Part 13 (1/2)

Helen raised an eyebrow and grumbled a word. ”Meaning?”

”Sensationalism.” She splashed into the bowl with her spoon. Cereal scattered onto the table.

”Is that how you see my profession?” Helen asked, an edge to her voice.

”Not always.” She dunked the spoon again. Whoosh went the cereal. ”But you do hype stories.”

Helen counted twenty-seven bits of toasted rice that were scattered about the table, to her annoyance, while Cory chatted endlessly and looked disgustingly well groomed for that hour of the day. Well groomed, but sloppy in her eating habits. Helen wished Cory was as careful at her own breakfast table as she was in a public restaurant. Cory turned the page of her paper and her hand knocked the bowl.

”I know a woman,” Helen said calmly and got up. ”She worked with me on fiction.” She walked to the cabinet. ”She got me so crazy that I called her a word-sucking vampire.” She pulled a large crystal salad bowl from the cabinet and slammed it onto the counter. ”She told me the characters needed conflict.”

”Uh-huh.” Cory's nose remained in the paper.

With fluid motion, Helen dragged the bowl from the counter, reached up, s.n.a.t.c.hed a ladle from above the butcher block, dropped it into the oversized bowl, and stopped beside Cory. She banged the bowl onto the table. Cory jumped.

”I wish I'd known you then,” Helen said.

Cory looked puzzled. ”Is there a problem?”

Helen glared. ”No. No problem.” She grabbed Cory's cereal bowl with both hands, dumped its contents into the larger bowl, and slammed it back down on the table.

Cory folded the paper. She looked at the bowl and then at Helen. ”What's the matter?”

Helen picked up the large bowl. ”Hold this,” she said and then scooped the spilled cereal into her palm and held it over the bowl. ”This is the matter.” She emptied the stray pieces into the bowl. ”Every morning-dunk, splash, snap-crackle-pop. I've asked you lovingly and then politely. Now I'm telling you. No more snap-crackle-pop if I gotta clean up the mess.”

”I wash my dishes,” Cory said.

”This isn't about dirty dishes. Every morning you turn our breakfast table into chaos.”

”Well, I'll alert the media: 'Chamberlain Gets Careless.'”

Helen stomped to the cabinet, grabbed the box of Rice Krispies, and trashed it. ”I am the media, and you'll get shredded wheat.”

”What is it with you? You complain if I'm not here and you complain when I am. Eat in the dining room if you're unhappy in here.”

Helen stormed out of the kitchen, into her writing room, and slammed the door. She powered up her computer, popped a disk into the drive, and watched the flickering green light. She needed a moment to come down from her anger and pondered whether she should work, in her current state. If she started a column, she might sensationalize, bend the arrow.

”My readers eat it up and my lover criticizes me. Even weathermen get to exaggerate.”

They don't merely say it snowed, they'll tell you how high, how long, how fast, how deadly. Gale force winds. Major storm blowing in. Major power outages. Major roadways impa.s.sable. Major this, major that, none of which should be confused with the Major Deegan Bridge, and that is, by the way, closed.

And now for local conditions.

Helen shut down the computer and headed for the door. She yanked it open.

”Al Roker from NBC wouldn't take that c.r.a.p from you,” she yelled toward the kitchen.

One. Two. Three. Helen counted the seconds before Cory charged down the hallway.

”You want to fight?” She pushed past Helen. ”Look at this room. Reams of paper. Reference books. Piles of...stuff everywhere.”

”It's my work and it's not in your way.”

Cory picked up a silver lightning-bolt SS insignia from the desk. ”This is work? Surrounding yourself with death? Look at the walls! You have more photographs than the Holocaust Museum. It's wallpaper, and badly hung. The n.a.z.is had a better sense of organization than you have.”

”Don't ever glorify those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to me.”

”I want you to clean up the room.” She picked up a small battered aluminum vial from the top of Helen's monitor. ”Look.” She wiped the dusty cap. ”What is all of this junk?”

Helen grabbed the vial and shook it in Cory's face.

”A hair ribbon. My father opened an oven door and saw a little girl wearing two pink hair ribbons. The n.a.z.is were less organized at that point.”

She pulled a black-and-white photograph from a pile near the desk. Bodies filled a trench fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. She shoved the picture toward Cory's face.

”He was on detail to straighten out the dead for a decent burial.” She grabbed a Luger from a leather holster. ”A man, just bones, walked up to my father and asked him to shoot him. Dad refused but didn't take the gun away soon enough. The man blew his own brains out.” She seized a stack of photographs and flung them against the wall. ”That's what this junk is. He faced this horror. He took these pictures. He ate, slept, and lived death for two weeks.”

She hurried into their bedroom and curled up with a pillow to hug away the hurt. She thought of her father as a young soldier, the revulsion he had faced while the camps were liberated. A hero to the survivors, he had felt more like a funeral director.

A few minutes later, she heard Cory enter the room. She found comfort with Cory curled against her. Cautiously, she slipped an arm around her waist.

”You never told me,” Cory said. ”I'm sorry.”

”We talked about writing a book and then he died.” Helen sobbed. ”People still don't believe.” She opened her eyes. ”He wanted them to remember.”

”You share his convictions.”

”Not exactly. His convictions would just as soon see people like us shot, yet he despised Hitler for the deaths. I couldn't convince him that his h.o.m.ophobia was the same prejudice.”

”It explains your pa.s.sion to make the show happen. You want the world to see.” She ran her fingers through Helen's hair. ”You're a strong woman.”

”Not so strong, maybe.” Helen sat up, pulled a tissue from the box, and blew hard.

”Why do you say that?”

Helen wiped her eyes and blew again. She looked down at Cory. ”There's another box of Rice Krispies in the cabinet.”

”I know.”

Helen stared at Cory. She loved her hair, thought it beautiful, but was dying to get her hands on it. A cut, just to the shoulders, would transform Cory into a new beauty. Short bangs that could fly all over, if she liked. It seemed their way.

”You have that look in your eyes again.” Cory moved from the bed and held her index fingers up to form a cross. ”Stay away from my hair.”

”Aw, please. Just to your shoulders. It'll be a whole new look for you.”