and Franklin’s loud silence, sounds terrific.
“Unless,” Franklin begins again, “you’d be interested in joining me and Stephen for dinner. Our place. It’ll be fine. He’s a fabulous accountant, but he can never estimate how much food he’s making. There’s always way too much, and I know he’d love to see you again. Get to know you better.”
My heart fills with affection for Franklin, a relative newcomer to my life, clearly happy with his own, and yet…trying to take care of me.
“Oh, no, I’ll be fine,” I begin to demur. Then I think—why the hell not? Friends are good.
Franklin’s cell phone rings as he’s setting the table. He cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder, placing forks and napkins as he listens.
“I’m so sorry, you two,” Franklin says, clicking his cell phone closed. “Charlotte this morning, me tonight. Gotta head to the airport and pick up a soundbite. Some bigwig flying in, no other producers to grab it.” He looks at his watch. “They promised I’d be finished before nine.”
“Who?” I ask. “Somebody good? Should I go with you?” I turn to look for my coat. “I should go with you.”
Franklin grabs his jacket, pecks Stephen on the cheek, heads for the door. “Nope, you stay,” he instructs me. “Bond. Have some more wine. Save me some—whatever that is. I’ll be back before dessert.”
The door slams, and Stephen and I are alone. I pull a wicker bar stool up to the kitchen counter and lean on my elbows as I watch Franklin’s partner stir the contents of a bright-blue enamel pot.
“How do you manage it?” I have to ask. “You’ve planned this elaborate dinner, and he runs out. Do you feel—?”
Stephen cuts me off with a smile. “It’s Franklin’s job. He loves it. I love him. Not many emergencies in the accounting biz—chop this parsley, okay?—except around tax time. So we balance.” Stephen pulls a glistening chef’s knife from a chrome-and-granite rack and hands it to me. “He’s coming home, and that’s all I care about. Besides, beef bourguignon always tastes better reheated, right? So it’s a win-win.”
For a moment, I sip and chop. The only sounds are the bubbling concoction on the stove and my knife cutting through the green leaves. There was not a twinge of impatience or annoyance in Stephen’s voice. No wonder he’s certain Franklin’s coming back. Who wouldn’t want to be so—respected? Admired? Loved? Their high-ceilinged brownstone is full of flowers and framed family photos, a white cat curled contentedly on an asymmetrical red leather chair. Their place is as contemporary as their relationship, but there’s something serenely old-fashioned about their commitment. Nothing temporary here.
“So.” Stephen interrupts our silence. “Why are you alone?”
I look up, bewildered, midchop. “I’m not alone.”
“You know what I mean,” Stephen persists. “Were you ever…married? Engaged?”
Only Stephen could get away with going so Oprah, I suppose. My past is none of his business, but his love partner is my work partner, so maybe that makes us—cousins or something.
I take another sip of wine. “Oh, you know, married once at twenty,” I begin. “Divorced. Since then? Never met the right guy, I guess. Work is…well, you know. There’s always the next story. They chew up the days. Time disappears. Deadlines, all that.”
“So you’re thinking you’re done? Listen, you have, what, half your life to live still? Maybe forty good years, if you’re lucky?”
I should have gone home. “You’re a fun guy,” I say, trying for a light tone. “I can see why Franklin sticks around.”
Stephen points a spoon at me. “I’m just saying.” He gestures, and a gathering drop of burgundy sauce threatens the kitchen parquet. “Counting on TV is like counting on nuclear power. It works great till it blows up in your face.” He goes back to stirring, looking at the stew, talking to me. “Ever think your life story is right out of a made-for-TV movie? The ‘before’?”
I have to defend myself here. “Well, I help people,” I pronounce. “I—fix things. Dig up the scoop, you know? Action news gets action, all that?” I attempt a little laugh. This conversation is getting a little close to the bone.
“I know that,” he replies. “But I’m asking, what’s the scoop on you? Not TV-you. You-you. Franklin says you never talk about friends. Love. You’re all about work.”
“You’ve gotta make choices,” I say slowly, thinking this over. “TV is relentless. Inflexible. You want nine to five? Sell shoes. Someone who doesn’t understand you have to feed the beast—well, they’ll fail. I refuse to fail.”
Stephen nods. “So you sacrificed…”
“Not ‘sacrificed,’” I correct him. “I didn’t really ‘give up.’ I—got.”
“Got what?” Stephen persists. “Some Emmy statues on your bookshelf? That’s all good, of course, but they’re not going to be much comfort in the long run. And, from what I hear,” he says with a smile, “they’re not terribly obliging in the romance department.”
Whoa. I look around for an exit, or at least an exit strategy. I decide, again, on diversion.
“So how did you and Franklin meet?” I ask.
Stephen bursts out laughing. “Good try,” he says, nodding. “You don’t want to talk about it, we won’t. But you should know Franklin thinks you’re special. And he worries about you.”
Silence again. A plume of winey steam wafts from the pot as Stephen adds a second cup of burgundy. I stare into my glass, trying to think of something to say. But it’s Stephen who continues, now looking a little sheepish.
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” he apologizes. “I’m too nosy for my own good. I should work for one of those tabloid shows, or something. But I feel like I know you, now, because of Franklin. And since you—TV hotshot and all—are basically a loner, I can’t stop myself from wondering why.” He shrugs. “Just ignore me.”
Good idea. “Maybe I’ll get it right next lifetime,” I reply. Maybe a husband. Maybe kids. Maybe I’ll even pick an occupation where my face doesn’t matter, I promise myself. I hand Stephen the pile of chopped-up greens and pour myself another glass of pinot noir. Time to change the damn subject.
Chapter Five
“H
i, it’s Charlie McNally. I’m away from my office or on the other line right now. Leave a message after the beep, and I’ll call you back.” Beep. Call received today at 9:01 a.m.
“Ms. McNally, this is the nurse at Metro Cat Hospital. I know you planned to pick Botox up this evening, but we want to keep her a little longer. She’s fine, don’t worry, but we can get her temp down more quickly if she’s here. When she’s fully recovered, we’ll drop her off at your apartment, as usual.”
Poor little Toxie. I ESP her a quick kittie-get-well message, then punch in my code to retrieve the next voice mail. I instantly regret it.
“Charlie,” Angela’s voice rasps through my speakerphone. “Ratings, ratings, ratings! Tick, tick, tick. It’s 9:06. Where are you? What’s your story? Call me.”
There’s an inspiring way to start a workday. I glare at the phone, seething. I can’t imagine anyone more irritating.
“Begone, you have no power here,” I say, pointing dramatically at the receiver and channeling my best Glinda. Unfortunately we’re not in Kansas, the phone does not explode and I know the wicked witch of the newsroom does indeed have power.
I stare at the phone as if it’s a living creature. I wouldn’t put up with this in a relationship. Someone who’s disrespectful. Critical. Demanding. Unappreciative. Someone who tells me I don’t look good enough to be on TV.
I’d have read the signs long ago if it were a guy.
And what would I do? I’d just dump him. Before he dumps me. So why not just handle this job the same way? I can still be married to journalism, sure. But maybe it’s safer to find myself a new little love nest where the honeymoon’s just beginning.
Another station, maybe. My eyes narrow, plotting. Follow your bliss, they say. Well, I did that, and apparently followed it right into a brick wall. Maybe I should just follow it another direction, let’s say, across town to Channe l8. Big promotional coup for them, getting me, the award-winning et cetera, and I can give the old “sorry, Charlie” tuna line back to Angela. I smile for the first time today, imagining it. That would be so richly rewarding.
I plummet back to reality. Ten years ago, maybe. Five. But now, it would probably be the same over there. A management calculation, then a respectful but definite rejection. She’s good, of course, and she used to be pretty hot, some exec would say to the other. But she’s not what we need now when we’re trying to young up.
Maybe Stephen’s right. I open Google and slowly type in the name. James. Elliott. Rayburn. With one more click, I could find out if Sweet Baby James is still in New England. Married? Or available?
I stare at his name. Then, deliberately, I hit Delete. Again. And again. I erase one letter at a time, until his name is gone.
My past is not my future. I’ve got to find a story.
I click on my computer, and my e-mail flashes into life, a flickering list of newly arrived gobbledygook and spam. Vitamins of the Stars, Instant Master’s Degrees, Free Face-lifts, Wall Street Secrets to Success. I zap the junk mail almost without thinking, and imagine Brad Foreman doing the same thing.
I’m still somehow haunted by the young couple, looking to refinance their home in Lexington. Brad probably studied refi spams like these, searching for some solution to their financial predicament. Melanie never knew how he struggled. The magic never happened. Fade to black.
I wonder if I’m getting the same spams he did? Makes sense I would, since they’re all sent to millions of people. I remember his had that strangely spelled heading—refigh—so I click down the row of e-mails, searching. And there it is.
Hello, the subject line says. A new re-figh deal 4-u. Just like Brad’s. I click it open—then stare in confusion. The text of the e-mail is not about refinancing at all.
But re-figh has to mean refinancing, right? Propping my chin in my hands, I gaze at the text.
Master Bowser, you come in happy times
Here is the villain Bagot that you seek.
All of those jewels have I in my hands
Officers, look to him, hold him fast.
Master Bowser? The villain Bagot? From the language and the meter, it sounds like a play, maybe Elizabethan. I allow myself a mental high five. Mom told me majoring in Shakespeare would never be relevant in the real world.
Still, why is it in a spam about refinancing? Whoever opens it is only going to be confused, or annoyed, and then delete it.
I know all spams don’t contain messages like this. This one is different.
I click back to the main screen of unread e-mails and scan down the list, looking for ones that look the same as the “Bagot” spam. I remember it started with “Hello…”
There’s one. Hello, a new re-figh deal… I click it open.
It’s another peculiar message. And it contains not a word about refinancing.
But when he tried to execute his fell purpose he found that in the order of nature it was appointed that he himself perish miserably in the encounter.
My shoulders sag. This has now lured me so far out of work mode I might as well be playing Tetris. Still, I’ve got ten minutes until my required appearance at Angela’s inevitably mind-numbing weekly strategy meeting, so squandering a little more time in spam-world can’t hurt.
I get an idea. It’s Google time.
I copy the entire “Bagot and Bowser” passage, then plop the whole thing into a Google search. When the results come back, I’m still in the dark. According to Google, the e-mail contains dialogue from a play called Cromwell, circa 1790, sometimes attributed to Shakespeare. (Applause for me.) But it’s nonsense. And certainly not about refinancing.
Google says the other e-mail is from Ambrose Bierce’s Fantastic Fables. Again, no connection to refinancing.
I stare at my computer screen as the cursor flickers provocatively. Go on, it’s telling me. But to what?
Two strange unconnected quotes. Obscure and seemingly meaningless. Who’s sending these e-mails? And why? Okay, mystery boys. I have another idea.
First, I copy the entire next speech of Cromwell from Google and paste it into the reply screen of the spam that sent it. I hit Send. Then I copy the entire next paragraph of the Ambrose Bierce piece, paste it into the other reply screen and zap it right back to wherever it came from.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, considering my now-blank monitor. I’ve definitely hit the ball back through cyberspace. Question is, who’s catching?
By the time Franklin and I make it through the line at Soup ‘N’ Salad, I’ve related the highlights of the Angela meeting, then, with more enthusiasm, described the whole spam mystery. Now, we’re deep into theorizing what it could mean. As cheap-necktied pols head back to the gold-domed State House across the street, we snag a booth by the window, and I wait, balancing my tray, as Franklin wipes off the table with a pile of napkins.
Turns out, my salad is a disaster. “I told the guy, no croutons,” I mutter, shaking
my head in annoyance. “And no carrots. Can you believe this? This salad is a carbohydrate minefield.”
Franklin is already chomping on his cheeseburger, ketchup spurting out the side of the seeded bun. “Ever worry about your food issues?” he asks. “You’re not one bit overweight, and—”
“I’m not having the carb conversation again,” I insist. “TV adds ten pounds and ten years. I’m not going to help it.” I stab an olive with my fork and gesture at Franklin with it for emphasis. “Back to the e-mail. What about those quotes? Someone had to put them there on purpose, didn’t they?”
Franklin’s cleaning his hands with an antibacterial wipe. “Well,” he says slowly, tossing the used wipe toward a trash container and hitting it with an effortless swish. “It could be your computer settings. Newer systems click you instantly into graphics and pictures. Does yours?”
I frown, picking through my lettuce to avoid the brown pieces. “Graphics? I never see graphics and pictures in my e-mail.”
“Really?” Franklin purses his lips, considering. “Then it’s your e-mail setup—it’s probably on ‘plain text.’ That’s why you’re seeing those quotes. Most likely, some low-level spam prole is amusing himself by using gibberish to fill up a screen that hardly anyone will ever see—like a private e-mail joke. When we get back to the office I’ll check your settings and see if they need to be corrected.”
The light goes on. I understand it now. Those quotes were only revealed because my computer setup is so antiquated. Like that’s my fault. But I still don’t know what the quotes mean. If they mean anything. Maybe Franklin’s right, they’re a joke.
Yet I can’t shake the feeling that it’s more complicated than that. Why would someone take the time to insert obscure quotes and dialogue? And I can’t be the only one with a prehistoric e-mail system, so it makes sense that someone would see it. Maybe—is even supposed to see it.
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