Broken Things
A former journalist begrudgingly gives an interview of her own in a story about the transformative power of a well-asked question.
“And I hope I’ve made my parents proud.” “What about you? Have you made yourself proud?”
JO: That thing is a microphone?
ANDREW: Yes, ma’am.
JO: Looks like a child’s plaything.
ANDREW: So, Jo…
JO: Young man, aren’t you going to ask my permission to record?
ANDREW: Oh, uh, do I have your permission?
JO: [grunts and nods]
ANDREW: Who am I here with?
JO: Josephine Atwater, but Jo will suffice.
ANDREW: What do you do, Jo?
JO: [scoffs] Not much these days.
ANDREW: What about in the past?
JO: I did what you do, just more professionally.
ANDREW: Did you interview anyone I’d know?
March 5th, 1998
Jo runs her finger across the table in the Oval Office. Not a speck of dust. She’s been waiting an hour when he walks in.
Jo stands. “Hello, Mr. President.”
“Apologies for my delay, Mrs. Atwater.” He shakes her hand and sits in the leather chair.
“May I record?”
“Go ahead.”
“Tell me about your brother.”
He startles, but regains his composure quickly. “My brother has no bearing on my administration.”
“You mean to say his actions have had no impact on you?”
“I’ve made my stance on my brother quite clear to the American people.”
“Family values were central to your campaign. Has that changed?”
“Not at all. Those I consider family are still integral to my presidency and my life.”
“Do you think your brother still considers you family?”
He steeples his fingers before shaking out his hands. “This interview isn’t about my brother.”
Jo deftly moves on from the topic. When the interview’s over, she stands, thanks him, and turns before she goes.
“There’s more than one way to portray strength, Mr. President.”
ANDREW: Wait. You’re responsible for the President’s reconciliation with his brother?
JO: I couldn’t say.
ANDREW: That must’ve been your favorite interview.
JO: Not at all. I’d dare say not even top five.
January 28, 1995
“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me, Ms. Li.”
The woman smiles, and Jo’s blinded by her teeth. “Call me Pear.”
Jo can’t fathom referring to a grown woman as a fruit. “Congratulations on your Best Actress nomination. How did you react?”
“I was honored. I’m deeply grateful for the support of the cast and crew of Darling.”
“People must be pounding down your door, demanding you star in their project.”
When the woman smiles, Jo’s not blinded like before. “I’m excited for what the future will bring.”
Jo wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t the bland woman sitting in front of her. Or maybe she’s just that good.
“Do you think people will now agree you’ve earned your place in Hollywood?”
“I hope so. And I hope I’ve made my parents proud.”
“What about you? Have you made yourself proud?”
She takes a long sip of water. When she finishes, she tries to smile, but it falters.
Pear stands. “I’ll just be a minute,” she says as she slips out of the trailer.
Jo waits an hour, then two, but Ms. Li never returns.
ANDREW: Pear Li! The Pear Li? My mom made me watch all of her films.
JO: That’s the one.
ANDREW: Darling was her last role. She never even showed up to get her Oscar. . . because of you?
JO: Ms. Li made her own decision. All I did was ask a question.
ANDREW: You’re a natural. Did you always want to be a journalist?
October 23, 1968
Jo watches the wall clock tick on from her spot at the counter. The interview should have started, but the sculptor sits alone. Jo knows because she keeps peering over her notebook. She can’t believe someone would keep her waiting.
“Is Joe here?”
Jo whips around. “Oh, thank god,” the sculptor’s assistant says as he marches over. “Didn’t you see Irene?” Before she can correct him, he hurries her to the table in the corner, and she’s face-to-face with her idol.
“Hi,” Jo says, cursing her decision to cut her hair short. She smiles. Irene doesn’t return it.
“Aren’t you going to ask to record?”
Jo lifts her notebook and grasps for something, anything, to ask. “You come here often?”
“The restaurant was your suggestion.”
“Right, of course. So did you always want to be a sculptor?”
“Did you always want to be a mediocre journalist?”
Jo starts to sweat. She takes a sip of water and tries three more questions, each going over as poorly.
But she knows Irene’s work better than anyone.
She takes a breath and steadies herself. “Everyone claims your infamous broken window sculpture is a statement on society. Is that what you were trying to say?”
“What do you think?”
“It’s about seeing beauty beyond broken things.”
Jo doesn’t notice the sculptor’s mouth quirk up.
ANDREW: And then they hired you!
JO: No, the editor hated me.
ANDREW: How did you become a journalist, then?
JO: Everyone wanted the woman who got Irene Laurent to talk.
In the email is a link. Jo gasps. 1.2 million. That’s how many people listened to her story. And then her heart very nearly stops, because below the video is the thing she never dared call herself.
The sculptor.
Process
Megan and Molly knew they wanted to submit a pair piece again for this year’s anthology. In honor of their current journey, Journalism: The Art of Profiles, they decided to write a story about interviews.
What interviews, they weren’t sure, so they brainstormed ideas until they found one that stuck. Now the trick would be telling the story in 850 words. The story took shape over a series of virtual writing sessions, and if you look closely, you’ll find an Easter egg from their last anthology submission.
