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Allison’s reaction to the column was to love me even more. Alas, that was not the case with a lot of other people.
The reaction to the column from Steven’s fans was, in a word, ugly.
I had missed the initial furor on Friday, being caught up in Maurice’s web, but Bob had left several strange messages on my voice-mail. When I finally got around to listening to them on Saturday morning, I was alarmed.
Message #1: “Chamberlain here, Love. Just wanted you to know that today’s column is getting ... mixed reviews, you could say. From a writing standpoint, it’s the best yet. Really. But there’s a problem with upper management. They feel that you should not have ended this series without their OK ... Shit, let’s be honest, Love. That column has been the only thing selling this paper for the past three weeks, and those fuckers upstairs know that they’re screwed now. Just call me. I need a bone to throw them.”
Message #2: “Love, if you’re thinking of coming in today, forget it. In fact, you should probably hole up at a friend’s house and keep your head down for a while. There’s a bunch of crazy freaks outside the Gazette, and ten to one they’ll try to gather outside your house, too. Just lie low. And call me.”
Message #3: “Donny, I hope to God that those whack-jobs haven’t got their hands on you. If you’re alive and well, you’d better call me right now, boy, because I’m getting a little concerned, OK?” (At that moment, his voice became muffled, as he covered the receiver.) “They did what? Are you shitting me, Meg? Goddamn it! Call Allan Hill. Bunch of psychos!” (He came back onto the line) “Sorry about that! Little problem here. Just stay the hell away from here, Donny, and wear a wig and sunglasses or something, OK? And call me!”
Allison heard the last message as she came out of the shower. “Donny, what was that? Oh my gosh, it sounds like someone’s after you. A wig and sunglasses?” Her face was tight with worry. At that moment, we heard a commotion outside the house. I opened the door to find our paper delivery man shouting angrily at a group of strangers lining our sidewalk.
“What the hell, man? Can’t you just let a guy do his job? Ya moron!” The poor guy turned to put the paper in my mailbox. The sight of me standing there just about gave him a heart attack. He handed me the thick bundle of newsprint and eyed me balefully. “Some people are just ignorant,” he muttered. As he turned to break through the crowd again, he yelled at all of them. “You’d better get the hell outta my way, ‘cause I’m not going around ya! Move!”
In a state of shock, Allison and I hurriedly shut the door, breathing fast. Leaning against it as I locked the deadbolt, the sounds of booing and general unhappiness filtered through. I dropped to my hands and knees and carefully scuttled over to the window. Allison was fast on my heels.
“Who are these people? What do they want?” she hissed.
“They want Steven. And they wanna get me for taking him away from them,” I muttered. We edged the window blind open and peeked out. It was scary out there. At least thirty people were assembled on the sidewalk. Some had placards (Come back, Steven!, Where is the Love for McCartney?, and Give me my Steven! were the most notable). There were a number wearing Steven T-shirts, buttons, etc. One person was dangling an effigy from a noose. I really hoped that that was not supposed to be me.
Allison’s sharp intake of breath behind me told me that she had seen the effigy, too. She gripped my leg tightly. “Call the police!” she whispered. “Call nine-one-one right now!”
No sooner had she said the words than we heard sirens coming up the street. Two cop cars pulled up beside the crowd. God bless our pernickety neighbours! The police were having a hard time getting people to leave peacefully. After one officer found himself wrestling with a woman in her sixties, they called for back-up. It took four cop cars and forty-five minutes more to clear the area. When they were done, two of the harried-looking officers came up the walkway to the door.
When Allison opened it and they caught sight of her big tummy, the expressions on their faces softened a bit.
“Ma’am, sir, I’m Constable Sawicki and this is Constable Arnold. There’s been quite a disturbance outside your home this morning. Did you see it?”
I nodded. “Sorry, Officer. We were afraid to come out there. I think that they’re angry about the column that I write.”
Constable Arnold peered at me suddenly. “Are you the guy who writes about Steven McCartney?”
I nodded again nervously.
Constable Arnold was quickly returning to his professionally impassive face, but he muttered quietly, “I love that guy.”
The officers warned us that they couldn’t stand guard outside the house, so that the best thing for us to do would be to stay with a friend or family member, and to do it soon, before the crowd began to trickle back. We thanked them and hurried to pack an overnight bag.
“Who should we stay with?” Allison asked.
“Allison, I think that we’ll have to go to Mum and Dad’s. They’ll be really hurt if they hear that we went anywhere else in our hour of need.” I smiled at her apologetically.
She gave me one of her Marge Simpson grumbles of disapproval, but she gave in. “Just don’t let your Dad smoke in the house.” She rubbed her stomach. “The baby, right?”
We sneaked out the back door, and Allison hid at the side of the house until I had her car door unlocked and the engine running. She held her belly as she dashed to the car, hurling her bulk onto the seat.
“Be careful, honey!” I cried. “Take it easy. I don’t want you or the baby to get hurt!” Allison’s response was to madly stretch her arms across me to lock my door. You’d think that we were trying to escape flesh-eating zombies.
I squealed the tires a little bit on the way out of the driveway.
I couldn’t help myself.
