by S. W. Capps
Stacy looked to the deck in his lap. “Good idea, Larry.” He popped the carriage. “Just let me check video first.”
Julius tried to stop him, but Stacy yanked the tape, unspooling ribbon till a brown mound lay at his feet.
“Looks like we had some ‘technical difficulties’.” With that, he killed the radio, shooting a satisfied glance at his cameraman.
“Dude, you’re in serious shit now.”
***
“’Nother round?” the barkeep asked.
Stacy nodded. He had the right to drink. He’d just pissed away a career. Or at the very least damaged one, maybe beyond repair. But how could he keep doing this? Hurting people. Using them.
He shook his head, staring at his own reflection in the glass. He’d never expected such a quandary. He’d been so excited when Meeks called, so hopeful when he climbed in the Celica and headed east.
It all seemed like a dream now.
“A child is dead. And a devastated family looks for answers.” Stacy’s eyes moved to the TV, the dial—like most dials these days—tuned to Channel 8. “I’m Larry Toole. The body of a nine-year-old boy is discovered in Clarion. The cause of death? Suicide.”
Stacy searched the room. “Can somebody turn—?”
The bartender shushed him, pouring a beer as he watched the report.
“Great 8 anchor Katie Powers joins us with a closer look at this terrible tragedy.”
Stacy’s eyes shot back to the screen.
“Larry, tragedy doesn’t begin to describe…” His ex-girlfriend showcased a bold new hairstyle, but Stacy didn’t notice. Inside his head, a tempest raged. In his ears, a buzzsaw screamed. He leaped to his feet, knocking over the stool.
“Keep it down!” a patron shouted, eyes glued to the tube.
But Stacy didn’t hear. He was already out the door.
***
“Wear something mauve tomorrow.” Toole placed his scripts in a file, lighting a fresh KOOL. “I bought a new tie today, mauve with blue paisleys.”
Katie smiled. “I don’t have anything mauve.”
He reached in his wallet, peeling off two hundred-dollar bills.
She took the money, helping herself to a cigarette. “Have you decided what to do with Stacy?”
He flicked his lighter for her. “Sleep on it, I guess. Make a decision tomorrow.”
She blew a needle-thin trail. “Go easy on him, huh? He’s had a hard time of it.” Toole stared at his desk. “You ready?”
“I’ve got some work to do. I won’t be long.”
“Good.” She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “You know how I hate cold sheets.”
The walk from Toole’s office to her car was delicious, the air smelling of zinnia. It was love this time, she was sure of it. Larry Toole was everything she wanted. He was powerful. Wealthy. And had scores of industry contacts. The total package.
As she reached the Mustang, someone stepped from the shadows. “Jesus!”
“How could you, Katie?”
She raised a hand to her chest. “My God, Stacy…you scared me half to death!” Smoke from her cigarette curled between them. “Why, if Thad sees—”
“How could you do that story?”
“What do you mean, how could I do that story?” She maintained her distance, smelling liquor. “It’s my job to do that story. Just like it’s your job to listen to Larry.”
“Don’t tell me what my job is.”
“Well, somebody needs to. You’re blowing it, Stacy. You’ve got all the talent in the world. But you’re throwing it away. And for what? Because you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings, someone you don’t even know? Think how ridiculous that sounds.”
“I don’t think it sounds ridiculous.”
“Of course, it does. In six months, you’ll be in Tulsa, or Little Rock, or Colorado Springs. And the people of Texoma will all be a memory. Why in the world would you sabotage your future by worrying about someone in Clarion, Oklahoma?” She waited but got no answer. “We can’t bring that little boy back. Or take his family’s pain away. It’s not our responsibility.”
“What is our responsibility, Katie?”
“To ‘give our viewers more’,” she quoted her new boyfriend. “And, no, it won’t always be pretty. Won’t even be fair half the time. But that’s the way it is.”
“And you can live with that?”
“Yes, I can live with it.” She moved forward, softening her tone. “When I chose this career, I knew there’d be difficult days. And there have been. But never once did I question my choices. Do you know why? Because I know in my heart that what I do for a living means something.” A gust of hot air blew through the parking lot, her helmet-like hair refusing to budge. “And being on TV’s a dream come true! What’s wrong with living out our dreams?”
“Nothing, Katie. As long as we don’t hurt people in the process. But that’s what we’re doing. And I’m not just talking about that family in Clarion. We hurt people every day. Scare them. Misrepresent them.”
“Misrepresent them?” She surveyed the lot for support—it was empty. “How, Stacy? By letting them have valuable airtime to express their views?”
“You call an eight-second sound bite ‘valuable airtime’? When they’ve spoken for twenty minutes on camera? We take one sentence from a judge, a cop…hell, even a man on the street, and let that one comment—sometimes pulled completely out of context—represent his entire viewpoint on the ten o’clock news. And then we go on to the next story, and the next, while the poor bastard’s left to explain to his family and friends what he really meant.”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“Am I? We can make these people say whatever we want them to say.”
She raised her cigarette and puffed, wishing she’d left an hour ago. “If what we do for a living’s so bad, why don’t you just quit?”
“You think I haven’t thought of that? I think about it so much my head hurts!”
“Then stop thinking about it!” She flicked ash. “You’re a reporter, Stacy. And a damn good one. And you’ll be great if you just allow yourself to be.” He cut his eyes to the ground. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately, ever since our little fight up in Sulphur.” He looked up. “And frankly I’m worried. You’ve been through so much in the last few months. More than you can handle maybe.” She reached out and touched his arm. “You lost your mom, sweetie—”
“Don’t talk about my mother!” He jerked away. “You have no idea what it’s like to lose someone!”
“No…” His reaction startled her. “…but I do know what it’s like to care about someone.” She dropped her cigarette, smashing it with a heel. “I care about you, Stacy. And I think your paranoia might—”
“Paranoia?”
“Your obsession with the Texomaland Torch isn’t normal. It’s self-destructive. And so’s all this endless introspection you’re putting yourself through.”
“Oh, really?” He offered a crooked smile, the overhead lamp painting him green. “Well, what about you, ‘Miss Quest-for-Perfection’?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Tell me why you wanted to be a reporter in the first place.”
“I have told you. It was my dream. And I wanted to help people.”
“Great answer if you’re competing in the ‘Miss Texoma Pageant’. But I’m not buying it. You wanted to be on TV because you thought it would make you special. People would look up to you, right?” He shook his head. “Not people. One person. You wanted to show your father that Katie Powers was worth something.”
“How dare you!” she screamed, a chorus of crickets going silent. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“Don’t I?” He hunkered down, ready to pounce. “You want to talk ‘self-destructive’ behavior? Let’s do it. Everything you do in life is designed to get your father’s attention. To make him notice you. That’s why you’re so obsessed with your appearance.
Why you got a boob job. And why you run to the bathroom after every meal to make yourself throw up!”
A violent chill racked her body, her face going pale. She wanted desperately to speak, but no words came.
“Listen to me, Katie.” He grabbed her by the arms. “You don’t have to prove yourself to him. So he wasn’t there for you growing up. So what? That’s his loss—his! Can’t you see that?”
“No, I can’t!” She wiggled free. “But I’ll tell you what I can see. You’re no different than I am, Stacy Zwardowski. You think I chose this career to impress my father? Well, I’ve got news for you…so did you!”
“What are you talking about? My father died when I—”
“But he abandoned you first! And ever since, you’ve been trying to prove to yourself—and everyone else—that he made a mistake!”
When he didn’t respond, she pushed him aside and jumped in the car, black tears streaming down her cheeks.
As she cranked the engine, he moved to the window—a move of helplessness, of desperation. “Are you sleeping with Larry Toole?”
She hit the gas, spraying him with gravel as she sped into the night.
Chapter 13
August 1988
(NEWSWIRE): SEN. DAN QUAYLE CHOSEN AS PRESIDENTIAL RUNNING MATE; FIRST ‘BABY BOOMER’ NOMINATED FOR OFFICE ... U.S. AND SOVIET SCIENTISTS CONDUCT JOINT NUCLEAR TEST ... TV VIEWERS WATCH LIVE AS JET CRASHES INTO CROWD AT AIR SHOW
Katie was right, of course. Stacy had become a reporter to prove something. Conscious or not, he wanted to prove to his father—perhaps equally important to himself—that he was someone worth sticking around for. It didn’t make sense. William Zwardowski was dead. And the only thing his son had managed to prove was that he was a very confused young man.
He stared at the clock—9:15. What was Toole waiting for? He’d always called by now. Why should today be any different? Stacy took a breath. Today was different. He’d never disobeyed an order before. Never destroyed company property either. His actions, no matter how well-intentioned, deserved punishment.
“I’m gonna load the car, dude.” Julius’ face said it all—neither could imagine life at Channel 8 without the other.
He watched the cameraman leave, glancing at the Dan Rather photo, the men in the Polaroid—Dan and Bill—soldiers in some freakish well-dressed army. How had the network anchor made it through all the pitfalls of a journalist’s career? How did he live with himself now? Stacy hated working at Channel 8. Yet when he thought of leaving, he felt only panic. He could leave, of course. With a year of experience, he could start sending out tapes again. But what was the point? His next stop would be no different than this one. Did it really matter which ‘Channel 8’ he worked for?
More importantly, his work here wasn’t finished. He’d forgotten that yesterday, forgotten how vital his presence at KEGT was. He was the only person at the station—maybe the only person in Texomaland—who believed Toole was the Torch.
And the only one determined to prove it.
The phone rang, nailing him to the chair. After a labored breath, he grabbed the receiver. “Clarion bureau.”
“Stacy. Larry Toole.” The reporter bowed his head, sweat rendering him blind. “I’ve got Dick Wilhelm on the line with us.”
“Hello, Stacy.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“We’re going to make this short and sweet,” Toole announced, Stacy listening. “Your insubordination yesterday calls for disciplinary action. Dick and I have discussed the situation, and we’ve decided on a one-week suspension. Given the circumstances, I’d say that’s quite generous.”
Stacy didn’t know whether to kick up his heels or throw up his breakfast. In the end, he did neither. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Wilhelm challenged. “Don’t you mean, thank you very much?”
Stacy swallowed what little pride he had left, repeating the G.M.’s phrase.
“And by the way…” Toole had one final point. “…the only reason you still have a job is because I like you. Because I see something in you. Perhaps you remind me of myself ten years ago.” Stacy retched. “If I were you, I’d use the next seven days to figure out what the fuck I was going to do with my life!”
***
He couldn’t sleep in. A construction crew at Long John Silver’s made sure of that. They started banging, drilling, and sawing at 6:00 a.m. By 6:30, Stacy was staring at the ceiling, water stains staring back.
He threw off the sheets, head pounding to a symphony of hammers. It was already hot, the thermometer pushing 90. Stacy yawned, having no idea what he was going to do today. He hadn’t had a day off—a real day off—in weeks. Not that this was a vacation. More like a humiliating public reprimand.
He yawned again, then walked to the Underwood, fingering the keys. The H and Y were still missing, Stacy having combed every antique shop in Clarion for substitutes. He hit the space bar, remembering all the scripts he’d written when he started at Channel 8. The stories he’d typed as a kid. The look on his mother’s face when she surprised him with it.
His eyes moved to the photo of Helen Zwardowski. When he and Julius moved in, he’d set it on the windowsill, never bothering to move it when he unpacked the rest of the boxes. He stared at it now, then cut his eyes to the closet. He hadn’t unpacked all the boxes. The one from the hospital—the one with his mother’s things—was still inside.
Waiting.
“Jesus, dude, put some clothes on!” Stacy turned to find Julius in the doorway, dressed in a shirt and tie. He’d even shaved. The week ahead wasn’t going to be easy. Toole expected as much news from Clarion as he’d gotten the week before. Julius would have to write, report, even go live from the studio once or twice. He was heading in early to prepare.
“Anything I can do to help?” Stacy asked, throwing on a pair of shorts.
“Not ’less you can speed up time.” The cameraman frowned. “Gonna be a long week, dude.” Stacy nodded, his roommate turning for the door. “By the way…” He paused without looking back. “…I’m glad you’re still here.”
“Thanks, Jul.”
As the door fell shut, Stacy felt the silence—the crew next door had apparently taken a break. His eyes strayed back to the closet. He’d spent the last few months dodging thoughts of his mother. Sidestepping memories. Burying emotions.
How long could he keep it up?
He went to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. When he returned, the closet still beckoned. He took a bite, the sound of chewing stealing the silence. Unable to think of another stall tactic, he set the bowl down and walked over. The box was wedged in the corner, behind a mountain of shoes and a deflated basketball. He pulled it out, tearing open the seal. His mother’s coat lay on top—the coat and all that went with it. He raised it to his face, smelling her again, seeing her.
A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away, reaching for her purse. He started to go through it, but noticed the address book, the one with the note placed as a bookmark. For so many years, he’d taken those notes for granted.
Now he longed for them.
Opening the book, he stared at the scribbled text. He’d expected another WORK HARD or FOLLOW YOUR HEART, but this note was different. It was written in a shaky hand, maybe even her left hand. Stacy remembered what the doctor said—the “first event caused paralysis.”
Could his mother have written this after her first stroke?
He read the word on the paper—SEE.
See what? He turned it over, finding nothing on the back. As he raised it to the light, he noticed the entry below—Robert Zwardowski, Rural Route 7, Panna Maria, Texas. His eyes moved to the margin, his mother having added UNCLE in the same shaky hand. SEE. UNCLE. She’d never mentioned an uncle before. Never mentioned any relatives on his father’s side. The whole thing didn’t make sense. And he didn’t have time for it.
As he lowered the book, he saw the address again. Panna Maria, Texas…how far could it be? He hesitated, hearing his m
other’s voice— “You do have time, Stacy.” She was right. For the next seven days, he had nothing but. He stared at the notes again. Did she really want him to ‘SEE’ his ‘UNCLE’? And why? Whatever the reasons, she was determined to get her message across, so determined she used the last few moments of her life to write it down. He swallowed hard, hearing her voice again— “Go!”
Sighing, he tucked the book under his arm. This was crazy! he thought. But no crazier than sitting around all week, listening to construction noise. A siren blipped, the scanner sounding in response.
If nothing else, a trip to meet his uncle would get him out of Clarion.
And if his mother wanted this, he had no choice but to honor her wishes.
He grabbed his suitcase, walking to the dresser. As he started to pack, he thought about the journey. How would he find the place? What would he say to the man? If his uncle was anything like his father, he wanted nothing to do with him.
He tossed a shirt in the bag, thinking. Texas. There was something he’d been wanting to do there. And the drive to Panna Maria would give him the opportunity.
A smile moved over his face.
Might not be such a bad trip after all.
***
Stacy looked to the giant spire, its Greek colonnades framing the sun. “Is that the Main Building?” he asked a kid on a skateboard.
The kid nodded, offering a ‘Hook ’Em Horns’ gesture as he skated off.
Stacy headed for the entrance, ditching the UT map he’d grabbed earlier. Once inside, he wiped a quart of sweat from his brow, following signs to the Records Office.
“Help ya?” a pretty clerk spoke in a syrupy twang.
Stacy smiled, making his way to her window. He’d seen Katie turn on the charm before. Now it was his turn. “I hope so.” His smile grew as he pressed against the counter. “I’m thinking of hiring one of your grads and needed to verify some things.” He’d researched Toole’s life as a juvenile. Investigated him as an adult. Now it was time for ‘Larry Toole: The College Years’.