On the Same Page

by N. D. Galland

  “—and built a fortress in its place. Now it’s nearly a plantation. The landscaping alone takes a crew of ten.”

  “I wager they put more people to work than the bakery did,” he said peaceably, stirring raw sugar into his latte. He tapped the balsa wood stirrer on the rim of the compostable cup, then set it on the table. “That’s good for the local economy, right?”

  “They’re employing people but they’re not offering a service,” she said. “In a locale that needs services. The bakery was built decades before there were any zoning laws. It was grandfathered in—the way zoning works now, nobody else can start an eatery in that part of the town. That was it. It was the only place to get lunch in the whole area.”

  “Must have been a throng around midday then,” he said. “Traffic congestion must have been terrible. Did that contribute to the Island Way of Life?”

  “Concerns about traffic congestion seem to be a cornerstone of your life here,” she said. “Which I approve of, if that matters. Anyhow, yes, there was traffic, but there was also communing. People from many different backgrounds came together, ate together, sat together at the outside tables, and now that’s all gone, now it’s just rich people inside the house, their workers outside it, and everybody else can just go stuff it.”

  He winked at her. “I know the Brightons, who bought the property. They seem supernice. Anyhow, now that you’ve made your point about the horrible greedy wash-ashores destroying your childhood paradise, tell me about yourself. You’re an attractive woman in the prime of life, I’m sure you’re well-educated and capable, what are you doing living in this Podunk community in winter?”

  “I’m looking after a sick relative,” she said. “I’ll be heading back to New York soon.”

  His brows raised approvingly. “New York. My hometown.”

  “New York? You were wearing a Red Sox cap last night,” she said, eyes narrowed.

  “When in Rome,” he said. “Where’d you go to school? Or more important, since you’re such a sleuth, where’d you go to journalism school?”

  “I went to Boston University. And I majored in English, which explains my dazzling and intrepid journalism skills. English. You know, the degree for people who don’t know what to major in.”

  “I majored in English too,” he said. “Because I wanted to major in English. That’s the whole point of a college education: you read, and then you think and talk about what you’ve read.”

  “Spoken like somebody with a lifetime of privilege,” she said.

  “Excuse me, but didn’t we just establish that you’re an English major too? Anyhow, college isn’t a trade school. If you want a vocational education, go get it. Nobody’s forcing anyone to study liberal arts.”

  “There’s privilege talking again.”

  “You assume a lot about me. You don’t actually know how I wound up with a helicopter.”

  “Good point,” she said, and reached for the backpack. “Tell me.”

  “Don’t take out the laptop, this is off the record,” he said, suddenly firm. “This is a get-acquainted chat.”

  “I want to interview you,” she said. “That’s the whole point of not letting you pay for my coffee.”

  He shrugged. “If I say something you think is really germane or vital for you to do your job, jot down a note on your phone or something, but this is not a formal interview. If it were, I wouldn’t be meeting you in a public place, I’d want you to come to my office.”

  She lowered the backpack, determined to get herself invited to his office. “Okay,” she said, “I’m listening.”

  “My grandmother was a German Jew. She was on the kindertransport as a young child and her family was all killed in the camps. She married my Anglo-Indian grandfather, named her son—my dad—Christian and didn’t get him circumcised, and lived in terror of being found out as a Jewess for most of her life.” He was matter-of-fact, as one is when rattling off an overly familiar anecdote. Not rushed, but not impressed with his own story. “Christian married Marie, my mother, who was raised in a brutal Irish Catholic orphanage. My grandfather imported Indian goods to the UK and America, a very small enterprise, he had no business sense. My father expanded that to a shipping company, which wasn’t doing so hot until he made me partner. I’d gone to B-school on a scholarship and had a knack for it. The business took off under my direction. The helicopter was originally bought as a way to monitor a facility in Singapore.”

  “That’s fascinating,” she said.

  “Yes. It’s also completely fictional,” he said in a mordant tone. Then he winked. “Well, not completely. The bit about my grandmother is true, but she didn’t marry an Indian, she married a WASP from old money.”

  “That’s more believable, I guess,” she admitted, deflating a bit.

  “Also fictional,” he said. “Or maybe not. Do your research. If you’re interested. Verify. Identity is such a fluid concept in the twenty-first century, don’t you think?”

  For a moment she thought he was somehow calling her out for being both Anna and Joey. “Yes,” she said uncomfortably. “Yes.” Then, not wanting to linger on that, she asked, in a conspiratorial tone, “Have you actually filed the lawsuit?”

  He smiled, as if pleased she wanted the scoop, and leaned in closer to her across the table. Joanna leaned in too. He smelled good—autumn leaves and wood smoke, a hint of cardamom. She hadn’t noticed that in the library. He glanced around the empty bakery. “Off the record?”

  “Yes.”

  “Off the record, I don’t talk about it.” He laughed. If there had been a hint of malice in the laugh, she would have dismissed him as an ass, but this just made him cuter.

  “As I understand it,” she pressed, “you’re continuing to use the helicopter. Why not just keep that up? Let the town fine you or sue you if they’re serious about wanting you to stop. Or go to the Planning Board and ask them to change the bylaw.”

  “That would take forever and I don’t want the whole thing hanging over my head. Plus it will be an ongoing drain on my time and resources if they sue me. If I go on the offensive, I have some sense of agency about things. I call the shots.”

  “Ah.”

  “That’s off the record. Also, of course, I’d be happy if the selectmen decide not to fund the town’s defense, and then the town would crumble and I’d get what I’m looking for without actually going to court.”

  “You do know that never happens, right?” she said. “That was part of the point of last night’s forum. The selectmen always agree to fund a defense. Their vote on it next week is just a formality.”

  “Of course I know that,” he said, patiently. “I’m assuming it. The meeting last night, the upcoming selectmen’s meeting, those are just the necessary opening acts to my lawsuit. That’s not well said so it’s also off the record.”

  “This is going to be a crummy interview if it’s all off the record,” she said with a pout.

  “You wanted an interview. I wanted a coffee date. I win!” He gave her a delighted grin. “Thanks for playing.” Another wink. “I’ll let you win next time, how’s that?”

  “I didn’t agree to a next time,” she said.

  “You don’t want a next time?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Because you know there’s going to be a next time. Because you want there to be a next time, and something about you makes me want to give you what you want.”

  That was startlingly sexy to hear. (Even though Brian had used the same rationale without effect.)

  “It’s presumptuous of you to say you know what I want,” she said, trying to bristle.

  “Am I wrong?”

  “. . . No.”

  “So it’s presumptuous of me to speak the truth accurately?”

  She knew there was an articulate rejoinder to that, but she couldn’t remember what the words were for it. She was aware of the terrified thrill of feeling transparent while depending on opacity.

&n
bsp; “I’ll see you the next time we have coffee,” she said, then rose, grabbed her laptop bag, and rushed out the door of the bakery.

  “Fantastic,” he called out. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  She was getting good at writing news briefs. She liked them because they were short, pithy, and anonymous.

  Community Services to expand addiction-counseling services

  Chilmark man charged in DUI moped incident

  All elementary schools to begin composting in response to success at MVRHS

  Correction: Last week’s Journal incorrectly identified Samuel Black’s oxen as Laurel and Hardy. Their correct names are Lowell and Hoody.

  * * *

  Her phone rang Monday morning, and this time she recognized the number: Lewis Worthington. Her immediate visceral reaction was certainty that he had finally realized who she was. With elegant adroitness her mind raced the steps from his revelation to her doom. She’d be shunned by both papers, and without income or a New York home, she’d be condemned to remain Hank’s helpmate until she could get back into the celebrity-interview game, but she couldn’t get back in the game as long as she was his helpmate, so that probably meant she’d end up homeless in Central Park soon.

  She held her breath as she answered.

  “Hello, Joey,” he said. There was muted hubbub in the background, meaning he was in the newsroom. “I’ve found a great project for you, if you’re up for it.”

  “Always up for work,” she said, relieved. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We want to revive a regular feature that was popular back in the forties, called ‘On the Same Page.’ There would be a feature article, usually a profile on a valued member of the community, and then—on the same page—a short excerpt from the paper from decades or even a century earlier that paralleled it somehow, that showed a continuity of sensibility. Proof that the ethos of the island hadn’t changed much. Or maybe better to say, the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  “That sounds interesting,” she said carefully. “Do you think that’s still true, though? The Vineyard’s changed far more in the past century than it changed between the 1840s and the 1940s.”

  “Oh, I agree, that’s why it’s even more important to emphasize what hasn’t changed. Anyhow, you don’t have to deal with the archival part, you’d just do the interviews and profiles. Sounds right up your alley, no?”

  “Yeah, sounds interesting,” she said, as her inner Hank groused Oh my God, how typically precious, it’s like a picture postcard in essay form.

  “Good. Glad you like it. Since you’ve already agreed to take on the West Tisbury beat, I’d like you to do a profile of Helen Javier, the ZBA chair. She’s stepping down because she and her husband, Paul—hang on a moment, Joey.” Muffled noise in the background, like one of the grown-ups in a Peanuts cartoon. “What? No, not after the way . . . sorry, Joey, hang on just a sec . . . No, that’s not acceptable.” He sounded like a stern but kindly father. “I think that would put us on their level and we’re better than that. Let’s just sit tight and wait to see what happens. All right, I’m back, Joey.”

  “No worries.”

  “Sorry, the Journal did something in poor taste and I just needed to make sure we didn’t accidentally follow suit.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Oh, really? What?”

  “It has to do with that affordable housing project—you mentioned it in your ZBA report, the solar-powered one.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “The Journal emphasized some class tension going on around it, and in fact, it turns out that a part owner of a solar-panel company that would profit from the development is a leading voice against the development, because it abuts his property. So that seems maybe worth investigating, but it was incredibly irresponsible of the Journal to include it in such a throwaway manner. They’re continually taking cheap shots, like the way they track that domestic abuse case when it hasn’t even gone to trial yet.”

  “Oh,” said Joanna, who had written that bit. Which part of Central Park was the safest squat for homeless women? she wondered. Sheep Meadow? Strawberry Fields?

  “Anyhow,” he continued. “About Helen Javier—she’s stepping down and will be leaving the island for a while, and I think it’s a great time to do a piece on her. We might pair it with a piece about the first female elected official in Vineyard politics, which was somebody on the Tisbury School Committee in 1905. But for some reason, Helen suggested putting it on the same page with a piece about a woman named Nancy Luce”—and when Joanna chortled, he asked, “What? I don’t know a Nancy Luce.”

  “How can you not know about Nancy Luce? She’s the chicken lady of West Tisbury,” said Joanna, unable to contain her laughter. “Back in the 1800s. She was a social misfit. Her only friends were all her chickens and when they died she made gravestones for them, and she wanted to be buried with them. She wasn’t, she’s buried in the cemetery, but her gravesite is strewn with chicken figurines, plastic, ceramic, what have you.”

  A pause. Then, from Lewis: “That is possibly the most bizarre story I have heard since I moved to the Vineyard. Why on earth would Helen Javier think it would make a good parallel to her own life?”

  Still chuckling, Joanna said, “Well, the figurines are sort of an homage to how dedicated she was to caretaking a population that nobody else could see the value of, or had really small brains, or something, so my guess is she’s making a little tongue-in-cheek comment about West Tisbury property owners.”

  “Huh,” said Lewis, sounding unconvinced. “Y’know, that’s pretty impressive, how you know the backstory to something that randomly weird.”

  “It’s not, really. It’s like knowing Bartholomew Gosnold discovered the Vineyard in 1602 and named it after his baby daughter, or that Thomas Mayhew established the first English settlement here, or the fact that the Vineyard is the only community in the New World where there was never armed conflict between the native population and white settlers.”

  “Joey, my goodness, you’re an historian.”

  “Nah,” she said. “I’m an Islander.”

  * * *

  Joanna had known Helen most of her life, largely in the context of civic life because, like Hank, Helen had been involved in West Tisbury politics longer than Joanna had been alive. Joanna wasn’t even sure what Helen did for a living, and she’d come to Hank and Jen’s at least once a month for drinks and town gossip the whole time Joanna had lived with them.

  This was the kind of assignment she’d have gotten regularly (with a much higher fee, of course) in New York: celebrating the private side of an august human being. But this august human being knew her. When Joey Dias from the Newes showed up to interview Helen, Helen would recognize Anna Howes of the Journal.

  Helen was an upstanding, honorable, transparently by-the-book model citizen—that’s why Joey Dias was interviewing her. She did not suffer deceivers gladly. When Joanna was six, she had snuck into Helen’s strawberry patch and eaten all the berries, then lied about it in an inept attempt to avoid responsibility. Helen had scolded her—not so much for eating the berries as for lying about it. Helen disapproved of liars and she would disapprove of what Joanna was doing now.

  * * *

  From the kitchen-door window, Helen gave Joanna a puzzled smile as she crossed the dirt driveway to the door. “Good morning, Anna,” she said, opening the door briefly to let her in, then pulling it quickly closed against the cold.

  “Morning, Helen.” Joanna took in a deep breath of the warm, cedar-scented air. She’d always loved this house.

  Helen continued to look quizzically at her as Joanna pulled off her gloves and unzipped her jacket. “Are you interviewing me for the Newes? You’re covering the ZBA meetings for the, mm, Journal.” She spoke tentatively, as if afraid of being indelicate. “I wasn’t listening too closely to all of Lewis Worthington’s details, but if he’d said it was Anna Howes, I’d have remembered that. So I’m su
re he didn’t describe you as Anna Howes.”

  Joanna gave her an ironic grimace. “Yeah. I wondered if you’d pick up on that.”

  Helen considered her a moment. “Joey Dias,” she said, suddenly. “That was the name Lewis mentioned. So let’s see. You wanted us all to call you Joey when you were about sixteen. For about a year.”

  Joanna nodded. Helen continued to consider her.

  “And . . . oh, of course, Dias was your mom’s maiden name.”

  Joanna suddenly noticed how lovely the knots were in the boards of Helen’s kitchen floor.

  “I can explain,” she said.

  “What’s there to explain?” said Helen. “You’re writing for both papers under different names. Everyone knows neither paper will work with the other’s freelancers, so you must be doing it on the sly. You’re playing the periodical field?”

  Joanna bit her lower lip and nodded.

  Helen tilted her head slightly. “I always thought the edict against freelancing for both papers was ridiculous, but you’re being dishonest to Everett—and to Lewis. That’s not cool, Anna.” Her tone resembled how she’d spoken to the Minion Lawyer. Anna felt about the size of a crocus bud. She couldn’t speak. “What has triggered this journalistic infidelity?”

  Joanna had rehearsed several fantastical excuses to justify herself but now she just said, “Money.”

  Helen stared at her, sternly, for what felt like a very long time. Long enough for Joanna to meet her eyes, look away again, meet her eyes again, and again look away.

  “Okay,” Helen finally said, in a long-suffering but decisive tone. “I guess I can respect that. Especially since you’re only here to take care of Hank.”

  “Thank you, Helen,” she said. She realized she’d been holding her breath, and sighed.

  Helen chuckled grudgingly. “Sorry you’re in a tight spot, but my inner bad girl is cheering for you.”

  Joanna almost gawked. “I didn’t know you had an inner bad girl.”

  Helen gave her a look. “Any woman who’s ever gotten anywhere by being good has an inner bad girl, Joanna.”