Elaine woke every morning in the early hours, tossing and turning.
She would feel the empty spot in the bed—the crevice where his body had sometimes curled around her own.
After her own twisted ruckus above the sheets, eventually she would get up to douse her face in the sink.
She had begun to make use of the early mornings these days. She had started to pack boxes and make strides toward getting free of the house. The bedroom was crammed with boxes, hastily thrown together tangles of clothes, shoes, and other sundries. She had packed some gadgets Tommy had made, things she didn’t know how to use but would keep.
As packing material, she used a stack of newsprint that she had gotten from a friend in the printing room at the Chronicle. The dry skin of her palms was irritated from crumpling up the paper as she shoved wads between the breakables.
Elaine packed in the yellowish light of a small lamp, as the sun had yet to come up, but the brriing of her alarm was her cue to get ready for work—to stop the packing.
Then came the numbing familiarity of pulling on her nylons, putting powder on her nose, and setting her hair.
This morning she took out the dress she had worn at the Spring Fling—the dandelion-yellow number. It was a little soiled, but that was nothing a dose of perfume wouldn’t fix.
On the bus ride to work, Elaine nodded off and nearly missed her stop. She jolted awake just in time.
She rushed into the office, heading to roll call for the daily dispersal of articles.
She took a seat in the back of the room, her recent post. Other fact-checkers jostled for the easy assignments, but Elaine took whichever jobs required the most tedium.
Once upon a time, this had been her dream employment, to be at the Chronicle.
But these days she found it impossible to dream of anything.
A few articles were about the effects of the continued embargo with Cuba. Others were about space. Explorer 11 had launched into Earth’s orbit to study gamma rays.
She was falling asleep again in her chair as the long list of assignments continued. Her eyelids fluttered down as Mrs. Ainsley read the headline toppers in quick staccato.
EX-WIFE OF BROOKLYN COUNCILMAN KILLED BY SPEEDING CAR
The words didn’t connect at first.
Then her eyes opened wide, with a jolt.
She repeated the headline under her breath, as though it might make sense if she spoke it aloud.
Her arm shot up in the air, and she claimed the article in a trance, dashing to the front of the room and snatching it up.
Madeline Abbott, ex-wife of B’klyn councilman Fred Abbott, died yesterday evening in Brooklyn Heights. She was hit by a car on the street in front of her own dress shop. The driver, an unnamed resident of Bay Ridge, was going at 25 mph above the legal limit. He claims to have not seen Ms. Abbott as she dashed across the street.
Ms. Abbott is reported to have died instantly, upon impact.
The driver of the vehicle was inconsolable at the scene of the incident. Police are holding him for further questioning. There were no eyewitnesses to this incident.
Councilman Abbott was asked for a statement.
“I express my deepest condolences to the family of my estranged wife.”
“Elaine?”
“I don’t think she hears us.”
“Elaine?”
“Yes?”
Bunches of faces gathered around her.
“Oh, honey.” Her office friend, Nia, was stroking her head. “You knew her?”
“Yes.”
When Elaine opened her eyes, the room blurred in a bending light, as if she were underwater.
She could sleep now, take a nice rest. Change to a new nightmare. She had been having nightmares since Tommy died.
“Do you want any water?”
Mr. Stephens bent down near her head, and Elaine accepted a small glass.
She took small sips.
There was the reality of her tongue and the cool liquid.
“Can I have the article?”
She would read it again, to parse out the reality.
She jerked with a spasm; she needed to be the one researching this, to call people.
“Oh, God.”
Sobbing, she couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t move. Until she ripped off her tight heels and threw them across the room. She had never shed a tear in front of her office mates after Tommy’s death. She’d cried only when alone. She had taken pride in holding herself together in front of people.
Later, she would call Madeline, of course, who would answer and tell her about the event at the Starlite tonight. An event, and Elaine would lead the literary circle.
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes were a flood. She coughed on her own efflux, on and on, and she apologized as she made a scene, everyone gathering around. She was at work. “I’m sorry.”
You have to be calm to work for a newspaper. Calm in the face of any story. Her journalism professor at Briarcliff College had often repeated this mantra.
Calm in the face of anything.
“Let’s take you home, honey.” Nia put her arm around her shoulder and gently lifted her from the floor.
“She was a friend,” she whispered.
They nodded, like they understood.