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“Good to hear,” he said. “I expect the first installment on my desk by the end of the week. I want to run the story the day of the memorial.” I nod to the empty room. That gives me six days and five nights to work up an acceptable article.
And three days and nights to procrastinate doing it.
I hung up with Bing two hours ago, and I’ve had my head inside the library’s microfiche since then, scanning article after article about the hospital fire. Headlines are plentiful, as is speculation, but interviews with the town locals are curiously sparse. Usually, at a time like this, people come out of the woodwork in search of their fifteen minutes of fame, offering sweeping statements in enthusiastic detail, most laced with dramatic emotion about how they “just can’t believe it,” with tears and all. In this particular tragedy, most have said “no comment” when approached for an interview.
The only exception I’ve found so far is from Don Engle, former president and founder of Washington Plastics, the biggest employer in the town. His reaction covers two pages of text, a lengthy offering of condolences and sympathies, and paid leave to any employee directly tied to the tragedy. A nice gesture, but in my experience, nice gestures are often made for appearance’s sake more than anything.Just think of the headline…
I move on from articles about the fire and search for information on Washington Plastics, oddly more plentiful, considering the subject matter. When it bleeds, it leads does not apply here. A plastic-making company is about as boring as it gets.
In 1974, the tiny company from Northwest Arkansas was touted as an up-and-coming “One to Watch” by Forbes magazine and again by Business Weekly in 1976. Profits had soared to Goodyear Tires-type proportions by 1981 and only started to show a decline in sales last year, oddly on the heels of a certain President’s problematic second term that is still underway. Maybe I’m the only one making that connection, but what is a reporter without a salty dash of conspiracy theorist? The guyisfrom this part of Arkansas, after all. There’s bound to be a link in there somewhere if I look hard enough. He did pull strings for a major airport to be built in the middle of an Arkansas cow pasture only a couple years ago, so the idea that he might have helped fund an obscure plastics company isn’t that far-fetched.
I take a long sip of the cold coffee I brought from the hotel and settle in for another few hours of research, only vaguely aware of the rustle of noise behind me.
“Need any help?” I recognize Billi’s voice immediately and turn my head to look at her.
“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Finished up a few minutes ago and thought I’d see if I could make myself useful here.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“This is Silver Bell, Arkansas. Anyone researching a story on the hospital has only two options: the hospital or the library. Or, I suppose, the jail. But I didn’t see your car at either of those other places, so I came here. Anyway, need any help?” she asks again, making me swallow a smile. Her persistence is as strong as her personality.
“Worried I’ll write a story about your brother?”
She scowls. “Write a story about my brother, and I’ll tell everyone in this town to lock their doors if they see you coming. But no, I wasn’t. I’m more worried you won’t get your story done on time if things keep going the way they did with Mr. Bailey this morning. Did that interview help you at all?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Not especially, though it did make me a little curious about the old lady’s story.” My gaze sweeps the library. “You think it’s safe to help me so publicly? I don’t want you getting into any unnecessary trouble.”
She waves me off. “I already asked my 8-Ball if it was a good idea.”
At this, I laugh. I was talking about trouble with the locals, but I should have known she would be more concerned about the opinion of that round inanimate object. “And what answer did it give this time?”
“I asked it, ‘Magic 8-Ball, should I go help the slightly awkward and inept reporter before he makes a fool of himself in this small town?’ and it replied, ‘Yes definitely.’ Can’t get more forthright than that.”
“Inept, huh?”
“And awkward, don’t forget that one.”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t possibly forget it. Pull up a seat, then.” I ignore the way my pulse thuds in my neck at her closeness. Sure, I’m oddly attracted to her, but nothing can come from it anyway. The only thing happening here is the possibility of finishing this article.
Billi drags a chair from a computer across the way and scoots close to me, so close I’m momentarily distracted by the scent of her perfume and the brush of her bare forearm against mine. It’s mid-October but warm in here, and a flannel button-up is tied around her slim waist. Underneath her layers, Billi wears a threadbare white tank top. The kind my grandpa used to wear, but on Billi it looks the exact opposite of manly and misshapen. Who looks that good in men’s underwear?
I give myself another sharp reminder that nothing can happen as I pretend to study the screen.
“Okay, what are we researching here?” Billi asks, leaning forward in her seat to scan the article on display. “Why are you reading about Washington Plastics? That’ll make for a boring article. Even more boring than Mr. Bailey’s interview.” She powers up the microfiche machine next to me and waits while the screen fills.
I don’t say that I’m not so sure. “I was reading a column about the fire, and it led me here. What do you know about the company or the materials they manufacture?”
Billi shrugs. “Just that they make some kind of plastic coating thing and employ seventy-five percent of the town. My dad worked there in high school. So did my uncle. So did Mr. Bailey once upon a time if I remember right.”
“You never worked there?” I ask, hoping for insider information.
“Nope. I never wanted to go the way of everyone else, though you probably can’t tell to look at me.” She gives a soft laugh, and I smile. Billi is clearly her own bird swimming upstream in a town filled with floating geese. “Besides,” she says, “standing in a line of people, squirting nitric acid into tiny vials on a conveyor belt sounds about as boring as sitting on the front row in math class. Who wants to do that all day? Certainly not me.”
Sounds boring as hell, though I don’t say it. I’m stuck on the words “nitric acid.” In its pure form, it’s a substance normally reserved for scientists and researchers, hardly the general public. The idea that they have regular folks handling that stuff seems reckless at best.
“That’s what people do on the line?” I ask, and Billi suddenly looks cautious, like maybe she said too much. Just as quickly, her doubt clears.
