Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“You work for the station, right?” the exec with glasses asked Sydney.

“Both of us do,” Sydney said, including Josh.

“See what you can do with her,” said the frazzled exec. “She insists on going back to Illinois. Talk her into staying for one more show. Earn your paychecks.”

Wiping his brow, he hustled down the narrow corridor to regions unknown. Sydney glanced at Josh. They stepped inside the room.

The three people on the couch glanced up simultaneously. Cheryl was red-eyed with exhaustion.

“Let me talk to her,” Sydney said.

The remaining exec, a portly man with balls for cheeks, got up, straightening the wrinkles in his pants. Sydney took his place. Skip gave her one of those “reason with her, will you?” looks.

“Alone,” Sydney said. “Josh and I would like to speak to her alone.”

The station exec bit his lower lip in thought, then said, “We’ll be right outside.” Leaning close to Sydney’s ear, he whispered, “Don’t let her leave this room until she agrees to appear on tomorrow night’s show.”

Skip stood and lingered a moment. “The station is being more than generous,” he said to no one in general. “They’ve offered her a $50,000 appearance fee. They didn’t have to, you know. She signed a contract. Winners return the next day. Those are the rules of the game.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

For a long while, no one spoke. Josh shuffled uneasily, then moseyed over to the couch and sat next to Cheryl, trying to appear nonchalant. He reminded Sydney of a junior high boy trying to summon up the courage to ask a girl to dance.

They were surrounded by dozens of photographs on the walls of past Wonder Wheel contestants, all smiling. Some held fistfuls of money. Master of ceremonies Skip Hirshberg was in every picture. It was a mosaic of the American dream—go to Hollywood, hit it big, be the envy of everyone in the country. The message to the contestants who waited in this room was clear: This could be you!

Tonight Cheryl McCormick qualified to have her picture on the wall along with all the other winners. Unlike them, Cheryl wasn’t smiling.

The strong odor of day-old coffee came from a pot at the far end of the room. Next to it was a tower of white cups, a bowl of pink sugar packets, and a cup filled with red stir sticks.

“That coffee’s turning my stomach,” Cheryl said. She pushed herself up from the couch with effort. She wobbled.

Josh jumped to steady her.

Cheryl didn’t seem to notice. “I’m going home,” she said.

“I’ll bring the car around,” Sydney said.

“Don’t do me any favors. I’ll call a cab.” Cheryl’s eyes were cold, her words clipped.

“Cheryl—”

“I can manage on my own, thank you very much.”

Pressing a hand against her back, the pregnant woman made for the door. Sydney stood and caught her by the arm.

“Cheryl, let us help you.”

The response was quick and heated. “I don’t want your help,” Cheryl spat. “I thought we were friends. Chalk it up to Midwestern naivete. I should have known reporters don’t have friends, only news sources.”

The on-the-air death notice announcement. In all the excitement, Sydney had forgotten about it.

“My purse,” Cheryl said, scanning the room.

Josh lunged for it and handed it to her.

“Can someone tell me where I can find my daughter?”

“Cheryl, listen to me,” Sydney said. “I don’t know how Skip Hirshberg found out, but I didn’t tell him. You have to believe me.”

Cheryl wasn’t listening.

Sydney’s hands fell helplessly to her sides. What could she say to convince her? “If you don’t believe me, ask Skip,” she blurted.

Cheryl’s hand was on the door.

“Syd’s telling the truth,” Josh said.

Maybe it was the quiet way he said it, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t said anything up to now, but whatever the reason, Cheryl listened.

“I was at the station this afternoon,” he said. “Syd took a lot of heat for not interviewing you. And I heard her tell our assignment editor you wanted to keep the death watch thing quiet. She took heat for that, too. Any other reporter would have screwed you over.”

Josh looked at Sydney. “I can’t believe Helen would disregard your promise and give out the information,” he said.

“It was Cori,” Sydney said.

“Makes sense.”

This was the first time Sydney had ever heard Josh acknowledge Cori Zinn’s devious side.

“Why would this woman do this to me?” Cheryl asked. “She doesn’t even know me.”

“It’s not you,” Sydney said. “Cori is an ambitious, unscrupulous woman. She did it to hurt me.”

Josh turned to Cheryl. “You have every right to be angry. It was a cheap shot to boost ratings. But let me tell you something about Syd. She’s not like other reporters. She doesn’t play those games. If Sydney St. James said she didn’t tell the Wonder Wheel people about your death watch notice, she didn’t.”

“One reporter vouching for another?” Cheryl said. “Sort of like one con vouching for another con, wouldn’t you say?”

Josh looked down and blinked a couple of times before responding. “Point taken. I’m a sportscaster. But think about it. What possible reason does a sportscaster have for being here tonight? You think reporters have some kind of secret signal they flash whenever they need someone to cover their backside? I’m here because an hour and a half ago I opened my email and found a death watch notice.”

That got Cheryl’s attention.

“I haven’t told anybody yet, not even my parents. I came here tonight because I needed a friend, someone I could talk to, someone I could trust.”

Cheryl touched Josh Leven’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. Josh stepped aside, and she turned to Sydney. “Sydney. I… ”

“Forget it.” Sydney gave her a soft smile.

In a room that smelled of scorched coffee, the two women embraced, as best they could bending over the large bulge between them.

To everyone’s surprise they found the hallway outside the greenroom empty. Neither the ball-cheeked exec nor Skip Hirshberg was on guard as expected.

“Where’s Stacy?” Cheryl asked.

“With Hunz,” Sydney said.

“I’ll go find them,” Josh said.

“They offered me open-ended use of the suite at the Excelsior Hotel if I stayed,” Cheryl said, after Josh had gone.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Sydney said.

“When I reminded them that I wouldn’t be alive to take advantage of it, they offered to arrange for my burial at Forest Lawn cemetery. Said they could get me a grave a stone’s throw from Walt Disney, that some network bigwig would give it up for me. They also threw in an amusement park package for little Stacy after I was gone. They said it would cheer Stacy up.”

“Oh, Cheryl, I’m so sorry. That’s how things work here.”

“They didn’t offer me the one thing I wanted.”

“To go home.”

Cheryl smiled. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Men’s voices came down the hallway. Happy sounds, obviously not the studio executives returning.

As Cheryl gathered herself to leave, she said, “Not being in the hallway just now is the first thing they’ve done right all night.”

Hunz and Josh appeared at the end of the hallway with Hunz carrying Stacy. Sydney couldn’t remember the girl’s feet touching the ground all night. Stacy was licking a half-eaten fudgesicle. She wore much of the other half on her face. Hunz Vonner’s suit was stained where she’d laid her head against him. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Oh, honey!” Cheryl cried. “You got Mr. Vonner all dirty!”