Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

A person, in other words, like me.

As we drove back to East Hampton, I kept my eyes fixed on the road. Oliver was talking but I wasn’t listening. That night with Kyle—it would be four years ago in November—that night when I used Stella’s name, it had imparted a kind of magical confidence boost. It made me bigger and brighter. More memorable than I’d ever been. It turned out it was easy to become a completely different kind of person. How much had I told him, those years ago? Had I given him a last name? This was a risk I hadn’t foreseen. A chink in the armor.

“Stella used to come out here a lot,” Oliver said. I snapped back to attention. “A friend of hers had a house on Georgica Pond. Did you ever go there?”

He glanced over at me. “I don’t mean to dredge up old memories,” he said. “But this drive always reminds me of her.”

There was a sign on the side of the road, reflective white letters on green paint. We zipped past it. “What did that say?” I asked, certain I hadn’t read it correctly.

“Oh.” Oliver smiled. “The name of the road. Around here it’s called Lost at Sea Memorial Pike. Isn’t that poetic?”

My stomach gave a painful lurch. “Can you pull over?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oliver,” I said. “ Please. ”

The car hadn’t even come to a stop when I opened the door and hurled the contents of my stomach onto the gravel shoulder. The waves kept coming, even when there was nothing left to expel. I spat and coughed the bitter bile from my mouth.

Lost at Sea. I closed my eyes and saw Stella: her eyes vacant and her mouth agape, her hair floating loose in the dark ocean water as her dead weight tugged her deeper.

Guilt wasn’t as simple as you might believe. It wasn’t remorse or regret. It wasn’t a desire to go back in time and do things differently. It was walking around with knowledge that you alone possessed. Knowledge that takes up more space because there’s no one to share it with. In its specificity, in its intricacy, in its persistent details—the sloshing of the waves, the dark smear of blood, the coin-like moon—the truth weighed more than a hundred theories combined.

“Did you hear about the shake-up?”

It was rare that Jamie beat me into the office, but Oliver and I had driven back that Monday morning, to extend the weekend. Jamie watched me drop the duffel bag to the floor and kick it under my desk. “How was the Hamptons?” he said.

“Fine. Too cold to swim. What’s the shake-up?”

“They want fresh faces. Out with the old, in with the new!” Jamie spread his arms wide in punctuation. Then he grimaced. “Guess how many times I’ve heard that line.”

“What does this actually mean?”

“It means they fired a bunch of people because they were getting bad ratings. They’re revamping the nine o’clock and ten o’clock hours, and the Sunday morning show, too.”

“ Bill of Rights ? I kind of like it the way it is.”

“At least we’ll be rid of that terrible name.” Jamie shook his head. “Fire the anchor named Bill and you can’t really call it that, can you? That’s the biggest change. New studio, new anchor, whole new staff. Bill’s EP was fired, too.”

My computer booted up, and I opened my e-mail. I was happy to be back to work. Even being out for one day on Friday felt funny. I could keep track of the action, the e-mails and texts flying back and forth, but I couldn’t be a part of it. Not really. The important stuff happened face-to-face.

Case in point: Eliza and Rebecca, standing in a corner of the newsroom. The expression on Eliza’s face was slightly grim. In theory, Frontline had nothing to worry about during this shake-up. Our ratings had been rock-solid since the Danner special. Rebecca was the critical darling of KCN, and the cash cow to boot. But change was always dicey. What if the new 9 o’clock anchor was a star, and they decided to groom him or her to take Rebecca’s place? The shoddy state of 9 o’clock and 10 o’clock wasn’t of concern to Rebecca or Eliza. In fact, the worse everyone else was, the better we looked. Frontline generated the lead-in that pushed a healthy audience into subsequent hours. As long as we were the best, the executives couldn’t touch us.

Rebecca and Eliza and Ginny: an outsider might think they were on the same team, but their goals were often at odds. If Rebecca and Eliza wanted a moat of mediocrity around the shining example of Frontline, Ginny wanted the opposite. It was her job to make sure that KCN was the best—or at least competently good—in every hour. I always thought of Ginny as the referee between the high-strung personalities in the newsroom. But who would be the referee if it came down to Rebecca versus Ginny?

Later that day, as we emerged from our afternoon rundown meeting, I saw Ginny waiting for Eliza. The printer was conveniently located near Eliza’s office. I lingered over it, pretending to examine some papers while the two of them talked.

“We’re down to a few finalists, and I’d like your opinion,” Ginny said.

“Does it really matter?” Eliza said. “I won’t be working with them.”

“Of course it matters.” Ginny sounded irritated. “And you may very well be. They could wind up filling in when Rebecca’s on vacation.”

“Well, don’t tell her that. She’ll have a fit.”

“Don’t coddle her, Eliza. She knows the reality. I’d like her to meet the candidates, too.”

The next morning, Ginny brought the first person to the newsroom. This woman was in her late thirties, had ditched law school for journalism school, was currently a reporter for a network affiliate in Washington. She was pretty, although she wasn’t doing herself any favors with her chunky heels and polyester skirt-suit. I watched Rebecca give her a quick up-and-down glance and mouth “No way” at Eliza. What made that woman so appealing to Ginny was also what made her problematic to Rebecca. The raw potential: she was intelligent and authentic, just waiting for a professional to cut and polish her skills. But there was only room for one smart and attractive brunette in prime time.

Ginny returned an hour later. The next candidate was a man. I glimpsed him from behind before he went into Rebecca’s office. He was tall, with a deep voice and an evident comfort; he had taken off his suit jacket, draped it over one arm. From Rebecca’s office came his booming laugh.

That laugh. That’s what did it for me.

When he and Ginny left Rebecca’s office, I stood up from my desk. He caught my eye, and his smile dropped away. Confusion replaced it, and then delight. “Just a second,” he said, touching Ginny on the arm and walking toward me.

“Corey Molina,” I said.

He smiled. “Violet Trapp.”

When I was in high school, Corey had seemed like such a grown-up. But he had been just a kid back then, an overcaffeinated stick figure in a baggy suit. Now, when he hugged me, I felt his broad back muscles straining beneath his shirt. His face was tanned, his hair salted with strands of silver. He’d gotten better with age.

“This is so weird,” he said.

I laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“Not often you see someone from our neck of the woods in Manhattan, huh?”

“I’m sorry to break up this little reunion,” Ginny interjected with a brittle smile. “But I have to get Mr. Molina to our next meeting.”

Corey’s gaze flicked between Ginny and me, sizing up the dynamic. “Of course. Just had to say hello to an old friend.” Before he followed Ginny to the elevator, he murmured, “I’ll send you an e-mail, okay?”

“You know him?” Rebecca said, after they walked away.

“His wife was my history teacher in high school. He worked for the CBS affiliate in Tallahassee. Small world.”