Adam Canfield of the Slash Read online

  “Neat job,” said Jennifer.

  “It is,” said Adam. “Plus Danny’s like a kid. He’ll come over for dinner, then sit with me at the computer playing Quiz Bowl Gladiator. Or he’ll hang out while I do homework. He says he likes seeing what kids are doing — he doesn’t have any of his own.”

  Jennifer didn’t answer right away. “I really think it’s a mistake wasting too much time on this story,” she finally said. “But I’m willing to try this one thing. I would like to meet your friend Danny and see the shelter.”

  She stood up and began pacing the room. “You know,” she continued, “maybe the shelter is the story. . . . Yes! It could make a nice feature article.” She could already see the headline: “Has This Man Got a Mutt for You!” Jennifer explained to Adam that she’d been doing a lot of research and had learned it was very important for editors to think in headlines. “I read on the Internet about this very famous editor of a women’s magazine who dreams up snappy headlines and then finds reporters to write stories to go under them. Isn’t that a neat trick? Adam? . . . Adam? . . . Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Some of it,” mumbled Adam, who considered headlines indoor work. For a second he feared Jennifer might throw something large at him, but all she said was that she could go to the shelter on Sunday after church.

  “That’s great,” said Adam. “Sunday’s the busiest day for adoptions. You’ll see Danny in action. He’s amazing when he’s up.”

  Adam was pleased. They’d done a lot. They both agreed it would be best to go slow on the cafeteria investigation. They knew it would be a tough series to get past Marris, and they had to be sure every fact was right. Sammy had smuggled a scoop of mashed potatoes out of the cafeteria and, during recess, tossed it against a wall behind the school. He’d even brought in a camera to document it. A week later, mashed potato residue was still visible. But Adam wasn’t sure it proved anything. For all Adam knew, his mom’s mashed potatoes — which were a fluffy delight — might stick just as long. He was going to talk to Sammy about setting up a control, comparing the stickability of several mashed potato samples.

  The Spotlight Team had also conducted a cafeteria survey, asking students if they had any idea what they were eating. It turned out that one day, 70 percent thought their fish patties were Hamburger Helper. But when Jennifer read the story, she realized the Spotlight Team had talked to only ten kids, and she felt that wasn’t enough to be a scientific sampling.

  “What else?” asked Adam, who was trying to wedge a Cheez Doodle between his nose and upper lip so it looked like a Cheez Doodle mustache.

  “I want you to read this,” said Jennifer, handing him a piece of paper with writing that covered every line on both sides. It was Phoebe’s story on Eddie the janitor. At the top, she had given it a headline: “A Lot More than a Man with a Wide Broom.”

  “Is it horrible?” asked Adam.

  “Just read it,” said Jennifer.

  This was Phoebe’s story:

  The first time I ever talked to Eddie the janitor was at recess, by the small playground, two years ago, when I was in Mrs. Parada’s first grade. I saw two baby birds on the blacktop and thought they were dead; they already had bugs on them. But when I got close, they moved their heads and chirped. I told Mrs. Parada and she said, “We’ll call Eddie. He always knows how to handle these things.”

  Eddie came with a shoebox and soupspoon from the cafeteria. He spooned up the birds and put them in the box. He brushed the bugs off with a toothbrush, kept the babies in his office in the boiler room, fed them with a medicine dropper, and pretty soon they both turned into grown-up mourning doves and are now at the district conservation center.

  Eddie told me, “Phoebe, that’s a perfect sample of what a good janitor does. Whatever needs doing.” When a microphone is squealing at an assembly, they call Eddie. When a student gets stomach flu, they call Eddie. Long ago, in the 1980s, before handicapped ramps were discovered, there was a boy in a wheelchair at Harris, and every day Eddie the janitor carried him piggyback up and down the stairs.

  Eddie told me, “Phoebe, janitor’s a funny job. You’re pretty much invisible until something goes bad.” His newest project is building Mrs. Marris a set of cabinets for an electronic system she’s having installed in the principal’s office. He’s also remodeling her bathroom.

  Eddie Roosevelt James was born in Mississippi in the 1940s; he is not sure of the exact year. He was one of twelve children, and they grew up poor on a small farm they did not own. As a teenager, he came up north by himself, because he thought the laws would be better for black people. He got a job chauffeuring Mrs. Frederick Lewis of 125 Dewey Street in North Tremble. When she died, he chauffeured Mrs. Alan Clark of 15 West Constable, also in North Tremble. When she died, Mrs. Clark’s daughter got him the janitor job.

  Eddie told me his prize possessions are his children. He has one son studying doctoring at Howard University in Washington, D.C.; a daughter at Tremble Community College studying to be in the business world; and another daughter who just graduated from the state university at Tremble and plans to be a teacher when she finds a job that suits her right.

  Eddie says he loves working at Harris Elementary/Middle. He told me, “Phoebe, there is nothing higher up than education. To me, who is miseducated, coming to work at a school each day and seeing children so busy learning every little fact feels as holy as church on Sunday.”

  Adam put down the paper and turned away.

  “Are you sniffling?” said Jennifer.

  “Sinus infection,” said Adam.

  “Right,” said Jennifer. “It’s really good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s all right,” said Adam.

  “I think it’s terrific,” said Jennifer. “Wait until you hear this. Turns out our little Phoebe’s a bit legendary.” After Jennifer had read the Eddie story, she asked her twin third-grade sisters if they knew this Phoebe person. They didn’t — they had different teachers — but they’d heard about her. When the twins were in first grade, an older boy saw a little girl reading a Boxcar Children book on the school bus. The older boy was reading the Boxcar books, too — in fourth grade. The older boy told his teacher, “There’s this girl on my bus, she reads a new Boxcar book every day! She’s up to number forty-seven! She must be the smartest kid in first grade!”

  That was Phoebe.

  “Don’t you feel bad now, for giving her such a hard time about that story?” Jennifer asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Adam. “You’ve got to bring a third grader along slow. I don’t care if she’s read a thousand Boxcar books. Third graders — it is a scientific fact — their brains are not fully developed yet; their frontal lobes are still like Jell-O. When I came out for the Slash in third grade, I felt honored — I mean honored —”

  “‘If they assigned me a one-paragraph news brief, blah, blah, blah.’ You are so full of bull, Adam Canfield,” said Jennifer. “I know for a fact, you were the moaningest, most complaining third-grade cub reporter who ever lived.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?” said Adam. “Turn the Slash over to the third-grade Phoebes? You know what a pain in the butt she is.”

  “Good reporters are,” said Jennifer.

  “Come on,” said Adam. “Am I a pain in the butt?”

  “You want to know a secret?” said Jennifer. She leaned close. Jennifer’s head smelled good, a mix of fruity apricot shampoo and sweat. “Don’t make eyeballs at me, young man!” she whispered, and once again they collapsed on the sofa.

  It had been a long day. The room was getting dark, but neither moved to turn on a light. The only sound in the house was the crunch of Adam eating Cheez Doodles.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Jennifer.

  Adam was, too — about how spending a few hours with Jennifer was really not that bad.

  “About that smiling contest we assigned Phoebe to do at the mall,” said Jennifer.

  “No,” said Adam.

  “No
, what?” said Jennifer.

  “No, I’m not going to the mall to help her do the story,” said Adam.

  “How did you know I was going to say that?” asked Jennifer.

  Adam shrugged, but lately he felt like they shared the same brain stem. He dropped a half-eaten Cheez Doodle back in the bag. His fingers were stained orange; his stomach felt too full. He burped.

  “We can’t let her go alone,” said Jennifer. “She’s in third grade.”

  “You just told me how she was quote-unquote ‘terrific’ and quote-unquote ‘legendary.’”

  “Adam,” said Jennifer. “Adam!”

  “Jennifer,” mimicked Adam. “Jennifer!”

  “Adam, this isn’t like you,” said Jennifer. “You’re jealous. You are.”

  “Right,” said Adam.

  “You knew she couldn’t do that story when you gave it to her. You wanted her to fail.”

  “No way,” said Adam.

  “Yes, way,” said Jennifer.

  “If it’s such a big deal,” said Adam, “why don’t you go with her to the mall?”

  “I will,” said Jennifer. “But I thought it would be nice if you came, too. She could learn so much from a reporter with your experience. The Slash’s star journeyman reporter teaching the star cub how it’s done.”

  Adam didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, come on, just do it,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Oh no. No,” said Adam. “Last time you said that — I wound up being the coeditor.”

  “And that’s such a terrible thing!” said Jennifer. She grabbed the cordless phone and called her parents to come get her. Then she stuffed all her things into her backpack and stomped off. “Jennifer,” Adam kept saying as he trailed behind her. “Jennifer. Come on, Jennifer, you know what I mean.”

  But Jennifer had gone mum.

  “Jennifer, at least wait inside until your folks get here,” said Adam. But he was alone now, staring at the closed front door.

  All day Friday, Adam kept waiting for Jennifer to apologize. But every time he tried to catch her eye to let her know that it was OK for her to approach him, so he could forgive her, she immediately looked away, like he was diseased goods. That was the problem with Jennifer — she was such an editor type, she wanted to hold all the little Phoebes’ hands and do it all for them. Didn’t she understand, the best reporters had to be tough as nails and street savvy? Adam’s philosophy when it came to cub reporters was sink or swim — throw them in the pool, give stories to the ones who bobbed up, and fire the ones who drowned.

  Adam checked his To Do list and realized that after school he had eighteen free minutes between Math Olympiads and soccer practice. He really was on top of things these days and headed up to 306. Jennifer was going to feel terrible about the way she’d treated him. He was going to do reporting on her basketball hoop story. Probably get the whole story reported for her with one single phone call. He couldn’t wait to see her face when she realized he was selflessly doing her story without even having to be asked.

  Jennifer was going to feel miserable about misjudging him.

  Adam dialed the number in the phone book and a crisp voice said, “Tremble County Zoning Board.”

  Adam explained he had a question about the new accessory structure policy.

  “That’s Code Enforcement,” the crisp voice said. “I’ll transfer you.” There was quiet, then a dial tone. He’d been cut off. Well, so maybe it would take him two phone calls.

  Adam tried again and was cut off — three more times. On the next try, he asked for the direct dial number for Code Enforcement. The crisp voice said, “I’d be glad to connect you immediately.”

  “Please. NO!” said Adam. “Anything but that. I’ll dial it myself.”

  He did and a woman’s voice answered, “Code Enforcement.”

  “Yes,” said Adam. “There was an article in the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser —”

  “Honey,” said the woman, “I am so busy, I just don’t have the time to do all the reading I should, and I feel terrible about it.”

  “Hey, that’s OK,” said Adam.

  “No,” said the woman. “Reading is so important. I need to do better.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Adam. “See, the reason I’m calling —”

  “Well, you are so sweet,” said the woman. “You have just made my day. Thank you for your moral support, honey.” And the line went dead.

  Adam froze. Had that really just happened? He called back.

  “Code Enforcement.”

  “Yes,” said Adam. “I’m the guy who just called, about the article in the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser —”

  “Honey, we get so many calls, it’s hard to keep track.”

  “Remember, we were just talking about the importance of reading?”

  “It’s possible, honey,” said the woman. “It’s been so nice —”

  “Wait!” yelled Adam, and he quickly explained that the story he’d read was about zoning officers enforcing local law 200-52.7A.

  “Now, that does sound like one of ours,” said the woman.

  Adam said he had a question about what kind of structures would be affected. He purposely didn’t say basketball hoops. He wanted to keep it vague. Maybe Jennifer was wrong, and the last thing he wanted to do was plant the idea in these guys’ heads that they should be tearing down his basketball hoop.

  “Well, now, honey,” said the woman. “What you’re asking for is an interpretation of the law. Am I right?”

  Adam said he guessed so.

  “I am so sorry, but I am not authorized to do interpretations,” she said. “You’ll have to speak to the Herbs, honey.”

  The herbs? Adam thought. Speak to the herbs? He’d heard of talking to the animals, but speaking to the herbs? It did not matter. He was going to keep this woman on the phone until he got an answer. That’s how street-savvy reporters work. He’d show Jennifer.

  “Which herbs do I speak to?” asked Adam.

  “Green or Black,” said the woman.

  “I don’t know,” said Adam. “Green or black herbs? Which is better?”

  “You know, I can’t answer that, honey,” said the woman. “They don’t allow me to give out opinions over the phone, but in my opinion the Herbs are pretty much interchangeable.”

  “OK,” said Adam. “Then let me talk to a green herb.”

  “You mean Herb Green, honey?” said the woman. “He’s not here right now.”

  “Then give me the black herb,” said Adam.

  “Honey, this is the twenty-first century,” said the woman. “A man’s race should not enter into it. Herb Black is, just for your information, white. It’s Herb Green who is black. No matter. Herb Black and Herb Green are both out. On Tuesdays the Herbs do code enforcement. They’re out checking to make sure that backyard fences aren’t too high, store signs aren’t too wide, additions to homes have all eighteen proper permits . . .”

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” said Adam. “I didn’t mean to make a racial —”

  “Honey, don’t you worry,” said the woman. “When it comes to race, none of us is perfect. You just learn from this and go forward.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Adam. “Look, is there a chance there’d be someone who could answer a simple question about what an accessory structure is?”

  “Oh no,” said the woman. “No one can speak for the Herbs.”

  Adam asked when to call back.

  “Hard to say,” said the woman. “The Herbs, they work eight to four, but they don’t keep a fixed schedule. They’re in; they’re out. As the Herbs say, code enforcement is not forty hours behind a desk. They’re constantly rushing out to investigate fresh zoning violations.”

  “Could I leave a message?” asked Adam.

  “You could,” said the woman, “but the Herbs are terrible about returning calls.”

  “Well, when’s good to call back?” asked Adam.

  “Best time to get the H
erbs is morning,” she said, “before they go out.”

  “About eight o’clock?” Adam asked.

  “Normally that would be good,” said the woman. “Problem is, it’s my job to answer the phone and I get in at nine.”

  “So the only time to call,” said Adam, “is when no one answers the phone?”

  “I didn’t say that, honey,” the woman said. “The Herbs will pick up when I’m not here, if you catch them in a good mood.”

  Adam was getting the hang of this. He had a hunch you could never catch the Herbs in a good mood, and said so.

  “Oh, you’re right about that, honey,” said the woman. “Code enforcement is thankless work. People think the law means everybody except them. I’ll tell you, the Herbs — the stress — this job has aged those Herbs something terrible. Their nerves are shot, their stomachs ruined. It’s made them very bitter Herbs.”

  “I am so sorry,” said Adam.

  “Just doing my job, honey,” said the woman, and the line went dead.

  Adam glanced at his notes. He hadn’t written a single complete sentence. He ripped up the paper and tossed it in the wastebasket. What a stupid story. Jennifer had no clue — sure it was easy to think up assignments that sounded great. But doing them? It was the reporter who got stuck with all the dirty work. The thing about Jennifer — she really was a typical editor.

  Jennifer lay in bed, trying to figure out what she was doing that morning. First she remembered it was a day off because even with her eyelids shut, she could tell there was more sunlight in the room than on a school day, when her dad woke her early. That almost made her open her eyes, until she remembered that the twins would be downstairs already, in control of the TV remote, watching Nick or Animal Planet. Jennifer felt she never got a fair chance to watch her shows. The worst thing was, the twins would hide the remote to spite her and forget where they hid it and Mom would start screaming, “Turn off the TV before I throw it out the window.” And then, of course, Jennifer got the blame, because she was “oldest and should know better.”