Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending)

by Briggs, Laura

  There was a grunt from somewhere in the room, audible to Eleanor’s ears. The applause was less enthusiastic this time, more cautious. No doubt several of the staff members were contemplating how there would be enough room for everyone – and what effect this would have on salaries as well.

  “There will be time enough in the future for all of this,” Fueller continued, reassuringly. “In the meantime, it’s time to focus on the celebration of this paper and its parent company’s milestone achievement.”

  Applause. Now Bitterman joined Fueller at the podium, shifting and edging closer as if trying to seem equally a part of it by subtle proxy. “Are there any questions?” he asked. “I know there probably are, but let’s keep this short for the sake of Mr. Fueller’s time –”

  “Will Mr. Fueller be a direct part of the Herald’s changes?” Lucy spoke up, her hand raised slightly as if to make herself more visible to the two men standing up front.

  Fueller smiled. “I prefer to be an indirect source of influence on Haldon’s partners,” he said. “So, no, I won’t be directly responsible for any of the paper’s changes. No more than those of TriCom, for example.”

  A few coughs could be heard from the audience. Then: “Will this lead to staff increases? And will this have any impact on us – directly?”

  “Change ... changes things,” answered Fueller. “So yes, you’ll all be directly impacted, but these are positive changes for the paper. And positive changes will benefit everyone in the long run.”

  “So if these changes have a direct impact on all of us,” another voice piped up, “then we can assume that some of the Herald’s employees will be fired.”

  It was Brandon’s voice. Even though Eleanor could see him from where she was sitting, Fueller and Bitterman could not – although Bitterman might suspect the questioner’s identity.

  Fueller’s smile became somewhat tight. “I think it’s premature to be speculating on individuals being removed from the paper’s staff,” he answered.

  “But you concede that it’s a possibility. In fact – that it’s the inevitable.”

  The last of Fueller’s smile vanished. “I have no comment on this issue,” he said. “As I said before, no decisions made for the good of the paper are directly mine.” His gaze moved across the crowd, as if attempting to penetrate the darkness and see the face behind the voice. His glance flickered briefly to Bitterman, who was indirectly blamed by this denial, before he forced a smile into place again.

  “I think that’s all we have time for,” ventured Bitterman. “Thank you, Mr. Fueller, and thank you everybody for your time and making this a great paper.” There was a final round of applause as Fueller shook the editor’s hand, said something drowned out by the noise of the crowd, and then was gone.

  They gathered at Sharkey’s Bar afterwards: the staff of the Pittsburgh Herald favored it for after-hours conversation and socializing, for those who did not have immediate plans or full home lives to occupy their time. Eleanor was not a regular patron, but she found herself there on this evening, listening to the fearful and unhappy speculation of her coworkers.

  Not from Lucy, of course. No, from that quarter, nothing but genuine pleasure for having seen Mark Fueller in person. The CEO of Haldon Media, the man who was reshaping their destinies like a god with a hand closed over the stars to form constellations.

  “I mean, how inspiring is it – that Mark Fueller himself comes to praise the paper for its leading role in journalism?” Lucy’s face was earnest with these words. “Even having Diane Sawyer speak at my Women in Journalism summit wasn’t equal to this moment. Me, a working part of journalism, seeing a modern icon in the field...” Before her was a small glass of rum Coke, a swizzle stick leaning to one side.

  A working part of journalism. This statement struck Eleanor as somewhat in line with Fueller’s speech. Something akin to the cogs of a clock or machine, operating dutifully and expendably, each in their own manner. Was not there a distinct possibility that her own work qualified as such an expendable cog? Easily replaced by a younger, hipper advice columnist who held Twitter sessions... like Lucy Deane, for instance.

  “What did you think of him?” Lucy persisted.

  Eleanor considered this question as her eye studied the contents of the glass the bartender set before her, a pink Mimosa in a martini glass crusted with sugar along its edges as she requested. “I’ve seen him before,” she ventured. “When I was part of the press conference for the merger announcement, so some of the awe for his grandeur has worn off, I fear.”

  Think of the woman’s kind words in the airport, she thought; think of Fueller’s polite remarks at the media conference regarding herself as a valuable asset to her paper. It did not do to think of Brandon’s dire warnings or the subtle hints of the woman beside her regarding outmoded means of communication.

  “I can’t imagine that,” Lucy answered. “But, of course, I haven’t had your long experience in media, have I? By the time I reach your career perspective, I will have met so many prominent figures in media, that I probably won’t regard them as impressive higher powers anymore.”

  Eleanor hoped that they would change the subject now. The fringe of her hearing caught strains of the neighboring conversation beside her, between the news writer Greg, Donny, the editor of the Lifestyles and Humor section, and Jeanine.

  “ ...but I’ve seen part of the future layout for the new paper and maybe they haven’t finished it yet, but there were a lot of names missing ...”

  “... heard that Bitterman may not make the cut. Some junior executive from Haldon’s technology website wants to ...”

  “... definitely not anybody over the age of forty. Forget the ‘old dogs’ of the publication going into the twilight with their dignity...”

  A reflective hum of dialogue which she could hear echoed in the room around her, from other voices equally familiar crowded along the bar. Sidney from the weekend edition, Marie the proofreader, Arthur Mayer from AP and international news, all bearing the same tone of skepticism, curiosity, and general dissatisfaction with Fueller’s vague vision of the Herald in the twenty-first century, never mind the twenty-second.

  “... but then, I don’t want to completely bury myself in my career. But balancing a personal life is only easy when it’s the right person, of course.” Lucy’s voice reached her again through the fog.

  “Is there a person?” Eleanor spoke aloud, a thought which she originally meant for herself, but now turned into a kindness directed towards Lucy. She looked at the girl seated next to her. Flawless skin and red-tinted hair corkscrewing beneath the lights, a face tilted slightly to the side in the posture of one listening and in thought all at once. She was earnest and well-meaning, Eleanor knew; a girl who worshipped anyone whose ambition had translated to a seemingly-successful reputation.

  “Am I in a relationship? Yes, definitely...it was a little questionable until now, but now it‘s definite. We hadn’t worked out the parameters of our future – it’s been long-distance for two years, there was hesitation for either of us to take the big step. But now that I’ve begun my career, that will all change,” she answered.

  Her small face was heavily tinted with makeup, dark eyeliner and glossy lipstick softly aglow beneath the lights. The same sheen upon her strand necklace of unidentified stones – a teal-colored bead which had been carefully matched to some small thread of color in her handbag. A clever touch which put Eleanor’s plain pearls and leather clutch to shame as traditional safeguards.

  “I expect we’ll get engaged soon,” said Lucy. “But that’s not the most rewarding part of finally settling in a city and choosing my path for career pursuit. It’s the actual experience of journalism.”

  Eleanor caught a glimpse of Lucy’s future in a glimmer of thought: a career as an assistant editor, a marriage to an equally-ambitious individual whose career was fast-tracked, a series of milestones personal and professional neatly accomplished like a completed checklist. By comparison �
�� but there was no comparison, was there? No competition, no reason to feel inferior to this young, ambitious intern who burned with such a fierce admiration – and dreams of future equality – with the likes of Mark Fueller.

  “You hadn’t mentioned that you were getting engaged before,” said Eleanor. “You’ve told me very little about your life so far and I haven’t the advantage of an online biography of yours to read.”

  “Perhaps we should go to lunch,” suggested Lucy. “The two of us – I could take you –”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary for you to buy me lunch –” began Eleanor.

  “– and we could talk more about your thoughts on print journalism and new media. After all, here you are, one of the industry establishments now standing at the crossroads of traditional and modern frontiers in media.”

  “You see me as a pioneer?” said Eleanor, who was somewhat taken aback by this perspective of herself.

  Lucy’s responding smile was one of perplexity. “Of course. Don’t you? After all, Haldon Media sees the paper as having a bigger digital future than print future. The whole industry of paper might be dying, but that’s when the digital age really comes into its own.”

  “Miss Deane is right,” said Brandon, who had now taken the barstool vacated by Greg and was motioning for the bartender. “That is, she has a glimpse into the crystal ball of the publication’s future.”

  “You see?” said Lucy. “That’s the future to which your column belongs. You just haven’t had time to reshape its structure yet.”

  There was a buzzing noise from the cell phone beside Lucy’s bag, its screen lighting up in blue. She lifted it and read the screen, a little half-smile unlike the ones given to career and ambition appearing on her face.

  “I should take this call,” she said. “I’ll say goodnight. Bright and early in the morning?” She smiled at Eleanor – a normal smile which had been visible in the office on a daily basis.

  “Of course – tomorrow morning,” said Eleanor. “Good night.” After these words, Lucy’s figure was visible to her eye as one moving further away in the crowd at Sharkey’s. The burnished-toned head inclined towards the cell phone pressed against her ear.

  “She’s getting married,” said Eleanor. “Engaged, that is.” Why she pointed this out, she was uncertain. Beside her, Brandon stirred.

  “Is that so?” he said. “He must be gifted with either patience or energy. In my youth, I would have found an excuse for slipping free of a knot so eager as Miss Deane’s stranglehold on life.”

  “Clearly, you escaped in your youth,” Eleanor pointed out. It was not a smile of humor on Brandon’s face in response; there were traces of sadness buried within it, which pricked her heart slightly.

  “Me? I didn’t have to escape anyone,” he said. “You and everyone else suspected that all along, of course. Doesn’t do to say it too loudly, though, does it? I save my breath for other opinions.”

  “On journalism dying,” said Eleanor. She felt she could successfully predict his thought without hearing it. Wasn’t it in the air around them, charging the atmosphere of the bar with an anxiety beyond that of a low sales quarter or a government probe into sources? A more selfish fear, perhaps, but still as real and tangible to these employees as it was to employees in any industry touched by change and plagued by economic woes.

  “On journalism dying,” echoed Brandon. “Not that we’re surprised by it. Granted, it’s by choice – print things people don’t want to read, mock the opinions and personal philosophies of your readers, assert yourself as a superior intellect while conveniently dismissing all of your industry’s weaknesses and errors – those are the sorts of things readers can’t forgive. But while they won’t pay to read them, they’ll submit to reading them for free. Or by force, if that’s all that’s given to them.”

  “Rather melancholy of you, these thoughts,” said Eleanor. “Not that they aren’t true, of course, in some respects.”

  “These are rather melancholy times,” said Brandon. “But you would point out – and I can’t blame you for this, because everyone else does it, too – that I’m melancholic by nature. They mistake grim reality for the Grim Reaper in the simplest of statements.”

  “I always assumed it was the service talking,” said Eleanor. “That a certain amount of warfare takes its toll.” Brandon’s military career, the years before his military journalism work, had been a topic he seldom spoke about, although everyone at the paper was aware of its existence. He had been a soldier at eighteen when the hostages in Iran were rescued. When lingering reminders of the Cold War and rising South American despots and guerillas were the public and private demons of active-duty American soldiers.

  “It could be.” Brandon’s voice was gruff, slightly ponderous, with this answer. “But I think that’s become the simple answer. A convenient excuse for me, on occasion.” He finished his drink off in a final swallow.

  “Another brandy,” he said to the bartender. “And another for my friend, on my tab.” He gestured towards Eleanor’s empty martini glass.

  “Did it matter to you, that piece of news from your intern?” he asked. “She makes no bones about having it all, I noticed.” A remark not made delicately, but in a manner which might have been offensive to Eleanor in its brusqueness on any other occasion.

  “No,” she answered. “No, my dignity is unscathed.”

  “Good,” he said. “Now you see the reason I have no secretary –”

  “– assistant –” she corrected.

  “– assistant around my office, giving me reasons to take stock in a past that either needs no fixing or, else, is beyond it, and which couldn’t be changed by simply wanting it. It’s an unpleasant reminder to see everything you can’t change contrasted with someone who still has the power to shape everything the way they want it.”

  Eleanor bristled slightly. “I’m fine with it,” she answered. “It isn’t that I wouldn’t change things...but I have accomplished a lot. More than other people.”

  “Of course you have,” said Brandon, conciliatorily.

  “I could have had a more prominent personal life if I wanted it,” said Eleanor. “I still could. In fact,” she hesitated, “only yesterday, I had a very charming, very promising encounter with someone.”

  Brandon lowered his glass, its contents only half-consumed. “Did you,” he said. More a statement than a question, although it served the same purpose in their conversation.

  “I did,” she said. “Granted, it wasn’t on par with a proposal of marriage. But it was nice – pleasant – to have someone notice me in the sense of attraction.”

  She was surprised she was telling him this. Discussions of romance with Brandon were few and practically nonexistent between them in their friendship, as if it were not a subject they mutually acknowledged. But she was speaking of this naturally, an incident of feeling she hadn’t shared with Marianne yet – Marianne, who hadn’t been particularly interested in the details of Eleanor’s recent personal life.

  “I can well imagine.” Brandon’s voice was dry. “Flattering for anyone, I suppose.” In his hand, the glass rolled slightly, so that its contents traveled the circumference in a slow and steady motion.

  Eleanor stiffened slightly. “Well, when you put it that way, it’s not exactly reassuring or flattering for me,” she answered. “It makes it sound as if they were someone who flirted with any stranger they saw.”

  “That isn’t how I meant it,” he objected. “I only meant – I’m sure whoever he was, he obviously found you attractive. And evidently, he formed an equal impression in your mind or you wouldn’t be telling me this.”

  “I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have,” she answered. She took a swallow from her glass, attempting to sound less moody than she felt, now that her bubble of pleasant recollection had been burst.

  “Then ignore me. It’s not as if I have any recent conquests to share in return, so this subject will reach an end shortly,” he answered.
She detected humility; a note of chagrin coloring his voice beneath its surface. Reaching over, she squeezed his arm, softly.

  “It’s the prickly exterior,” she said. Gently, a teasing humor softened in these words. “You should try a softer approach. Even a few pleasantries.”

  “Those pleasantries again.” He finished off his glass. “I’ll have to try them, I suppose. I may need your help. You could coach me through it. Isn’t that what they call it now – motivational coaches? Accountability partners?”

  “Something similar, yes,” she answered. “That’s very close.”

  *****

  Dear Concerned,

  I know that you feel that rapid change in your life and in the world at large is overwhelming, but I think you fail to see the ultimate truth beneath these things. That most, if not all of the elements involved, adjusts to these changes over time, because the history of the world has been one of dramatic changes.

  That’s how our planet survives a shift in climate or a dramatic alteration of the landscape; or, on a smaller scale, how wildflowers and weeds find their way gradually through the cracks in city concrete.

  You, too, will find a way to adjust to changes big and small. It’s merely a matter of time, even more than it is a matter of motivation or acceptance. Some of it will be gradual and some of it will be your decision whether to embrace or actively combat the changes you most fear, rather than simply exist beneath their shadows.

  The choice is yours, however; and you will make it, eventually. That’s what you need most to remember right now.

  Chapter Nine

  At first, Eleanor didn’t see them in the restaurant. It was small and rather crowded at lunchtime, although it was nothing special, only an ordinary fast-food joint located near the transit lines.

  Rows of tan tables and chairs, red and yellow accents, charts of caloric value and nutritional information spliced between posters for tiny plastic toys and playground safety. Through a glass door to the right, a glimpse of a plastic jungle gym set, and red slide descending onto a bed of shredded rubber for safety.