“Jeez, Tom. We’re the largest daily paper outside New York City. We’ll never fold. Just going through a tough phase is all.”
Owens’s voice rasped out over Lou’s intercom.
“You got that story for me, Padera? The printer is holding up the works just for you, Lady. Why didn’t you file earlier, as soon as the game was over?”
Lou chuckled.
“Sorry Owen. Was interviewing a nice single mom of one of the players. Could make an interesting side story, you know? The struggles of a mom raising a son-athlete by herself, in a male-dominated game.”
“You’re out of control, Padera. File that story and get in here, will ya?”
Lou lost his smile.
“All in good time, boss.”
Tom shook his head. “Could be your turn now, Buddy.”
Lou tapped out a few more words and leaned back. He searched through a heap of scribbled notes where he usually jotted down story ideas to pitch to Owen, just in case he was asked to cover something else, as Tom predicted. But he came up empty-handed. Finally he sauntered down to the editor’s office, knocked on the glass door, and walked in. Owen, sunk in a canyon of folders and stacks of paper, motioned him over.
“Sit down, Lou. I need a favor.”
Lou remained standing. “I’m good. What’s up?”
Owen angled back in his worn swivel chair, and a plaintive creak sliced the air. He looked weary and older than his years.
“Look Lou, you’re one of my best reporters, and we know you can write about pretty much anything. Agreed?”
Lou nodded. His throat tightened.
“Okay. We’re spread thin, and you know that. I need you to cover another story—not sports related. Up until now, I’ve tried to spare you, but you’re the last man on the totem pole not covering other beats. Time you did what we’re all doing, Princess.”
Lou frowned. He placed his hands firmly on the back of a chair. Then he slowly sat down.
“Sports is all I know, Owen, and I’ve been taking on more, from derby bouts to the majors. I’m doing more than my share. I really object to this.”
“Wake up and smell the coffee, Your Highness. We’re all scrounging to keep our jobs. I have the paper’s owner on my ass, and the bottom line is you want to keep your job, you take more work. I’m rewriting fat-free cookie recipes, for God’s sake.”
“And when do you suggest I take on more? In the goddamn middle of the night?”
“Yes. If you’d let up on your gallivanting bachelor escapades, you’d be amazed how much extra time you have on your hands.”
Owen wrote something down on a scrap of paper and handed it to Lou. He read the note and worked his jaw.
“Who is she?”
“Jen Elery. It isn’t pretty. Just lost a young daughter to some freaky illness. The school community is grieving to the hilt. It’s emotions on steroids. They’re holding a vigil for the girl tonight. I want an exclusive interview with the mom. Do a good job, and I’ll get you front page billing. Go.”
Lou scowled at the paper and then glared at Owen. He stood up and whipped out the door.
It was mid-afternoon, and Lou sat in his car, stuck in traffic. It had been stop and go, and more than once he slammed on his brakes, just missing the tailgate of the car in front. He was miffed and not concentrating on driving. School buses were ruling the road, and traffic lurched forward a foot at a time.
How was he going to do this? Talk to a teary-eyed mom? He could grasp the loss of a basketball game, but not this. This was major, life altering. Although he didn’t have kids, he couldn’t imagine outliving your own child.
He was directly behind a school bus close to Jen’s house. The bus was letting off a young boy about ten years old. Lou watched the boy drag his backpack on the ground to his house and slump in through the front door.
Lou looked at his notes. Must be the brother. He parked at the edge of the driveway and turned off the motor. The house had a small view of the Hudson River and the commuter railroad station. Nice little spot, he thought.
Lou reached for his recorder and notepad but didn’t get out of the car. He tried to get his bearings. Leaning against the side of the house next to a few large black garbage bags was a small pink bike, it’s yellow and orange tassels, shriveled and dry, hanging off the handle bars.
He stared at the bike and bit down on the end of a stick of gum, waving it up and down before crunching the rest in his mouth. This was a bummer assignment. It meant relating emotionally, being extra sensitive—something hard for him to access.
Let’s get this over with, he thought as he quickly wadded up the gum into a piece of paper. He got out of the car and made his way to the house. He knocked and waited. A few moments later a wisp of a woman slowly opened the door. Her short brown hair was slicked back, revealing sunken brown eyes, wells framed by dark circles.
“Mrs. Elery?”
“Yes? Oh, you must be Mr. Padera. Please come in.”
He eased inside and stood in a small entry with a stairway on one side. Halfway up the stairs was the boy from the school bus.
“This is my son, Ricky,” Jen said. “Ricky, this is Mr. Padera from the newspaper. He’s writing a story about… about… Kaylee.”
Lou extended his hand to Ricky, who came down a few steps to meet him, meekly holding out his hand. “Hi, Mr. Padera. Nice to meet you.” The boy turned to his mother. “Going to do homework, Mom,” and he retreated up the steps.
Jen opened double glass doors and led Lou into a small living room. The blinds were partially closed, and thin slats of sunlight streaked the floor. Jen motioned for Lou to sit in an overstuffed chair, and she sat down close by on a small loveseat. He pulled out his pad and recorder and set them on an old trunk that served as a coffee table. Only one item occupied the table: a pewter-framed picture of Kaylee with a black ribbon woven through the latticework of the frame. Lou’s eyes were fixed on the picture. For a moment he lost his voice and fidgeted with his recorder. Jen frowned.
“Okay, Mrs. Elery. Let’s get started. Just how did your daughter get sick? Oh—and how old was she again? Just need some general background here.”
Jen stared at the recorder and then at Lou, who was poised to take notes. The room became airless.
In a low voice she said, “You know Mr. Padera, I… I don’t know if I can do this. I mean, I know you have a job to do, but really, it’s just too soon. I’m really sorry. I…”
Shit, Lou thought. He pressed her. “But you seemed willing just an hour ago on the phone, Mrs. Elery. What’s changed?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. Maybe you being right here in front of me. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t feel… I just can’t do this.”
They sat in silence, and Lou looked down at his feet, exasperated. He thought about the girl’s bike outside. Taking a slow, inaudible breath, he picked up the recorder and his pad and tucked them in his pocket. He stood up and looked at the glass doors and back at Jen. Then he moved toward her.
“Can I sit down here?” He gestured to the small couch.
“I guess.”
He sat down, leaving as much space between them as possible. He spoke to her in a voice just above a whisper.
“Okay if we just talk off the record?”
She stiffened but gave a small nod.
“Look, just tell be about your daughter. Tell me what she was like, your favorite memories of her. I heard she won the spelling bee—she must’ve been a smarty. Let’s just chat a bit. What do you say?”
Her head suddenly fell into her hands and she began to cry. Through her muffled sobs she said, “This is what I’ve been trying to avoid! I don’t want to keep breaking down like this. What if Ricky hears me?”