by Mary Daheim
We were crossing the bridge over the Sky. “Why don't you drop me off at the diner?” I said. “Tom's probably waiting for me there.”
“Oh. Certainly.” Vida took a left onto Railroad Avenue. “Do you see his car out front?”
I gazed at the parking lot, which was almost full. “No,” I said, frowning. “There are at least two Tauruses, but neither of them is Tom's rental. He must have gone over to The Advocate to find out what happened to me.”
“No doubt,” Vida remarked, turning up First Street. “Goodness,” she said, her eyes darting up and down Front, “couldn't Fuzzy Baugh find some money in the city treasury to buy new civic decorations? That gold tinsel and those artificial wreaths are beginning to look a bit shopworn.”
“The city and the county can't find money for the women's shelter,” I pointed out. “Or so they tell us. It's odd, isn't it? Crystal's fifty grand could have gone a long way toward making one of her pet projects a reality.”
Vida turned to stare at me. “Are you saying that since she'd made a will, she should have left money to a shelter fund?”
“That's right.” I paused as Vida backed into the diagonal parking place in front of the office and I scanned the street for Tom's car. “She didn't put her money where her mouth was.”
We got out of the Buick and trudged through what had become dirty slush in the last twenty-four hours. “I don't see it,” I said in a worried voice.
Vida was opening the door to The Advocate. “Crystal's attitude, you mean?”
I lingered on the sidewalk. “No. Tom's car. I don't see it anywhere.”
“Well,” Vida said, tapping a booted foot, “come inside. I'm sure he's been inquiring about you.”
Except for Kip MacDuff, who'd gotten takeout from the Burger Barn, the rest of my staff hadn't yet come back from lunch. Kip had seen only a couple of people placing classified ads.
“I've been in the back shop mostly,” he said between bites of cheeseburger. “But when we get visitors, they buzz me and I come right out.”
“I know you do,” I reassured Kip. “You're very conscientious.”
We left Kip and returned to the news office, where I immediately hurried into my cubbyhole to check messages. There were several, but none from Tom. Then I noticed the folded sheet of paper on my desk.
I opened it with shaking hands. I was already sensing the worst, and the bold, slightly illegible penmanship justified my feelings.
Dear Emma, the letter read.
I feel like a heel. But I called Kelsey this morning to check on her, and she's having some problems with her pregnancy. In fact, she was on the way to the hospital. It seems she's developed some bleeding, and the doctor fears a miscarriage.
I debated with myself—an agony, I assure you—but realized that my duty lies with my daughter. I'm heading for Sea-Tac and hope to catch a one-forty flight to San Francisco.
Please try to forgive me. Our time together was precious, wonderful, magical I pray that it won't be long before we can be together again. I'll call you tonight and let you know what's happening.
I love you. I really do. Don't be angry, don't be sad. Yesterday was the third Sunday of Advent, when the pink candle is lighted as a sign of hope. Remember that. Please.
SCOTT HAD RETURNED from lunch, so I summoned Vida into my office and asked her to close the door.
“Read this,” I said, handing her Tom's letter.
Vida gave me a quick, sharp glance over the rims of her glasses. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I have a feeling…” She lowered her gaze and absorbed the one-page message, then set the letter down on my desk. “Poor Tommy.”
“Poor Tommy, my butt!” I exclaimed. “Come on, Vida, what about poor Emma? Why do you always take his side?”
Vida pursed her lips. “For one thing, he's a man. They're so much more helpless than we are. For another thing, in this particular instance, he's facing yet another possible tragedy. If Kelsey loses the baby, it would mean that Tommy will have had two great losses in one year. You, on the other hand, are miffed because he had to leave town in a rush. You're feeling sorry for yourself, which is natural, but you'll get over it. And,” she added, narrowing her eyes, “please watch your language.”
The last comment made me even angrier. “I have a right to feel sorry for myself. I've been in love with this bozo for over twenty-six years. He's virtually ruined my life. Now he shows up, an eligible widower, and he's got yet another millstone around his neck. It's as if Tom can't survive unless he's taking care of somebody else. Maybe that's admirable, but for once in his life, why couldn't that somebody be me?”
Vida gave a little shrug. “Because you don't need him. Not as Sandra did then, not as Kelsey does now.”
“Bilge.” I turned away, my face set in a grim line. “I've had lousy luck with men. Maybe I should give up on them. All they've ever given me is a lot of grief.”
“Perhaps,” Vida said quietly. “Twenty years ago, Ernest left me a widow with three teenage girls to finish raising. There was great grief, but we'd had many happy years together. I wouldn't have had our daughters without Ernest. Nor would you have had your son without Tommy.”
“I could have had six sons if I'd never met him and married someone else,” I countered, once more meeting Vida's gaze head-on.
“Did you want six sons?” Vida looked mildly aghast.
“Maybe.” I felt my lower lip protrude.
“Bother,” Vida breathed as she got to her feet. “You're being perverse.”
I said nothing as she stomped out of my cubbyhole. As usual, she had a point. But so did I. If Tom hadn't ever come back into my life, I might have married someone else. Of course, he'd stayed away for twenty years. That should have given me time to find another prospect. But I hadn't. The few lovers I'd taken over the years had all been deeply flawed.
So was Tom. I heaved a big sigh. Maybe I had fixated on him, like an obsession. Somewhere, in my brief surge of adolescent romanticism, I'd read about a woman who had fenced in her man. The gist of it was, did she love him so much that she had to lock the fence—or did she love him enough to let him go?
At the time, I had practically wept over the brave woman whose noble love had given her man his freedom. But thirty years later, I thought she was a sap. Selflessness has its limits. I wanted something out of life for me.
What I didn't want was Ed Bronsky looming in front of my desk. So lost in thought had I become that I hadn't heard him enter the news office.
“What's bigger than big?” Ed asked, beaming like a Kewpie doll.
“You?” I retorted without thinking.
But Ed was unfazed. “You got it.” He wedged himself into a visitor's chair. “The TV project's moving ahead. Shirley and I had a bang-up time in Bellevue. Irv and Stu are really on the ball. They've got a script in the works.”
“The cable network green-lighted the project?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
Ed's smile faded a bit. “Well… not quite yet. That's why Irv and Stu are having a script written. They figure that'll clinch the deal.”
“Who's writing it?” I asked, cringing at the thought that Ed might have volunteered his own talents. In my experience with him on the job, his writing skills had been limited to phrases like year-end clearance, deep discount, and factory blowout sale.
“A freelance guy who lives on the Eastside,” Ed replied. “Andy Butz. He's done quite a few scripts. Did you see that documentary a while back called Squirrel Madness?”
“No. I missed it.” Miraculously, I kept a straight face.
“It was terrific,” Ed asserted. “It was all about how squirrels commit suicide in the months of March and September. You know, they run right in front of your car and … splat! Then you feel real bad, but you shouldn't because that's the way the squirrel wanted to go out. I guess not too many die of natural causes.”
“Maybe not.” I was now biting my cheeks.
“So here's the news release I put together,” E
d continued, taking out a sheaf of papers from his hand-tooled leather briefcase. When he worked for me, he had a vinyl number, and the only thing he usually kept in it was his lunch.
The self-promo was four pages long and included glossy photographs of Ed, Ed and Shirley, Ed and Stu, Ed and Irv, Ed and Stu and Irv. Now I had no problem trying to control my laughter.
“I'll go over all of this a bit later,” I said, trying to exhibit at least a smidgen of enthusiasm. “We'll certainly run it in this week's edition.” We would, if I could find an extra inch and a half in the paper.
“Great.” Ed beamed as he stumbled to his feet and then winked. “You know, Emma, you may end up seeing yourself on TV. I spend quite a bit of time telling about my advertising career. Who do you think should play you? Anne Archer? Sela Ward? Jeanne Tripplehorn?”
“I'll give that decision some real hard thought,” I said. “You'd better concentrate on Vida. She may be harder to cast.”
Ed shook his head. “She's a cinch. Angela Lansbury.”
Not even close, I thought, but in bygone days, I'd have nominated Dame Martita Hunt, with an extra thirty pounds. I waved Ed off and went back to my blank computer screen. The muse wasn't upon me. All I could think of was Tom, probably about to board a plane for San Francisco.
The phone's ring startled me. It was Milo, another of life's major disappointments.
“Vida's up to her old tricks, I see,” he said in a weary voice.
“What do you mean?”
“She called Bill Blatt to tell him about your morning's sleuthing. Damn it, Emma, can't you two leave well enough alone?”
“What's well? Or have you made an arrest?” I sounded tart, and didn't care.
Milo sighed. Or was it a groan? “One of these days, you two are going to get yourselves killed. In fact, unless your memory's shot all to hell, you both almost did a while back.”
“I recall the incidents,” I said dryly. I had faced off with a murderer, and Vida had been shot. There was a serious rationale behind Milo's cautions.
“Admit it,” I said, “you didn't know that Victor had been at Crystal's cabin the night of the murder.”
“I figured as much,” Milo said in a grumpy voice. “Don't you ever give me any credit?”
I was about to contradict the sheriff, but he was right. I didn't give him much credit for imagination or coloring beyond the lines. Yet he did use guesswork and intuition in his investigations. The problem was that he never shared anything he couldn't prove with hard-and-fast evidence. That, I supposed, was also to his credit.
“So what do you conclude?” I inquired, trying not to sound so testy.
“I don't. The fact that Cardenas and Dimitroff were both there doesn't prove a damned thing,” Milo said, exasperated. “Don't you want to hear about your car?”
“Oh! Of course.” I steeled myself for the bad news.
It came quickly. “The Jag's totaled. Bert and Brendan both did their damnedest, but they couldn't make the numbers come out right. Too bad I traded in my old Cherokee Chief. I could've given you a good deal on it.”
“Thanks,” I said glumly. “How much will I get from my insurance company?”
“Don't ask me, ask Brendan,” Milo replied. “I figure a couple of grand.”
A new car, even a new used car, was definitely not in my year-end budget. In anger and frustration, I threw a pen across the room. “Okay. I'll get a nice old American beater from the Nordbys,” I said, referring to the local GM dealers, a couple of brothers who were nicknamed Trout and Skunk, though God—and Vida—only knew why.
“Not a bad idea, as long as it runs,” Milo said blithely. “Got to go.”
“Wait. Don't you have anything new on the homicide investigation?” It was my turn to needle Milo.
“Nope. Which makes it easy to spread the word that you're still our prime suspect, right?”
The hint of a chortle in the sheriff's voice infuriated me. “What a surprise. Police baffled. Goodbye, Milo.” I hung up first.
Men. Tom, Ed, Milo—they were all driving me nuts. No doubt Scott would be late with his deadlines. Leo still wasn't back from lunch, though in fairness, he was probably wooing an advertiser or two.
Once again, I tried to turn my attention to the blasted women's shelter. What could I say that I hadn't already said fifty times earlier? Crystal was right about one thing—it was the men who were dragging their feet. If the project had involved the golf course or fishing regulations or a contest to see who could manipulate the TV remote control the fastest, all the good ol' boys would have piled on as if they were recovering a goal-line fumble.
Which is exactly what I wrote. I sounded as angry, as vitriolic, as waspish as Crystal. Maybe I hadn't given her credit, either. She'd been nasty about me, but Paula was right: Crystal had the courage of her convictions, and she'd run roughshod over anyone who stood in her way. If she saw me as a weenie, she might not have been too far off the mark. I often tended to tiptoe around controversial issues for fear of offending not just our subscribers, but our advertisers. It was the way of the newspaper world. But this time I was going to stand up and be counted. We women should stick together. I wrote a paragraph to that effect, urging Alpine's female readers to form a united front.
Don't be cowed by the opinions of husbands, lovers, fathers, or sons, I wrote. Their priorities are often different from ours. If we are without power, it's because we won't fight for it. Let your voice be heard, and use your influence to see that all women, including the battered, abused, and homeless, receive a chance to better themselves. The shelter is only the first step. Is a roof too much to ask to salvage dignity and restore self-esteem?
I sat back in my chair, smiling. I hated to admit it, but the piece was worthy of Crystal. Although she was right, I still thought she was loathsome. Her way was not entirely my way: I hadn't attacked anyone on a personal basis.
But writing the editorial had given me an idea. It was just the grain of a thought, and it was a little crazy, but there it was. I didn't much like it; maybe I'd become completely perverse. Telling Vida was tempting, but I decided to wait. I didn't want her to think I'd gone ‘round the bend.
That night around seven-thirty Tom called me from San Francisco. Kelsey was doing okay, but the doctor had suggested complete bedrest in order to prevent a premature birth.
“I'll have to stay here for a while,” he said, sounding abject. “How angry are you?”
“Pretty angry,” I replied, and then softened. “But I understand. Maybe I'm more disappointed than anything else. I thought we were having fun.”
“We were. Can you hang on to that?”
Sure, sure, any damned fool can grasp a twig after falling over a hundred-foot cliff. But what good will it do?
“I guess so,” I said, trying not to pout.
“Pray for Kelsey,” said Tom.
“Of course.” I was startled, not by the request, but because I hadn't thought of it on my own. What was becoming of me? Was I turning into Crystal?
“Look,” Tom said, sounding strained, “I've got to go. Kelsey is staying overnight at the hospital—that's where I'm calling from—and I want to see her before Nurse Ratched calls for lights-out. You take care of yourself. Please?”
“Sure.” I paused. “I will. Really. You, too.”
But he wouldn't. Tom could only take care of others.
My idea was growing, burgeoning into something that was taking on a life of its own. I tried to resist it, and failed. Once again, I thought of telling Vida, and reached for the phone. Then I pulled away. Vida wouldn't think I was nuts. She'd egg me on, but for all the wrong reasons. It was better to keep my ugly little brainstorm to myself. I could be wrong.
Paula called about ten minutes after I finished talking to Tom. “Victor's gone,” she said in an agitated voice. “Should I tell the sheriff?”
“I think so,” I told her. “I'm not sure he was supposed to leave the vicinity. When did he leave? How did he leave? He can'
t drive.”
“He left this afternoon while I was on campus,” Paula said. “He left a note, a brief note, in which he failed to thank me for my hospitality. He'd hired a car from somewhere and was having it take him to the airport. Where would he get a car hire? Seattle?”
“Everett, maybe.” I shook my head. Tom and Victor flying on a plane; Tom and Victor causing us a big, fat pain. “Do you know his destination?”
“I can't guess. It might have been San Francisco, but it could be New York. That's where he lives, at the Ansonia. I'll call Dodge right away.” She hesitated, then went on quickly.“I could use some company. Care to join me for a festive eggnog?”
I debated. It was only seven forty-five. My social calendar wasn't exactly chock-full. I reflected briefly on my crazy idea.
“Why not? The sky's clear as a bell. I can see stars from my still-broken window. The glazier can't come until tomorrow. I'll be there shortly.”
I hung up. And remembered that I had no car. I couldn't ask Vida to go with me; she was jealous of Paula. Nor would I presume on Milo. Leo was attending the annual chamber-of-commerce Christmas dinner. I paced around the living room, then realized I had to place a camel in my Nativity set. If I had a real camel, I thought, I could ride it to Startup. Standing in front of the mantel, I said a prayer for Kelsey, for Tom, for all of us, including Ed, despite the fact that he was a world-class ninny.
But the ninny had two cars, a Mercedes and a Beamer. It might cost me five inches in this week's edition, but I needed transportation. I hurriedly dialed his number at Casa de Bronska.
Ed was only too glad to accommodate me, not because he's generous, but because he likes to show off his wealth and extravagant toys. He picked me up ten minutes later in the black BMW, with Shirley following in the white Mercedes to cart him back home. I was profuse in my thanks, and made a mental note to buy the Bronskys a substantial Christmas present that they could all enjoy. Like a herd of beef cattle.
Since I had wheels under me, I stopped at Stuart's to pick up my new cell phone. Usually, the stores closed at six or seven during the rest of the year, but because of the holiday season virtually all of the merchants stayed open until nine. To my surprise, Cliff Stuart had already charged the battery.