A ruling passion : a novel (10 page)

Nick identified the birds, but Valerie barely heard him. Names weren't important. What held her was the enchantment of the scene: vividly feathered birds flying in formation or in separate circles, the brilliant iridescence of sunlit insects, the muted colors offish in the dim water, the hum and whispers and cries of the marsh. She was silent until they had turned and walked back and were almost at the car. "I've never seen anything like it," she said. "It's been here all this time and I never knew it. And it's so incredibly beautiful, so different..."

"Stick around," he said lighdy, to disguise how moved he was: he had never thought she would be so excited or, by her excitement, make him love her more than he thought possible. "There's lots more where this came from."

She did not respond. Nick saw that she was looking out the window on her side of the car, catching a last glimpse of the marshes as they drove away. Not now, he told himself. It's not the time to talk about marriage. But damn it, it never seems like the right time, and she's excited now and happy and why the hell shouldn't I... ?

He glanced at Valerie again. Wait, an inner voice said. At least wait for the picnic, when you can really talk.

He couldn't wait; the words tumbled out. "I think we should get married." But his voice was wrong: it was choked and sounded abrupt, almost hard, and he cleared his throat to say it again, more softly, with all the love he felt, when, suddenly, a pickup truck appeared in their lane, coming straight at them as it passed a passenger car. Nick swerved to the shoulder, heart pounding, cursing the truck driver, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. The car skidded, kicking up sprays of gravel; a tree branch struck the roof and scraped across Valerie's window with a metallic whine. "Son of a bitch," Nick said through gritted teeth as the truck moved back to its own lane. He turned the wheel and they were back on the road, bucking as the tires caught on the blacktop. The truck was out of sight behind him; the passenger car the truck had passed had driven serenely on. Valerie had not made a sound.

His face grim, breathing hard, Nick turned off at the first intersection and pulled to a stop on the grass at the edge of the road. "Are you all right.>" he asked.

"I'm great," Valerie said. "You were terrific. That was really unbelievable."

His eyebrows drew together as he gazed at her. "You weren't afraid?"

"Oh, sure, but thaf s part of it, isn't it? Everything seems more important when you're afraid. Really incredible."

He shook his head. "As long as something is happening."

"There are times when ifs good to have things happen," she said coolly. She sat straight. "Is this where we're having our picnic?"

"It's not the place I planned. Valerie, I'm sorry. This is a hell of a way to propose to a lady one loves. If I'd done it before, I'm sure I'd have done better, but this is my first—"

"Well, I predict it won't be your last," she said.

"Why not?" he asked. "If that's an answer, it's a lousy way to give one."

"I thought it was a nice way, and, yes, it is an answer." Valerie put her hand on his. "Nick, I don't want to talk about this. We've been having such a good time—four, almost five, lovely months—don't ruin it."

"I didn't think I was ruining anything."

"Oh for heaven's sake, you sound like a sulky litde boy."

"Sorry," he said tightly, and started the car.

'Well, that wasn't nice, and I apologize, but really, Nick, you do sound awfully young when you get that way."

"When I get what way?"

"Oh, all solemn and pushy. I don't want to marry you, Nick. I don't want to marry anybody right now. I've told you that a few thousand times, about, but you haven't listened. You just want your own way."

"And you want yours."

"Well, that's true." She laughed and leaned across to kiss him. 'We're both so stubborn. But we do have fun. Can't we forget all this and just go on the way we've been doing? Thafs not so awful, is it?" She settled back in her seat and gazed at his stony profile. 'What's in your backpack for our picnic? Did you whip up something special?"

He shook his head. "I didn't have time; I just bought some bread and cheese and fruit." He put the car in gear and drove back to the mam road. It was the wrong time, he thought. Next time I won't rush into it. There's a whole future at stake; that's worth some patience. Valerie is right: we're having a wonderful time; there's no need to change anything now. I'll wait for a better time.

He did not let himself think that a better time might never come.

Sybille had begun as a receptionist at KNEX-TV in her first year at Stanford; later she became a secretar}^. By her third year she was an assistant producer. She also became a scriptwriter one busy morning

when the noon news writer became ill and she neatly took over, getting a script to the anchor team who read it on camera before anyone realized she had done it. She was good—she wrote quickly and her sentences were sharp and dramatic—and after that she wrote scripts for newscasts and local programs, in addition to her work as assistant producer. Every job taught her something else about the station and, though her memory seemed infallible, she stored the information in precise oudines in a set of notebooks she kept and read at night in bed.

The only purchase she made for her fiarnished attic apartment was a large-screen television set, and she sat in front of it for hours, writing criticisms of programs, ideas for new shows, commercials, promotions, even station breaks. Usually she watched late at night, after going out with men and women she had met in class or at work, or after having someone in her bed. She went out or brought someone home every night, because she could not bear to be alone. If she planned careftilly, she could fill most of her waking hours, and when she had to be alone—when everyone else left, or she couldn't stand whoever she had brought home to bed another minute—then she turned on the television set and it was almost as good as having someone there. At least, she did not have to listen to silence.

What filled her thoughts and took most of her energy was her work. Every time she walked into KNEX-TV—five days a week, four hours a day—she knew it was where she belonged. The station pulled her deep inside its fascination and wonder, making her an insider who sent words and pictures to hundreds of thousands of people who had no idea what went on behind the scenes. She knew she didn't really belong, because she was still a student, not a fijll-time professional, but no one made fun of her, and most of them even helped her learn. Even if they didn't, it wouldn't matter. This was where she wanted to be.

Her desk was one of many in a large newsroom crowded with Teletype machines, file cabinets, typewriters on rolling stands, coffee machines and water coolers. Along one wall was a curved desk used by the news teams; behind it was a mural of the Bay Area with Palo Alto in the center. The desk was empty most of the time; the work of putting together the newscast was done at the writers' and producer's desks.

"Syb, honey, there's a white space in the middle of my script," said Dawn Danvers, one half of the early evening news team. She was blond and sparkling, with surprised eyebrows and a wide smile, and she wore silks and suedes on the air. "If you don't give me something to say, it's gonna be awftil quiet when we go on."

"I'm waiting for a story," Sybille replied distantly. She detested Dawn Danvers, who was nothing but a big smile and an empty head. "Story and film, two minutes with a ten-second lead; it should be here within an hour."

"An hour! Honey, that only gives me a half hour to study it; you wouldn't do that to me, I know you wouldn't. You find me another story real quick."

Sybille gave her a brief look. "I was told to go with this one."

"Well, but if you don't have it you don't have it. Anyway, this is your show, and they'll go with whatever you have; they think you're wonderful, you know that. Get a backup; have something ready, just in case. Come on, honey, give me a break."

Sybille clenched her teeth. Don't call me honey, she said silently.

"Come on, honey, make something up, for God's sake! I don't care what you do; just don't ever give me a script with white space in it! Otherwise I get this nervous stomach and I can't stand it; I can't stand being sick. Okay? Okay? I want an answer!"

Don't order me around, Sybille said furiously to herself Her hands were shaking and she gripped the edge of her desk. "I can write another story, and you can study it, but we won't use it."

"We'll use it if I want to. I'll make sure of that. Thanks, honey, you're a blessing. Oh, and make sure it's dynamite. I love to read the juicy ones."

Sybille watched her as she left the newsroom. Bitch, she ftimed silently. Rich and pretty—well, fairly pretty, if you like vacuous blondes, and she expects everybody to bend over backward to make her life easier. Like Valerie. They're two of a kind: they want what they want and the hell with everybody else.

She sat down at her typewriter. Dawn Danvers wants a story in a hurry. She wants a juicy one. And she'll make sure we use it.

Well, I can give her just what she wants.

She reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a pile of handwritten notes, and a sketch. She would have liked more time to gather details, and she didn't have the film she wanted for it, but she couldn't pass up this perfect chance. She smiled as she began to type. I'll give her something that will make her reputation. And my future.

For the next fifteen minutes she wrote steadily. She really had a lot, she thought, especially after getting the sketch. That had been the scary part: slipping into Lawrence Oldfield's office while the cleaning crew was next door, rifling through the file marked "Jackson," and

grabbing the drawing and getting out. She'd wanted to stay and read the whole file—all those letters and memoes, staring at her, filled with secret information!—but she couldn't; she had to leave before the maids came in to turn out the lights and lock the door. But it was all right, she thought, typing rapidly. She had enough. She had her story.

When she was through, she skimmed the story quickly, making a few revisions. Then, gathering the pages together, she went to the film library and found some stock film. An hour and a half later. Dawn Danvers read the story on the air in her sweetly modulated voice, while Sybille watched from the control room.

"Stanford University has a new sweetheart, KNEX learned today: the Sunnyvale Sweetheart, they may be calling her, or the Engineering Angel, or, better yet, the Benefactress We All Go Ape Over."

A film of Sunnyvale appeared on the screen, the camera closing in on a residential area of large homes.

"Heiress Ramona Jackson, ninety-one, has lived in Sunnyvale all her life. The daughter of a prominent oilman and the widow of an oil and gas engineer, she's dreamed for years of giving an engineering building to Stanford in memory of her husband and father. But Ms. Jackson has another dream too, and she's decided to bring both of her dreams to Stanford University."

The film of Sunnyvale gave way on the screen to shots of the ape house at the San Francisco Zoo. Sybille would have preferred film of Ramona Jackson's apes, but there was no time. Dawn talked sweetly on.

"For the past fifteen years Ms. Jackson has provided a home and companionship to a number of apes, teaching them sign language and etiquette in comfortable surroundings that make them seem like members of her family. Lately, it appears she's become concerned about their care when she's no longer here, especially that of her favorite ape, Ethelred, named for an ancient king of England."

The Stanford campus appeared on the screen, the camera moving past classroom buildings to the engineering building.

"According to a high-ranking Stanford official, Ms. Jackson has promised fifty million dollars to the University for the construction of the Ethelred Engineering Building and Ape House." A small giggle teetered on the edge of Dawn's ambrosial lips, but was quickly squelched. On the screen, the engineering building was replaced by the drawing Sybille had lifted from Oldfield's file, a boldly sketched cartoon of a lively monkey perched on the tower of a structure that had "Engineering" scribbled over the door. "Ms. Jackson sketched her

dream building for university officials, perhaps to give the architects a head start. Other details have not been released, but in the past, Lyle Wilson, chairman of the engineering department, has been quoted as saying work in the areas of electronic and optical and computer engineering would be expanded if funds were available. And of course there will be a home for the apes."

The blond prettiness of Dawn Danvers once again filled the screen. "Ifs a sweetheart of a day for Stanford and it's good news for Palo Alto and the whole Bay Area. The only question we have is whether the administration will let us nonacademics visit the Ethelred Engineering Building and Ape House. It's so much closer, you know, than the San Francisco Zoo." She paused and smiled. "That's all for this evening; network news is next; we'll see you tomorrow. Thanks for joining us."

She held her smile while her co-anchor said good night and the red light on his camera went off and they knew the commercial was rolling. "That is the damndest story," Dawn said to her co-anchor, and they talked about it for a minute and then forgot it. It was just one of so many that they read and never thought much about, even while they were reading them. It was amusing, but there was no reason to remember it.

But others did. They paid attention, they talked about it, and they remembered it.

"Not true," Nick said, watching Dawn Danvers tell the story of Ramona Jackson. He was making dinner and Valerie was watching him. "God damn it, it was a joke!"

"What was a joke?" she asked idly They had spent the afternoon in bed, the first time in almost a month they had had his apartment to themselves for more than an hour or two, and she was feeling slow and lazy as she sipped her wine. She had barely glanced at the newscast.

"Listen," Nick said and she heard Dawn say, "... let us nonacademics visit the Ethelred Engineering Building and Ape House. It's so much closer, you know, than the San Francisco Zoo."