“Shoes?” Josh says. He reaches for her hat and Penny ducks out of his way. “It’s the bleak midwinter, pumpkin girl. School vacation doesn’t mean-”
“My feet aren’t even cold,” Penny retorts. “It’s inside. There’s heat, you know? And Annie wears flip-flops in winter. Her parents let her. She’ll be here soon and I bet she’ll have flip-flops. You’ll see. Charlie Mac, when can we pick out my junior-bridesmaid dress?”
“Nice try on changing the subject, kiddo,” I say. I love my nickname. Penny came up with it; Charlie Mac evolving as her eventual compromise between her initial choice, “Um,” and the already-taken “Mom.” It took a year of negotiation and territory marking, but now we’re pals. I’d rather not let her know there’s a tiny bit of tension between her dad and me this morning. She’s resilient, but she’s already handled enough with her parents splitting. And now her new school. New home. And me.
“Go get shoes, as your dad said. Then we’ll discuss shopping for your dress. We’ll need to get your Bexter uniform, too.”
Penny hesitates just long enough to prove she’s not instantly obeying me. “Annie wears clogs sometimes, too,” she says. Then she flip-flops out of the room.
“Good one, ‘Charlie Mac,’” Josh says. He takes a step toward me and I meet him halfway. His arm circles my shoulders, mine slides around his waist. I smell lime and cedar and coffee. “You’re going to be a very successful mom,” he whispers. He kisses my hair with the briefest of touches and the oxygen is back in the room.
“Though somehow our Penny has promoted herself from flower girl to ‘junior bridesmaid,’” I reply. “Very smooth.”
“Annie’s idea, most likely. As always.”
We made it. We’re back. I can do this.
Penny sticks her head around the corner, her body still in the dining room, her feet out of sight. “Hey. I forgot. Do I know-what? What were you talking about?”
“Shoes,” Josh says. He points her away, then turns to me as we hear Penny’s footsteps heading upstairs. “Bexter’s not open for student orientation until next week. There’s time. And we’ll have to wait and see. But no secrets. Not for either of us. Agreed?”
Ah. That doesn’t mean I can’t investigate what may be happening at Bexter Academy. It just means I’ll have to tell Josh when I do.
“No secrets,” I say. I know I can make this work.
Chapter Three
“Tough morning, Charlotte?” Franklin turns his head like an owl and keeps one hand on his mouse, clicking his monitor screen closed. He peers at me from under his glasses, then gestures at the battered wood-framed mirror we’ve got pushpinned to the office wall. “Unless you were actually going for the wet-poodle look. In which case, congrats.”
“It’s snowing, Franko,” I say, checking the mirror. He’s right. I deposit my waterlogged latte on my desk, then yank open my metal desk drawer.
Franklin’s file drawer contains files. Mine has a 1600-watt hair dryer, a round hairbrush, hair spray, nail-polish remover, black panty hose, a backup pair of black panty hose, nude panty hose, a backup pair of nude panty hose, contact-lens solution, a bag of almonds, a tin of tea bags, a thing of Tums and several thousand Advil. I pull out the dryer.
“Take off your coat, then I’ll tell you the news,” Franklin says.
“What news? Good news?” I ask, peeling off my soggy coat. “Progress on the car thing? Emmy in our future? Story for the February ratings sweeps? We keep our jobs and everyone lives happily ever after?”
I stash my wet boots under my desk and unzip my black pumps from my tote bag. At least they stayed dry. Now Franklin needs payback for the unnecessary poodle remark. “Oh, I get it. You’re stalling. Because you can’t find anything.”
With a snap, Franklin swivels back to his computer, clicks his mouse and then taps his keyboard while he talks. “Yes, Charlotte, you’re so very perceptive. But before you find yourself a better producer, feast your eyes on this. May I present to you-” he pauses, apparently savoring his big reveal, “-the good news. The Web site of the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration.”
“NHTSA.” I say. Nitsa. “It’s all there? All we need? Right on the Web site?”
Franklin taps a finger to his lips. “Well, yes and no. Yes, I suppose, but in a rather needle-in-a-haystack kind of way.”
Franklin clicks me through the Web site, me leaning over his shoulder as he mouses through the pages of red, white and blue drop-down menus and links. “Here’s the bottom line,” he says. “The NHTSA site does contain every vehicle carmakers have admitted is defective and have been forced to recall. That’s what I mean by the haystack.”
“Does it tell how many of the recalled cars have actually been fixed? And which ones?” I turn to Franklin, hopeful for the second time today. What he’s telling me is possibly great news. “Fabulous. Then we can find the ones that’re not repaired. The ones that are still potentially dangerous.”
“Well, that’s the needle, Charlotte, finding the individual cars,” Franklin says. He’s moving his cursor across the screen. “See? This Web site only shows which makes and models have been recalled. Not what happened after that.”
“Really? That’s absurd,” I say. I turn away from the monitor and perch on Franklin’s black metal file cabinet. “Car owners get notices when their cars are recalled, right?”
Franklin nods. “It’s all on computer. Manufacturers find the car owners by looking up the unique Vehicle Identification Number of each car. And after the owners take them to the dealer to be repaired, the dealer checks it off as done, and puts the VIN into the same computer network.”
“Exactly my point,” I say. “So the feds absolutely know which cars have been repaired and which ones haven’t.”
And that makes me angry. I wave toward Franklin’s monitor. “So why isn’t all of it public information? The feds regulate all those recall notices, right? I think it’s their responsibility to keep track of who’s still driving a dangerous car. They know it, but they’re not telling? Ridiculous. Who knows how many accidents those cars have already caused? And how many are to come?”
The system is broken. Maybe we can fix it. This is what keeps me going. I point to the phone. “Call them, Franko. Try it the nice way at first. Maybe they’ll just hand the documents over. And tell them-”
Franklin’s holding up a hand to shush me. He’s already dialed, and wonder of wonders, apparently a real person has actually answered the phone. Score one for our tax dollars.
“This is Franklin Parrish, at Channel 3 News in Boston?” Franklin says. He’s using his most polite voice, and a remnant of his mostly erased southern accent. “I need to talk with someone about recalls, please.”
I can’t stand it. I scrawl instructions on my reporter’s notebook and hold it up. “Pssst,” I say, waving the page. Tell them we got a call from one viewer, no biggie.
Franklin looks over, reads it, and nods.
“We’re just researching a little consumer-education story,” Franklin says, his voice still mild and nonthreatening. “We got a call from a viewer, you know? And he just wondered how to find out whether his car has ever been recalled.”
I nod, this is good. Be polite. Ask an easy question first, and one we already know the answer to. I go back to my notebook while Franklin continues.
“Oh,” he says, all innocent. “You can look it up online? Terrific.”
“Pssst,” I say again. I hold up the notebook. Can the viewer find out if it’s been fixed?
Franklin looks over again. This time, reading my note, he makes a torqued-up expression implying: Duh.
“That’s interesting,” Franklin says. “But, hey, quick question. If it has been recalled, can our viewer find out if it’s been repaired?” As if the thought just entered his mind. Franklin’s a pro.