Part 1 (2/2)
”Oops, sorry, Dr. Maggie, but someone filed a blank ca.s.sette by mistake. You'll have to read the ad copy live; it's sitting right there by the mike.”
Ah, the joys of small-town radio.
Reading the occasional commercial, or ”spot,” as they're called, is part of my job description. So I sat up straight, adjusted my headphones, and crossed my legs. No time for a bathroom break when there was a sixty-second spot to read.
Since our last copywriter quit two weeks ago, Irina, the Swedish receptionist, is the new WYME scribe. Irina is doing her best to learn English, but puns, humor, and slang expressions go whizzing over her beautiful blond head. This has led to some embarra.s.sing double entendres that I know will be the highlight of the blooper reel trotted out at the next WYME office party.
But how can Irina think straight with our studly sports announcer, Big Jim Wilc.o.x, breathing down her neck? Or worse yet, staring down her impressive cleavage.
I put on my best talk radio voice, oozing warmth and sincerity, like a QVC host.
”So just call on the friendly folk at the Last Call Funeral Home in your hour of needs.” Needs? ”Er, need,” I said hastily. Couldn't someone at least proofread Irina's work? ”We have many ways of helping your dead ones.” Dead ones? Vera Mae snickered, and I glared at her. ”Um, that should be loved ones, folks. Sorry about that. Yes, it definitely should be loved ones.”
Finally I got to the Last Call slogan: ”Remember, at the Last Call Funeral Home, we leave no stone unturned in our quest to help you.”
No stone unturned?I bet Jim Wilc.o.x helped her with this one. It was just the sort of soph.o.m.oric humor that would appeal to the middle-aged sports jock.
”Ready to take a call? Sharlene is still on the line,” Vera Mae said in a sugary voice.
”Bring it on!” I was gritting my teeth so hard, I knew I'd need a bite plate before the day was out.
”Line two!”
”h.e.l.lo, Sharlene, you're on the couch . . .”
”Oh, Dr. Maggie, you've just got to help me,” Sharlene wailed. ”I don't think I can take another minute of this. It's just not fair!” She began sobbing and snuffling, a walking ad for divorce court.
”Now, Sharlene, try to calm down and tell me what's going on. I'm sure I can help you.” Actually, I was pretty sure a good lawyer could help Sharlene a lot more than I could, but for the moment, she was my problem. More m.u.f.fled sobs. ”Is it your husband? Is that what's troubling you today?”
This provoked an even bigger wail from Sharlene. ”He's ruining my life. My mama warned me not to marry him. I always thought I could change him.”
”Sharlene, you know we've talked about this issue before. When a woman marries a man hoping to change him . . .” I allowed myself a small, knowing chuckle. ”Changing a man is as likely as--”
”As teaching a pig to fly!” Vera Mae's voice boomed into the booth. I think I liked it better when Vera Mae confined herself to holding up signs. Her homespun wisdom can be a bit unnerving on live radio, but she has a heart as big as an IMAX screen.
”Thank you for that gem of wisdom, Vera Mae.”
I could hear m.u.f.fled sobs from Sharlene. ”Sharlene, do you remember some of the options we discussed the last time you called? We talked about various strategies you could use in dealing with Walter.”
Vera reached for one of her favorite signs and held it up.
KHATTC.
Translation: Kick his a.s.s to the curb. This is Vera Mae's surefire solution for an errant husband or boyfriend.
Don't ask; don't reason; don't plead. Just KHATTC.
”Well, I appreciate your help, Dr. Maggie, but somehow I just can't get up the energy to do anything. And you know, Walter can be real mean when's he's been drinking, and he seems to have a sixth sense or something, just like Patricia Arquette on Medium.” I gave an involuntary little shudder. There was something creepy and predatory about Walter, and I hoped he never discovered my home address or phone number. I do my best to protect my privacy, but there's always an element of risk when you do a live radio show five days a week. ZabaSearch will get you every time.
You can't hide in a tiny market like Cypress Grove. You never know when a disgruntled listener might take offense to your advice and then track you down to even the score.
”Let's try to stick to the issue of you and Walter, Sharlene. Can you pinpoint a time when things started to go wrong between you?”
”Well,” she said hesitantly, ”things have never been the same since he threw me through the plate-gla.s.s window last Christmas.”
Hmm. This poor girl needed more help than I could give her on a radio show.
”Oh, no!” Sharlene's voice rose to a terrified squeak. ”I hear him coming, Dr. Maggie. I've got to hang up right now. Lord knows what he'll do if he finds me talking to you. He's been making some threats and--”
”Sharlene!” A male voice boomed in the background, and suddenly the phone went dead. For a moment, I just stared at the microphone. Poor Sharlene. Would anyone be able to help her? Would she ever find the strength to leave Walter?
Finally, Vera Mae broke the silence. ”Are you ready for another call?” She sounded shaken, and for once, she wasn't making any smart-a.s.s jokes. ”I'm leaving a line open for you, Sharlene,” she added softly.
The next couple of calls were routine, and as we slipped into a commercial, Vera darted around the part.i.tion and stuck her head in the studio. ”Maggie, there's some nut on line four. He's got his panties in a twist. I think it's about that Sanjay fellow we've scheduled for later today. He's making threats. Crazy threats.”
Crazy threats? We came back from the break and Vera Mae said smoothly, ”Take line four, Dr. Maggie. It's important.”
”All our calls are important, Vera Mae,” I said, confused. Who was on the line and what did he want? And why would he be upset about our upcoming featured guest, Guru Sanjay Gingii? Gingii was a popular radio and television personality. A little nutty, but harmless, in my professional opinion. New Age gurus aren't my cup of tea, but this guy has a huge following, a book deal, a movie deal, and a syndicated newspaper column.
”You're on the couch with Dr. Maggie,” I said, swiveling back to the board.
”Your days are numbered,” a m.u.f.fled voice said. The voice was soft, insinuating, chilling. I swallowed hard, and my mouth suddenly went dry. I felt the skin p.r.i.c.kle across my shoulders. ”Did you read the note I sent you?”
”The note?”
”It's in a bright yellow envelope. It was hand delivered this morning.”
I looked over at Vera, who was frantically flipping through the listener mail. She held up a canary yellow envelope with no stamp and waved it at me. Then she ripped it open, read the note inside, and blanched.
”Did you read the note?” the caller persisted.
”Why don't you tell me what it's all about?” I said quickly. ”We always welcome listener opinions, good or bad.”
A nasty chuckle from the mystery caller. ”This one's bad,” he rasped. ”This is going to be the apocalypse.”
”The apocalypse?”
”Like I said in the note, the end is coming quicker than you think. Much quicker. It will end with a bang, not a whimper. It's the end for you and for those G.o.dless Sanjay-ites.”
Sanjay-ites?Oh, yeah, the people who dressed in white and were followers of Sanjay Gingii. There was something eerie about the whispery voice, and I felt little icy fingers tap-dance up and down my spine. I couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman.
I took a deep breath, my mind skidding over my options. Was it best to keep this person talking? Or break off the connection?
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