Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

This thought is confirmed once I flip stations and word of Atwater’s “accomplice” has spread through the circus. Everyone is reporting it, everywhere. Following the lead. It seems possible to me that all this attention aimed in my direction cannot ultimately be a good thing. That it might, in the end, lead to a weakness in the armor of invisibility I’ve worked so hard to surround myself in, though I’ve been careful with details. I make a mental note to be extra careful in my motions and activities. Renfrew, the RV salesman, appears to be playing ball and sticking to the vague story we concocted, but he is far from a sure thing. I think of the oiliness in him. The avarice. Anything is possible.

And then the screen pulls my attention back. The whirling logo of The Renton Report has caught my attention. As the intro music eases back, we can see Grady Renton readying himself to opine. From the look of his serious expression, what he’s about to say will be well thought out and considered, though it always is. That’s his style: the stuff he says is generally worth listening to, that’s why he gets the colorful logo and the big chair. Renton is a good-looking East Coast blueblood who has spent the last couple decades at the top of the news chain. He adds opinion and a bit of poetry to the run-of-the-mill reportage he shares. I watch him now with mixed emotions. I don’t know what to expect.

“An accomplice for Atwater is a frightening thought. Does that mean we are now looking for another Gardener? Is this accomplice someone who has shared in the planting of his crops? The thought terrifies me. And it should terrify you.”

It even terrifies me until I remember that Grady is potentially talking about me. That makes me blink and reconsider. After all, what do we really know about anyone? In a world where Atwater has wreaked havoc on a small community, everything seems possible. It’s not a heartening thought.

A few channels over, on The Blair Donner Show, they have gone so far as to hire a sketch artist to sit with Renfrew, the RV salesman, and they’ve come up with a drawing of a woman who, fortunately, looks so little like me it is comical. The woman in the drawing has wide-set, startled-looking eyes and a feral mouth. She is perfectly coifed and sharply attired. I am pleased to see that Renfrew has taken a few liberties and not been completely honest with the artist. At least, that’s how it seems because no one would ever recognize me from what is being presented. I feel certain that was his intent: it could not be so far off otherwise. It puts my mind at rest. Slightly.

But it is all so diverting, it is troublesome. Had the topic not been so dire, it would also have been funny: watching the contortions the media presenters are going through in order to keep the spotlight not only on the story, but on themselves. And is the story served by these actions? And will it help justice ultimately be served? Well, that isn’t really the point, is it? The point is to grab more eyeballs for their stats. Sell more soap and this-year’s-model cars. It’s not easy. As a result, you can almost smell them sweat. It is a difficult road. In a world of dwindling viewership, it’s often the oiliest presenter who wins. The coverage offered up illustrates it. I’m sickened by it. And I can’t look away.

I don’t leave my hotel room for two days. I live on room service and the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Inhaling it. It is as though I am possessed. The smallest tidbit of news from the front could change the whole trajectory of the reportage. This fact worries me. How did things like this ultimately impact the case? And it didn’t seem to me even a question that it would. Rather, I wonder: How could it not? Bombarded with “facts,” it becomes impossible to not form an opinion. And the opinion has to be based on partially seen truths and weighted opinions.

When I finally decide to leave the safe nest of my hotel room, the circus follows me home. In the cab on my way to the airport, I see his face. In the first-class lounge waiting for my flight, I hear his name, hear the anxiety rising. Overheard on other people’s computers, spied on headlines, whispered in lineups. It is everywhere.

It is everywhere.

William Atwater’s name has reached mythic proportions, his deviancy amplified by constant exposure and total saturation. We as a culture are as enthralled by him as we are frightened. And it is awful. I can’t get away from it. And even if I could, I can’t look away.

I get home before my new plants have completely dried up. I get home in time to save them. Standing in the twilight, increasing the pressure of the hose and the distance the water will travel by holding my thumb over the opening. Vowing again to get a nozzle for the sprayer the next time I’m in town, while feeling the pleasure of using innovation and my body to solve a problem. From ethereal to real. There’s something that pleases me in that.

And I don’t miss a beat. I get quickly back into the pattern I’d created the first time around, settling down in front of newsfeed into my laptop, outwardly calm. Passive. Inwardly seething, twisting, writhing.

I spend weeks like this and I don’t remember anything of that time that isn’t media watching. I know I must have done other things. There must have been food consumed, walks taken, books read and considered. But I don’t remember any of that. I remember only the vile passing of hours while I consider his face and his actions, his childhood, and his future. I consider everything that is