Эбби Луби - Nuclear Romance

Isling quickly segued into an oversight check list, and Chrissy zoned out, imagining mummy-like divers immersed in forty feet of blue, radiated water.

“Do you know about that?” he suddenly asked her.

Whoops. “Know what?”

“How a steam generator works.”

“I… uh—not really. Can you tell me next time we talk?”

“I guess.”

“Thanks, Mr. Isling. Oh—just one more thing. Has any contaminated water gone into the Hudson River?”

“Don’t know. We don’t monitor that. That’s checked by the Environmental Protection Agency or the state’s conservation folks. Either way, if contaminated water got in the river, it wouldn’t really matter.”

“I don’t get that. Why wouldn’t it matter?”

“The river is huge and always moving. We have a saying: ‘dilution is the solution to pollution.’”

You’re kidding , thought Chrissy.

“Dilution is… what?”

He repeated the phrase.

“The river’s billions and billions of gallons of moving water dilutes whatever goes in it. It’s impossible to pollute.”

Chrissy pondered the slogan and scribbled it down.

“You know, Carra—”

“It’s Chrissy. Chrissy Dolan.”

“Oh. Chrissy. I’ll send you some studies we did on groundwater radioactivity. Then we can talk again. Don’t mean to put you off, but I have a meeting that I have to get to.”

They quickly exchanged e-mail addresses and hung up. Nuclear power had become a mystery that needed to be solved: the more she learned, the more she was driven to understand it and make it palpable to the readers. Chrissy reviewed her notes. Isling gave her enough information for other stories, stories about the plant that would keep her byline on the front page. Maybe then Al would hire her full-time.

Owen was livid. For the second consecutive week the Register ran a story on ALLPower. The spin was very clever; he had to hand it to the editor. Chrissy’s story, “Nuke pros and foes,” read like a short Who’s Who that clearly sorted out where people stood on the seminal issues.

A copy of the weekly was tossed on Lou’s desk.

“We are really behind the eight ball on this one, Padera. Do you have a nuke plant story yet?”

Lou looked dismally at the Register . He had stalled. He couldn’t find anything to sink his teeth into. Everything was just so technical.

“This is a hard one, Owen. I don’t know squat about nuclear power.”

“Neither did she!” Owen hammered his finger on Chrissy’s story.

“The girl’s right out of school, and she did her homework. I need something from you by the end of the week.”

Ten minutes later Lou was in his car. He needed to get out of the office. How about calling Diana for a story suggestion? Nah. That wouldn’t fly. She was formally off-limits since he was ordered to write another nuke story. He started driving north and found himself at the riverfront park. He got out and walked down to the beach, the spot he had checked after interviewing Jen Elery. He looked at the water lapping up on the shore and thought about the young girl laughing in the water a few weeks before she died. He had never really followed up on the cause of her death….

The water. What was it the mystery woman caller said? As he recalled the sound of the woman’s voice, he suddenly realized that it was Diana—but he had to know for sure. He needed to see her face to face. Connecting the plant with the girl’s death—it would be a lot of legwork and hard to prove, but what a story. He dialed Diana’s cell, hoping she wouldn’t mind getting a call at work. She picked up on the second ring.

“Diana Chase. Can I help you?”

“Hi. It’s Lou. Sorry to call you at work. Can you talk?”

She was surprised to hear his voice. Their last communication was a brief prelude to cybersex. He never responded to her suggestive e-mail, and it left her confused, cautious.

“For just a bit. What’s up, Lou?”

“When do you take your lunch break? Is it okay if I come over for a quick minute?”

“Um, I guess. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“It’s about the Elery kid. But it would be good to talk to you in person.” Then he chided her. “Of course I’d like to see you for more reasons than one.”

“Did you get my e-mail?” Diana said, miffed that he never responded.

“Of course. I loved it.”

“It would have been nice to know that. But whatever. Lunch is in about forty minutes. See you when you get here.”

She quickly hung up, and he thought, what did I do?

Maybe this was a sign to back off. If he did write a story connecting Kaylee Elery’s death with the plant, he would have to steer clear from Diana anyway.

As soon as she hung up, Diana thought she sounded too prissy. Maybe he’d change his mind and wouldn’t come over. She was confused. She realized she wanted to see him—figure out how she was really feeling about this man.

Usually Jen and Diana would go into the lounge for lunch and eat with the other teachers. The lounge was the inner sanctum where the stressed teachers could vent about their students or the last contentious union meeting. But with the possibility of Lou coming to visit, Diana took her sandwich into a private side kitchen off the reception area and invited Jen to join her.

“No lounge today?” asked Jen.

“Not today. I’m expecting a visitor. Remember Lou Padera?”

Jen looked puzzled. “Why is he coming here? I really don’t want to talk to him anymore…”

“You won’t have to. I’m not altogether sure when or if he’ll be here, but I think he wants to talk to me. Not sure why he’s coming, really. But we’ll find out.”

They got out their bagged lunches and started to eat. Twenty minutes later Lou arrived, signed in at the front desk, and was pointed in the direction of Diana’s office. He followed the women’s voices to the small back kitchen.

“Good afternoon, Ladies. Sorry to interrupt your lunch.”

Jen quickly wrapped up her bag and closed her thermos.

“Hi, Mrs. Elery. Nice to see you again.”

“Hi, Mr. Padera,” she said, trying to smile.

“How do you like working here?” he asked gently. “I heard Diana’s a real slave driver? Is it true?” he kidded, hoping for a smile in return.

“Oh, no,” Jen said cautiously. “She’s really wonderful. This was all her idea. Working here is very therapeutic.” She remembered how sensitive he was in the interview, but he was still a reporter, nosing around. She stood up and squeezed by him. It was clear she didn’t want to talk.

“Let’s go into my office,” Diana said, standing up and leading the way. When they got in her office she stepped behind her desk and sat down. Lou looked around.

“Nice kite. Who’s your decorator?”

“Me. I call it minimal fantasy.”

“Who lives in the glass box?”

“My turtle. Why are you here, Lou?”

“What’s the turtle’s name?”

“Why are you here?”

“I need to ask you something, Diana, and you have to tell me the truth, okay?”

“Okay. I’ve been known to tell the truth on occasion.” She managed a brief smile.

“Please, this is serious. Were you the anonymous caller after the Kaylee story came out?”

Her smile faded and she nodded. The turtle roused and poked his head out of his shell. Diana put her finger to her lips and motioned Lou to close the door. He followed her gaze to Jen, shut the door, and sat down opposite her.

“I need to know why you said what you said to me on the phone,” he whispered. “Do you have any proof that Kaylee’s death was caused by something from the plant, something that leached into the water? Some type of radiation?”