IT’S THE NEXT MORNING, AND Erica is in the kitchen making pancakes. Pancakes she can handle. From a mix. She did throw in a handful of blueberries, so there. Greg is out for a run. The girls are in the dining room, being awfully quiet. No doubt their noses are deep into cyberspace.
Erica is starting to obsess on what Eliot Woodson told her last night about the secessionist movements around the country. The story is multifaceted, has danger, uncertainty, drive—it might be the perfect topic for the first Spotlight. She’s especially fascinated by the couple out in North Dakota, Sturges and Mary Bellamy, and their Take Back Our Homeland movement. They’re the new, rational face of secessionism. And Erica suspects they might be great television.
“Jenny?” Erica calls. No answer. She pushes open the swinging door to the dining room. No sign of them. “Jenny?”
“Coming, Mom,” echoes from the bedroom wing.
Erica smells something burning and turns around. The pancakes are smoking. Serves her whole family right for putting her in charge of breakfast. She scrapes the mess into the trash and pours another batch. Then she picks up her phone and dials.
“Erica,” comes Leslie Wilson’s voice. Suddenly, in the cold kitchen light, Erica feels a little surge of insecurity. She can’t keep track of her own daughter or make a batch of pancakes, and she’s calling a woman who holds a unique place in the country’s cultural firmament on a Sunday morning. Erica plows forward—she didn’t get where she is by giving in to her self-doubt.
“I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you for last night. It was good for all of us.”
“You make it sound like cough medicine.” The two women laugh.
“The opera was wonderful. Who knew? But listen, can I ask your opinion on something?”
“Always.”
“Do you think the country’s current wave of secessionist movements would be a strong topic for Spotlight?”
“I do. As Eliot was saying last night, it’s fascinating and disturbing in and of itself, but equally so because of what it says about our current political and cultural climate. It taps right into a very angry and confused zeitgeist.”
“The Trump derangement syndrome?”
“Exactly. There are tens of millions of Americans working their tails off to stay two steps behind. For people who live in rural areas or dying rustbelt cities, well, it can seem like their America is obsolete. That time has passed them by. On television and online they’re flooded with images of wealth, technology, and diversity that can seem almost mocking to them.”
“In a little more than a decade, we’re going to be a majority minority country,” Erica says.
“Exactly. And these people don’t see a place for themselves in the emerging paradigm. And they deeply resent their tax dollars paying for programs they don’t support. Secession seems like a chance to both start anew and regain what they feel has been taken from them—their sense of who they are and what America stands for. But make no mistake—these groups are dead serious about their goals. And will use any means to achieve them. They’re dangerous.”
The danger, of course, is part of what makes them so compelling. Erica inhales and goes for it. “If I do choose it for the first Spotlight, would you consider being part of the program?”
“Absolutely. In fact, you can name me as a consultant,” Leslie says. “If it would be of any help,” she adds in a stab at modesty.
Erica’s short hairs tingle. Having Leslie Burke Wilson’s blessings and input on the show would be incredibly helpful—in terms of content, of course, but also for publicity and prestige. It’s major. “I would deeply appreciate it.”
“I hope you know by now, Erica, that I consider you a woman of substance.”
“Who saw her first opera at age thirty-five.”
They laugh again. “It was a pleasure meeting Greg. What a terrific guy. Stan was quite taken with him.”
“What were they discussing?”
“Ad buys on local television stations,” Leslie says drily. There’s a pause filled with sisterhood.
“Maybe that can be the topic of the second Spotlight.”
“You do want to throw male viewers a bone.”
“Anything to keep them out of our hair,” Erica says.
“Naughty-naughty. Fun-fun.”
Erica hangs up and flips the pancakes. “Jenny!” Where is that girl?
Erica hears the front door open, and moments later Greg breezes into the kitchen, looking pretty darn fetching in his running shorts and T-shirt. She leans in and gives him a quick kiss and gets a whiff of sweat mixed with his pine soap. She’ll be glad when the girls are safely on their flight back to Boston—and she and Greg can work off some of her nervous energy.
“Those look good,” Greg says.
“I made them not-from-scratch.”
“You really are up for anything—skydiving, saving the world, flapjacks.”
“Someone’s got to do it.”
Greg gives her a kiss. “Leslie Wilson is taken with you.”
“It’s mutual.”
There’s a pause, and Erica senses Greg wants to say something. She wants to say something too, to talk about where things stand between them, about his feelings on Spotlight. But she’s afraid if she brings it up, the mood will curdle, and she treasures these Sunday mornings filled with easy affection.
“Where are the little monsters?”
“Up to no good, no doubt.”
Just at that moment, Jenny and Beth burst into the kitchen, flushed with excitement.
“First batch!” Jenny cries.
“Don’t guests get served first?” Erica asks.
“Excuse me, Saint Mom.”
Beth eyes the pancakes and says, “Maple syrup contains trace nutrients.”
“Good to know,” Erica says. She plates the first batch and hands it to Beth. “The trace nutrients are out on the table.”
After the perfectly edible pancakes, Beth announces she wants to “post a quirky little doo-dah from Central Park.” Erica begs off chaperone duties—she wants to work on the proposal for Spotlight: The American Secession Movement—and Greg offers to take the girls off her hands for a couple of hours.
With the apartment to herself, Erica sits at her desk and gets to work. At one point she looks up and forty minutes have flown by. Then her mind goes to Beth. Something about that girl. An arrogance. Entitlement. She goes to YouTube and watches one of her videos. In it Beth is sitting at a desk in her bedroom, looking (Erica must admit) adorable. She talks fast, lightning fast, the words pouring out, and is indeed quirky and funny as she expounds on some feud between two pop singers Erica has never heard of—both of whom have apparently slept with Justin Bieber, ergo the feud. The whole thing is scarily immature and knowing at the same time.
Erica stands up and heads down to Jenny’s bedroom. Beth’s bright orange suitcase is open on the floor. Erica hesitates. It would be a violation of the girl’s privacy. But Beth is clearly having a big influence on Jenny. Maybe a good one. Maybe not. Maybe a bad one. Erica feels a sudden surge of protective instinct.
Come on, Erica, it’s already open.
Erica kneels down, her heart thumping, her ears hyper-alert for the sound of the front door opening. She carefully peeks into the suitcase. Beth brought something like six outfits, and come to think of it, she’s worn them all. There is a side pocket. It bulges a little. Erica pulls it open and sees a package of condoms.