by Irene Hannon
Still, she was curious. David didn’t strike her as the kind of man who did things without a great deal of thought. Nor without good reason. Whatever the purpose of his call, she assumed it was important.
Shifting the phone on her ear, she laid down her pen and rotated her chair so that her back was toward the newsroom. “Go ahead and put it through, Mary. Thanks.”
A second later, David’s voice came over the line. “Caroline?”
“Yes, hi. I didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon.”
“I didn’t expect to be calling. But we had a discussion earlier this week at the Uplink board meeting about the need for publicity, and I offered to contact you to see if the Chronicle might be interested in running a piece about the organization.”
So this was a business call. She hadn’t expected that, either. But it was much easier to deal with. The knot of tension in her stomach eased.
In journalist mode, she swiveled her chair back toward her desk, reached for a pen and drew a pad of paper toward her. “We’re always looking for good story leads. But I have to confess that I’m not familiar with Uplink.”
“That’s the problem. Not enough people are. And that hampers our ability to fully realize our mission.”
“Which is?”
“We target gifted high school juniors in difficult environments and match them with mentors in participating businesses for summer internships to provide them with a taste of a real-world work environment. We hope the experience gives them not only a stimulating summer job, but an incentive to continue with their education. Then we follow up with ongoing support groups to ensure that we don’t lose them after their internships.”
“You mentioned some of this last week. Sounds worthwhile.”
“We think so. But the organization is only three years old—still a fledgling. There’s a lot more we could do if this really takes off. For that to happen, though, we need to heighten awareness.”
“What sort of article did you have in mind?”
“I’m not sure. One of the board members, Rachel Harris, handles publicity and communication. She can follow up with more information if you’re interested in pursuing this. My role was just to get a foot in the door.”
“All right.” Caroline jotted the woman’s name down, then laid the pen aside. “Have her give me a call. If we can find a good angle, it might make an interesting article.”
“That would be great. We’d appreciate it.”
“Like I said, we’re always looking for good stories. But I have to admit I’m curious about how you became connected with the group. This seems far removed from your previous job.”
The momentary silence on the other end of the line told her he was surprised by the question. And so was she. She hadn’t planned to introduce anything personal to their conversation. The comment had just popped out.
Despite his initial reaction, however, David’s tone was conversational when he responded. “It is. I’d been doing a lot of soul-searching for the past few years, and I began to feel a need to do something with my life that had more purpose than just making a lot of money.”
A melancholy smile whispered at the corners of her mouth. “Michael used to say almost exactly the same thing.”
Her comment startled him. No one had ever compared him to his brother before. It made him feel good, and odd at the same time. “I guess that’s true,” he acknowledged. “But my impetus was different. It grew out of long conversations with God.”
“You’re right. Michael was driven by a deep sense of ethics versus faith, and by a desire to help improve the human race.”
“I guess our goal was the same, then. Just not the motivation.”
“Well...I wish you luck with the job. It sounds like good work. I’ll be expecting Rachel’s call.”
“Great. We appreciate anything you can do. Take care.”
The line went dead, and Caroline put the phone back in its holder. She still wasn’t sure why she’d asked about his new job. It had moved them out of a safe topic and into touchy personal territory. Maybe it had just been her professional curiosity kicking in. Since asking questions was part of her job, it made sense that she would delve a little deeper with David. Didn’t it?
The answer came to her in a flash. No. If she’d wanted to avoid personal discussion, if she’d wanted to get off the phone as fast as possible, she’d have ended the conversation instead of detouring to a more personal line of questioning.
Okay, so much for her first theory. She tried another one on for size. Maybe contact with David made her feel, in some way, connected with Michael. As if, through David, Michael was still somehow part of her life in a tangible way. She and David were the only ones who had really known, and loved, the man she’d planned to marry. Her mother was a great sounding board, and she’d listened with infinite patience when Caroline had reached the stage of grief where she could talk about her fiancé, and share some of her memories. But her mother had no firsthand knowledge of him beyond that brief Christmas visit to both families.
David, on the other hand, had years’ worth of memories of Michael. Ones that Caroline didn’t have. His bond to the prize-winning photojournalist was as strong as hers, in a different way. Maybe, on some subconscious level, she wanted to tap into them. To supplement her own memories of the man she’d loved, who had talked of his past only on rare occasions. And maybe she also wanted to shore up her memories. In recent months it had grown harder for her to picture Michael’s face without the aid of a photograph. She’d already begun to forget the unique sound of his voice. Along with the feel of his touch. She didn’t want to let go of Michael, but he was slipping away, bit by bit. And that frightened her. Perhaps her reaching out to David today had been driven by fear, and by a desire to connect with the one man who had the best chance of keeping Michael alive for her.
Yes, no doubt that was it.
Satisfied, Caroline reached for her red pen and pulled the copy back toward her. Only then did she realize that her jerky squiggle bore a striking resemblance to half of a heart. How appropriate, she reflected with a pang. Half a heart was exactly what she felt like she had. The rest had died along with the man she loved.
And there was nothing David Sloan could do to fix that.
* * *
“Here’s some information on Uplink. And I asked Mitch about it, too.” Tess Jackson laid the material on Caroline’s desk, taking the seat the managing editor waved her into.
“Did he know anything?”
“Not a lot. It’s targeted more toward inner-city schools. But he made a few calls, and in general heard glowing reports from his colleagues. He thought it would be a very worthwhile feature. I do, too, from a journalistic perspective.”
After a quick scan of the material, Caroline leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. She respected Mitch Jackson, a former cop whose innovative work as a hands-on high school principal had drawn state-wide notice. His personal interventions had steered dozens of wayward students back to the right path. She also respected his wife’s assessment of the story potential. That was why Tess had been promoted in two short years to assistant editor.
“Okay. What kind of angle do you propose?”
“Human interest. I think we should include some history of Uplink, but focus on a couple of the students who’ve been through the program and talk about what a difference it made in their lives. We’d want to include interviews with the businesses that were involved, the students and the executive director, as well as the chairman of the board.”
“Sounds good. Who should we assign?”
“As a matter of fact, I’d like to take this one. I think I have a good feel for the subject, given Mitch’s work at the high school. Unless you want to do it. After that story you did on gangs last year, you’ve got an understanding of the problems out
there, and the need for intervention. Besides, it should be a meaty piece, and you like to tackle those.”
Caroline had already thought this through. And had come to the conclusion that whatever her motives in yesterday’s conversation with David, it wasn’t wise to prolong contact with him. In addition to the painful memories that were rekindled, there were too many unresolved questions that she didn’t want to dredge up. Like, why had David insisted on putting his mother in an extended-care facility so soon after their visit, breaking a promise both brothers had made to her years before? She’d overheard the two men discussing it one evening, in subdued tones near the Christmas tree, and while she hadn’t been able to make out the words—nor had she tried to—the frustration in both voices had been unmistakable.
In the end, she’d sided with Michael. Martha Sloan might have been a bit vague, but Caroline hadn’t seen any evidence of advanced Alzheimer’s during their visit. Certainly not enough to warrant institutionalization. David had agreed to hold off, but then had called Michael a month later to tell him that he was going to move her into a nursing facility anyway. Michael had asked him to wait until they could discuss it in person, when he and Caroline returned later in the year for their wedding, but David had refused. The brothers hadn’t talked again until the night before Michael died, when David had called to tell him that their mother had suffered a mild heart attack.
It was odd, really. Back then, David hadn’t struck her as uncaring or cavalier. Or as a man who broke his promises. He still didn’t. She found it hard to think of him as someone who would disregard the wishes of a person he loved. Yet the facts all pointed to that. And it wasn’t something she respected. Nor wanted to discuss. But if they continued to have contact, it would no doubt come up, since it had been such a point of contention between the brothers. As a result, it was best if she let someone else handle the story.
“No. You do it, Tess. I’ll refer Rachel Harris to you when she calls.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay. I’ll dive in as soon as we hear from Rachel. Any special timing on this?”
From what David had said, the group wanted to raise its profile as soon as possible. Of course, that couldn’t be a factor in her decision. She had to do what was best for the paper and for the readers. Still, there was a piece about home schooling scheduled for two editions down the road that was pretty timeless. She checked the run list.
“If we bump the home-school piece a week, we could use this March twenty-seventh. Do you think you can have it ready by then?”
“Assuming the Uplink people get back to us right away, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Tess assured her.
“Okay. Let’s shoot for that. But that deadline isn’t written in stone. We can shift it later if necessary.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“No. That should do it. Let me know if you run into any snags.” Caroline turned back toward her computer.
“Will do. How’s the budget coming?”
Grimacing, Caroline shook her head, her focus still on the screen in front of her. “I didn’t go into journalism to crunch numbers,” she grumbled.
“Somebody has to do it. And better you than me.”
With a mirthless grin, Caroline waved her out. “Thanks for the sympathy.”
“At least the budget will distract you from the nasty letters we’ve been getting about that story we ran on the group home for juvenile offenders,” Tess offered as she exited.
“Good point.” Though the article had been straightforward and objective, neighbors of the home had chosen to view it as an endorsement. They hadn’t appreciated that, and had been very vocal in their disapproval of the paper’s perceived position.
If the budget work distracted her from that can of worms, maybe there was a plus to it, Caroline conceded. And she’d be even more grateful if it distracted her from David. She didn’t want to think about him anymore. Despite his calm, in-control demeanor, his presence in her life had been disruptive. For reasons that eluded her, she couldn’t seem to quash thoughts of him. Maybe crunching numbers would do the trick. That would require her absolute and total concentration.
And for some reason, she had a feeling it would take something that attention-demanding to keep thoughts of David at bay.
Chapter Three
As he was being introduced, David surveyed the students in the high school auditorium from his seat on the stage. Most looked bored and made no pretense of listening to Principal Charles Elliot’s comments. Others were scribbling in notebooks or staring into space. Out of the hundred or hundred-and-fifty juniors, David estimated that maybe ten percent were interested. It was about the same percentage he’d run into in many of the inner-city schools. But if this presentation went as well as previous ones, he expected that percentage would double or even triple. He couldn’t ask for more than that. Besides, they only had places for twenty-five students in the program this summer, anyway.
When the principal turned to him, David sent an encouraging glance to the two former Uplink students seated beside him, then rose and moved forward. He shook the man’s hand, pulled the microphone from its stand and came out from behind the podium. His stance was casual, his tone conversational, his attitude approachable.
“Good afternoon. As Mr. Elliot said, I’m David Sloan, the executive director of Uplink. With me today are two students who’ve participated in our program. For the next forty-five minutes, we’d like to talk with you about an opportunity that could change your life forever.”
With passion, conviction and enthusiasm, David explained the principles behind Uplink and spoke of the successes already documented by the program. The testimonials from the two students, who were now attending college on scholarships, were also powerful, making it clear that for committed students, Uplink opened doors to a future that would otherwise have been inaccessible. Neither they nor David made it sound easy, because it wasn’t. It took talent and dedication to get in, and the rigorous screening and ongoing evaluation process intimidated a lot of kids. Participation required guts and focus and lots of hard work. But for those who persevered, the rewards were great.
By the time they finished, David figured that a good twenty-five percent of the students in the audience had been captivated enough to at least pay attention. Not bad. If five or six ended up applying, he’d consider it a good day’s work.
They stayed around after the presentation ended in case any of the students wanted to speak with them one-on-one, but it didn’t surprise David when only a couple came forward. In North St. Louis, where drugs and gangs were rampant and academics wasn’t always valued or supported at home, few students would publicly acknowledge an interest in a program like Uplink. Those who decided to apply would follow up without fanfare, in confidence. David understood that and didn’t push. That first step took courage, and he considered it a good barometer of genuine interest.
As he thanked the two students who had accompanied him, David turned to find Charles Elliot approaching. The man took David’s hand in a firm grip.
“I appreciate your coming today. I expect you’ll hear from a few of the students.”
“I hope so. I understand that we’ve had a couple of students from here in the program every year since its inception.”
“That’s right. I’m a great believer in Uplink, and I talk it up whenever I get the chance. Can I walk you out?”
“Thanks.”
David reached for his leather jacket, which he’d slung over the back of his folding chair, and slid his arms into the sleeves as they headed toward the exit. The assembly had marked the end of the school day for the juniors, and they’d cleared out with a speed that rivaled a race car in the home stretch. The rest of the students had been dismissed ten or fifteen minutes earlier. The two men’s footsteps echoed hollowly as the
y walked down the long, deserted corridor toward the exit.
A classroom door opened as they passed, and a woman in a paint-spattered smock, her short black hair a mass of tight curls, spoke when she caught sight of them.
“Oh, Charles...I’m glad I caught you. Do you have a second to sign that exhibit application?”
“Of course.” He turned back to David in apology. “I’ll be right with you. Sylvia is the art teacher, and she’s trying to get some of our students’ work included in a traveling exhibition sponsored by a national company.”
“Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
While he waited, David examined some of the artwork that hung in the hallway near the classroom door. A variety of mediums was represented, and many of the pieces were impressive. He stopped to examine a striking abstract watercolor, then moved on to a pen-and-ink sketch of a mother and child, caught by their poignant expressions of disillusionment. But it was the next series of three black-and-white photographs that mesmerized him.
The first was a portrait of an older woman wearing wire-rimmed glasses, her close-cropped black hair peppered with gray. She sat in front of a window, a bit off center, at a chipped, Formica table, one side of her face in sharp relief, the other shadowed. One work-worn hand rested on the Bible in her lap, the other lay beside a daffodil on the scratched surface of the table. Behind her, the paint on the walls was chipped, the windowsill scarred. Part of a calendar was visible, and the photograph of the month featured a quiet, peaceful country lane bordered by apple trees laden with blossoms. The photographer had titled the photo “Beauty.”
The next photo was just as powerful. Two small children in mismatched clothes sat on a concrete stoop. The low angle of the shot drew the eye upward, past the broken windows of a dingy tenement to the open expanse of sky above. The children’s raised faces were illuminated with an almost transcendent light as they gazed at the clouds drifting overhead. It bore the title “Imagine.”