One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

CHAPTER TWO

Late at night, Studio D is a fine and private place. The CVOX offices are empty, and except for the security guy and a technician down the hall, our show’s producer, Nova Langenegger, and I are on our own. After ten years of working together, Nova and I know each other’s moods, and we anticipate one another’s needs.

Tonight Nova anticipates that I need a guest expert on death and grieving to keep me from going into freefall during the show. Halloween is tough for me. I met Ariel, the woman I loved and lost, at a Halloween birthday party. We were seven years old. She was dressed as the sun, and the memory of her shining face surrounded by rays of golden foil still stops my heart.

Nova is not often wrong, but as soon as I walk into the control room of Studio D, I know that we’re in for a rocky ride. The guest expert and my producer are standing toe to toe, and they both look grim. A stranger who didn’t know the combatants would put his money on the guest expert.

Dr. Robin Harris is a goddess. In her stilettos, she’s taller than me, and I’m an even six feet. Her skin is creamy; her eyes are green; her auburn hair falls in luxuriant waves over her shoulders. Her black leather coat is close-fitted to showcase her many assets.

At my request, Nova is wearing the caterpillar costume that she’d worn to a party earlier in the evening. Her six-month-old daughter, Lily, had been dressed as a butterfly. On a good day, Nova ticks in at a little over five foot two. In my opinion she’s a beauty, but these days she’s haunted by the few extra pounds she picked up when she was pregnant.

The tension in the control room is thick, and the body language is hostile. I attempt to defuse the situation.

“Dr. Harris, I presume.” I offer our guest my hand. “I’m Charlie Dowhanuik.”

Dr. Harris pivots on her stilettos. She ignores my outstretched hand. Her eyes are flashing. “I’ve asked your producer to block a certain caller, and she refuses.” Dr. Harris’s voice is the kind of deep rich mezzo that makes my knees weak, but the caterpillar and I have a history.

“We don’t block callers unless there’s a reason,” I say.

“There’s a reason,” Robin Harris says. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland and I were in a relationship. It’s over, and he’s not dealing with it well. He makes threats.”

“Against you?” I say.

Robin Harris shakes her head impatiently. “Against himself,” she says. “He threatens to commit suicide.”

“In that case, he shouldn’t be ignored,” I say. “Maybe I can help.”

Robin Harris’s thrilling voice drips contempt. “I doubt it,” she says.

Nova catches my eye and points to the darkened studio on the other side of the glass.

“You’d better get in there,” she says.

“We’re on air in one minute, five.”

I open the door to the studio and stand aside for Dr. Harris. As she glides past me, I catch her perfume. It’s sultry. We take our places at the round broadcast desk. I point to her earphones.

“Those are yours. Could you say a few words, please? Nova needs to do a sound check.”

Dr. Harris flicks the button on the base of her microphone and the tiny light indicating that she’s on the air comes to life.

“If you don’t block Dr. Gabriel Ireland’s calls, you’ll regret it,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow.

“On-air tension is the lifeblood of talk radio,” I say.

As she hears Dr. Harris’s words, Nova’s smile is sweet. When we’re on the air, Nova and I communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. Unless Nova chooses to open the talkback for the guest, I’m the only one who can hear her. Tonight she’s decided not to share with Dr. Harris. Nova’s voice on the talkback is amused.

“FYI, Charlie, Dr. Harris tells me that people from an unnamed network are listening to our show tonight. Dr. Harris is on the short list for a call-in show of her own. My guess is she doesn’t want Gabriel Ireland getting through because he might put her off her game.”

“O-kay,” I say.

“There’s an introduction on your computer screen,” Nova says. She holds up five fingers and counts down. “And you’re on the air.”

Our theme music, “Ants Marching” by the Dave Matthews Band, comes up. When the music fades, it’s my turn. Like everyone in my business, I’ve created a voice that works for my audience. My radio voice is soothing, deep and intimate, but tonight I take it down a few notches and open with the sepulchral tones of the villain in a horror movie.

“Good evening. I’m Charlie Dowhanuik and you are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ It’s October thirty-first, the Day of the Dead, and our topic is-DEATH! How do you see it? A bony guy carrying a scythe rasping out your name, or a heavenly choir robed in white calling you home? Do you fear it? Do you welcome it? What do you think about the way we, as a society, handle death? Where do you stand on funerals- do you want to be torched and scattered to the four winds, or do you want the full meal deal with incense, prayers and all the bells and whistles. Our lines are open. Give me a call at 1-800-555-2333 or email me at charlie d at nation tv dot com.

“I’m joined tonight by Dr. Robin Harris, medical doctor, sociologist and expert in the arts of dying and grieving. Welcome, Dr. Harris.”

“Thank you for inviting me, Charlie D.” The warmth and fullness of her voice are extraordinary. The network guys for whom she’s auditioning must be creaming their jeans. She adjusts her notes. “The questions you raise are complex, and as a thanatologist, I believe I can contribute specialized knowledge that will be helpful to your listeners.”

“We’re in your debt,” I say. “Now tell me, in words that make sense to us all, what exactly does a thanatologist do?”

“In words that make sense to your audience, I study how people in varying cultures at varying times have dealt with death. I believe there are lessons there that can help people on the most vulnerable days of their lives.”

“And those days would be…?”

“The day when they themselves are about to die or when they learn that someone significant in their life has died.”

I remember the exact moment when I heard that my golden, glowing Ariel had died. She was twenty-eight years old. When she was thirteen, she made a tablecloth out of midnight blue velvet and appliquéd it with gold and silver satin cut-outs of suns, moons, stars, buds, blossoms, fruits, birds, fish and animals. Ariel’s world encompassed everything, and then she was gone. We used the cloth she sewed to cover the box that held her ashes. Suddenly I can’t speak. Through the glass that separates us, I see Nova’s worried eyes and the quarter smile that she offers when I need encouragement.