Blinding Fear Read online

The routine kick-started her day while providing the Claire McBeth definition of adequate rest—until the current day.

  The upheaval started the day before when, as she was leaving, her boss, Anaya Williams-Jones, assistant managing editor, science and technology, had sent her an e-mail asking Claire to stop by her office first thing the next morning. Her peaceful evening and night were now reduced to much fretting and speculation as to the purpose of the meeting.

  Her boss normally gave Claire great leeway once she received her assignment, rarely talking to her about it until Claire submitted the final draft for approval. If there were any changes Anaya would mark up the paper copy in traditional journalistic red ink and send it back. If Claire disagreed—which was rare—she would call Williams-Jones and the two would debate the issue until achieving a resolution.

  The e-mail summons would mark the first time Claire set foot in the boss’s office since the day she was welcomed to the Sentinel family two years prior.

  The impending face-to-face meeting created a minor seismic event in Claire’s carefully orchestrated evenings.

  Typically she would get back to her apartment around six-ish, assuming the weather allowed her to take her bike. If not, then it might be five-thirty-ish, having been forced to take an outrageously expensive cab. She almost never took the subway given the many hassles, both environmental and other-human-related, of walking to and from the stations, which were not convenient to her apartment anyway. She would pop a Marie Calendar’s or Weight-Watcher’s meal in the microwave, then work on whatever articles and associated research were on her Sentinel plate. She would also try to make some progress on her crocheted afghan blanket and perhaps watch another episode of “Friends” on Netflix. Some nights she would spend an hour or two working on her historical romance novel based in part on the lost colony of Roanoke, Virginia in 1590. Eventually she’d “hit the hay” between ten and eleven.

  This night she found it difficult to concentrate on anything except the elephant-sized question of the moment—Why?! Why did Williams-Jones want to meet with her? As a direct consequence of her inability to focus and associated irritability, she made a mistake in several stitches of her blanket and had to rip out seven rows; thought the writing of the “Friends” episode to be vapid along with just plain stupid; and while researching an article on a biotech company ran into trouble navigating the New York City Public Library website. Finally, rather than struggling with whatever she did, she simply went to bed, hoping she could fall asleep at a reasonable hour.

  The next morning, after a fitful night, she got up and began her normal morning routine. Before pulling on her already-laid out jeans and blouse, she stepped on the scale and found that in spite of riding to work an extra two days the previous week she’d gained a pound. She knew women in their early thirties often had trouble maintaining their weight but this was annoying. She was now up to 142 pounds, seven pounds above what she considered the optimal weight for her five foot, eight inch frame.

  “Come on, Claire!” she snapped out loud at herself in her normally gentle alto voice. “You’ve got to get it under control!”

  After dressing and then drinking her blenderized breakfast she stood in front of the bathroom mirror preparing to apply makeup. She stopped for a moment, carefully considering her face. Although she was overweight—albeit just a little—she had to admit her face still had a youthful glow without obvious wrinkles. She again thanked her mother’s African roots for it, as well as her supple, light-brown skin. She had to admit, though, that what turned—and kept turning—a lot of men’s heads of all ethnicities were her striking green eyes in combination with her medium-length auburn hair with natural copper highlights. Those genes she’d obviously inherited from her father’s Scotch-Irish ancestors.

  The powerful combination of face and body had kept many male suitors striving for her attention. Some had even compared her to Inami, the African-Swedish female vocalist. The comparison to the international superstar would have flattered most but Claire was offended. She had nothing but absolute distain for the pop singer and her garish, highly politicized, Hollywood lifestyle of conspicuous consumption and carefully staged, semi-nude photo-ops.

  She sighed as she applied a touch of light-pink lipstick, thinking of the many men she’d dated over the past few years. Most never saw a second date when she discovered their interest in her was strictly carnal. They somehow thought that such an attractive woman needed “conquering” by a worthy challenger. Others had gotten a bit further only to be written off when they eventually revealed their lack of interest in world events and cluelessness about all things political. Invariably, when she started talking about her interest in the American Civil Liberties Union’s latest cause or animal rights or global warming solutions the “loser’s” faces would start glazing over.

  She’d been serious about only two. The beginning of the end for both began at dinner parties hosted by the boyfriend of the moment. Each party was intended to introduce her to the boyfriends’ inner circle of family and friends. Each resulted in crashing and burning for similar reasons.

  As boyfriend number one—a wealth management consultant whose parents had immigrated from Sweden when he was an infant—introduced her to them she could immediately sense the cold politeness; a sure sign of the racism she occasionally experienced. Two days later she called the whole thing off before the relationship got any deeper.

  Months later she had a deja-vu moment at the party of serious-boyfriend number two—a cardiac surgeon from Liberia. His mother had greeted her politely then refused to even look at Claire for the rest of the evening. She’d never understood until a week later when the surgeon rudely broke off their relationship via text. He clumsily tried to apologize, explaining he was very close to his mother. She “expected” him to only date and marry someone from their home country. In short: more racism with a side order of mama’s-boyism.

  For her entire life Claire had prided herself on the diversity of her small circle of friends; how she went to great lengths to be open and accepting of everyone she met. She’d always assumed she’d been that way as a result of being raised alone by her nurturing—although some of her friends would say doting—Irish father. She also guessed it had something to do with her African-American mother leaving her father when Claire was an infant. Dad said his wife decided to “find her roots” somewhere in central Africa and never heard from her again. Claire found it crushing to believe a mother would walk away from her own daughter just so she could understand what it “meant” to have dark skin in a lighter-skinned world. She’d sworn to herself she would never be that way.

  Claire also attributed her openness to her education. First at Palos Verdes Peninsula High School, in between the beach cities of Los Angeles, where the vastly white, upper-middle class student population had warmly accepted her from her days as a Freshman. Hardly anyone there cared much about ethnicity. They were generally laser-focused on getting into prestigious colleges and universities in preparation for professional careers. She’d done the same. Since her dad was a professor at the University of Southern California it was only natural for her to apply there—not to mention she could attend tuition free. She was astonished to discover on campus there were nearly 50 societies and clubs aimed at politically organizing the black student population. Some had approached her to join. She’d politely declined, finding their sometimes-harshly divisive tactics and language to be counter-productive within society as a whole.

  And so now she almost felt trapped in her own skin; adrift in a world becoming increasingly polarized into strident camps of black and white, rich and poor, educated and not; where people like her were essentially isolated and cutoff in the grayish middle. Hoping to avoid any more such catastrophes, she stopped dating entirely, withdrawing into her cloistered world of word smithing, research and rigidly-adhered-to schedules.

  As she finished up her brief makeup session with a very light dusting of rouge to her high cheek bones she wondere
d if the time had come to get back into the dating world. Maybe her requirements for the men were too stringent. As she laid her rouge case on the vanity table she looked in the mirror and pointed a polish-less finger at herself. “You’ve got a great life, Claire. Don’t screw it up with the wrong man. He’s out there and he’s worth waiting for.”

  She turned from the mirror, satisfied with her appearance and selfie pep-talk.

  At 7:29 she walked her foldable, 20-inch Schwinn, 7-speed bike out the front door, down the front steps, climbed on and started pedaling east on 57th Street. She favored the bike because of its higher seat and handle bars and nimbleness in traffic. She also liked that it had fenders and a rack over the back wheel to which she had zip-tied an old milk crate. In it she carried her MacBook and a change of clothes. She did so in case one of the endless supply of rude New York motorists, cabbies or truckers sprayed water or other debris on her as she navigated through traffic. She’d also attached a thin, six-foot fiber glass pole to the frame with a bright-yellow pennant on top as well as LED flashers facing front and back for added visibility. The final piece of equipment was an air horn attached to the handlebars with which she could warn of her impending approach to semi-conscious drivers and pedestrians.

  As with every commute, she wore a bike helmet, leather motorcycle jacket and gloves, goggles, a day-glow orange safety vest, along with knee and elbow pads. After several falls and near-collisions with various obstacles—both moving and unmoving—resulted in painful scrapes and bruises, she finally learned that safety trumped style.

  For the next sixteen blocks she was able to maneuver through the cacophonous minefield of midtown Manhattan’s streets and alleys without further incident, generally enjoying the morning crispness of early autumn. She was able to suppress the upcoming meeting with her boss only until she turned east on 40th Street. Then the 1,000-foot plus skyscraper where she worked came into view and the anxiety returned.

  She turned north onto Eighth Avenue, zipped across the street, just avoiding a blaring cab, swung onto the sidewalk and pulled to a stop in front of the spectacular New York Sentinel Building; the 1.9 million square foot and fifth tallest building in the city. She reached down and released the latching mechanism on the bike frame, allowing her to fold the front wheel 180 degrees back next to the rear. She then tilted it up on its back wheel, pushed it through the front entrance and into the massive, yet stylish main lobby toward the elevator banks. She looked at her watch and saw that she had fifteen minutes to stash it in the bike commuter room and get to her bosses office.

  At exactly 8:30 she pushed through the door of her boss’s office and was cheerily greeted by Anaya’s male administrative aide.

  “Good morning, Claire. You can go right in. Anaya’s expecting you.”

  “Morning Tommy,” she dourly replied as she approached through the door to the Anaya’s inner office. “If I’m not out in fifteen minutes call 911.”

  As the door closed behind her she heard him reply with a chuckle, “Oh, don’t be a gloomy-guss! You’ll be fine.”

  Inside she found herself immersed and transported to the African continent through an eclectic, carefully arranged collection of fine art and artifacts, sculptures, murals, tapestries, exotic plants and even African-inspired music softly playing in the background. Claire had heard Williams-Jones had proudly spent tens of thousands of dollars decorating her office when she’d been promoted. It had created a bit of a stir throughout the building. Many editors preferred simplistic, sometimes even spartan offices, but Claire couldn’t help but marvel at its beauty.

  As she entered, William-Jones rose from a burgundy-colored, over stuffed leather executive chair and came out from behind the zebra wood desk—cluttered with paper—to warmly greet her. “Claire, its good to see you. Please have a seat.” They shook hands and she gestured toward a much smaller but matching chair facing her desk. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

  As Claire sat down she couldn’t help but notice that her boss was dressed in a riotously colored African wrap, with matching Kufi hat. In her mid-fifties, Williams-Jones carried herself with regal confidence, exuding strength, despite her diminutive five-foot frame.

  Her parents, along with 10 year-old Anaya and two other sisters, had escaped to the U.S. from Uganda shortly after Idi Amin and his death squads began their murderous rule of terror of the poor African country in 1971. The family had arrived in New York City with only the clothes on their backs but had flourished through business acumen and just plain hard work. Claire knew that over twenty years Anaya had worked her way up through the Sentinel’s hierarchy, holding a variety of writing and administrative jobs while at the same time acquiring a master’s degree in journalism from New York University.

  “No thanks, Anaya. I had something before I left home.”

  “Ah, yes. If I remember correctly you have some sort of nutritional shake every morning.”

  “Yeah. Still do. It helps when I ride my bike to work,” she responded politely to the small talk, dreading whatever it was that Williams-Jones really wanted to talk about.

  “Well, I can only admire your dedication to staying fit.” She gently clapped her hands, then walked around her desk to sit back down in her chair. “Okay, why don’t we get down to business.” She paused for a moment, folding her hands carefully and leaning back into the supple leather, then taking a deep breath and slowly expelling it, apparently trying to gather her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, crap!’ Claire thought. ‘It’s worse than I thought!’ Her heart began to race.

  “Over the past few months or so I’ve noticed a bit of a....shall we say.... decline in the quality of your work. Some of your articles have been a bit.....disorganized.....rambling; not much punch. They haven’t had the flair that the Sentinel expects of its writers. They’ve been missing the confidence and vitality that I, and of course my bosses, expect.”

  Claire felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. “So besides you not liking my stuff, somebody upstairs doesn’t either?” she responded, the stress causing the pitch of her voice to rise.

  Williams-Jones shook her head. “No, no, no. It’s not that bad.” She held her hands up in a stop signal, gently trying to mollify Claire. “Just a memo or two, a brief comment when passing in the hall. They say it’s as if something’s distracting you. We’re just concerned. That’s all.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Claire said, somewhat relieved; her heart slowly calming. “I have to confess I’ve noticed you’ve been marking up my copy a bit more than normal lately.”

  “Is something bothering you? Anything serious going on in your private life? Anything I can help with?”

  Claire tried to gather her thoughts, knowing the next few moments could determine the length of her tenure at the Sentinel. “No, but thanks. It’s just I’ve gone through a bit of a rough patch in my dating life that’s got me a bit flustered. Seems like all the men I’ve seen turned out to be jerks!”

  Williams-Jones chuckled. “We’ve all been there! Before Jack came along it seemed as if all the good African-American men in New York had vanished into some sort of urban Bermuda Triangle. But.....” Williams-Jones paused for a moment, steepled her fingers, and fixed Claire with a pay-close-attention-to-me-now gaze, “.....your private life is exactly that. We fully expect you to ensure that if things go bad they don’t bleed all over your ability to put words on paper. If you need some time off to recalibrate, just let me know. Unless I’m mistaken you haven’t taken vacation time in over a year. If you need more than a week or so, we’d be happy to look into granting you some extended leave.” She paused again, then spread her hands wide and smiled. “‘Nuff said?”

  Claire smiled slightly in response. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. “Yes, you’re right, of course. I shouldn’t let things affect me so much. It’s just really......frustrating. It won’t happen again.”

  “Excellent! I really appreciate your willingness to work with me. Now let’s mo
ve on to issue number two.”

  ‘Issue two!?’ Claire wondered. ‘How many “issues” were on Anaya’s plate?’ Again, she felt something disagreeable stirring in her stomach.

  “As you may remember, one of the reasons I hired you was in response to a Sentinel initiative to bring additional qualified minority writers on staff. I’ve given you some time to become comfortable, to get adjusted to how we do things around here. But I now have an assignment that I think is just right for you.”

  “What’s that?” Claire responded cautiously. ‘Qualified minority candidates? ‘Just right for me?!’ Claire felt annoyance rising up like bile in her throat. She didn’t like being used as a pawn in the game of workplace racial politics that virtually all medium-to-large companies had thoroughly bought into. During the final interview with Claire, Williams-Jones had vaguely alluded to her “representing” the minority community in her reportage. In the euphoric haze of getting the job she’d nearly forgotten about it. Now it was rearing its ugly head again.

  She could also see her boss had picked up on her gut reaction.

  Williams-Jones regarded her for a moment, carefully gauging a response. “I think it’s only appropriate you remember I stuck my neck out a little when I hired you. My boss wanted me to hire one of the many, more qualified candidates, but I insisted on you.”

  Claire’s defensive radar began sending out even louder warning alarms. “I’m sorry, Anaya. I don’t get it. Just what was it about me or my background that represented a risk to you?”

  “As you know, the Sentinel only hires the best of the best. Your GPA at USC was a bit low and......”

  “What’s wrong with a 3.3? USC is one of the highest rated and toughest journalism schools in the country!”

  “Normally we prefer writers who excelled in college. Typically they have been at or near the top of their classes.”

  “I was 37 out of 126. What’s wrong with that!”

  “Nothing whatsoever.”