I had a long day today. I wanted to come home and write, but I am very tired. It was a good day. I have some good thoughts to share about it. But I lack the energy. I still need to find time and invest in into other steemians and their great and creative work. But for now here is a Jackson vanity press event. Page one of a novel that I am writing (slowly)
Is Janie Gideon Missing?
Ezekiel De Kefil swung on his tree swing in his front yard hanging from a sturdy branch of a maple tree on a beautiful spring day. He watched the spectacle across the street as news crews mobbed his neighbors, the Gideons, as they entered their house. Next door, Mr. Quigley held a pair of garden shears and sneered to his neighbor, Mr. Lusk, “Those darn Gideons have turned this neighborhood into a circus. Time was, this was a nice quiet neighborhood, and clean too.”
“I am sick and tired of all this nonsense,” Mr. Lusk replied. “I wonder when this will all end.”
It is not very often that the focus of the world comes to a suburban subdivision. One of the reasons for such a commotion is news of a missing child. Trouble in the land of 2.4 kids and a dog makes a story. When Middletown, USA has cracks with ooze seeping up through them people come to look, touch, and smell. “Has the American dream gone wrong,” we ask ourselves. If a little girl in the suburbs isn’t safe, then who is?” we ask ourselves. If monsters lurk in the bosom of the American dream, in the land of homecoming queens, football quarterbacks, geeks, nerds, and girls next door, what does that mean about all of us?
Ezekiel’s neighbor, Janie Gideon, was reported missing. Oddly, in this case, “reported” means reported on by the media. Janie Gideon is a thirteen year old girl from the community of Lafayette. Recently an investigation began over her disappearance. Immediately the smell of journalistic blood was in the water for the national media as Janie’s parents filled the perfect role for such a story. Janie’s father, Gerald was an accountant for a corporation that had its headquarters in Lafayette. Eliza Gideon worked part time from home in the medical reporting industry. Gerald and Eliza Gideon seemed outwardly like good people, but they answered all of the questions wrong. They did not report their daughter missing. They refused to comment on the whereabouts of their daughter. They had been called to the police station for several interviews without satisfying the police. They were not in prison. The American media consumers and pundits asked how this could be? Something clearly was fishy about this story. A girl was missing. Someone must pay for this. Wow, the Gideons must be brilliant if they could kill their daughter and leave no traces of it. It’s only a matter of time, others surmised, until the ugly truth comes out.
What this story was, even more than the average suburban tragedy, was a mystery, that in subtle ways was different than similar stories. There was something here, and nobody had a clear story that satisfied all of the clues of this case. This story was a media dream; it had legs and no clear answer. It was like the OJ Simpson trial, or the Kennedy assassination or the Jean Benet Ramsey case. And these mysteries fuel themselves by not being solved. Watergate was so much more interesting when it had an unrevealed source behind it named Deep Throat. Now that the mystery has been solved and the source was revealed as a high ranking member of the FBI named Mark Felt, the story is put to rest and a bland version of it is nestled in our history books.
Arriving to join the throng of reporters was a sharply dressed beautiful woman. (Did you ever notice the reporters are grouped in throngs? Maybe it is their proper group name, like coven or pack or pod.) Chesapeake Bouchard primped herself as she moved into the group. She simultaneously fixated on her television appearance and the Gideons. She was a good reporter. They were hiding something but they were not susceptible to the usual incentives for sharing more information. They seemed truly mortified at being in their predicament. “This isn’t going to get us anywhere,” she thought to herself. But quitting never got anyone anywhere and she went along with the throng and made her best shot.
The Gideon’s made their way through the throng. As questions were tossed at them like pebbles. They seemed determined to go through without giving any attention to the intruders.
“Where are you coming from?”
“Do you have Janie with you?”
“Do you think this has anything to do with global warming?” That one caught Eliza Gideon’s attention. She turned slightly and the routine of avoiding reporters—averted eyes, hurried-step—was disrupted. Eliza’s face expressed the question, “What the heck kind of a question is that.” Then she remembered where she was and tried to get back in her anti-throng routine.
“Is Janie Gideon missing?” Chesapeake asked. It was a simple question. And this one caught Gerald Gideon’s attention. Chesapeake knew an opportunity had presented itself. She was about to get a reaction and maybe a response. Gerald flashed a look of anger. Anger was a good response; it impaired one’s judgment.
“Janie is not missing, she was not missing, and she never was missing. Why are you people even here?” Gerald snapped. Many good reporters would have just gotten what they wanted, Chesapeake knew, but openings are made to go through. In went Chesapeake like Alice into the rabbit hole. This question had to be hit just right and there was no time to pause and let another reporter ruin or steal the moment. Too simple and anti-reporter mode can be returned to. Too snarky and the subject can decide he has fallen into a trap and clam up in embarrassment. She needed to find what he wanted to say. No time for the perfectly planned question, here goes, she thought to herself. “Can you ask her a question for me then?” she smiled flashing her charm, knowing the answer would be negative, but how he said no would reveal something hopefully.
“No I can’t,” he said, sounding to most of the reporters there (she hoped it was all of the reporters there) like she had been shot down asking a silly question. It was easy to say no to, and no tangible information would be in the response. To the throng she would be another pretty face who didn’t perform well on her feet, who forgot or never learned some vital basic reporting skills. One of the benefits of being pretty, and there were many, was being constantly underestimated. When Gerald answered it was no longer snappy or mean. He knew he was done talking; he was able to close the door that he had foolishly opened and then walk back in the house. Reporting is about instincts, and Chesapeake’s instincts told her that what Gerald Gideon was thinking when he answered her second question was that he could not contact his daughter. There were hints of melancholy and despair in his voice that could easily be mistaken for exasperation by the throng. That was what most of the reporters would hear in his voice. They would chalk it up as a nice try for Chesapeake and they would think they had just as much of a story that she got from her question. The throng watched the Gideons walked in the house, thrilled that the Gideons had rewarded their vigil on their lawn with a story that would please all of the editors back at the office.
Chesapeake Bouchard went through the routine of packing up and being a part of the throng. She dismissed her crew and seemed to be leaving with them. And then she apparently wistfully looked around the neighborhood. She scanned the windows, the driveways, and the garages and the yards. Someone around here can be useful, she thought. She looked at Mr. Quigley and Mr. Lusk and dismissed them as neighbors who paid attention to every detail that didn’t matter. She tried evaluating yards in the neighborhood seeing if any said to her, “This lawncare technique reveals that the homeowner knows all of the secrets behind the Gideon story.” That made Chesapeake smile at herself. Then she noticed, right under her nose, Ezekiel De Kefil. He was looking right back at her. The boy next door, she thought to herself. Let’s see what type of person he is.