In Plain View

It was all I could take. I shut the camera down and packed it in.

Another time, another place, I’d be rolling gobs of tape. I’d be smooth-talking the guy in charge for personal interviews. This time, the ashes of another man’s life were sticking in my throat, and all I could think of was where I’d rather be.

The hospital. Jenny.

My phone rang. Never fails. The mundane knows no rest.

“What?” I snapped the last of the camera box buckles closed.

“Don’t give me that ‘what?’ bullshit,” Richard Gatt roared right through the terrible cell signal. “Where the hell are you and why is my nephew on his way to the hospital with second-degree burns?”

At last, someone who spoke my language. “Because he thinks he’s Dudley Frickin’ Do-Right and doesn’t follow directions.”

“You’re the one who sent him there. Why weren’t you on the frickin’ scene? This is totally unacceptable…” Gatt raved on for a while.

He was right. My being there would have made a difference. My being there would have made a difference to Jenny, too. I imagined Tom Jost making those calls, calling for witnesses, right before he jumped-and I had to sit down.

The grass was wet and cool under my pants. It felt so good, I laid down. The inside of my skull pounded at the shift of altitude, then eased with the chill. The air smelled a little better down here, too. Less smoky.

Cows made noises nearby. I concentrated on the cows.

As soon as Gatt took a breath, I told him, “I’ll have a story on your desk tomorrow morning. Consider it my resignation.”

“Shut the hell up, O’Hara, I’m not finished talking. And you aren’t going anywhere until my story is one hundred percent in the can, if you ever want to work again in this business…”

Blah, blah, blah. Heard all of this before. Nice cosmic irony, though. “‘Isolation is a powerful tool for behavior modification,’” I quoted.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Gatt yelled right back. “What the shit am I supposed to tell my sister?”

“Tell her-her son’s a hero. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I quit.”

11:18:44 a.m.

I could hear the television through the door when I finally made it back to Jenny’s room at the hospital. Relief and regret hit me together. Jenny had woken and I’d missed it.

I should be so lucky.

“Where have you been?” Tonya sat propped up on the second bed, reading People magazine.

I swear her lime-green sweats were glowing. They hurt my eyes.

With relief, I saw Jenny was still flat out, shut-eyed, unconscious in the bed.

The television, mounted high in the corner of the room, was tuned to reruns of Little House on the Prairie.

I laughed. “Are you watching PAX channel?”

“Shut up, you. Don’t even start with me.” Tonya snapped her words like a nun’s ruler crack. “You’ve been gone for hours. Where’ve you been?”

“There was a fire at the farm. Everything took longer than I expected.” I considered elaborating but the details were not likely to help my case.

“A fire?”

“The Jost house burned to the ground. Ainsley went in and pulled the old man out. The doofus managed to burn his hands pretty badly in the process.”

“Oh Lord.”

“And then, Gatt called while I was out there.” I plopped down on the foot of the bed. “Then, I quit.”

“You what?” Tonya said. “I thought the point in sending you out there was to keep you from losing the job?”

I’d had three hours of sleep. I stunk of smoke. My favorite black pants were covered in mud, my shoes in cow shit. My motorcycle was still sitting in Curzon’s parking lot-in the rain. And both my young charges were currently receiving emergency medical attention. I think it’s fair to say my judgment was not operating at peak performance.

On the television, Laura and Pa casually led a cow up a grassy hill. With all the things on my mind, what came out of my mouth was, “When I was a kid, I loved this show.”

“What is the matter with you!” Tonya flapped an all-inclusive hand. “How could you let this happen?”

“Let what happen?”

“That poor baby-”

“Which one?”

“That is the most lame-ass-”

“They weren’t my drugs,” I pointed out.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“They were anti-anxiety meds. And they were in a free sample pack.”

“Are you serious? Where did she get something like that?”

“I don’t know! You had a sample pack of meds in your gym bag. The stuff for your back, remember? Where did you get those?”

“From my doctor. That’s the only place you can get them.” Her voice dropped. “Oh Lord, did Jenny think she was taking something for pain?”

“That would be my bet.”

Tonya was paralyzed by the thought of contributing to Jenny’s condition. Her voice was a monotone. “I’d never forgive myself-”

“It’s not-” your fault, I started to say.

“Of course it is! Yours and mine-this child has no one else.”

“That I am fully aware of,” I said. Loudly.

We both turned and looked at Jenny. She kept right on sleeping.

“I do not understand you.” Tonya’s voice dropped to a steamy whisper. “Why do you prefer living in hell?”

How did she do that? Stick me where I never expect, and bleed a wound I didn’t even realize was open. I clapped my mouth shut and started counting to one hundred, while gesturing in large useless motions.

Tonya went into nurse-mode, fluffing pillows with double-fisted punches, snapping the sheets smooth and tucking them under the mattress with a kung-fu chop. Normally, she was the kind of person who flowed in motion, never looked off-balance or clumsy. At that moment, she looked like dry sticks animated. I didn’t get up from the bed. I made her work around me. As she jerked the blanket into position, I nearly fell off the edge.

“You have a life, a beautiful, precious girl-child put in your hands. Something other people would die for.” She waved at Jenny, laid out like an effigy. I knew she was speaking of herself. Tonya would have gladly accepted Jenny into her life. Through me, she already had.

“What else am I supposed to do, T? I don’t know how to be the mom.”

“There are only two requirements,” she said with all the patience of someone explaining the how-to of bar soap. “You commit to the long haul. And you consider her needs first. She won’t always get top priority, but she always gets first consideration.”

“I’m committed.”

“You haven’t even moved out of your apartment yet! How committed is that?” Tonya’s voice amplified with every word.

My eyes kept drifting toward the television screen. It was impossible to turn away from the flash and comfort of those familiar images-the smiling faces and sugary landscapes, figments of our collective, mass-consuming unconscious. Even knowing all that I know, doing all that I do, I sighed. Little House had shimmered before me in childhood reruns, like the mirage of heaven hammered into me on Sunday mornings. There was the wise, kind father, the patient, loving mother, and the sisters who all lived together in a land where truth was known, justice was served and love begat love, never suffering.