Following Rain Page 8

  Grunge lowered the camera and grinned. “I’d say you’ve got him on the ropes.”

  “And I’ll make sure he goes down for the count.” Paul was unable to suppress a smile. The lid was about to be pried off a box of secrets. And the best news: the other news stations knew nothing about it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Rain sat at the kitchen table, poring through the phone book and adding names to the list she had started compiling yesterday. She paused to stretch her back and glanced at the clock. It was 9:20 P.M. Setting her paper aside, she looked at Charlie, who was staring fixedly at the TV screen. “Turn off the TV so we can read before you go to bed,” she called.

  “Can’t I finish the program?” he replied, employing the puppy dog eyes.

  “That’s enough TV for tonight. We need to do some reading.” She lightened her tone. “You want to earn some more points for computer games, don’t you?”

  “Angry Birds?”

  “If that’s what you want to save up for. But you need to come now while there’s still time.”

  She waited as Charlie pushed the red button on the remote and watched the image on the TV disappear. He stared at the screen until it was completely black. He needed closure in order to transition from one activity to another.

  Rain slid the phone book away and set out the Dr. Seuss books she and Charlie had picked up at the library. Since finding work at Welcoming Hands and eventually getting settled into an apartment, she finally had time to work with Charlie on his reading skills. He recognized pictures on cereal boxes and other packaged items and could “read” them on that basis. But without a picture or other visual clue, he was stuck, and she was determined to do something about it.

  Three months ago she tried an online reading program, but when Charlie saw the screen he wanted to play Angry Birds. He couldn’t focus on anything else in front of the computer, so she shelved that idea and started picking up books from the library.

  She made an agreement with him. He could play computer games on the weekend if he earned twenty-five or more points. Each page read equaled one point and one minute of game time. But there was a five-minute daily minimum. Anything less and no points were awarded that day. She kept a chart taped to the door of the refrigerator so Charlie could keep track of his points. In this way she hoped to cajole him into reading for longer stretches of time.

  So far it was working . . . to a degree. At around the seven-minute mark, he would start slurring his words on purpose and mumbling incoherently. It was meant to make her laugh, and sometimes it worked. But it also meant he was fading and it was time to let him record his points on the chart.

  Charlie enjoyed Dr. Seuss books, especially One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish and Green Eggs and Ham. He laughed at the notion of green eggs, and whenever they read the book, he invariably asked for green eggs for breakfast the following morning. Rain had actually acquiesced last week and put green food coloring in the scrambled eggs. But she couldn’t bring herself to eat them, and since then she had done her best to discourage him from further artistic requests.

  He sat down and looked at the Dr. Seuss books on the table. Moving his jaw from side to side, he pondered his selection. Finally he held up one of the books.

  “Tell me the name of it, Charlie.”

  “One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish,” he replied, glancing at the picture below the title.

  Rain covered the picture with the paper she was using to compile her list. “Which words say fish? Point to them.”

  “There are four of them,” he replied, indicating each one.

  “Very good.” She opened the book. “Okay, let’s read.”

  Because he had memorized the beginning of the book, Rain started in the middle of the story. And once again, she covered up the picture.

  Screwing up his face in concentration, he looked at the first word and sounded it out. Then he went on to the next one. He continued the slow, deliberate pace until he came to the word sad. Recognizing the word once he said it, he wrinkled his brow and looked at Rain. “Why are some fish sad?”

  Rain uncovered the picture and considered the question. “Maybe because no one will play with them.”

  “Or maybe they’re sad because they don’t have a daddy and a mommy.”

  “Maybe.”

  “They’d be happy if they had a daddy and a mommy like the people in the pictures.”

  Rain tapped the page. “There aren’t any people in the pictures, Charlie.”

  “The other pictures.”

  “You mean in the other books?”

  “No, in the box in your closet.”

  Rain felt her mouth go dry. “Have you been snooping in my closet again?” She tried to keep the anger out of her voice but was unable to suppress it completely.

  His lip began to tremble. “No.”

  Realizing that upsetting him would end their reading session before it had barely started, she calmly said, “So you haven’t been snooping in my closet?”

  “Not since the last time—when you grounded me.”

  “So you’re just remembering the pictures?”

  “Uh-huh. There were big people and little people. A dad and mom and two little kids. They were smiling and looked happy.” He pointed to the book. “Not like the sad fish. Not like you sometimes look.”

  Rain swallowed. “Me? When do I look sad?”

  “Whenever I talk about the box in your closet.”

  Rain suddenly closed the book and slid it away. “That’s good for tonight, Charlie.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “Can I mark the chart now? How many points do I get?”

  The five-minute limit had not been reached but Rain gave in. “Five. And then go get ready for bed.”

  He walked briskly to the refrigerator door and picked up a pen from the counter. Studying the chart intently, he marked five perfectly straight lines in the Friday box. When he was finished, he beamed proudly and said, “The chart’s filled up. That means I get to play Angry Birds tomorrow.” His smile faded to an expression of perplexity. “How long do I get to play for, Rain?”

  “Count the ticks.”

  Charlie touched each mark and began counting under his breath. Halfway through he lost track and had to start again. Finally he reached the last tick and proudly announced, “Thirty-two. I get to play for thirty-two minutes!”

  “Good job, Charlie. Now go get ready for bed.”

  “Angry Birds tomorrow,” he said, rubbing his hands together. Then imitating Elmer Fudd, one of his favorite cartoon characters, he droned, “Ah, west and wewaxation at wast.”

  Rain remained at the table, listening as Charlie went into the bathroom and began brushing his teeth. His comment about the people in the photograph continued to echo in her brain. There were big people and little people. A dad and mom and two little kids. They were smiling and looked happy. Not like the sad fish. Not like you sometimes look.

  Her vision blurred and she suddenly felt chilly. Hunching forward, she rubbed her arms as a feeling of fatigue crept into her bones.

  She worked hard to shield Charlie from the cares of the world and provide him with a good quality of life. She looked for opportunities to help him learn and grow so he could become as independent as possible. But despite everything she was doing for him, there was one thing she was not willing to provide: the truth behind the sadness.

  CHAPTER 14

  The feature on the Noxby Medical Center aired Monday evening. Frank Tolley looked even guiltier on camera than he had live. There were fewer background images to distract viewers, and Grunge had zoomed in on him so tight that beads of perspiration and the eye twitch were clearly evident.

  Messages began pouring in as soon as the feature ended. Paul’s mother called to tell him how proud they were of him. “Your father invited Kaz and a few other donors over to watch it. They all cheered when Frank Tolley appeared in the frame, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. I know there is still a long way to go in recove
ring the money, but you got the process started, son.”

  Viewers began posting comments on Twitter and Facebook. Many felt that the incident was indicative of the corruption at all levels of society, and that the Noxby scandal was only the tip of the iceberg. Several commended Paul for holding administrators accountable. One person went so far as to call him Seattle’s watchdog, which pleased Paul immeasurably.

  Not all of the comments were positive or supportive, however. One viewer felt that Frank Tolley’s civil rights had been violated, and that Paul was nothing more than a media bully. Another viewer suggested the interview had been staged in order to improve the station’s ratings. And a third viewer questioned whether money had been donated at all, insinuating that the interview was a smear campaign organized by rival medical clinics to increase their client pool.

  Paul shrugged off the negative responses and deleted them, happy about one thing. At least there weren’t any death threats this time!

  Kaz called Tuesday morning. “A woman who is on the board of directors at the medical center just contacted me, Paul. She wanted a full report and documentation of our donation. I gave it to her. With both barrels.”

  Stan called two hours later with a further update. “Great job, son. Just heard that Frank Tolley has been suspended until an internal investigation can be launched. Apparently criminal charges might be laid, as well. You didn’t let the grass grow. That’s my boy!”

  Susan Godfrey summoned him to her office in the afternoon. She, also, was complimentary. This was becoming a custom Paul could get used to! She asked for a more detailed report than the one that had aired. She smiled—actually smiled—when Paul told her about the supportive telephone calls he’d received and how heads were already beginning to roll. And to make matters better, not a breath of the scandal had aired on any of the other networks. Just how Susan liked it.

  When he returned to his cubicle, he sat at his desk and checked his e-mails. It felt great to be recognized and have the jump on the other stations, but he couldn’t rest on his laurels. In the same way authors and movie actors are frequently evaluated as being only as good as their latest work, investigative reporters face similar pressures.

  He likened himself to a surfer trying to ride the next big one. He had to paddle out, catch the wave, and stay on top of it in order to find where it broke on the shore. And breaking news was the key. Which is why being saddled with the feature on the homeless shelter was frustrating. It was not an investigative assignment and would not garner the attention or the reaction that the Noxby feature had. Still, the promo clip was an assignment from Susan Townsend and he had little choice in the matter. And the sooner he finished it, the sooner he could wrap up the feature on single-cup coffee makers and focus on other interesting leads he’d recently received: An unknown investor was trying to convince Seattle seniors to put money in a retirement plan that was guaranteed to double their investment. A local tattoo parlor was receiving a high rate of customer complaints regarding skin infections and illness. And a pet python had escaped from its cage in North Seattle and disappeared, ostensibly into the sewer system.

  These were stories with high interest appeal, and he felt himself growing anxious to get to them. A python in the sewers of Seattle! People would remember that even more than the Noxby Medical Center scandal. But a promo feature on the homeless shelter?

  His phone rang, bringing him back to the moment. “Hello,” he answered in his customary cheerful greeting.

  “Hello, Paul. This is Maria Sanchez.”

  He reacted in surprise at the timing. “Hi, how are you?”

  “I hope I’m not bothering you, but I was just calling to give you some bad news.”

  “What is it?”

  Maria sighed deeply. “We’re not going to be able to hold our Super Saturday fundraiser.”

  Paul leaned forward in his chair. “You’re cancelling it?”

  “Hopefully only postponing it.”

  “But I thought the shelter needed some important upgrades.”

  “It does.”

  Knitting his eyebrows, Paul said, “I don’t understand. Grunge and I were just there the other day and everything seemed on track.”

  “Several sponsors have cancelled or significantly reduced their support,” Maria replied. “And over the weekend our best sponsor—Renway Pharmaceuticals—cancelled.”

  “What about funds from other sources?”

  “Support has been dwindling steadily over the past several years, including contributions from the city. We’ve found ourselves increasingly at the mercy of private and corporate donations. And now . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

  “So you want me to hold off on the feature until further notice?” Paul masked his relief at unexpectedly being off the hook. Now he could return to investigative reporting.

  “I’m afraid so. Rain has been on the phone all day, calling businesses in an effort to find new sponsors. But no luck. Times are hard everywhere, and I can’t fault the sponsors for tightening their belts. But it leaves us caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, Paul. We are all bitterly disappointed, but none more so than Rain. She’s worked so hard, the poor dear, and I feel especially bad for her. She’s had such a hard time of things as it is, and she deserves better.”

  “A hard time of things?” Paul repeated, unable to suppress his investigative instincts.

  Maria coughed lightly. “I’m sorry, Paul. It’s not my place to say. But let me just tell you how much I appreciate your support and interest. Your public spirit has touched me deeply. Thank you so much.”

  A sliver of guilt poked his conscience, and Paul ended the conversation as quickly and gracefully as he could. He agreed to sit on the feature until he heard back from her, possibly in the spring, if at all. Which suited him fine. For now, he was free to focus on more important things. Seattle’s watchdog was on the prowl once again.

  * * * * *

  Rain sat on the back steps of Welcoming Hands, her chin resting on her knees. She needed a breather and was grateful to be out of the office. It was a relief to be away from the gaze of people coming in and out of the building. She didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone for a few minutes because her emotions were still too raw and close to the surface.

  Her campaign had not gone as she had hoped. Not only was she unable to find new sponsors, her phone calls had not been well received. Several people had simply brushed her off, but others had yelled at her, telling her in graphic terms what they thought of telephone solicitors.

  One businessman had declared that he would never contribute to the shelter because the homeless people needed to get off their lazy duffs and find work. He had called them freeloaders and accused her of exploiting their situation for her personal gain.

  She had heard prejudicial statements before, but she was not prepared for the businessman’s vehemence. His allegations stung. And he hadn’t given her a chance to defend herself or describe the events planned for Super Saturday. He had ranted for ten minutes and then hung up on her.

  Now as she sat huddled on the back steps, she considered the shelter’s bleak situation. It was in trouble and she knew it. The well had basically dried up. A chill crept over her at the realization that things couldn’t continue as they had done in the past. Drastic changes were going to have to occur, beginning with a cut in programs and a reduction in staff.

  This was going to impact Charlie and her. They were expendable because volunteers could be recruited to do their jobs. The two of them would be on the move again like they had when she lost her waitress position. They had moved on until she found temporary work as a sales clerk and then later as a cook in a fast food joint. Those jobs had seemed temporary, even at the time. But when she and Charlie found a place at the homeless shelter, it felt right and seemed like a permanent arrangement. But it was turning out like all the other jobs and that broke her heart.

  Sh
e hated to leave Welcoming Hands because she loved Maria. She owed the director a huge debt of gratitude for entrusting her with a position of responsibility. And for accepting Charlie. He got along well with the guests and the staff, and he had made great progress since coming here. His social skills had improved and his ability to concentrate on tasks for extended periods of time had increased. Life was better for both of them. But that was going to change because she had let Maria and the shelter down.

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she dabbed them with the edge of her sleeve. Then exhaling slowly, she got to her feet. Despite the bleak prospects, an ember of reconciliation still glowed within her. There might not be a place for Charlie and her at the shelter for much longer, but the two of them would manage. They would move on and start a new life like they had done before. She and Charlie were survivors.

  CHAPTER 15

  Wednesday morning Paul walked into the station’s conference room and sat down at the table. His eyes were burning and he had a slight headache. He’d been up late completing his single-cup coffee maker feature and, ironically, was badly in need of a cup of coffee to kick-start his day. Grunge had walked by his cubicle a few minutes ago, took one look at him, and said, “I’ll talk to you after you’ve had your grouch pill!”

  Several other staff members entered the conference room and greeted Paul as they joined him at the long oak table.

  Susan Townsend’s secretary breezed in, carrying a laptop. She smiled when she saw Paul. “Great job on the Noxby Medical Center feature,” she said, eying him admiringly.

  One of the staff members, a heavyset man with a double chin, leaned over and asked, “How do things stand with the medical center, anyway?”

  “The director is on temporary leave,” Paul replied.

  “With full salary, of course.”

  “For now. But only until the police complete their investigation.”