Oscar leads me through the newsroom past a row of cluttered cubicles toward a glass walled office at the far end of the room. He pauses next to an empty cubicle, “Hopefully you’ll be sitting here. We just need to convince Ed that you can crank out copy on deadline—he doesn’t know anything about sports.”
I smile my bright red lipsticked smile, “Haven’t missed a deadline yet.” I have brought copies of my resume and my little collection of sports articles I have written for the Sentinel as a freelancer.
Just before we reach the glass door bearing Ed Harley’s name, Oscar turns to me. “Oh before I forget, here’s your mail—the marketers and PR people are always quick to pick up a new reporter’s name in the paper.” He hands me a few postcards—advertising upcoming sports events—and a single white envelope.
Oscar opens the door and I stop, still outside the threshold. I recognize the envelope, no return address.
I look at Oscar and wonder what he knows. What has Ted told him about my past? What does he think of this envelope? Has he reported this piece of mail to anyone? Does the mailroom maintain a mail log?
Oscar looks at me curiously, “You look scared. Don’t worry, Ed’s great.” Oscar gestures me into the room.
A balding, white-haired man turns away from his computer screen and stands to greet me, extending a hand over stacks of paper on his desk. “Ed Harvey. You must be Kathryn. Heard a lot about you.”
“You have?” What has he heard? What does he know? I shove the envelope into my purse.
Ed offers his hand again, and I compel myself to respond. He chuckles, “Don’t worry, it’s all good. Oscar says you add a level of sophistication to sports writing that would make even me want to read it.” He comes around the front of his desk to remove a pile of newspapers from one of the two chairs for guests. “Sorry, I’m a bit behind in my reading. Have a seat.”
I sit stiffly, setting my purse under the chair, hoping that the leather bag will protect me from the envelope. Ed asks me questions about my experience, my interest in the paper, my availability for the job. I feel like I am in a witness box. Although the questions are friendly, I am careful not to reveal too much, I try to speak only about the present.
The phone rings and Ed picks up the handset and barks a few terse sentences into the mouthpiece. With the interview suspended I start thinking about my next move if I should fail today. I will be back at the beginning. I will comb the job listings, make cold calls, I will have to tell Ted and face his disappointment. I close my eyes and brace myself for the effort.
Ed hangs up the phone. “What the hell does ‘above the fold’ mean to the web designers,” he mumbles to himself. He looks back at me as if he just remembered I was there. “Oh, yes. So let’s finish this.”
I start to thank him for his time, posturing myself for a quick exit.
“So then you’ll start on Monday? Oscar, talk to HR so we can get Kathryn’s contract in the next day or two.”
“Perfect,” Oscar says. “I’ll call them now.”
Stunned, I take a few shallow breaths. “Monday? Sure. Yes. Great.” I force out a little smile. “I’ll call the daycare to arrange for full time.”
“Good, see you then.” Ed turns back to his computer.
As Oscar and I step toward the door, Ed looks up. “Kathryn, one more thing.”
I freeze. Oscar looks at me and nods reassuringly as he closes the door on his way out.
“Sit down again.”
I do as I am told.
“Let me speak to you frankly, to put your mind at ease.”
The muscles of my thighs involuntarily tighten.
“I’m aware of what’s happened to you this year. I know you were married to Rashid Siddique. Of course I know about the bombing.”
My intercostals turn to stone. I can barely breathe.
“I run a newspaper, I can’t hire someone without doing some basic investigative reporting.” He folds his hands in front of him, a gesture of sincerity. “I can only imagine how difficult this has been for you and your family.”
I clutch my purse tighter. Don’t cry now, he’s already hired me.
“You were not responsible, it’s obvious from the reporting that you weren’t involved, that his actions were a shock to you as well. This is America, and we’re only responsible for our own actions, we’re individuals. You have the right to rebuild your life. And I’ll be lucky to have you on my staff with your skills.”
I blink and nod, trying to project the thanks I cannot speak.
“We don’t need to discuss it again. I just wanted you to feel comfortable here and know that I’ll consider your work without prejudice.”
He stands; conversation over. I reach out my hand again across his stacks of papers and he responds quickly. I feel the warmth of his flesh in mine, and I reach out my other hand. I see a flicker of affection in his eyes and he joins his second hand. We stand there in a kind of four-handed embrace. For the first time since the bombing I feel a calmness, a thawing in a stranger’s presence. The crags around his mouth and the wrinkles that crackle out from the corners of his eyes deepen as he smiles. Despite his balding head and his belly protruding against the buttons of his shirt, I think he is the loveliest man I have ever seen.