Embers

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "You're nuts, Emily," Stan said calmly.

  But Emily could see in his face that he was intrigued by the possibilities. "No, really, Stan. I mean, I do have certain ... intuitions. I'm very good at intuition. I've called my friend Cara several times at the exact moment when she's picked up the phone at the other end to call me --"

  "-- which probably means it's your friend Cara who is telepathic," Stan said dryly.

  "Whatever. But I've been reading up on this stuff. A lot of it is just plain old common sense and shrewdness --"

  "-- both of which you possess in abundance, I can see."

  There was a sneer in his voice, but it was a kindly sneer. Emily took hope from it and said, "So you think it might fly?"

  Stan looked at her for a long, withering moment. Then he said, "This conversation never happened," and walked out.

  Emily was left puzzling over his parting shot. Did he mean, "Lucky for you I'm not a snitch"? Or did he mean, "Don't tell me until it's over"? She threw herself into a battered Naugahyde lounge chair and remained there, deep in indecision, for some time. But the sound of voices in the hall got her moving again. Yes. There was a story there, dammit. And the taxpayers of Massachusetts had the right to know it.

  The security guard had to throw Emily out of the library that night; when she left her book-bag was full. For the rest of the week she crammed herself full of facts -- well, they were hardly facts -- on the paranormal, and learned all she could about Senator Alden. Jim Whitewood, the senator's aide, was due back in Boston on Monday. By Sunday afternoon Emily felt ready for him. She felt sure that she could seem as mystical and vague as the next guy. She'd be just fine, as long as he didn't ask her to bend a spoon or anything.

  The only thing bothering Emily was what always bothers women in new social situations: what to wear. How did a channel dress for a job interview? She'd seen one or two people who claimed to be mediums on talk shows, but they were men. She'd never seen a woman channel; all she had to go on were a couple of book jackets from the seventies in which the women mediums had posed for their autobiographies.

  So she did the best she could: she rummaged through her closet and came up with a Ralph Lauren skirt from his Peasant Period, and a frilly white blouse, and a large straw hat with turquoise flowers. The outfit flattered her dark eyes and hair; she was even tall enough to carry off the hat. She looked exciting; she looked exotic; she looked ready for lunch under a palm tree in Barbados, which is where she'd bought all the clothes in the first place.

  But the JFK Federal Office Building in downtown Boston?

  Emily turned slowly around in her full-length mirror, trying to gauge the effect she'd have on Jim Whitewood. One thing was sure: she'd stand out from the pack. She smiled. The crazy lady in the straw hat smiled back, her dark eyes dancing with mystery. For an instant Emily believed she really was a psychic.

  Whoa. Maybe I've been reading too much of this stuff. It was catching. In a kind of panic she snatched off her hat and threw it on her bed; she pulled off the blouse and skirt and tossed them in a heap on top of an old steamer trunk. After that she slipped into her softest cotton nightgown, made herself a cup of hot tea, and fished out the Financial Section of the Sunday New York Times. It was just the dose of reality she needed. In twenty minutes she was fast asleep.

  The next morning found Emily, hat in lap, sitting on the Boston "T" and bound for the senator's downtown offices. She tried hard to focus on the otherworldly, but it wasn't easy: everyone around her was dressed in three-piece business suits. She tried hard to be inconspicuous, but that wasn't easy, either. When the lawyer type next to her jumped up for his stop, he took off with her hat, which had got caught in the open zipper of his briefcase.

  If I believed in omens, I would not be comforted by this, she thought grimly, tucking the remaining flowers back into the hatband.

  Still, by the time she found herself face-to-face with the senator's secretary, she'd got back her sense of outrage and with it, her confidence. It seemed completely clear to her that both the senator and his aide were gullible at best and unfit for their jobs at worst.

  The secretary -- a nice, normal, middle-aged woman dressed sensibly in a linen suit -- was kind but firm. "Miss, ah, Bowditch, is it? I'm sorry, do you have an appointment with Mr. Whitewood?"

  This was the tricky part: getting in. "No, I don't," Emily replied candidly, "but I feel absolutely certain that he'll want to hear me." Emily gave the secretary a significant look.

  The secretary gave her a significant look back. "Can you tell me the nature of your visit?"

  "No-o-o, I'm afraid I can't," Emily answered meaningfully.

  "I see. Well, Mr. Whitewood hasn't come in yet. Perhaps if you take a seat ... I'll see what I can do. But I believe Mr. Whitewood is full up with meetings today."

  Emily moved away to the reception area. The secretary took down a black binder and began scanning the page. Emily was set to spend the whole day waiting if she had to; but she hoped that the secretary was finding a blank slot in the calendar before noon. After about twenty minutes Jim Whitewood came in; Emily recognized him instantly from the photo in Etheric. He was impeccably groomed, a little slick, maybe even opportunistic, she thought. He looked more Wall Street than Federal Office Building.

  She gave him a mysterious smile as he hurried past her into his office. The secretary followed. In less than a minute Emily was being ushered in, and it wasn't even nine o'clock.

  Whitewood introduced himself and offered Emily a seat. "I understand you have something to tell me?"

  "Well, not tell, exactly. It's more something I have to ... offer you."

  Whitewood gave her the briefest of glances, taking in the rounded curve of her shoulders; the cut of her bodice; the hat.

  "Really."

  Emily blushed deeply. "I mean, not offer, exactly. That was probably the wrong word." Ah, what the hell, she thought. In for a penny, in for a buck. She stood up, swept her hat from her head, and glided across the room, coming to rest near an enormous potted Schefflera. She was going to play this for all it was worth.

  She turned to face the senator's aide and said in a throaty voice, "I understand that you extend a welcome to those with ... extraordinary perceptions."

  "And you are such a person?" he asked noncommittally.

  "I am."

  "How do you know?"

  She lifted a shoulder. "How does one ever know? There are only so many events that can be attributed to coincidence, only so many dreams that turn out to be prophetic -- "

  "You're a channel, then?"

  "Yes." Ohboy. No turning back now.

  "Physical or mental?"

  "Physical. No, mental."

  "I see."

  "Thoughts ... words ... images. Feelings." Emily had twisted a flower loose from her hatband and was pulling at it absent-mindedly; a soft rain of turquoise petals began fluttering to the floor.

  "Full trance?"

  "Light."

  "I see."

  He spun his chair towards an impressive view of downtown Boston, then slowly spun it back again. "You've worked with a teacher?"

  "To be honest," she said, feeling her way carefully, "I was hoping you could recommend someone. Someone with experience in training channels, someone you knew and trusted --"

  "Please wait here, Miss Bowditch," the aide said suddenly.

  He left the office and Emily dropped into a pillowed settee. So far so good. It amazed her that absolutely anyone could come in off the street, ask to spend time with an aide to a United States senator, and then talk utter nonsense with him. What a waste of a national budget. Where had he gone off to, anyway? To consult his Ouija board?

  She looked around the beautifully appointed office. More tax dollars. Those were real oils, not prints, on the walls. That Sheraton desk was no reproduction. The carpet was richly woven, palest cream -- what must it cost to keep clean, for God's sake? The wing chairs opposite her -- Portuguese crewelwork, or she wasn't from New
England. It was all wonderfully understated, all shockingly priced.

  Her eyes widened. Oh, lord.

  From where she sat she could see a dozen giant turquoise flower petals -- fallen soldiers in her battle of wits with the senator's aide -- lying in a heap on the pale carpet. She jumped up, ran across the room, and was on her hands and knees plucking petals when Senator Arthur Lee Alden III walked in.

  Chapter 2

  "Whoops. Well! Senator!" Emily scrambled to her feet and extended her hand to him, but her hand was full of silk petals. She hurled them into her bag; half of them fell back to the floor. "I'm Emily Bowditch."

  He took her hand in a warm and easy grip. "Lee Alden; pleased to meet you," he said in an electric baritone. "Jim Whitewood tells me you're looking for some information; suppose you tell me about it."

  The senator. Himself. She'd never seen him up close before. On CNN and Local News, sure. In the papers and in the magazines, lots of times. It was quite well documented: Senator Alden was a heartthrob. Six-two, blue eyes, square jaw, thick hair, great bloodline, lots of money -- a man made for the media. But the media came nowhere near capturing his sheer, knock-down presence.

  "You have a fabulous aura, Senator," Emily blurted, much to her own astonishment.

  The senator grinned. "Is that a professional evaluation? Jim says you have psychic ability. Please. Have a seat."

  He dropped into one of the wing chairs; Emily sat in the other.

  "I'd like to find out whether I have it or not," she murmured, but her voice suddenly lacked conviction. It was one thing to take on a con-man that she felt instinctively superior to; it was another thing altogether to take on a demigod. Her confidence was slipping fast.

  "You're not in Washington," she added with something like reproach.

  "No. There was a family emergency last night -- thank God, a false alarm. I'm only passing through the office this morning on my way back to the Senate. My time is a little short ...," he said, glancing first at his watch and then at her, expectantly.

  "Yes. I understand completely. Well, I won't keep you, Senator," she said, lifting from her chair like a dove in flight. Suddenly she wanted out.

  If he was surprised by her change of heart, he didn't show it, needless to say; politicians were a cool and collected lot.

  "Miss Bowditch, this power you claim to have --"

  He stood up, towering over her, and slid his hands into the pockets of his Brooks Brothers suit. "We're talking about the power of the press, are we not?"

  "Press?" she repeated in a very small voice, fastening her gaze on his wing-tipped shoes.

  "Press. As in Boston Journal."

  She winced. "You know?"

  "That you're an investigative reporter for the Journal? Yes. We know."

  She raised her dark eyes to meet his look. "How did you recognize my name? I haven't been with the paper long enough to rate a by-line."

  "My secretary looked you up in the Media Directory. You were behaving a little ... oddly. She guessed you might be from the press." His expression was bland but his eyes were dancing.

  That got her dander up. That, and the thought of the three of them having a good laugh over her. "I was behaving a little oddly? Has it occurred to you, Senator, that people who believe that other people can levitate, bend spoons, and talk to aliens through the fillings in their teeth -- that those people are the ones who are a wee bit odd?" She didn't bother hiding the contempt in her voice.

  The senator was rocking a little on his feet; she might have been a pesky lobbyist bending his ear. His expression was still bland, but the light in his eyes seemed to have gone out.

  "That, I take it, is the gist of the exposé you'd like to write about me?"

  "Do you deny that you wrote the NSF a letter urging that they spend more on interstellar communication and psychic research?" She whipped out her steno pad, ready to take down his "No comment."

  Instead he said quietly, "Do you really believe that a silver filling and the Arecibo Radiotelescope are on a par with one another?"

  "Yes or no, Senator. Did you send the letter?" she demanded crisply, Bic pen poised.

  "Oh, for --" He shook his head, exasperated, and said, "This Palmist getup and so-called search for a master to teach you -- is this all with your paper's sanction?"

  Her eyes were slightly lowered. "Yes."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Well they didn't tell me not to do it."

  "Ah." He glanced at his watch again and made an impatient sound. "Look, I've got a plane to catch. If you wanted to know how I feel about psi, why didn't you just ask me?" He waved his hand up and down over her clothes. "Why put yourself through all this embarrassment?"

  "I am not embarrassed," she said, embarrassed. "But I do know one thing: among all the cabinet members, congressmen, senators and ambassadors who fervently believe in psychic phenomena, only a handful have come out of the closet. And you're not one of them," she said, not quite truthfully.

  "I've never tried to hide my beliefs; they're a matter of public record."

  "Public record! Every once in a while you throw a bone to some obscure little magazine like Etheric, and that's supposed to update the voters. Why not come clean in the Journal, Senator? That's what real people read around here."

  What am I doing? she thought wildly. I'm standing here trading punches with a United States Senator! In her seven years as a reporter Emily had gone after landlords and lawyers, developers and diet centers -- but never had she taken on someone with so much power, so much prestige.

  "All right," the senator said after a moment.

  "Pardon me?"

  "I said, 'all right,' Miss Bowditch. You have your wish. See Mrs. Cusack and she'll set up a time. I'm afraid it can't be right away."

  "Pardon me?"

  He flashed her a sudden, good-natured grin -- and a heck of a vote-getter it was -- and said, "There's an old Chinese curse: 'May your most fervent wish come true'." Then he glanced at his Rolex again and said, "My car's waiting; I have to run. You have a good day, Miss Bowditch."

  He left Emily in a state bordering on shock.

  So. The way to land an exclusive interview with an important man on a controversial subject was to wear a dumb hat. A slow, wicked, utterly jubilant smile transformed her face.

  "I knew that."

  ****

  When Emily popped out of the senator's office, it was still only mid-morning; the day, which Emily had asked to take as a vacation day, was still very much her own. She was in a jump-for-joy mood and wanted to share it with someone, so she called her friend Cara.

  Cara Miles was the Pisces to her Virgo, a woman she'd met one summer in New Hampshire where Cara had retreated to do some painting -- "and/or," she'd said, "get in touch with my inner self." In every way they were cheerful opposites. Emily was a small-town girl from a big blue-collar family; Cara was a Boston-bred Only Child whose forebears apparently owned the Mayflower. Emily had worked nights and weekends to put herself through community college; Cara was a Vassar girl. Emily had scrimped and saved for years and only just managed to close on a one-bedroom condo in an iffy neighborhood of Boston; Cara owned -- free and clear -- a four-level townhouse in the Back Bay. Emily paid her taxes; Cara paid her accountant. Emily favored shirts and jeans. Cara draped herself in hand-printed silk. Emily trekked. Cara flowed.

  But they both loved New Hampshire, and to shop. Emily had taken Cara around to every antique shop in the Manchester area, and to a few attics that weren't in the Yellow Pages. Cara had reciprocated when Emily moved to Boston. To Emily the secret to their friendship was obvious: they'd never yet both desired the same antique. They came close once -- an oak pharmaceutical cabinet for seventy-four dollars -- but after a few minutes Emily gave up wanting it. She had no place to put it. And anyway, she didn't believe in bric-a-brac; what would she have kept in it?

  When Cara arrived at the small Spanish café tucked in one of the step-downs on Newbury Street, Emily was waiting fo
r her. She was still dressed like a frilly peasant gypsy, and Cara nearly passed her by.

  "Emily!" she said, doing a double take. "I love you in that. It's a whole new look."

  "-- but the same old me; don't get your hopes up," Emily said, laughing.

  "Well, you ought to give in to that side of yourself more often; you'd meet more men. So. What's the occasion?"

  "I was on a job assignment, and it turned out well. I'm celebrating," she said, holding up a glass of sangria. "Can you join me?"

  "Ooh, that could be dangerous -- antiquing under the influence." Cara slid into the chair opposite the tiny table and tossed back a mane of softly curled brown hair. "I don't dare buy anything more -- I've been sending things off to Sotheby's for auction as it is. I'm trying to clear space for a studio." She motioned for a waiter.

  "Cara! You've gone back to painting."

  "Mmmm, not painting. Painting didn't really express ... wasn't really the -- couldn't -- well, I've taken up sculpture. It's so much more, I don't know, essential as an art form."

  While she was ordering, Emily thought, Oh, yes. I can see why I wanted to be with her right now. She's another one of those types who forever struggle with the mystical essences of things.

  Not for the first time, Emily wondered why she herself did not. Life seemed to Emily a pretty straightforward affair. In general her mother was right: You were born, you worked, and then you died. If you were lucky you fell in love with a great guy and had a couple of kids. So far she hadn't been so lucky.

  Which brought her back to her original view: you were born, you worked, and then you died. It was very important to be kind and fair -- it was almost an obsession with Emily. But for the life of her, she could not understand why some people had to have a mystical experience every time they ate a cheese sandwich.