Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending)

by Briggs, Laura

  “Oh, like the Colonel, you mean –” began Marianne, with a mocking little tone.

  “Fine.” Eleanor answered. “Let’s just let the subject drop. You’ve made your point, I suppose.” She lifted the box and brushed past Marianne, climbing to the top of the stairs and onwards up the next flight. Behind her, she heard Marianne climb to her feet.

  “Oh, Elly, don’t be that way,” she said. “You know how I feel about these things. I just don’t see a reason for continuing something that doesn’t have any point of passion for me.”

  “Passion isn’t everything, Marianne,” Eleanor answered, her voice taking on a hollow echo from the enclosure of the stairs. This line sounded trite to her ears. No doubt it sounded so to Marianne as well.

  “Yes, it is.” This was Marianne’s reply when she entered the studio a moment after Eleanor had placed the box on the table. “It is. To me, anyway.”

  She dropped the canvas on the sofa, where it bounced gently against the cushions. “That’s the last of it,” she said. “You’ll be pleased to know that I can bring the fabric sculpting stuff on my own – without you or a man to help – in the next week or two. So no need of further begrudging help, I promise.”

  “Very well,” sighed Eleanor. She didn’t appreciate having her help defined in these terms – Marianne took it rather for granted that she was available on a Friday after work, whereas most of her art and social crowd wouldn’t be.

  “You’ll be all right here?” Eleanor ventured one last look at the surroundings. The view from the window like an abandoned parking lot, a car graveyard portent with crimes committed and yet to be perpetrated. A spray-painted street sign ravaged by rust on the distant corner.

  “Yes,” Marianne answered, with another roll of her eyes for this subject. “I know what you’re thinking, but I know this place better than you do. And Harlequin next door’s promised to look in on me when I’m working and watch it while I’m not in.”

  Harlequin? Who was that? Man, woman, mentally unbalanced neighbor or harmless resident? Eleanor was aware that her brow was furrowed with worry lines in response. “Well, if someone’s checking on you it’s a relief, of course –”

  “And I’ll lock my car doors and bring my pepper spray.” Marianne lifted her oversized shoulder bag from the floor and crossed the threshold of the studio. With a final dubious glance at the steel-framed lights overhead, Eleanor followed.

  The CD playing in Marianne’s car was something faintly island-y: a woman’s voice singing in a rich language like Spanish or Portuguese tinged with lively, mellow drum tones. Sunshine beat down on the passenger window against Eleanor’s face as she sat with her jacket draped over her lap.

  From the rearview mirror dangled a blue plastic butterfly with jeweled hues like stained glass and a necklace of painted wooden beads. Perched on Marianne’s nose, a pair of oversized sunglasses obscuring the upper half of her face; her thumbs beat the rhythm of the song on the steering wheel’s grip.

  Eleanor watched her. Studying her profile, as if searching for traces of herself in that small, pursed mouth or the slightly rounded nose. She could see her mother’s high cheekbones, the same short, loose strands of hair which curled over Ellen’s ear now soft above Marianne’s own. They shared the same forehead, the same chin. But Marianne’s face was in restless motion, not for the purpose of watching for danger, but the eagerness for the light to change.

  It wasn’t that she cared about Miles in particular, another poor boy doomed to love Marianne in vain. It was Marianne she cared about; she simply wanted her to find someone who cared about her equally as much. Someone who could talk her out of art studios in Pittsburgh’s seamier districts or art shows which painted (literally) public nudity in flattering colors –

  But there you were. That was the last thing Marianne wanted from a man.

  “What are you thinking about, Elly?” Marianne asked.

  Eleanor stirred. “Oh, nothing,” she answered. “I suppose I was just reflecting upon all the boys at the office. I really must go down to the mailroom sometime and make their acquaintance.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Elly.” Marianne’s voice took on a pleading tone. “You know that I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know you never mean anything the way you say it,” said Eleanor.

  Marianne flipped on the turn signal. “I liked the last guy you dated,” she said. “Kenny.”

  “Kenneth,” corrected Eleanor. “And we only went out once. I hardly think that qualifies as a relationship.”

  “I had a relationship with Garth and we only went out once,” said Marianne. “Once is sometimes all it takes. A moment can last forever, Elly.”

  “You and Garth spent a night together in a holding tank,” said Eleanor. “I don’t think Kenneth and I shared anything quite that memorable.” She referred to the anti-corporate development protest at which Marianne and the boy in question had been arrested along with a group of artists whom – Eleanor assumed – had been involved equally in the defacing of the abandoned building’s interior with spray-painted murals.

  Eleanor and Kenneth had gone to dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant. She had been home by nine.

  Chapter Five

  On Monday, the screen in Norlend Tower’s lobby was showing a continuous reel of a media story on TriCom’s upcoming anniversary bash. A security guard was watching it from beside the door, along with a handful of employees from any of the floors in the media building.

  Gerald Magneito appeared briefly on camera in a sit-down interview. “Of course, we anticipate a series of events surrounding it – all of our partners will be celebrating this landmark status –”

  When Eleanor exited the elevator, the editor’s personal assistant made his way towards her from a mild flurry of activity on the office floor.

  “Bitterman wants to see you in his office, Eleanor,” he said. He was balancing a stack of articles in the process of being distributed to their rightful owners. “Go on through.” He didn’t give her a second glance as he passed a sheaf of papers to Jeanine.

  Curiosity flooded her. Larry Bitterman, the editor in chief of the Pittsburgh Herald, seldom asked to see her. She skipped the initial entrance into her office to deposit her bag and laptop case there, letting her steps carry her instead to the heavy glass doors at the end of the office, their blinds raised to reveal the man seated inside behind his desk.

  She knocked once on the door by way of formality. Then entered and stood just across the threshold. Bitterman’s gaze was still focused on his computer screen, his glance moving upwards once to merely acknowledge her.

  “Morning,” he said. “There’s a meeting at one – not mandatory that anybody attend – with one of Haldon’s executives in charge of restructuring TriCom’s subsidiaries. Not that we expect big changes, but anybody who’s curious to know what direction this thing takes can be there. Sun Building. Sixth floor conference room.”

  “Is that why you wanted to see me?” Eleanor asked, feeling surprised and slightly puzzled by this. He looked up again – this time, looking at her slightly longer than before, as his heavy features rearranged themselves in comprehension.

  “Oh, Eleanor. Right.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Good to see you. Come in, have a seat.” He himself had sat down again, this time on the edge of his desk as Eleanor politely sat on the nearest chair before the desk.

  “So, this merger, huh?” he said. “The phones have just been buzzing off the hook. Everybody’s talking about it – well, that, and the big bash here for TriCom’s milestone. I tell you, I’ve got planners and organizers coming out of the woodwork to tell me about how stuff should look or be ...”

  “It’ll be impressive, I’m sure,” said Eleanor, who was not certain why he had asked her here to discuss the anniversary party. The bash to be held at Norlend Towers, the flowing champagne and hors d’ouvres and performing artists and all the usual highlights – none of this seemed like her area of expertise.

>   He rested his hands on either side of the desk around him. “Which is what I’m coming to – your column. Big success and we’re proud of it. Proud of the book, too...it’s due, when? Four months? Five?”

  “Close,” she answered. “I’m still making revisions –”

  “Of course. And writing the column on top of that, wow. That’s a lot to cover, what with all the promos and public appearances and whatnot. And believe me, TriCom’s not taking it for granted. Haldon Media’s excited about having you on board for future projects and they want you – “Ask Eleanor” – to feel appreciated as part of the new partnership.”

  This sounded like a strangely-rehearsed speech to Eleanor. The editor seemed ready to move on from it, for he straightened his posture and slid from his desk with these words, indicating Eleanor should follow him out of the office. She rose from her seat and obeyed.

  “There’ll be a handful of TriCom’s success stories whom Haldon’ll feature in the upcoming restructuring,” he continued, “and in the meantime, they want to get a feel for what each publication is like, what makes the individual components tick and all.”

  “I’m flattered, of course,” she answered. “I’m just surprised that they’re showing such interest this early in ... well, in my column, for instance.”

  “Oh? Well, it was partly my idea, partly your agent’s, what with the success of your second book and with the column reaching its milestone for this third one –”

  “Its milestone?” repeated Eleanor. Bitterman gave her a quizzical look.

  “Ten years,” he said. “That’s a milestone, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t know personally how many columnists make it to ten years as a nationally-syndicated success story –”

  Ten years. She hadn’t thought of it as a magic number. But he was right; it was a milestone of sorts. A decade of one column a day, five days a week – she shut off this faucet of thought before the number of days per years, words per column, invaded her brain as well.

  “Relax. Everything’s fine,” he said, with a faint laugh. “The Herald has its talent’s interests at heart as much as the big bosses at Haldon do.” His hand was on her office door now, the office with her name and column printed across its glass panes.

  On the other side, the room wasn’t empty, however; there was a woman standing inside. Engaged in the act of rearranging the paperwork on Eleanor’s desk.

  “Who is that?” The words left Eleanor’s mouth automatically.

  “That,” said Bitterman, with satisfaction, “is your new personal assistant.”

  *****

  “Eleanor, this is Lucy Deane. Newest intern at the Herald, graduate of University of Pennsylvania and future employee of this publication, unless my instinct for these things is gone.”

  The girl behind the desk had ceased straightening items and come forwards with her hand extended. Grasping Eleanor’s in a firm and eager grip, equaled by the gleam in the young woman’s eye.

  “Ms. Darbish. I’m a fan. Truly. You can’t imagine how exciting this is for me.”

  There was an intensity in her voice which took Eleanor slightly aback. The figure before her was evidently twenty-two or three, but looked more like seventeen to her eye.

  A slim, small girl in a fitted and conservative black velvet dress which seemed more like a senior executive’s choice of attire. A thick mane of wiry chestnut hair sleekly tamed on either side with two black barrettes. Her heels were two inches taller than Eleanor’s own, so that they were almost eye level despite their height difference.

  “I’ll try,” managed Eleanor, who could think of nothing else to say at this moment. She wanted to say this was not her idea – that this was startling and unexpected, two things which she disliked as a general rule.

  “An assistant,” she said, directing her gaze at Bitterman now, who was observing them with a look of contentment, hands shoved in his pockets.

  “To help with your book revisions,” he said. “To help you shape the column, give it a fresh eye or new perspective, if you want. Ms. Deane is part of a new generation whose heroes are people like you; this is a great opportunity for you both, really.” He checked his watch after this statement.

  “Well, that’s you two getting started,” he said. “I’ll be going.” With that, he was gone. Eleanor looked from the empty spot where her editor had been standing to the girl waiting before her desk.

  She made herself smile. “Miss Deane –”

  “Ms. Deane,” corrected the girl. “But call me Lucy. Please. It would be such an honor.”

  “Lucy,” ventured Eleanor. “Yes, well...what made you decide to intern at the Herald?” It was the only question which came to her mind at this moment, a harmless enough choice for staving off awkward silence on her part.

  “The reason?” Lucy’s eyebrows were raised high. “The reason was you, Ms. Darbish.”

  “Me?” repeated Eleanor. On the girl’s face, she could see the same burning enthusiasm as the moment of introduction revealed – that, and the brightness of too-scarlet lipstick against a pale white complexion.

  “Of course it was you. You are an inspiration. A role model. You realize that you were the first female columnist from Pittsburgh to achieve syndication in all fifty states?”

  “No, actually,” answered Eleanor. She had edged closer to her desk seat, and sank into her chair now that it was within reach.

  “Your first book was the earliest self-help publication by an established columnist in the history of nonfiction publishing,” continued Lucy. “So you see, of course I wanted to meet you. To work for you, to learn what made it happened. To see if someone like you thinks someone like me has the kind of fresh perspective and new ideas that could change the whole marketplace.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I could tell you that,” began Eleanor, “but I’m happy to look at your work –”

  “You are? That would be wonderful.” Lucy sighed, one hand pressed to her chest as if this reply was a great relief to her. “You can’t imagine what it’s still like for women in the world of journalism and public relations. It’s not as misogynistic now as it was in your day, of course–”

  My day? Eleanor felt the pinch of this remark, as if the beginning of her career had been the era of ankle-length skirts and gloves.

  “There were quite a few women in executive positions when I came into journalism –” she began.

  “ – but it’s so hard to become a woman of power in a male-perspective industry,” Lucy continued, as if Eleanor had never spoken. “That’s why I’m so honored to have another woman mentor me. It’s the female perspective that matters. Two women exchanging ideas, shaping each other ...”

  “I see.” Eleanor was uncertain about this 'shaping' perspective. “Again, I’m flattered, Ms – Lucy. I only hope you won’t find it dull. I’m afraid that writing a column and editing a manuscript aren’t the highlights of newsroom anecdotes.”

  “Whatever you want, I’ll do it,” said Lucy. “Read letters, reshape paragraphs – even draft a column for you if you’re running late. I had a Fellowship in journalism at U of P.”

  “Did you?” Eleanor suspected her smile was becoming a hollow shell at this point. “Well, I don’t foresee the need for you to write the column, but I’m sure I’ll need some assistance in revising the manuscript chapters. And there’s other things, of course. Answering the phone, sorting the physical mail – I have a system for that –”

  “So do I,” said Lucy. “This is a perfect fit, Ms. Darbish. Really. I’ve already set up my workstation – simply say the word ‘go’ and I’m there.”

  Her workstation was the corner table in Eleanor’s office. Now shoved beside the door, in full view of Eleanor’s desk. Ceramics and potted begonia removed, an island of laptop and pencil cup, a wireless mouse and portable cappuccino single cup machine filling its space. A work zone staring directly into Eleanor’s line of vision, like a miniature and leaner version of her own area.

  A pair of watc
hful eyes on her at all times – eager, inquiring for some means of helpfulness, apparently.

  “Please. Call me Eleanor.” Weak politeness formed these words. In response, a smile of delight from Lucy.

  “Thank you.” Her hands were squeezed tightly before her, like she was seizing this tiny victory of informality with both fists. “I was so hoping you would feel the same as I did about this connection between women of influence. I always prefer it when the barriers come down between us, don’t you?”

  “What possible use are barriers?” asked Eleanor.

  Chapter Six

  “An assistant. And he simply pops into the office and introduces us and leaves us together. Honestly, Brandon, I have no idea what to do with her.”

  “Give her some form of useful employment.” Brandon inspected the contents of his drink, in which an olive had settled to the cocktail’s bottom. “Have her run about getting you coffee if nothing else.”

  Eleanor gave him a look. “She wants something of substance. She wants to be helpful, I realize, but there’s really nothing for her to do. I have a certain manner of handling my column and forming its advice.” She didn’t want to sound difficult, but there it was. She had a system, a sense of order, a rational process which was foreign to Bitterman’s thinking, apparently. And certainly foreign to Lucy – bright, energetic Lucy, who had spent the whole afternoon firing questions like a volley of ammunition.

  Was this Eleanor’s first career choice? Was her online biography accurate? Did she consider psychology or English more important to her career? Psychology, right? Did she think the office walls would look better in teal?

  “You think this is funny, but I notice there’s no one parked in your office right now asking you if military football or military maneuvers were more important to your career.”

  “True,” said Brandon. “But I would have driven them away by now in a shower of staples and office supplies. As you well know.”