Adam Canfield of the Slash

by Michael Winerip

  Phoebe was speechless. Was this the same Eddie? She had been so sure she could deliver him for her coeditors. How did things go wrong so fast?

  She couldn’t think. Was there some way that a reporter persuades people to talk, even when talking will get them into trouble?

  She was sure that real grown-up reporters must have special techniques — maybe secret words — for getting people to spill their guts. But nothing came to her. Worse yet, she wasn’t sure she wanted to change Eddie’s mind. She couldn’t bear to hurt Eddie. He was so angry at her now. She wanted the old Eddie back.

  Recess was almost over. On the other side of the playground, kids were lining up to file back into the building. They looked so happy. Phoebe couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be a reporter. It was the perfect job for a pit viper.

  Eddie didn’t say another word, and when he turned to dump a barrel of old planks into the Dumpster, Phoebe ran away as fast as her little legs would go.

  After school, she peeked through the windowpane in the door to 306. Jennifer and Adam were waiting for her. They were laughing about something. Probably one of their annoying middle-school inside jokes. Phoebe didn’t want to go in. How was she going to tell them that Eddie wouldn’t talk? Adam would start screaming again.

  She turned to walk away, but Jennifer spotted her, jumped up, and led her into the room.

  “So, Front-Page,” said Jennifer. “When do we see Eddie?”

  Phoebe said nothing, stared at the floor.

  “This afternoon?” said Adam. “We’ve really got a lot of stuff to tie together here.” Adam had been working on a list of questions.

  Phoebe still didn’t say anything.

  “He is going to talk to us?” asked Adam.

  Phoebe did not lift her head.

  “Whoa,” said Adam. “Eddie’s your guy, right? He’ll do whatever you ask, right? You two are as tight as ticks, right? Are you telling me —”

  “Stop it, Adam,” said Jennifer.

  “Two peas in a pod was my understanding,” said Adam. “Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”

  “Stop it, Adam,” repeated Jennifer.

  “Oh geez,” said Adam, finally noticing the tears rolling down Front-Page’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean — I’m sorry, Phoebe, I am, it’s just — we’re under so much pressure.”

  Jennifer pulled a tissue from her backpack and handed it to Phoebe.

  “I asked him,” Phoebe said finally, explaining how Eddie had turned her down because he feared Marris. “I felt terrible,” Phoebe said, “like I forgot to think about Eddie’s feelings. Like I’d betrayed a friend for some stupid story. Like I was just thinking of front-page glory.”

  Adam and Jennifer were quiet. They knew the feeling. Every good reporter does. Finally Jennifer said, “How about this. What if we talk to Eddie but don’t use his name?”

  They looked at each other. “That’s good,” said Adam.

  “Wait,” Phoebe said to Adam. “Weren’t you the one who gave me this big lecture on how we have to use names, how using real names holds us to a higher standard. You were the one who said I had to let the whole world know that the dental association’s biggest idiot was Phyllis Cooper — spelled C-O-O-P-E-R. Remember how we’re not supposed to worry about hurt feelings? Our job is to tell the truth, no matter what, blah, blah, blah.”

  Adam sneaked a peek at Jennifer. He didn’t know how to answer that. Phoebe really thought fast for third grade.

  “I see your point,” said Jennifer, “but this is different.”

  Dental society members, Jennifer said, had been looking for publicity. They had issued press releases, wanted to promote their cause and make themselves look like public heroes. They were fair game. “In this case,” she said, “we’re going to Eddie, he’s getting nothing out of this, and we could be putting him in real danger by using his name.”

  “You sure?” said Phoebe.

  Jennifer hesitated. “Pretty sure,” she said.

  “Pretty sure?” said Phoebe.

  “You know, Phoebe,” said Jennifer, “I might look like a big middle schooler who’s got all her ducks in order, but I’m going to let you in on something. I’m just doing my best here, trying to figure out this stuff as we go.”

  Adam tried to get Jennifer’s attention, but she was totally focused on Phoebe. Jennifer really wowed him sometimes. How did she know to say that stuff?

  Phoebe nodded. “OK,” she said. “It happens I agree.”

  “Good,” said Jennifer. “So we’ll try talking to Eddie just for background, no name, then maybe he can lead us to people who can have their names printed in the Slash. This is great — we have a plan.”

  But Phoebe was not finished. “What about your coeditor,” she said, refusing to even look in Adam’s direction. “Are you sure this is OK with your coeditor? Because way back at the first Slash meeting this year, when I said the stuff about Eddie was hush-hush, your coeditor screamed at me for being a Secret Agent Phoebe.”

  Both girls stared at Adam, who looked embarrassed.

  “You know, Phoebe,” he said softly. “I don’t like to admit this too much, but sometimes when I get worked up, I yell stuff — I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  He felt like an idiot, telling his deepest secrets to a third grader. But then he caught a glimpse of Jennifer smiling at him, and there was a small, sensational burst of joy in Adam’s chest.

  They took turns peeking out the Slash’s third-floor windows to see if the car was gone yet. While they were waiting, Adam figured he’d get his twenty minutes of practicing done now so he’d have one less thing to do at home; then he might actually have a shot at being in bed by 11:30. He pulled out his baritone and played “Sweet Betsy,” the Level II piece he was doing for the statewide music competition. If he scored high enough — at least twenty-six of twenty-eight points — he might make the honors band.

  Finally, a little before five o’clock, Jennifer spotted Marris leaving with Miss Esther. The principal had her arm under the old woman’s elbow and was guiding her down the front stairs. Miss Esther was so bent over, her chin nearly touched her knees. Jennifer felt sad watching them. She had to give Marris credit for keeping Miss Esther in a job. Jennifer felt uneasy. Were they being too harsh on Marris? Marris’s concern for Miss Esther was impressive, considering how totally useless the poor old bat was. What if Marris really was a decent human being?

  After gently helping Miss Esther into the passenger side, Mrs. Marris climbed behind the wheel, gunned the engine, and screeched off, leaving rubber. In seconds her red Porsche was gone.

  The boiler room was pleasantly warm on this chilly November afternoon. The heat from the ceiling pipes and the steady hum of the oil burner made it a cozy spot.

  But Eddie looked cold as ice, even after Phoebe explained that they had no intention of using his name. He gave them three milk crates to sit on but remained standing. “So this is off the cuff?” said Eddie.

  “You mean, off the record?” said Adam.

  “Listen, young man, I don’t know the fancy words, but I will tell you this, if Marris finds out I talked to you, I will lose my job. I have children in college I got to support. I got my wife’s mother on disability living with us. How many good-paying jobs you know for black folks my age with no education? What you are up to is no game. You are talking about this lady stealing the public’s money. People go to jail for that.”

  Adam and Jennifer knew this but had never said it out loud, even to each other. It sounded scary coming from someone else, dangerous. Once again, it occurred to them that they were out of their minds.

  “What makes you think you can even get this in your paper?” Eddie continued. “You think Marris will let you print her death notice? Suppose I tell you what I know and she don’t let you print it? What do you think will happen to me? Do you know how she lit into me after Phoebe here’s story? She wanted to know why I’m telling that little brat — no offense, Phoebe, her words, not mine —
about the work I done in the Bunker. She says to me, ‘Eddie you know, even a fish wouldn’t get caught if it kept its mouth shut.’”

  “If this comes to my word against Marris, who you think people will believe?” said Eddie. “Not the man in the boiler room, that’s who.”

  Jennifer wasn’t so sure. With Eddie the Janitor Appreciation Night fast approaching, all kinds of people would soon be making speeches about how great he was — even Marris, with a little luck. And Phoebe would be right there taking down all those terrific quotes about Eddie. That would make him look like a mighty strong source when the story about Miss Bloch’s gift came out.

  The problem was, of course, they couldn’t tell Eddie. It would ruin the surprise party.

  “Mr. James,” said Jennifer. “Suppose you tell us what you know. Then at the end, we’ll go back and see if there might be some information we could use and no one would know it was from you.”

  “There won’t be,” said Eddie.

  “If there isn’t,” said Jennifer, “that’s that. It is one hundred percent your call.”

  As Adam went through his questions, he realized there was so much they knew that Eddie didn’t. Eddie didn’t know the gift was supposed to be for kids; he didn’t know the amount of the gift; he didn’t know anything about Miss Bloch except her name. It made Adam realize — he and Jennifer really had found out a lot on their own. They were the only ones to take the time to fit together all the pieces to this puzzle.

  The reporters asked if Eddie had any idea how much the work had cost so far.

  “Nope,” said Eddie. “But I could add it up. I got all the work-order slips.”

  Work-order slips? The reporters looked confused.

  “Any time I do a special project that costs more than two thousand dollars, they have to give me a special work-order slip. That’s strict board of education rules. Written in the law. On this one, I got special order slips for all the new plumbing, the wood cabinets, the electronic equipment.”

  “You keep those slips, Eddie?” asked Adam.

  “You know I do,” he said. “I got a copy of every special order slip since I come on this job twenty-seven years ago. Man’s got to protect himself when swimming in shark-infested waters.”

  Jennifer thought of a little trick she’d learned from listening to a Sunday news show on National Public Radio. “Mr. James,” she said, “I realize you don’t know how much all this cost, but would you guess it’s more than five thousand dollars? Just guess. We’re not quoting you on it.”

  “Honey, you won’t be quoting me on any of this.”

  “Right, right,” said Jennifer.

  “Way more than five thousand,” said Eddie.

  “More than twenty-five thousand?” asked Jennifer.

  “Oh yeah,” said Eddie. “I’d say so far we’re in the fifties, and we ain’t done. I just put in a new order for twenty-five security cameras.”

  “‘In the fifties’ — you mean more than fifty thousand dollars?” asked Adam.

  “Absolutely,” said Eddie. “Those gold faucets, gold shower heads, gold door handles — they add up mighty fast.”

  They wanted to know what those special order slips said. Did they mention the gold plumbing?

  “Marris is no fool,” said Eddie. “She writes it in fancy words that don’t say nothing.” And here Eddie did his imitation — which was actually quite good — of a snob saying, “Plumbing expenditures, Harris construction project, phase one.”

  All three reporters laughed so hard, they nearly fell off their milk crates. “I didn’t know you did imitations of rich ladies,” said Phoebe.

  “Lots you don’t know about me, Phoebe,” said Eddie.

  Phoebe looked hurt.

  “And there’s lots you found out for your write-up,” said Eddie. “Now, don’t get broody.”

  Adam wanted to ask for copies of those special order slips, but he didn’t know how to without getting Eddie so worked up that the three of them would get kicked out of there.

  Fortunately, Jennifer was way ahead of him.

  She asked Eddie how many people receive copies of those slips, which started him figuring. There was Marris and the office secretaries; there were the school district’s business managers, plus their assistants; there was the district’s chief custodian and his assistants.

  Eddie guessed fifteen people altogether might have copies of those special order slips.

  “So if you gave us copies of those slips, no one would know it came from you,” said Jennifer, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “There might be fifteen different people who could have given them to us.”

  Eddie thought about that a long while. Then he nodded. “OK,” he said. “I get what you’re saying. I just hope you get how much I’m trusting you. When you write your story, every time you type a word, you think about how much harm you could cause me if you pick the wrong word.”

  Adam glanced at his notes. One more big question. There was a rhythm to this kind of reporting, and he’d saved the hardest question for last.

  “Did you ever hear Marris actually say that it was the gift to the school that paid for the Bunker work?” asked Adam.

  “Oh yeah,” said Eddie. “Bunch of times. You got to remember, I’m down there a lot working.”

  That was it — they had Marris.

  “Don’t even consider it,” said Eddie. “Even without my name, she’d think of me right away. You can’t be saying, ‘Sources told the Slash this or that.’ She’ll see right through that ‘sources’ baloney. She’ll know right away it’s Eddie Roosevelt James.”

  Adam tried to look calm, but he was frantic. They needed that fact. It was the glue that held everything together. Money that was supposed to go to kids was paying for gold plumbing in the principal’s bathroom.

  How were they going to write their story without that information? Could they write the story without it? Eddie didn’t want it in, even without his name.

  And then Jennifer spoke. “Eddie,” she said, “you ever hear Marris say to anyone else that she was using gift money for the Bunker?”

  “Oh sure,” said Eddie. Adam sat ramrod straight on his crate, his pen ready. Jennifer to the rescue.

  Eddie named Miss Esther, Mrs. Rose, and the teacher who oversaw before-school/after-school voluntary/mandatory.

  Adam’s shoulders sagged. He didn’t even bother taking down the names. He felt like the roller coaster he was stuck on was once again barreling downhill, out of control, leaving his stomach up in his throat. None of those people did the reporters any good. Miss Esther and Mrs. Rose certainly weren’t going to tell the Slash anything bad about Marris. And while Adam didn’t know the teacher who ran before-school/after-school, he was sure she was a major Marris suck-up.

  “Anyone else?” asked Adam. “Anyone you can think of?”

  Eddie was quiet. “Yes,” he said, finally. “Mr. Brooks.”

  “The world history teacher?” asked Adam.

  Eddie nodded. “I was working on Marris’s bathroom one day, start of school year. I think she forgot I was in there. That Bunker is so big, it takes forever just to walk from one side to the other. And Mr. Brooks and Marris, they’re starting out, making nice chitchat. Something like he says, ‘Having some work done?’ And she says, ‘Yes, we’ve had a gift for the school.’ They yap about that a little, the importance of charity, yap, yap, yap. And the next thing I know, she is hollering at him at the top of her lungs about test scores. Really nasty stuff. Mean.”

  “Mr. Brooks doesn’t like Marris,” said Adam. “She ended World Domination.”

  “Mr. Brooks hates Marris,” said Eddie.

  “You know that?” asked Adam.

  “Mr. Brooks and I been walking-around buds for years,” said Eddie. “He’s good people. I don’t mind doing little extras for Mr. Brooks. He loves to teach. Loves children. You know he invited me to see that World game he played? He was so proud of it.”

  Room 306 had always been the place where Ad
am went when he needed to flop on a couch and joke away an afternoon, to stop everything he was doing and let the steam out of his head.

  No more.

  In the old days, when his only job was being a star reporter, he’d get his story done and somehow the rest of the paper came out. Now he, Adam, was Mr. Somehow; nothing seemed to get finished until he had worried it to death.

  He knew from his dreams that he was losing his grip. They were getting stranger and stranger, which was saying a lot. In his latest, he was running on a track again, leading the race as usual. He had never heard such cheering, and just as he was beginning to enjoy the applause, he noticed they weren’t yelling for him — they were laughing at him. He looked down and realized he’d forgotten his clothes; he was running stark naked — except where the fig leaf usually went, he’d been red-tagged.

  Boy, did he need to air out his head. Thankfully, there was still one place where the air was plentiful and life felt easy. The next afternoon, he skipped voluntary/mandatory. They were supposed to review chapter 43 in the state test guide: how to maximize your score when there’s only one minute left and you still have unanswered questions.

  He rode the early bus home. Some middle-school boys gave him a hard time, saying he couldn’t possibly be Adam Canfield if he was on the early bus, that the real Adam Canfield was still at school sucking up to Marris and her goons. They blocked his way to the back of the bus, where the big kids sat. Normally, Adam would have lunged past them to the rear bench seat, landing on kids’ laps and causing a rumble. Today he didn’t have the energy and just sat toward the front, where third and fourth graders kept sneaking curious looks at him.

  At home, alone, he dropped off his backpack and baritone, grabbed a green apple, then walked down the block, to the river. It was funny — he lived so close but could go weeks without visiting the river.