Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
Lizzie pulls on to her street in Somerville at exactly 11:04. The snow had clearly only been an Outer Cape thing because the roads were clear and dry all the way back. The street is still busy with folks leaving coffee shops and bars, she gets her things out of the car, and lets herself into her building.
Living on the third floor with no elevator is normally not a big deal, but when carrying a lot of things it is a drag. When she reaches her door she drops her suitcase with a plunk and unlocks the door. As she goes to turn on the light switch to the left of the door, she finds it has been replaced with a dimmer. As she looks around she can see Joe has gone dimmer crazy. She imagines he got a good deal on them or something. Before even taking off her coat she calls her parents.
“Made it safe and sound,” she says to her mom who picks up on the first ring, or even half ring.
“Oh good. Good luck tomorrow, will you be coming back after you file your story?”
She doesn’t want to lie to her mom, so is vague instead. “Yeah, probably. I’ll let you know. You two get to bed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay, love you, honey, night.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
As soon as she hangs up her phone rings. It’s Jack. She answers it to tell him to stop calling.
“Hello?”
“Where’d you go? You left so fast–”
“I’m back in Boston. I got called into work. I have to get up early, so I’m going to go,”
“Lizzie, you have to let me explain. Penelope–”
“Jack, you don’t owe me a thing. I just can’t believe I trusted you. Believe me, that won’t happen again. I have to go, good night.”
She hangs up before he has a chance to answer. Too tired to deal with her suitcase, she only takes out her toiletries and does a cursory job of brushing her teeth, peels off her clothes and crawls into bed in her bra and underwear. She doesn’t want to, but she cries a little, tosses and turns, until she finally drifts off into a restless sleep, feeling so disappointed.
City Hall is bustling already when she arrives at 8:30. She had hoped she could maybe scoop a few quotes from some officials, but is only seeing other journalists and TV crews from all the Boston stations. A strike on the transit system at Christmas was indeed very big news.
The mayor, who was almost always punctual, didn’t arrive until 9:17. When she walks in, she does not look happy.
“Thank you all for being here,” she says. “I had hoped to come bearing good news, but I’ve just left a meeting with union officials and they’re making demands we just don’t have the budget to provide.”
Lizzie is recording on her phone, which is balanced on the notebook she is holding, and she’s writing as fast as she can. She always wants a backup in case her phone recording doesn’t work.
“It’s clear we are at an impasse right now, but we plan to keep talking, because we know how important keeping the T and buses running smoothly is for everyone, especially at this time of year. We may not be agreeing on everything, but the one thing we do agree on is keeping Boston moving. I will let all of you know when, not if, we reach an agreement which I hope will be sooner than later. Thank you, and very Happy Holidays to all of you.”
Lizzie had been prepared to ask some questions, but the mayor’s team quickly ushering her out made it clear that wasn’t happening. A part of her is angry, anyone could have written this story from the forthcoming press release, there was no need for her to rush back from the Cape. She could have written this story from there and sent it in. She feels used and unappreciated.
When she arrives at the newsroom no one, not even Margaret. is there, which feels odd. She couldn't remember the last time she was the only one there. Within 30 minutes she has the story put together, even after factoring in a call to a source at City Hall who thankfully was able to give her a good quote about how he felt positive about there not being a shutdown and how Christmas wouldn’t be ruined, he even mentioned Santa for good measure. In less than an hour after leaving City Hall it was written, and up on the website, and after a quick online search, she sees she’s scooped the other papers.
Looking around she wonders where everyone is, it was still a couple of days until Christmas. She picks up her cell, “Sarah, where is everyone?” she asks the resident of the empty cubicle next to her. As she looks more closely, she sees her cubicle is actually empty. Sarah’s photos, her candy stash, everything is gone.
“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t call you, I was too upset.”
Panic rises in Lizzie’s stomach. “What’s going on?”
“I got laid off. Most of us did. You didn’t get a call?” Sarah asks, surprised.
“No, except to come in and cover a story. Margaret isn’t here either. What the heck is going on?”
“She got laid off too,” Sarah says.
Just then her desk phone rings. “Let me call you back.” She picks up the phone. “Liz Martin.”
“Hello, Ms. Martin, this is Jonathan Toomey from the New York office of Greylock Media.”
Lizzie feels her heart racing and her face grow hot. “Yes?”
“Well, there is no easy way to say this, but we are closing down the Boston newsroom, and will be running the paper from here. So your services are no longer needed.”
“You’re going to run a Boston daily paper with no reporters in Boston? How does that possibly make any sense?” Rather than being upset she’s angry. “So you had me called back from my holiday vacation to cover this story why? As a joke? As a last hurrah? Why?”
“We assure you, we don’t joke around. We at the corporate office have no sense of humor when it comes to business. I apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience? I drove two hours in a snowstorm,” she decides to add for effect. “I left my family to come here to write a story because that’s what loyal employees do, and now you have the audacity to call me, after I did my part, after I lived up to my obligation, to tell me you’re not living up to yours?”
“Well…” he’s not sure what to say now. “It’s not because you haven’t done a good job, it’s business,” he squawks out in business-speak.
“Wow, I’d think you could do better than ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ Well since I have nothing to lose, I just want to say, shame on you, and shame on your damn company. You go around and you buy good papers, award winning papers, and then you slowly and methodically kill them, bit by bit until they are shells of what they used to be. The Sentinel is historic, it was here to cover the Great Depression, JFK’s assassination, the Boston Marathon bombing, and they did it with the best boots-on-the-ground reporters in the business. But you don’t care. You are not news people, you are corporate shills and you should be ashamed, because a true democracy needs newspapers, and it needs journalists who will drive two-hours in the snow to get to a story. You might as well be selling ham, or screwdrivers, the product doesn’t matter, money does.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Martin.”
“No you’re not, because you’re a robot. For a regular paycheck and a nice office they killed your soul. Send me whatever severance, buy-out or whatever you’re offering. I’m done talking to you.”
She hangs up her phone and sits in the once bustling, now empty newsroom and cries.