Virginia Darrow didn’t have a choice: get the interview. The alternative was unacceptable, unthinkable. All her other attempts to meet John the Apostle had been immediately rebuffed by some witch named Sheila Drysdale. Her head ached. That Drysdale woman was one wily PR guru. To add insult to injury, Sheila had called her boss, Perry, thus destroying the last shreds of Virginia’s credibility.
She glanced around the tiny ABN office temporarily given to her while she developed her story, seeking inspiration. All she got was perspiration, rolling down her armpits in cold beads, as she stared at the empty walls and desk, blank except for her scribbling. Near her, the phone waited, so hot and damp from use that she refused to touch it.
Plan B. Gotta have a plan B, Gina, her old man used to say. She laughed in spite of herself. His life was Plan B.
A garbage collector in the small northeastern town of Hillsdale, Connecticut, William Henry Darrow never saw much of life beyond the gaping hole of his dingy gray truck. Every now and then he’d bring home a busted chair or a dead radio, trash from some rich person’s home for his beloved Sadie, her mum. She was the love of his life, even after she crashed their car, killing their eldest daughter Olivia.
Her mother never really recovered from the guilt and despair of the accident. She had no interests, and seldom went out.
As a teenager, Virginia had studied hard, the dread of living her parents’ lives haunting her, and became the first person in her family ever to graduate from high school. Her mom had actually swallowed her self-pity and left the apartment to attend the ceremonies, where Virginia stunned everyone by receiving a $1500 scholarship, given yearly to the student who best typified Hillsdale’s leaders of the future. The second she heard the applause at the sound of her name, first hesitant then mounting, it was as though her father had unearthed a whole new life from the trash bin. No longer did she trail in her dead sister’s shadow.
Trembling, Virginia rose from her seat, suddenly imagining herself to be a new Phoenix, rising like the famous Greek mythological bird, out of the ashes of her past. She nearly ripped the envelope of cash from the principal’s hand for fear he’d made a mistake, then marched past her excited parents and right on downtown, where she bounced onto a bus headed for New York.
The doubts and recriminations started almost immediately. She hadn’t spoken to her folks since, though she thought of them frequently. Every now and then she’d reach for the phone, sometimes even picking it up, and once, dear God, once, late one night after escaping a near rape, she had dialed, only to hang up on her mother’s feeble voice in a fugue of shame. After all these years, what could she possibly say that they’d want to hear? How dare she solicit their sympathy? She attempted to gain solace from the unrealistic hope that they occasionally saw her on television.
She suspected that Olivia watched her, heavy make-up cracking in disapproval, all the time. Well, too bad about you, Liv, she thought. You bailed years ago.
Virginia shook her pounding head, chewed several aspirins and tried to concentrate. Perry would be at her door any moment to discuss the logistics of The Interview. Think, think, think!
When the knock finally came, Virginia Darrow had munched more pills; her head still throbbed, but the old man would have been proud of his surviving child.
She had a Plan B.
“You’re going to do what?”
“You heard me!” Virginia snapped, irritated that her confidence had eroded two minutes after Perry Kernan arrived. She was having a bad hair day, always a serious issue for an on camera reporter. Plan B was losing some of its luster.
Perry unwrapped a fresh stick of gum and chomped for a long time. Virginia gritted her teeth and waited, this time her blotched skin was shielded by a linen jacket. “Let me get this straight,” Perry said between chews. “You’re abandoning the interview with John the Apostle to become one of his moonies?”
“They’re called Passionates and no, I’m not becoming one for real.” She forced a laugh. “Closest I ever got to religious music is the ol’ Jesus Saves camp song.”
The chewing stopped. “The what?”
“You know.” She jumped to her feet and started singing, “Jesus walks on water, He’s the life guard at our pool. Jesus saves, Jesus saves, Jes—” She paused, then flushed. “Never mind. I’m just pretending for the story.”
“What story? The interview’s the story we want.” Perry clicked the gum. “The story you swore you could provide—how’d you put it?—simple as ABC.” Perry stood up, spat the gum into her recycle basket.
At that moment, Virginia was ready to shove Perry into the garbage along with it.
“That’s why you were hired. Not for some cockamamie undercover BS. A simple interview, you said, with a simple man. Listen,” Perry continued locking eyes with hers. “Without it, you haven’t got a prayer at this or any other network. Get that interview or get out.”
Virginia now wanted to rip the other woman’s head off. Instead, she took several deep breaths and turned on her trademark megawatt TV smile. “Look, every Tom, Jay and Ellen is doing interviews these days. Why not something different? Picture it, the inside scoop and poop on the world’s most reclusive evangelist. I mean, just how many stigmatics are there, anyway? You could fit ’em all on the head of a pin.”
She was on a roll. “Besides, you don’t think you’re gonna get any kinda dirt by holding a camera in front of the horse’s mouth, do you?”
Perry eyed her carefully.
Emboldened, Virginia plunged ahead. “Look, I know it can’t be done before Easter. After all,” she coerced another laugh. “I’ll need a few days to seduce the guy.” Perry’s face remained impassive. “But I’ll have it right after.”
Her boss slowly peeled open another stick of Juicy Fruit.
Yes, yes, yes! Fingernails clenched in her thighs, Virginia waited. This was her chance, her Holy Grail. She knew she could do it. Come on, say it…yes!
Finally, Perry said, “I want to make this very clear, Virginia. You’re on your own in this. ABN doesn’t condone what your going to do. Understood?”
Virginia held her breath.
Perry chomped, then added, “Just don’t forget…our deadline’s four p.m., Easter Monday.”
Yes!
