Эбби Луби - Nuclear Romance

The lab’s seismic study was posted to the department’s website, where it was ignored for about a week until a reporter named Lou Padera called.

“Mr. Frank? Lou Padera here. I cover nuclear power and want to write a story about your report. Can you line up a few scientists for me to interview?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Padera. You’re the first one to call.”

“You’re kidding. But this is a big story. You know that, right?”

“I guess.”

Lou had floundered for a while after he was fired from the Daily Suburban . He and Diana pondered his future, and she encouraged him to keep writing. He finally realized he could write about sports and nuclear power on the Internet. He hired someone to create his own news website called Padera’s Top News and Sports.

It was just like old times. Lou covered local games, wrote them up, and posted them before the Daily Suburban came out the next morning. Because his sports stories had been so popular in the paper, he had cultivated a following, and the site had thousands of hits each week. It was a stat that attracted advertisers, many who had placed their ads on the same page as Lou’s stories in the newspaper. Sure, they’d put ads on his website. Why not? It was cheaper than the newspaper, where their ads now were squished in between several full-blown ALLPower ads.

Lou regularly scoured the news and sought out links with information about nuclear power, not only ALLPower, but about plants in nearby states as well.

After the Japanese nuclear crisis, he especially tracked studies on seismic activity, frequently checking the websites for geological labs, especially the one studying the Hudson River area. When the study was finally completed, Lou was surprised at the bland, un-newsy press release. But he grasped the impact. After interviewing two scientists who authored the new study, Lou had a story that put a smile on his face. Let’s see Bob Stalinsky put a positive spin on this one.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he excitedly told Diana while helping her get dinner on the table at her house.

“Were you really the first reporter to call? I bet you’ll scoop everyone.” She beamed at him.

“I know. It’s amazing. Do you know what this means?”

“Another reason to shut down the plant?”

“Yes. Perhaps. If they connect the dots with the Japanese earthquake that shut down those plants. But the NRC doesn’t even look at seismic records, even when rubber-stamping a nuke’s operating license.”

His eyes penetrated hers. They saw the same roadblock.

“Yikes. That’s scary,” she said.

“Yeah. Hope everyone realizes that.”

“They will. After your story.”

It was a new kind of intimacy, discussing his stories with her over breakfast or while falling to sleep. He started spending the night at her place more and more, making up for the now solitary workday in his makeshift home office. He worried about her and the possible fallout at school, if teachers got wind of their experimental escapade. But so far, it never happened. If they knew, her friends at school were being polite and keeping quiet.

Just a few days ago Diana invited him to leave some of his clothes in her closet and in a newly emptied drawer. That evening he arrived with a backpack. She was disappointed that it wasn’t a trunk, but she understood he was testing the waters. As they set the table, he took her into his arms.

“So, that’s my trousseau there in that backpack. Is there a place to stow it for a while?”

“There’s a place to stow it for a long time, if you want. But darlin’, whatever’s in that backpack won’t make a dent in the closet. Next time bring a suitcase.”

It seems the plant was built over two active seismic zones, one running right under the ALLPower plant.

Lou’s story included the history of the plant and how, before the plant was built, small, barely noticeable tremors jarred the bedrock under the rocky cliffs that sloped down to the Hudson River. In the 1940s, a popular public park was on the very spot that was slated for the new power plant. The park was a day-trip destination for passenger ferries loaded with people escaping the city heat and spending a cool day by the river. The park was replete with pavilions for cookouts, a small stage for occasional entertainment, and a few hot dog stands. A beach for swimming was carved out at the cove where the river took a sharp bend to the north.

Years later, when the land was purchased to build a nuclear power plant, geologists cautioned about the subtle shifts in the bedrock and the possible long-range affects of regular tremors. But those warnings were ignored, and the plant was constructed, promising to make electricity “too cheap to meter.”

For years, tiny tremors went unrecorded, and as more cracks developed in the earth, hairline fractures in the great underbelly of the plant created hidden tunnels, byways for contaminated water.

The radioactive, isotope-laced water saturated the deep, gravely, porous earth and sought its own level. The water bubbled up and contaminated layers of loamy sand and leached ubiquitous contaminants into the currents of the river, some settling in the bones of baby fish and the flesh of their mothers.

Lou’s story was picked up by broadcast media, followed by some major newspapers whose reporters had rewritten it with a pro-industry spin, expressing doubts that the plant would ever succumb to an earthquake, not here in the Northeast anyway.

Owen saw Lou’s story immediately on his website. The editor checked the site a couple of times a week to see what his former reporter was up to. He was amazed at the site’s extensive advertising.

ALLPower immediately responded to what they called a “non-issue.” Bob sent Owen a press release, suggesting he not change the language if possible.

“I’ll see what I can do, Bob,” Owen glumly murmured into the phone.

“You guys are doing great. Ads and all,” Bob said, giddy with being in control.

As fast as Owen hung up he quickly dialed up Lou. God knows why I’m doing this. Maybe it had just been too long, and just maybe the guy has forgiven him.

“Lou Padera. Can I help you?”

“What’s the matter? Can’t afford a secretary?”

The voice was all too familiar.

“Hey, Owen. How’s it hanging?”

“It’s been worse, but not by much. I’m impressed with your site. I may be knocking at your door soon for a gig.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad. Although I’ve heard your staff is getting younger and younger, and the paychecks are smaller and smaller. But you’re still on the masthead—that has to account for something.”

“Yeah, it accounts for me being a writing teacher with a stopwatch. I’m rewriting the stuff these kids are passing off as news. We never get the paper out on time. Really sucks.”

“You running the power plant–earthquake story?”

“We’re running what they tell us to run. Jesus, Lou. We’ve become ALLPower whores. It really disgusts me. What’s happening to journalism the way we knew it?”

“It’s still around, Owen. It’s just a little harder to find.”

“Yeah. Maybe. It’s confusing. The bloggers write fiction masquerading as news, and who can tell the difference?”

“I write straight news. So do others. We’re here, and people will learn to recognize a good news story when they read one. You got to believe that. You used to.”

“Lou?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry how things ended up. Are you doing okay?”

“Doing great. I’m writing what I choose to write, and I have the love of a great woman. What more could a guy want?”