Paper Daughter (11 page)

He reached across the desk, picked up the sports section, and then dropped it. "The
Herald
's a good newspaper," he said. "That's why I still advertise in it. Shoot a lot of money your way despite people telling me I can get more value online."

"Noted," Harrison said, writing something down. Then he asked, "About your construction projects—did Yeager have a financial interest in any of them?"

This time Galinger's offended expression stayed. "Of course not. And that implication really is going too far."

"Sorry." Harrison made another note. "How about the planning office staff? Donald Landin seems to have worked on all your projects. How well did you know him?"

A pulse began to throb in Galinger's neck. "I didn't. I have my own staff to liaise with city employees. Lindan? I don't even know the name."

"Landin," Harrison corrected. "But getting back to you and Yeager. So you two didn't share business interests. How about you and any of Yeager's family?"

"Never met any of them," Galinger answered shortly. Then, seeming to regret his rudeness, he said, "Sorry. But Toby was divorced, you know."

"That's what I understand," Harrison said. "I've only a couple more questions. Maggie—"

Galinger broke in. "Look, I don't know what you're going after, but you've got my word there was never a more honest man than Toby Yeager. If you do write a piece on him, I hope you'll present him as the dedicated town leader he was. And if you must write about me, I hope you'll be fair. Remember, I didn't have to come in here."

He looked at his watch. "I'll have someone fax you my biography and a bit about Galinger Construction. And now I really must leave."

"Of course," Harrison said. "But first ... Maggie, didn't you have a question about something you found?"

For a moment my mind went blank. Then, "Munez," I said. "Mary, Raul, and Luis Munez. We were wondering about your relationship to them."

A dark flush coursed up the sides of Galinger's face, and he leaned forward so far that Harrison must have felt his breath. "I never heard of them," he said. "And now stop wasting my time."

"You've never heard of three of Galinger Construction's principal owners?" Harrison repeated. "Interesting." He took his time writing. "I want to make sure I quote you correctly on that. And what about a J. A. Garcia?"

Galinger stood abruptly. "Who's your editor?" he demanded. "I want to see him."

"Sam Braden," Harrison answered. "I'll introduce you."

***

I didn't get invited to that conference, although Harrison motioned me to move to a desk close enough to the glass sides of Mr. Braden's office that I heard most of the louder parts.

The last thing Galinger said before hurrying out, anger marking every long-strided step, was, "You'll be hearing from my attorney, Braden, if you print one word."

"What are we going to do?" I asked after I'd been waved in to take the chair still warm from Galinger.

"Write it up," Fran answered. "Galinger's a candidate for a public office. People he'd be representing have a right to know about potential conflicts of interest, and about past ones involving him and the person he wants to replace."

Mr. Braden nodded. "Stick to facts—which we've got plenty of, straight from the public record. No conclusions. And no paraphrasing anything Galinger said. Just straight quotes there."

Harrison hesitated. "We could wait a day—dig around and try to paint a more complete picture. Though..."

"Though if we do, someone else will beat us to the story," Mr. Braden said. "You want to waste an exclusive?"

"No," Harrison said. "I don't."

Fran said, "Me, neither. Besides, you can do more in a follow-up. You and Maggie will be on this one awhile."

Harrison worked on the story all afternoon, and I made phone call after phone call, under his direction, checking and recheck-ing everything.

Along with Fran and Harrison and me, Mr. Braden read the page proof with the finished article.

It began, "Previously undisclosed financial ties between developer Ralph Galinger and a recently deceased Eastside city councilman who chaired the planning committee responsible for approving several Galinger Construction projects came to light this week when
Herald
reporters..."

The lead didn't mention which reporters, but it didn't need to. Above the story were the words "By Ed Harrison of the
Herald,
with contributions from Margaret Wynn Chen."

By then, other staffers had come over, their interest adding to a current of excitement that had been building all day. Everyone knew we had something that was more than routine.

Those standing close in, like Jillian, heard Mr. Braden thump the page proof and say to Harrison and me, "Good work, you two."

She waited till the others had drifted away. Then she said, for once sounding sincere instead of ditzy, "That's great, Maggie. It's really cool that one of us has been able to work on a real story."

She pointed to the page proof that I was still reading. "And look! Your name's right there." Tapping the byline at the top, she said, "That is so, so..."

But I was looking at the last paragraph: "Any investigation into possible improprieties in city planning practices could further delay work already backlogged because of Yeager's death and the abrupt resignation of planning office employee Donald Landin shortly thereafter. Landin was subsequently killed in a drive-by shooting near the International District May 23."

The International District? I'd assumed the shooting had occurred on the Eastside. That since he'd worked there, that was probably where he'd lived.

"Harrison," I said. "Is that right? About where Landin was killed?"

"Yeah, in front of his apartment," he said. "Does it matter?"

"No," I answered. "Except that's where my dad died—or in the same area, anyway—that afternoon."

Frowning, Harrison said, "Could he have been chasing the same story?"

"Since he covered business news, I suppose it's possible," I replied. "Only I think his boss would have said so."

"Well, it's easy enough to check," Harrison said. "Someone can call him tomorrow. I'll mention it to Fran. And meanwhile, you ought to give yourself a pat on the back. If your father
was
going after the Galinger story, he'd have been pleased that you found the connection that brought it in!"

***

I went home brimming with details of the piece that would be in the next morning's paper. The evening before, I'd given Mom only the bare outline of what Harrison and I had been working on. Now, though, I had an actual story to tell her about, and it was one with my name attached to it. Not a by-line, exactly, but clear acknowledgment that I'd helped. I might have worked all summer without something like that happening.

"Mom, you should have heard Galinger. He's the developer who..." I rattled on a bit and then stopped short. If Mom was excited for me, she sure wasn't showing it.

"What?" I asked. "Is something wrong?"

"I just wish you were doing something else with your summer," she answered. "Having a good time. Playing and going places with your friends."

"Bett and Aimee are in the San Juans," I reminded her. "A ferry ride and fifty miles away. And this is better than playing. It's doing a real job that's important. What if somebody's building a house on land that won't support it, because an elected official took a payoff to—"

Mom busied herself pulling salad makings from the refrigerator.

"Mom!" I said. "I want to tell you about this. It's really a big deal."

Her face tightened, and the cords in her neck strained taut. She set out a cutting board and washed a tomato. Then she turned to me. "I know. And I want to hear. It's just hard."

"Why?"

"Because you sound so much like your father. Because you
are
just like him."

She continued making salad, shredding lettuce, slicing a cucumber. Chopping green onions so fast it sounded like mahjong tiles clicking.

Then she said, "I'm sorry, Maggie. That was selfish. I'm proud of you and your story. I only wish you'd stay a kid a while longer. I'm not ready to lose you, too."

"It's just a job, Mom."

"The internship is. But the news? I know you as well as I knew your father, and that means knowing it can consume you." She managed a small laugh. "Not to be melodramatic."

I laughed with her. "Not to worry. I have another year of high school, and I promise to enjoy it."

But as I set out place mats and water glasses, I went back over what she'd said, focusing on a different part from what she'd meant me to. Her words reminded me about Dad's unknown family, and how I'd decided to find it for myself. Despite how my work at the
Herald
had made him feel close, the Galinger story had driven that project from my mind.

Friday,
I thought.
I'll be off.
I could get back to it then. At least start brainstorming how I might find a record of one boy in all California.

Unless, of course, things were breaking so fast on the Galinger front that maybe Harrison would need my help. If they were, Fran might let me work an extra day, since it was my story, too.

"What are you smiling at?" Mom asked.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

Actually, I was picturing the next morning's paper. I would get it from the front door. Unfold it. See right there in print the jeanette ingold same words thousands of other people were seeing: "with contributions from Margaret Wynn Chen."

That, at least, would tell the world one undeniable fact about who I was. I was someone who had helped find the lies and the truth behind a story.

FAI-YI LI, 1934

Li Dewei takes me with him the day he goes to meet his family at the docks, so that I can help with their belongings. We go to a ship, where we watch people stream off, but we cannot get close enough for him to pick out his wife from the others who plod toward the reception center that Sucheng and I went through.

"
There will be many questions," I tell him. "It may take a long time.
"

"
That is all right," he says. "I will tell the authorities I am here, and then I will wait.
"

Still, I am the one who waits outside the building for hours and hours. And when Li Dewei finally emerges, he carries his small son in his arms and there is no woman with them. In silence we return to the laundry, where he leaves the child before going back out, somewhere.

"
His wife got sick on the ship. She died a week away from land," I tell my sister.

Sucheng shrugs. "How soon do we leave?
"

"
Not today! Li Dewei needs our help.
"

The little boy, whose American name is Philip, tugs on her. He is so young his walk is still unsteady, and I tell myself that surely she must see that Li Dewei cannot care for him alone.

She keeps asking, though, day after day, and her pestering irritates me.

"
There is no hurry," I tell her more than once, watching the angry gestures with which she changes little Philip's soiled clothing or pulls him from the stove.

And finally I lose patience. "If you did not wish this life, you should have thought better when you demanded to come to America!
"

My voice is harsh, covering the truth that more and more I am glad to be here. And covering, too, my regret that I have not found a safe way to let our parents know where we are and why we left.

Besides, I tell myself, she should see that her life is not so confined now that she has a household to care for.

In the early morning she goes out, buyingfood from the vegetable stands that line the streets and from meat and fish shops where chickens hang in windows and shining salmon lie on tables in overlapping waves. And all day she has little Philip to keep her company.

Some days I have company, also.

For by now Li Dewei has needed more medicines, and An and I have had more occasions to talk. And some late aflernoons I go out even when there is no errand to do, and Li Dewei does not ask why, as long as my work is done. He appreciates that I am trying to learn the ways of my new country, and perhaps he thinks that is my intent.

But I go to meet An, as often as she lets me know that a meeting is possible.

Because now, when she walks by with her girlfriends, sometimes there is a quick nod—no more—a nod that means
Meet me.

Li Dewei is too preoccupied to notice. And if my sister, bringing in a bundle of folded shirts, Philip hanging on her clothing, happens to see, what does it matter? She cannot stop me from going out. An is no concern of hers.

And if I do not understand why An should wish to be with me, if only for the fifteen or twenty minutes that she can slip away unnoticed, that does not matter, either. It is enough that she does.

We have found a small lot where no one but a few old men go, and we sit on the far side, sheltered by a tangle of wild shrubbery so they cannot spot us and then tell her father.

The first times we go there, I worry that we will have nothing to talk
about, but after that I worry that our short visits will never provide enough hours for all we have to say. An has so many questions, and she helps me find the words to answer them so that she can know what I know.

She asks about my home in China, and I tell her about lying awake listening to the pigs and chickens of the family next door, who seemed not to be aware—not the people nor their animals—when daylight was done.

She wants to know how the days went in my village, and I tell her how a man as strong as two men sweated to turn the huge stone that ground corn.

She wants to know about my voyage coming over—what the ocean looked like and if I think I will ever go back

"
Cold and big," I tell her. "Yes, if I can. At least, that is what I think.
"

And then I say, "Now you talk to me," and she tells me about something that has happened at school, or about some funny person who has visited her father's shop. Sometimes I listen to the words and sometimes only to the music of her voice saying them. And if I ask questions, sometimes it is because I want her stories to go on.