Tips for Living(64)
Loyal as Lassie, like I said.
“Nor, there’s another thing. About my program today—”
“Wait. Stokes might show up here soon. Let’s talk at the station.”
Grace broadcast Talk of the Townies live at 10:30 a.m., and her station manager usually stocked the fridge. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten.
As I drove along the commercial stretch between Pequod and Massamat, my mind jumped from worry to worry like a grasshopper dodging a lawn mower. I worried about getting arrested, about Stokes roaming free, about my sleepwalking and what it meant. I even worried about Al working all night scrubbing toilet bowls. The more I thought about it, I knew Al wasn’t a killer. I knew it in my bones. My money was on Stokes. Stokes was the one. No matter how mad Al was about my column, his threats were idle. He was a frustrated victim of the changing economy. My heart went out to him.
It was a good thing I didn’t have a phone, because I had the urge to call Ben and tell him Tidy Pool Al wrote the letters. I probably shouldn’t talk to Ben until he had time to absorb the note I’d left. I hoped he’d understand. My reticence wasn’t about him. It was all me.
Grace disappeared through the station’s door as I pulled into a visitor parking spot at WPQD. My measly hour of sleep was beginning to take its toll. I climbed out of the car and stomped my feet to shake off the drowsiness before hustling into the warehouse-size brick building—a former party goods store. With their economic challenges, the Piqued hadn’t been throwing as many parties. Celebration had gone belly-up.
WPQD was suffering, too—federal grants decimated, ad revenues down. Half the time, some dejected host was chanting the phone number during a fund-raiser and offering hemp tote bags or Bruce Springsteen CDs in return for donations. As I entered, “Uptown Funk” was playing on the air. On the far side of the lobby, Grace’s boss, Monty Beers, sang along in his glass studio. He pulled a serious face when he spotted me, gave a big thumbs-up and mouthed, “You go, girl!” before fading the music out and starting the news.
“Good morning. This is Monty Beers with WPQD Weekly News in Review. The town of Pequod is still on edge as the police hunt for Hugh and Helene Walker’s killer. Apple-picking season is in its final week. And an economic report released yesterday is forecasting the 2018 economy will be ‘okayish.’ This and more. Stay tuned.” He flipped on a public service announcement and gave me two thumbs-up this time.
What was Monty’s big rah-rah for me about? He’d seen me on the news, I supposed. It looked like he believed my statement and was trying to show emotional support—praising me for managing to hold it together given the traumatic events of the week. I was grateful for a little encouragement. I proceeded to the kitchen to snatch two mugs and a peach Yoplait from the minifridge.
Grace’s interviewing style is effective. In the way Barbara Walters gets people to cry, Grace gets them to say things they normally wouldn’t. She has qualities that make people open up to her: she’s a great enthusiast, a flatterer and an empathic listener. Before they know it, guests have let down their guard and spilled a secret or expressed an opinion they regret. Grace could go national, she was so adept at this. But ambition is not Grace’s thing. “My porridge is just right in Pequod,” she’d said when we’d discussed whether she would pursue an opening at NPR in DC.
I stood outside her small, soundproof studio, watching her through the glass as she prepped for her show. She sat in one of two metal chairs at a long wooden table with her MacBook, pad and pen, two table mikes and two sets of headphones in front of her. The empty chair hosted a pink pillow that said, “Grace is a gift from God” in red stitching. I realized I was reluctant to go in. It was time to tell Grace everything, including the fact that my sleepwalking problem had returned. I dreaded doing it. Telling Grace meant admitting I’d lied to her. Without Grace trusting me, going through all this would be intolerable.
I stepped inside. Her studio was quiet as a confessional—Grace had switched the station speakers off. I set the mugs on the table, along with the thermos of coffee I’d brought. Then I sat on the pillow and dug into my Yoplait.
“Monty just cheered me on like I’m about to run a triathlon,” I said, still avoiding the difficult subject. “I appreciated it. I need the boost.”
Grace adjusted the mikes and her MacBook unnecessarily. She wouldn’t look at me.
“Grace?”
“He thinks you’ve come in to be interviewed about Hugh.”
I stopped eating and set down the spoon.
“I wanted to tell you before at the bowling alley. Monty asked me to do a show on Hugh today. He wants me to interview you as the main event. He said: ‘It’s called Talk of the Townies, and she’s what the townies are talking about.’”
“And you said yes?”
Maybe not so loyal.
“I said ‘absolutely not’ regarding you, but I did set up phoners with the art contingency—Abbas Masout and Davis Kimmerle, the critic. It’s hard for me to avoid the topic altogether. I figured you might not mind so much since Hugh is, you know . . . dead. But say the word and I’ll pull the plug.”
I looked into Grace’s clear blue eyes and saw that she meant it. She’d ditch the show if I told her to. I had no right to object to her doing her job; Hugh was a major cultural figure who lived in the area. “I can’t participate. But of course, you should go ahead with your other guests. Do what you need to do,” I said.