LIVE, LOCAL & LIT

A Jaye Jordan story

By Kathleen Marple Kalb

kathleen.marple.kalb@gmail.com

Even in frigid Vermont, we don’t usually welcome the holiday season by torching the tree. But because it was the Christmas of the Year from H-E-double-hockey sticks, I wasn’t entirely surprised when Oliver Gurney, the chair of the select board, threw the switch and the whole thing went up.

Boom.

Flames running right up the trunk, shooting down the branches and bursting out the top. The star popped off and landed a few feet away from my porch, the firelight sparkling off the apparently indestructible gold plastic.

Burn, baby, burn.

“Holy-” my on-air partner and I started in shocked unison, avoiding the next word just in time to prevent the radio station from losing its license.

I cleared my throat. “Well, then. We appear to have had a small mishap. Let’s return to holiday music…I’m Jaye Jordan in the Simpson Plaza with Rob Archer, live here on WSV.”

As Burl Ives exhorted us to have a “Holly Jolly,” Rob’s husband Tim grabbed their son Xavier and my daughter Ryan and dragged them up to the radio station porch, their squeaks of outraged tween dignity barely audible over the music and the whoosh of the fire extinguishers. Fire Chief Frank Saint Bernard handed his eggnog to Town Clerk Sadie Blacklaw, who happens to be Rob’s aunt, and joined his men on the line.

Rob cued up the next record, though I’m not sure why, unless it was the old-school jock’s show-offy pride in the skill – or the vinyl. He looked over to me, his pale-blue eyes gleaming in the dying fire.

“Happy freaking holidays.” Rob did say freaking.

I didn’t.

#

“Well, obviously, Little Brother, I checked the wiring on the lights before we put them up.” Oliver Gurney snapped at his twin, born three crucial minutes later and saddled with the humiliating title for life.

“Just making sure,” Orville, prominent local attorney and school board member, told his brother the hardware store owner with only a minimal smirk. “You know the police chief will ask.”

“And I’ll answer him.”

And it was on. The two were quickly bickering, rehashing three score worth of old grievances.

No surprise. Now that we were all safely inside WSV, and the fire was mostly out, it was back to default settings. Even if we had to figure out what on earth just happened. I picked up my Listen to Your Jewish Mother coffee mug and wished I were anywhere but here. Not a new feeling for me.

A year ago, my husband David had just finished chemo, my job as a midday DJ at New York’s top light music station was secure, and our daughter was thriving in her Westchester school. Then cancer did to our marriage what it hadn’t done to David, and the radio station wanted newer, edgier (read cheaper) young talent.

So I took the payoff, bought what was left of WSV, the place where I’d had my first on-air job, and Ryan and I moved in over the studios. David landed in Charlestown, right across the river, running the English Department at the community college and living with his parents there. Close enough for Ryan but far apart enough for us.

Rob had given up on radio, despite being the best morning man I’d ever known, and was running the restaurant next to the station when I came back. He was willing to voice-track a morning show and do the occasional remote for the pittance I could offer. I did news updates in the morning, and all-request love songs at night. It wasn’t always pretty, but it worked.

Most of the time.

Which did not include this Thursday evening in December, when the first night of Hanukkah had just been celebrated with the burning of the town Christmas tree. With the newly revived local radio station broadcasting live.

Suddenly my blue t-shirt with a silver menorah and “LIGHT IT UP” didn’t seem quite so witty.

I pushed back the platinum-streaked piece of black hair that had come loose from my clip. The streak, my wardrobe of jeans, snarky tees and moto jacket – and the bony frame that came from being too stressed to eat – were all new in the last couple of years. The aftermath doesn’t just feel different than Before…it looks it, too.

Police Chief George Orr strode into the old reception area, where I’d set everyone up with good coffee from the schmancy club a friend had sent as a house (radio station?) warming gift. Accepting his cup, he led with a friendly smile, carefully calibrated to make everyone as comfortable as they could be with a six-foot-three Black man in a leather trenchcoat in a tiny town in the whitest state in the union. He’s a former NYPD lieutenant, recruited by the town fathers and mothers to bring some professionalism, and not incidentally some diversity, to the P.D. His wife, Alicia, is a vice president at the bank, and a new friend of mine.

The chief still has the NYPD hard look, and after a sip, he used it, just to make sure that we all knew who was in charge.

“All right, any reason to think this is anything but an accident?”

“Well,” Oliver began, with an apologetic glance to me. “There are those who aren’t too happy with the new radio station…”

“A-yuh.” Orville agreed.

This was classic Old New England understatement. When I replaced low-rent satellite talk with live local programming, mostly all-request music, I got heated complaints from a few committed fans. I probably hadn’t helped my case by starting the new format with “Despacito” – in Spanish – cutting off Edwin Anger’s rant about “those dirty aliens,” but you might as well know who you’re dealing with from the drop.

The pushback, though, had been limited to nasty messages and phone calls, and one lawmaker from the next town over calling for a state investigation. That died ugly when Governor Will Ten Broeck started laughing on the House floor when she asked him if it was legal to play records for “those degenerates.” By which she meant same-sex couples.

Ten Broeck, whose son is out and proud as well as his pride and joy, suggested the state rep find something else to do and kept walking.

So had I. Until tonight.

Chief George looked over to me. “Nothing over the line?”

I shook my head. When the first wave of letters and emails came, he’d carefully explained to me the bright line between mean and actively dangerous. I hope G-d gets you is scary, but not actionable unless it becomes: I’m going to kill you.

He nodded and took another sip of coffee. “Anybody else?”

That was for Rob, and absolutely beyond imagining. Rob grew up here; he was the morning man during my first hitch, and right up until the last owner turned WSV into a drone. If people don’t love him for that, he owns the local restaurant and serves up magnificent home cooking. Chief George probably meant the gay thing, but literally nobody notices or cares – when it’s Rob. His husband, Tim, is a combat veteran and an ADA, and the only guy who’s more standup than Rob. Vermont (except for the occasional fossil like that lawmaker) is pretty open-minded anyhow, but Rob and Tim are a special class.

“I really doubt it had anything to do with the station,” Oliver said, his slow pace and pronounced accent emphasizing his seriousness.

“But we need to make sure Jaye is safe.” Orville added.

“Well, of course, Little Brother. I never suggested…”

And, right back to the bickering. Orville and Oliver are my ex-husband’s uncles, and they consider themselves Ryan’s and my designated protectors. Especially since, as far as they’re concerned, David let us all down by celebrating his survival by chasing blondes. Most days, they minded a lot more than I did. He didn’t actually catch any blondes until after we were separated, and anyway, romance, or whatever you’d like to call it, was the last thing on my mind after six months of seeing him through chemo.

“Hey, fellas…” Chief George tried.

No luck.

The rest of us exchanged uncomfortable glances.

But then I realized what was playing on the automated music service…and braced for it. Yep. The cat was already tensing. Most of the holiday music the service sprinkles in with the soppy power ballads and poppy Motown we play during off hours is wallpaper, inoffensive and unremarkable. Unless you’re Neptune.

And unless it’s “Happy Xmas, War is Over.”

For some reason, Yoko Ono’s voice absolutely freaks him out. Every time. Almost twenty pounds of anguished gray fur flew at me. As usual, I made the catch, and he draped himself over my shoulder and howled in my ear. Neptune is more Ryan’s cat; she picked him out at the shelter and named him for the eighth planet because he is part Russian blue.

But when you’re really scared, you want the mama. I patted his back and whispered something soothing, trying very hard not to giggle.

I’d like to say it was Neptune’s reaction, but no. It’s even worse. I grew up in the Western Pennsylvania back country, where neither British accents nor peace protests were common. So until I got to college, I thought Yoko and friends were singing: “It wouldn’t be Christmas without any beer.”

“Want a beer?” Rob whispered. Of course he knows.

“Not while I’m on duty, thanks.”

“Might need one to kill the nerves before you talk to the Gov tonight…”

“Oh, shut up.” I was going to tape a quick interview with Will Ten Broeck about the statewide food drive in about an hour. Boilerplate. No drama.

“You know he’s been divorced a couple years, right?”

“What part of shut up don’t you understand?” Yes, I had a crush on the very blond, very old-school Knickerbocker and very, very hot Will Ten Broeck when I was a pudgy kid and he was governor the first time. And no, I had not done one thing about it because he was married. Full stop.

“Please?” Chief George asked, with a faint metallic tone that suggested a final warning.

Neptune stopped howling for a moment and made a strange gurgling noise. I froze as the next song, thankfully just a harmless Chicago ballad, began. Then the cat let out a magisterial belch and jumped down.

I was grateful it was only a burp. The WSV transmitter is out on Quarry Hill, guarded by a gigantic bull moose. The good news is, Charlemagne will eat maple candy from my hand. The bad news is, he has a flatulence problem.

Emissions notwithstanding, all of us, with the exception of Orville and Oliver, were now paying attention to the Chief. Rob’s aunt Sadie, the Town Clerk and therefore the most familiar with the ways of the twins, shot me a small grin.

“NOW.”

The Chief could stop a street in the Bronx.

Silence.

“Oh, sorry, Chief,” Oliver said quickly. “No disrespect intended. You know how it is when-”

Chief George did indeed know how it was, which is why he didn’t arrest anyone.

The twins hung their heads like the bad little boys they’d been several decades ago, still looking almost exactly alike…and in similar outfits of plaid shirts, work pants and parkas – green for Oliver and blue for Orville.

“You know, Chief,” Sadie began, pouring a little oil on the troubled waters, “the permit was exactly the same as every year. Chamber of Commerce.”

“And,” Tim continued, his handsome features sharpening as he thought about it, “the tree came from Sevier’s Farm like always, too.”

Rob nodded. “That’s true.”

“And you checked the lights, right, Mr. Gurney?” asked Chief George.

If Orville shot his brother a triumphant glance, it was in everyone’s best interest to ignore it.

“I did indeed.” Oliver nodded decidedly. “And they were exactly right, as every year.”

Suddenly, I noticed a little movement from the corner where Ryan and Xavier had been sitting, trying to ignore the BO-ring grownups. As I started to fit some very unpleasant pieces together in my mind, I fixed them both with the Look of Death.

So did Rob.

The little angels – they will say medium-sized kids, being ten -- had run of the radio station, plus their own Snap Circuits electronics toys and more. They probably knew more about wiring than Oliver did. Certainly more than we did.

“RyansMom,” Xavier began, his brown eyes widening a little. It’s one of the most comforting things about his friendship with Ryan – he calls me the exact same thing her New York pals did.

“Did you try to brighten things up, kids?” Chief George’s tone was surprisingly gentle.

“What?” Ryan pulled herself up to her full height, her light-green eyes, exactly like her father’s, glowing with tween indignation. “No way.”

“Absolutely no way, Chief!” Xavier agreed.

“But,” my girl continued. “If you want to know what happened, you need to look at what’s different this year.”

“What’s different is us, Ryan,” I said quietly.

“Really, Jaye, I don’t see it.” Rob’s tone was reassuring – and intended for me, as those icy blue eyes of his beamed right into his son’s soul.

“C’mon, Dad,” Xavi said. “You and Papa taught me better than that.”

Tim couldn’t keep down a trace of a smile. “Well, we hope so.”

“Look, Ma,” Ryan cut in, pulling us back to the topic. “Did you ever do a live remote from the porch back in the day?”

I looked to Rob, and he to me. When I’d been here the first time, the tree-lighting was much more elaborate, involving a torchlight procession through town. We’d broadcast from the bank parking lot, a couple hundred yards away, plugged into their main circuit box.

“Um, I don’t think so,” I said.

“And, XavisDad, you plugged the remote kit into the power box outside, same as the lights, right?”

Oh, holy hotwire.

Rob and I looked at each other, and then the kids.

Chief George stared at us all.

“What?”

“Looks like we torched the tree.” I motioned to my shirt. “I didn’t mean this literally, but…”

The Chief laughed, Lord love him. “How?”

“Pretty much the same way people burn down their houses with power strips every once in a while,” Rob started.

“We didn’t want to overload the station or the restaurant with the remote kit. So we plugged in out there…and overloaded it instead,” I continued. “And…”

“Boom.” Xavier and Ryan said in unison.

“Boom?” the chief asked.

“Ayup.” Oliver shook his head. “Overload will kill you every time.”

#

Because G-d, karma or the music service has a very sick sense of humor, the song “Electric Avenue,” of all impossible things, was playing on the automation when Ryan and I went downstairs to light the menorah about twenty minutes later.

My girl and I smiled together. Once the mystery was solved, everyone had quickly left for their own busy evenings. Since Oliver was taking part of the blame for not checking where we planned to plug in the remote kit, and Sevier’s was willing to replace the tree because there’s really no way a properly fresh one should have gone up like that, all was well that ended well.

Easy for Shakespeare to say. Unlike Rob and me, the Bard didn’t have to re-decorate the new tree.

But still, it was the first night of our little family’s first Hanukkah in our new home and new life, and it had to be special. It was. I set up the menorah, a small metal one I’d ordered online, in the kitchenette outside the studio so it would be safe for the blue beeswax candles to burn all the way.

I gave Neptune a handful of treats. When in doubt, resort to bribery.

Then Ryan took up the matches and candles, and we began. I could manage it, because I converted when I married David, but my Hebrew is awful. Besides, it’s wonderful to see my girl bringing in light and hope and G-d the way Jews have been doing for more than five thousand years.

Even before I converted, I loved the story of Hanukkah. One day’s oil in the re-consecrated temple burns for eight. Freedom, light…and the knowledge that if you do your part, G-d will pull you across the finish line.

A great miracle happened here. Or at least a little one for us.

I gave Ryan the book she’d been asking for, a beautiful glossy coffee-table volume on the planets. She surprised me with an elastic bracelet of little blue glass Stars of David.

I managed to not cry until I sent her upstairs to read her new book.

Maybe half an hour later, the news line rang. I taped the interview with Governor Will Ten Broeck, exactly as expected, talking about big drive for the state food bank.

But then:

“Glad no one was hurt tonight.”

“We’re fine.” Of course he knew. It’s a very small state. “It looked pretty weird, but really. It’s Vermont. How weird can it be?”

Ten Broeck chuckled, almost nervously. “You were in New York a long time, so no insult intended, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Pretty weird, Ms. Jordan. But you’re up to it.” `

There was a note in his voice that suggested – something – different than I’d heard from the Governor of New York when I’d done a fluff interview in the City. “Um, thanks.”

Of course, I hadn’t had a huge, stupid crush on the Governor of New York back in the day, either. He didn’t have deep blue eyes and a smile that could melt steel. And Rob hadn’t just gleefully reminded me that the honorable executive of the Empire State was single.

“Just so you know, I’m glad you’re back,” said Will Ten Broeck.

My mind said SQUEE!

But I managed to keep my tone within a degree or two of my usual cool range: “Actually, I think I am too.”