“I’m going to Albuquerque for Christmas,” Ellen announced. “They actually have Christmas there. Snow, the whole bit. It’s more like it is on the East Coast. Parties, people getting together to celebrate. I like that.”
“The worst news in the world comes out of Albuquerque,” Harold Lewis said, leaning out of his cubicle. “Good art, terrible news.”
“I don’t think so. I learned more there than anywhere I’ve ever worked. You had to do your own shooting sometimes, editing, setting up the lights. That’s the way to learn television.”
“I think it would be a good place to end up,” Chuck Farrell commented. “Some little station in New Mexico.”
“No money,” she said. “That’s the problem. The whole state is dirt poor. In a way, I like that too. Nobody there seems to care that much about money.”
It was safe, this love for another place. She knew that. She didn’t have to live there again. She didn’t have to wonder how she would buy a new dress or a winter coat on a miserably low salary. She didn’t have to turn her eyes from the ugliness, the dirt, the poverty. Albuquerque was only a place she could call upon when she needed to leave town. Still, it wasn’t a bad place. She actually might go back to Albuquerque, someday, when all of this finally got to her.
All of what? Television was the same everywhere. Like she told them, same people, different faces. To get away, you had to get out.
“And do what? What would you do?” Chuck Farrell asked her more than once.
“Good God, Chuck, there is life after television.”
“Sure there is, but what would you do?”
She didn’t know. What she did now was relatively easy, a formula. Once you figured out the formula, you could turn out stories all day long.
“You’re wrong about something,” Jack Benton shouted out.
“Yeah, like what?”
“Everybody cares about money. Everybody.”
Debbie listened to the banter. She wouldn’t be leaving town for Christmas. She wouldn’t even be able to spend the day in her apartment. She had Thanksgiving off. That’s the way it worked. She wouldn’t bother cooking for herself or anybody else. She didn’t feel that well.
Jason had called her a few times and she kept the conversations short and cold. She saw no sense in speaking to him. He left on another trip with Richard Ferguson.
The doctor tried talking to her between puffs of cigarettes and sips of coffee. When he tried talking about her mother and her father, she shook her head and told him there wasn’t time for that. She said that would be like starting all over again and she didn’t have the time. Instead, she told him about how Christmas carols made her cry and how the Santa Claus in the mall made her sad.
“It’s a hard season for many people,” he assured her. “The holidays are never what we expect them to be.”
She stared at him.
“Is there something else bothering you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” she said. “I will talk about it when I am sure.”
“How soon?”
“Soon,” she said.
She told him one week later. She was pregnant.
“Was that why you came to me?”
“No. I didn’t know. I found out for sure yesterday.”
She sat deathly still, her feet flat on the floor, her knees pressed together, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
He rubbed his forehead with the tip of his middle finger.
“Debbie, I don’t know what to say.”
“There is nothing you can say. I’ve already made my decision.”
“What decision?”
“Well,” she gave a sour laugh, “I obviously can’t have a baby. I can’t go out and do stories and be unmarried and pregnant.”
“Perhaps you could.”
She shook her head angrily. “Please.”
“What about the father? Does he know?”
“No, and I’m not telling anyone else.” She opened her hands and stared at them. “This is for me to do. I don’t want anyone to know.”
“Debbie, I don’t think dealing with this by yourself is wise. What about your family?” He leaned forward from his chair, his palms rubbing on his thighs. “Isn’t there anyone else you can talk to?”
“No,” she said firmly. “This is for me to do. I don’t have any problems with having an abortion. People do it all the time, don’t they?”
She looked at him, her face now full of pain.
“Besides,” she tried to smile, “I have you to talk to.”
*
One other person did know. Clifford Williams. She made the doctor’s appointment for the time of their usual lunch break between stories. She believed, whatever the news, she could handle it without letting Clifford know. Anyway, as she kept telling herself, everything was probably fine. She had missed periods before.
“Six to eight weeks,” the doctor said. “Any decision has to be made soon. Termination is more difficult after the first trimester.”
“How soon will I need to do it?”
“Within the next two weeks. On the other hand, you are healthy and young and would probably carry a healthy baby to term.”
“Do you do it here?” she asked the man with the kind eyes.
“No. We’ll give you the information you need if that’s what you decide.”
“But, not you?”
“No, not me. Not me,” he said, shaking his head.
“Okay, Debbie?” Clifford asked when she came back. She said nothing and he threw the van into reverse. When he finally spoke again it was to ask if she wanted to stop.
“You want lunch or a soda?” he asked, the worry etched on his face.
She shook her head and quietly began to cry.
“I am so sorry, sorry,” she wept, “you shouldn’t have to go through this.”
“It don’t bother me,” he said quickly, afraid of her tears.
“It’s so stupid,” she sniffed. “I can’t do anything right anymore, nothing.”
Leave it alone, he told himself, but had to ask, “You need some help or something?”
“I’m pregnant,” she cried. “Pregnant.”
Ah, man.
“What a mess,” she said, the tears falling. “What a stupid mess.”
“I hear that,” he nodded. It was a mess, her mess, and he sure wasn’t going to ask her anything about it. It had to be Jason. Sure, except Jason was talking a lot about DC and that girl he used to date. If it wasn’t Jason, then who?
He shook his head. With his luck, they’d think it was him and there he was, his big black self, driving her to the doctor. Wouldn’t Brown like that.
“It’s okay, Clifford,” she said and touched his arm. “I don’t want to put you through this. Please don’t say anything. I’ll be okay. Promise me you won’t tell anyone, promise.”
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “Ain’t none of my business.”
*
“You’ll be in Christmas?” George checked with her. “That’s what my schedule says.” He steeled himself for an argument.
“I’ll be here.”
“You might have to do the Christmas dinner story,” he said. “It has to be you or Adkins and he does it all the time. That’s what he says, anyway. You’ll be on with Cappy.”
“Ah, George, come on,” Cappy whined as he walked to the desk. He knew he was working Christmas. The schedule had been hanging in the photographers’ room for a month, but it was worth a try.
“I got kids, George. Don’t you ever give it a rest?”
“That’s okay,” Clifford moved in behind him. “I’ll take it. I got no plans.”
“You mean it?” Cappy asked in surprise. “Really? You don’t have to.”
“You can cover for me New Year’s.”
“You got a deal,” Cappy laughed.
George frowned. He didn’t like them changing the schedule, making their own plans. He didn’t understand why they fought him all the time. It was their job, damn it.
“Too bad,” said Ellen when Debbie came down the cubicle row. “I think this is the first Christmas I haven’t worked in five years.”
“When are you leaving for New Mexico?” Debbie asked.
“Tomorrow at the crack of dawn.”
“Do you have friends there?”
“Debbie, I lived there for three years. Of course I have friends there.”
“I’m sorry,” Debbie said. “You don’t talk much about things like that.”
“Things like what?” There was a warning note in her voice.
“Personal things, like what you do and who you see when you aren’t here.”
“Maybe I think some things are my business.” Now her voice was tight.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Debbie nodded.
“Debbie, do you have something on your mind?”
“No,” she said, sitting down at her desk. “I was only thinking that you know so much about everyone but nobody knows much about you.”
“And what is it you want to know?” Ellen asked, leaning back in her chair.
“Nothing, I guess,” said Debbie. “Sorry, I’m just in a funny mood.”
“So it seems,” Ellen agreed and went back to writing her story.