by Ginger Booth
Of course, the news group already had a nice lineup of neighbor helping neighbor stories, and where did your volunteer contributions go, and a quality interview with Dwayne in ELI about how Long Island was coping. Hopefully the evening news could concentrate on those instead of nuclear catastrophe.
I didn’t like serving up such pablum for the 6 o’clock news. I remembered how much I hated the way UNC threw in heartwarming puppy segments to round out the 20 minute summary of world news today. As though nothing that happened in the world that day was as important as puppy shots or charming dolphins. Marketing insisted that animal stories boosted our ratings. I didn’t care. That wasn’t news. And here we were, PR News serving up feel-good filler stories while the region was in crisis. No wonder people risked the darknet, and didn’t trust PR to tell them what was going on.
Well, there’s the wind and the waves, I thought sourly, with a sneeze. The way today was going, I’d need to rip up another pillowcase for handkerchiefs. Tonight’s story on the weather and progress on sea level rise ought to be riveting, at least to me.
“I’m just a telecomm engineer,” Mel eventually admitted during lunch. “I’d already joined Amen1 for kicks when HomeSec approached me. It was flattering, you know? Exciting. Who cares about an engineer. I got average raises, did the job.”
He looked so sad and vulnerable as he said this that my heart-strings were almost willing to be tugged. Almost, but not quite.
We had a corner table in the nearly deserted soup kitchen a block from the green. The staff was banging around in the kitchen, cleaning up from their lunch rush and getting ready for dinner, probably their smallest meal of the day. Not that they had a large lunch rush. Totoket seemed to have successfully trained people who worked in the town center to bring their own lunches rather than trust to their dining-out options. My lunch was a chunk of stringy baked acorn squash, gone cold, and a mug of clam chowder. Or chowder broth, at least. There were a handful of small vegetable chunks floating in it, but my mug didn’t include any clam.
When I got pathetic with Mangal it was heartfelt, honest. When I grovelled my abject apologies to Mel, that I’d been overwrought because Emmett was MIA, I was acting. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it takes trust to be vulnerable with someone. I loved Mangal and he loved me. We’d been best friends for years, grown up together as adults and programmers in the years since college. Mel – eh.
But the man was desperate for someone to understand his perspective, his justification for his betrayal. Apparently his deep need trumped my lack of acting talent. I gave him what he wanted, and he opened up.
“I get it,” I replied. “So Mel, what do you want to do now, career-wise? I mean, do you have a future with HomeSec? Or did you expend your usefulness the day you came out to us?” I wiped orange sticky goop off my fingers. I’d had enough cold squash. Butter would have been nice. This wasn’t the sort of soup kitchen to offer gourmet up-sells, just basic poverty fare and an ugly formica table, with pot-clanging ambiance.
“My handler said she could find me another job,” Mel admitted. “But I’d rather stay with you, with Amenac. I mean, we’re doing something important, worthwhile.” Puppy-dog eyes of entreaty.
I rubbed the line between my eyebrows. “Well, the good news is, I don’t think Dave and Popeye would really kill you, Mel.” His face fell. “It’s just a talking point. Mostly. Um, I’d avoid being alone with Popeye, and deserted alleyways for a while. He likes a nice boxing match more than you do, and frankly he’s better at it. So, don’t play with him, right?
“The real problem here is you claiming authority, Mel,” I continued. “I know, you stepped in, prevented Mangal from saying something awkward –”
“Not just awkward!” Mel objected. “Forbidden!”
I waved a hand. “We all screw up, Mel. Mangal wasn’t giving up the codes to the nuclear football.” I held his eye. “Stating the blindingly obvious, even though forbidden, is not unforgivable. It’s very hard for the rest of the Amenac steering committee to really buy into the ‘criminality’ of what Mangal did. Yeah, he screwed up. We’re over it. You need to get over it, too. You did what you thought you had to do. I get that. But Mangal, Dave, and I are the co-founders of Amenac, and Popeye rules the transport protocols. If we don’t feel comfortable in the same room with you, then…”
“Do you feel uncomfortable in the same room with me?” he asked plaintively.
I eyed him back from the dispassion of a dripping head cold. I’ve forgiven far greater slime balls than you, Mel. “No. I’m fine.” After a moment’s reflection, I added, “Mangal would probably forgive you as a matter of principle, too. Religious quirk.” I considered a little longer. “I think Dave mostly needs you to quit putting on airs and pretending to be in charge. You’re clear on that, right? You are not in charge here. Never were. Never will be. Right?” I tried to say it kindly.
“OK,” he accepted.
“Popeye… Like I said, he won’t kill you,” I wrapped up. “He will leave you broken and bloody. If you want to keep working with him, I advise giving him space. Let him cool off for a few weeks, then ask him to let you have it. He thought you were a friend. A close friend. And you betrayed him. And, you know, he tends to express himself…violently.”
“You can’t protect me from him?”
“I said I forgive you,” I clarified. “Didn’t say I owed you. You owe me.” I took a coughing break, and drank some more tepid milky broth. My nose was too stuffy to tell whether it was clam-flavored. “You want to stay, you need to work it out with Popeye. Strictly below him, in the hierarchy. You’re not on the steering committee anymore.”
“But!” He gave up the objection as a lost cause. He’d already admitted he didn’t have any clout in HomeSec. He sure didn’t have any clout with us.
I patted his arm. “I wouldn’t blame you for walking away, Mel. Getting beat up by Popeye would suck. But, if you want to stay, you know? Bruises heal.” I gently touched the bruise on my cheek to underscore my point. “You need to kowtow to Dave, though. Dave’s in charge. You do your job. You obey his instructions. No backtalk. If Dave isn’t willing to put up with you, you’re out. So be very quiet and fade back into the woodwork, and be very very nice to Dave. Think you can do that?”
“Will Dave forgive me?” Mel asked.
“Not a chance in hell,” I replied. “But, he’s very genteel.” I smiled wanly.
“I thought I was going to take over Amenac,” Mel said bitterly.
“You misunderstood, Mel,” I said sympathetically. “We’re not cringing under the threat of big, bad HomeSec anymore. Our patrons pay HomeSec’s salaries. We’re just as important to them as HomeSec is.”
“Thank you for having my back, Dee,” Mel murmured meekly.
“I hope you can make it work,” I assured him. “I value your contributions.”
For my last act of the day, I decided to resign from running PR News. Oh, I’d have stories and direct public relations, as the manipulative arm of the Hudson Resco Raj. But as the day wore on and my cold worsened, my opinion of our performance as a news outlet marched steadily downhill.
“Brandy? Dee Baker,” I said on the phone, when I caught Brandy O’Keefe, one of the top reporters for our arch-competitor, IndieNews.
“Dee, bitch! You don’t sound too good,” Brandy greeted me.
“Yeah, I don’t recommend winter swims,” I allowed. “Or at least make sure you’ve got a nice warm spot handy afterwards. Brandy, I need your help. You’re a real journalist.”
“Glad you finally caught on to that,” Brandy agreed.
“Always knew that,” I whined. “Just not what I was trying to do with PR News. At first.”
“Changing editorial focus?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Wanted your advice. How do I hire someone to run the news show? Turn it into something…real. Not just a mouthpiece for the Resco Raj. Though still that, too.”
“They’re called editors and pr
oducers, Dee,” Brandy returned.
I knew that, too. I worked for UNC news for years. “OK. Are you one of those?”
“No, I’m a reporter.” Brandy sighed. “You realize this is a conflict of interest for me, right?”
“Would you rather I call Blake?” I asked. Blake was her producer. The three of us were abducted together in September. We grew fairly close in captivity.
“Don’t you dare try to steal Blake,” she hissed. “He’s too junior, anyway, just my personal producer. What happened to UNC’s editors?”
“The UNC bigwigs went into the corporate ark in Tennessee,” I said. “And died.”
“Oh, yeah. Hm.”
“Well, think about it,” I requested. “If you think of anyone to recommend, let me know. In the meantime…I dunno. Maybe I’ll ask on an Amenac board. Hold an essay contest or something. ‘Why should I be editor of PR News.’ Let them critique each other’s answers and see what floats to the top.”
Brandy chuckled. “You’re cruel, Dee. I like it.”
I hung up with Brandy. But before I managed to choose which Amenac forum to waylay for my purposes, I had another brainstorm and picked up the phone again.
“Pam!” I cried, to Pam Niedermeyer. “Dee Baker, on business this time.”
“Dee! You sound awful. I hope you’re in bed,” Pam greeted me.
I blew out my nose again. “Listen, Pam. I’m getting a bad vibe, that PR News sucks. We need to do better.”
“I think you’re right,” Pam agreed.
I explained my concept, of an online pick-me contest, and asked her, as the Great Pumpkin, if she’d be willing to be master of ceremonies for my forum. Her answer surprised me.
“If I host the forum for you, does that disqualify me as an entrant?” she asked.
“I hadn’t thought of you for this.” I was surprised the other day that we’d even tapped her as a reporter. “I expected someone with real journalism experience, Pam. Leading Providence TV news. Major newspaper’s national desk. Something like that.”
“Amenac leading political blogger in the Northeast, with a huge and current following,” she suggested.
That would be her. I briefly considered my other options for running the contest, if Pam were contestant instead of organizer. But I liked Pam to run the contest because she had contacts throughout Hudson and New England. She already had a working relationship with PR News. As the wife of the top Resco of New England, she understood the Raj’s needs and censorship better than any ordinary journalist. I could depend on her loyalty to the Raj, whether she agreed with them or not. In truth, organizing the contest would highlight her best qualifications for the editor job.
“OK. You can certainly apply, too. So long as you give others a chance to beat you, if they’re qualified. Qualified, and better at it. The world has changed. If they’ve spent the last couple years crying in their beer instead of adapting, they’re no use to me.”
“I’d love to,” Pam purred. “And – I am applying for the job, Dee. PR News does suck. And I know how to turn it around.”
I smiled. “I look forward to your results. Run a tough contest. Thank you, Pam! Oh,” I added as an afterthought. “Be sure to send me a link to forward to everyone already reporting for PR News. I don’t think we have anyone internal who’s good enough. But they’re welcome to take a shot and find out for themselves.”
“Will do!”
Be very careful what you pray for. Alas, I was too sick to realize what a Pandora’s box I’d oh-so-casually opened.
16
Interesting fact: Sea level rose 7.7 inches between 1870 and 2004, an average of about half an inch per decade. From 1993 to 2009, the rise accelerated to 1.3 inches per decade. A 2009 study concluded that a rapid collapse of the West Antarctic Ice Sheet would raise sea levels by 11 feet. Other studies gave lower figures.
“I’d rather you just sit over there, Dee, away from the food,” Delilah told me, relieving me of knife and cutting board, in my own kitchen. Delilah was pushy that way. Much as I still regretted losing Zack, I can’t say I yearned for Delilah as a sister-in-law.
Not that Zack and I had gotten around to talking about marriage, before he died. We’d barely known each other half a year before he was killed. Delilah looked like him. Over six feet, solid and blond, the family resemblance looked a lot better on Zack.
I obediently snuggled into a throw blanket at the dining table. “I don’t think I’m contagious. I got a cold because I got really cold. In the tsunami.”
“Whatever,” Delilah said. “I don’t mind cooking. And you look like death warmed over. Did you turn on the heat and water here this morning?”
“Plant nursery,” I said meekly. “Alex keeps the house for the grow rooms. I turned the heat up. Usually only the grow room is this warm.”
Delilah, as co-Coco of the neighborhood, scowled disapproval at this waste of resources. “Is that where all these fresh vegetables come from, in February.”
I’d collected up a pile for a salad to contribute to dinner over at Alex’s house – fresh lettuce and baby swiss chard leaves, cherry tomatoes, a sweet pepper and a cucumber, enough for a skimpy serving of garden salad apiece. Apparently Alex had invited Delilah to join us for dinner. Shelley was making the main dish next door. I anticipated more squash, or turnips. It was getting to that I-loathe-squash-and-turnips time of year. Our housekeeper Gladys could make those ingredients sing. If I was lucky, Shelley had butter.
“Garden starts too, not just table food,” I protested to Delilah. “Early cabbages and stuff. Besides, I could use the vitamin C.”
Delilah couldn’t argue with that. “How are you and Emmett doing?” she asked.
Great, another Delilah sex life inquisition. Although…maybe I could use some advice. “I’m kinda frustrated,” I admitted. “I mean, mostly, it’s his job. He’s in Jersey most of the time. Hadn’t seen each other in weeks. He shows up last night, and I had to leave. So there’s that, juggling two careers. But I also just… I don’t know what he wants from me. I feel like our relationship isn’t progressing.”
“Progressing where?” Delilah asked, to keep the ball in play. “Where do you need it to go?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “And then there’s the wedding dress. It’s like I really hurt him, that my wedding dress isn’t finished yet. It’s not like we have a date for the wedding, even.”
“Ooh, what kind of steampunk are you whipping up?” Delilah asked. “Can’t wait to see it!”
I looked at her blankly. “It’s not steampunk. It’s…I dunno. It’s like a wedding dress. Fitted bodice. Long skirt. Lotta lace. White.”
“Why?” Delilah asked, puzzled.
“Army wife costume?” I hazarded.
“Why?” Delilah demanded. “Dee, why would you ever sew a dress for your wedding that wasn’t steampunk? You love steampunk.”
“I do,” I agreed. “But the wedding will be a circus. Held by and for the Army, to celebrate the ‘Hero of Project Reunion.’” Yes, I supplied air quotes. “Emmett has to wear formal uniform. Have you seen the kiddie crayon box of ribbons they use for medals? ‘Fruit salad,’ they call it. All the decorations are from the defunct U.S., too. Hudson doesn’t have medals yet.”
Delilah shook her head and chuckled. “You are so funny when you’re cranky.” She’d made quick work of the salad. Now she was busy devising a soy and onion salad dressing.
“Am I?” I blew my nose long and hard. I’d finished up the afternoon at home, checking out and approving our alpha release of the elevation map app, one stretch of Nassau county on Long Island. The software development project that I wanted to be running, instead of debugging Amenac–PR’s staffing headaches. I felt tired and sick, and plenty cranky, and not one bit funny.
Delilah plonked the jar of slowly pickling onion dressing next to the salad, and took a seat. “How about intimacy? With Emmett.” At my skeptical raised eyebrow, she clarified, “I don’t mean sex necessarily. I mean, are
you getting closer to Emmett. Sharing. Being more vulnerable. You both strike me as the type to be strong for each other,” she critiqued. “Intimacy comes more from being weak with each other, I think.”
“That’s not…” Fair, I was about to say. It wasn’t fair to Emmett to dump my problems on him when he had so much else to deal with. But when I thought about it, he’d actually begged me to do so before. “Hm.”
“You know, Dee, you’re a bit of a chameleon,” Delilah continued. She snorted. “Army wife dress. Really! How about you show up as yourself? Emmett’s not marrying a generic army wife. He fell in love with you. So you’re weird. Be weird for him.”
My lip raised in a slight smirk. “Rose. Antique rose. I look lousy in white.”
Delilah nodded, pleased with my progress. “Now, that’s Dee. Just not the little black dress and scarlet letter routine again, OK? That was disturbing.”
We both had a good laugh. We’d come a long way. She hadn’t laughed at the time, when I wore that little black dress number to her brother’s funeral. With fishnet stockings and spike heels.
Much as I didn’t want to, I played the PR News 6 o’clock report in the background as we sat down to supper. Most of it went down easily as applesauce, with no greater excitement than the weather report. Granted, the vicious wind was worrisome, and net sea level rise was up to 4.5 feet at last report.
I enjoyed hearing the latest news from home at the table. Alex had given up on Carlos Mora’s wayward daughter Maisie. What a mismatch that was, our gentle animal lover with Carlos’ fierce and feral teen.
Trey and Shelley still served in the West Totoket militia under Delilah. Lately that involved a long dry spell of nothing much to do besides training and preparedness exercises. They were happily busy the past couple days since the tsunami, though, patrolling the waterfront and moving the last food cache out of the marsh. The tsunami hadn’t hit here, just a mild storm surge. Plus the inexorable sea level rise. None of that was a crisis here in mid-Sound, merely exciting and active.
