Silver Bells

by Raney,Deborah

  He went through the back door and headed straight for the break room. The smell of burned chocolate chip cookies lingered ever so faintly in the air, but Myrtle had the coffee going and that aroma quickly won out. He poured himself a cup and carried it through the newsroom to his cubicle.

  Michelle was already at her desk. Her ponytail from yesterday was gone, and in its place, a cascade of blond waves tumbled past her shoulders. Her hair was longer than he’d imagined. And even prettier.

  “Good morning.” He was determined to start the day on the right foot.

  She looked up from her Selectric. “Good morning.” That was all he got.

  “Has anyone introduced you around?”

  This time, she didn’t even look up. “Yes. Myrtle took me around. I’m set.” She went right back to typing.

  He shrugged, fed a new sheet of paper into the Selectric, and tried to salvage his story about the Tigers’ upcoming season. Bristol High had a new football coach, and the man had not been very forthcoming with material or quotes. Rob was scrambling to come up with even two inches of decent material. At this rate, the page he was supposed to fill was going to be mostly photos. And he still had a column to write before Monday night.

  He heard rustling in the cubicle next to him and looked up. Michelle’s head bobbed on the other side of the partition. He turned in his chair to watch her walk by. She was wearing hip-huggers today. The hems almost dragged on the floor, but judging by the way she tottered, he suspected the bell-bottoms hid a pair of those stupid platform sandals that made girls look like you could knock them over with a feather duster. Still, he had to admit she wore them well.

  She threw him a closemouthed smile as she passed by, and when she came back five minutes later, balancing a steaming mug, she ignored him and walked right past his cube. But a few seconds later she was back, standing in his doorway, arms folded, still holding her mug.

  “Okay.” She breathed out a sigh. “Since I survived the burned-cookie incident and it looks like I may be employed here for the foreseeable future, I need to put in a request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to take my coffee break before you take yours. I don’t care when it is. I can adjust, but just let me know before you take your break. Please.”

  “Why?”

  She held her mug under his nose. There was barely an inch of sludgy coffee in the bottom.

  “You already downed a whole cup?”

  She glared at him. “I’ve barely had a sip. I went back there right after you, and the dropolator is almost empty.”

  He cracked up.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He cocked his head. “For a supposed journalist, you sure do bungle your words.”

  “What did I bungle?”

  “First, it’s dripolator.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said dropolator. And second, it’s not a dripolator anyway. It’s called a coffeemaker.”

  “You’re just trying to change the subject because you know I’m right about you guzzling all the coffee.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I should have made another pot—”

  “And what exactly do you mean by supposed journalist?”

  “Well, you did quit college and settle for this small-town rag.” He was teasing, enjoying their repartee, but he was also curious about her choice to drop out of K-State.

  But the hurt expression that shadowed her pretty face made him cringe.

  “If you really want to know, I settled for this ‘rag’ because I couldn’t afford to stay in college. I–I’m trying to save up, but for now, it’s my brother’s turn. My dad couldn’t afford to send us both.”

  He closed his eyes, feeling like a jerk for touching a sore spot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… That was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I’ll get my degree as soon as I can.”

  “I’m sorry about the coffee too,” he said, hoping to get back to a more pleasant subject. “It won’t happen again. In fact…” He jumped up and took the cup from her hand. “You go back to work. I’ll bring you a fresh cup.”

  She started to protest, but he put a hand at the small of her back and steered her to her cubicle, wishing it wouldn’t be misinterpreted if he gave her a hug.

  But he refrained and instead pulled out her chair, motioning for her to sit. “You relax. I’ll be right back with coffee.”

  * * *

  Rob hadn’t been gone three minutes when Michelle heard a high-pitched beep coming from the other side of the office, followed by static and voices. She stopped typing to listen. It reminded her of the squawking on the CB radio Dad used to stay in contact with his harvest crew. She couldn’t understand what the voices were saying, but it sounded like someone was pretty worked up. Sirens wailed, and it took her a minute to realize they weren’t on the radio but right outside the office on Main Street.

  Rob reappeared—without her coffee—and poked his head into her cubicle. “Come on, Penn. Hear those sirens? Here’s your first big break.”

  “What?” She jumped up and went to her doorway.

  Rob darted into his own cubicle and emerged lugging a camera with a huge lens. He slipped the wide strap around his neck and jogged toward the back door. “Come on.”

  She grabbed her purse and a notepad and hurried to catch up.

  “Let’s take your car,” Rob yelled when they got out to the parking lot. “That way I can shoot pictures.”

  “Pictures of what? What’s going on?”

  “Didn’t you hear the scanner?”

  “I heard the sirens, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying on the radio.”

  “The police scanner, you mean.” He opened the passenger-side door and folded himself into her car. “There’s something going on at 358 Donner. Do you know where that is?”

  “I think so. Just a few blocks east, right?”

  “Yes. Drive!”

  She started the car, backed down the alley, and drove around to Main Street. Donner Avenue was already clogged with traffic by the time they got there. All three of Bristol’s patrol cars were there, along with two fire-department vehicles and an ambulance.

  Rob rolled the window down, scrunched low in the seat, and balanced the camera on the ledge of the door panel. She heard the click-click, click-click of the motor drive attached to his camera as it captured shot after shot.

  Adrenaline put her senses on high-alert, and even as she composed an opening to the news story in her mind, she also composed letters to Kathy and Carol, bandying Rob’s name about in a way she knew would have them green with envy.

  “Pull up into the alley. You can park right over there.” He pointed behind the ramshackle house that seemed to be the center of attention.

  “I don’t see any fire.”

  “No. The scanner said ‘domestic altercation.’ ”

  “But—the fire trucks…?”

  “The fire department responds to all emergency calls.”

  “Domestic altercation. You mean like some guy beating up on his wife?”

  “Or some kid beating up on his mother. Come on… Let’s find out.” He flung open the car door and ran across the overgrown lawn, snapping pictures as he went.

  She followed, wishing she’d worn more sensible shoes. As they rounded the side of the house, police were bringing out a man in handcuffs. Rob ran up the porch steps, snapping pictures as he went. But when Michelle caught up with him, she saw why they were hauling the guy in. Behind the man, in the doorway, stood a young woman. Tears and mascara streaked her cheeks, and a giant goose egg protruded over one eyebrow. A tiny wisp of a girl with jet-black hair clung to her mama’s knee, screaming. It took every ounce of restraint Michelle had not to run up on the porch and take the little girl in her arms.

  Rob moved in closer. He knelt and adjusted the camera. Michelle heard the whirr of the lens as he zoomed in on the child. What was he doing?

&
nbsp; A police officer who looked as if he couldn’t be a day over seventeen tried to get the woman to go back inside, but she fought him off, shouting something Michelle couldn’t understand—though she was pretty sure it was profane.

  “Are you getting this?” Rob shouted, his eye still to the camera. “We need some quotes.”

  Surely he didn’t expect her to stop one of the authorities and ask questions now. Every person in uniform was doing something important—far more important than answering some reporter’s questions. She could call the police station for information when they got back to the office, after the situation here was under control.

  She pulled the notepad from her purse and jotted down a few key words—more for Rob Merrick’s sake than her own. She would remember the important details. This kind of altercation, as the scanner had called it, wasn’t an everyday occurrence in Bristol. Usually the most exciting thing in this small Kansas town was when the ice-cream truck came through once or twice a week.

  She stood at the corner of the porch and watched as the police dragged the man to the squad car.

  The young officer left the woman and approached Rob. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the property, sir. If you want pictures, you’ll have to get them from across the street.”

  Rob ignored him long enough to shoot another series with the camera’s motor drive.

  Michelle felt paralyzed. Everything in her wanted to carry the little girl back into the house so she wouldn’t have to witness what was happening. But the mother’s battered face told Michelle that the child had probably already seen the worst thing she would ever witness.

  The little girl appeared to be about two, maybe three. Michelle tried to recall any memories from when she was that small, but the only things that came to mind were supremely happy times—Christmas at Grandma Penn’s in Missouri, with bubble lights on a real cedar tree and hot cocoa sipped by a crackling fireplace. And the first time she’d ever ridden a horse. She’d been terrified of the tall bay mare at first, but then Mom lifted her up into Daddy’s arms and she rode in front of him in the saddle, feeling safer than she’d ever felt. What must it be like to grow up watching your father beat up on your mommy, then watching him being dragged off to jail? She shuddered.

  The policeman warned Rob again, and this time he pulled the camera away from his eye and backed away. But Michelle thought she heard the shutter clicking again even as he stepped off the porch.

  She looked past Rob, and her gaze locked with the swollen, haunted eyes of the young mother on the porch. Without uttering a word, the woman seemed to be pleading with her to help. But there was nothing Michelle could do except turn away and walk across the street.

  She felt like a traitor.

  Chapter 5

  Rob stood beside Michelle, watching from the street for a while before he directed her back to her Oldsmobile. They sat in the car in silence until the last emergency vehicle pulled away. From what he could tell from their vantage point in the alley, the battered woman had refused medical treatment, and she and the kid remained inside the house. Her brute of a husband had gone for a ride in the back of a patrol car, but the man would no doubt be back home in forty-eight hours. And who knew what he might do then.

  In the driver’s seat beside him, Michelle clutched the steering wheel, her face pale.

  “You okay?”

  She merely nodded and turned the key in the ignition.

  “Wait…” He motioned in the direction of the house. “Do you want to try to talk to her?”

  “The victim?” She looked incredulous.

  “Who else would I mean?”

  “I don’t know”—her eyes flashed—“but the last thing that poor woman needs is some reporter making her relive the whole thing.”

  “Who did you talk to?” He didn’t know what she’d written down in that notebook, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t gotten one quote.

  “I–I’ll make some calls later.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He could only guess what his father would say when he found out they’d come back with nothing but a roll of film. But that wasn’t his problem. She could learn the way he had—the school of hard knocks.

  She rolled through the alley and turned onto Donner Avenue. Only then did he notice that her hands were trembling.

  “Why don’t you just drop me off at work and take the rest of the day off.”

  “I don’t need the rest of the day off. I’m fine.” She gripped the wheel tighter.

  “Whatever you say.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, but before they got out of the car, he thought of a way to give her an out. “Do you know how to develop film?”

  She shook her head, still looking a little shell-shocked.

  He opened the car door and got out. She did the same. He held the office door open for her. “Go put your stuff away and meet me in the darkroom. Let’s see what we got.”

  * * *

  The single red lightbulb over the door illuminated Rob’s face as he inspected the strips of film clipped to a length of clothesline strung above the developer pans. The chemical fumes burned Michelle’s nostrils, and she rubbed her nose in protest. But the images on the negatives provided a distraction from the unpleasant odor.

  Even in miniature and with the odd black-and-white reverse of the negative images, she was shocked at the violence the photographs depicted. Rob must have used the telephoto lens, because most of the photos were zoomed in on faces.

  Rob’s voice beside her broke through her thoughts. “First we need to decide which photos we want to print, so we’ll print a contact sheet.”

  He showed her how to make the print of all the photos in miniature, explaining how the developer, stop bath, and fixer worked. She found it fascinating—and a little exciting—to think about developing her own photos.

  But half an hour later, when Rob slid the still-damp contact sheet down the clothesline for her to view, her breath caught. The camera had captured the woman’s swollen forehead and haunted eyes. And the little girl’s hands clutching her mother’s knee. They were powerful photographs…but heartbreaking.

  And invasive.

  Surely he didn’t intend to publish these in the Beacon.

  “What about this one?” He pinched the edge of the strip near a frame that showed the little girl crying, her face half-buried in her mother’s skirt.

  “You mean for the paper?”

  “What else would it be for?”

  “It just seems like that would be—a little cruel.”

  “Cruel?”

  “How would you feel if you were that little girl’s mother?”

  His expression was inscrutable in the crimson light, but his silence gave her hope that he’d taken her point.

  They stood side by side in the darkroom while he studied the film he’d shot. Rob was an artist with the camera, and she didn’t mind having him peer over her shoulder, close enough she could smell his spearmint chewing gum, as they viewed the images of the event they’d experienced together.

  “Why don’t you choose the one you think works best,” he said after a few minutes. “We’ll print out the contact sheet and a few photos and decide later.

  She nodded, feeling oddly guilty.

  They emerged from the darkroom almost an hour later with four photos hung to dry. There was no doubt which photo would grip readers, reveal the heart of the story, and, most importantly, sell newspapers. Still, it made her sick to her stomach to think about that photo running with a story that bore her byline. When she put herself in the shoes of the young woman—or even the little girl—she could almost feel their anguish.

  Following Rob back to their cubicles, she felt the eyes of the three other newsroom employees on them. The two middle-aged typesetters merely looked curious, but Michelle was pretty sure she wasn’t imagining the less-than-friendly gaze Joy Swanson turned on them. Joy handled advertising sales and layout and occupied the cubicle on the other side of R
ob, though most days she was out of the office selling ads.

  Michelle’s time in the darkroom with Rob had been completely innocent. And yet it had felt intimate at the same time. She’d only known him a couple of days, but she had to admit, it had been quite pleasant standing beside him, their shoulders touching, while he taught her the magic of making an image appear on blank paper in poignant, evocative shades of gray.

  The thought warmed her face, and she ducked into her desk chair hoping no one had noticed. She was pretty sure the images in her head right now were not what Mr. Merrick had meant when he’d told her to keep things with Rob “strictly professional.”

  “So…are you going to be upset if I use that photo?”

  She whirled at his voice. Rob must have followed her into her cubicle. She knew exactly which photo he meant. “Upset?”

  “Upset: to be angry or agitated.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a grin.

  She returned it, even as she scrambled for an honest way to answer his question. “It’s a beautiful photo, Rob. It makes me want to cry. You captured the emotions of the moment amazingly. But I—I don’t think it would be right to publish it. It would feel like we were exploiting that poor woman’s pain. And the little girl…”

  He looked at the floor briefly before meeting her eyes. “But don’t you think that photo could help people understand the woman’s plight? What if the photo made people think?”

  “Think what?”

  “I don’t know. About that kind of…violence, about how hard it is to be a single parent. Stuff like that.”

  She thought for a moment about the point he made, not wanting to overstep her bounds. “I could understand if the picture was just an image of some random person that no one knew. But this is a small town, Rob. And that little girl will likely grow up here—with her mother. For all we know, the grandparents live here—or close enough that they’ll see the paper.”

  “What if I didn’t use their names?”

  She shook her head. “Even if we don’t use their names at all—in the photo caption or the story—you know that everyone will know who it is. The mother’s probably not much older than I am, and I can tell you how I’d feel if a photo of my little girl appeared in the paper with that story about me. I’d be mortified. I’d want to move away. But the sad thing is, they may not be able to move away.