Gavin stared at him, his cheek full of cheese and pepperoni. “What? Why?”
“I’ve got something I need to do.”
Gavin stood, trying to gather his things. “Wait. I’ll come.”
Frank held out a firm hand. “Just stay here, okay? I’ll come back to get you in about forty minutes.”
Gavin slowly sat down.
Frank walked out. He knew it already. This rookie was going to be a thorn in his side.
2
A soft hammering sound filtering through the ceiling meant Hunter was home, probably tinkering with something electronic. If he wasn’t rebuilding a hard drive, he was writing software or designing software to write software.
Computers irritated Damien. They cheapened society, caused social unrest, not to mention contributed to the butchering of the English language and the rendering of grammar obsolete.
He had no love for technology and used it only when necessary. A cell phone hung off his belt, only to satisfy his wife. He refused to learn anything except how to answer it. Watching people text back and forth was like driving a stake through his heart. He’d once tried it, just for kicks, but it took ten minutes to type two sentences, and he refused to send something with a typo. Plus, the English language wasn’t meant to be condensed into abbreviated substitutes, like LOL. He constantly told his children LOL meant “love of language.” They never got that joke. Maybe it wasn’t that funny to them. Or maybe the joke was on him.
He set his briefcase down, slid his blazer off, and went to the kitchen. It was his night to cook. Kay would be home at seven sharp. At least twice a week they made sure the entire family ate together, which so far hadn’t paid the dividends the parenting magazine had promised.
But they’d been doing it for only eight years. Maybe he needed to give it more time.
Hunter stalked through the kitchen, his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
“Dinner will be ready in a few—”
“I know. I know. It’s family dinner night. I’ll be back.”
Damien sighed and turned to tend to the broccoli. The teen years were like a chasm—huge, black, swirling, sucking—a gulf that separated him from his kids. He missed them.
Jenna’s cell phone conversation filtered down the stairs and into the kitchen. He could hear only snippets, but it sounded like high drama, which was one of only two moods she was capable of. The other was a blend of sneer, seethe, sulk, and snarl.
The timer indicated the rolls were done. Outside, the Navigator’s purring engine sounded through the windows.
Soon the back door opened. Kay walked in, looking exhausted but happy to be home. She dropped her things and hugged him from behind. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He’d fallen for her the second they’d met. Tiny dimples pulled through each of her cheeks. Her eyes shimmered like expensive jewelry. A short pixie haircut showed off her delicate features.
And she always smelled like fresh flowers.
Kay went to change, Jenna continued to sound overly frantic, and Hunter finally came back home, ten minutes after the lasagna was ready.
“Dinner is served,” Damien called.
The kids took their sweet time getting there.
Kay didn’t wait but filled her plate while saying, “Mike and Jill are getting a divorce.”
“I thought they already were divorced.”
“Separated. They filed this week.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
“You know, Jill’s really hard to get along with. I can’t imagine being married to her.”
“Well, they say it takes two to tango. Or tangle, whatever may be the case.”
“I got to know Jill better a couple of weeks ago when we worked on that fund-raiser together. She’s just so abrasive, but maybe I’ll warm up to her.”
“Maybe she’s having a hard time with the div—”
Kay shushed him as the kids arrived at the table, whispering, “Natalie’s in Jenna’s grade.”
Damien could only assume Natalie was Jill and Mike’s daughter, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know their last name. He actually didn’t even know Jill and Mike at all, though Kay swore he’d met them before at school functions.
Damien got comfortable in his chair and served himself. Then he said to anyone who wanted to listen, “I’m going to talk to Edgar about my position at the paper.”
Kay looked up. Hunter tossed a roll in the air and tried to catch it behind his back. Jenna stared at her broccoli.
“What for?” Kay asked.
“I’ve been writing the op-ed and issues column for five years now, and I’d like a change of pace.”
“Like what? The comics?” Hunter twirled his knife between his fingers until Kay snapped at him.
Damien tried to smile and acknowledge that at least Hunter was participating in the conversation. “I thought I might like to be an investigative reporter. I’d still be dealing with issues, but I’d have a lot more facts to work with, and I could get out of the office more.”
Kay set down her fork. “Why would you want to do that?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m getting a little bored.”
“You always said what you did was important,” Hunter said. “People’s lives are changed by your column and what you have to say about things and all that. Words, words, words.”
“Shut up,” Jenna said. “He’s a grown man; he can do what he wants.”
Kay chewed her food, staring at him. “How can you be bored? We run 24-7. Most nights I don’t even get to bed before midnight.”
“It was just a thought. I’ll still be doing the crosswords of course. Couldn’t give that up. But sometimes you need to shake things up a little, you know?”
Kay shrugged. “Ask Mike and Jill. I’m sure they’d rather be bored.”
3
Kay watched the whites-only scramble she was making for her eldest child, Jenna, who had somehow converted from a lover of all things fried and fat to a near vegetarian. Except there was one problem with that—she really hated vegetables.
She fried up some turkey bacon, hoping her husband and son wouldn’t complain too much. She thought it actually tasted pretty good.
Damien came into the kitchen, kissing her on the cheek. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” She smiled.
She served Hunter, who, with earbuds in, was busy playing his DS. He wasn’t supposed to play it at the table, but enforcing the rules she once had in place for him at nine was getting harder at fourteen.
“You seem stressed,” Damien said, sitting at the table.
Kay sighed. “Yeah . . . being a mom isn’t what it used to be. I mean, you should see them.”
“Who?”
“The high school moms. They’re nipped and tucked and tan and skinny. It’s ridiculous how much money they spend on themselves. Shameful, really.”
“Kay . . .”
“I’m serious. It’s like being in high school all over again, except I’m battling varicose veins instead of acne.”
Damien took her hand. “You look beautiful. Classy.”
“Maybe that’s what I have on them. Class. I’m not showing up in a tank top, you know?”
Jenna bounded down the stairs, her backpack swung over one nearly bare shoulder. Kay’s eyes widened as she noticed her outfit.
“Whites only?” was the only thing she asked as she threw herself into a chair.
“Yes.” Kay put a double helping on the plate and added two slices of bacon. She set the plate in front of her daughter and then went to pour some orange juice.
Jenna ate in silence while Damien read the morning newspaper.
Kay sat down across from her. Jenna glanced up and asked, “What? Why are you staring?”
“I thought we talked about ripped jeans.”
Jenna set her fork down and glared, folding her arms. “No. I think you did all the talking, as I recall.”
“We agreed you weren’t going t
o wear those kinds of jeans to school. And if I’m not mistaken, I don’t believe spaghetti-strap tanks are allowed either.”
“Everybody wears them and nobody gets in trouble. Besides, these jeans are ripped only at the knee. So don’t freak out.”
Kay was about to retort when she noticed something on Jenna’s wrist. It looked like white string. She remembered reading something about what these string bracelets meant. It was some sort of code for—
“I’ve got to go. We’ve got that cheer thing today,” Jenna said.
Kay glanced at Jenna’s eggs. Hardly touched. “All right. I’ll see you there.”
Jenna paused. “You’re coming?”
“The cheer moms are supposed to be there, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, I guess. Whatever.” Jenna grabbed her backpack.
Kay stood. “Why don’t you take a light sweater? or one of those cute hoodies I bought you last month? It’s December and—”
“I’ve got something in my backpack,” she mumbled. And she was gone.
Kay nodded toward the doorway. “You think she’s okay?”
“I don’t know. Probably just hormones.”
“I miss her. I mean, the old her. She was so bright and sunshiny.”
“She’ll pop out of this.”
“You should talk to her,” Kay said, sitting back down at the table. “About how she’s dressing. She’ll listen to you.”
“Honey, she’s a teenager. All parents hate how all teenagers dress. It’s just the way it is. Didn’t your parents hate your clothes?”
Kay sipped her coffee, trying to calm the nerve that struck. She wanted to explain that Jenna was giving off a lot of promiscuous signals with those kinds of clothes. And that string . . . she couldn’t get her mind off it.
They both noticed Hunter had taken his earbuds out and was staring at them.
“Sweetie?” Kay asked.
“I’m not really hungry anymore. Can I go?”
“Sure. Go ahead. I’ll see you tonight.” She checked her watch. “I probably should go too. I need to stop by work before going to the school.”
“Hey, I’ve got that thing with Frank tonight,” Damien said, wiping his mouth and looking at the bacon like it had personally insulted him. “Is this real meat?”
“What thing?”
“That whole ritual we do. Yesterday was his ex-anniversary with Angela. You know how he gets.”
“So you’re ordering chicken wings and beer and watching something violent on TV?”
“Exactly.”
She squeezed his hand. “Have fun.”
“And, um . . . wish me luck. I’m going to talk to Edgar today.”
Kay, halfway out of her seat, sat back down. “You’re sure this is what you want? Because for years all you wanted to do was write op-eds and crosswords. Why the change of heart?”
“Maybe I always wanted to change the world. Or at least my little square mile of the world. Op-eds aren’t what they used to be. People don’t read a lot anymore. But maybe some investigative journalism could change people’s lives. Hold people in power accountable.”
Kay couldn’t help but smile at him. He was a good man. Honorable. Always an optimist. “Whatever you want to do, sweetheart. You think Edgar will go for it?”
“I’ll probably have to threaten an op-ed piece about him.”
* * *
Damien actually put on a tie. Usually he just wore a blazer and a semipressed shirt to work. Dressing up was more about self-dignity than anything else. He’d once read about a novelist who got up and put a suit on before writing every day to put him in the right mind of a professional. So maybe the tie would help.
He let a couple of hours pass in the morning. Edgar was hardly tolerable before ten. But if you waited until too close to lunch, then his blood sugar dropped and you had a whole new set of problems.
So at 10:17, according to the digital clock that was set by satellite or nuclear power or something, Damien knocked on Edgar’s door. The grunt meant “Enter.”
Edgar glanced up from a pile of papers on his desk, a strained expression almost in permanency. Everything looked strained on Edgar, from his undersize sweater to his bloodshot eyes. But usually, when he saw Damien, all that seemed to melt away.
“You got a second?”
“I never have a second,” Edgar glowered, but a hint of a smile gleamed in his eyes. “I’m going over the numbers. It’s not good. People don’t read. Why don’t people read?” Then he held up the crossword from Thursday, half-finished in blue ink. “This one’s a doozy. Some of these clues are ridiculous.” He set the paper down. “Anyway, people don’t read.”
Damien ran his hand down the synthetic silk of his tie. “They do read. Blogs are a huge hit.”
“That is a curse word around here. Nothing but someone’s opinion. Hardly ever backed up by fact.”
Damien smiled to himself. Edgar was already making his point for him. “So I wanted to talk to you about that very thing.”
Edgar’s face dropped. “Please tell me you’re not going to start a blog. We have eight going already. Not to mention a bunch of people Tweetering, which honestly seems like the quickest way to lose testosterone, but that’s just me.”
“No, no. Not interested in all that. In fact, it’s the opposite. I was hoping to do more investigative pieces.”
Edgar blinked, that strange sleep apnea sound he made during waking hours the only noise in the room.
“So that’s a yes?”
“It’s your generation. Never happy with where you are. I’ve been a newspaperman all my life. Done nothing else.”
Damien sat down. “That’s admirable. You know how much I admire that. And you. But I think it’s also healthy to venture out, not stay in the same place. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think I had something to contribute.”
“But people like what you do. You’re a popular column. Controversial. Thought-provoking. People write in about it all the time. Don’t you read those?”
“Of course. And I’m glad to do what I do. But maybe it’s time for a change. Like . . . like the clocks. Digital as of 2006, right? So now we’re right on time with the universe. See? I’m going from analog to digital; that’s all.”
“That sort of nonsense might work in your op-ed pieces, but it won’t work with me. What is it? You want a raise?”
“No. It’s not about money.”
Edgar scratched his double chin. “I don’t know. Bruce runs the investigative pieces.”
“He’s a sportswriter. He just does that because we’re trying to cover all the bases since you cut Jim’s position. I could help Bruce cover some of that.”
The leather office chair creaked as Edgar leaned back, staring first at Damien, then at the ceiling, and then at the clock. “It’s not even noon yet. This is going to be a long day.” He slapped both hands on his desk. “I don’t want the op-eds to stop. That’s your first job, and they better keep coming. If you want to throw in a few investigative pieces, we’ll see how it goes.”
Damien jumped up. “Thank you!”
“Bruce is not going to take this well.”
“I’ll handle Bruce. I’ll talk to him right now. He’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Hey, you want to go grab a sub for lunch?”
“Sure. In about an hour?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
Damien raced out of the office and headed for Bruce’s desk, which sat across the room from his.
Bruce looked up from his Sports Illustrated. “Hey, Damien. What’s going on?”
Damien lowered his voice. “Edgar’s going to let me do investigative pieces.”
Bruce’s magazine dropped to his lap. “What?”
“Yeah, I just talked to him. Figured he wouldn’t go for it, but he said to go ahead, except I gotta keep doing the op-eds. So basically I’m doing twice the work for the same pay, but at least I’m not dying a slow death at my desk.”
“So . . . you’re doing the invest
igative pieces? Not me?”
“Kind of. He still wants you to—”
Bruce threw his magazine to the floor, jumped out of his seat, and tackled Damien, backing him up several feet before managing to wrap his arms around him and pick him off the floor a good two feet. “My man! My man! How did you manage that?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as my feet are on the ground.”
“Sorry.” Bruce let go and Damien dropped straight down. “Dude, this is amazing!”
“I can’t believe he went for it. But look, you’re going to have to play up some disappointment. The man was nervous, certain you’d be devastated.”
“I only intimidate Edgar because I’m six foot three and can quote sports stats.” Bruce high-fived him. “I owe you big-time. Let me know if you want tickets to the game or something.”
“All right. See you later.”
“Hey, Damien?”
“Yeah?”
“Frank okay?”
“Why?”
“It’s his ex-anniversary, right?”
Damien smiled. “He’ll be fine. I’m feeding him chicken wings tonight.”
* * *
Kay put on another coat of light lipstick and got out of her Navigator. She tugged at her T-shirt, which must’ve shrunk in the wash.
Once inside, she checked into the office, then went to the gym, where the ladies were setting up the cheer moms table. “Hi. How can I help?”
Nobody bothered to look up. Nobody responded. All five women continued their conversation as if she wasn’t there. Which wasn’t unusual. It was like no one had ever taught them any social skills. She decided to start arranging the brownies on the platters.
“I wouldn’t do them like that.”
Kay looked up. Jill Toledo, dressed in a tight tank and a tighter miniskirt, stood above her, hands on her hips. “Do what?”
“I’d arrange them more stacked, so people will see them.”
“They might get knocked over or off the plate.” Kay tried to eyeball how many inches Jill’s skirt was from her knee. Six, maybe? The woman looked ridiculous.
Listen Page 2