Liz ground her cigarette into the ashtray with a fierce satisfaction, which she usually did when she’d completed a story. She scrolled the words up and down the computer screen a few times to check for spelling and punctuation errors, detected none, and then hit the send button. Across the room, copy editors waited with machetes.
They can hack it to bits, she thought; it’s nothing but crap anyway. The Citizen was putting out yet another advertorial supplement to mark the gala opening of Galleries Portáge—there seemed to be one every day—and she’d got stuck at the last minute filling in some of the spaces between the ads with her deathless prose. She’d been assigned a piece on what the local elite would be wearing to the opening—of a shopping mall, for chrissake. It’s the kind of thing Merritt Parrish should have sunk her pointed teeth into, but since she was on bereavement leave, Guy had assigned the stupid thing to her. Deliberately, she presumed. Just to irritate her. She’d ended up phoning old sorority sisters and the wives of Spencer’s cronies and wives of symphony board members—people she thought might comment after much begging, the topic being so asinine. But, as it happened, no one needed to be begged to discuss her gown or her jewellery. How happy people seemed to be to talk about themselves and their possessions! How thrilled to see their names in print, not realizing that in print their bright telephone chatter would look foolish and frivolous.
Even a week ago she would have judged the assignment the nadir of her career but this gloomy Friday afternoon, she found she was just as glad to have something innocuous to do. Her mind was occupied elsewhere. Since Tuesday night, she and Spencer had spoken only as necessity required. They had taken last night’s dinner separately and each had contrived not to be in the same part of the house for rest of the evening. Of course, she had moved to the guest bedroom. Even though it was Spencer who had precipitated the argument by failing to notify her of his election plans, it was she who was made to feel blameworthy for challenging him. The atmosphere at home very nearly crackled with tension. They had avoided confrontation for so long—she could barely remember the last time they had argued—that they had no resources for managing it. Now they were on the other side of the wall from indifference into uncharted territory of acrimony and recrimination. She wondered whether she should move to a hotel for a while so she could think.
She wondered, too, if she would find the sympathy she craved from Paul. Since Tuesday, he had been remote, disengaging himself from any lengthy phone conversation at the symphony, pleading work as his excuse. In the beginning she had expected nothing enduring to come of her affair with him. She had entered into it casually, with a kind of devil-may-care attitude—a strong signal, though unacknowledged, that she was again tempting the fate of her marriage. But, more recently, she had discovered sprouting within herself the dangerous but not wholly unwelcome feelings of caring deeply for Paul. Meanwhile, his ardour seemed suddenly to be cooling. Perhaps, she thought, he had sensed her feelings and sought to ease his way out of anything that might slip from his control. Yet she couldn’t imagine him not confronting her, not telling her that it was over, unless, like hers, his manoeuvres in love contradicted his manoeuvres in work. She could easily enough confront Guy Clark if she had to, yet how easily she had let her relationship with her husband fester.
And Clark. How had he learned of her affair with Paul? She had confided in no one. Did Paul blab to someone? It hardly seemed likely. But then she thought back to the murderous glance Else had dispatched at the Kingdons’ dinner. Did she know? She and Paul had been married for so long, yet she assumed Paul had been unfaithful many times in the past. He seemed so unruffled, so practised and charming. So European. Perhaps Else condoned his liaisons. Liz had no idea. Paul always deflected any discussion of his wife, describing his time with her, Liz, as precious and secluded—romantic talk whose charm persuaded her even while she recognized it as nonsense. At least Paul did not bore her with banal justifications that Else did not understand him, or satisfy him. But even if Else was aware of his infidelity, how would it ever get to Guy’s ears? The only other person who had probably guessed at her relationship with Paul was the caretaker at Paul’s downtown apartment. But Paul had assured her he was unfailingly discreet. It was worth his while to be.
She couldn’t believe Guy would pass along his knowledge to Spencer. He had nothing to gain, unless he was so perverse as to find satisfaction in her humiliation. Her marriage would likely end as a result. Did it matter anymore? Liz sighed. Her head was beginning to spin. She seemed to have thought of nothing else in the last two days.
She looked over the top of her computer terminal and glanced around the newsroom. Everywhere, reporters were hunkered down in front of their terminals, racing to meet the Friday deadlines for the early Saturday edition. Here and there a few other reporters circled the room like hungry buzzards waiting for the first available terminal to open up. In recent months, terminals had had a habit of disappearing in the night, allegedly for repairs but in reality for the growing needs of the advertising department. None had returned. With supplies meagre, demand had raged. Arguments flared over possession, on occasion just short of battle. Friday afternoons were worst. Liz realized her reverie in front of a blank screen would be interpreted as pure selfishness. Feeling a pair of eyes on her back, she rose, smiled at the familiar face, and travelled around to the other side of the bay of desks and sat down at her own. There was still a small pile of mail retrieved from the box earlier in the afternoon but left unopened in the rush to complete stories before deadline. Judging from the logo, an artfully entwined “G” and “P,” Galleries Portáge bumpf was enclosed in at least some of the envelopes. Liz tossed them in a nearby bin. She had been saturated with the topic of Galleries Portáge. If there was anything newsworthy in the envelopes—which she doubted—it was too late now. Other envelopes contained a variety of announcements and communiqués from various arts groups, many with “For Immediate Release” typed urgently at the top. They were usually days late and inconsequential. Anything truly urgent was communicated over the telephone. Liz opened the envelopes anyway, but quickly added their contents to the garbage.
The final envelope in the pile was large, brown, and thicker than most to cross her desk. It had also been addressed by hand, which gave Liz pause. Hand-addressed envelopes often contained the work of complainants or cranks or people possessed by the news value of their dubious artistic accomplishments. Sometimes they contained complimentary letters, but not often. People were rarely compelled to express their pleasure over something written in a newspaper.
She tore the top from the envelope and tugged at a file folder contained within. A paperclip pinning a letter to the file cover came away in her hand. The folder was jammed in. She yanked harder. Finally, it shot out of the envelope and, as it did so, part of its contents slipped from the bottom and she caught a glimpse of writing in a foreign language.
She straightened the file with a sharp tap on her knee and then looked at the cover letter. “Dear Liz,” it began. The letter was two pages, typed. She turned to the last sheet to look at the signature. A flutter of surprise came over her as she read the name: Michael Rossiter.
Quickly, she flipped through the contents of the file. It made no immediate sense. There were photocopies of what appeared to be old documents and affidavits, a lengthy transcript, and one aged grainy photograph, a reproduction, the subject of which filled her with disquiet. She turned back to the letter.
“Dear Liz,” she read again. “I think the enclosed material will shock you. It shocked me when I came across it this summer. But the evidence it contains is, I think, irrefutable. I thought about ignoring it, but then I decided I couldn’t. I can’t let another injustice go unpunished. However, for private reasons I can’t follow through. So I’m sending it to you with the expectation that you can give it the treatment it deserves. I realize I may be placing a burden on you, but from our past associations I know you to be thorough, fair-minded, and unafraid of a challenge. And it is, in press parlance, a ‘good story.’ (I guess there’s one drop of family ink in my veins.) Let me explain…”
Liz continued to read. As she did, the sounds of the newsroom—the click of the keyboards, the whir of the computers, the jangling telephones and barking reporters—slipped into oblivion. In the dreadful silence, she was aware only of her heart crashing in her chest, her breath quickening and gasping as her eyes passed over the words again, and then again. Grotesque images raced through her mind, the black and white clichés of the cinematographer’s art, for what she had read she had never experienced, never could experience. But the images were sufficient. She felt weak and sickened. “Oh, Michael, you’re wrong, you’re wrong,” she whispered to herself. “I can’t be fair-minded, or thorough, or anything with this. I can’t do it. I can’t do what you ask.”
She closed the cover of the file with great weariness. She didn’t need to look at the documentation. Only a deranged mind would make a false accusation of such enormity, and Michael, she knew, wasn’t crazy.
Across the bank of desks a concerned voice inquired: “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she replied. “Just a bit cold in here.”
She opened a bottom drawer in her desk and bent over to tuck the file into a stack of forgotten papers. She hesitated, running her thumb along the blunt edge of the manila tag. A frisson of panic gripped her. What would she do? She couldn’t leave it in the drawer with the hope that it would slip from her memory the way so many other papers had. And she couldn’t suppress her memory. She couldn’t imagine going about her business with the knowledge that this thing was pulsating in her desk drawer like some malevolent animal. It had to be uncaged. Yes, goddamn it, it was a good story. Horribly good, frighteningly good. Properly handled it would make someone’s career.
But not hers.
She rustled some papers with the pretence of searching for something, then quietly returned the file to her lap. Everyone was concentrated on his or her end-of-shift task. She looked across the room at Guy, who was sitting in profile, frowning at something on his screen. She made up her mind. Behind her was a series of small rooms, one of which was used by the Zit’s cartoonist, who, typically, finished his work by noon and headed for the bar. It contained one of the few typewriters left in the building, an old Remington, occasionally used by reporters who wished to type a message, or sneak the time to write a personal letter. Liz slipped into the room with the file and partially closed the door to signal a desire for privacy. She sat at the typewriter, contemplated its ancient keys for a moment, then pulled the letter from the file and started to type with determination. Twenty minutes later she had produced a new version, leaving out her name, and Michael’s name and address, but retaining all the pertinent information. She put the facsimile letter into the file, and then returned to her desk where she stuffed the original in her overstuffed file drawer. At some point soon, she knew, Guy would leave his desk to fetch coffee or go to the toilet. She would have her opportunity.
As predicted, a few moments later Guy rose from his seat, put on his sports coat—a formality pompously enacted every time he left his desk—and exited the room. Liz then made her way with studied nonchalance toward the front, hugging the file lest she drop it and scatter its contents to the room. No one paid attention to her. She was just part of the traffic. She dropped the file on Guy’s desk. No one noticed. Everyone in Guy’s vicinity had, over time, turned their desks to angles that allowed them vistas other than Guy’s head. Bob Pastuk, who sat nearest, kept his back to the newsroom. He didn’t even seem to hear the tiny rustle of paper, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care.
She returned to her desk, her heart pounding, wondering whether she had followed the right course. Had she been cowardly in turning Michael’s information into an anonymous accusation? Should she have confessed the source but begged off the story, stating conflict of interest? Or would Guy have forced her to do the story anyway? That would have been untenable. No, she thought, this way the story would get out but she would be left with whatever peace she could find. On Monday, Guy would be the city editor and he would assign it to one of the city reporters. If he thought he could get a story ready for Saturday’s paper, he would have to give it to someone else. She was leaving. She hurried to grab her coat before Guy returned to his seat. But before she left the newsroom, she made one quick telephone call from the privacy of the deserted receptionist’s desk.