by Randy Alcorn
“Look,” Jess jumped in again, less a chairman now than a referee. “Let’s take a vote on this thing. I see three options. One is to leave it alone. Two is to have the reporter continue her investigation, but caution her and her editor to balance any negative portrayal with some positives. Three is to recommend spiking the story entirely. Okay, option one, story go on as is?”
Clarence raised his hand, with a sad and lonely look, and didn’t seem surprised no other hand went up.
“Okay. Option two, go ahead but with a caution to balance?”
Jake raised his hand, assuming most other hands would come up too. Only Misty’s hand went up, raised halfway, accompanied by a pained and sheepish look.
“And option three, kill it?” The other six hands went up, minus Jess who didn’t vote.
“Okay, we recommend spiking it. I’ll tell her editor, let’s see, that would be Patsy She can work it through with Heather.”
“Just like that?” Jake asked.
“Well, we’ve got to move on. How else would you like us to handle it, Jake, if not by vote?”
“Maybe we should hear what the writer has to say, why she feels this is an important story. Or just trust the writer and editor to work it out.”
Jess’s eyes implored Jake not to pursue it. “Our job is to represent the multicultural aspect of the issue. We’re looking out for the overall effect on the gay community. Besides, it’s only a recommendation.”
“What he’s saying, Jake,” Clarence interjected, “is that we’re the censorship committee. Get used to it. Killing stories is what we do here. It’s only a recommendation,’ but of the dozens of recommendations we’ve made in my six months on this committee, every single one has been followed. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“If looks could kill” was too mild an expression for some of the looks directed at Clarence. But no one spoke up to correct him.
“Look, tensions are a little high,” Jess said. “Let’s take a break and shake it off. Get some fresh air. We’ve got three or four other stories to discuss. Let’s be back in ten minutes.”
The room cleared like a bomb scene, only to have several small groups reassemble in the hallway. Only Jake and Clarence were left in their chairs. Clarence looked deep in thought, then said to Jake, “I have this soothing effect on people. Have you noticed?”
Jake laughed heartily, welcoming the release of tension.
“Careful, Jake. You laughed at something I said earlier too. You’re allowed a spiteful laugh, a disgusted chortle, but no good-natured laughter. Laughter is a form of approval. You don’t want to be caught approving of my viewpoint, not on this committee.”
“Come on, Clarence. It’s not that bad.”
Clarence looked glum.
“Is it?”
“I call this the hyphenation committee, Jake. Multi-culturalism, African-American, Hispanic-American, Indian-American, Homo-sexual. I wonder what this country’s first two hundred years would have been like if people were divided into groups like this. Italian-Americans with Italian-American studies at the universities, Russian immigrants studying Russian history instead of American history, Irish-Americans hired according to quotas, multicultural police making sure every newspaper had its proportionate number of Swedes. There never would have been a United States of America. There would be no melting pot, just a bunch of special interests groups looking out for themselves and not caring about everybody else.
“Look out in the hallway at our subgroups. This isn’t a committee of journalists, Jake. It’s a committee of lobbyists. We’re not here to see accurate information gets printed. We’re here to do the opposite. We’re here to protect and promote our particular constituencies. I’m telling you, we’re just a bunch of lobbyists.”
“I admit I was surprised at the vote, but—”
“Jake, the vote is always like that, except you threw in a new wrinkle by voting as a moderate, along with Misty, who surprises everybody once in a while. I’m the conservative. The rest are intractable liberals, with an occasional defection by one of them, usually with apologies. The control they have over other reporters and editors is incredible. Take that paragraph on the history of AIDS. What no one pointed out was, it was completely factual. It was the truth! Why can’t we tell people what’s objectively, demonstrably true? Because it might affect their opinion of the gay community? I read that article—the rest of it did the usual obeisance to the gay lobby. Now we can’t allow even a single paragraph to appear, if someone could possibly even question the responsibility of some of the gay community as a result. We don’t dare let readers use their brains and reach their own conclusions!”
“Listen, Clarence, I hear you. Frankly, I don’t want to be on this committee. I’d rather go do something else, like have a root canal. But these people are just trying to do their job. Don’t you think you should cut them a little slack?”
Clarence calmed down a little, pausing long enough to take a deep breath. “Don’t get me wrong, Jake. I don’t mind working with homosexuals. Peter and Pamela and even Myra, these are people I can get along with fine, if they just get off their soapbox. They’re certainly nice enough. Peter and Pamela anyway. But nice doesn’t always mean right, does it? You say they’re just trying to do their job? That’s the whole point. They’re not doing their job. I don’t make an issue at work out of my sexual practices, and I don’t appreciate anyone else making an issue of theirs. If it doesn’t matter, fine, then let’s quit talking about it. Why keep cramming it down everybody’s throat?
“You want me to accept them as people, fine, no problem. I do. They’re people with the same rights as you and me. I don’t try to force them to accept my beliefs and my way of life and frankly I’m tired of the constant pressure to accept and endorse theirs. Coming out of the closet is one thing, but making a constant issue of what’s in the closet is another. Maybe some things belong in the closet, ever think of that? To me pluralism means you can agree to disagree, but they won’t tolerate disagreement. If you don’t endorse their behavior you’re a no good bigot, a homophobe, a hatemonger. To put it in terms a modern school kid would understand, if this committee was adrift on a life raft and determined they didn’t have enough room for everyone, do you think they’d have any hesitation deciding who to put overboard? Man, I’d be treading water right now.”
“You really think it’s that bad, that it’s affecting their integrity as journalists?”
Clarence sighed, giving Jake a “you really don’t get it, do you” look that raised his defenses.
“Let me ask you a question, Jake. Suppose there was a Catholic therapy group, run by priests, and it set up a Rape Crisis Counseling Center. Suppose a number of women attending the center reported they’d ended up in bed with the same priests who counseled them. First of all, that story would never have surfaced on this committee because there’s no one here to represent Catholics or fundamentalists or even nonreligious conservatives.” Clarence reached out his hand toward Jake. “If we’re interested in representing minorities, how come we only choose certain ones? How come we don’t get an evangelical or a Catholic? Because we only want politically correct minorities.
“Anyway, suppose someone had brought up exactly the same story, but with Catholic priests doing the victimizing. There would have been no discussion. Of course we’d investigate the story. And if it’s true, we’d print it, and probably with a bit of glee, don’t you think? It’d be A-1, with follow-ups in Metro for days. It’s news, isn’t it? And if it makes the Catholics look bad, that’s their problem. We’re not here to protect the image of Catholics, that’s what we’d say. We’re here to tell the truth, let the chips fall where they may. Every one of us would have voted to tell that story, including me. So what’s the difference? We want to protect the image of one group and we don’t care a rat’s hind end about the other one. That’s the only difference.”
“They did put you on the committee didn’t they, Clarence? Doesn’t that tell you someth
ing?”
“I was put here because I’m black, and since I was in sports nobody knew I was a conservative. Now that they know, it’s too late, and I’m just Uncle Tom. You should have heard Jess introduce me the first week. Called me one of the finest sports writers the Trib’s ever had. Now I’m a traitor to the cause. Journalists are supposed to be mindless reflexive liberals, and I’m not. So what do you think my chances are of ever being a general columnist, like you? Now that they know my true colors, think they’ll let me loose with opinions on anything but sports? Man, when I’m sixty-five I’ll put in my last day at this paper philosophizing about new developments at the International Badminton Tournament.”
Clarence put his big right hand to his forehead, still beading with sweat. “Jake, that bottle of Tylenol still in your desk? I need a couple.”
“Yeah, it’s extra strength. I’ll get it for you.”
Clarence waved him off. “Nah, I’ll get ’em myself, thanks. Extra strength? Yeah, that’s what I need. Besides, Jake, you shouldn’t be seen walking with me. We don’t want to tarnish your image. You’re already a heterosexual white male, which is one rung down from being a convicted rapist with leprosy. Don’t make it any worse on yourself by appearing to be sympathetic to me. I’ll just move on down the road.”
Clarence forced a broad grin and shuffled out of the room with perfect rhythm, as if he were a minstrel. Jake watched this man, a good man, trying to keep his humor in a beloved vocation that seemed to have shifted underneath his feet.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jake took his last sip of coffee early Tuesday morning, washed it out in the sink, and headed toward his front door. The phone rang. It was a private number, but even then Jake let the answering machine screen his calls. If he didn’t want to talk—he rarely did—he just let it go, as he did now. After the fourth ring he heard his own voice say, “Leave a message after the beep.”
“Jake? Jake, it’s Janet. If you’re there, please pick up the phone. It’s an emergency.”
Like a coiled spring, Jake vaulted to the phone, ten feet away, before Janet could start her next sentence.
“Janet? It’s me. What happened?”
“Carly needs you, Jake. She won’t call you, but she needs you. She’s so confused. I found a note…” Janet’s voice broke and the intensity of her sob alarmed Jake.
“What kind of note?”
He could hear her muffled groan, and tried not to be impatient, but was. “Janet—what does the note say?”
“It’s a suicide note. If I hadn’t come into her room and found it…”
The knife poised above Jake from the moment he heard Janet say “emergency” now dropped and pierced his chest at the word “suicide.”
“Where’s Carly now?”
“She’s here, in the living room, just sitting on the couch in her bathrobe. I won’t let her out of my sight. We’ve been talking, but…”
“Was this note for real? Was it maybe just an attention-getter?” Jake remembered the interview he’d done with the psychologist who said all suicide threats must be taken seriously, but some were only attempts to get attention.
“It was for real. I’m certain.”
“But…I thought she was happy. Her grades are good, she was playing volleyball, and on the speech team, right?” All this was hearsay. He’d learned none of it from Carly.
“There’s more that you don’t know, Jake. A lot more. It’s not good. She’s in trouble. I really can’t talk about it now, not on the phone.”
“Janet, what is it? Bad enough that she wants to kill herself, and you can’t tell me?”
“Oh, Jake, I don’t know what to do. She needs help. More than I can give her. She needs…a dad.”
The words “a dad,” rather than “her dad,” opened a puncture wound. She needed a dad because she hadn’t had her dad. He’d been off charming a million strangers while neglecting his own daughter. Of course, Janet didn’t say that. She didn’t have to.
“I’ll be right over. Stay with her. It’ll be okay.”
“Please hurry. We need you. I mean, she needs you. But drive carefully, Jake.” It was an old habit, saying “drive carefully, Jake.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.” Jake tried to sound more composed than he was.
He moved as fast as he could and still convince himself he wasn’t panicking. He scanned the room to see what else he might need, as if he were heading out on survival camp. His eyes hesitated at Finney’s Bible by the recliner, still unopened since Sue gave it to him at Little Finn’s request. It cried out to him that it could help in a time of crisis, and this was clearly a crisis. But I don’t even know what to do with it. Jake left it sitting there, grabbed his keys and wallet from their place on the mantle, and charged out the door, not losing the extra two seconds by checking if it locked behind him.
As he hopped in the Mustang, Jake prepared himself. It had been a long time since he’d seen Carly, not counting Finney’s funeral. Longer than he could admit to himself. And even then, the last few times they’d only said hello and endured a brief superficial conversation.
I’m rusty at being a dad, Jake acknowledged to himself. I haven’t had a lot of practice.
As he wove through traffic, Jake considered, with some irony and self-flagellation, that if this was an interview on teen suicide or with a teenage drug addict, he’d know exactly what to do.
It’s real life and my own daughter I don’t know how to deal with.
He considered with some embarrassment how many times he’d administered treatment to society’s ills from a distance, with no real empathy for the situation. Now he was in the situation. And while he knew this was one of the most important missions he’d ever gone on, he felt woefully unprepared and ill-equipped. He felt like he was going out in a Southeast Asian jungle naked and unarmed.
Carly looked at the apartment floor, maintaining steady eye contact with two knot holes in the hardwood. She made a point of avoiding her father’s gaze, not realizing it wasn’t there anyway because he was busy avoiding hers. Janet sat looking back and forth from one to the other, finally giving in reluctantly to the role which had always fallen to her, the role of go-between.
“Carly, I think you need to tell your father what happened.”
Carly paused, just for a moment, then blurted out, “Somebody raped me. And I’m pregnant.”
She said it defiantly, as if she resented having to say it, but refused to sugar coat it to make it go down easier.
After an initial few seconds of shock, angry fire rushed out of Jake. “Who? Who did this to you? I’ll kill him.”
For the first time, Carly’s eyes rose to meet Jake’s, and he expected some appreciative look in response to his fatherly protectiveness. What he saw instead was anger as intense as his own. Good, let her anger come out against this monster. She needs to express herself.
“Who do you think you are?”
Jake was stunned to realize he was the object of the anger.
“You waltz back into my life just when I’m done with it, to tell me I should keep living. Where were you before? That’s why you came, isn’t it, to tell me I’m stupid to think about suicide? Well, you don’t know anything about me, nothing, do you understand?”
Jake rocked backward, and a deeply wounded Carly pounced on his show of weakness.
“You hear I’ve been raped and what do you care about? Me? No. You only care about wasting the guy who did it. Why? Because he violated your property, and that gives you some macho right to blow him away? Well, I’m not your property. You junked me three years ago, so don’t try to pretend you have a part in my life anymore. You’re not going to get any medals of honor here, Mr. Famous Journalist who knows all the answers.”
As if reaching the culmination of a well-prepared closing argument, Carly spewed out, “I’m not your daughter. I’m a person. And I didn’t ask you to come here. So get out. I don’t want you here. Get out!”
Carly threw a couch pillow at h
im and marched into her bedroom, slamming the door so hard it shook the whole apartment.
Jake sank back into the couch in stunned speechlessness. The blow left him numb. For a moment his defenses rose. How dare she blame him for her problems? But something in him realized she was right, at least in part. The soldier in him wanted to shoot the enemy, and it had taken his focus off the dying girl who needed a medic.
Jake didn’t know what to say. Not to Carly, not to Janet. He could come up with an eight-hundred-word column every time he needed to. But he couldn’t think of eight words that would work here. He would be silent now, not as a strategy, not as the best course of action, but because he knew no other course of action. He was clueless how to handle this situation. He knew what faced him now had festered over many years. There was no one-hour fix for this. Perhaps no fix at all.
Jake was too ashamed to look across the room at Janet, this woman who knew his intimate habits, down to his insufferable snores and drooling on the pillow. He remembered how he longed for her in Nam, how the thought of her kept him going. He remembered how they felt when Carly was born, the wonder of this infant child. He remembered all the hopes and dreams for her, the wrestling on the carpet, the time she hid in the clothes hamper and popped open the lid when he and Janet were reading in bed. He thought about all Carly’s school programs and YMCA volleyball. And he remembered how, in backing away from Janet and the marriage, he had ultimately backed away from her too.
When he first moved out he’d made a point of not missing Carly’s activities, to prove to himself and to everyone that divorce need not hurt a parent’s relationship with his child. But over the months, when he’d take her out for ice cream and movies, it seemed they had less and less to say to each other. Increasingly, his efforts seemed strained, more and more like a pretense to both of them. So he’d drifted, letting weeks and finally months go by between phone calls, then not calling because he was embarrassed it had been so long. It was the same with his mother, in the retirement home on the other side of the city. He didn’t visit her because when he did her eyes always asked him, “Why has it been so long?”