Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“So it must have appalled you, this young girl so distraught that she viewed her own newborn as an alien being that needed to be destroyed."

“Most people toss around the word 'denial,' but they don't truly understand it. Denial is an emotional version of hysterical blindness. The consequences of her situation were so unthinkable, she couldn't see them as real. In her case, imagining some X-Files type of alien-baby substitution played into her need to deny her condition, to keep it secret at all costs."

“And she was willing to drown her baby in the bathtub?"

“Who can say? She sounded like she might."

“Given your religious background, you show a lot of compassion for her on the tape."

“There's no contradiction. A religious background should evoke compassion. Condemnation never helped anyone."

“Well, Dr. Laurel might disagree."

“Dr. Laurel wasn't there."

“No, but she is here. Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Laurel Lawson.”

Temple hit the mute and pause buttons. "That must have been a bad moment. Didn't you see her in the greenroom backstage?"

“No." Matt stared ahead at the freeze-frame screen. "She was a surprise."

“They call it confrontational television."

“I thought you said this was a decent talk show." "Well, no talk show is really decent, is it?"

“But she's a veteran. Been at it much longer than I." "And takes a much tougher stance."

“Tougher? Or just less tolerant?”

Temple rolled some more tape to follow the slim, suited figure as she entered and took a chair on the moderator's right. "Very symbolic placement. You on the left, her on the right. What a media vixen. Spouting holier-than-thou inflexible Ten Commandments stuff, and she had an affair with a married man years ago; even has some undraped photos zipping around on the Internet."

“They ambushed me," Matt agreed, refusing to rise to the bait of his rival's ancient shenanigans. "So I ended up defending myself and my caller."

“I thought it was pretty brilliant when you accused Dr. Laurel of being willing to throw the mother out with the bathwater."

“I was getting angry."

“It didn't show."

“That's when I'm angriest. I never would have gone on if I thought that confused child was going to be used as a bad example. She was simply stressed beyond her fragile defenses. And that dysfunctional family . . . What you're saying, Temple, is that I was out of my league."

“Oh, yes, definitely."

“A good lesson. Don't do this again."

“Oh, no. Not at all."

“What?"

“You're out of your league because you're not playing to the lowest common denominator. That's just what talk TV needs, so I think you should do as much of it as they ask you to.”

Matt did not look encouraged.

Chapter 5

Help Me

(Larry Gatlin wrote this for Elvis in 1973; his recording peaked at

6 on the country chart in 1974)

The knock on Temple's door that evening caught her trying to do something that seldom turned out well: cook.

She turned the heat down to simmer under a frying pan choked with softening vegetables and tough shrimp. If time could heal all wounds maybe it could mend a stir-fry that was too fried to stir.

She wondered what Matt might have to tell her now. His life had become a whirligig of news updates, spinning to the tune of a media frenzy.

She opened the door, stunned to find a strange woman waiting on the other side.

Temple stood there, spatula lifted as high as a homely wand, one curl of overcooked onion clinging like a comma to its nonstick surface.

“I'm sorry to bother you." The woman shuffled hershoes, reminding Temple of a door-to-door solicitor who had suddenly developed cold feet. "You're making dinner."

“That's debatable," Temple said wryly, The woman's voice sounded familiar. Even the face seemed familiar.

Or maybeTemple had just seen too many women like this when she had been a TV news reporter. The expressionless faces of women who were victims of whatever car-jacking/rape-drug/lost child/domestic violence case caught the public's attention for the blink of a battered eye.

“It's ... I'm Merle."

“Merle!" That rang a bell, even if Merle herself had eschewed using Temple's doorbell. The telephone callsTemple kept missing. Merle Who? Merle What. Above all, Merle Why.

“Sorry." The woman was turning to retrace her steps down the short neck of hallway that led to the circular building's curving central area.

“Wait!" Temple edged into the hall. "I remember now. You wanted to talk to me. So come on in. Talk. Share the spatter."

“Spatter?"

“I'm trying to stir-fry.”

Merle's noncommittal face twitched a little. It might have been an infant smile. "Smells more like smoked barbeque."

“Omigosh! That darn controller knob. I can never tell which way is hotter or cooler.”

Temple rushed back into the kitchen, where smoke was now billowing righteously to the ceiling. She swatted at it with the slotted spatula, managing only to flip the slimy onion slice onto her cheek.