Song of Suzies

by Dave Balcom

  Sandy shrugged, “No big deal yet; no craves, nothing I can explain,” and she shot me a great smile, “just that certain, indescribable something that tells me there’s a baby brewing in there.”

  “It would be too much to ask, I bet, for as smooth a ride as you had with Sara...”

  “I’m healthy. I have been taking care of myself for the past few months, no drinking, avoiding smoke-filled places, all that stuff...” She paused to take Sara’s hand out of the soup and put her spoon back in place. “...I eat well and I’m young enough. The rest will be up to the creature inside me; we’ve done all we could.” She reached out to tousle Sara’s hair a bit, “Sara’s pretty excited to have a baby brother or sister, aren’t you, honey?”

  Sara was busy fishing another noodle out of her bowl, but she looked up at her mother with a wide soup stain outlining her mouth. “But what is it going to be? A brother or a sister?” She asked with wide grin that reached clear into her blue eyes. “Does Daddy know?”

  She was looking at me, as if I could answer the big question. “Nope,” I said with a shrug. “We’ll all find out soon enough.”

  “I wanna know now!” She said as she giggled a fine mist of soup across the table. “Can’t you tell me?”

  I pretended to give it some thought. “It’s going to be little, even compared to you; it will have some hair, but no teeth. It won’t be able to walk or even sit up by itself... it’ll be a baby who will love its big sister, and count on her to teach it how to be happy. And you’ll love it like nothing you’ve ever loved before, and that won’t change whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

  She made a face, looked down at her soup, and then back at me, “You just don’t know, do you?”

  I smiled and thought that she was only beginning to plumb the depths of all the things I didn’t know. “That’s right, babe. I don’t know. I’ll be as happy to find out as you are when the baby decides to show up.”

  Sandy said, “Oh, by the way, Sara and I have started a count-down. We’re looking at a March baby. We’re marking the days off on the calendar on the side of the fridge. It’s now down to Sara’s height.”

  “March? It’ll probably come out as either a lion or a lamb, right?”

  “Do you care which?”

  I thought about it for a minute. Did I? Doesn’t every guy want a son? I realized my answer was going to sound too pat, too politically correct, but at that instant, I realized I really only cared about the ones I love. “I just want healthy, honey. That’s all I wanted with Sara and that’s all I want now.”

  She raised an eyebrow, but as she looked at my eyes, I could see her finding the honesty in my words. She blushed a bit, and nodded.

  26

  As the paper went to press the next morning, I called Randy, Fritz and Jay into my office to discuss the rumor that Doug had relayed the evening before.

  “Let me get this straight,” Fritz said with wonder in his voice as he stared directly into my eyes, “Somebody in this town really thinks that you might have taken Suzanne?”

  “That’s basically the intent of the rumor comparing this never-before-situation with my arrival, I guess.”

  Randy shook his head. “I can’t believe that story has much traction, even here. I mean...”

  Jay interrupted, “I was going to bring this up to you today, Jim. I heard some of this last night at a softball game.”

  “Really?” I asked. “A first-hand comment or something repeated?”

  “Oh, a couple of women were telling they had heard this awful gossip, and a guy who works at the foundry was sitting behind them and he said that story was all over the plant.”

  Fritz was animated. “No shit? I can’t believe this. What are we going to do?”

  I tried to calm everyone down with my tone. “That’s why I asked you guys to come in here. Doug ran into this rumor or gossip or whatever it is, while he was researching a letter he got from the Chamber. He wants to find the person or organization that’s behind this, and we agreed you guys might be able to help.”

  “I’m in, what do you want me to do?” Randy spoke up first, but the other two nodded in agreement. “Anything,” Jay said.

  “Doug’s forming a committee to discuss this, and perhaps try to run down the source. I’m begging him to go easy, and I’m telling you three the same thing I told him: Don’t get carried away or you’re going to send a horrible message to the community about me or a cover up. I’m not sure this committee thing is a good idea, but it’s Doug’s call.

  “I just want you guys to temper your approach to people; avoid pouring gas on a flammable situation.”

  “When’s the meeting?” Fritz asked, looking at his watch.

  The intercom buzzed at that moment, and I picked up my phone and listened. “Okay, they’re right here, I’ll send them up.”

  I turned to them, “Now, in Doug’s office. Remember, being curious is okay; being rude is not.”

  They hurried out of my office and headed away to the meeting.

  I picked up my phone and dialed the intercom to Marge Wilson, the Lifestyles editor. “Yessir?” She answered immediately.

  “Marge, do you have a minute to come talk with me?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, and then she said, “I’m just about to put my pages out to composing for tomorrow’s paper. Can it wait that long?”

  “Sure. I’ll be in my office.”

  Marge was the matron of the newsroom. I knew from her personnel file that she was fifty-seven years old and had been with the newspaper her entire working life. She had come to the paper as a reporter right out of Syracuse, and had spent twenty-five years minus some maternity leaves working for the Sentinel. She was divorced. Her three daughters were all married and there were photos of seven grandchildren on her desk.

  She had written hard news, but features were her favorite stories and seventeen years earlier the position of “Woman’s Editor” had opened up and she’d applied.

  Other than its name, Marge’s “Woman’s Section” had changed little in the ensuing years as she covered the clubs, social activities, fund-raisers, births, deaths, weddings and anniversaries – the threads that create the fabric of a community.

  She still wrote interesting features for all the Lifestyles-related sections. Her “Pie in the Fingers” weekly cooking column was a must-read entry each week. I was a big fan, but we hadn’t had much interaction so far – Marge Wilson wasn’t on my radar as a problem to be fixed.

  She knocked lightly before entering my open door. I stood and greeted her warmly, “Thanks, Marge; have a seat, please.”

  She was tall and thin; a beautiful young woman aging gracefully. I could see tension in her walk and her eyes were different, they were slightly closed, like we do when the light’s too bright – I understood suddenly, she was wary.

  “Marge, I appreciate your taking time to meet with me, we haven’t had much cause to talk since I’ve been here. You’re probably wondering why now?

  “A little. Things seem to be going smoothly in my patch.”

  I nodded and smiled at her. “As usual; I’ve called on you to see if you can help me with an issue that has come to my attention. You get out more than most of us, and I’m wondering if you’ve encountered any talk about me personally.”

  Her gaze had been directed to my eyes, and while that didn’t change very much, her head lifted slightly, almost in recognition of something. “If I had, I hope you’d expect me to come to you right away.”

  “That would be my hope, but I don’t think we’ve worked together closely enough for it to become my expectation.”

  “I admit to wondering why I haven’t been included in some discussions...”

  “Let me clear something up.” I paused to carefully consider what I was about to say, and then went ahead, “I have had to focus on areas that were causing this newspaper great concern – you must have recognized some serious flaws in page flow, quality standards and communication in other areas
of the newsroom.”

  She started to speak, and then held off.

  “I’m sure you did, but I’m just as sure that none of those issues were problematic in Lifestyles, and as you know squeaky wheels...”

  “I’m flattered that you didn’t think my wheels were squeaking.”

  “Let it suffice that I’m a big fan of your work. You have real skills and you employ them religiously. You have needs, as well. Page design, use of photos, and headline writing are not your top skills, but I see you paying attention to the things we’re trying in news and I see some of those things finding their way onto your pages.”

  “I’m glad you noticed.”

  “If you note the weekly critique packages hanging in the conference room, you’ll see how often I praise the effort in your sections.”

  She actually blushed a bit. “I’ve avoided them, expecting you to be as harsh with me as you are with Randy and Jay.”

  “I’m not trying to be harsh. That’s why I use black pens instead of red for the critiques. I’m aiming for constructive, but it’s a fine line where my intent intersects with your pride. I’ll try to be more careful in the future.”

  “I’ll try to be less thin-skinned,” she said with smile. “Now, what could I hear on the street about you?”

  “That perhaps the police should be paying more attention to newcomers as they investigate Suzanne’s disappearance. Some have even suggested that I might be writing myself the letters about Suzanne.”

  She looked stricken. Her hand went to her mouth. I waited as she closed her eyes and then she spoke, “No wonder nobody shared that kind of bullshit with me.”

  I was a bit shocked. I hadn’t expected that word from this woman in any situation. She blushed a bit as she registered my obvious surprise.

  “I mean to say, anyone who knows me knows that I have nothing but the greatest respect for what you’ve done since coming here. Working here the past few years before your arrival had me thinking about a career change. I haven’t been silent in my appreciation for the new Sentinel, and so nobody who knows me would even suggest such a thing.”

  I couldn’t help it; I just started to laugh. It wasn’t much louder than a chuckle, but it hit me as hilarious that this loyal staffer was out on the street singing my praises while she thought I wasn’t paying the slightest attention to her.

  “What’s so funny, Jim?” She sounded ready to be hurt.

  “It’s me. It’s all on me, Marge. I am laughing at myself, and you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  She waited patiently for me to compose myself, and I reached for a tissue from the box on my credenza and blew my nose. “I’m sorry, but that’s better. Sometimes there’s nothing better than a good laugh to ratchet down the self-awareness.”

  She was smiling now. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “Forget it; I had it coming. But I guess what I want you to do is keep your ears open out there and see if you get wind of any such gossip. I don’t want you to react to it in any way, but just note it and pass it on to me if you can.”

  “I’d be happier giving them a piece of my mind.”

  “I’m sure you would, but that’s not what I need at this time. I wouldn’t want anyone to feel that we were defensive or covering up or being aloof to their fears. You understand that?”

  She nodded, and I could see her grasping the implications of such a response. “Of course; I know two women in this town who, if I started the right kind of conversation, would feel compelled to repeat any kind of poison they’d heard, and they’d never realize I wanted them to spill it.”

  “Sound like nice ladies.”

  “Venomous bitches, in fact. But they hear everything and are compelled to repeat it.”

  “Sound like some of your best sources ever.”

  “As long as you can stand being with them for more than a few minutes. Is there anything else?”

  “No, but again, thanks for all you do, and... oh, wait a minute.” I dug around in my file cabinet for a minute and came out with a typed file, stapled in the corner. “Take this, but be careful with it, it’s the only copy I’ve got here. It’s called “Hand grenade layout” and it attempts to give you the fundamentals for modular-page design. I wrote it a few years ago, and it’s the basis of what I’ve been teaching Randy, Fritz and Jay. If you want you can give it to Louie to make copies... but you keep one and give it a read, then let’s plan on discussing this next week, okay?”

  She took the manuscript and counted the sheets. “Ten pages?”

  “It’s not that tough a read.”

  “No, but only ten pages?”

  I laughed. “It’s a dialogue starter, that’s all. We learn in this business by doing; trying things – if my doctor can practice medicine and my attorney can practice law, I think we can practice at newspapers, don’t you?”

  She didn’t answer; she just smiled and left with a thoughtful look on her face.

  My phone buzzed at that moment, and Doug asked me to join him in his office.

  “I think my meeting went well. I’ve got six people – your three, Andy Knewal’s district manager, Kim; Cecily’s clerk, Janice; and Harriet, of course. I explained your concerns about tact, and asked them to make a concerted effort to listen carefully and to separate repeated stories from fresh takes.

  “I also asked them to be very careful as they attempted to learn the source of the repeated stories.”

  I nodded. “They have a reporting schedule?”

  “I left it kind of open; immediately if they heard directly from a source, or otherwise daily notes.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to add.

  “Jim, what are you going to do now?”

  “Finish my writing for tomorrow and the weekend, and then go home and pack. I’m taking the girls to Maryland tomorrow.”

  He shook his head sadly, “I’m so sorry you feel you have to do this, but I agree with your strategy. You know, I gave you big talk about how much pressure I feel being in my hometown and all, but that’s only one side of the equation. The other side is the embarrassment and shame I feel when I learn that my hometown is capable of such unfair and unsupported behavior...”

  I gave him a smile, “It’s like the boys said in the Godfather, Boss. ‘This ain’t personal; it’s just business.’”

  A sparkle hit his eyes, “Get out of here, and don’t forget the cannoli.”

  27

  When Hans and I got home on Sunday night, I was bushed and deflated. My parting with Sandy had been difficult, and leaving Sara had been heartbreaking.

  I put Hans into the backyard, and went through the house, turning on lights and checking things. It wasn’t my normal response to being away, but I was beginning to adopt the habits of my past. I had even left tell-tales on the front and back doors as well as the ground floor windows. I found them all undisturbed.

  I put Hans’ dinner down for him, and went to the refrigerator to see if there was anything for me. I had driven straight home, only stopping for gas.

  While I was debating between leftovers, the phone rang. I took it off the kitchen wall, “Hello?”

  “You’re home?”

  “I am. Who is this?”

  “You think your women will be safe if you hide them away from here?”

  The voice on the phone didn’t sound human. I wondered if it was a mechanical thing. I reached into a kitchen drawer and pulled out a pocket-sized tape recorder that I sometimes used. I clicked it to Record and held it up to the phone.

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “I just wanted you to know that you cannot shy away from your responsibilities. You need to make sure the police do their job, and the only way you can do that is to keep my story alive and up front.”

  “The only story I think we need up front is your explanation of why you’re doing this. Why don’t you come in to the office, and we’ll sit down and discuss this?”

  “This isn’t some kind of negotiat
ion, Stanton. You’re being given a directive. You keep pressure on the cops or I’ll give them another missing girl to look for, it’s as simple as that. And just because you’ve taken her out of town, that doesn’t mean she can’t go missing, believe me.”

  And with a click, the call ended.

  I hit Rewind and played it back. The quality of the tape was awful, but the voice was clear enough to get the meaning, and it sounded something like the real thing.

  I dialed the number to Sandy’s parents.

  “You’re home!” Sandy answered. “I hoped you’d call and let me know you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine, Sandy, but I just got a phone call from someone who warned me that just because I’d moved my women out of town didn’t make them safe.”

  “Oh, no! Does he know where we are?”

  “He didn’t say, but I think the safest approach would be to assume he does. In any event, you need to fill your folks in completely. You have to be on your guard all the time, okay?”

  “Oh, Jim, I just hate this. Why would anyone want to hurt Sara or me?”

  “This sick bastard wants something from the newspaper, and he sees us as the weakest link, that’s all.”

  She was silent long enough for me to start realizing what was happening with her, and when she responded, it was in that “teacher voice” that brooked no argument. “Then you better get off your ass and get this sonovabitch, Jim. We’re not living like this forever. You need to shake him loose and let the cops do their work.”

  And I? I did what every student who had ever heard that voice did. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Call me with a plan that doesn’t include us living under lock and key, okay?”

  “As soon as I get one, you’ll hear about it.”

  “Then you get some sleep and keep yourself safe. I love you; your daughter loves you. We want to live with you again.”

  “Yes, dear.” I fought the urge to laugh at her sudden ferocity. I couldn’t always help it, but this time I did, and after we hung up I was proud that I had.