Maggie pressed the mute button. “Thoughts?”
“I don’t think we have a choice,” said Thomas. “We have to do it.”
Savannah stopped herself before answering. She didn’t want to contradict Thomas out of habit. That had always been their game—if one argued green, the other couldn’t help arguing orange. Even so, there was some truth in what he was saying. Stories are shaped by the ones who tell them. As a writer and aspiring storyteller, she knew that better than anyone.
But really, who was she to be out there? On national television, talking to broadcasters that normally reported on war and the economy and natural disasters. She was just a random teenage girl from Minnesota looking for her dad.
Last week at the library, she went to use the restroom and a woman actually asked her if she’d lost her mother. Like she was an eight-year-old who needed help reaching the sink.
“No, I’m seventeen,” she’d answered. The woman blushed and hurried off, embarrassed, and the real irony, Savannah knew, was that she could have embarrassed the woman even more if she’d given the other truthful answer to her question. “Yes,” she could have said. “I did lose my mother. When a chunk of concrete fell off the 46th Avenue bridge and crushed her.”
But that was just it. She didn’t have her mom anymore. And she hadn’t died because she drank too much and drove into a tree, or never went to the doctor and got too sick to be cured, or even made a few bad choices that led to disaster. The engineer or the cement manufacturer or the construction crew—they were the ones to blame for what Savannah and Thomas were doing now. If they still had a mother, they probably wouldn’t be here at all. Kristian Caldwell and Bryce Sawyer would’ve had to find other people to pick on.
She suddenly felt very, very small compared to what Sam had already told them was becoming huge. Her heart felt like ice. Her breath stopped in her throat. Her body was literally fighting the choice in front of her.
“Let’s go,” said Savannah, taking herself by surprise.
“You’re certain?” said Maggie. “You know this could be rough. I believe you can handle it if you believe you can. But I want you to be sure.”
Savannah looked at Thomas, whose agitation had somewhat calmed. He finally allowed his eyes to meet hers. “We have to do this, Van.”
She nodded. He was right. This was what they had to do. “It’s true. We have to tell our own story. We’ll practice it. We’ll get it just right. And when we tell it, people won’t have any choice but to believe us.”
Maggie unmuted the line and informed Sam of their decision.
“Fantasti-licious.”
Savannah wondered what in the world they had just gotten themselves into.
Thank you for calling the McClairs. Please leave a message. If you don’t hear back, you know where to find us. Or just stop by for dinner. Chef Bart always makes enough for a crowd.
[BEEP]
You have thirty-nine new messages.
[BEEP]
Hello, McClair family. This is Jonathan Skriff from Channel Nine News, hoping to connect with you about all the attention your podcast has been getting lately. I see I’ve missed you, so I’ll try back. If you are interested in doing a live interview, please call me, here are my details...
[BEEP]
Maggie. Thomas. Savannah. This is Audrey Bristol. I’m a reporter for the Minneapolis/St. Paul Standard. Listen, I’m doing a piece on the meteoric rise of your podcast and I’d like to hear your end of the story. At a minimum, I’d like to check a few facts with you. My number is...
[BEEP]
Maggie, it’s Saj in NYC. Call me. We’ve got several interview opportunities to discuss. It’s time to strategize. You have my contact info.
[BEEP]
Hello, McClairs! This is an exciting time for you. Congratulations. I know I’m probably not the only one calling you, but I am wildly interested in your story. And so is my audience. Let’s get you all on the show. We’d love it. Avril Holton, of course, from At the Moment on MSNBC. I believe my producer, Ashley Cane, has already reached out. Let’s do connect. You can find Ashley at...
[BEEP]
Mrs. McClair. This is Ashley Cane. I’m a producer on At the Moment with Avril Holton on MSNBC. I called earlier, and it seems I’ve missed you again. We would really love to speak with you. Avril loves your story. So does the At the Moment audience. I’ll try back.
[BEEP]
Maggie, dear! It’s Saj in NYC. Call me!
[BEEP]
Maggs. It’s Sam Tamblin. My phone is blow-ing up. Time to strike! Has Saj been calling you? Let’s connect ASAP.
[BEEP]
Maggie! Do you text? Sam didn’t send me anything except your home phone. Need you! Text me! Call me! Send me a candygram! Just get in touch, please. It’s Saj in NYC.
[BEEP]
Mrs. McClair, this is Theodore Sykes. I work with Kristian Caldwell as a producer. We’d very much love to speak with you. Get your side of things. We could do a one-on-one thing with Kristian or you could be a part of a panel. Whatever you feel more comfortable with. I’ll call back in a bit. Or if you’re just picking this up, here’s the best way to reach me...
[BEEP]
Maggie, this is Kristian Caldwell. I know this must seem overwhelming to you, but I want you to consider one thing: Who’s telling your side of the story? There’s a vacuum out there about what your kids are trying to achieve, Maggie. If you don’t fill that vacuum, other people will. I have a platform. Two and a half million viewers every night. They want to hear from you. No bias. Just you and me. Talking. Theodore will get in touch.
[BEEP]
Hi, this is Angie up at Hiawatha Cleaners. We’ve got your order done and I was just going through some back inventory and I think we’ve got a suede jacket up here that’s yours, too. It’s kind of pale pink? Anyway, come look at it when you stop in to pick up. The tag got mangled somehow but I think it says McClair on it and, heck, it’s so cute and it just looks like something you’d wear, Maggie. Again, it’s Angie. Up here at Hiawatha Cleaners.
[BEEP]
Twenty
Jack
Jack pulled up to his apartment and found a pint-sized menace sitting on the front porch.
“You ever gonna let me be yer deckhand, Jack?”
Carter Allman was the runt of his siblings, probably fourteen years old, but looking a lot younger than double digits. Jack had never been able to keep track of how many brothers and sisters Carter had. Except that it was a lot. They all called him “Deuce” because of the two patches in the back of his head where his brown hair had no color.
“You owe me, don’ forget. On account o’ me savin’ yer life. Two times.” Carter spoke with the honey-tongued mosey of life in the Georgia low country. His words didn’t hurry, but they didn’t leave you guessing, either.
“You didn’t save my life. Just found me passed out, is all.”
“An’ about to sleep on through yer charters. I saved you money, at least.”
“That you did. And I already thanked you. Two times.”
It wasn’t that Jack didn’t want Carter as a deckhand, he just didn’t want one, period. Another person to account for and plan for. And pay. Most boats had them, doing all the stuff for the clients the other captains didn’t want to bother with anymore. But Jack didn’t mind the baiting or the teaching or all the other gritty jobs. And anyway, he never took more than four people out at a time. And he didn’t want more.
“Story hasn’t changed since last time you asked. Don’t need a deckhand. Don’t want a deckhand.”
He reached into the bed of the truck and pulled out his toolbox. He made the mistake of leaving it there overnight just once before finding out firsthand there was a hot market for stolen Snap-ons.
“Cap’n Slush says he’s just waitin’ fer you to mess up so he can take y
er clients.”
“Captain Slush can say what he wants. It’s a free country.” Jack shooed him out of the way so he could reach the front door.
“Cap’n Slush says no Yankee from the mountains knows saltwater fishin’ anyhow.”
Carter was behind him now, watching Jack pull the keys from his pocket. Funny how the kid who wanted a job so badly didn’t offer to help with the forty-pound toolbox or the plastic grocery bag slowly tearing under its own weight in Jack’s hand.
“Sounds to me like you really want to work for Captain Slush.”
“He says I ain’t big enough. And anyway, yer the only boat without a hand.”
That was probably true. Jack popped the lock on the door and stepped through. Carter let the screen slam between them, but it didn’t stop his talking.
“If it’s money yer worried about, you don’t have to pay me rate.”
Jack was already around the corner in the kitchen putting the sandwich meat and beer he’d just bought into the refrigerator. “Get on now, Carter. You’ve got my answer.”
“I’m not always gonna be this size. My gran’daddy din’ grow ’til he was in the Army.”
He was still talking when Jack walked over to the door and closed it.
He cracked open the beer he’d pulled from the six-pack and dialed his voice mail. Told himself to get it over with. He almost never answered his cell phone when he was out with clients.
Voice Mail Lady announced First message.
“Hey, Junior. It’s your mom. I’m just sitting here thinking about my boy and how much I miss him. You know you don’t get home nearly enough, but you never listen when I tell you that, so I’ve quit saying it. Nothing much to report around here. Dad’s still pretending he’s strong enough to be out in the fields all day with Telo, and I keep telling him he’s not. But you know him. Always thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. Anyway. I hope you’ll consider comin’ home. You know I miss you.”
Jack pressed seven for Delete without waiting for Voice Mail Lady to prompt him.
Next message, she said.
“Yeah, this is Josiah Phelps down at National Union Bank. I’m calling for John Thorson. I left you a message, last week I think it was. We’ve received yer application for the business loan, but we need a few more pieces of information from you. Call me back and hopefully we can get to workin’ on this real soon.”
He left a number and an extension, neither of which Jack wrote down.
He pressed seven for Delete.
And again, Voice Mail Lady announced Next message.
“Johnny, it’s your mama again. I missss you and—” He hit seven and hung up as soon as he heard the first note of a slur. Given the time change, it was still midafternoon in Colorado, and it had been a few hours since the last message. Meaning, barely past lunchtime and his mother was already sloshed.
“Surprises never cease,” he said to the lifeless phone.
His mother had probably always been a drinker, but he didn’t recognize the signs until he started showing them himself. As a kid, he rarely saw her take a drink, so how could he understand that the truth about her wasn’t always what it looked like—maybe she was extra tired, or feeling talkative, or really was that proud of him. Maybe she just naturally felt lousy in the mornings. And yeah, it did stink that his dad was always out in the fields.
When Jack really thought about it, though, he knew he’d never seen any other kid’s mom crying in the grocery store, never seen any of them knock over a stack of cans with her cart. And no other kid ever talked about the sheriff pulling their mom over to the side of the road and threatening to call her husband “again.” The older he got, the more he knew that sort of stuff didn’t happen to every kid.
He thought back to the night he’d started drinking, with his buddy from a stolen bottle of rye in his grandfather’s barn. That was the night it became clear what his mother had been doing all those years. The rosy feeling, followed by the slurring, followed by the disconnect from gravity. Being drunk meant leaving yourself behind, and that made more sense to Jack than anything he’d ever known.
Now, he couldn’t escape all the people begging for his attention. Carter was on his front porch every day, and that had been Ford’s bank on his voice mail, trying to close on the offer Jack had made for the two remaining boats in Ford’s fleet. Ford was trying to retire after forty-some years in the guiding business, and Jack was trying to help him.
The way Jack saw it, Ford had done more for him than his own father. Sounded cliché when he said it out loud, but it was true. The math alone proved it. He’d started as Ford’s deckhand, and they’d spent twelve to fifteen hours a day together for ten years until Ford’s brother died of lung cancer and Jack became a captain in his place. As a kid, Jack was lucky to see his father just once, at dinner, listening to him grunt and eat.
He made an offer on Ford’s business because it was the only way he could think of to show his thanks. Problem was, he didn’t have the money. It wouldn’t be long before the bank exposed him, and Ford became just another name on the long list of people Jack chose to disappoint.
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Further info
Thomas and Savannah,
Thanks for emailing me back. I get why you’d want further information from me, so here’s more of what has me curious.
Thomas, in episode 6 you said you hadn’t slept well on account of lightning. Was it because your ears pop? That’s what happens to me.
Savannah, in episode 2, Thomas said you can’t wear flip-flops. I can’t wear them, either. Is it because you have really shallow webbing between your toes and it’s hard to grip the sandal? That’s my problem, anyway.
I won’t make this as long as my last email. But I do want you to know that I really hope you find your dad. And I hope he’s a good guy. Every kid deserves good parents, but not every kid gets them.
Even if I’m wrong about the lightning and the flip-flop thing, would you mind letting me know? This has me sort of preoccupied lately. Hope that doesn’t make me sound crazy again.
Jack Thorson
* * *
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Further info
Jack,
I can’t believe you guessed right about the lightning. Though I suppose it’s not guessing when it happens to you, too. Mine’s more of a vertigo sensation, that’s how the doctor explained it anyway. But I can see how you’d call it a pop.
Can you eat cheese?
Thomas McClair
* * *
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Further info
Thomas,
I can eat some cheese. Not ice cream, though.
Jack
Twenty-One
Savannah
A few days after Savannah and Thomas became national news, Saj had a car waiting at LaGuardia to take the McClairs to Guava Media’s headquarters in midtown. They sat three-across in the back, with Maggie in the middle. Savannah put her forehead to the window and whispered, “This is so wild.” She meant all of it—The City, capitalized. History and future. Grime and glitter. Destitution and destiny.
To distract herself from her nerves, she’d spent the morning researching. Now she had landmarks to watch for. If their driver took the Queensboro Bridge, she’d be able to see the sign for Silvercup Studios where Cherien Dabis produced Quantico, Tina Fey produced episodes of 30 Rock and Dawn DeKeyser produced Ugly Betty. If they went farther south to the Manhattan or Brooklyn Bridge, she might just get a glimpse of Steiner Studios from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, where Amy Sherman-Palladino—her writer god and showrunner hero—produced The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.
The Statue of Liberty was
somewhere down there, too.
Their driver took the Queensboro Bridge. And by the time they’d reached Guava Media’s office, Savannah’s head swirled, trying to take everything in.
The driver dropped them outside Saj’s building and the McClairs walked into the lobby, all of it framed by floor-to-ceiling glass. They found the elevators and rode to the nineteenth floor. Saj was waiting for them.
“Welcome, McClairs!” Saj was itty-bitty, even shorter than Savannah—and half as thick. Manhattan fashionable but like a bouquet of helium balloons might carry her away. When Savannah returned her hug, she worried she’d heard something snap.
“Do all of these people work for you?” she asked Saj. The office bustled with an army of twenty-somethings, and she laughed as if Savannah had just asked if the cell phone in her hand could also make coffee.
“No! Oh my god, that’s so precious. No, this is a coworking space.” Saj hugged her again for a reason Savannah didn’t quite understand. “It’s midtown. Meh. An absolute migraine. But I have to be here. I mean, of course, right?”
She phrased the last part not so much as a question, but as a chance to nod and agree. So, Savannah did.
“Anyway,” Saj continued, “I’ve reserved a conference room for the whole day. Sam will join us. Lunch is coming at one.” She turned to Savannah and Thomas. “Salads okay? I had them throw a couple of turkey sandwiches in, too, just in case. And Sam’s roast beef. He’s such a Neanderthal.”
This was the first they’d met Saj in person, but she’d made clear from their very first call that she wasn’t one to waste any time. They’d hardly set their bags in the conference room when she got to work.
“The schedule!” she said, passing each of them a printed spreadsheet of venues, interviewers, arrival times, segment lengths and a column titled Key Messages.
“Our number one goal is this—humanize, personalize, sympathize.”
Savannah stopped herself from pointing out that was actually three goals.
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