by Mimi Johnson
“That’s it? That’s all this is?”
“Sure.” In the dim light, Erickson didn’t see the concern in Jack’s eyes. “Now, I’ve got to catch an early plane for New Hampshire tomorrow, so shut up and let me read what the local hack has written about me.”
It was nearly seven and deep dark when Tess hurried past the splendid old building that housed the Journal. Through its long, wide windows, she could see at a glance that the newsroom was finally almost empty. Ever since she’d returned from the announcement, the office had been crowded with newspeople using their desks to write at, their WiFi to upload stories and their coffee to keep them going. It was a common enough practice, a professional courtesy. In her journalism days Tess had used many a local newspaper’s Internet access to transmit pictures.
Turning down the alley, she used a key to open the side access door into the warm, brightly lit production room. Spotting the press manager in the back she called, “Everything all wrapped up, Bob?” as the door slammed shut behind her.
“Yeah, it is, Tess.” He lumbered toward her, fatigue in every line. “That’s got to be the biggest paper the Journal’s ever produced. To tell you the truth, when Jack first told us how many pages he wanted, on top of a late press run, I just didn’t think it could be done. Good thing the Gov gave Jack the text of his speech yesterday. That gave us a jump on it. As it was, the paper was an hour late getting out. Those were some fine pictures you took though.”
She smiled. Bob always said her pictures were “fine.” “The production crew did a great job, especially with all those people around.”
“Weren’t they something?” Bob rubbed an inky hand through his hair. “I’ve never seen so many people in here. But I can’t say I’m sorry they’re gone. Kind of pushy if you ask me. They started clearing out about five or so. All except that one at Jack’s desk. I think Amber’s waiting for him to leave so she can lock up.”
“OK, I’ll get her on her way. Why don’t you bug out? You’re beat, and Rhonda’s waiting for you." Bob nodded at her words, glad to let her wrap up.
Coming into the front room, she looked toward the side bay, where Jack’s big roll-top stood. The desk blocked her view, but she caught a glance of the back and shoulders of the man who sat there in the reflection of the windows behind him. He was hunched over, the phone receiver to his ear, but she stopped short, the blood draining from her face. That memory on the roof. She felt as if she’d conjured him.
She looked over at Amber who sat at her receptionist’s desk, playing Angry Birds on the computer. Young, just a year out of high school, she was big-boned, fair-haired and freckled, and her employment had more to do with the fact that the Journal’s bookkeeper was her grandmother’s best friend than any particular skill. Feeling eyes on her, the girl looked up and, at the sight of Tess’s pallor, asked softly, “You OK?”
“Just tired.” Tess smiled at the girl. “Thanks for staying late, but you should get going.” She looked back at the bay. “I’ll take care of this straggler.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, really. He came in later than the rest. Jack was gone by then, so I told him he could use the desk. A little while ago, he asked if he could call his office on our phone because his cell is dead.” Amber held up her hand, apparently thinking Tess would object, but she didn’t even see. “He said the call was on a toll-free line. But I think he’s been fighting with his editors. He was yelling at someone just before you came in.” She blushed and lowered her voice. “I just can’t repeat what he said. But he’s a writer for Politifix. Isn’t that exciting? His name’s . . .”
“Sam Waterman,” Tess finished for her.
“Oh, you know him.” Amber seemed disappointed. “Probably from when you lived there, huh?” Tess nodded still staring over at the desk. Amber lowered her voice even more, “He’s kinda hot for an older guy, don’t you think?”
Tess swung back to see Amber’s goggle-eyed stare. “Trust me, he’s no big deal. And he didn't need to keep you here so late, even if he did forget to charge his damn cell again. You go on. I'll say a quick hello to him and then lock up.”
Reluctantly Amber put on her coat and gathered her things. On her way out, Tess heard her call, “Goodnight Mr. Waterman,” and a grunted “Thanks” in reply.
Behind the tall desk, Waterman heard the girl walk out and took the silence to mean he was alone except for the production people in back. The Journal hadn’t been out long, and he knew Tess would surface eventually to check her pictures in print. He’d never convinced her not to look at her work once it ran, when nothing could be done about a bad crop or a screwed cutline. He settled back in the chair, cradling the phone against his shoulder. He was tempted to hang up on Sarah, who had put him on hold, but went on reading the copy of the Journal he’d found on the desk, reaching the end of Jack Westphal’s column:
Erickson didn’t turn his father’s grocery store into a chain of supermarkets by believing those who say, “you can’t,” and he didn’t defeat an incumbent governor in his first political campaign by believing those who said, “you can’t.” He isn’t going to be daunted by candidates in his own party who have been campaigning for months or years.
What most of us see as obstacles, Erickson sees as opportunities, and you can rest assured that his record as governor, his inspiring oratory, his tireless campaigning and his rock-solid belief in himself will soon make his presence felt in this presidential race.
I’ve made my hotel reservation in Washington for next Jan. 20. See you at the inaugural ball.
“Maybe,” Sam thought as he tossed the paper aside, “but I’ll be working, not shilling.” The music playing in his ear stopped abruptly and Steve Johnson came on the line. “Waterman, what the hell is the problem? Sarah is nearly frothing at the mouth after dealing with you. I shouldn’t have to get on the phone to settle a spat between an editor and a reporter. Christ, you’re worse than my kids.”
“First she bitched at me for the problems with the live-blog,” Sam snapped back, “Like it’s my fault there’s lousy cell coverage out here where there’re more cows than people. Then she cut my story with all the finesse of a chainsaw.”
“Now just settle down,” the editor’s voice sharpened. “I know it’s hard for you to see one word of your golden prose changed, but we’re not posting War and Peace on the site. I’m looking through her cuts right now.” Sam struggled to hold his tongue as Steve scrolled through the original copy. “What’s this crap about the local newspaper publisher? She’s right ...”
“Come on, Steve, you’re always reminding me we’re not in print any more. This is a web site. We got all the space we want. This is the biggest political story today and that publisher on the platform is significant. The Iowa caucuses are a big fucking deal, and it’s a great illustration of the pass Erickson’s going to get.”
“For crying out loud, Sam, do you really think our readers can’t put together that the Iowa governor is going to be a favorite son in his home state? Where’s your news judgment? This local hack, Westphal?, piss you off or something?” Waterman’s knuckles went white around the phone as Johnson’s laugh filtered down the line. “Look, I’ll leave the reference to him up on the dais, but that’s it. You want to go after him, do it in your blog.”
“I already updated the blog and left it out because it was in the story.”
“Then tweet about it if it’s a burr up your butt.”
“I hate fucking Twitter,” Sam snapped.
“Yeah, we all do, but it drives traffic. Look, Sam, I’m not patting your hand while you hold a wake for every lost word. Sometimes we’ve got to kill your darlings. Now get your ass on the plane tomorrow and we’ll talk when you get in.” Simultaneously, each slammed down his receiver.
When Sam looked up, he found Tess leaning against the end of the desk, her face solemn. And his pulled down into deep, harsh lines.
“Hello, Toughie.” He leaned back in the chair and stared at her, his green eyes just as vivid a
s she remembered, but cold. Tess was familiar with every nuance of his face but this was something new, glittering and hard. He muttered, “About time you showed up.”
“How did you know?” She looked away from his dark face trying to cover her dismay.
“No mystery. This is the biggest story your new husband is ever going to run. He needed good art and you’re the best. And you never could resist checking out your pictures in ink.”
So he knew about Jack too. She raised her eyes to meet his and her mouth turned up with a sad smile as she whispered, “What do you want, Sam?”
His mouth tightened. “I want to hold your cowardly little feet to the fire.” She stayed silent. His voice began to rise and he jabbed a finger at her. “I want to force you to screw up a little fucking courage to look me in the eye ... ”
She held up her hands, as if he were pointing a gun at her. “OK, OK. My god, you got me. I’ll talk.” He caught his breath and the smile spread slowly from the corners of her mouth with a hint of impudence as she dropped her hands. “Still battling with your editors, no matter where you work, eh?”
The fact that she remembered that he was always ready to fight for his work finally made his face relax a bit. “Well, editors are still stupid, even the online ones. Is eavesdropping a new skill you’ve mastered?”
“A conversation that loud is a cry for attention,” and she laughed. She was always quick to laugh, especially at him. She didn't intimidate as easily as most people, and with a pang, Sam realized it still enticed him.
Since she’d left, he tried not to think of her. And when the memories did come, he forced himself to picture her worn and dumpy, maybe with a snotty kid dragging at her hand. But if anything, she looked better, her face a little fuller, the drawn look of their last weeks together gone, the dimple in her chin more pronounced. Her deep blue eyes were just as clear and lively, even though at the moment, they were ringed with fatigue. He remembered that too, how those dark circles showed when she’d been up all night, either on assignment or with their bedroom romping.
He hooked the chair next to the desk with his foot and dragged it out a few inches. “Here, you’re dead on your feet.”
“Well, you aren’t a bit more tactful, that’s for sure.” But she sank down and sighed. For a long moment they were quiet. “Your hair is getting gray,” she said finally.
“Now who’s blunt?”
“Actually, it’s nice in the dark curls,” and she added, “Damn it, I was hoping you’d be bald by now.”
Finally his mouth turned up in a faint smile. “I’m still no match for that gigantic stud you’ve hooked up with. Sweet Jesus, how tall is that Norse god?”
She wrinkled her nose at his sarcasm. “Six-six. Used to play basketball at Iowa State.”
Sam whistled softly and said, “You sure landed a humdinger. Is your name Tess Westphal now?”
She shook her head. “I still use Benedict. It’s easier, professionally.”
“Yeah, that’s what Judith always says.”
It was immediate, the awkward silence at the mention of his wife. All those times they’d been together, he made a point of never saying her name. Now it felt like another person had slipped into the room, and Tess shut her eyes.
Into the tense silence, Sam finally said, “Nice building.” He gave a vague incline of his head toward the main area of the newsroom. She nodded again, and he added, “Great desk,” rapping his knuckles against it. “Your old man must love working at it,” and he muttered, “Probably thinks he’s William Allen White.” She didn’t need him to explain how he knew the desk was Jack’s. Set off in the bay by itself, the biggest piece of furniture in the newsroom, it was clearly the editor’s space.
Sam drummed his fingers across the smooth oak finish, then abruptly popped open a small drawer, full of pens, all black, medium-point roller-balls. He ran his finger along the dockets of the pigeonholes, each labeled in the same careful, black, block-letter printing, and recited, “School Board, City Council, Chamber of Commerce, Police.” In each slot rested several reporters’ notebooks on their sides and an audio card or two. “Works hard, doesn’t he?” Sam noted softly. “But way too neat for a newsman, don’t you think?” A little grin came to his face. “Not gay is he?” She shook her head. “What else we got in here?” He opened the drawer that went down the entire left side of the desk. Inside were hanging files, again carefully labeled.
“Sam . . .” Finally she spoke in warning at his boldness.
“Pretty boring stuff.” He shifted to the three drawers on the right, jerking open the bottom one. A bottle of Jameson’s rolled forward with a soft slosh. “Well, yee-haw! The big guy has a drinking problem?” He lifted the bottle with raised eyebrows.
“A Christmas gift from the staff,” she answered dryly.
Sam shook his head, running his thumb along the seal. “Sad. Christmas was almost a year ago, and this still hasn’t been opened. Very strait-laced. Whaddya say we set this prisoner free? Got some glasses?”
“Oh, that’s not a good idea.”
“I don’t see why.”
She stood up, walking over to the light switch and killing the overheads. Only the green-shaded work light on the desk remained, casting a soft glow. “Because, it’s time you shoved off. I’m meeting some friends from the Record for dinner, and you’ve done enough snooping through my husband’s things.”
“Husband,” the word sighed through his teeth like a hiss, the grin retreating into the sharp lines of his face as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the bottle dangling. “Jesus, Tess, don’t I deserve a drink, just hearing you say that word?” In the shadows, he couldn’t see her expression. “And we haven’t really talked yet, now, have we? You owe me that.”
Abruptly she moved to a stand with a cold, half-filled coffee pot and grabbed two Styrofoam cups. She tossed them at him. “One, and make it quick.”
“You sound like Marshall Dillon. One drink, Pardner, then git out of town.” He broke the seal and poured two healthy shots as she moved back into the light and sat down. Handing her one, he touched it with the brim of his own and said, “Here’s to . . .”
“Nothing,” she broke in, and her eyes met his over the top of the cup. “Let’s just call it nothing.”
His eyes narrowed. “That kind of misery doesn’t come from nothing.”
She took a sip, wincing. “I don’t remember you being the miserable one.”
“Well you didn’t stick around to watch, did you?”
“Oh, come on, Sam. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been around that block before. I was hardly the first.”
“No.” The admission fell hard as a stone in the quiet room, and softly he added, “But you were the last.”
“So I get the credit for making a faithful husband out of you?” Her voice bent under the memories and started to shake, “Well, at least I did that much for your wife.”
He dropped his eyes and poured again into each of their cups. The warmth in his chest felt good, loosening the scar tissue of long-ignored feelings, and finally the question that deviled him in dark hours since she left, worked its way out. “What the hell happened? One day we were talking about me leaving her, and the next day you were the one who was gone. Without a word. That prick Baxter would only say you’d resigned.” Arnie Baxter was still the photo editor at the Tribune. “Your cell phone was disconnected. What was I supposed to do? Go crawling around the newsroom, begging people to tell me what happened?”
The skepticism was plain on her face. “You honestly don’t know?”
“No, I don’t.” The lines running down either side of his mouth were deep. “I wasn’t going to let on that I had no clue. I had to read it in Romenesko’s fucking blog that you’d gone to the Record. How the hell could you do that to me?”
She seemed to weigh his anger and then she sighed, her voice gentle, “Baxter asked to see me. When I got into the office, he shut the door and told me he was risking his own job by g
iving me a heads up that it looked like layoffs were coming. He said my work was great, but he was still concerned he couldn’t keep me off the cut list. When I asked him why, he hemmed and hawed, and finally told me that you and I had been less than discrete. He said your asking for me on all your out-of-town assignments had become an office joke. And people were gossiping and laughing every time we were both out of the newsroom at the same time. And of course there were all those fights everyone knew about. He said unless I cooled things down one of the two of us would go. And he was certain it wouldn’t be you.”
“Jesus,” Sam felt his throat close, the heat from the liquor suddenly bitter in his mouth.
“It was just so humiliating, I resigned right there. I knew Stapleton at the Record, and called her before I left the newsroom. By some act of divine mercy, she actually had a spot. At seven that night, I was on a flight to Des Moines for the interview. It meant a 10K pay cut, but I accepted on the spot and didn’t even go back. Marcy helped the movers pack my stuff.” Sam didn’t say anything, just sat pressing holes into his empty cup with Jack’s letter opener, swearing to himself that someday he’d find a way to make Baxter pay. “Wasn’t it better that way?” she finally asked.
“Not for me,” he answered, looking up. “Why didn’t you come to me? I could have …”
She held up her hand. “Yeah, that would have made me feel so much better, to have my married lover pulling strings to help me keep my job.”
“At least you could have looked me in the face and told me it was over.”
“Like I hadn’t tried that before?”
He pulled back, drawing a breath, and she knew in a few seconds they’d be yelling, all the feelings they’d always stirred bubbling out of control. “Oh, Sam.” Her frustration and exhaustion were suddenly plain. “We were both so messed up after what happened in South Dakota. It had to end and Baxter was right. One of us had to leave. Down deep, you know it too. Do we have to pick it apart?”