scale at the
Times
.
But it wasn’t going to be easy. So far we had one anonymous source, two sets of lies and a bag of bones. Those things together didn’t paint a complete picture. We had a lot more work to do.
“Listen,” Courtney said, “before I knew I’d be on this, I made an appointment for two o’clock. Mind if I keep it?”
“Not at all. We don’t have any deadline, to say the least. We might not even be able to sell Elliot on doing this story.”
“With those bones? We’ll sell him.”
Courtney leaned toward the driver to give him her revised destination, the Cornelia spa on Fifth Avenue. Thus I learned how she liked to pamper herself after meeting a hard-won deadline as she had earlier today: with a massage and a facial. After she got out and shut the door, she leaned back in through the open window.
“Come with me? I bet they could squeeze you in.”
“Thanks, but no. I think I’ll just head back to the office.”
Stationed at my desk in the newsroom, I ate a tuna sandwich and made some notes in my laptop, transferred the photos from Courtney’s camera onto my hard drive and then emailed them to her and Elliot, who had gone out to a lunch meeting. Then I phoned Russet, thinking I’d give them the benefit of the doubt and let them prove they had received a shipment of drums full of toxic chemicals from my lot at the Yards. Instead of asking for Lenny, this time I spoke with Bruce, the guy who happened to answer the phone. I explained who I was and requested a copy of the bill of lading because I was “anal” and liked to “cross all my t’s and dot my i’s” before submitting even the smallest article to my editor. Most people accepted it if you claimed to be neurotic and afraid of a tyrannical boss; I had used this excuse many times to extract seemingly insignificant information from sources. As in the past, it worked this time, except for one thing: Bruce couldn’t find a receipt of delivery anywhere. He said “it happens sometimes” and “our secretary stinks with paperwork”. I accepted his claim of disorganization as easily as he had accepted mine of punctiliousness. We laughed and said goodbye. My next thought was to find a bill of lading on the other end, at the Pearson warehouse. If the bones had been brought there over the last couple of days, even with an incorrect voucher date, the delivery receipt might still be unfiled and if the people at both ends had done their jobs it would show point of pickup as well as drop off. But I would leave that to Courtney, given her way with Anand.
After that I tried to focus on more research but had trouble concentrating. I couldn’t stop seeing the bones. In my mind they were becoming links in an Erector set connecting me to my parents and their histories. I kept hearing the echoes. I wanted it to stop.
Suddenly, sitting at my desk, I yearned to see my mother. But it was already after three o’clock and I generally liked to get home by five thirty so Nat wouldn’t have to be alone in the house for too long. If I went to my mother’s now, by the time I arrived and settled in the visit would be too short for her to have a chance to realize I was even there. My habit was to visit her for lunch on Fridays. I would have to hold on to my feeling until then.
At twenty past three, however, my cell phone rang. Nat was calling, asking for permission to go over to his friend Henry’s house to do homework and hang out. It was as if he had read my mind. I told him to go and said I would therefore go uptown to visit Grandma. I promised to be home by six thirty and asked him to also be home by that time. Then I slipped my laptop into my bag, left the office and took a subway to the Upper West Side.
The assisted living community where my mother had lived for the past three years was in a huge pre-war building, formerly a hotel, on West End Avenue. The lobby, plush with red carpeting, reproductions of antiques and a crystal chandelier, was
Times
.
But it wasn’t going to be easy. So far we had one anonymous source, two sets of lies and a bag of bones. Those things together didn’t paint a complete picture. We had a lot more work to do.
“Listen,” Courtney said, “before I knew I’d be on this, I made an appointment for two o’clock. Mind if I keep it?”
“Not at all. We don’t have any deadline, to say the least. We might not even be able to sell Elliot on doing this story.”
“With those bones? We’ll sell him.”
Courtney leaned toward the driver to give him her revised destination, the Cornelia spa on Fifth Avenue. Thus I learned how she liked to pamper herself after meeting a hard-won deadline as she had earlier today: with a massage and a facial. After she got out and shut the door, she leaned back in through the open window.
“Come with me? I bet they could squeeze you in.”
“Thanks, but no. I think I’ll just head back to the office.”
Stationed at my desk in the newsroom, I ate a tuna sandwich and made some notes in my laptop, transferred the photos from Courtney’s camera onto my hard drive and then emailed them to her and Elliot, who had gone out to a lunch meeting. Then I phoned Russet, thinking I’d give them the benefit of the doubt and let them prove they had received a shipment of drums full of toxic chemicals from my lot at the Yards. Instead of asking for Lenny, this time I spoke with Bruce, the guy who happened to answer the phone. I explained who I was and requested a copy of the bill of lading because I was “anal” and liked to “cross all my t’s and dot my i’s” before submitting even the smallest article to my editor. Most people accepted it if you claimed to be neurotic and afraid of a tyrannical boss; I had used this excuse many times to extract seemingly insignificant information from sources. As in the past, it worked this time, except for one thing: Bruce couldn’t find a receipt of delivery anywhere. He said “it happens sometimes” and “our secretary stinks with paperwork”. I accepted his claim of disorganization as easily as he had accepted mine of punctiliousness. We laughed and said goodbye. My next thought was to find a bill of lading on the other end, at the Pearson warehouse. If the bones had been brought there over the last couple of days, even with an incorrect voucher date, the delivery receipt might still be unfiled and if the people at both ends had done their jobs it would show point of pickup as well as drop off. But I would leave that to Courtney, given her way with Anand.
After that I tried to focus on more research but had trouble concentrating. I couldn’t stop seeing the bones. In my mind they were becoming links in an Erector set connecting me to my parents and their histories. I kept hearing the echoes. I wanted it to stop.
Suddenly, sitting at my desk, I yearned to see my mother. But it was already after three o’clock and I generally liked to get home by five thirty so Nat wouldn’t have to be alone in the house for too long. If I went to my mother’s now, by the time I arrived and settled in the visit would be too short for her to have a chance to realize I was even there. My habit was to visit her for lunch on Fridays. I would have to hold on to my feeling until then.
At twenty past three, however, my cell phone rang. Nat was calling, asking for permission to go over to his friend Henry’s house to do homework and hang out. It was as if he had read my mind. I told him to go and said I would therefore go uptown to visit Grandma. I promised to be home by six thirty and asked him to also be home by that time. Then I slipped my laptop into my bag, left the office and took a subway to the Upper West Side.
The assisted living community where my mother had lived for the past three years was in a huge pre-war building, formerly a hotel, on West End Avenue. The lobby, plush with red carpeting, reproductions of antiques and a crystal chandelier, was
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