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(Seattle, Friday, September 26, 2013)
Janet was well into her morning routines, when a secretary from the advertising department came upstairs. She was excited, her eyes bright. “Look out the window. We’ve got picketers.”
There was a dash to the windows that overlooked the street. Janet followed along behind slowly. After all, she thought, she knew what they looked like.
Across the street, three floors below, were about eight people holding the same placards: Repent, Baby Killer, Confess. Janet sighed.
The managing editor stuck his head out of his office. “Janet, Steve. I want to see you in my office.” He looked at the rest of the gawkers. “Don’t you all have work to do?”
The M.E. was standing by his own window, looking out, when Janet and Steve joined him. “It seems targeted at you, Janet,” the M.E. said, not looking at her. “From what I hear. Do you know why?”
“My father is a minister,” she said. “They see it as a betrayal of him, I think. It makes it seem personal to them.”
Steve nodded. “That makes sense.” There was relief in his voice. “Why didn’t you say something? We could have found someone else to do the story if we’d looked. What does your father say about it?”
“My father and I haven’t talked in decades,” Janet said levelly. “And you looked for another reporter. The story was important. So, I did it.”
“Okay,” the M.E. said at last. “How are we going to cover it?”
“We take a picture, talk to them.” Steve shrugged. “Let them have their say.”
“Run it on the editorial page then,” Janet said.
“Why?” Steve asked. “We cover other protests on page one.”
“Not like this one,” she said, looking down at the street. “Because it will be their say. Unless you want me to have a reporter call up the pro-choice crowd, the various liberal preachers, et cetera. If we’re going to run just one side, it belongs on the editorial page.”
Steve considered that. “Could run just a picture. It’s happening. Probably make the evening news anyway.”
“We could,” Janet agreed. “But where? Page one? If not, which page? Front of local? Inside somewhere—a spot news photo?”
The M.E. watched the group below for a bit longer and then turned away from the window. “Photo on the front of the local section,” he said. “No text. The cutlines can say it was a protest of the stories we ran last month.”
The other two nodded. Janet hesitated, then said, “They were outside my house. And I have been feeling watched at times.”
The M.E. frowned. “Be careful,” he said at last. “I’ll remind the receptionists to be cautious about what information they give out.”
Janet nodded and went out to send a photographer down to get the photo.
She stopped at Mac’s desk on her way back through the newsroom. “You still got a gun you can loan me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said cautiously. “What made you change your mind?”
“Anger.” She laughed, heard the hysteria in her voice, and stopped.
Mac looked at her for a moment. “After work then,” he said. “There’s a range not far from your house. If you’re going to have a gun of mine, you have to be able to shoot it.”
Janet swallowed. Nodded. “All right.”
Holding a pistol was different than shooting a rifle or shotgun, Janet found. Mac instructed her on gripping it, holding it steady. She was startled by the recoil. When she could hit the target at 10 feet, Mac stopped her lesson.
“If the person is farther away than 10 feet, you’d be better off to throw the gun at them and run,” he said.
She laughed, brushed her hair out of her eyes. “I can’t throw any better than I can shoot,” she said.
“Then just run.”
Shooting was tiring, Janet thought, as she got back into Mac’s vehicle. Her shoulders and arms ached, even though it had only been about 30 minutes of shooting—she was sweating.
“Feel better?” Mac asked as he backed out of the gun range parking lot and headed out toward the freeway.
“Yes, I do,” she said surprised.
Mac nodded. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he said. “A gun makes you feel like you’re in charge. But it’s a last resort. Don’t get cocky.”
She grinned. “Empowerment.” She laughed. “Now there’s a crusade for feminists: Don’t be afraid, buy a gun.”
Mac snorted. “NRA tried that one. With pink holsters,” he said dryly.
Janet laughed.
She had hopes that perhaps the morning protest would eliminate her evening guard, but they were back again at 5:30 p.m. Grimly, she went about her evening routine while turning up Bach on the stereo.
Mac was attending a Christian rap concert at Kate’s invitation. He was amused at the concept, but he’d agree to take her anywhere she was willing to go, even if it was with five other people. He wondered if Kate would know any of the people marching along the sidewalk in front of Janet’s house. They seemed so removed from the pleasant environment Kate lived in. Shorty had asked if he was really interested in Kate, or if he wanted to be adopted by her mother. Mac snorted. He was too old for a mother, now, but he had to admit Shorty knew him well. The Fairchild household appealed to him as well as Kate.
Mac actually had a good time at the concert. He found the music tolerable, Kate’s friends were pleasant enough, and he hadn’t been this amused by anything in a long time.
The band used rap beats, added Christian lyrics, and tossed in enough stage presence to titillate the crowd of suburban white kids. Most of the crowd didn’t even pretend to be anything else. He’d never seen a concert crowd dressed so conservatively. Oh, there were a few kids in urban black with piercings, and one busload of kids came in wearing baggie pants and team caps on backwards. But who would have thought: church buses were parked outside the auditorium for a rap concert?
“Stop laughing,” Kate whispered, elbowing him.
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are, I can see your eyes crinkle. This amuses you.”
He grinned at her. “Is that so bad?”
She laughed, happy to be there, happy with him, and even happy with the music.
“Do we seem so silly to you?” she asked later as they left the auditorium, holding hands.
“Not silly,” he said. “Innocent.”
She looked around at the crowd streaming out of the concert hall. People were laughing, talking to each other. There had been no drugs, no alcohol. There had been an altar call.
“It’s very different from the concerts you go to, isn’t it?” she said. “I hoped you would like it.”
Mac squeezed her hand, tucked her arm under his to pull her closer. “I like all kinds of music,” he said gently. “And this was a new experience. I had a good time. Really.” Then he grinned. “But it isn’t like a real rap concert.”
She laughed again. “Would you take me to one, sometime?”
Mac looked at her. She was wearing a stylish long blue skirt, and a white cotton shirt. Her hair was in its usual long braid. She’d added some jewelry and makeup for the occasion and looked great. He tried to picture her at the Bohemian. The image of Kelly flashed in his mind, with her black Lycra dress and high heels.
“I’d take you anywhere,” he said. “But you wouldn’t like it.” He helped her into his car, got in the other side. She settled into the seat with a sigh.
“Why wouldn’t I like it?” she asked.
He opened his mouth to try and explain. Shut it. At last he said, “You’d feel different, maybe out of place. I wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“But you are willing to come experience my world.”
He thought about it. In many ways her world was more tolerant of him than he’d expected. He wouldn’t count on his type of crowd to be as tolerant. The thought made him uncomfortable.
“It’s easy enough for me to blend in,” he began, saw her smirk, and laughed. “OK, so maybe I don’t blend in real well. But would you really be happy in a bar? Where most of the women are wearing skin-tight black miniskirts? Or low-riding skinny jeans with their midriffs showing and their belly button pierced?”
She looked away. “Probably not,” she admitted. “And it would make you uncomfortable to be with me, wouldn’t it?” She looked out the window. “Do you mind?” she asked, not looking at him.
He parked in front of her house. “Do I mind what?”
“That you couldn’t take me to the places you like to go?” She still didn’t look at him.
Mac reached over, gently turned her face toward him. Her eyes seemed huge. “I like you fine just the way you are,” he said quietly. “Don’t change for me.”
She smiled, tremulously and nodded. She fumbled with the door latch and got out. Mac met her at the fender to walk her to the front door.
At the doorstep, he stopped her. “I want to kiss you good night, is that OK?”
She smiled and kissed him gently, letting him take it from there. He pulled her closer, fitting her body to his, gently encouraging her to open her mouth to him. Her response was without pretense, as honest as she was. His body responded.
She froze when she felt his body harden and started to pull away.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, not looking at him.
“For what?” He stroked her hair. “Would you rather I not be physically attracted to you?”
She smiled, glanced at him cautiously out of the corner of her eye. He smiled at her, encouragingly.
“I don’t want you to think I was leading you on, or teasing you or anything,” she said in a rush.
He laughed. “What kind of man do you think I am?” he asked. “There’s no pressure here, Kate.”
She looked at him more openly and sighed contentedly at something she saw his face. He didn’t know what. She rested her head against his shoulder briefly, and then disengaged.
“Thank you,” she said.
He hid his puzzlement and kissed her gently. “I’ll wait until you’re inside,” he said. “And lock the door.”
She laughed. “Are you still going to Jehovah’s Valley?”
He nodded.
“Be careful,” she said. “Jehovah’s Valley may be a dangerous place.”
He turned her toward the door. “I’ve been in dangerous places before,” he said.
“Mac, I’m serious. Be very careful.”
He looked at her worried face and nodded slowly. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “I’ll call you from La Grande.”
Back in his car, he let out a long sigh. Shit oh dear, he thought, quoting Shorty. What the fuck was he doing with a good girl like her?