Chapter Thirty-One

 

Dear Problems:

Life is frustrating. I know it. My own life has plenty of difficulties – a broken relationship for my sister, a deeper disappointment for myself in these past few weeks. I’ve questioned everything about my life, too – and that’s why I can tell you two things about your future.

One, that you should take your time in making this decision. Rushing into it could hurt other people. The feelings of family or friends matter, for instance.

Two, that you should make a change. It may be large or small, but you do need to find momentum. The fact that you’re unhappy is itself a symptom of something bigger in your life. But making the right choice is important, as important as making the change itself.

I’ll be making changes in my life, too. So don’t think you’re alone in this dilemma. We all come to a difficult crossroads now and then.

 

 

*****

 

 

On Wednesday, workmen were busy affixing a new sign for the Pittsburgh Herald in the lobby and on the floor of the editor’s office. Removing the original raised metal letters on their wire rods, replacing them with something newer, hipper, in the eyes of the paper’s higher powers.

It was Eleanor’s last day in her office. She had put most of her things in a series of neatly folded-out cardboard boxes from her recycling closet at home. The decorative paperweight, the knickknacks, the potted plants, and the office supplies. She had taken down the framed copy of her first article with the Montpelier journal. The first editions of her books, including her new author’s copy of Tell Me the Truth, were gone from its shelves.

“Are you sure you won’t stay?” Bitterman had asked. “I mean, the paper’s growing, Haldon Media’s going to go to bat for some of our best. That could be you, Eleanor.”

“I don’t really need an office,” Eleanor answered. “I never did, I only liked the comfort of feeling I ... belonged somewhere. But, as you know, things like that change.”

He sighed. “Well, we’ll look forward to reading your work from a distance, I guess.” Hands spread in a conciliatory gesture. “You’ll still be syndicated, right?”

“For awhile, yes,” she answered. “But in the future, who knows? It’s a brave new world, as they say.”

“That it is,” Bitterman said, wryly. His glance was on the workers hauling a heavy ladder in from the service stairs. Two others entered, carrying inside the new font choices for the ‘P’ and ‘i’ in ‘Pittsburgh.’ No doubt more letters were to follow.

“Ask Eleanor” as a video series. A live web chat – that one made Eleanor shudder. As an instant download received via app with each publication. It wouldn’t be the same as before – shorter, to the point, probably thematic in a manner which would have made her ex-assistant rejoice – but it was her call what to do next.

She had emailed Robert Townley, then phoned him by request.

“Absolutely, we’re interested in the app,” he said. “Especially since you’re syndicated. There’s a spot in Love and Advice on the website. We could use someone to help pull that part of the website together – a cross between advisor and editor – if you’re interested.”

“Is this a creative position?” she asked. Half-fearfully, half-curious. The pen in her fingers turning slowly between them, like a rotating fan blade.

“It could be.” Townley sounded interested. “We were hoping for something video-themed. Pop-up promotional pieces, but a full features series for the website as well.”

A half-hour later, Eleanor had decided. About the job, among other things.

With her final box in her arms, she glanced around her empty office at the Herald one last time. There was nothing left on its shelves or in her desk’s drawers. Its sleek, glass surface was bare, with the faint outline of its former lamp and the pencil holder. On the walls, the faint outline of the artwork which had hung there until yesterday.

She passed through the glass door and let it close behind her. A few doors down, Brandon’s former office. Her steps slowed momentarily: his name was gone from the door, the movement behind its frosted glass pane that of the younger replacement for the sports columnist.

This place was full of new faces, she realized. The names on the feature writers’ office doors and desks now belonged to as many strangers as friends.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Jeanine tisked. “First Marguerite, now you – and, you know, Jonas’s getting syndicated nationally. ‘Working from home’ he calls it – he’ll probably never get dressed again.”

Eleanor smiled. “You never know,” she said. “Look what happened to me when I was syndicated? I still came to work here Monday through Friday.”

“Yes, but I thought that was because you needed out of the house but were too cheap to rent,” said Jeanine, sarcastically. “Not because you liked this dump.”

“Goodbye, Jeanine.” Eleanor moved towards the elevator. “Tell everyone I said goodbye.” She pressed the button and waited for the doors to open.

“See you around,” Jeanine answered. “In the papers.” With a smile for this variation on a wan, old joke as she continued on her way and Eleanor entered the elevator, shifting her box closer in the same fashion as Brandon before her.

One last glimpse of the staff at their desks, the open and closed office doors of the editors and feature writers. Then it was gone, hidden by the copper panels sliding closed again.

 

 

*****

 

 

“So if I went, what would you think?” Eleanor asked.

She was packing – not her apartment, but a bag for her flight on Friday morning. A book signing at Barlett’s, then a lunch with Townley to discuss her future employment contract. A sensible blouse into her carry-on bag, a folded grey A-line skirt.

“I think you should go,” Marianne answered. On the phone, she sounded less tired than usual; her employer at the secondhand books and music shop had offered for her to leave early today. She was doing something artistic in her studio, either painting or drawing, because Eleanor could hear a light swish or scratching sound in between words.

She shoved a pair of black high heels into the bottom of the bag. “I was thinking you could come with me,” she said.

“Move back to Montpelier,” repeated Marianne. “But why would I do that, Elly?” She sounded as if no possible reason for asking existed, although they both knew that the reason was growing more noticeable by the day. She pretended, however, that it was not for the sake of Marianne's health, nor the baby's future safety, that she asked this question.

“We could get a house. Then you’d have an actual nursery for the baby, for instance. I could look after him at home while you work –”

“And when would you work, Elly? What would your new boss think? What if your – your videos or your columns or whatever you do is late because the baby cried all day?”

“I would give Townley no reason not to be fine with it,” Eleanor answered. She ceased packing. “It would be the best arrangement, Marianne. You know it’s true. You, alone in any city with a baby – whether I go or stay, you have to let me help you.”

“I’m fine, Elly.”

“Stop saying that, Marianne. You were hospitalized not long ago. You're exhausted half the time...”

“Exhaustion is normal. Besides, I’ve already got people who will look after the baby while I work – Mrs. Kirby down the hall raised six children and is happy to baby-sit. And there’s Maggie, and Louis, besides. And Gully doesn’t care if I bring the baby to work –”

“Gully?”

“My boss. At the secondhand shop. Honestly, Elly, don’t you ever listen?”

“But the point is, you’d be better off with me.” Eleanor sounded slightly pleading. “I can help you, Marianne.”

“I know you can. But I have to do this, Eleanor. I have to. It’s not your job to worry about me.”

It wasn’t. But that couldn’t stop her from it. The thought of leaving Pittsburgh and leaving Marianne in this city – Marianne, who had come here in the first place so they would be closer together – seemed painful. Especially when there was no reason for Marianne to stay, unless she, too, was simply afraid of missing it too much.

“So, living in Vermont again,” Marianne said, cheerfully, breaking their silence. “Would you go back to the old neighborhood or somewhere new?”

“Not my old apartment, no,” Eleanor laughed. “No, I really did think about renting – well, buying – a house somewhere. Maybe a car.”

“You like living in an apartment,” said Marianne. “I can’t see you in a house. Honestly, Elly.”

“I know.”

“And when would you go?”

“In a few months, I suppose,” said Eleanor. She zipped her bag closed. “It would take me that long to pack everything and say goodbye. Plus, my lease isn’t due for renewal until March. I thought I might sublet the apartment for a little while and just go to Montpelier on trial.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about repainting beforehand, will you?”

“I’m not in the mood for that kind of sarcasm, Marianne,” Eleanor retorted. She surveyed the two jackets lying before her, beside the bag. Black or grey?

“Would you miss this place?”

“Yes. Badly. That’s why I’m not making it lightly,” Eleanor answered, with a laugh.

Ten years was a long time. The same office, the same apartment, the same comfortable routines repeating themselves in her life with each season. The opera’s opening night, the symphony’s classical concerts, the wine tasting parties at Lucas’s. The same, small circle of friends and coworkers.

But that was all changing, whether she wanted it to happen or not. It was time for her to make a decision about how she wanted some of it to change.

“I think it’s time, Marianne. I need to feel that I’m not rooted to Pittsburgh for no good reason. And, in the back of my mind, I still miss home.” She sank down on the corner of the bed.

“And what about Edward?”

What about Edward. Eleanor swallowed hard.

“I don’t know.” The desire to cry was stealing upon her. “There’s something about him. I don’t know if it’s love, but it’s ... very real. But I can’t stay here for that reason. And he can’t leave, obviously.” She hesitated. “Unless, of course, you think I should stay for other reasons –”

“No,” Marianne answered, firmly. “You can camp outside my door and the answer would still be no.”

“Marianne.”

“You want me to start growing up a little. Don’t you, Elly?”

“I do, I suppose. But Marianne –”

“Eleanor.”

“All right. Fine. We won’t talk about it now.” She sighed. “Goodnight, Marianne.”

“Goodnight, Elly.”

Stubborn. That someone as sensitive as Marianne could be so headstrong seemed impossible. Marianne would find her way forwards; else, she would show up on Eleanor’s doorstep one day with a baby on one hip and a cardboard box of clothes on the other.

No, not Marianne. Never. She would fumble along on her own rather than have someone pick up the pieces for her this time. No more midnight phone calls for plane tickets, no more credit card bailout for a car imprisoned in a mechanic’s shop. That much Eleanor knew was certain, no matter what else happened.

She left her bag by the door, near the box of Brandon’s papers to be returned. She wondered if he was still upset with her. His email to her, a short one about his appearance on a morning news show, hadn’t contained any evidence of it. It hadn’t contained anything very personal, either.

And what of Edward. What of the kiss on the balcony, the smile waiting for her when she emerged from her office? What indeed.

When she came back – but here, she didn’t allow herself to finish the thought. To think of all the ‘meant to be’s’ and ‘destined lovers’ seemed hollow at this moment, even though they had not seemed so in the airport when they had looked into each others’ eyes. Even now, she couldn’t think of that moment without a rush of exhilaration.

Would he understand? And if he didn’t, what would she do? All the secrets and small confessions still awaited; all the everyday truths and personal inclinations that had been omitted the first time, if they went forwards.

If. It was 'when' once before; 'never' in the moments before that. This was complicated, these feelings enveloping her with such conflicting notions.

She didn’t want her life and feelings revealed as someone’s lover, glossed by passion and idealized. She wanted them revealed in a gradual entrance into something deeper, so that it almost happened without the two of them knowing it. The discovery that they were perfect for each other. Meant to be.

That was the realization which came to Eleanor in this moment. She turned out the living room lamp and went to bed, where she lay thinking about what it meant until she was asleep.