by Terry Fallis
“How can you work for him?”
“Look, man, I told you before, I got to earn a living. It’s not always fun. But I got a job. And it’s tough for guys like to me to get jobs. I got limited options. For now, I got this gig.”
“Do you know this Derek guy, too?”
“Sure, I know Derek. He specializes in finding people who don’t want to be found. He’s a whiz with a computer. You ought to see his fingers flying over that keyboard. It’s a blur, man. And when he finds whoever he’s been hired to find, it sure helps that he’s big. He usually gets his way.”
“No shit.”
“He’s gone home, now. Left this morning after giving his report to the B-man. He did his job. He won’t be bothering you no more.”
“And I was just getting to know him. We were quite close there for a bit yesterday.”
We sat there in silence for a moment or two, until Lewis looked at me, hard. He pointed his finger at me to hold my attention.
“Hey, Ever-man, you’re going to want to write what Mr. B’s telling you to write. Really, I’m telling you straight. Just swallow it, and do it. Then we can all go back to living our lives.”
He gathered his cosmetics, brushes, and applicators, rolled it all back up, and secured the fabric tie. Then he stood up and moved to the door. I stood up, too, and met him there.
“I’ll think it over, Lewis,” I said, my hand disappearing into his as we shook. “And thanks, you know, for not breaking my ribs for real, but making it look like you did a really serious number on them.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for sitting still when I was working.”
I pulled up my shirt again to survey his masterpiece.
“That is true art, my friend. Hey, how do I get it off?”
“Leave it for a few days, just to be sure. Then just use some cold cream to lift it. I’ll bring some up later.”
“Thanks, Lewis.”
While I was thinking it all through, I made myself useful by sweeping up the corn flakes. Then I ate the one small bowl full that was still left in the box. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Would it be so bad to draft a lukewarm, semi-positive post pointing out the innovations Mason Bennington had introduced? One could argue that he had made the lives of those young working women better than if they’d still been stuck dancing in sleazy dives where the rough clientele expected more than stripping. The security measures, the no-touching rules, the better pay, the retirement plans could all be positioned as significant improvements in working conditions over historical norms. I even started crafting the kinds of lines I’d use to introduce and carry the post. I’d need to lean on phrases like “It’s possible I was a bit hasty and narrow-minded in an earlier post,” or “upon further reflection,” or “giving credit where credit is due.” You know, words by which to backpedal, backfill, um, reverse one’s self.
If I made this one little concession, I could be free of all this unpleasantness, keep the blog, and most importantly, preserve my anonymity. Under these unusual circumstances, and keeping my longer-term goals in mind, it seemed like the right call. By that, I mean it sounded like the right call, and it looked like the right call. The real problem that emerged from my deliberations was that it just never, not for one instant, felt like the right call.
He was back sitting in his original spot, not doing much of anything.
“Hi, Kenny. How come you’re not roaming the range with your personal chauffeur?”
“Cuz your old man has thrown me over for someone else. Just like the fickle Ford man he is.”
He lifted a finger and pointed out to the paved paths. There was my dad guiding someone else down the Blue path. I didn’t think it was Beverley. Because of the angle, it took me a second or two to see that it was my mother walking beside him. I looked at the other end of the path and spied Beverley, pad and pen in hand, ensconced on a bench bathed in sunlight. I set off along the Yellow path that looped around to join the Red one just about where Beverley was writing. My timing was perfect. As I closed the distance to her at a brisk pace, it seemed I’d arrive at almost the same time as my mother and father.
“Young Everett, you’re back,” Beverley greeted me, stowing her letter in her bag as usual. “And just in time for a family reunion.” She winked when she said it.
“Hi, Beverley. Hi, Dad. And hello, Mom. Fancy meeting you here.”
Dad dropped onto the bench beside Beverley, and Mom sat beside him. With not much room left on the bench, I stood before them as if auditioning for something.
“Hello, Everett,” Mom started. “Yes, your father has been promenading me around the grounds for a good half-hour now. I think I’m more tuckered out from it than he is. That speaks well of his recovery, don’t you think?”
Dad had his arms resting on the back of the bench, his left, behind Beverley, his right, behind his ex-wife. He looked quite pleased with himself.
“You looked pretty spry out there, Dad,” I commented.
“I wasn’t sure how many more laps your mother had in her, so I thought we’d better take a break.”
Mom said nothing but rolled her eyes just ever so slightly.
“Okay, what’s going on now?” Beverley asked. “You’re looking jumpy again. What’s happened?”
“I guess I failed the audition. Remind me never to take up acting,” I said. “I clearly suck at affecting nonchalance.”
I stood facing what I now considered to be my war cabinet.
“Okay, let me start by bringing Mom up to date in case Dad hasn’t yet briefed her fully.”
And I was off again. I spent the first twenty minutes or so bringing Mom completely into the circle. She was dutifully flabbergasted at what I’d been up to. I think she might have been a little disappointed that I was obviously still in the throes of what she’d always called my feminist phase. But in deference to Beverley, five-star feminist royalty, she held her tongue. Then I brought them all up to speed on my visit that morning from five-star misogynist royalty, Mason Bennington. Beverley’s jaw dropped when I described the scene and Bennington’s unmitigated temerity. I held up my hand to hold the floor until I’d described exactly what had happened. There was much head shaking when I covered the cosmetic virtuosity of Lewis Small. I detected skepticism, so with great fanfare, I lifted my shirt to reveal my two perfect rib contusions. I got the response I wanted.
“Geez, that looks painful. How are you walking around? In fact, how the hell are you breathing?” Dad asked.
“Dad, weren’t you listening? These aren’t real. It’s make-up,” I said, tapping the middle of the larger wound with my index finger.
“Sorry, Ev, after you said cosmetics, I kind of tuned out,” Dad confessed. “Those sure look real. That guy is a wizard.”
“Let’s not get hung up on the least important element in the story, shall we?” Beverley suggested. “I’m certainly glad you weren’t injured, but the more pressing matter is the blackmail blog post. Are you going to buckle under and write it?”
“Of course you are,” my mother piped up. “I know this Bennington snake, and he isn’t going to stop until he gets what he wants, even if he has to break a few bones to get it. Just give him his little pump-me-up piece and it’ll be over.”
I held up my hand again to get on the speakers’ list.
“Believe me, I’ve thought this whole thing over from every angle in the last few hours. I’ve done the analysis, I’ve listed the pros and cons, I’ve examined it up, down, and sideways. I have no desire to tangle with Mason Bennington any more than I already have. But I just can’t sing his praises in a post and put it up on Eve of Equality. It would cripple the blog’s credibility in one stroke and lose us legions of followers. The life of the Eve of Equality would essentially be over. So who cares if we can protect my anonymity if the blog no longer has a meaningful voice? It would be over.”
“I’m with you, Ev. You can’t let that grade-A asshole and patriarchy-loving misogynist win,” my father said, leaning forward and
resting his clenched fists on his thighs.
Nobody said anything for a moment. There was dead silence. My mother and I filled it by looking at Dad with both our jaws, not just dropped, but dislocated. Only Beverley was smiling and nodding. Dad wasn’t happy that we were staring at him as if he’d just materialized from another galaxy.
“What?” Dad snapped. “Can’t I call someone a grade-A asshole without offending your tender ears? We’re all adults here.”
“Dad, there’s no debate he’s a grade-A asshole. It was the ‘patriarchy-loving misogynist’ line that, well, kind of threw us for a loop.”
“Wake up, son. Of course Bennington’s a patriarchy-loving misogynist. For Christ sakes, he makes money when his girls … when his women take off their goddamned clothes for the entertainment of asshole men. What else would you call him?”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my ex-husband?”
Mom said when she eventually found her voice.
“Aw geez, here we go,” Dad sighed. “Evelyn, honey, can’t a guy grow a little bit in his old age? Come on, give me a break. People can change, you know.”
Mom looked over at me and then at Beverley. The funny feminist just shrugged but said nothing. Then leaned over and patted Dad’s arm.
“Okay, so we’re agreed that you’re not going to bow down and write some obsequious codswallop to pump up Mason Bennington’s already overly inflated ego. So we need a Plan B that won’t have young Everett joining us here as he rehabs from two broken legs. And I think I have an idea.”
I scrunched onto the bench beside my mother as Beverley took over. She presented her idea in a thoughtful and measured way. She covered off all the possible outcomes and how we’d handle each one. Then she discussed the benefits and drawbacks of the plan. All of us had questions. We all kicked around the answers. It was a true case of collaborative thinking. And when I could separate myself from the very real physical implications that might befall me, it was an interesting and intellectually satisfying exercise.
It wasn’t an ideal plan. But it was the best one we had.
“And you think she’ll go for it?” I asked Beverley.
“I think I still have some pull around there. But we’ll have to move quickly. Can you make it there tomorrow? We don’t have much time.”
“Well, I had signed up for an all-day salsa-dancing workshop at the Forbidden Dance Clinic tomorrow, but I suppose I can put that off to another day.”
“That would be good,” Beverley said, nodding and patting my knee. “That would be good.”
I figured I was safe for the next five days. By then my ribs would have “healed,” and the plan, such as it was, would have worked, or crashed and burned, trapping me in the wreckage. I sat down at my kitchen table that night, wrapped my feet around the big, warm, and pulsating nut in my floor, and composed the most explosive blog post I’d yet written. It didn’t take me much time to write it, though it was my longest post yet. The words fairly poured out of me. I did not hit the Publish button. It wasn’t yet time. But when it was, I’d be ready.
I did publish another post I had in draft form from the previous week. If I didn’t post content regularly, ideally twice a week, my readership would decline. I couldn’t afford that. So I touched up a post I’d written about the number of women political candidates in federal elections across the G20 countries. It was a sad litany of under-representation with few programs in place to encourage more women to run. The Scandinavian countries fared reasonably well, but there wasn’t much good news beyond that.
I took a quick look out my front window to check on the status of our friendly nightly neighbourhood protest. It was late by then, so the rather small group of stalwart demonstrators was just breaking up. There weren’t too many cars pulling up in front of XY. The protestors and cameras were doing their job and having their desired effect.
In the rush of the day’s events, I realized I still hadn’t heard from Megan, despite several texts. I checked my email. Nothing from her there, either. I texted her again, in a pseudo-romantic tone, about counting the days until our Friday night dinner.
My cellphone rang. “Orlando rehab” appeared on my screen.
“Hello?”
“The bright star shone over Istanbul just after midnight.”
“Beverley, we’re not in a spy novel.”
“Indulge me, young Everett. There’s not much room for fun and excitement in my life. So this is it.”
“I hear you. But it’s a little too much excitement for my blood,” I replied. “So are we all systems go?”
“We’re on! Or at least you’re on for 11:30 tomorrow morning. So you’ll have to catch an early shuttle. I used up most of my political capital to get the meeting. I did not give her any details, so she doesn’t know why you’re coming, just that you’re coming. And I think that’s the right way to handle it. She’ll see you at 11:30.”
“Okay, I guess we’re on! I can’t thank you enough, Beverley. I mean it. If we pull this off, it’ll be because of you. I’m grateful.”
“Stop it! You’re going to jinx it. Just get your fanny on that plane in the morning and make your meeting.”
We talked for a few more minutes. After thinking about it for a week or so, I finally asked Beverley if she’d write a guest post, under her own byline, for the blog. I suggested she could write about the women’s movement then and now. She was reluctant, but I pushed. She said she’d think about it. She hadn’t said yes. But neither had she said no.
I hung up shortly thereafter and booked my flights online. I knew approximately what time it was by what song was pounding below me. I’d come to know the dance program by heart, or rather by ear. It was almost time for Shawna’s second turn on the runway. I’d never seen her perform. In the battle between my hormones and my feminism, my feminism had always won out. But, I confess, it was close sometimes.
I scanned Twitter for a few minutes, something I’d neglected in the previous day or so. There were still hundreds of new followers piling up each day. The EofE Twitter stream was still growing. One tweet in particular caught my eye before I shut down my laptop for the night. It was from Candace Sharpe’s personal account:
“Haven’t given up on having Eve of Equality blogger on show. We still don’t know who she is. But we’re relentless. Stay tuned. #Stilltrying”
I took a shower and crawled into bed. Just as I turned out my light, a text bonged in my phone.
“Please stop texting me. I know who you are. We are not having dinner on Friday night. You betrayed me. You put me in a very difficult position. You used me to gain information about my client for your own benefit. You made me look stupid in front of my client and my employers. Don’t try to contact me again.”
Against all hope, and all logic, I checked the number to see if perhaps it might not be from Megan. Yeah, right. I didn’t respond. I didn’t try to contact her again. I’m generally pretty good at following instructions when they’re as explicit as hers were. I rolled over, exhausted, and then lay awake for the next five hours.
CHAPTER 14
I’d never flown into Reagan National Airport before. For a few moments, as we were descending, it felt like we were going to land in the middle of downtown Washington. Then, just as we were about to touch down, it felt like we were going to belly-flop in the middle of the Potomac River. Mercifully, we landed where we were supposed to, right on the runway. If I’d arrived at the larger and busier Dulles Airport, it would have taken quite a while to make my way into the city. But Reagan Airport, the old Washington National Airport, is just three miles from downtown DC. Even with the tighter security imposed at an airport so close to the White House, I was still in a cab and on my way to my meeting in under twenty-five minutes from landing. Not bad.
My destination was on H Street NW, not that far from the White House and the National Mall. The National Organization for Women (NOW) was created in 1966 over the course of two seminal meetings in Washington, DC. The for
ty-nine women and men – the vast majority were women – who attended those two gatherings, including the groundbreaking author of The Feminine Mystique, Betty Friedan, are considered the founders of the organization. Over the years, NOW has emerged as the leading voice for women in America. I was about to meet with the president of NOW, that is, if I didn’t throw up in the back of the cab from the squadron of butterflies locked in aerial mixed martial arts combat in my stomach.
NOW was headquartered in a rather nondescript, ten-storey building with architecture best forgotten from the middle of the last century. Save for a couple of modest architectural grace notes around the front entrance, and I do mean modest, and just two, the most generous physical description one could offer before entering the realm of hyperbole and exaggeration was “concrete quadrilateral.” I paid the driver and stepped out, my breakfast still where it belonged, but my butterflies agitating for eviction if not ejection.
I was right on time as I stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the third floor. The receptionist looked up as I entered suite 300.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
“Um, yes, thanks. I believe I have a meeting with Shelley Hunter at 11:30.”
“You must be Everett Kane,” she said after consulting her computer screen.
“I am, indeed.”
“I’ll take you down to her office.”
I followed her through a massive array of open-concept cubicles, bordered by offices along the windows. It was a seriously hopping and happening place. It would have been obvious to even the most cynical observer that there was a lot of work going on in that office. Made sense. There was a lot of work to do.
Her office door was open at the far end of the third floor. The receptionist stuck in her head.
“Your 11:30 is here. Everett Kane?”
“Thank you, Susan,” the voice said. “Come on in, Mr. Kane.”
I nodded thanks to Susan as she made her way back to the front, and I walked into the corner suite. Shelley Hunter had been head of NOW for the preceding five years. A lawyer by training, she is widely considered to be brilliant, tough, relentless, and an outstanding communicator when protecting, pursuing, and promoting equal rights for women. She wore a grey business suit, the kind with pants, and an open-necked white shirt. She had shortish, sandy-coloured hair and classy black-framed glasses that deepened her intellectual vibe. She wore a slight smile, almost as if she was not sure what to make of all of this – probably because she was not sure what to make of all of this.