What Nora Knew

by Yellin, Linda

  Except for those of us who are total idiots.

  23

  Monday morning I walked down to Gavin’s desk and asked to get on Deirdre’s schedule.

  “You and everyone else,” he said. “Her day’s a nightmare.” He lowered his voice. “She’s a nightmare.” Deirdre never returned from her vacations relaxed.

  “It’s important,” I said.

  “To you or to her?” Gavin said he’d see what he could do. Juggling Deirdre’s schedule was Gavin’s only opportunity to exert power. Other than that, he was at her mercy all day.

  I returned to my cube and my pretzel-cart article. I stared at my computer screen. It stared back. This would have been about the time Emily and I would be going at it. She’d have been tossing pretzels over the wall. Somehow, without her, the office was less entertaining. I actually kind of missed her.

  Since her grand exit, her cubicle had been ravaged. As soon as anyone leaves or dies around our office, the vultures sweep in, swapping chairs, upgrading garbage cans, stealing notepads, Post-its, pens; prying filing cabinets and bulletin boards out with crowbars and sledgehammers. Keith and Brady were already fighting over Emily’s cube. Brady wanted it because it was larger than his cube, and Keith liked that it was closer to the men’s room. Nobody wanted to ask Keith why that mattered to him.

  My office phone rang. I screened the caller’s name on the ID. Oh! Outside caller! I picked up the receiver and in my best journalistic voice said, “Molly Hallberg.”

  “Good,” a woman said. She was either on a bad cell connection or talking into her hand.

  “Good why?” I asked.

  “This is Veeva Penney.”

  “Veeva Penney Veeva Penney?”

  “No. JCPenney.” She chuckled. “Old joke.” The phone broke up, crackling. I didn’t say anything. What if it was a crank call, Emily phoning from Idaho pretending to be a famous agent? “I hear you’re the new columnist for EyeSpy,” she said.

  “Very funny!” I hung up.

  The phone rang a minute later. An outside caller. I snapped up the receiver. “What do you want! You can’t live without me? I hope you’re enjoying your blouse!”

  “I enjoy many of my blouses.”

  The reception was excellent. I was not speaking with Emily. Chances were quite likely at that point that I was speaking with Veeva Penney. “Oh, hello.” I was mortified. “We had bad reception before. Were you able to hear me?” God, please say no.

  “Perfectly,” she said. “I read your essays. They’re quite good.”

  I’d had this conversation a million times. Except all the other times it was in my head. “My essays?”

  “Cameron Duncan sent them. Ever consider putting them together as a collection?”

  I said, “Every day of my life.”

  “You’ll need at least twenty of them.”

  “I have at least a hundred of them. Are you saying you want to be my agent?”

  If hearts can stop, mine had just gone into a holding pattern.

  “Cameron said you’re a terrific writer. With a terrible temper. You won’t be one of those pain-in-the-ass clients, will you?”

  “Not at all! I had cramps one day. Made me testy.”

  “I hear you, sister. We’ll talk. And congratulations. Nowadays everyone needs a platform.” Veeva rattled off her phone number, her e-mail address, her address address, and the name of her favorite flowers for some reason and hung up.

  I had an agent? And a platform?

  Hank Brandt, the ad sales manager, was passing my cubicle. “Hey, Hank,” I said. “Have you heard anything about our running a new column?”

  “No,” he said, “but if we are, I am totally applying for the job.” He hurried off.

  I walked down to Gavin’s desk again. He was studying his computer screen: Craigslist. Job openings. He hit his keyboard, made the screen go black. “Don’t tell Deirdre,” he said.

  “I hear you, brother.”

  “I was about to call you. She wants to see you when you’re available.”

  “When I’m available? Am I being fired?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then I’m available.”

  He buzzed Deirdre’s intercom, whispered to me, “She’s been a witch all morning.”

  “I heard that, Gavin!” Deirdre barked into his intercom.

  “He meant me, Deirdre,” I said into the speaker. “It’s Molly. Good time to talk?”

  “Come in,” she said.

  Gavin and I exchanged thumbs-ups. “Good luck,” he said.

  I pressed his shift bar. Craigslist popped up again. “You, too,” I said.

  As soon as I walked into Deirdre’s office, I knew why she’d been hiding out. She had a hideous sunburn. The kind that’s bright red and peeling in splotches and announces to the world that your SPF was way too low. She was wearing sunglasses indoors. Then I realized that wasn’t a sunburn. Deirdre had had a chemical peel. I waited for her to say something, share some girl talk, maybe exchange beauty tips. Like the name of her plastic surgeon. Or malpractice lawyer. “Have a seat,” she said barely moving her mouth. It must have hurt to talk.

  I never know the protocol for these things. Was I supposed to say, Appears to be a great job! That complexion of yours is on its way to looking like a baby’s bottom! But Deirdre didn’t say anything, so I didn’t say anything. I sat across from her in her dark-lensed, egg-shaped frames, neither of us acknowledging that she looked like a Moon Martian. “Enjoyable vacation?” I asked. She ignored my question. Got right down to business before I got down to my business of asking how Cameron Duncan ended up with my column idea! What was really maddening, though, was that I could no longer be mad at him after he’d hooked me up with Veeva. His agent. My agent! I’d have to apologize, thank him somehow; at the very least be willing to maintain a pleasant working relationship as colleagues.

  “A MyEye column is a good idea,” Deirdre was saying. “You’ll do your same type of articles, but with a column head, a photograph. We’ll make it a brandable property.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  This was turning out to be a very strange morning. A when-will-the-other-shoe-drop morning. My father had a Great-Aunt Ruta whom I never met but is legendary in the family for her cynicism. Any happy occasion she’d manage to point out the dark side and make a sour comment. Her motto was “Behind every silver cloud there’s a pogrom.”

  Weddings lead to divorces. Adorable babies grow into surly teens. Houses burn down. Men who steal your heart turn out to be thieves. That’s how strange a morning it was. I was waiting for my great-aunt’s ghost to appear and say, Here come the Cossacks!

  “I want to launch with your Rockettes assignment,” Deirdre said. “We can promote it as a kickoff to EyeSpy’s exciting new column. Kickoff. Get it? Kickoff?”

  “Got it. Kickoff.”

  She sat back, smiled. The smile seemed to hurt her face.

  I said, “Isn’t Cameron Duncan writing the column?”

  For a moment I thought I saw Deirdre’s face redden, but it was difficult to tell with her face already so red. “I may have considered other candidates,” she said, her words slow and measured. “Perhaps I offered it to him. But he, frankly, talked me into you.”

  Cameron didn’t want the column? He wasn’t a thief? That was a good thing. Deirdre’s having to be talked into me? Not so good. But I wasn’t about to be fussy; I’d deal with my ego later. I thanked Deirdre, told her I wouldn’t let her down, thanked her again, and headed back to my cube. I wanted to cheer and shout, Hey! Guess what! I’m getting a column! Good news doesn’t feel half as good without someone to chuck you on the shoulder or give you an attaboy. But telling anyone at the office was off the list. That’d be like expecting a coworker to be happy I got a raise. I could call my parents, but I already knew what they’d say. That’s nice, honey. Does this mean you can stop jumping out of airplanes? Kristine would be pleased. Angela would tweet the news to her grocery-store fol
lowers. The truth is, there were only two people I really wanted to talk to. One was now living in Idaho. And the other had no interest in talking to me.

  24

  That night I tried sleeping on my back, sleeping on my side, sleeping on my stomach. I tried sleeping with a pillow over my head, but only for a few minutes; I worried I’d suffocate. No matter what position I tried, I couldn’t shut off my head. Oh, my thoughts were mad at me! I wanted to call Cameron. I was embarrassed to call Cameron. I wanted to call Cameron. I was scared to call Cameron. I wanted to call Cameron but didn’t know his phone number. Our relationship hadn’t reached the texting stage. And male authors with thousands of female fans don’t have listed numbers.

  At 4 a.m. I wrote e-mails in my mind:

  —Dear Mr. Bing, I need to hire a detective. Can you please help a big-time fool track down a big-time author?

  —Trying to find the right words to apologize, but it’s difficult to type while hitting my head against a wall.

  —What if the guy who seems too good to be true isn’t make-believe?

  I didn’t send them. They seemed wrong. Too pat. And if he didn’t respond, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering if he hated me or if I’d landed in his spam folder.

  At 7 a.m. I turned on Good Morning America to drown out Kevin and Lacey saying good morning next door. Sylvester Stallone was being interviewed by George Stephanopoulos, talking about playing Detective Mike Bing. “The character’s hard-boiled,” Sly said. “Like Rambo. But also sensitive. Like Rocky. He’s a romantic waiting for that one kiss that will change his life.”

  I did want to hit my head against a wall.

  This was the perfect time for a feminist intervention, Gloria Steinem showing up saying, “Molly, repeat after me: I Am Columnist, Hear Me Roar! You do not need to go running after a man. Send a polite note thanking him for his recommendations on your behalf, then get on with your life, focus on your career.”

  “But, Gloria, even you eventually got married.”

  “I was sixty-six. I didn’t go rushing into anything. And what’s with bringing up marriage? You haven’t kissed this guy yet.”

  I felt sad when Gloria said that. I realized I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss Cameron Duncan more than any man I’ve ever wanted to kiss. And that included River Phoenix, whom I spent all of 1986 wanting to kiss.

  “Okay,” Gloria said, seeing the woebegone expression on my face. “Some women aren’t cut out for eschewing men. And I know you gave it your best shot dating the chiropractor with the turtles. But don’t tell anyone I made these suggestions. Ask your boss Deirdre for his number. Ask your new agent Veeva Penney for his number—and congratulations on that. Your buddy Emily interviewed him. She must have his phone number. But personally, I’d never speak to her again. No man’s worth it. Although, Cameron Duncan is an extremely appealing man.”

  “You know each other?”

  “Of course. Famous people hang out together.”

  “Then why can’t you give me his phone number?”

  “Because I’m in your imagination, Molly. How the hell am I supposed to know his number!”

  * * *

  At work, I started with Gavin. He had Deirdre’s contact list. Deirdre’s door was closed so I could ask Gavin for Cameron’s number without the embarrassment of Deirdre knowing I was asking for Cameron’s number. Embarrassment was Plan B.

  “I’m not allowed to give out numbers. I could get fired,” he said.

  “You hate your job, Gavin. You’d get severance. I’d be doing you a favor.”

  “Whose number is it you want?”

  “Cameron Duncan.”

  “No can do. Deirdre keeps a few secret numbers on her private cell.”

  “Cameron has a secret number?”

  Gavin shrugged. “Crime-writer mentality.”

  I looked at Deirdre’s closed door. Took a deep breath. Asked Gavin if he’d mind buzzing to see if I could worm a secret phone number out of her.

  “She’s not in there,” he said. “She left early for Labor Day weekend.”

  “She just got back from vacation.”

  Gavin rolled his eyes. “I guess her sunburn is uncomfortable. You can call her at home, but I don’t recommend it. She’s in a pisser mood. Furious at her dermatologist for lying about the recovery time for the world’s worst chemical peel.”

  “Good advice, Gavin. I’ll move on to Plan C.”

  * * *

  Back in my cubicle I could hear Keith banging around next door, arranging his files and computer, having won the Battle for the Cube. I dialed Veeva Penney’s office. Got a recorded message saying her office was closed until after Labor Day. I was down to Plan D. “Hey, Keith,” I called out. “You don’t happen to have a phone number for the dearly departed Miss Lawler, do you?”

  His head appeared over the wall. “Sure,” he said. “I like to ski.” His head bobbed down. A minute later his head bobbed up. He handed me a torn piece of notepaper with Emily’s cell number.

  “Thanks, Keith.”

  “You’re welcome, Molly. The cousin in Westchester’s still available.”

  “Thanks, Keith.”

  I dialed Emily’s number hoping I’d get her voice mail, that I could leave a message and she could leave a message back, sparing myself the embarrassment of asking for Cameron’s number. I’d just casually mention she wasn’t the only person with an EyeSpy column, and, oh, yes, could she please pass along some phone info?

  How grateful I felt when her recorded greeting came on. The beep beeped and I started to relay my question.

  “I knew you’d miss me,” Emily said when she cut in. “I heard about your column.”

  “How?”

  “Please, Molly. I’m me.”

  “How are you? Enjoying mountain life?”

  “It’s so romantic,” she said. “Every night Rory gives me a foot rub.”

  “I didn’t call to discuss your feet.”

  “First thing every morning he brings me a fresh cup of coffee.”

  “Gavin does the same thing for Deirdre.”

  “I heard her chemical peel’s a disaster.”

  “Heard how?”

  “Please, Molly.”

  “I don’t want to take up your time, but—”

  “That’s what people say when they don’t want you taking up their time. What do you want? I’m very busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Editing an interview. Reviewing romance novels. I’m thinking of changing my column’s name to Emily Loverati.”

  “Can’t wait to read it. Do you happen to have Cameron Duncan’s phone number?”

  “Congratulations. You finally ran out of excuses to run away?”

  “What do you mean by that? What did you hear?”

  “Please, Molly. In my opinion he can do a lot better, but he seems unwilling to believe me. Seems to think you’re the Nora to his Nick Charles. Not Nora Ephron. God knows from that assignment you blew nobody means Nora Ephron.”

  “Have you talked with him?”

  “Jeez, my cell phone seems to be dying.”

  “Can I have the number please, Emily?” She didn’t say anything. “Emily, please.”

  “Okay, fine!” She put me on hold, came back, and gave me Cameron’s secret number. “How do you plan to apologize? Calling’s rather lame, don’t you think?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “You need a grand gesture.”

  “Like what?”

  “How should I know!”

  * * *

  If I were watching myself starring in a Nora Ephron movie, right about now I’d be yelling at Molly to quit dawdling and win back the affections of the man every other person in the audience knew from the get-go was the man for her. What would Nora have Molly do next? Like a true Nora heroine Molly had dated the wrong person. Supportive friends rallied round. References were made to other movies. An Affair to Remember in Sleepless in Seattle. Casablanca in When Harry Met Sally.
Molly keeps referring to Nora’s movies.

  Of course the movies all have misunderstandings, but our beloved characters choose fighting for love over fighting. Billy Crystal did as Harry. Tom Hanks as Joe Fox. Meg did as Sally and Kathleen. In Sleepless in Seattle nobody had to, but still, there were complications. And running. Lots of running. Billy running to the New Year’s Eve dance to declare his love. Tom running to the Empire State Building to find his son and find his heart. Now it was Molly’s turn to run for her life; the life and the man she really wanted.

  Okay. Enough with talking about myself in the third person; it makes me feel psychotic. And the only running I’ve done so far is run out of ideas. But along with saying, Don’t settle, love is worth risk, Nora taught me something else: I’d have to write my own happy ending.

  * * *

  Phone message #1 (Tuesday, 4:00 p.m.):

  “Help! I was standing on the Seventieth Street pier and jumped to conclusions.”

  E-mail #1 (Tuesday, 11:00 p.m.):

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Cyber-apologies suck. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  E-mail #2 (Wednesday, 3:00 a.m.):

  Please regard previous e-mail. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.