A Family to Call Her Own. Irene Hannon

like ties. Never had. But dinner with the publisher was definitely a “tie” occasion. Even though dinner had ended late, he’d wanted to get settled in and start his interviews for the flood piece first thing in the morning.

      At least Simmons had had the guts to discuss the situation with him face-to-face, he thought grudgingly. The publisher had assured him that the paper stood behind him, that they had confidence in his reporting. But they’d still pulled the series. And as far as Zach was concerned, actions spoke louder than words.

      Zach flexed the muscles in his shoulders and glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. It had been a long day, he thought. A very long day. And the only good moment had been Ted’s parting words.

      “These setbacks happen to all of us, Zach,” he said, laying a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Don’t let it get you down. You’re a good reporter. One of the best. We’ll work this out.”

      Ted’s compliments were rare, and therefore prized. It had been a satisfying moment for Zach. Maybe the most satisfying in his career for a long time, he realized with sudden insight.

      Zach frowned. Maybe he’d just stumbled on the source of the discontent, the restlessness that had plagued him for the last few months. His satisfaction used to come from his work, the feeling that it was making a difference. And that’s where it should come from. Not from recognition by his boss. Yet Ted’s compliment had given him more satisfaction than any of the work he’d done for the past six months.

      Zach remembered his early years as a reporter, when he’d fervently believed that he could make a difference, that his writing could right wrongs and make the world a better place. For the first time in his career he seriously questioned that belief, directly confronting the doubts that he now realized had been growing for quite some time. For fifteen years he’d devoted himself single-mindedly to his work—an insatiable, demanding mistress that took all the passion he had to give. And what did he have to show for his zeal and dedication? A few moments of satisfaction when justice had prevailed. But far more moments of frustration when some scumball short-circuited the system through power, money or influence and walked away, laughing in his face.

      And he certainly didn’t have financial security. His meager savings were eloquent confirmation of journalism’s reputation as a notoriously low-paying profession. He had no home, unless you could bestow that generous title on the sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment he’d lived in for years. And he had no personal life.

      All he had at the moment was a depressing feeling of emptiness.

      As his precise, analytical mind clicked into gear, Zach tried to pinpoint exactly when his passion for tilting at windmills began to ebb. It might have been three years ago, he thought, when his story on corruption in the building industry blew up in his face thanks to a well-crafted smear campaign that didn’t quite discredit him but hurt his credibility enough so that no one took his coverage seriously. Or maybe it was the story he did on teenage prostitution last year, when he spent too many depressing nights on the streets with kids who should have been at pep rallies or studying for algebra exams, not hawking their bodies.

      But it didn’t really matter when he’d stopped believing that what he did made a difference. The fact was he had. Maybe it was burnout, as Ted had hinted. Maybe he did need a break. It might not be a bad idea, after all, to take some time off when this assignment was completed.

      But why had he burned out? Not everyone did. Josef certainly hadn’t. Zach shook his head as he thought of his idealistic journalism school classmate, back home now in Eastern Europe, fighting the good fight, as he called it, trying to make his country safe for freedom. Josef’s vision had never faltered, even in the face of setbacks and personal danger, and Zach admired him for that. He wished he had more of Josef’s conviction and optimism. But he didn’t. Not anymore. He’d seen too much and given too much. The well was dry.

      Zach thought back to the last time he’d seen Josef. It had been almost eight years since his friend brought his delicate wife, Katrina, to St. Louis for the birth of their daughter. During their six-week stay with Zach, the two men had spent hours talking, debating, sharing. It had been an energizing, invigorating, renewing experience for Zach. Josef, with his serious nature, deep convictions and passionate feelings had always been an inspiration.

      Zach recalled one of their last conversations, when he’d asked Josef how he coped with discouragement.

      “But, Zachary, I don’t get discouraged,” his friend replied, clearly taken aback by the question.

      Zach looked at him skeptically. “How can you not? Are conditions any better in your country now than when you started? Have you seen any progress?”

      “I have not seen much visible evidence of progress, no,” Josef admitted. “But we are making inroads,” he stated with conviction.

      “How do you know?” Zach persisted.

      “Faith,” Josef replied simply. “In your country, you expect things to get better like this,” he said, snapping his fingers.

      “Patience is not a virtue in America. But in my country, we are used to waiting.”

      “But for how long?” Zach asked.

      Josef shrugged. “Change is slow. But more and more people are on our side, Zachary, and one day there will be freedom for all. Maybe not in my lifetime. But still, I must do my part. Because, my friend, I believe that everything we do does make a difference. It is just that sometimes we do not see the result right away. But no good work is ever lost.”

      For a long time after Josef and Katrina returned home, Zach recalled that conversation whenever he became discouraged. It always inspired him. But not tonight. Josef was wrong, Zach thought tiredly, lifting his hand from the wheel long enough to wearily massage his forehead. All his years of personal sacrifice while questing for truth and right hadn’t made one bit of difference in the human condition. If anything, crime was worse now than it had been when he was an eager cub reporter, determined to change the world. And that acknowledgment left a bitter taste in his mouth.

      Would he feel any different if there had been someone to share his life with, to buoy him up on bad days? he wondered. But his passion had always been directed to his writing, leaving little for anything—or anyone—else. The few relationships he’d indulged in had been brief and sporadic. Either he broke them off when he realized the woman was getting serious, or she did when she realized he wasn’t.

      As a result there was no one who cared if he ate dinner when he came home late—or even if he came home at all. His family in Kansas City was too far away to keep tabs on his daily life, and his only regular companion for the past ten years—a cat—eventually had her fill of his bizarre hours and crazy schedule. One night she went out and never came back.

      But Josef had found time for love, despite the demands of his work and his precarious existence, Zach admitted. Political conditions were extremely unsettled in his country, and from what Josef said, they were becoming more volatile each day. But he was a man of deep faith, who truly put his trust in the Lord and was at peace with his destiny. With his faith as a foundation, he had the courage to create a family in the midst of chaos, to share his life with the people he loved. While Zach had always looked upon a family as a distraction, Josef looked upon it as an anchor, a source of strength.

      And maybe that’s why he hadn’t burned out, why he still had the energy to carry on the fight for his principles, Zach speculated. His family sustained him, and in the atmosphere of love and goodness and faith that pervaded his home, Josef found strength and hope and inspiration. Maybe the lack of those support mechanisms in his own life was the reason Zach now felt so emotionally and spiritually depleted.

      In a way he envied Josef’s deep faith. Living with the seedy side of life for so long had shaken Zach’s belief in a loving, caring God. Yet without that foundation of faith, he felt oddly adrift. And as for a wife and family—it wasn’t that Zach never wanted those things. It was just that he always told himself there would be plenty of time later. But at thirty-seven, “later” was now, he suddenly realized.

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