Adam Canfield of the Slash (22 page)

The Tuesday evening before Thanksgiving was Eddie the Janitor Appreciation Night. It was a huge success. More than seven hundred parents, teachers, and friends crowded into the Harris auditorium. Perhaps most amazing, Eddie claimed to be surprised. For weeks the lower grades had secretly been practicing for the assembly. The second graders had prepared “When the Saints Go Marching In,” but it wasn’t until the big night that they stopped singing “the saints” and sang, “When Eddie James goes marching in . . .” The first graders were ready with “Thank Heavens for Eddie James,” but it was the kindergarteners who stole the show, belting out those classic Paul McCartney lyrics, “Eddie, we’re amazed at the way we love you all the time; Eddie, we’re amazed at the way we really love you. . . .” There were “Thank You, Eddie” balloons and an eighty-stanza poem written by Marsha Tiffany Glickman, the editor of
Sketches,
the Harris literary magazine, entitled “Ode to Eddie James.”

The
Slash
staff had blown up the front-page photo of Eddie and the two mourning doves into a five-foot poster along with a laminated copy of Phoebe’s article.

The Tremble Janitors’ Association gave him an engraved gold key holder that he could attach to his belt, and the PTA had a potted plant for him with one thousand dollars in cash taped to the branches.

They were tricky about getting Eddie onstage. The PTA tri-presidents started to welcome everybody but then pretended the microphone wasn’t working. Eddie was standing at the rear of the auditorium. At the first hint of trouble, he rushed up to help. As he would later tell Phoebe for her story in the
Slash,
“I saw some black folks onstage, and coming up the aisle, I realized they was my family.”

Eddie was not exactly the perfect honoree. He had trouble standing in one place and being praised. When the microphone squealed during a speech enumerating his virtues, Eddie ran behind the curtain and adjusted the treble. During refreshments, he insisted on manning the coffee table. Each time they tried to get him to sit with his family, he said, “You know I’m not much at sitting; I’m a service person.”

The most asked question was, “Were you really surprised?” And each time Eddie answered, “Totally,” although people couldn’t be sure since Eddie
was
a service person and pleasing others was his primary service.

So many people made speeches, the celebration lasted over two hours.

There was just one sour note. Miss Esther had called the tri-presidents that afternoon to say that Mrs. Marris was feeling sick to her stomach and would not be attending.

Mrs. Marris must have had a twenty-four-hour flu — or maybe even a shorter twelve-hour economy version — because when they arrived at school next morning, there she was, standing in the hallway by the main office, a smile plastered in place, saying good morning to everybody and hurrying them along to home base.

There was excitement in the air; this was the last day of school before the long Thanksgiving weekend.

Adam spied Marris and put his head down, trying to blend into the crowd and flow on by, but it didn’t work.

“Adam Canfield,” she called out. Was that menace in her voice or was Adam imagining it? “Adam,” she repeated. “Am I going to see my copy of the
Slash
this morning?”

Adam figured it was good they were in a public place, so Marris probably would not shoot him or bludgeon him to death with so many witnesses around.

“It’s nearly done,” he lied. “You’ll have it first thing Monday.”

“I better,” she said. “November’s almost gone.” The crowd of kids was thinning out. Fewer witnesses. “I know it’s going to have that story on Miss Bloch, am I right?” She was smiling, but her eyes reminded Adam of an owl he had seen on a Discovery Channel special, right before it swooped down, grabbed a mouse by the tail, and flew off for supper. Adam identified with that mouse, its pitiful butt shaking in terror high above the forest floor. At this moment, Adam needed all his powers of concentration to keep from busting out in the shakes himself.

“Oh yes,” he said. “It will have the Miss Bloch story. That will definitely be in there, Mrs. Marris. If there’s one thing that’s absolutely certain, it’s the Miss Bloch story for page 1.”

Marris leaned toward him, smiling hard, and in a voice that only he could hear, whispered, “It damn well better be.”

That long weekend was a blur of work for Adam, Jennifer, and most of the
Slash
staff. It wasn’t just the Miss Bloch story. Phoebe was writing up Eddie Appreciation Night. Sammy and the Spotlight Team were finishing their articles on the cafeteria food.

Jennifer was handling the follow-up to the hoop story, and there were plenty of fresh developments on that front. On Wednesday afternoon Jennifer got another e-mail from the zoning lawyer. The judge had granted the restraining order. The county was prohibited from tearing down “all basketball structures red-tagged in the last thirty days under local law 200-52.7A.”

The hoops were saved! At least for the time being. The zoning lawyer said he had more news, but it was too much for an e-mail, and asked that Jennifer call him. Because of the holiday, he even gave her his home number.

She reached him that night. His daughter answered. When the little girl heard it was the
Slash,
she got excited.

“Is this about the basketball hoop stowy?” she said. “Have we got gweat news! The little childwen have been saved! Victowy is at hand! Hold on, I’ll get Daddy.”

The lawyer explained that the county zoning board could still appeal the judge’s ruling, but he didn’t think that would happen, based on a conversation he had with the Tremble County attorney. It was the county attorney who represented the Herbs and the zoning board. It was the county attorney who was supposed to fight for Tremble’s right to tear down the hoops. But halfway through the hearing, it was the county attorney who started sinking lower and lower in his chair. “By the time the hearing was over,” the zoning lawyer told Jennifer, “you could barely see the county attorney’s head. Afterward, I made a wisecrack about what great witnesses the Herbs were. And the county attorney says, ‘If you added the Herbs together, their combined IQ would not reach three digits.’”

There was more. At the hearing, the people who organized the petition drive presented the judge all the signatures they’d collected. “Thousands of names,” said the zoning lawyer. “I stopped counting at three thousand. I thought the county attorney would be furious, but he just winked at me and whispered, ‘Thank God for democracy.’”

“The way I figure it,” the zoning lawyer said, “thousands of signatures represent thousands of votes. If there’s one thing the top politicians in Tremble stand for, if there’s just one principle they hold dearer than all others, it is getting themselves reelected. I’m pretty sure we’ve heard the last of the basketball hoop crackdown.”

Jennifer was thrilled, but overwhelmed by all the work still to do. After hanging up, she e-mailed Adam a brief summary, then collapsed into bed, exhausted.

Thanksgiving morning Adam usually went with his father and Danny to the Turkey Classic, the annual football matchup between Tremble High and North Tremble High, but this year he skipped the game to work on the Miss Bloch story. He had to finish a rough draft so he and Jennifer could go over it together. Even more important, they needed to figure out how to deal with Marris on Monday morning. It was a cardinal rule of journalism, they knew, that you had to get a comment — or at least try to — from the person you were writing about.

But what if that person also had the power to decide what did or did not go into the newspaper? The moment they asked Marris about the gold plumbing, it was obvious to Adam that she would go ballistic and order them to kill the story.

Adam felt maybe they didn’t need a comment from Marris. After all, she had already given them her version of the Miss Bloch story way back in September. That might be enough.

Writing the first draft was not too bad. Adam found when he had done all the reporting for an article, the writing went quickly. The hard stories were the ones full of reporting holes that you tried to hide with fancy writing.

Friday and Saturday the three typists e-mailed in stories. This time Adam and Jennifer agreed about the front page. For the top left of page 1 they chose the basketball piece. Jennifer wrote the headline: “Hoops Saved!” Underneath it, the subhead read: “Judge Halts Zoning Crackdown.”

Beneath that story, stripped across the middle of the page, was the Spotlight Team report: “Cafeteria Food = Low Grade.” To accompany that piece and the two other Spotlight articles running inside, a girl in art workshop had designed a cartoon logo of a spotlight shining on a green hot dog.

On the bottom of the page was Phoebe’s story on Eddie.

That left only the Miss Bloch story, which was to go at the top right of page 1.

Several times the coeditors argued over whether they needed to give Marris a second chance to explain herself. Jennifer said yes. She reminded Adam about a PBS
Frontline
documentary she’d watched on a reporter who had not given the subject a fair chance to reply and how it had turned into a multizillion-dollar lawsuit.

Truth was, neither of them knew what to do. They needed help from a grownup but didn’t want to ask their parents. Adam was afraid his mom and dad either wouldn’t believe that Marris was a crook or would want him to kill the story because Adam would get into too much trouble. Jennifer’s parents were so involved in the PTA, and the PTA seemed to do whatever Marris wanted. Would a PTA person ever believe Marris stole seventy-five thousand dollars? Jennifer knew PTA members did lots of good, but when it came to Marris, they seemed to be the number-one principal-kiss-up organization.

Jennifer had been amazed when her mom actually had believed that Marris was too sick to attend Eddie’s party.

Finally, Adam said, “Danny. We could go see Danny.”

Jennifer liked that. Danny did seem like one of those rare adults who still had some kid in him. Besides, it would be another chance to visit all those adorable dogs and cats. Jennifer was really in the mood to have some cute animal take one look at her and instantly fall in love.

They agreed to meet at the shelter after Jennifer got back from church.

By Saturday night they had the whole paper ready, except the lead story. They left that space blank.

In the car on the way home from Adam’s house, Jennifer sat in the dark, not saying a word. Her mother asked if everything was all right. “Whatchya thinking about, sweetie?” her mother said.

“Nothing,” said Jennifer, but it wasn’t true. At church on Sunday their minister always reserved time for a personal prayer. Jennifer wondered if it would be a misuse of the power of prayer to ask God for help on the Marris story.

When Jennifer pulled up to the animal shelter on her bike, Adam was already there.

Adam, she thought, getting places early. This Marris story was making them crazy. They hurried up the front steps and asked the receptionist to call Danny.

After a few minutes, the phone at the desk rang. The woman motioned for Adam and, stretching the cord, handed him the receiver.

“Hey, Adam,” Danny said. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s going to be awhile. I’m in the operating room, assisting our surgeon. We’ve got a six-year-old with heart failure. Doc’s pumping him full of Isopurel, gave him a shot of epinephrine to jolt the heart, but the EKG looks bleak. I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

It was nearly a half-hour before Danny appeared. Adam took one look and knew the news was bad. “Lost him,” said Danny. “Sweetheart of a dog, too. Lovely disposition. A big-hearted Lab. Too big, as a matter of fact. Enlarged. Leaky valve. Cardiac arrest, 12:58
P.M.
I had to finish filling out the certificate.”

They followed Danny through the door into the high-ceilinged room full of chainlink cages. But this time, instead of rushing on to the adoption arena, Danny paused and greeted the animals. Then he walked to a bench in a corner and slumped down. Adam and Jennifer joined him.

“I hate it when we lose one,” he said. “Doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I just can’t go marching back out to the arena and fire off a bunch of brilliant matches like everything’s normal. I need to collect myself, sit here among the dogs and cats. Reminds me why we’re here.”

“We need your help,” said Adam.

“I doubt I can be much use. My specialty’s animals,” said Danny. “People never cease to confuse me.”

“Remember last time we came, to ask about Miss Bloch?” said Adam. “Well, we solved the mystery.”

“We solved lots of mysteries,” said Jennifer, and right there, amid the barking and meowing, they told Danny the long, sordid story of Marris’s scheme.

Danny listened without interrupting. When they’d finished, his reaction stunned them. “Poor Ruth Ellen,” said Danny.

“Poor Ruth Ellen!” Adam repeated. “Poor Ruth Ellen! What about poor us? She stole the children’s money, and she’s probably going to kill us for telling the truth about it. You don’t think it’s true?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Danny said. “It rings one hundred percent true to me. Sounds exactly like the Ruth Ellen Marris I knew.”