They went live with the story even if the dinner was served in the afternoon. They would run the tape of the meal and the poor and the crazed beneficiaries. Sometimes they got lucky when so many showed up that a line still stretched outside as it had since ten in the morning.
The story made viewers feel full and contented and happy not to be bundled in filth and desperation. Yet, it was tear-touched as well. All those poor people, ah well. Yes, a perfect holiday story.
As a rule, George Harding gave the story to a male reporter. No one asked why, although Charles Adkins did ask why it had to be him and pointed out he got these types of stories more than anyone else. It was true he was divorced, something Carter was still pissed about, and had no family dinner to go to, but didn’t he deserve a break?
He did handle the story with a certain gentleness. He would walk through the dining hall talking about how many meals had been served and how the city and the business community came through once again to make this dinner possible. Behind him, inevitably, an old whiskered face would stare into the camera.
“Why me, George?” Adkins would demand.
“Because you are so good at it,” George Harding would give his infrequent grin.
*
When Jack Benton did the story, he made it seem as dingy as it was, and as reeking and ugly. His report would make George Harding frown before returning to his phones.
“Back to you, Tom,” Jack Benton would say with a slight smile. Carter would nod and give his thanks and that alone would indicate that he, too, felt sorry for those folks down at the charity kitchen, and he, too, felt glad to be sitting warm and cozy in the newsroom on Thanksgiving Day.
Carter worked the Thanksgiving newscasts. It came on a Thursday and Tom Carter always worked a full week.
*
“Turn that thing off,” Clifford ordered from his seat on Debbie’s couch. “Man, I don’t want to look at that nastiness.”
Paige Allen switched the channel to another newscast.
“Man, that is awful. Why do we have to go down there with all those sorry people?” Clifford asked before going back to his high-piled plate.
Charles Adkins stood at the dining room table, stabbing another piece of turkey.
“Thank God I didn’t have to do it,” he said. “Why do I get those stories?”
Debbie cooked the Thanksgiving dinner for those who had no family in the city and no time to make it home to another state. Clifford, Charles Adkins, Tommy Rodriguez, and Paige Allen accepted the invitation.
“I might live,” Tommy groaned from his seat next to Clifford. “But only if there is pie. You better have pie.”
Jason couldn’t make it. Instead of flying straight back from shooting in New York with Richard Ferguson, he took a flight to Chicago to be with his parents.
“Sorry, babe,” he told her. “I’ll see you Sunday night.”
They hadn’t seen much of each other in the past few weeks. Jason was either out of the station or in the editing booth. Ferguson decided to work on another medical story at the same time they were doing the breast cancer series. Jason was shooting both. There were those few hours of sex and sleep before he left by six or seven to get back to the station.
“Richard has him tied up fifteen hours a day,” Debbie explained to Ellen. “And this breast cancer thing is important to him.”
“Let me check for breast cancer,” he said on one of those late nights. “No, seriously.”
He grabbed for her and she laughed.
“Come on, big fella. It shouldn’t be so hard to find.” He placed his hand on one small breast.
She missed him.
“November is always busy,” Ellen said, “with ratings and everything. It should slow down soon.”
Debbie wasn’t sure. Jason seemed to have so much to do and to be so excited by it.
“Ferguson thinks he already has this thing sold to the network,” he told her when he called from New York. “We got some some new info on the reconstruction surgery they’re doing here.”
“Come home soon,” she told him. “And, don’t you go fooling around with those big-city women.” She kept her voice light.
“Not me, babe. I’m straight-arrow,” he told her.
Ellen had to work Thanksgiving.
“What are you going to do for dinner?” Debbie asked. “At least you could come by for a sandwich or something.” She could see Ellen eating a turkey TV dinner in front of her television.
“No, thanks. I’ll give you a call later,” Ellen said.
Debbie knew she would call late in the night and they would talk, as was becoming their habit.
24
“Why bother?” Richard Ferguson asked when Jason told him what he planned to do.
“It’s only fair,” Jason said.
It was only fair to tell Debbie he saw Ashley in New York, that he had called her and asked her to take a commuter flight up from Washington. When she walked into the hotel bar, every head turned.
Richard stayed only long enough to say, “Looking good, Ashley.” That made Jason smile. When did she not look good?
“I think you should start applying in DC again,” she said that night while his hands made an inventory of all the places they knew of her body. They stopped to cup the large full breasts.
“And what would that mean for us?” he asked.
“I think we might want to spend some time together,” she said softly. “I think about you a lot.”
He told her he had been seeing a woman but, he added quickly, “It’s nothing serious.” He felt her body stiffen before relaxing again with a sigh of acceptance.
“That’s all right,” she said. “Be warned, though, things will change once we start working together again.”
He laughed. He did like this woman and he wouldn’t mind being with her again. No, he wouldn’t mind at all.
On Sunday, Debbie cleaned the apartment for him, changed the sheets. She made a casserole. They would eat a late dinner and
