by Julia Stoops
Jen rakes back her long hair. Stares at Kate. Says nothing.
“That would be telling,” says Fetzer, and Nelson gives Kate a small smile.
Kate shakes her head and says, “Assholes,” then, “Guess I shouldn’t say that, huh, since you’re giving this away.”
Expressionless, Jen says, “Guess you shouldn’t.”
This morning Jen had kicked up another fuss. Nelson reminded her that getting the story out is what counts. At least she agreed. But she’s making everyone miserable in the meantime.
Fetzer taps the pink tabletop. “This time, don’t mention your source.”
“Understood,” says Kate. Mr. Nguyen brings their drinks, and Kate pours cream in her coffee. She says, “It’s not great timing, though. If the war starts it’ll dominate everything. On the other hand, Wellesley might resign. I want to preempt that.”
For the first time, Nelson notices Kate wears no rings. Apart from amethysts set in silver wire dangling from her ears, no jewelry at all. A new baby, barely a year old, and not married. He hopes it wasn’t one of those messy, dad-can’t-cope-with-the-baby separations.
Jen says, “You heard about that godawful humongous rebuilding contract Bush is proposing?”
“Sure,” says Kate. “The administration wants Iraqis to see fast results.”
Fetzer rolls his eyes before closing them. “Winning hearts and minds.”
“Fast results, my ass,” says Jen. “They’re bypassing the usual process and it’s going to go to Bechtel or Halliburton or Fluor. You going to write about that?”
Kate looks Jen in the eye. “My beat’s local, not international. And anyhow, if we’re lucky, there’ll be a last-minute exile by Saddam, or just a brief skirmish with minimal casualties.”
Fetzer snorts.
“Yeah, well.” Kate gazes into her coffee cup. “I agree. Things aren’t looking lucky.”
Nelson sips his tea. “I heard some of the human shields are coming home.” His turn to receive Kate’s steady stare.
“Good. No one gives a rip about ideals in a war zone.” She goes, “Boom,” and flings her hands apart.
Nelson prickles. He crosses his legs. “At least they’re demonstrating that a few souls still have them.”
Kate reaches to touch his sleeve. “Which is exactly why I don’t want those few souls to get blown up.”
His face flushes. The inclusion in her touch. Even though he didn’t go.
Okay, it’s time to tell her the good news. He presses his palms together and opens his mouth, but Jen says, “What about this embedding bullshit? If they sent you to Iraq, would you go?”
“No,” says Kate. “And not just because I’d be embedded.”
“You’ve got a child,” says Nelson.
Kate’s smile is tired.
He pulls his hands out from under the table. “So. I have some news. It’s not really relevant, but—Deirdre and I got married.”
Kate perks up. Stares at him for a second then says, “Congratulations!” and pulls his forearm closer. Peers at the ring. It’s merely plated, and a dull, darker metal is showing through.
She gives his sleeve a playful whack. “You two are so cute!”
From the bed, their two pairs of eyes, frozen, staring. Then the naked women’s limbs of them as they scrabbled to cover up.
Why is he even thinking about this? It’s over. Over.
Kate sits back. “Didn’t you meet just a couple of months ago?”
“June last year,” he replies, trying to convey the lifetime he’s lived between then and now.
Kate’s eyes get crafty. “So, the reporter in me has to ask, how far along is she?”
“Funny, I asked the same thing,” says Fetzer.
Nelson massages his knees. “Nobody’s pregnant,” he says, affecting weariness. “Yet.”
Fetzer gives him a whack on the back. Jen sighs and signals for more coffee.
At least Jen made an effort to be nice at city hall. Smiled, somewhat, during the photos. Laughed, sort of, at Deirdre fussing over Fetzer using her camera. They asked a passerby to take a few, so Fetz could be in them. Dee’s developing them right now—can’t wait to see them.
Jen mutters a surly thanks to Mr. Nguyen as he pours more coffee.
If it wasn’t for Deirdre in his life, Nelson would be as depressed as Jen.
60: FETZER
I was wondering how we were going to go on. In my mind’s eye I saw Jen leaving, maybe joining the EFB. I saw Nelson leaving, getting a job. Not because he wanted to split, but if Dee had a kid, something was going to have to change, income-wise. It was going to take more than Franky’s generosity and the occasional speaking gig to make that work.
And without them I’d be set adrift in middle age. And maybe that’s exactly what I needed, I told myself, during moments of trying to look on the bright side.
But then things took a turn in mid-March. Part one of Kate Simms’ story was published. She called at seven a.m., excited and swollen-headed. Some friend of hers in New York had read it online, told her she was going to land a Pulitzer if she wasn’t careful. It knocked a small ding in my heart, but so what if we didn’t get credit. The truth was out. That’s what counts.
Kate had done a good job. We knew what was coming in part two, yet she wrote part one so well she left us wanting to find out. She called back and apologized for not saying thank you again. “This’ll get some attention,” she said, her smile sneaking through the phone. “It’ll be a blow to HLU, but a healthy one. Liberal institutions have to work extra hard to maintain their integrity these days.”
“So partisan of you, Kate.”
She giggled in an un-Kate-like way.
Part two came out the next day. Franky visited, and we took turns reading the story out loud. We high-fived, made potato pancakes, and Franky toasted his “natural” pop tarts. By the time we left for the peace rally, the house was filled with the smell of hot grease and strong coffee, and we were full and wired and united in a camaraderie I hadn’t felt for weeks.
And together we joined our comrades, our friends, our brothers and sisters on the waterfront. Wispy new blossoms dotted the cherry trees and the sun eased out now and again. There were speakers and music, drums and giant puppets. The grim reaper rode around on a bicycle. Deirdre, with an excitement I attributed to being newly married, shot rolls and rolls of film.
We bumped into a girl we knew from the radio station, and she waved in the direction of the stage.
“You should say something,” she said to Nelson. “C’mon.” She snatched his hand and pulled him through the crowd, and we followed. She was mixed race, I’d guess Asian and Hispanic, and as we trotted along I thought, you’re the future, young woman. Guys like me, time’s coming when we step aside because you’re the energy and the hope and you grew up with your feet in enough different worlds that it doesn’t occur to you there’s any barriers till some idiot reminds you he still believes in them.
“Look what I found,” she said when we reached the stage, and there was Isobel like the last time, with her long gray cornrow braids and her clipboard, smiling like we’d made her day. She put an arm around Nelson’s shoulder, and said, “Perfect. Can you say something for five minutes after Code Pink?”
And Nelson said, “Sure,” as easy as if she’d asked him to mow her lawn.
The Code Pink lady looked more like a grandma than any grandma I’ve ever met. She had on a bright pink floppy hat and a bright pink jacket. She made the crowd laugh, and in the middle of that swell Nelson climbed the stage.
“This war will distract us,” he said into the microphone, “from a far greater threat than the Iraqi regime. The greatest threat we face is global warming. Not terrorism. Global warming. The threat level is second only to all-out nuclear war. Right now, there are a thousand Pearl Harbors going on in the environment. We need to respond. And not just to the ones that tug our heartstrings, like pandas and dolphins. We need to respond to all of them, because ever
ything is connected. And the response needs to be massive. Focused. Unambiguous. We need a mobilization.”
The crowd loved it. He spelled out names of representatives to call and fax. Companies and institutions profiting from war contracts, and how to boycott their affiliates and subsidiaries. And people were writing it on their hands, on the margins of leaflets, on their signs.
As Nelson wrapped up, Jen jogged to the microphone. “All that info is on our website. Omniamundi.org. And check out the show, last Saturday of every month on your local community radio station. Next show’s in two weeks. Third hour’s all call-in.” She pointed a finger at the crowd. “I expect to hear from all of you then.” The crowd laughed. Jen stepped back with an electroshocked look on her face. Radio people aren’t used to that kind of feedback.
Smiling faces were everywhere. I put one arm around Dee and the other around Franky. Nelson was going to be fine. And Jen was going to be fine, too. We’d get through just fine, I thought, and I was so damn proud of them my eyes were wet.
After that we all climbed the walkway to the Morrison Bridge. Nelson got handshakes and high fives all the way up the stairs, and at the top people made room for us at the railing. We looked out at the mass of humanity stretching along Waterfront Park into the distance.
I said, “Vietnam was going three years before the protests started. And look at this!” All those colored raincoats. All those fleeces. All those bicycles. All those bobbing signs, all those funny hats, the papier-mâché masks, the kids in black with bandannas over their faces. So many people that in the distance they blended together.
The organizers said 45,000—more than January’s, even. The TV stations, 30,000. The Oregon Herald, 14,000. Our disgust at the Herald was complicated by our grudging appreciation of them letting Kate do the story.
But Kate never won a Pulitzer, or anything close. HLU's President Wellesley did resign a few days later, but by then the invasion of Iraq had begun, and the media was wall-to-wall war coverage. Kate Simms’ exposé was probably the most ignored local scoop in the history of the Herald.
61: JEN
“You seriously counting?” says Fetzer. He glares at the grid I’m drawing on the Herald’s aerial photo of yesterday’s crowd.
“Gotta prove the fuckers wrong,” I say.
The door opens downstairs—must be Franky.
“Ask them for a better version of the photo,” says Nelson.
“No kidding,” I say. “One that hasn’t been cropped.”
Fetzer snaps his paper open. “They had to eliminate the other 29,000 people somehow.”
“What the—” says Nelson, and he pulls his own paper closer. “Oh my god, we met this woman.” He holds up the article for me to see. “Rachel Corrie? She was part of that workshop at Evergreen.”
Franky comes in, drops the mail on the table. “Hi, guys.” Deirdre says hi and shuffles her chair over to make room for him.
“Yeah, I remember her,” I say. Had a crush on her for months afterward. “What happened?”
Fetzer snatches Nelson’s paper and scans. “Oh, this is horrible.”
And the first thing in my head is, They cut out her tongue?
“What the fuck happened?” I say, but Fetzer won’t let me have the paper.
Nelson puts his elbows on the table, props his forehead against the tips of his fingers. “She was crushed to death.”
The sweat on me’s cold.
“By an Israeli army bulldozer. While trying to save a Palestinian doctor’s house from being demolished.”
Deirdre crosses herself and looks down at her toast.
“Wow. That’s terrible,” says Franky.
Fetzer drops the paper on top of his plate. “It’s fucking tragic. I remember her at that workshop. She really stood out. Completely devoted.”
The aerial photo is a mass of spots of color. It’s pointless, really, counting all those tiny blurry heads. Even if I find more than 14,000, what good is it going to do?
Nelson murmurs, “No one gives a rip about ideals in a war zone.”
When I look at Dee, she’s staring right into my eyes. Her fingers touch mine under the table, then circle around and gently squeeze. Her hand is hot, like she’s burning up. Like when she took my hand that day in that church. She’s going to say, “Pray with me.”
“Sorry you lost a friend,” she says.
It’s too hard to look at her, so I look at Fetzer. But Fetzer is frozen, staring out the window. I follow his gaze. Outside, the nose of a blue pickup inches into view, so slow it’s quiet on the gravel.
The sweat on me’s hot. “Who’s that?”
Nelson looks up. “Huh?”
Fetzer keeps his eyes on the window. Real calm he says, “Everybody. Get down,” then he’s off his chair before I can blink.
Fetzer crouches, gestures like he’s swimming with one arm. “Get down get down get down. Shut up. No noise. Follow me.”
My chair jerks, snaps against the table. My hip hits the floor. Nelse and Dee on the floor with me. Nelse is pulling at Dee but she’s holding onto a table leg like water’s rising. Franky scoops her along. The table shudders across the floor. “Shhhh,” says Fetzer. He’s reached the top of the basement stairs. There’s a thump on the porch, then another one. Two guys. Jumping the missing porch steps. The floor is hard on my knees. Franky’s hand is over Dee’s mouth. Her eyes like drowning. Someone’s pushing my leg. My legs are being so fucking stupid. Okay we’re all here. Out of sight. Oh fuck, they shot the door! Nelson grabs me, his eyes like drowning. Another shot, no, they’re just whaling on it. Fetzer’s pulling at us. “Outside,” he whispers. Gotta get down the basement stairs first. He whispers, “When they’re inside, we’ll be outside.” Another wham. The windows rattle. Franky picks Dee up and walks down. Another wham. My legs won’t work. The handrail. Fetzer’s yanking on me. The handrail, yeah. Handrail, holding me up. Another wham. They’re cursing. Door’s nailed shut, fuckwads. Franky’s at the bottom. Basement door’s open. Dee’s there. Nelson, too. Oh god. Outside air’s like a wet slap. Fetzer’s gone. No, he’s on the path. Scouting. Our fearless leader. Will my fucking legs ever stop fucking shaking? Glass smashes. Thumping overhead. They’re inside. They’re running up to the top floor.
Oh god. The Crusher.
“Forget it!” hisses Nelson and he yanks me back, hauls me outside. Everyone’s crouching on the path. Franky whispers, “My car’s back that-a-way. Hard to see from the house,” and Fetzer’s already in the lead. We’re crawling through puddles. A huge crash from inside the house and his hand goes up. I never noticed this moss on the path before. It’s the greenest thing I have ever seen. We’re crawling through the wet weeds. Avoid the gravel. Franky’s car is like a whale from down here. He scoots around the front, opens the driver door super slow. Climbs in. Unlocks from the inside, and Dee crawls into the back. Another huge crash from inside the house. A laptop comes flying out of Nelson’s window, and glass rains onto the street.
A face appears at the window.
“Get in get in get in!” yells Fetzer, and we’re in and the car’s roaring and we lurch through Franky’s U-turn. I’m lying half on Nelson. Tossed around the corner. Dee’s arm under me. The tires are squealing. We’re on Division already. Telephone poles are rushing by. Franky runs a red, weaves around a honking bus, barrels up to Sixteenth, then swerves us left into Ladd’s Addition.
“Good move,” says Fetzer. He’s facing backward, unblinking. On a map Ladd’s looks logical, but the diagonal grid with those identical rose gardens is enough to throw anyone off.
“Pull into an alley,” says Fetzer. “We need to think.”
Franky squeals us around a roseless rose garden, veers off on another diagonal. Already I’m lost. He slows, opens his phone, presses three keys, puts the phone to his ear.
I say, “No fucking way you’re calling the cops.”
Franky pulls into an alley, cuts the engine. “Hi, yeah, I’m reporting a home invasion.”
> Everything is unraveling.
Yet it’s so quiet. On one side of us is a row of trashcans, on the other an overgrown laurel. Fetzer’s face looks like someone took out all the pins holding it up. He reaches over to the back seat, touches Deirdre’s hair. “You okay?”
“Aye,” she says.
“Southeast Novi between Eleventh and Twelfth,” says Franky. “Two men attacked my friends’ house. They’re inside smashing it up right now.”
“You okay?” Fetzer says to Nelson, and Nelson nods.
Fetzer looks at me. His face a suffer-the-little-children face. “You okay?”
“Five people,” says Franky. “No, no injuries.”
My hands are shaking. Taste of blood in my mouth. Mud on my palms. Holes in the knees of my jeans, and not in a good way. “No injuries,” I say.
Fetzer touches my arm, then he faces forward. When Franky’s done with the dispatcher, he closes the phone. “We should go back.”
“No way,” I say.
“How about just me?” says Franky. “You guys can wait at the diner.”
“We’re all going,” says Fetz. “It’s our fucking house.”
I say, “What if they’re still there?”
We sit in silence. In the distance, sirens. A tabby cat tiptoes from behind a fence, sees the car, stops in mid-tiptoe. Stares at us. We sit totally still. “Don’t frighten it,” murmurs Franky.
I don’t ever want to frighten a living thing ever again for the rest of my life.
The cat decides we’re okay and moves off. Franky turns the key. The laurel scrapes the car as he backs out of the alley.
On Division everyone’s just driving along like it’s all normal. We approach the diner. Turn the corner into Thirteenth. A cop car overtakes us and swings into Novi. Franky follows. There’s a fire truck there already. Guys in uniforms. Smoke is coming out Nelson’s window. Lights flashing like an epileptic Christmas fit. The fire truck is crazy red against the dust colored house, the gray street, the gray smoke, the gray sky. Not pretty. Just wrong.