Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending)

by Briggs, Laura

  Tonight had been a performance of Faust; Eleanor had been in attendance, sharing the pair of orchestra tickets which Brandon had procured. He detested going to the theater alone – going to any social function at all was a strain for him – and Eleanor herself secretly found the loneliness of a ticket for one uncomfortable. Eleanor braved productions and parties alone when occasion called for it, which it often did.

  That was the most regrettable part of not having a harem of admirers equal to Marianne, she told herself. Marianne, who never quailed at the thought of entering a roomful of people alone was seldom without an eager companion.

  Faust was good; the soprano singing Marguerite’s role was better than the one whom Eleanor had seen onstage once before in a summer outdoor revival. Her seat was considerably better than the metal bench of the outdoor amphitheater, a fifth row orchestra seat.

  “If I could have gotten a box, it would’ve been better,” Brandon grumbled. He had given the appearance of being squeezed into his seat in the theater, although he had ample room; a reluctance to share elbow space with his neighbor gave rise to this complaint.

  “Boxes are an expensive luxury beyond my budget,” said Eleanor.

  “And mine,” he answered. “But that doesn’t make me any less inclined to favor them. Next time, I’ll bribe Lucas Finchley to offer me two seats in his box. You may have one of them and I’ll take the other and have peace for the whole production.”

  After the production, he had driven her to a post-production party being held at a friend’s apartment. The kind of cocktail mixer which Eleanor attended out of obligation more than enjoyment, since small talk was difficult to master after a long musical experience left her brain heavy.

  They were standing aside in a corner of Martin Fausley’s apartment now, which overlooked the theater district, their corner of the room a series of bookshelves crammed with leather-bound editions which Eleanor assumed possessed some collectible value.

  A copy of La Boheme’s recorded London performance was playing softly on a stereo nearby; mingling with it in reality, the sound of a woman’s high laugh, a cacophony of shrill tones, breaking through the babble of conversations to which Eleanor was currently a comfortable outsider.

  Brandon set his empty glass on a passing tray. “But that brings us away from your problem of the unwanted secretary, doesn’t it?”

  “Assistant,” she corrected. “They don’t call them secretaries anymore.”

  “Who doesn’t?” The aforementioned Lucas had joined them, the restaurant critic and eatery investor whose weekend piece for Pittsburgh Food Speaks! spoke for itself in terms of state fame. “I call mine a secretary. I even send him flowers on the now-mandatory day of celebration for that job.”

  “Flowers?” Brandon’s nostrils produced a noise akin to a snort.

  “We’re not all war horses content with a slap on the shoulder and tough skin, Brandon,” answered Lucas, mildly. “Get a secretary, by all means. Whatever’s wrong with yours, Eleanor? I saw her today and she seems quite ... capable.” A sly smirk with these words as he lifted his martini’s rim to his lips.

  Eleanor pretended not to notice this remark. “The intern was a generous thought on Bitterman’s part. I was only saying I wished he had been generous to someone else instead.”

  “Well, it’s a testament to your column, isn’t it?” said Lucas, who raised his glass again fleetingly, as if toasting her.

  “I hardly think my column’s worthy of being held forth as a ... testament,” said Eleanor.

  “Quite right,” said Brandon. “Bitterman’s a sheep on his best days; there’s no talent in journalism now, no talent in newspapers at all except for whoever colors the advertising pages. Empty words and talking heads.”

  Lucas’s gaze cut in Eleanor’s direction, then lowered itself with the manner of one who has just witnessed a faux pas in progress, which Brandon seemed to notice.

  “Not your work,” he said, now addressing Eleanor. “You’re not trying to soften the minds of the public with meaningless pablum, Eleanor – Lucas might be, I’ve read his pieces and they’re shameless panderings to the food community –”

  “But she is trying to influence people’s minds,” Lucas reminded him. “That’s the point of her column, you know. The psychology of advice for self-help –”

  “I don’t need your definition to recall her job,” began Brandon, irritably.

  “He’s quite right,” said Eleanor, hiding a smile.

  “I merely mean there’s a difference between what Eleanor does and real journalism. Not that she isn’t a credit to her field – it’s merely not the same as the propagandists paraded on the front page. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Eleanor knows what I mean. She knows I think well enough of her work. For such as it is. For such as we all are, for that matter. A mere line of entertainment between what masquerades as newsworthy...”

  She interrupted at this point to halt the train of reason. “I’m aware,” she answered, “of course. And so is Lucas, he’s merely toying with you. Fuel for the rampage, as he ought to know.”

  “Save it for your columns, old man,” said Lucas. “I channel all my life’s frustrations and sorrow into one big ball of stress before I do reviews for Scarini’s. One pasta primavera bake later, one hour’s retrospect on its heavenly virtues on paper, and I am released from my despair forevermore.”

  The hem of Eleanor’s pale blue dress was in danger of being stepped on by a passing partygoer. She edged aside. “I think Lucas’s work is commendable,” she said. “It’s necessary. People need to know where to eat. They want to know what to eat.”

  “All of which they could get from consumer reports,” said Brandon. “Or they could live life on a chance and just order something. No, there’s no helping it: we’re all providing services which people could readily provide for themselves. We’re just condensed facsimiles of information for convenient consumption.”

  “So why not do something more worthwhile with your life?” There was sarcasm in Lucas’s voice. “Maybe we should all find new employment.”

  “I’ve considered it.” Brandon took a sip from a second glass procured from a passing tray.

  “I fancy opening a restaurant of my own someday instead of investing in someone else’s,” said Lucas. “Or else hairdressing – think there’s a career in running a salon for me?” He grinned at Eleanor.

  “Truthfully? Not at all,” she answered. “But I think this subject is rather academic.”

  “Not according to Brandon.”

  Brandon gazed thoughtfully into his glass. “I can’t say I care for the thought that my major contribution to society is driveling sports retrospect,” he said. “My career highlights are all behind me, it would seem. But that doesn’t make me rest easy with it, of course. Rather the opposite – un-fulfillment weighs heavily, I mean.”

  Eleanor felt a twinge of pain in response to this statement, whether for her own career or Brandon’s, she wasn’t certain. Finding one’s work unfulfilling – meaningless – had it ever crossed her mind in the fashion it apparently crossed his own? She could see small, careworn lines, furrows of time and wrinkles in his face which were not the product of age but of thoughtful unhappiness etched within.

  “Eleanor should become a psychiatrist,” Lucas continued. “That would be real enough for your taste, wouldn’t it?”

  A psychology degree. She had never given actual, physical practice of the field a serious thought, even when she was a student. The reason for the English major, the interest in journalism. Even then, she was looking for removal from her work. Distance, space, a small and comfortable sphere of control in which to protect herself. Was there something inappropriate in those choices? Was it perhaps the wrong choice?

  She pondered this. Glass in hand, a general melancholy settling upon her which discouraged conversation for the guests who milled past her and offered polite smiles of greeting in exchange for her own.

  Lucas had disappeared into the thinn
ing party crowd. Brandon was across the room, surrounded by several other men, the rumble of their conversation turned to the subject of Brandon’s profession. All trace of bitter recollection removed, if not the general seriousness of his countenance, beneath the faint cloud of cigar smoke. She caught snatches of their dialogue.

  “I heard on the radio that the Sonics wiped the arena floor tonight....”

  “There’s absolutely nothing to compare to that game in ‘82 ...”

  “Well, nobody played like Bird back in the day...”

  Suddenly, Eleanor felt a wave of loneliness. A desire to call Marianne or her mother – her mother, who had been dead for six years – to hear a voice which would say something purely emotional and without banter or debate. Pure emotion was Marianne’s specialty; there was never reason or logic in any of her motives.

  But that wouldn’t help her, of course. Reason and logic were the reasons she was successful. They were the reasons her inbox and office mail would be filled with requests for advice tomorrow morning. They weren’t disappointed that her dual degree was not that of a practicing physician. They thought of her advice as the common sense of living – advice from someone who had the wisdom to sidestep the problems that seemed like pitfalls in their existence.

  Lucy was waiting for her when she exited the elevator the next morning. In a spotless white silk blouse and tailored navy skirt which embarrassingly enough bore a strong resemblance to Eleanor’s own outfit in black. In Lucy’s ear, a Bluetooth device; in her hand, a digital planner.

  “Good morning.” Her voice held a chirrup of especial cheer, almost singsong in nature. Confidence, Eleanor realized, as if emotions transplanted titles in an old episode of Name that Tune.

  “Good morning.” Eleanor’s voice held less conviction. In her hand, a cup of coffee, balanced carefully against the weight of her bag’s shoulder strap. “You’re here early.”

  “Since eight,” said Lucy. “I left a message on your desk from your editor, I organized your desk calendar, and I canceled your dentist appointment since I thought it would conflict with your one o’ clock meeting with your agent,” said Lucy.

  She had fallen into step beside Eleanor, who was still pondering this last remark. Cancelled? That decision seemed a bit bold for a first day’s work. She wasn’t certain that she would have had quite that much nerve if she were in Lucy’s shoes, but matters of confidence were not a matter of concern for Lucy, it seemed.

  “I wasn’t aware they were conflicting,” ventured Eleanor. She couldn’t recall having an appointment with her agent today at all. Unless –

  “Well, until yesterday, you didn’t have an assistant, did you?” said Lucy. “Your agent will meet you at Boticelli’s at one-fifteen for lunch.”

  “One-fifteen,” repeated Eleanor. More dutifully than she intended. She didn’t particularly want to see her agent at this time – Lew Nelson, a rather vague and overly-consoling figure whose smile whenever he discussed a client’s books or public appearances seemed somewhat fake around its edges.

  Lucy opened the door to Eleanor’s office, where evidence of change was evident beyond the movement of Eleanor’s stapler and sleek black marble paperweight.

  Today’s mail – letters – were open across the desk surface. Divided into little stacks of varying heights before her seating place. It was the shock of seeing them open that left Eleanor without speech momentarily. Not for the sake of her mail sorting system – no, that particular thought had not yet come to her – but for the boldness of the move.

  “I took the liberty of organizing mail for the column,” said Lucy. She had placed her planner on her work station and was now re-stacking a series of printed pages into a portfolio. “I’ve stacked them highest potential to lowest, from left to right.”

  “I should have mentioned that I usually sort them according to subject,” said Eleanor. “Romantic relationships, then family conflict, then finances. It makes it easier for me to select a variety of subjects per column, you see.”

  “Really? I would have thought the complete opposite – you know, that letters with more juiciness or controversy would come first, then boring or conventional ones would be at the bottom and so on – for the sake of the column’s reader appeal.”

  “Well, I don’t,” said Eleanor. She had seated herself before the open pile of mail, feeling insulted, for some strange reason. Her ivory letter open lay askew on the desk, where Lucy had evidently tossed it after opening the envelopes – and reading their contents first – and formed opinions on which ones were apparently publication worthy and which weren’t. The kind of judgments which would linger in Eleanor’s mind for the rest of the column’s creation.

  “You haven’t heard my proposal yet. A theme column,” said Lucy.

  “A what?” Eleanor had lifted the first letter from the pile and glanced at it, feeling the uncertainty of each pile’s subject or representation. Dear Eleanor: I have an uncontrollable attraction for married men, which my wife knows about and accepts, except ...

  “A theme column. Adultery, sexual habits, child abuse.” Lucy ticked them off in the fashion of a grocery list. “You let readers pick the topic, maybe through a live webchat. It could completely transform the whole face of “Ask Eleanor” overnight. You could dominate your brand in modern media.”

  “Interesting,” said Eleanor, who was doing her best to conceal any signs of emotion on her own face. Irritability over small things did not do. Losing one’s patience with someone trying to be helpful was counteractive to a solution...and it wasn't that it was a bad idea...

  “Consider this – having readers offer alternative advice to the original answers in the column and having a debate over it in the follow-up columns,” Lucy continued. “See, I proposed a similar public relations tactic in my dissertation. On a smaller scale, of course.”

  She handed the portfolio to Eleanor, who opened it to find a bulleted outline of Lucy’s proposal, along with some other papers slipped in behind it.

  “Oh, that’s my resume, the other form,” said Lucy. “I thought it would be helpful for you in getting to know me. It fleshes out my academic background and accomplishments.”

  Speech club. Public relations scholarships. A student award for journalistic achievements. A Rising Star of Media and Public Relations recognition from her college dean. It was impressive in the mere minutes Eleanor spent scanning its lines, where she could not help but notice with some mild and reprehensible personal satisfaction that Lucy Deane’s GPA was lower than her own.

  She closed the portfolio. A change of subject would be more helpful at this point.

  “Perhaps you should tell me something more about your life,” said Eleanor. “Your future goals, for instance. What sort of future to which you aspire in journalism or public relations. I assume you don’t want to be me in the literal sense when you talk about me as your – your mentor.” This word still required a period of adjustment for Eleanor.

  Lucy blushed, albeit modestly. “I’m hoping for a permanent position from Bitterman,” she said. “At the Herald or a similar publication. Starting as an assistant editor would be ideal, of course, but that’s ambitious, I know,” she said, seating herself comfortably on the edge of the table, as if signaling that a long answer lay in store.

  “So, if I land one, I’m hoping to work my way to a position as a chief editor of a high-end publication; then gradually enter the world of online journalism as a media relations consultant for a major independent news site. That’s if I can escape falling into a rut by the time I’m thirty.” She uttered this statement with a little laugh. “We know how easy that is as women, right? But that’s why I admired you so much – I mean, you were a nationally syndicated columnist by twenty-nine.”

  “That’s true, I suppose,” said Eleanor. Dear Eleanor: Last year during my holiday vacation, I caught my brother cheating with father’s fiancé – She folded the letter aside and pushed her hand into another stack in hopes of randomly selecting one l
ess “juicy”, perhaps.

  “I don’t know if I see a full future in Pittsburgh, of course,” said Lucy, “but a great deal of that depends on personal relationships, you know. Just because he’s flexible enough to come with you once doesn’t mean he’s interested in the second career move, especially if he’s established in another field – oh, one moment...”

  This self-interruption was for the ringing office phone – not on Eleanor’s desk, but on Lucy’s, where it had been transported this morning unbeknownst to Eleanor. Lucy lifted the receiver automatically.

  “Eleanor Darbish’s office,” she purred. “Of course. One moment and I’ll check her calendar...” Her fingers flipped through a small desk appointment diary, also appropriated from Eleanor’s own work space.

  Dear Eleanor: I’ve had thirteen jobs in the last six years, lost two apartment deposits, and lost my fiancé to a more successful man. My family has taken to calling me a failure, but I don’t think I am – I’m just misunderstood and need more time than other people to find my way in life...

  Eleanor rose from her desk chair during this interval, opened her door, and slipped into the main bustle of the office. Retreating to the water cooler, she filled a small paper cup with water and downed its contents slowly.

  In the corner of the office, a supply closet with its door ajar. She contemplated slipping inside and hiding there until the vagaries of insignificance between her middle-aged self and the ambitious Lucy faded away amidst copier paper and toner. The persistent and eager voice and inquiries and curiosities could not follow her there, except as a stream of previous remarks replayed in her head.

  “I personally think your second book was superior to your first book in terms of expressing the modern relationship ... I wondered if you noticed that too, and would agree that it was the way your writing changed in between ...”

  “Do you ever have times where you feel like you give the same answers again and again? How do you find so many individual problems to try to keep the column fresh? Or is fresh not a priority for you?"