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1
Two weeks earlier
Finn
TheChronicleis unusually quiet for a Monday afternoon, which makes Mr. Bing’s bellow all the more startling. His voice rips through the silent office like a foghorn on a deserted lake, making me jump in my seat. Thankfully, this time he isn’t directing his yell at me.
“It’s the thirtieth anniversary of the fire,” he says, slapping a thick file on Richardson’s desk next to me, “and you’re going to drive there and cover it.” I blink over at both men—at Bing with his trademark scowl he wears even when delivering good news, and at Richardson, who’s even more confused than me.
“What fire?” he asks. Rookie mistake. The rule is you agree to the assignment first and ask questions second, never the other way around. This is less a journalism rule than a hard-and-fast working-for-Bing rule. The man doesn’t like hesitation. He likes being questioned even less. “I’m already writing a feature on the uptick in recent Ebola cases due next week, plus my wife is due to give birth any day now. Not real sure I have any extra time on my plate.”
Bing’s scowl deepens while the hairs on my neck stand at attention.Honestly dude, scale back the negative commentary. I attempt to ward off any impending confrontation with a question of my own.
“The thirtieth anniversary of which fire?” I’m almost positive I already know the answer, but feigning ignorance occasionally works in my favor around here. It’s a gamble, and I’ve been known to play the slots.
Bing’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Richardson, then back to me in an indecisive battle on where to focus his irritation. He sighs.
“The hospital fire in Silver Bell, Arkansas.” He waves a dismissive hand between us. “You’re too young to remember it, but it was a doozy. Eight people died in the accident. A pregnant lady, six babies, and a doctor if I recall correctly. Made the national news for nearly a year afterward.”
“It was nine people, and the infant count was seven,” I say more to myself than either of the men. Unfortunately, I’m not as young as he thinks.
“Excuse me?” Bing says, and I internally chide myself. If there’s anything the man likes less than questions, it’s to be challenged. But in this particular instance, I’m more the expert, and there’s no sense in pretending otherwise.
“The death toll. Seven babies died, and the total count was nine.”
He blinks, and there’s a not-so-subtle raise of an eyebrow. “And you know this how?”
“Because I was born at that same hospital three days before it happened. It’s all my parents ever talked about when I was growing up, the fact that we barely escaped being involved. That, and how happy they were that we moved away since apparently that town is about as backwoods as they come.” I laugh a bit to myself, but no one cracks a smile. Richardson sits immobile behind his desk, a dumbfounded expression on his face. In the three months he’s worked here, I doubt he’s heard Bing speak so many words. Our boss communicates in loud barks and unintelligible grunts. As for Bing, his scowl remains in place, perhaps even deepening. His face is lined with so many wrinkles that it’s sometimes hard to tell.
“You’ve been working here for two years and never thought to bring that tidbit of information up?”
I push a paperclip away from the edge of the desk, one precariously close to falling, and lean back in my chair. “You’ve never asked me about it, and babies dying isn’t exactly a conversation starter.” Even though my mother used to tell the story at every social event we attended, so often that I once caught someone mouthing the words along with her.
“You work in the news industry, son. Everything is a conversation starter. What else you got in that vault of yours?” It isn’t a friendly question. It’s more like a threat.
“That’s it, other than the fact that my parents grew up in Silver Bell.”
Bing tosses his hands in the air with a frustrated growl. “Pack a bag. I want you in a car pointed north first thing in the morning. The memorial service is two weeks from today. You need to interview all the locals who will meet with you beforehand. Once the service is over, the anticipation about the anniversary will dry up too. If you want people to talk, you need to catch them off guard when they want to feel important. That’s my motto.
His motto is actually “write drunk and edit sober”—he’s got the words hanging on a plaque in bold black letters behind his desk right above an ever-present bottle of Jack Daniels—but I say nothing. Monday afternoon is not the best time to argue, much like every other day of the week. And unfortunately for me, I don’t have a pregnant wife at home to fall back on.
“Fine. You gonna reimburse me for gas this time?” It’s a stupid poke at his stingy bad habit, but I can’t help myself. And like every other time my inner child comes out to play, I immediately regret it. Thank God my boss doesn’t have a willow switch or a teaspoon of white wine vinegar I’m forced to swallow. The mere thought of my regular childhood punishment turns my tongue sour.
“I’ll reimburse you for gas if you get the story. Although you and your Audi are likely just fine without it.”
Fine, he’s right. I drive an Audi. It isn’t my fault my parents were rich or that working for a newspaper is the side job my dad got me to keep me busy learning a work ethic. A funny thing happened on my way to being forced into responsible adulthood: I discovered I liked it. Now I’m ready for my big break. I want to be recognized for excellence in writing—a Pulitzer maybe, one my parents didn’t posthumously pay for. Not a respectful way to think of the dead, but it’s there all the same. A desire for an accomplishment all my own, or at least a desire to make them proud.
My conscience stings at the same time my eyes begin to burn, so chances are it’s the second one. Even now, six years after my mother’s death and four months after my father’s, the need for their approval has only escalated. Isn’t that what every child wants even well into adulthood—the opportunity to look their parents in the eye and see a glimmer of pride shining back at them? Something has me still chasing that look, even if my only chance to catch it is while staring at a patch of aging dirt over a recently double-marked grave.
It’s lonely being all alone in the world.
But this is not the time or place to think about it. I sniff, crack a knuckle and then another to get my mind right, and then adjust my attitude to fake-cocky and smirk up at my boss.
“Audi or not, either theChronicleis cheap, or you are.” I’m taking a gamble talking smack, but it’s worth the risk when Bing laughs. The man laughs twice in a good year, and once is when Christmas bonus checks get passed around.
I’ve just scored more than I have in months, and the double-entendre is intended.
Another thing I shouldn’t be thinking about right now. My love life—or lack thereof. That isn’t going to drive me to Arkansas or get this article written. Not to mention the multiple interviews awaiting me. Of all the facets of this job, the interviews are the worst part. Line up ten people for back-to-back questions and answers, and you might get one eager enough—and off their guard enough—to talk. Especially when a tragedy is involved. Two things people don’t like to overshare about are their kids and their hometowns. The first might result in a fractured relationship or lack of trust. The second might put you out of work and shunned by people you used to call friends. The only thing folks value above their kids is their bank account, no matter how many might insist otherwise. Money talks. The threat of losing money keeps loose lips closed, for the most part.
