Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending)

by Briggs, Laura

  Eleanor’s fingers ceased toying with one of the miniature paper fans of bright Oriental patterned paper in the centerpiece.

  “You know him?” she said.

  He grunted. “Know of him. The Allens in Pittsburgh society, that is. The son was thought of as a kind of eligible bachelor at Yale, ran around with an unsavory crowd there and lazed about when he was at home. The party sort – not the type with cocktails with olives and drawing room concerts.”

  “There were other girls,” said Eleanor.

  Brandon’s face grew slightly darker. “Well, we’ll leave those rumors where they are,” he said, brusquely.

  She winced. “I hoped it wasn't so. He seemed comfortable with Marianne’s social crowd, so I thought maybe it was just a case of a wealthy boy fascinated with the other half of society." She paused. "But maybe he regrets his wild past. And Marianne certainly doesn’t care about those sorts of incidents.”

  “I suspect the family’s disappointed in him,” said Brandon. “But then – enough of this. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You. How are you these days? Barring Marianne and her drama, you have a life. I’ve glimpsed your column the last week or so, of course –”

  “A passing glance,” suggested Eleanor, archly.

  “– but there are other things, I’m sure. What of your personal life? What of that – that incident of flirtation you spoke of a few weeks ago?”

  How he remembered that, Eleanor had no idea. A blush, an uncomfortable one, rose with the memory of Edward. “There’s nothing there, I’m afraid,” she answered. “I’m beginning to think I willed an attraction from another into being. Perhaps it was all my imagination.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Brandon scoffed.

  “I think you mean, ‘don’t be self-pitying,’” volunteered Eleanor.

  “No, I meant what I said. Don’t rearrange my words. I may be awkward with women, but that doesn’t mean everything I say is an insult.” He lifted his cup of tea and took a sip, then lowered it as he made a face.

  “This is terrible stuff. Do you drink this every time?”

  “It’s good for you,” said Eleanor.

  “It’s like drinking grass. Almost cold, no taste –”

  “Hush,” said Eleanor, softly, as the waitress approached with a small tray of fortune cookies and the check, which she placed before them smilingly.

  “Is this green tea?” Brandon demanded, holding up the teapot. She smiled and nodded.

  “Green tea, yes. Very nice.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “There’s something wrong with it. Look at it – it’s hardly brown, there’s nothing steeped in here – ” He lifted the lid of the pot, the waitress peering inside with concern.

  “No, really,” said Eleanor to the waitress. “It’s fine.”

  “We take it off check,” the waitress suggested.

  “That’s not necessary,” began Brandon. “I only want you to know for the future.”

  “We very sorry. We refund –”

  “No, don’t do that. I only meant –”

  “Yes, please,” said Eleanor, gently, to the waitress, giving Brandon a silencing glance. “That would be nice, thank you. And we apologize for the trouble we’ve caused you.” The waitress smiled and withdrew.

  He put the lid on the pot. “I didn’t want to not pay for it,” he said. “Only to point out that there’s no green tea in their tea. What was wrong with that? I wasn’t exactly an ogre towards her...” He gazed helplessly, half-scowling, as Eleanor pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

  “Marianne isn’t all wrong about me either, you know,” he said. With no further explanation for that statement, he pulled his wallet from inside his coat and placed several bills beneath the half-finished plate of crab wontons.

  “A bigger tip will fix it,” he mumbled.

  *****

  Dear Sensitive,

  Yes, there is such a thing as being too sensitive. When life or people become difficult, it can tempt you into retreating as a victim or into blaming others for your own mistakes or problems.

  While sensitivity is sometimes perceived as a weakness, our society has come to think of it more and more as a virtue. It proves you care, that you feel pain, sympathy, or empathy for others.

  The question is now, is your sensitivity the type that is displayed openly for all the world or is it a hidden or controlled quality of your character? Which one is better? That’s a question I can’t answer for you, except to advise you to ask yourself the following. Which one do you think is better for yourself and which is better for those around you? The answer may be your deciding factor in whether there are more benefits to being completely open about your emotions – or to partially mastering them for the sake of someone else. Think about which one means more to you before you choose.

  Eleanor ceased typing. The answer seemed incomplete, but she could think of nothing else to say. It was an ambiguous task, telling others what to feel about something. This work was so – so subjective, really. Who was she to imply that sensitivity was self-destructive? Or that a stalwart front was a noble gesture?

  It was the difference between characters. People like Brandon, whose emotions escaped through chinks and cracks like water seeping through armor or stone. People like Marianne, whose face never concealed what she was feeling, whose every movement was determined by the intensity of her feelings.

  They were the extremes, of a sort. The rest fell in between, people like herself, or perhaps Will, or even Lucy.

  What about Edward? What kind of person was he? Emotional or concealing? Did it matter to her which one? Or rather, would it have mattered – since he had chosen to disappear from her life, she supposed that such thoughts were now academic.

  On the desk before her, a slip of paper which had fluttered from the contents of her purse when she removed her flash drive. The fortune from her cookie at the restaurant on Saturday, its tiny red letters gazing skywards. Your future is too big for your grasp; hold out both hands to receive it.

  She found herself wondering what that was truly supposed to mean, even as she propped it against her pencil holder.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On Monday, the sound equipment arrived at Norlend Towers. On Tuesday, the rented tables and chairs were transported there. By Wednesday, the confetti and balloons arrived, a crew of party coordinators transforming the off-limits glass penthouse at the topmost floor into the scene of the upcoming gala.

  As Eleanor exited the elevators, a crew of workmen were busy draping a new congratulatory banner to the second floor observation walkway above. TriCom’s City Lights Gala. Friday, October fifteenth. A celebration twenty years in the making. An artist’s rendition of a modern skyscraper alight like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by a bold font. A strange elegance and decadence in its design, almost like something out of The Great Gatsby.

  On Thursday, Eleanor was at a book signing in Boston. The air was tinged with the first bitterness of fall to her senses. The atmosphere at Noble and Blake’s book emporium was anxious and restless, as if its customers and the population in general had somewhere else to be at this hour.

  She scribbled her name at the front of a copy of her second book for a woman who smiled politely and shyly as she waited.

  “Thanks,” the woman said. “My mother’s a big fan. She’s always telling me to take your advice, so she’ll love getting this.”

  “Is she?” Eleanor responded. “I hope she enjoys it.”

  “Me, too,” said the woman. And moved on, to be replaced in the line by a man in a heavy overcoat. Whom, Eleanor learned, was a local psychiatrist who enjoyed her advice books for a little light reading.

  Afterwards, she had lunch with Lew Nelson, her agent, at a small Greek restaurant a mile from the bookstore. He had intended to show up early and see her – or rather, she knew, see how many people were there, given the nature of non-fiction and the upcoming boo
ks’ release. He was delayed, however, while meeting with a future client in town, a landscape photographer whose work was being released in a coffee table volume.

  “It doesn’t make a fortune, of course, photographic art in those big books,” said Nelson, “but people like them. There’s a nice, tidy little market for grown-up picture books. Black and white images of cityscapes, nice color pictures of western landscapes or maybe some old farmhouses...”

  “I have one of those,” said Eleanor. “One on the sights of nineteenth-century San Francisco.”

  “Exactly,” said Nelson. “They fill up blank space, make nice conversation pieces when you have guests over. ‘Oh, what book is that?’ ‘Why, that’s a photographic tour of India.’ It makes us feel more cultured to have it lying around, impressing people who notice it.”

  His fork shoved at the salad before him, studded with grapes and with some sharp-tasting nut which Eleanor had not yet bothered to identify in her own. From the kitchen, the smell of braised lamb and something else less tangible, between a sweet and smoky scent. A steamy smell.

  “What’s his subject matter?” asked Eleanor.

  “The client? Oh, it’s major U.S. landmarks shot in black and white. An all-film tribute in defiance of the whole digital thing. At least that’s how we’ll angle it. Pretty contrast shots of Gettysburg, New Orleans, Nebraska prairies. He traveled the whole country for a year, apparently.”

  “Sounds nice,” said Eleanor, who felt a sudden twinge of envy. To travel around had its benefits. Maybe leaving her apartment for awhile, leaving the city of Pittsburgh behind temporarily, would be a nice escape. A temporary reprieve from Marianne’s problems and the everyday complacency of apartment to office, then office to apartment, with only minor changes made to the routine on average.

  “I’m sure it was. It was a nice change for him, anyway. Before then, he was a war scene photojournalist. Took pictures in third world countries of burned little kids and guerilla soldiers marching through torn-up villages that looked like they were built out of garbage.”

  “They sell books of those, too,” said Eleanor. “Did nobody think to publish his war work? I would have thought it was the logical choice for a publisher. A gripping, modern history volume.”

  “Sure,” said Nelson. “I’ve seen it. It’s stunning, all right. But it wasn’t what this guy had in mind. He said he thought he’d inflicted enough reminders of pain in all the news work he’d done. That it would do some good to give people pictures of peaceful stuff for awhile. Therapeutic.”

  For him, Eleanor supposed, not necessarily his audience. Although, there would be readers who had experienced such horrors also, she considered. Victims of bombings and plane crashes, of domestic violence or combat wounds, who would turn the pages of iconic American landscapes and feel better, perhaps.

  “So, let’s talk about you now,” said Nelson. He shoved aside his salad. “I’ve been on the phone with the editor at Gillion, who says the second round of edits were excellent. The final round will be coming in about ... two weeks, I think ... and then, bam! We have a book on the market.”

  “That soon,” said Eleanor. “I’m assuming the original release date hasn’t changed.”

  “Release date still in October,” resumed Nelson. “I’ve got you booked on Thinking Out Loud and on Morning Journal Review for public appearances the first week. Right now, I got you an interview on Mornings and Mocha – Pittsburgh’s A.M. lineup love a little drop-by Q&A now and then –”

  “I remember,” said Eleanor, with mixed feelings for the morning drive, whose hosts’ questions tended to be vapid and sometimes vaguely personal.

  “I got you something more serious with the NPR set,” he said. “I gave the details to your assistant, so you know all about it.”

  Did she? Lucy hadn’t mentioned anything about it. She tended to dole out Eleanor’s appointments on a day-by-day basis of knowledge. This luncheon with Lew Nelson, for instance, was introduced to her by the intern only after Eleanor had received a call from Nelson himself and inquired about this lunch appointment afterwards. Lucy assumed, apparently, that Eleanor was engrossed in other matters and did not wish details more than a couple of days in advance.

  “Everything’s happening just like it should,” said Nelson. “I’m pleased thus far. So is Gillion, by the way. And the column, that’s going good, too.”

  “The waiter refilled their water glasses as Eleanor shifted the position of the sandwich on her plate, a tortilla-like Greek bread rolled around savory sandwich components.

  “I’ve been wondering if it might be time to make some changes to it,” said Eleanor. She peeled a pickled pepper aside from the bread.

  “What changes?” Nelson sounded puzzled.

  “I don’t know. Modernize it in some fashion. Or maybe pursue a new angle for it...” Her explanation wandered at this point, searching for meaningful terms. She thought of the Newsbites representative with his talk of apps and web videos. “Something more meaningful to a contemporary audience.”

  Nelson shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about all that yet. Let’s cross that bridge when we find it, right? Things are fine for you the way they are now.” He forked a mouthful of rice from a generous pile on his plate.

  “I would have expected you to say the opposite,” said Eleanor. “Since you’re an agent, looking out for new opportunities for clients. And have quite a few who do multimedia projects.”

  “Client by client basis.” He looked at her, his glance one of shrewd study. “See, I don’t do things prematurely. You jump ahead, you push things or people around, everybody loses in the end. So, with some people, I say, just leave it where it is until I say it’s time.”

  He raised his hands. “Of course,” he added, “you can always do what you want. I mean, I’m just the agent here. But, in general, you listen to me, so I tell you what I think you’ll be happy to hear. That your career is fine the way it is.”

  It was reassuring of him to say it. Kind and confident in his picture of her future. There was no sign of worry or concern that the digital age would suddenly collapse “Ask Eleanor” into a heap of obscurity, buried in the ruins of the Herald and the decline of print media. No, Lew Nelson seemed unworried about this concept as he polished off the remains of his salad.

  In the airport on Friday morning, Eleanor checked her column in the Boston newspaper, then glanced over the headlines before boarding. She left the newspaper in one of the waiting area seats, a donation for whoever might appreciate finding it later.

  On board the plane, for once, she didn’t pull out her travel choice of novel: a tale about a man traveling in time between two decades, his fate intertwined in each with the same people, in different stages of their lives.

  She gazed out the window at the white clouds instead. Heaps of ice blue and rosy-tinted cotton, subtle hues of grey and brown within the white, like vast plumes of smoke frozen in mid-air. It defied description, really; it was untouchable, intangible, this surface of water and air. If it were only like she imagined it as a child, with all the softness and solidity of a quilted down comforter.

  The woman seated next to her stirred. “You’re that columnist, aren’t you?” she said. “The one who writes those pieces in the paper – “Helpful Ellen” or something like that.”

  “Eleanor,” she answered. “But yes, that’s me.”

  “Imagine that. My brother’s a big fan of your column,” said the woman.

  “Is he?” said Eleanor.

  “Yes. It’s the funniest thing. See, he told me he always reads it when there’s a problem like one in his life – to see what advice you give –”

  “Right,” said Eleanor.

  “– and then, he tells me, he does the opposite of whatever it is. He says that works for him every time.”

  In response, Eleanor was momentarily riveted in place. The woman beside her was laughing.

  “Isn’t that just the funniest thing you’ve heard?
” she said.

  The opposite of her advice. On everything. Love, life, career, money.

  For a moment, Eleanor said nothing. Then she laughed. Faintly at first, then with more conviction.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, it is.” She was still laughing as she turned towards the window again and the view of rolling clouds in still life.

  *****

  There were three messages on Eleanor’s home phone’s machine when she pressed the button, letting her bag slide to the floor beside the living room table.

  The first one was a reminder that her book club was meeting next Tuesday instead of Thursday. The second was from Marianne. “If you can come by tonight, then come, El. There’s a key under the doormat and I’m free all evening.”

  Marianne had forgotten about the gala tonight, it seemed. She seldom remembered anything about Eleanor’s career or personal life for more than a few days, before it was swept away in a sea of present-day experiences. Otherwise, Marianne would be asking her if she found anyone to accompany her to the sea of champagne and expensive hors d’oeuvres, to indulge in the lush evening of splendors.

  If she knew about him, Marianne would ask if Edward had called. But he hadn’t. Not yet.

  The final one was from Lucy, a message about the interview Nelson had mentioned, and about a message from her publisher about sending the manuscript back earlier than planned. It was recorded at four o’ clock in the afternoon, meaning Eleanor had just missed the call.

  “...never fear, I’m staying and working on your revision schedule right up to the moment of the party itself, since I brought my dress with me to work,” Lucy said. “That’s all for now. See you tonight!” With this chipper sign-off, the message went quiet.

  Eleanor carried her bag to the bedroom, where she left it at the foot of the bed. Hanging in front of her closet was the garment bag from the cleaner’s, containing the dress she was wearing to the gala. Pink satin, pale and fitted, a longer skirt length than she usually chose. Off-the-shoulder sleeves, and a v-neckline which came close, if not actually to the point of, plunging. A matching pink wrap and black stiletto heels – with open toes, daringly enough.