by D. M. Barr
“I-I’m sorry, since I was already hired, I didn’t know I’d need them,” she said, a bit dazed. Interviewing process? There hadn’t been one. And Fletcher had never mentioned that she would have to answer to anyone else. Of course, she’d been too naïve to consider the logistics behind running a magazine or the chain of command.
“It’s not your fault. Lyle—Mr. Fletcher—should have really considered having you meet with me before extending an offer of employment. I suppose we’ll just have to make do. How are your copyediting skills?”
“They’re fine. But Mr. Fletcher led me to believe I’d been hired as an investigative report—”
“I don’t know what he told you,” he said, cutting her short. “What I do know is that my lead copyeditor just left for Des Moines because her daughter is in labor, and she’s going to be out for the next month. I’m shorthanded, and I need you to fill in.”
Camarin sat silent, her mouth slightly agape.
“That’s not a problem, is it?” asked Wynan. “I mean, we’re all team players here.”
“No, no…of course not. I’ll do whatever it takes to make Trend the best it can be.”
Well, at least the last part of her statement was true. She was going to do whatever it took. As soon as she could pull Fletcher aside, she’d get him to sort out this misunderstanding before the Blubber Be Gone buzz grew cold.
Wynan briefly introduced her to the others in the office. Every person was overly polite but eyed her with suspicion, no doubt possessive of jobs they feared they could lose. Then the two returned to her cubicle, where he gave her a computer password and told her to check her Outlook folder. “There are fourteen freelancer columns that need to be edited, which in this place usually means rewritten. I need them back by four o’clock so I have time to re-edit them, if need be, before forwarding them to layout. Got it?”
“No problem, Mr. Wynan. I’ll get right to it,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment behind a cheery facade.
She spent the afternoon fending off a stupor as she sifted through the drivel that the magazine passed off as content. Some pieces were superficial, others inane, but all had one thing in common: the subliminal message that no matter who you were or what you’d accomplished in life, you were always one step shy of acceptable. Article after article designed to make the typical reader question her fashion sense, her recipe knowledge, her parenting skills, and most of all, her size and how to make or keep it as small as possible.
That was the one message that irked Cam most, one she hated herself for having bought into since childhood, thanks to her mother’s constant harping. “Camarin, please, no—fill in the blank: cookies, seconds, snacks, etcetera—you don’t want to end up heavy and alone…” followed by two words left unsaid as her voice trailed off…like Monaeka. Depression set in as Cam realized that Trend’s ‘new’ direction was either just an extension of her mother’s oppressive voice, and therefore diametrically opposed to what Fletcher had described, or had not yet been implemented.
Wynan’s assignment left Camarin with little time to research the BBG murder. She needed to talk to Fletcher, get her role sorted out. She kept an occasional eye on the windowed wall that overlooked the entrance to the war room, waiting for him to emerge. Instead, she witnessed a constant flow of visitors streaming in and out, no doubt advertisers like Live Happier Liposuction, being wooed by Fletcher to place or keep their ad dollars with Trend. She wished Fletcher would rescue her from this brain-numbing busy work so she could again pitch the BBG idea, perhaps this time to a more receptive audience. But how likely was that, especially after she’d contradicted him her first time out?
At 4:20, after she had sent Wynan the last of her edits, Camarin saw Fletcher emerge and head back to his office. A few minutes later he summoned her via intercom, asking her to join him. Grabbing a pad and pen, she dashed across the hall. He’d left his door ajar, and she peeked in, but he was too engrossed in a phone call to do more than motion to her to take a seat. The office was surprisingly tiny for someone of his stature, with barely an inch of uncluttered space on his desk where she could set down her pad and pen. Yet he’d found room for knickknacks here and there, various awards and plaques from a former life but, oddly, no photos.
As she waited, Camarin realized her hands were shaking slightly. She wondered if she was more nervous about confronting her boss over Wynan, being chewed out over disputing his authority earlier, or merely the fact they were finally alone together. He looked so powerful, reclining in his overstuffed mahogany chair, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the upholstered arm, his ever-friendly expression uncharacteristically solemn.
She pictured herself sitting on his lap, rubbing her finger against the creases in his brow until they unfurrowed. Then moving it down to his chin, which she’d lift so his lips would meet hers. And then… What the hell? She shooed away the fantasy, and instead, mentally chanted her mantra—Play it cool. Stay on point. Professional always.—as Fletcher wrapped up his sales pitch.
“I understand your concerns, but we’ve got that aspect well under control…Yes, just the way I described…Absolutely…Okay, good to know that I can count on you, Howard. I’ll send the contracts by email. Thanks again.” As he hung up the phone and gave her his full attention, the twinkle returned to his eyes. “So, Ms. Torres, how have you enjoyed your first day at Trend?”
“May I be completely honest?”
“I absolutely insist,” he said, looking a bit surprised. “By all means, please tell me everything you’re thinking.”
That one statement was all it took to weaken her dam of self-restraint. Mantra forgotten, a flood of emotion came gushing out. “Mr. Fletcher, I appreciate this opportunity. And I know that Mr. Wynan needs help copyediting hard-hitting stories on ideal pore size, not to mention the deodorant dilemma—spray versus powder. Don’t even get me started on roll-on. But I think it’s more important that I take on the Blubber Be Gone investigation. And not as an advertorial, like I suggested during the meeting, but as part of something bigger. I think it could be indicative of a real growing sentiment in this country. The murderer might have quite a story to tell, if we were able to help the police pinpoint his or her whereabouts.”
“The murderer might have a story to tell?” he spluttered.
Camarin disregarded Fletcher’s skepticism, her voice growing louder as she got caught up in her own excitement. “Yes. I think if you want to make a big splash with our new direction, we should go all-out. Help the police find this person, then ask what’s behind his or her wrath. Can you imagine all the people who would want to read that exclusive?” She gestured expansively, including the entire world in their future audience.
Fletcher held up a palm, as if stopping traffic. “Camarin, I appreciate your enthusiasm. I truly do. And I do want Trend to start running more serious pieces. But you’ve only been out of school for a week. I’m not prepared to send you out investigating murders. I was thinking you could start out slower and on a smaller scale, interview some of our readers, get inside their heads. Maybe their need for self-respect and acceptance could cause our advertisers to rethink their approach.”
Camarin remained silent, trying to calm down, regroup. What Fletcher had suggested wasn’t the hard-hitting story she’d been hoping for, but at least it was a reasonable compromise. And yet she could foresee a major problem.
“I agree that giving our readers a voice is certainly a step in the right direction. But I might have a conflict.”
“Already? You’ve only been here—” He checked his watch. “—a whole seven hours.”
“I know. And I don’t want to be a problem child. But the copyedits aside, I also need to be true to myself. I fear that if I interview our readers, and I’m honest in my reporting—truly honest, no holding back—I might ruffle a lot of your advertisers’ feathers. And…” Cam’s voice trailed off as she realized what she wanted to say might be overstepping.
“Go on.”
&n
bsp; “Well, you told me when we met that the magazine was failing. As much as I want to do this, I need you to realize, it could be professional suicide for you to give me the go-ahead. And for me to follow through. I mean, what’s the point of turning in Pulitzer-worthy stories if there’s nowhere to publish them?”
Fletcher looked slightly taken aback. “It was failing, before I threw money in. What makes you think we’re still in trouble?”
Camarin hesitated, unwilling to implicate Rachel as a mole. “I’ve heard talk. Even though I understand ad pages are up. Which is something else I wanted to ask you about. I am an investigative reporter, after all.”
He smiled. “Indeed, you are. And one that’s as nimble on her feet as I remembered from the railroad platform. Every one of the advertisers I courted today was intrigued that we were going to become more provocative in our reporting. They all signed on, hoping that our future editorial focus would sway our growing readership their way.”
His praise was an injection of adrenaline, convincing her to press her argument forward, even if he had sidestepped the financial issue. “After my edits today, the one thing I am absolutely certain of is that each of your advertisers has a vested interest in making people think they’re lacking in some way. That readers must buy their products to become worthy, whole. Don’t you agree?”
He nodded. “Every last one of them.”
“But I want to help people feel good about themselves just the way they are. So, it really would be a conflict of interest.”
“Not at all. What these advertisers want is readership. If we have the numbers and enough of those people see their ads and buy, they won’t care what we run in editorial. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“I know how eager you are. Believe me. And if anyone can find the story behind the story, I’m betting on you. But…well, three things. First, keep both eyes open and don’t try to force a story where one might not exist. In other words, don’t let righteous indignation fuel your position if the facts don’t support it,” Fletcher said, with a tone more paternal than supervisory.
“I understand,” Camarin said, her stomach sinking at the thought that her story instinct might be off-kilter.
“Second, no murder investigation. That idea dies here and now, no pun intended.”
We’ll see about that, she thought. “And the third thing?”
“I need you to work with Hans. You don’t know what I went through to lure him over here. Try to find a way to handle any editing he throws your way, at least until we aren’t so shorthanded. Maybe you can find pockets of time here and there to work on the reader interviews or any other story ideas you might come up with.” The phone rang. He held up one finger. “Just let me get this and then we’ll wrap up.”
He picked up the receiver and started his advertising sales pitch. She tuned him out, lost in her thoughts as she lifted and studied the paperweight on his desk, a piece of the Berlin Wall encased in Lucite. It was a symbol of broken barriers. Yet Fletcher, self-proclaimed redeemer of lost causes, was ignoring another symbol: that the Blubber Be Gone murder was proof that when society is persistently cruel to a disenfranchised group like the overweight, the oppressed could rise up and rebel. Why was he suggesting that she push off a story that could spotlight this injustice, unmask a murderer, and possibly save the lives of future unsuspecting victims?
She set the paperweight back down and looked at Fletcher’s face, so animated as he assured the caller that this was going to be the year of Trend. Not my version of Trend, Camarin thought. As he hung up the phone, she decided to press forward.
“Mr. Fletcher, I’d be happy to help with the copyediting. But if I can safely prove to you that there’s something more behind the Blubber Be Gone murder, without going out and personally putting myself in harm’s way, would you consider a piece on the possible implications behind it? I’d get in at five o’clock every morning to research it.”
Fletcher shook his head and laughed.
“Camarin, you strike me as a persistent young lady, and it’s clear you’re not easily dissuaded. Hans Wynan must approve all copy decisions. Do you honestly think you can investigate this subtly, without letting him know you’re not giving him a hundred percent of your attention?”
“I do.”
“Okay, let’s keep this just between us for now. I’d like you to work up a preliminary outline of the story you propose. Get it to me by Friday?”
Camarin smiled her first big smile of the day. Inside, she was performing mental cartwheels. “I’d be delighted to, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Camarin, I do have one problem with you.”
“You do?” Her high-flying elation took a sudden nosedive.
“Yes, and I’m only going to say this once. Please call me Lyle.”
She took a deep breath. “Lyle…it just doesn’t feel right. You’re my boss, and in the Chamorro culture, we pay profound respect to—”
“The elderly?”
She was about to apologize, to tell him that she was referring to supervisors, when she caught the evil glimmer in his eyes and realized he was just kidding with her. Emboldened by her big win of the day, she ignored Monaeka’s voice telling her to play it safe, that a handsome man of stature would never be interested in a girl like her, and instead her impulsive streak took over. She decided to take a gamble.
“If I was indicating you were elderly, you’d definitely know it,” she countered, echoing the line he’d used the day they’d met.
“Oh, how so?”
“You really want to know?”
Fletcher nodded.
She stood up, silently begging her knees not to buckle underneath her, and shot a look backward to ensure the door was closed. Then she walked around the desk until she was standing at Fletcher’s side.
“Give me your hand.”
Fletcher held out his right arm. Locking her gaze with his, Camarin grasped his palm, bowed her head slightly, lifted the back of his hand to her nose and sniffed deeply. The sweet-soapy-musky tones of Tabac romanced her olfactory glands, reminding her of summers spent at Macy’s, selling men’s fragrances.
“This custom is called nginge’,” she explained. “Elders are considered manåmko’, and those who are considered to hold wisdom are called mañaina. When we sniff the back of your hand, it is our way of taking in the essence of your spirit while expressing respect and honor.”
“Really? Hmmm,” he said softly, the words smooth as lip gloss, his eyes never wavering from her. The heat emanating from their clasped hands hinted at secrets yet unspoken.
“Yes. And I would curtsy slightly, like this, and since you are a man—”
“I am indeed a man,” he murmured.
Camarin felt herself blushing but persevered. “Since you are a man, I would say ñot, and you would say—” She felt him squeeze her hand as they continued their unbroken stare.
“I would say…”
She paused, lightheaded, the air suddenly as thin as atop Mt. Baldy back home. “You would say dioste ayudi, which means—”
At that moment, there was a loud knock on the door. Startled, Camarin pulled away just as Hans barged inside.
“Lyle, I need your approval on the Have You Heard? seg—oh, Camarin, I didn’t realize you were in here.”
“I-I was just leaving.” She grabbed at her pad and pen but hit the edge of the ballpoint instead, sending it careening through the air and crash-landing in a corner by the window. Klutz! “Thanks again, Mr.…L-Lyle,” she stammered and practically slammed into Wynan as she made a beeline for the door.
Once outside, she leaned against the wall, trying to ignore Monaeka’s laughter at her failed attempt at flirtation, her heart pounding as loud and fast as a native drumbeat.
“Pitch giving you trouble, Cam?” asked Rachel as she passed, her hands filled with office supplies.
“Excuse me?” she answered, still disoriented from whatever that was.
“Pitch and toss. Boss.�
��
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I was just—” Camarin’s cellphone started vibrating, interrupting her thought. She pulled it from her pocket and, hand quivering, put it up to her ear. “Yes?”
“You were saying, which means...”
Her knees grew weak again. Fletcher had her private number?
Camarin turned away from Rachel and whispered into the phone, “Which means God help you.”
“Ah. Well, considering our upcoming plans to turn this magazine around, I’d say, He’d better help us both.”
Chapter 9
Wynan looked on with incredulity as Fletcher hung up the phone.
“Lyle, what’s your take? Do we ‘elaborate’ on the Phoebe Ellington piece and ‘suggest’ that she had to have been coked out of her mind to wear that schmatta to a premiere, or should we leave that to the readers’ imagination?”
Fletcher tried to concentrate on the blathering of his editorial director and ignore the stiffness in his pants, a throbbing reminder of the flirtatious moment he and his new reporter had just shared. Yet he was grateful for the raging hard-on straining against his fly—it felt good to have something, someone, remind him that he was still a man. For that someone to be a girl almost half his age sniffing the back of his hand? That’s something he could never have predicted two months prior.
“Earth to Lyle. What do you think?”
He sighed as he forced himself back to the issues at hand, superfluous as they might be. In the overall scheme of things, with his investment on the line and his cock on high alert, some pubescent model’s fashion misstep seemed somewhat immaterial. He grabbed a pencil and weaved it absentmindedly between his fingers. “Print what you want but just be sure to stick to the facts. No innuendo. I want us to start moving in a more serious direction, and honestly, I can’t afford a libel suit right now, especially over something that isn’t going to significantly spike circulation. Got it?”