The Best of Friends Page 3

  Instead, the offer that autumn came from a station in Mississippi. Tupelo was the 143rd biggest broadcast market in the country—a long way from number one New York, but a start nonetheless. What’s more, I’d not only report but also serve as coanchor of the 9 Alive News. Profoundly grateful, I neglected to ask a crucial question. “Next time, before you say yes, you might want to ask about your salary,” grinned my new boss.

  I didn’t care that they only paid me $14,000 a year. In the hall leading to the newsroom was a picture of NBC’s Jessica Savitch, gleaming, golden. I wanted to be her. Or at least know her. Little did I suspect how difficult her life actually was. All I knew was that she was paid a fortune to interview the fascinating and the famous and had become a star herself. I wondered what it would be like to have a complete stranger ask for an autograph, and admitted to myself that it sounded appealing. Would it be possible to become a dogged reporter and an anchor, too? Just a few weeks after starting my new job, I was devastated by the news that Savitch and her date had been killed when they took a wrong turn and drove into a canal near a restaurant in New Hope, Pennsylvania. To see such a promising life cut short made me even more determined to reach my goal. Who knew how long any of us had?

  While New York seemed impossibly remote from Tupelo’s WTVA studio in a glorified shed, which was especially noisy during frequent summer thunderstorms, I loved it. There was the exhilaration of live television, from avoiding gaffes during ad-libs to learning not to grow dependent on the supposedly goofproof TelePrompTer. One night early on, I confidently began the newscast, “Good evening, I’m Sara!” “And I’m Terry Smith,” continued my coanchor with a bemused shake of his head, and began the lead story. Through my IFB—the interruptible feedback device every anchor wears in one ear so that the show producer can speak directly to them during the broadcast—I heard a snort of laughter, followed by “Sorry to leave your last name off the script. I thought for sure you’d remember it.” I had a lot to learn in the field as well, but found everything exciting, whether we were dashing out under a glowering sky, bruised green and purple, chasing tornadoes, or racing after cops, firefighters, politicos, anyone in the know, anyone on the far side of the tape marked “Police Line—Do Not Cross.”

  Reporting proved an introduction to lives far different from my sheltered suburban upbringing. One of my first stories had been on teenage pregnancy. Mississippi had a reputation for poverty and illiteracy, so children having children wasn’t a big surprise. But I was shocked that the pretty blonde with the enormous belly was pregnant with her third child rather than her first, at the ripe old age of sixteen. I still felt like a kid myself and had no desire to be yoked to such seemingly needy little beings, even those decked out in dimples and curls. It was obvious that being a mom was a full-time responsibility and I was nowhere near ready to settle down. I wanted to see the world, swagger a bit, live a little. Virtually none of my friends had even gotten engaged. We’d all gone to college and wanted more, much more. It was the 1980s, and somehow it felt like an obligation as well as an opportunity to storm through doors that had been marked “Men Only” just a few years before.

  And a few of those doors seemed to be opening. After eight months in Tupelo, I’d returned to Virginia for my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and interviewed at the local stations again. When I’d actually gotten a job at Channel 12 my mom promptly burst into tears. I’d moved into an apartment near the station with another high school friend, Scottie Feitig, and started work immediately. Being a hometown girl gave me context and contacts, especially since my father, a professor at the University of Richmond, had also been a member of the state legislature. But I was wary of growing complacent. Richmond was broadcast market 55, and the network shimmered, still far in the distance. Ginger had found her handsome stranger, and love had proved her passport to adventure. I hoped work would be mine.

  Just then the scanners fired up, interrupting my reverie. “All units, please respond, report of a shooting at St. James Street…” The weekend photographer lunged for the door as the police dispatcher continued, “Victim is a twenty-nine-year-old male. Be advised, perp may still be in the area.”

  Twenty-nine-year-old Marion Perkins had just become the forty-seventh homicide in Virginia that year. It was time to stop watching television and start working on it.

  THE NIGHT AIR felt wet and warm after the chill of the studio as I headed for my car, glancing at my Timex. In Richmond, it would be July 7 for another twenty-two minutes. In that faraway kingdom called Wimbledon, the sun would be rising soon. Where was Ginger now? I thought about what different paths our lives had taken in the years since we’d both worn that twinkling tiara. I was willing to bet a standard day for her didn’t involve anybody getting shot.

  I wondered what she would think if I told her about the first time I’d seen a dead body. It had only been a few months before. I’d been on a date with a boyish photographer for a rival station who sported surfer hair and drove a bright red pickup. He was hoisting a forkful of pasta toward his mouth when his pager beeped and he’d raced for the phone, trailing spaghetti. I craned forward, shamelessly eavesdropping, and caught the word “shooting,” as well as an address.

  “Gotta go, Sara—breaking news,” he’d said, grabbing his coat. But when I’d reached for my own jacket, he’d exclaimed, “Don’t even think about it!” before bolting for the door. I’d been thinking, all right, thinking I didn’t want to miss out, especially since I needed stories for my résumé tape. After a moment’s reflection I’d decided he deserved a two-minute head start for inadvertently giving me a tip. A hundred and ten seconds later, I’d called Channel 12 and arranged to meet one of the station photographers at the scene.

  Not surprisingly, my date had already gotten there. With a rueful shake of his head, he cracked a sliver of a smile that indicated he’d simmer down in a week or two. After all, we were both young and ambitious.

  The boy lying on the pavement had been young and ambitious, too. But he’d lived in a different neighborhood, worked in a different trade. Before that night I’d seen many unsavory things as a reporter, but this was different. There was a certain chaste beauty to the white folds of the sheet that covered him, but the stains were ominous. How many times had he been shot to bleed like that? No one got murdered in the prosperous West End where Ginger and I had grown up. I suspected that the killing had been yet another tied to the drug trade. A fight over turf, over somebody cheated or scorned. But this young man had been so young. It was his feet that gave it away. It was his feet that got me. One sported a fancy white sneaker while the other was inexplicably bare, the toes long and slender. The feet of a boy. Unbidden, the old nursery rhyme played in my brain: Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John! Went to sleep with his breeches on! One shoe off and one shoe on…

  “Cat got your tongue?” a grizzled cop had asked sympathetically.

  I’d gargled an answer, unable to spit out a sentence. How could I tell him all I was feeling? That this poor boy’s fate was inconceivable to me, and yet we’d grown up in the same city? And did he mind if I vomited? I’d looked down at my pad and pulled out my Bic pen, anything to take my eyes off that foot, those five perfectly formed toes. Anything to escape the vulnerability, the futility of it all.

  Head down, I’d struggled to seem professional, tough. “Do you have any details yet, Detective? Who is—I mean, who was he? Who’s the next of kin? Who shot him?”

  “Not yet, Scoop,” he’d answered. Then, looking at me more closely, he’d whacked my shoulder with a beefy paw. “Don’t take it so hard. You’ll get used to it.” I’ve always liked cops, but it’s the kind of work that can turn men to flint. He’d continued, “Besides, Sara, most of them are NKs anyway.”

  I’d looked up, confused. “What’s an NK?”

  “They Needed Killing.”

  AS I TURNED the key in the ignition, I thought of all the things I should have said to that detective. Starting with, How dare you, he wa
s just a kid. No one deserves to die that way, no matter what he’s done. Something sharp and tough. Something to hold him accountable. But I’d said nothing. He had a badge and experience, and I’d gone tongue-tied and silent, swamped by a wave of sorrow. I’d turned away from the cop, away from the young boy’s body, and wiped my stinging eyes. There was no time for emotion, since the station live truck had just rolled up, the engineer hustling to crank the mast, and I would be on air in less than thirty minutes. I’d scribbled a few pertinent sentences on my reporter’s notepad, taken a deep breath so my alto voice didn’t soar soprano with anxiety, and had been ready at eleven o’clock when the station anchors tossed to me. “Good evening, Gene and Sabrina. There’s not a lot of information so far, but what I can tell you is that a young man was shot shortly after ten tonight…”

  It hadn’t mattered that I didn’t know much. A young boy was dead. And I was live. At twenty-four I already knew the cardinal lesson of local news: If it bleeds, it leads. On that night, and once again on this one, I wondered what lessons Ginger had learned.

  OVER THE NEXT few weeks, my thoughts about my old friend became more insistent. I felt as though I’d misplaced something important. A favorite pair of earrings. A faded pair of jeans. Something that made you feel at home, comfortable. Someone you didn’t dress up for, someone who with just one look made you tell it straight.

  It wasn’t that I was short on company. The pickup-truck-driving photographer had forgiven me for dashing off into the night, and though we were still seeing each other occasionally, it seemed we were both more attracted to our work than to one another. I had plenty of reporter friends who were always up for drinks at the Border Café after work, but just when you got to know someone, they left. That included my newest friend, Linda Pattillo, a reporter for the rival CBS affiliate. I took her out for a farewell dinner.

  “Miami. That’s practically top ten, LP! Next stop, the network.”

  “We’ll see. First things first.”

  “LP, professionally I’m excited for you. But you can’t do this to me.”

  “Look at it this way. You get my apartment in the Fan, complete with Lisa, who’s a great roommate. I even cleaned my room for you. Besides, you’ll be moving on yourself before long,” she continued, switching to her mentor voice. In the way in which we categorize our friends, Linda was the big-sister-I-never-had, a life coach before we knew they existed. “Look, here’s what you do. You already have plenty of anchor segments, live shots, and breaking news on your résumé reel. What you need is one big story that sets you apart. You’ll find it. And in the meantime, come down to Florida for a visit.”

  “You’re not going to disappear like my friend Ginger?” I moaned.

  She snorted. “Definitely not. But who says she did? You’re a reporter. Find her.”

  LATER, AS I packed boxes for my move to the city’s trendy Fan neighborhood, I thought about how Ginger had accomplished exactly what she’d set out to do when we were twelve. As for me, while I hadn’t become a writer, I wrote as a reporter and loved the job. Different as our lives were, did we still share a connection? I didn’t know.

  What I did know was that I wanted to do more than chase fires and murders. I wanted to be on the front lines of events that changed the world, to tell stories that might change the way people acted, or at least make them stop and think. And yes, I wanted travel and adventure. The kind of life I was sure you led when you worked for the network. But how was I going to beef up my reporting credentials and get there? I realized I just might have an idea. But my first assignment would be to track down my old friend who was Missing in Action.

  3

  GINGER (1985–1986)

  MOM, HAS KEVIN phoned?”

  “No, Gin, for the fourth time today, honey, he hasn’t.” Just then the phone rang. I dashed for it. It wasn’t him, and later, when it was, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  “Should I meet you in Miami?”

  “No, my agent’s coming in, I’ll be too busy.”

  “I could come to Dallas this week.”

  “No, Ginger, not this week. I’m too tired.”

  “How about L.A.? Or Memphis?”

  Finally Kevin asked me to meet him in Atlanta. For two weeks I lived on dry toast and water, shrinking down to 102 pounds. I packed his Christmas present, a thick forest green sweater I’d knitted by hand, alongside a sexy new nightgown. He looked at the sweater in embarrassment and didn’t touch me. We wandered the shops in an upscale shopping mall, hands accidentally brushing, while guilt forced him to search for my forgotten Christmas present. I didn’t want a new Tank watch or a heavy Tiffany bracelet. Christmas had passed, thoughtlessly. We left the mall without packages, without speaking.

  Later that night in the hotel room, he sat quietly, looked up at me, and, without preamble, said, “I love you like a sister.”

  “Like a fucking sister!” I screamed, and threw my jewelry box against the wall, narrowly missing his head. I dove across the room onto the bed, and then I threw myself at him, sobbing, pleading, berating, and begging him to change his mind.

  After two hours he’d had enough. “You knew this was coming, and I don’t have time for this nonsense. I’ve got a match tomorrow and need to sleep. Good night.”

  That was it. After four years that was all I got: one sentence. I love you like a sister. Six seemingly harmless words strung together to create a devastating effect. That was how quickly my heart could break; how fast a bubble full of dreams could be shattered, leaving me lost in the wreckage back on earth.

  Most of the night I lay on the cold tile floor in the bathroom, afraid that I would vomit. Once I eased back into the room, I crawled into bed. Against the cold, hard sheets, I reached out for Kevin. He took my hand, held it close to his heart. I lay like that for a long time, feeling his heartbeat, listening to the silence, but when I inched closer, he pulled away. Pity. Damn him, he was taking pity on me. What the hell was I thinking? That one moment of intimacy, however false, couldn’t rewind time, suck back words and close the distance created in the last few months. Damn him again. I went back to the bathroom and ran a hot shower, drowning out my sobs and trying in vain to take away the chill.

  The next morning he watched me pack. Then, in separate taxis, he rode to the courts, to practice, back to his life, uninterrupted, and I went to the airport, searching for a gate to take me anywhere but here.

  On the plane, I turned my face to the window, away from the briefcase-carrying, navy-blue-suited businessmen and-women boarding the plane. Tears leaked out of my closed eyes and the flight attendants kindly left me alone, going along with the charade that I was asleep. I had two hours in the clouds to try and make sense of the unfathomable. Every thought shot back as an indictment of me. Why didn’t he love me? What had I done wrong? Why wasn’t I enough? Why didn’t he love me?

  I couldn’t face the toughest question of all: Who was I now if I wasn’t his girlfriend? Why had I chosen to immerse myself so completely in someone else’s life, to live his dream, only to find out that I had lost all sense of myself? But no one had forced me into this role. I wasn’t trapped in the 1950s. It was 1985. I had choices and a background to support them—a loving family, a college degree, and women in my life who were strong role models. There were so many things I could have done and yet I’d done exactly what I wanted. I’d wanted a life with Kevin. Period. Any other sane choices were overridden by youthful idealism, my naïve belief that if I loved him enough, we would live happily ever after.

  I was twenty-five years old, but I hadn’t grown up at all. There I was, back in Oz, and now the curtain had been pulled back to reveal the lie. There wasn’t an easy way out of town, no simple way of trading one life for another. On the yellow brick road to adventure I’d fallen into a deep, black, gaping hole. The walls were slippery, there was nothing to cling to, no way of climbing out, no happy ending, nothing at all.

  The plane took me home, back to Richmond. Cloistered in my parent
s’ house, I hid under the covers, alternately dozing and numbing my mind watching television. Surfing channels, I heard a familiar voice. Sara. It must have been eleven o’clock at night. I rolled over, parted the hair from in front of my face, and saw her sitting up straight, peering into the camera, anchoring the local news. Propping the pillows up behind me, I looked closer, searching for reminders of my childhood friend behind the television screen. Sara’s freckles were gone, her hair was tamed but her voice was still the same: warm, intelligent, with just a hint of a southern twang. She glowed, and I knew the camera loved her. But did someone else? I wondered if there was a man behind her smile or if success was the sole cause of her radiance?

  My mom must have seen the dull gray glow under my door. She came in quietly and sat down at the end of the bed.

  “Gin, honey, why don’t you call Sara?”

  “Maybe later, Mom.”

  How could I possibly call Sara? Just look at her, so composed, so pretty, and so professional. In easy banter, she talked to the sports reporter, handed off to the weatherman, and guided us into a commercial break. I could barely answer the phone. While I’d wasted four years of my life following someone else’s dream, she’d been focused, steadily achieving her own goals. When we’d whispered our deepest secrets as kids, Sara shared her dream of writing stories, stories that held such passion that people would stop and listen. And because we were kids and thought all things possible, these stories would change the world. Whether or not Sara’s stories were changing opinions, it was clear she was doing something right, because she’d been promoted to weekend anchor. I was sure she’d soon be telling stories in another, bigger city. Clearly she was moving up while I’d moved back with nothing—no money, no job, and no self-esteem.