Don't Get Mad, Get Even

by Barb Goffman

  “Hey.” Frank called after him. “How’s the Potter story coming?”

  “Almost done,” John said, turning around.

  “Don’t make it too long. We want to save space for the sidebar.”

  John nodded. “I’ll check back with the family tomorrow morning to get an updated condition that I can plug into the lede. Don’t worry. You’ll have the story and sidebar by the noon deadline, boss.”

  “That’s perfect,” Frank said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” John stepped backward toward the door and threw a smirk my way. “Bet this’ll sell a whole lot of papers, Suzy Q. A whole bunch.”

  Both my hands balled into fists. God, I couldn’t stand him. I reviewed my animal shelter story one last time and hit send.

  The shelter story was a good one. An interesting one. But John had an adored, injured public figure. How could I compete? The Banner’s circulation would jump again. I could kill John. I really could.

  Something quick but painful.

  I let out a deep breath and scowled. Time to step up my job hunt.

  I went into the back and grabbed an empty cardboard box. In the hopes that this job would become permanent, I’d brought a lot of personal items in during the summer. Better start packing them up.

  “Nice work on the shelter story. It only needs a little tightening.” Frank approached me a few minutes later while I set some framed photos in the box. “You don’t have to take your things home, Susan. Nothing’s been decided yet.”

  “C’mon, Frank. I think the writing’s on the wall. Poor Mr. Potter’s sealed my fate, hasn’t he? John’s going to get the job.”

  “Appears that way. I’m sorry, Susan.”

  “Me, too. I have one more story for this week’s paper, about how the library’s patronage is skyrocketing because of the recession. I’ll write it up in the morning.”

  Frank nodded. “When you have a chance, bring me a copy of your resume so I can start calling my pals for you.”

  He returned to his office. I’d miss working for Frank. He was one of the good guys.

  I put my jar of saltwater taffy into the box and took in my nearly bare workspace. Most traces of me from the top of the desk were gone. Only my dog-eared AP Stylebook and the huge Webster’s Dictionary I’d bought first year of college remained, along with the standard newsroom equipment: computer, phone, notepads, spiral notebooks, and pens. Shaking off a wave of sadness, I concentrated on what I had left to do. I’d hit the drawers tomorrow.

  The police scanner on the counter erupted in chatter. A convenience store robbery. No way! I grabbed my notebook, jotted down the address, and ran to the large map of Cape Ann and Atlantic Bay tacked to the wall. Corner of Ivy and Main streets. Where was it? I scanned the map.…Unbelievable. Atlantic Bay. Just over the border from Cape Ann.

  Was my town too good for a convenience store robbery? Argh!

  The story would be yet another feather for John’s cap. At least I already started packing. Hefting the carton onto my right hip, my eyes settled on John’s desk against the back wall. My Phillies cap sat on top of a stack of files. Lord, I’d almost forgotten all my stuff he’d borrowed this summer. For a guy so particular about nobody touching his computer or messing with his stuff, he had no trouble taking mine.

  I carried the box over to John’s desk so I could retrieve my belongings. As I set it down, it jostled the computer’s mouse, and the screen popped to life. I blinked a few times and shook my head. This didn’t make any sense.

  “Beloved former Atlantic Bay Mayor Doug Potter, 64, died in his sleep Tuesday night at St. Luke’s Hospital, just hours after breaking his left arm and leg in a bicycle accident,” I read. “Potter’s death surprised his family, who had been told earlier in the day that he was expected to fully recover.

  “[[Drop in quote from grieving family member.]],” John had written.

  The article went on to describe how the doctors didn’t know why Potter had taken this turn for the worse, before going into how Potter had lost control of his bicycle on the hilly road by the dunes that he’d biked every morning for years. Then John described Potter’s many accomplishments while in office.

  I dropped down into John’s desk chair. Tuesday night? It was only Tuesday afternoon.

  A lump grew in my throat as I remembered those poor high-school kids who died Memorial Day weekend. John had written that story in record time. The police didn’t know why their car had veered off the road. The weather was clear. The driver had no drugs or alcohol in his system. Excessive speed wasn’t a factor.

  And the carnie who died. He’d worked that Ferris wheel for twenty years without incident. That hadn’t made sense. And then just last week, that poor girl who somehow slipped off the pier at low tide.

  Oh, my God.

  I ran to Frank’s office. “Is there a way to tell when someone first started writing a story on our network?”

  “Umm, yes. I think so. What is it, Susan? You’ve turned pale.”

  I swallowed hard, my heart beating wildly. “Frank, I think I might have that serial killer story for you after all.”

  * * * *

  Several hours later, after a whole lot of excitement, I sat in a dim, sticky booth at the only bar near the boardwalk, filling Amanda in.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she said, pouring us both another beer from our pitcher.

  “Nope. All those accidents this summer—John started writing about each of them before they happened. There’s only one way he could’ve known.”

  “And the mayor guy?”

  “He’s okay. The police stationed an officer in the bathroom of Potter’s hospital room. When John crept in after visiting hours and started tampering with Potter’s IV, the cop jumped him.”

  Oh, I wish I could’ve seen that.

  Frank approached our table. “Figured I’d find you here.” The bags under his eyes had doubled, and his skin seemed ashen. He looked like he’d aged thirty years. “Can I join you?”

  “Of course.” I introduced him to Amanda.

  “Nice to meet you.” He squeezed into the booth, his stomach pressing up against the table. “Vodka,” he called to the waitress walking by. “And keep ’em coming.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Frank,” I said.

  “Can’t I? I hired the jerk.”

  “Why did you hire him?” I asked.

  “He’s a good writer. He’s from Jersey. And he had one fantastic clip from his hometown weekly, where he interned last summer, about a guy who fell in front of a train.…Oh. Jesus.” Frank downed his drink.

  Wow. John really did know how to go out and get the news. Once a psycho, always a psycho.

  We all sat quietly for a few minutes, drowning our sorrows. I tried to distract myself, listening to a guy in the next booth hitting on our waitress, who kept shutting him down. No matter what bad things happen, life does go on.

  “So you’re Susan’s roommate?” Frank finally broke the silence, directing his attention to Amanda.

  “Yep. I got real lucky,” Amanda said. “Susan’s neat and quiet. I’ll be sorry to see her go at the end of the summer,” she said pointedly.

  I kicked her under the table. God. Frank would think I asked her to say that.

  “I have one more year of school,” Amanda went on. “And I’d hoped Susan could stay on in the apartment with me. I love learning about all the news before everyone else does.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Frank said, a smile breaking out on his face. “’Cause I think she’ll be sticking around.”

  Come again?

  “At least I hope so.” Frank turned to me. “It’s such a shame the contest winner is unavailable. I guess the job will have to go to the runner-up.” He winked at me. “I spoke to the publisher. The job’s yours if you want it.”

  It took all my strength to act professional and not jump up and down.

  “There’ll be some big stories to cover, starting in the morning with John’s arraignm
ent,” Frank said.

  I nodded over and over like a fool. “Yes, I want the job. Thank you, Frank, for this opportunity. Thank you!”

  Amanda called out for another pitcher of beer. Frank insisted on paying.

  Wow. I got the job. And I would cover John’s trial. That would be a lot of hard news indeed. I took a large swig from my mug.

  Maybe I’d approach John for an interview. Tell him I got the job and for my first story I want to show the world the real him. The man behind the sensation.

  Something light. Fluffy.

  A real Suzy Q special.

  I smiled. It would kill him.

 

  “The Contest” first appeared in the 2010 Deadly Ink Short Story Collection, published by Deadly Ink Press in 2010.

  Other than writing fiction, I’ve never had any job I enjoyed more than working as a newspaper reporter. I love small-town news. You can write about weird stuff because it’s all about getting to know your neighbors. Indeed, several of the details in this story were based on actual events or people I wrote about over the years. The sheep story, true. The high-school-principal-basement story, true. The serial-killer story? Okay, I made that up. But a girl can dream, can’t she? (And in case you think the word lede is misspelled in this story, let me assure you, it’s not. It’s a term of art in journalism. Hey, just because I write fiction these days doesn’t mean I can’t include some facts in this book, too.)

  THE LORD IS MY SHAMUS

  You’d think after all these years, I wouldn’t be nervous in his presence. Yet my sandals shook as I approached the swirling cloud.

  “You asked to see me?” I crooked my head, trying—but failing—to spot him through the mist. Why was he always such an enigma?

  “Yes.” His booming voice echoed. “I’m sending you back to Earth to do some investigating for me.”

  “Investigating?”

  “A man has died, and I’d like you to probe those who knew him best. Find out what happened.”

  Now I know better than anyone that it’s not my place to question God. He has his reasons for what he does. But come on. He’s omniscient. Why would he need me to investigate anything for him?

  “Umm…okay,” I said. “But don’t you already know what happened?”

  He chuckled. “Well, yes, I do. But you of all people understand suffering and the need to know why it happens. So I want you to help this man’s family by looking into his death and encouraging the killer to admit his sins and repent.”

  “The killer? You mean—”

  “Yes. This, Job, is murder.”

  * * * *

  In a blinding flash of light, I found myself in a city. Based on the accents, I figured it was Manhattan—though it could’ve been Miami or Fort Lauderdale or, really, anywhere in South Florida. I took a moment to take in the sights. Tall buildings. Automobiles zipping by. And the women walking around immodestly in a state of undress. Bare arms and legs and, in a few cases, midriffs. I knew how the Earth had changed during my years in the afterworld—I like keeping up on things—but actually seeing it in person? Oy vey!

  I glanced down and noticed that my apparel had changed, too. Now I was wearing modern clothes: khaki pants and a pale blue polo shirt. I combed my fingers through my hair. Shorn! My long flowing locks were gone. Cropped to my ears. I raked my fingers over my face and breathed a deep sigh of relief. I’d been allowed to keep my beard, though it apparently had been trimmed and combed. I know I shouldn’t care about my appearance, but after you’ve had the same look as many centuries as I have, you get kind of attached to it.

  I turned left from the street corner. The avenue had been busy, but this side street was quieter. Trees and brownstones. A good place to think. My mind drifted back to God. He’d apparently changed my appearance so I’d fit in. And he’d dropped me in the victim’s neighborhood, I gathered, so I could get started straight away. But he couldn’t be bothered to tell me the killer’s name so I could quickly get him to confess and repent? That I had to figure out on my own?

  I rolled my eyes. (Yes, I’d atone for that later.) Thousands of years had passed, but the Lord still liked to play his little games. I guess when you’re all-knowing, yanking my chain helps keep things interesting.

  I stepped off the sidewalk, leaned against a nice shady tree, and took a few moments to try to think things through. I had no idea where to go. I patted my pockets. No money. Nowhere to spend the night. I didn’t even know the victim’s name. Hey, Lord, how ’bout a little help down here?

  Frustrated, I slapped my hands against my thighs and heard something crinkle. That right pocket had been empty just a moment ago. I reached in and pulled out two scraps of paper. The first one was an obituary for Bruce Goldenblatt, a real-estate investor who had died the previous Saturday, leaving behind a wife and three daughters. The second scrap had an address printed on it—for the brownstone right in front of me.

  I glanced up. Nice aim. And thanks for the assist.

  Time to get down to business. I gazed at the house. Sparkling windows. Spotless front steps bookended by gleaming black wrought-iron railings. Beside the left railing, a handicapped ramp ran from the sidewalk to the stoop. This family might have faced tragedy before. I hoped I could help them now, at least.

  It was after the funeral so the family would be sitting shiva for seven days, mourning their loved one and focusing on their loss. Who was I to intrude on their grief? While it would be a great mitzvah to make a shiva call, visitors should be friends and family. I wasn’t either. But they’d all be there. An opportunity too good to miss.

  I tilted my head, thinking. I could pretend to be an old friend (real old) of Goldenblatt, but they might ask me questions about him that I couldn’t answer. I tapped my index finger against my lips. Ah. I’d be a grief counselor, sent over by the rabbi. That should work.

  I made my way up the front steps and rang the bell. As I waited, I heard muffled yelling from inside. Soon a girl, maybe fourteen years old with long dark hair, yanked back the door. She was barefoot, wearing a short denim skirt and a low-cut, white tank top, and chewing something pink. Gum, I guessed, though I hadn’t seen it firsthand before. Her toenails and fingernails were pink, too. I never would have allowed my daughters to dress that way.

  “Hi?” she said. It was a statement, but it came out like a question.

  “I don’t care!” someone shrieked from behind her. “I don’t want children at my wedding.”

  “How do you expect me not to invite your cousins after they just came to the funeral?” another woman screeched back. “It would be a shanda!”

  “Too bad!” the first voice screamed. “It’s My! Special! Day!”

  What was I walking into? “I’m sorry to intrude,” I told the girl. “My name is Jo…Joseph.” Close call. “I’m a grief counselor. Your rabbi suggested I stop by.”

  The girl turned her head. “Mom! There’s some grief counselor here!”

  So much yelling. Maybe the family was hard of hearing.

  As the girl backed away, a round, middle-aged woman approached the door. Did hair that blond come naturally? She smiled. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Goldenblatt?” She nodded. “Your rabbi sent me over. He thought I might be able to help you during this difficult time.” I extended a hand. “I’m Joseph…Bookman. Grief counselor. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Rabbi Cohen sent you? Well, please come in.”

  I walked into a small entryway with a glass table in the middle. A large ceramic bowl filled with apples and pears sat on top. To my left was a staircase, straight ahead ran a long hallway with some closed doors lining the left wall, and a large living room was on my right. It had white leather couches, oriental rugs, and glass tables that matched the one in the entryway.

  I blinked a couple times, confused. I saw no low stools for mourners to sit on. The mirror on the living-room wall remained uncovered. The woman wasn’t even wearing a torn black ribbon in memory of her husband. Except for the fru
it bowl in the entryway, which could have been a condolence gift, I saw nothing I’d expect in a home sitting shiva. Was I at the correct address?

  “It’s very nice that Rabbi Cohen has been thinking of us, but really, we’re doing just fine,” Mrs. Goldenblatt said, motioning me to follow her.

  She led me through the house into a shiny chrome kitchen. Now this was more like it! Baskets and trays of food covered nearly every available counter, no doubt condolence gifts from friends and family.

  The girl who had answered the door trailed behind us, then picked up a mewing gray kitten and climbed onto a bar stool. An older girl sat at a round table staring at a computer screen. An even older girl—a young woman, really—sat at the same table with piles of papers and magazines spread out in front of her. All three girls had the same thin nose, brown eyes, and long dark hair. None of them wore a black ribbon either.

  “Girls, this is Mr. Bookman,” the mother said. “He’s a grief counselor. The rabbi sent him over.”

  They all looked at me like I’d sprouted another head. I glanced at my shoulders. Nope. No extra head. Thank goodness. That would have been hard to explain, though I’m sure someone would have thought it was a riot.

  Where to begin? “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Goldenblatt. And you girls.”

  “Where are my manners?” the mother said. “Please call me Marjorie. And these are my daughters, Anne, Kayla, and Lauren.”

  “Stop calling me Kayla,” the middle girl said with gritted teeth. “Kay. My name is Kay.”

  “I’m so sorry, Kay.” Marjorie threw her hands in the air. “I did have a role in naming you, you know. Seventeen years you’ve been Kayla, but noooo. Now suddenly you’re Kay.”

  Oh, yes. A big happy family.

  “Kay,” I said. “This must be a very hard time for you.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah. Dad was supposed to take me to look at colleges—I’ll start college next fall—but now I have to wait till Mom has time to go. And who knows when that’s gonna be. She’s completely wrapped up in planning Anne’s wedding.”