“Jamie, for one thing, fucking Seattle is a lot closer to Los Angeles, where my father lives, than New York. Aaron and I see him—what—once a year? And when I heard about the strike at the Trib this morning, it got me to thinking that you were right about how I can’t put off my career forever. I owe that to Aaron. I’ve been home all day with him pretty much for two years, working nights just to get out of the house and make a few bucks. What I make basically pays for sitters while I’m working. It was a long shot that I would move when I did the interview, but when I heard today you were on strike, it made me think, what if something really goes wrong with your job? Then what would I do? How would I pay for this house? His clothes? His future?”
“Karyn, I’m on strike one day. That doesn’t mean I’m unemployed.”
“Jamie, the real issue here is me, not you. You have nothing to do with this…”
“Aaron is also my son, no?”
“That’s not what I mean. I’ve got to resume my own career. And if that means I have to move, then I’ll have to move, and we’ll have to deal with it.”
“You mean I’ll have to deal with it.”
“I never said I didn’t want Aaron to have his father…you…in his life. But what about his future? What about college? It’s not like either of us is ever going to inherit any real money. You pay the mortgage, the bills, but you don’t have a cent in the bank, and neither do I.”
“Karyn, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but the last time we went out it was over in a couple of days. Most of these things don’t last. Don’t take this job because of the strike.”
“I told you, this is about me. I need to give Jeffrey an answer by the end of the week.”
Jamie paused, working hard to hold back his agitation. “Give it a few days, we’ll see what happens,” he said. “Maybe you could look for a job in New York.”
“I’ve been looking for six months.”
Jamie had no response for that. The inevitable suspicion of whether Karyn had developed a romantic interest in her old college friend—and vice versa—crossed his mind. He knew better than to broach that subject or she’d hang up on him and somehow manage to not be home for his next visit—her standard tactic when her custodial mood turned sour.
“Just don’t do anything for a day or two,” he pleaded. “Seattle—how in the world would I ever see…?”
“The other line’s beeping,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”
Jamie hung up, pulled the receiver up again and froze in mid-slam.
He walked over to the bed, sat down and looked up at the inoperative ceiling fan. He realized that in the shock and confusion of Karyn’s thunderbolt, he hadn’t asked to speak with Aaron. He thought about calling back. But his mood, not exactly sunny to begin with, was as gray as the sky over Seattle—or so he had heard.
Day Two: Tuesday, November 8, 1994
Chapter Ten
Not this one again. Oh, please, no, the voice providing the narrative to Jamie’s morning dream was pleading.
Deadline was approaching. The phone on the night table kept ringing. Jamie knew it was a source with information he needed for a story. But when he reached out to answer, the cord was severed from the receiver. He tried frantically to reattach it, but Karyn materialized, brandishing a shopping list for Aaron’s birthday party. She chastised Jamie for forgetting plastic spoons.
The exception being that Jamie’s subconscious had given her a makeover. She had Debbie Givens’ blonde hair and was demanding an apology with a microphone aimed at his chin.
The ring came again—twice, a third time. Jamie’s recorded voice intervened and delivered a shot of psychological caffeine that awakened him to the cognitive realization that he was better off asleep.
For the second morning in a row, it was Steven rousing him from the deep morning slumber that is so precious to an insomniac.
“So where the hell did you disappear to yesterday?” he bristled.
“What time is it?”
“Eight-fifteen.”
“What’s your problem?”
“Better question,” Steven said. “Are you out with the rest of us?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Steven said in his most provident tone, “you made yourself scarce after the meeting yesterday, and we need everybody we can get on the line today because they got the damned paper out…”
Which Jamie received as promising news…
“…and we’re hearing that the sportswriters may be ready to cross and maybe the photographers and…”
This is really getting good, Jamie thought. He would soon have ample ammunition in a campaign to convince Karyn to cease and desist on her relocation strategy.
He propped himself up on his right elbow, the phone now wedged between ear and neck.
“…once that happens, the Alliance is finished, Brady can isolate the other unions as blue-collar thugs and there’s a good chance the asshole wins…”
“Why are the sportswriters crossing?” Jamie asked casually.
“Couple of guys at Jersey papers supposedly got calls, offered jobs,” Steven said. “I don’t know who in his right mind would leave a job, even at a smaller paper, to come to one on strike. But our guys panicked and went back in. Got to get back to ripping the baseball owners for forcing the players out and killing the World Series.”
Steven left Jamie a window of silence to acknowledge his sports association and, better yet, his wit. Jamie respectfully declined. For the most part, Steven didn’t much know a foul ball from a football. He had managed, however, to sneak one summer column past Brady that condemned the owners for their attack on organized labor after the Fall Classic was taken off life support and interred in disgrace.
“We’ve got calls out for everyone to show up early this afternoon for a rally with a few speakers,” Steven said. “A couple of guys from the national office—Robbins said they’re trying to get Mario Cuomo—if they can guarantee some television coverage.”
“I’ll be there, I guess, if that’s what you woke me up for,” Jamie said, feeling blindly for the television remote in the tangle of blanket and sheet.
“It’s at noon,” Steven said. “I’ll be speaking too.”
“Hey, nice,” Jamie said coolly.
“Not to change the subject,” Steven said, “but didn’t you once go out with Deb Givens?”
“Deb? How informal we’ve gotten.”
“OK, excuse me, Deborah.”
“I wouldn’t call it going out,” Jamie said. “We had drinks after work a couple of times. Why?”
“She’s doing a studio thing on the strike over at the station,” Steven said. “The producer called. I’m going on tonight.”
“Nice person, a bit hyper, talking to the world while she’s talking to you, like everyone else on TV.”
“You sleep with her?”
“We had drinks, I said. I was married at the time, remember?”
“Remember who you’re talking to.”
“I’ll tell you what, if she starts asking tough questions, why don’t you change the subject and ask her if she’ll sleep with you? It’ll be better television