by Erin Bartels
Then there was a bump, a crack, and a sudden drop. Mary yelled out and the horses halted.
George leapt down from the wagon. “Axle’s broke.” He looked up and down the road. “Not sure if we’re closer to town or home, but we’ll have to take a horse one way or the other and bring back another wagon. We could rent one from the livery.”
“Naw, we’s closer to home than town,” Jacob said. “I’ll take the gray and ride on ahead, bring back a wagon.”
Mary’s heart began to beat faster. “George could go, Jacob.”
“I know you don’t like to ride, George,” Jacob said.
“You’re right about that,” George said.
“He got thrown by a horse when he was a child,” Jacob whispered to Mary to spare George’s feelings.
“Mrs. Balsam and I will stay here with the goods,” George said.
They unhitched the dapple-gray gelding. Jacob scrambled on top of its bare back and held to the bridle.
“Jacob, are you sure you can ride that horse with no saddle?” Mary asked.
“Sure as I am that this wagon ain’t goin’ nowhere fast. Don’t worry, Mrs. Balsam. I’ll be back within the hour.”
With a click of his tongue and a light kick in the horse’s ribs, Jacob was off at a trot with the sun at his back, leaving Mary and George standing by the broken-down wagon.
Alone.
forty-three
Detroit, December
On December 20, I mentioned in passing that I’d be gone most of the next day. Nora acknowledged this with a long, blank stare, leaving me with the unsettled feeling that she was trying to remember who I was.
“I expect William will be home soon anyway,” she said.
Her increasing confusion tore at my conscience the entire drive to the downtown Detroit offices of the Beat. Though the power was restored, the cold weather seemed to have accelerated the decline of this woman I had been coming to love. How could I even consider leaving her for a job? And yet, how could I not? Who knew if any other opportunities would come my way?
I pulled up to the curb when ordered by my GPS. The same nervous energy I’d felt when I first arrived at Nora’s house four months earlier boiled in my stomach. Then it had felt like the end of the road; now I had the thorny problem of options. Stay with Nora or get back to my real life. Watch an old woman slip into dementia or reclaim my dreams and start climbing back up that ladder. It seemed like such a clear choice.
I hung my coat and scarf on a rack that leaned to the left, and Caryn of the phone call escorted me to a cramped room. Had the haphazard stacks of books and papers been shelved or filed in the pieces of furniture produced expressly for those purposes, there might have been room to walk around. As it was, the chair I was sure I should sit in was home to a messy pile of newspapers and a half-eaten sandwich.
I heard a toilet flushing, and a moment later Marshall Boon slid sideways through the door, tucking his shirt into his pants as he went.
“You must be Elizabeth.” He shot his hand out to me. I tried to remember if I’d heard water running in a sink after the toilet flushed, but shook it anyway. “Have a seat.”
At my hesitation he swooped into action, whisking away the mess. I perched on the edge of the chair to avoid a greasy spot that might have been mayonnaise.
He took his place behind a chaotic desk and regarded me with a thoughtful smile. “So, tell me a bit about yourself.”
I recited to him my schooling and qualifications, emphasizing all of the important stories I broke at the Detroit Free Press before my disgraceful termination. Within minutes, I had made it through these credentials I’d spent a decade building and found myself with nothing more to say.
“And what have you been doing since you left the Free Press?” He said it as though I’d resigned of my own accord.
“I’ve been taking care of an elderly relative.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I was blowing it. Should I frame it as an investigation and tell him about the photos?
“Let me give you a clearer picture of what you’d be doing as the features editor.”
For the next five minutes, Mr. Boon explained the job. I’d have my own regular column. I’d assign stories to other reporters and evaluate them when they were turned in. I’d have the freedom to take on any big story I wanted and the backing of Boon himself when I ran into opposition. It was everything I could ever hope for and more, laid right in my lap.
“This is probably really stupid of me to say, but do you know why I’m no longer with the Free Press?”
He smiled at me. “Honesty. Good. The answer is yes. I know what happened. But if you were too risky for them, you’re exactly the type of person I can use here. There are plenty of great writers out there. But I need someone with guts for this position. I want someone who will get in there and get the story, no matter what it takes. And I can promise you that you’d always—always—have my support.”
I nodded.
“I want someone who won’t take no for an answer,” he went on. “Like this business with the police shooting back in October. No one has been able to get an interview with that cop. Police chief is blocking media at every turn. Think you could?”
“Yes.” The answer came without thought. My journalism teachers had always told me to say yes every time someone asked me if I could do something and then figure out how to get it done later.
“I’ve reviewed your clips and I like what I see. Of course, I saw them when they originally ran. We have some other interviews lined up, but I’m going to be frank. I want you on my team.”
I tried to keep the incredulous look off my face. I’m not sure I was successful. “Are you offering me the job?”
“Yes, I am. Do you want it?”
Yes. I did. Didn’t I?
“And it doesn’t bother you that I was fired?” I could admit it. Severance or no, Jack McKnight had sent me on my way before I threw that pen at him.
Boon smiled. “It’s not like you got fired for embezzlement or for not doing your job. You got fired because an establishment newspaper can’t afford to take the risks I can. They have to answer to the people who own them. And those people have to answer to the people who own them. No one owns us. The buck stops here.” He pounded a fist on the desk, flipping an old coffee spoon into the air. “Anyway, if you hadn’t gotten yourself fired, you wouldn’t even be on my radar. Getting fired may turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
Tyrese’s words at breakfast the other day rang in my ears. Was this a sign?
Boon raised his eyebrows at me expectantly. My tongue felt like clay. I had to say yes. But I couldn’t. Not yet. I had to make arrangements for Nora. When my parents called on Christmas, as they always did, I would tell them that Nora should move into assisted living because her mind was failing and she may not be able to take care of herself for much longer. Mom and Barb could work out the details. And I could get on with life.
“Can I have a little time to think about it?”
He frowned. “I can give you until the first of January.”
“Great. Thank you.”
We shook hands, and moments later I was bundled up and back in the car. I should have been elated, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of a heavy weight on my chest. Why couldn’t Marshall Boon have tracked me down before I’d uprooted my life and moved to the middle of nowhere?
I punched another address into my GPS and headed for my next appointment. Well, maybe you couldn’t call it an appointment, since one party didn’t know it was about to happen.
Mr. Rich lived on the edge of historic Indian Village, in the area where the houses got smaller and the cars got older. “For Sale” signs stood erect in a few snowy front yards, but the street did not seem to have many of the boarded-up houses and empty lots that still plagued so much of my once great city. I pulled to a stop in front of a modest brick house edged with snow-topped yew bushes. There were no cars in the driveway, but a lamp glowed
warmly in the front window.
I looked up and down the street for activity and then chided myself. Pre-rural-eccentric Elizabeth would never have hesitated, even in the worst neighborhoods, which this wasn’t. Country life was making me soft. I turned off the engine just as a sleek blue Mustang with white racing stripes and tinted windows pulled up in front of the house on the other side of the street.
A tall black man with short dreads stepped out. Linden. We locked gazes for just a moment before I looked away. I could still make a break for it.
No. He was already crossing the street.
I rolled down my window. “Hi, Linden. I was hoping to talk with your dad.”
He put one gloved hand on the top of the car, giving it two firm knocks, like he was patting me on the head. “Dad’s at work.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Shoveling.”
I looked him up and down, stopping at his obviously expensive dress shoes encased in rubbers. “A little overdressed for that, aren’t you?”
He gave a little laugh. “I’ve got boots in the garage. You want to come in?”
“Will he be home soon?”
“Nah. He always goes out with a buddy for drinks after work since Mom died.”
I quickly reconfigured my plan. “Do you have a few minutes?”
He looked at his watch. I stole a glance. Shinola. Detroit made. Not cheap.
“How about I shovel and you talk?” he said.
“I can help.”
“All right then. Let’s go.”
I rolled up the window and followed Linden through the side door into the garage.
He handed me a snow shovel and gave me a once-over. “You aren’t exactly dressed for this either.”
“I was at an interview.”
“Oh yeah. Dad told me you left the Free Press.” He leaned against a worktable and slipped off his shoes. “Kind of surprised me.”
“Me too.”
“Another paper?”
I hesitated. If Linden thought I was no longer a journalist, he’d probably loosen his grip on the photos. I might walk away with them this very day if I played my cards right.
“I’m still unemployed.” This was technically true.
“Mmm.” He finished tying the laces on his boots, and we walked into the snow.
“I may have to rethink my line of work.”
“Oh?”
“There are fewer and fewer jobs for journalists. Papers cutting staff.”
Linden nodded, stuck his shovel through the ice-crusted snow, and began to push. I followed a couple steps back, picking up what escaped his blade. We got to the end of the driveway and walked back up for the next sweep.
“How’s it going with Nora?” he asked.
“So-so. We were getting along, and I thought it was time to give her the camera. But it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. I think she was upset, though she didn’t say anything about it. Then it was as if it never happened. We never talked about it again.”
Linden stopped and stood up straight. “You tell her about my dad?”
“No, not a word.”
He started shoveling again. I came along a few steps behind, shovel to the ground, trying to get through the heavy snow to the driveway that lay beneath.
“Linden, I feel like I need to know what happened between your father and Nora.”
He pushed ahead to the end of the driveway. “He doesn’t talk about those days much.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes. And I let the silence work its magic.
“You know,” Linden said as we pushed the last of the snow up in a mound at the end of the driveway, “I’d never even heard of Nora until Dad got the camera back. And I got the idea that the only reason I heard of her at all was because I walked in on him looking through those photos. Otherwise I don’t think he’d have ever brought her up. I knew I’d had a great-uncle named William. I saw him in a couple old family photos with my grandma and my great-grandma. But I’d never seen a white girl in any of them. Dad never said William was married at all until I caught him with those riot photos.”
“I thought you said I looked like her.”
“Once the cat was out of the bag, Dad showed me some pictures my grandma had with Nora in them.”
I followed Linden back to the garage to hand over my shovel.
“Come on in a minute and warm up. Dad’s always got hot chocolate.”
He stripped off his boots and led the way inside. I left my snow-saturated shoes on the doormat and sat down on the couch in Mr. Rich’s living room while Linden busied himself in the kitchen with mugs and spoons and hot chocolate mix. On the wall to my right was a shrine to Linden, with framed news stories from his high school, college, and pro football days. I recognized a few of them from my time at the Free Press, though I’d never paid close attention to the sports section.
Linden came in with two steaming mugs and motioned to some coasters on a side table. I slid them onto the coffee table, and he settled down in the chair to my left.
“Your dad seems to be your biggest fan,” I said.
Linden smiled. “Always has been. He’s been an amazing father, especially considering he didn’t have one.”
A photo of a younger James Rich with his arm around a woman graced the side table.
“Your mom?”
“Yeah. She died six years ago. Breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
Linden sipped at his hot chocolate. “Hoo, that’s hot. Look, I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about my dad’s issue with Nora. I know it can’t be easy on you out there.”
“I didn’t think you wanted it to be too easy on me, judging by your attitude back in July.”
He laughed. “Yeah, well, I got to look out for my dad. And you were just an arrogant reporter who wanted to get her greedy little hands on something that wasn’t hers.”
“Arrogant? You’re one to talk—”
“All right, all right, I’ll give you that. Hard to stay humble in my business.”
I felt a smirk grow on my face. “It’s the Detroit Lions. I’d think that most of the time humility would not be a problem.”
He gripped his chest. “Oh! Come on, now! Show some respect!”
We both laughed then.
“Look, at this point I’d happily send you back to Lapeer with those photos.”
I hid my excitement in a sip of hot chocolate. Yikes. That was hot. “But?”
“But they ain’t here.”
“Where are they?”
“Dad’s always been kind of paranoid about house fires. Or maybe it’s not paranoia—a lot of places have gotten torched in this city. So he keeps anything valuable in a safety-deposit box at the bank. You going back tonight?”
“Yes. I could come back and get them another time soon, but honestly, I’m starting to think that it would be better if your father would just come to Nora’s and give them to her himself.”
“Oh, he won’t do that.”
“You didn’t see her when I gave her that camera. This is his mission. He needs to man up and do his own dirty work. I’m tired of being the bad guy.”
He looked thoughtful. “You might be right.” He glanced at his watch. “Shoot, I gotta go.”
I stood up too fast with my mug. Boiling hot chocolate sloshed over the rim and onto my hand. I sucked in a gasp of air and put the mug down hard on the table.
Linden jumped up. “Oh!”
“Ah! I’m sorry,” I said.
He grabbed my wrist and rushed me into the kitchen. He flicked the faucet on cold, thrust my hand under it, and held it there.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. I reached for a roll of paper towels with my other hand. “I better clean that up before it ruins the wood.”
“You stay here.” He released my wrist and took the towels from my hand. “Keep that hand under the water,” he commanded from the living room.
A minute later he was back with a wad of wet towels. My
hand was going numb under the frigid stream of water from the faucet.
“I’m sorry,” I said a third time.
“No, I made it too hot. You okay?”
I turned off the water and pulled my hand out of the sink. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Let me get my shoes and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Back at the door, I pulled on my cold, wet shoes. I’d be blasting the floor heater on the way home, that was for sure. I walked out onto the newly shoveled driveway, Linden following close behind.
“Let me talk to him,” he said. “Just hold tight for now.”
“Will you call me and let me know what he says?”
“Sure.” He pulled out his phone. “Gimme your cell.”
“It doesn’t work out there.”
“What? It ain’t the moon! What kind of phone you got?”
“A good one. It just doesn’t work out there. It’s like some technological dead zone. I’ll have to give you her landline.”
Linden punched the number into his phone.
“Don’t call after eight. She goes to bed early. And if she answers, just say you’re Tyrese.”
His eyebrows ticked up a notch. “Who’s Tyrese?”
“My . . . friend.” I crossed the street and unlocked my car. “Thanks for talking with me today. I know we got off on the wrong foot. But this was nice.”
He smiled. “Yeah. Maybe you’re not as greedy as I thought.”
“Maybe you’re not as arrogant as I thought.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I got into my car and headed for the highway with a smile on my face. The smile vanished when I stopped for gas. Next to the door was a line of metal newsstands, reminding me what had brought me to Detroit today in the first place. I pulled into the stream of traffic heading north on I-75 and spent the next forty-five minutes telling myself why I should take the job Marshall Boon had offered. It was the only logical course of action. Linden would prevail upon his father to bring the photos himself. I would be released from my obligation to him. I’d let Barb know that Nora could use some assistance. I would be released from my obligation to her.