Hugh Howey - The Shell Collector

“For different reasons. Selfish reasons. He saw the laws making their way through Congress. He knew the end of big oil was coming, saw the peak of production. Hell, this was before Manhattan flooded for the first time and the levee project got underway. My dad refused to waste the company’s money lobbying against the inevitable—not because he cared about the environment, but because he hated to see lawyers get rich when they couldn’t win. The board of directors disagreed. They worked in the background to have Dad removed as incompetent.”

“I didn’t know your dad lost control of the company,” I say, making a mental note of this as well. Henry was going to fall out when he got my edits, and I hadn’t even gotten to Ness yet. But Ness was doing the impossible: convincing me to shelve one story while revising another.

“The board didn’t take the company away from him for long. My dad had been working on his TideGen program for almost a decade by that point, all in secret. It was a personal project. He paid for it out of his own pocket—”

“I’d heard that part.”

“Yeah, it became part of his legend, that he privately financed the oil company’s first green initiative. As everyone knows by now, the whole thing was bullshit. When he couldn’t get the program to work, he turned it into a PR move. Used it for deflection. What’s interesting is when he gave the speech that turned the stock around, he technically wasn’t CEO of anything at that point. The board was waiting until close of markets on Friday to announce, just so they could handle the spin. They were scrambling that same week to name a replacement. Meanwhile, my father was about to shock the world and rescue the company.”

Ness leans forward and places his hands on his knees. He looks at me for a long pause, a half-smile on his lips. The most distracting thing about this man isn’t his handsomeness, but his confidence. It isn’t fair for any human to visibly worry so little.

“Can I show you the video?” he asks.

“I’ve seen it,” I tell him.

“I want to show you something interesting.”

“Is there any way I can verify this?” I ask. “That your father wasn’t CEO at the time of the speech?”

“Let me show you the video,” Ness insists. “You like personal details. I want to show you how my parents met.”

He gets up and disappears down the hall. I take a sip of coffee and count the time between sweeps of light. Twelve seconds, not ten. If I had a chart of the Maine coast, I could find the lighthouse based on its period. I’m thinking of my father and all he taught me when Ness returns with a tablet.

He sits down on the sofa beside me. I try to slide over, but the armrest has me pinned. His knee presses against mine. Maybe he isn’t aware of this. He calmly starts the video, and I feel a flush of heat from too much wine or the coffee or from him sitting too close. On the tablet, his father is giving a press conference on the deck of an oil platform, and all I can think is that this man—who I have been chasing down for two years—is now far too close. I’ve been trying to pin him down, and now he has me pinned. I’m overreacting, I tell myself. I feel like standing up and running away from here, but some tiny voice says this is irrational, to calm the fuck down.

“Listen,” Ness says, turning up the volume. He has fast-forwarded past the start of his father’s speech. I’ve seen this before. I try to concentrate on what’s happening on that screen, not in the room. The speech occurred a few years before I was born, but every journalist has seen it. Nathaniel Wilde is standing on that symbol of ecological disaster, that oil platform, announcing that it was one of fourteen that drew its own power not by burning the oil it pumped but by the swell of the sea. And now was the time to announce Ocean Oil’s plan to wean itself off oil altogether and that the future of tomorrow’s energy needs would be a mix of geothermal and the incessant wave energy of the ocean tides.

“Here,” Ness says, pointing at the video. The camera has turned to a group of reporters sitting on folding chairs arranged across the deck of the rig. A woman is holding a pen up in the air, rises to ask a question. “Tara Brighton, UK Daily ,” she says. “You don’t really expect us to believe that Ocean Oil is going green, do you?”

The camera cuts back to Ness’s father. But Ness rewinds the video again. When the camera shifts to the reporter, he pauses the screen. I glance over at him, waiting for him to explain what I’m supposed to be seeing, when I notice the sweep of the lighthouse flash in his wet eyes.

Tara Brighton— the name comes back to me.

“That’s your mom,” I say.

Ness nods. The tablet must be getting heavy, for I note his hand is trembling, falling.

“Is this how they met?” I ask.

“Right there,” Ness says, his voice quiet. He fiddles with the shell dangling from his necklace. “What’s wild is that they met in front of so many people, but no one has ever commented on it. No one sees her, I guess. It happens so fast, and everyone is concentrating on my dad. But I think this is… important in understanding who he was. What motivated him.”

I look back to the screen, to the woman holding the pen and asking the handsome man behind the podium a question. And when I glance up, it’s the wall of magazine covers down the hall—that grid of trophies—that catches my eye. And some grave truth seems to scream out, some fucked-up psychological disorder, and I can’t tell if this is the moment when Ness will attack me and add me to that wall, or if my sentiment is supposed to get the better of me and this is where he expects me to pull him against me. All I can think of is the dozen other women who sat on this sofa and watched this video and saw him tear up, just moments from doing something they would regret. And I wonder if he’s used his grandfather’s notebook countless times, if he has a stack of signed NDAs, if that’s why the leather band wore out, if this is all a trick, some play here on this stage with this room of props, some game of sniffing out foes and vanquishing them. I reach for Ness’s trembling wrist as his hand and tablet fall toward my lap—

“I have to go,” I say, pushing his arm and the tablet away from me. I stand up too fast, and the room adjusts itself around me. Wine and coffee compete for my senses. I reach for my phone, for my bag with its damning evidence. A new story forms in my mind, a story about a serial manipulator and a fucked-up family four generations deep, chasing along in their fathers’ shadows not with flashlights but with burning torches.

“Right now?” Ness asks. “But I haven’t shown you my collection—”

“I’ve seen your collection,” I say. I shove my pad and pen inside my bag, then point at the wall of framed magazine covers. “I’d rather not be added to it.”

I turn and head up the stairs to get out of that place.

“Wait,” Ness tells me. He follows me toward the door. “Just one more minute, please—”

“It’s not going to work on me,” I tell him over my shoulder. “Whatever you’re going to say, however you’re going to try and manipulate me, it won’t work.” I reach for the front door, half expecting to find it locked, myself trapped. But the knob turns easily. I open the door to feel that the air outside has chilled in the last half hour. Or maybe it’s me.

Ness catches the door as it swings shut, and I can feel him standing on the stoop as I crunch around the car to the driver’s side.

“What do you mean, manipulate you?” he asks.

I glance at him over the roof of the car, catch the bewildered look on his face from the flickering porch light. Damn, he’s good.