“I’ll keep that in mind.” I dab my lips with the delicate linen napkin she gave me with my tea and rest it beside my full cup. Standing up, I look at my watch. It’s seriously bad manners, I know, to be the one to end this tête-à-tête. “I’m sorry, but I have some prep to do before my office hours. If you’ll excuse me?” I smile as warmly as I can, even though I feel frozen, as though my body is full of ice.
I turn to leave without looking back. I wish I could feel smug, or at least satisfied, but there’s only a sense of relief at it being over.
————
Kelly’s texts have become increasingly frantic, so before I open my door for office hours I let her know everything’s okay. She suggests that she come over after she picks the kids up at school, deals with homework, and gets the family dinner. She tells me that she’ll bring the wine. I beg off, telling her I’m too tired. I’ll have to tell her soon why my wine-drinking days are over for the foreseeable future.
Office hours are light today, as everyone is seeing other teachers to talk about their midterm worries. One of the joys of being a creative writing teacher is that I don’t have to give tests. As soon as office hours are over, I head for my car to go home. I haven’t called Carlo, and he hasn’t tried to reach me again. I’m not sure what to think. Did his aunt, Mother Mary Joseph, call him into her office after I left? It makes me sad to think of him being on her side in some way. But if he wants me to marry him, and she wants us to marry, then I guess they’re on the same side. Still, I hope they want the same thing for different reasons. I think Carlo genuinely cares for the baby and me. Who knows what Mother Mary Joseph really wants.
As I approach the overpass on the way home, I think of stopping on the other side to look at it again. I should probably take a picture for evidence. Except I don’t want a picture. It’s not even lightly amusing anymore. It’s taken on a new, rather sinister meaning in my head. I drive beneath the overpass and don’t even look at the graffiti that’s surely in my rearview mirror.
————
Headlights sweep across my living room wall, and I know Carlo has come. When I hear his car door shut, I get up from the couch, where I’ve been reading the latest Maggie Hope mystery, and open my front door. Across the street, Kelly peers out her living room blinds, and I raise my hand in a brief, cheerful wave. She’s used to seeing Carlo’s car in my driveway, and knows that he sometimes stays over. Yet she still doesn’t know about the baby. Or his proposal.
Carlo looks sheepish, and achingly young. I’m only a year older than he, but I can tell he’s going to be one of those men who looks young his entire life. He slips one arm around me and kisses my cheek.
“Coffee?” I ask. It’s kind of a joke because he thinks my coffee is terrible.
“Nothing for me.” He follows me into the kitchen, where I fill the kettle to make herbal tea.
“I met with Mother Mary Joseph today,” I say, not looking at him.
“The graffiti? I wish you would’ve answered my messages, Mia. Or called me. I heard about it first thing this morning. I would’ve warned you, but I knew you were already on your way up the mountain.” I hear the scrape of a chair against the wood floor, and turn to see him sitting at the kitchen table. We both look at the box between the salt-and-pepper shakers.
My laugh feels awkward and false. “It’s not that big of a deal. I’d just like to find out who did it, and why.”
He doesn’t answer, but just stares downward between his arms, which rest on the table.
“What did she say to you, cara? Did she hurt you?”
“How could she hurt me?” I’m genuinely puzzled. “She was rude. I can handle rude.” I sit down across from him. “You told her about the baby, didn’t you?”
He grabs my hand. “Please say you’ll marry me. We must marry. I love you, Mia. I love our baby.” His dark eyes have that tender look that nails my heart every time. I’ve told myself a thousand times that I could learn to really love him, if only I tried. If I gave him time. Gave myself time. I tell myself, but I can’t feel it.
“Why in the world did you tell her?” I pull my hand away. “You should have talked to me about it first, Carlo. She’s threatening to fire me if I don’t marry you. Of course she didn’t come right out and say it, but she kept talking about how ashamed I must be. And then she brought up lawyers. I’m not stupid!”
When he pounds his fist on the table, I jump. “She said she would be kind. She said she understood and it would all work out. It seemed like she was even a little happy about the baby. Damn her. Then she…” He doesn’t finish.
We sit in silence for a few tense moments. The electric kettle flicks off. Carlo watches me.
“I’m sorry. I can’t marry you. It doesn’t feel right. And with all this angst from your aunt, I just want to run away. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Really, I’m sorry.” I slide the ring box slowly toward him. “It’s a beautiful ring. And someday you’ll make a really great husband, Carlo.”
He makes a face. “Sure.”
“I do know you’re going to be a great dad. Our little girl has to have two parents, you know. Right?”
“I told her it wouldn’t work.” I spy guilt in his face as he looks away from me.
“What wouldn’t work?” Inside me, the baby gives a ticklish flip.
“She tried to get me to paint the overpass. To shame you into getting married. She thought if you were embarrassed enough, you would give up and marry me. I told her it wouldn’t work, and that it was a foolish idea.”
“What?” Then I realize I’m not all that surprised—only that she would actually try to execute such a ridiculous plan. Harlot. She would use that word. “But you didn’t do it?”
He scoffs. “Do you think I’m an idiot, Mia? I wouldn’t do that to anyone. Especially someone I love. How could you think I would do that to you?”
I’ve wounded him, and feel sorry. “You didn’t warn me. Why didn’t you warn me when she first asked you?”
“I thought she’d give it up. When I heard about it from one of the security guys on his rounds this morning, I couldn’t believe it. I went to her, and she said she got someone who was more loyal to do it. I think it was a kid in the machine shop who works on that old Buick of hers. I’ve never liked him.”
“Wow. What’s wrong with her? Why is she so cold?” At least I won’t have to try to be nice to her anymore. Carlo has to be her nephew for the rest of their lives.
He takes my hand again. “I won’t let them fire you. They can’t make you leave. Not because of this. I’ll leave if I have to.”
I don’t think his leaving would make any difference, though I don’t tell him right now. I’m too tired.
Standing in the doorway, a few minutes later, we say an unfamiliar kind of good-bye. We’re almost shy with one another in our new non-couple status. I wonder if a part of him doesn’t feel a little relieved. Maybe not.
I close and lock the door, and shut off the porch light. Carlo backs out of the driveway, his headlights sweeping the opposite way across the living room wall. The car rumbles away, headed toward the mountain.
In the kitchen, my phone rings, but I know it’s probably Kelly trying to find out what’s going on.
Leaning against the back of the door, I close my eyes and put a hand to my belly.
Always remember that tomorrow begins another day, darling girl.
The News Anchor
Lisa Patton
Hundreds of minute perspiration beads cover his nose. Nowhere else. Just his nose. One bead of sweat for every oversized pore. It’s a telltale sign he’s anxious.
I’d love to say I hardly notice them anymore, but that’s simply not true. We talk face to face at least ten times a day. When I was little, my mom taught me the art of looking someone in the eye while conversing. Yet, inevitably, I find myself numbering his swea
t beads. One two three four…fifteen sixteen…forty-five…fifty. I’m no longer listening. I’m counting.
I’m horrible, right? Shallow and callous. Mean. Why can’t I just overlook his…affliction and focus on all the other nice things about him? He stands up when women walk in the room. He pulls out our chairs. He’s complimentary. He’s even cute—in a dorky sort of way. Nice hair, nice teeth.
But his socks. Nylon, jet-black stretchy things that crawl way up to his knees. His pants are too short—way too short—that’s how I know he wears knee-highs. Plus he told me once that the doctor suggested he wear control socks since he stands all day long. They help with his poor circulation. So does his back supporter. And he wears bad shoes—God love him. One can always tell something about a person by their shoes. His are black, non-leather slip-ons, underneath those high-water pants. To make him even a notch nerdier, he’s never without a pen or a penlight in his shirt pocket.
God is going to strike me down dead, no question about it. But reasoning eases the guilt and helps with remorse. God knows I need it.
“Here’s your script, Mia,” he says, handing it to me from the front of the news desk. “You left it in the break room.” Five minutes earlier he had pulled out my chair and made sure I had two bottles of water on set. Today he’s wearing a dress shirt. And khakis. Normally it’s jeans and a T-shirt. The plan must have worked.
After a quick smile, I thank him. “What would I do without you?”
“Die, I guess.” He snickers. That’s Carol’s attempt at humor. Bless his heart.
Yes, his name, unfortunately, is Carol. Carol Frampton. He’s my forty-two-year-old camera operator. Which means he stares into a close-up frame of my face from 5:45, when we’re supposed to be on set, until 6:32, five days a week. He knows my every wrinkle, my every pore, my every blemish. Whether or not my lipstick is a centimeter out of line or smeared on my teeth is one of Carol’s chief concerns, and he’s the first to care if I have a strand of hair out of place. Making sure I look fabulous is something he’s willingly added to his job description. He prevents me from ridicule.
As despicable as I might seem, I will say this—in my defense—I don’t join in when everyone else talks behind his back. I keep my feelings to myself. From time to time I may snicker a bit—but only on the inside. It’s funny when Paul teases him. Especially since Paul’s our TD. That’s technical director—the person in control of the control room. Something about Paul’s goofy tone of voice when he mimics Carol is downright hilarious. It just is.
Playing pranks on Carol is one of the favored pastimes of the guys in the control room. And poor Carol falls for every one of them. That must be why they keep doing it. When they all shut up, as soon as he walks in the room, and change the subject on cue, you’d think they were actors in a comedy, not techno geeks. It’s like we work on the set of a sitcom. Instead of The Office, it’s The Newsroom.
Carol’s been working at the station ten years to my two months. Yet they give him no respect. Because of his nose thing, everyone in the control room calls him Beady—compliments of my coanchor Tim. The first time someone referred to him as “Beady,” I knew exactly whom they were talking about. Camera people with Beady’s experience and willingness to be content with a low salary are hard to come by. I’m surprised they risk losing him.
The way I’m carrying on might suggest that I think I’m perfect. Truth be known, I don’t feel that way at all. In fact, I’m obsessed with my imperfection. First, I hate the way I’m aging; it’s anything but attractive, and I’ve had work done. I had to take out a loan to do it, but it’s justified. I can’t let 261,000 people tune in to a hag. They shouldn’t see cracks around my eyes or drooping eyelids. Certainly not a pair of parentheses framing my mouth. Instead, they should see refined, unblemished beauty. Marley James at Channel Ten looks like she’s twenty-five, even though she’s ten years older than I am. If it kills me, I’m determined to find out the name of her plastic surgeon.
My mother is the only person who knows I’ve gone under the knife, and she thinks I’ve lost my mind. I don’t dare tell her that next up is a forehead lift. From what I understand, the lines above and between my eyebrows will disappear for at least ten years, despite the three screws they’ll drive into my skull to make it happen. If you’re wondering how I would agree to this type of surgery, just to look better, consider how you would feel to have a close-up of your face framed for every person in town to notice every single centimeter. I suppose I should be grateful I was born with a nice one. I am. I’ve just chosen a career that puts extra pressure on keeping it youthful.
Mom has told me time and time again, “You’re a spring chicken, Mia. Forty is not old—you’re still a baby. You’re beautiful just the way you are. Besides, beauty is more important on the inside.” All mothers say that about their daughters. And she flat doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s small-town simple, not the anchor of the 6 o’clock news in Augusta, Georgia, home of the Masters Tournament.
The other reason for hating myself is not taking up for Carol. Why I don’t is a mystery, and it weighs on me constantly. Especially after what happened last night. Best I can figure is that I’m much too concerned about what the bigwigs around here think of me. It doesn’t excuse it. But it’s true. And the deeper truth is: I’ve worked my whole life for this job. I’ve forgone the chance to have kids for this job. If I don’t join in with the others, they’ll talk about me, too. I’ve heard them to do it to anyone they dislike, and pretty soon I’ll be out the door and on the curb. Dispensable is my middle name. There are hundreds, probably thousands, of women dying to take my seat on the set of WATW.
At first, instead of a news anchor, I thought I wanted to be a famous actress. As the star of all my high school plays, I was convinced it would be easy. That was before I spent six years in a few uncompromising positions struggling to find work in Hollywood. Now, besides my WATW salary, I make a fairly decent living on the side. As a voice-over artist. I’ve landed several national commercials and my reputation is growing. I can sound like a child, an old woman, or even a vamp. You’d never in a million years know it was me.
“One minute…then a two-minute outbreak,” Josh, the floor manager, announces. “Mia, we’re coming straight to you. Stand by. One minute, please.”
There was a press conference earlier, and today’s schedule has been delayed five minutes. We won’t be starting at 6 o’clock sharp.
“Mia.”
I look up.
Carol’s behind his camera, but I can tell it’s his voice. “Your blouse is gaping at the bustline.”
A volcanic eruption of guffaws fills the studio. Not only are the people on the floor laughing, the entire control room upstairs is exploding in hysterics. We can hear them through the monitor. What makes this extra funny, I’m sure, is my most recent augmentation.
A quick glance down at my blouse reveals a slight gap in the material just above the middle button. Even though it’s hardly noticeable, I adjust it anyway. Then blow Carol a kiss. Just to ease his angst. The frigid climate in the room is not working in my favor. Ever since the surgery, I nip at the slightest drop in temperature. I’ve been thinking of buying a pair of breast pads.
Tim, my coanchor, seems to find this comment funnier than anyone. He slaps his hand on the desk, leans back in his chair, and laughs like a child who’s been held down and tickled. It’s two minutes before airtime, and tears are rolling down his cheeks.
Quite honestly, I want to slap the shit out of him.
I haven’t discussed my boob job with anyone except my mother. Certainly not with anyone here at the station. But I have noticed people, men in particular, talking directly to my chest. People are wondering. I’ve caught Tim staring on several occasions, and I know him well enough to know he’s dying to ask me if I’ve had them done. But for now, he’s happy with insinuations and wisecracks.
“H
ey, Beady, why don’t you fix it for her?” he says, then crumples over the news desk, his forehead landing with a thud.
More laughter.
I cut my eyes his way. He turns and presses his left cheek on the desk, gazing at me with a goofy smile.
“Hush,” I say, with a slight undertone of enjoyment.
He shrugs. “Aw, come on. Give the poor guy a thrill.”
Floor manager says, “One minute.” Then he tells Carol, “Center up your shot on Mia.” Josh takes his cues from Paul upstairs in the control room.
I look down at my script. Scoop up the papers then level them on the counter. Earlier, I had marked my notes in the break room. If the teleprompter freezes or goes wiggy—and that happens all the time—we’ve got hard copies. We’ll never lose a beat, or not much of one.
“God knows he could use it,” Tim mutters, intentionally louder than he should. Everyone hears him. His mic is hot.
I can’t see Carol’s face, but I can see the outline of his body in the darkness. He’s as still and quiet as a corpse. It must be a sore spot, not having a girlfriend. And the poor guy’s never been married. Then again, neither have I.
Tim leans over toward me, mutters, “What are the odds?”
“The odds of what?” I ask without looking at him. The bitter taste of guilt rises in my throat.
“He’s ever been laid?” My coanchor is nauseously arrogant and more impressed with himself than any man I’ve ever met. It gets harder to stomach him every time I’m around him. I look down at his tanned bare legs and running shoes tucked under the news desk. Although our viewers see his coat and tie, he wears golf shorts underneath almost every day.
“Three, two, one,” our floor manager announces.
We’re live. And I push the Pause button on my shame. At least for thirty minutes.
A Thousand Doors Page 23
