by CJ Roberts
She watched the booted, winter-clad pedestrians hurriedly scampering through large piles of traffic-dirty snow on the street below. The dingy overcast sky was the epitome of February bleakness and one of the region’s harshest winters on record. A dismal, cheerless state that reverberated deep into Casey’s soul. It seemed like she had suffered through months of dreary February’s and weeks of blue Monday’s.
Her life had become an aching tooth. She was constantly aware of the pain and knew it needed to be filled. It seemed futile to continue this life-style. She was miserable, lonely, bored, and abused.
Her green eyes realistically assessed her shadowy reflection in the weather-streaked pane of glass. Every move, every action, every word, every emotion was a lie about the woman inside. She had to change the way she felt about herself; she had to change the way she acted and reacted. She had to stop thinking about everything and just do something. And, she was scared.
Casey took a deep breath and ran a shaky hand roughly through her shoulder-length brown hair. “I’m quitting, Matt.”
“Wait a minute.” He struggled to push himself out of the chair, only to be defeated by the strength of the plaster cast shrouding his leg. Angrily, he slammed his fist against the top of the desk. “Damn it, Casey, you can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” He bellowed. “You’re one of the best investigative reporters in the business. You have your name on a Pulitzer Prize for God’s sake; and you’ve been a finalist three other times. Now, you want to quit? Oh…oh…wait a minute.” His eyes narrowed accusingly. “You’re going over to The Globe, is that it?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She sighed and turned away from the window. “I simply want out.”
“You can’t quit.”
“Damn it all, Matt, why can’t I?” She blurted out angrily. “Why can’t I do what I want for a change? I am so damn tired of doing what others want me to do. I am losing myself.”
“All right, all right.” He held up his right hand, then rubbed his neck, trying to ease out the stiffness that had suddenly settled there. “Would you please come over here and sit down so we can discuss this.”
Casey dropped into a chipped metal chair and draped her gray-flannel-pant-clad legs sideways over the arm. “Look, this was not an easy decision for me to make,” she told him quietly. “I always felt I was born with printer’s ink flowing through my veins. As a matter of fact, hearing myself actually say ‘I quit’ aloud was quite a shock to my system. I need a change. I’m just not a good reporter anymore.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Matt argued. “You won one of the most prestigious journalism awards on record and –”
“That was the turning point,” she interrupted. Her fingers came up to massage her throbbing temple. “When you put me on that child pornography series. All the interviews, all the research, well…it…it began to take its toll.” Her voice broke with emotion. “I started getting personally involved, empathizing to such a degree that the feelings kept building. They just won’t go away.”
“It’s my fault. I’ve given you too many emotional assignments,” Matt returned quickly. He thought back on the stories of drug abuse, rape, and the recent series on battered wives, abused children, and elder abuse that she had just finished.
Casey swung her long legs around, pushed herself out of the chair, and paced back and forth across the room. “Don’t you understand, Matt, that’s not what should be happening. Reporters are supposed to be objective, unfeeling, and impassive. The week I covered the sports desk, I went home and cried over the Bruins losing a damn game.” She hunched her shoulders, her hands balling into fists inside her jacket pockets. “Last week, I watched Fred write the obit of his best friend with absolutely no trace of any emotion, while I got a lump in my throat when I thought Judge Parker had died in the comic section.” She shook her head. “No, the problem is in me.”
Matt watched her walk back to the window and stare out at the overcast Boston skyline. “That’s not your only problem is it, Casey?”
She jerked her head around, stared at him for a second, then turned back to the view. She was quiet for a long time, letting her teeth gnaw her full lower lip. “You know something, Matt, I’m very much like this building. A carefully preserved red brick colonial trying to survive amid a growing array of towering high-rise glossy structures. Out of step, out of time, and out of place.” Her fingertip cleaned a square of the dusty windowpane. “I’ll be thirty on the Ides of March and, unlike Julius Caesar, the high point of my personal life has been fighting for a markdown in Filene’s basement.”
“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little?”
“Am I?” She turned back to stare at him. “I’ve always tried to be accepted. I’ve always wanted to be one of the crowd, but I’ve never fit in. Do you know what it’s like to be six foot one when you’re thirteen years old? It only works if you’re a boy and want to play with the Celtics!”
“I blame your father for this,” Matt muttered angrily. “If he hadn’t dragged you all over the country. If he had just left you with –”
“Don’t start that again,” she cut in quickly. “I’m the one. I’m the problem. What’s the line – it’s not you, it’s me.” Casey laughed then shook her head. “It’s taken me over twenty-nine years to really see what I’ve become – a chronic capitulator. I’ve exhausted all my energy helping other people solve their problems, covering extra job assignments, lending a sympathetic ear, handing out loans, donating my vacation time. I even let sales clerks pressure me into buying clothes I don’t want, just so I won’t hurt their feelings. I’ve become a victim.”
Her head snapped up, her eyes shining brightly with hostility. “Well, I’ve had it with being good old Casey. I’m tired of doing what other people want me to do. I have to start controlling my own life, stop trying to please and impress others and, if that sounds self-centered, that’s too damn bad. I’ve helped out everyone and never gotten a damn thing in return.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Casey. Everyone loves you. You’re kind, caring, loyal –”
“Thrifty, clean, and reverent. You’ve just described a Boy Scout.”
Matt ignored her bitter retort. “You’re a damn good reporter.”
She shook her head. “You may think I’ve succeeded here professionally, but you’re wrong on that too. With the exception of you, no one even congratulated me on that prize. But when the rumor went around about the prize money…” her voice trailed off. “No, I’m still the office mascot that gets patted on the head when the coffee’s good. And now that I’ve killed the coffee brewer…well…”
“It sounds like a combination of job burnout and a martyr complex,” Matt said calmly, leaning back against his chair to study her disgruntled features.
“I’m not sure about the latter but you’re right about burnout.” Casey slipped back into her sideways position on the chair. “I’m angry with myself for letting things get this far out of my control. I’m very unhappy. I see time slipping away and I’m standing still.” She looked at him, her emerald eyes bleak and hungry. “I’m drifting into a gray purgatory. A puppet controlled by others. I need to go out and make my life more satisfying. I want to really live – spread my wings, be spontaneous, and flout convention. I see Tina having such a good time and –”
“Don’t you ever try to emulate that roommate of yours,” he interjected angrily. “I’ll never understand how you and Tina Kiley ever got together. You’re totally opposite from one another.”
“It was a simple matter of economics. Living in Boston is not cheap and my rent jumped. Besides, Tina is the perfect roommate; she’s usually off on a modeling assignment in some exotic location.”
“Is that what she’s calling herself these days? A model?” Matt asked. “The only fashion layout I’ve ever seen Tina in was photographed in Quincy Market. If that’s your idea of an exotic locale…”
“That
’s not the point.” She groaned in annoyance. “Tina has no hang-ups. She’s footloose and carefree. She’s happy. She’s –”
“She’s a brittle creature who grows more brittle each day.” His tone was pure acid. “She also does most of her modeling in a horizontal position. It won’t take long for that delicate, flowerlike beauty of hers to wither and cheapen.”
Casey leveled an accusing gaze at Matt’s angry features. “Oh, my God, don’t tell me you and Tina have…” She made a seesaw motion with her hand and, at the sight of a red blush creeping up his neck, didn’t need his verbal affirmation.
Uncomfortably, Matt ran a finger under the collar of his white shirt and loosened the dark stripped tie that seemed to suddenly strangle him. “Take a little advice from a man who married three infatuations and still makes a concerted effort to prove both his failing youth and masculinity. Sex has become the nation’s number one sport. From politicians to sports figures to Hollywood, it’s easier to get than a handshake. A constant diet can make you feel cheap and worthless and that wouldn’t suit you at all.”
“I don’t know what suits me. But I’m damn determined to live a little more dangerously and stop being homogenized and ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths percent pure.”
“What’s the missing fraction?”
“My lascivious dreams.” She grinned pertly at Matt, a deep dimple forming in her right cheek. “A vicarious life is no life at all, Matthew.”
Matt studied her brooding features. She needed a mental health break. Matt loved her enough to let her go – for a while. “All right. May I ask what you want to do?”
Casey studied the scuffed toes of her black boots and cleared her throat. “You know I got a couple of short fiction stories published last year. I brought them with me to that writer’s conference I covered last fall. I also brought a rough copy of a suspense novel I’ve been working on.”
“And –”
Casey straightened up in the chair, turned, and laid her palms flat on Matt’s desk. The softly rounded features of her face glowed. “I met an agent there and showed her my manuscript. I’ve been working on it ever since. It’s still not quite right. She thinks it’s very good…and…hell, so do I.”
“What if it doesn’t sell? Most books don’t?” He pointed out logically.
“Well, with eBooks outselling mainstream, I can certainly give that a try. At least I’m doing something for me. This job is safe and secure, but I won’t be happy until I try. Besides, Matt –” she grinned suddenly “I can always paint ceilings without a ladder for a living.”
“You can always come back here.”
“No.” She shook her head, letting her eyes look out at the busy city room with a haunting sadness. “My reporting days are over. I have my place in Wikipedia, my name engraved in history – an identity of sorts. This time I step into the unknown and take a risk. I’ll walk on hot coals. I’ve got enough money saved to finance me for quite a while. I’ve got to do this – for me.”
Matt stared at her for a silent moment. “Actually, you’re not leaving much.” His voice sounded dull, his eyes surveyed their dreary surroundings. The harsh fluorescent lights cast the room in stark reality. The cracked, soiled beige plaster walls badly needed spackling and painting, the pattern had worn off the floor tiles, and the metal office furniture was scarred and uncomfortable.
“If you think you’re out of step, just look around,” Matt announced, his tone bleak. “This newspaper is one of the few weeklies left. My God, the computers are so outdated, they can’t even be repaired. I say prayers every day, they don’t go down.” His lips twisted. “I’ve let things fall too far behind. Casey, you are smart to leave.”
“Wait a minute, Matt,” she pleaded hastily, a self-conscious flush staining her cheeks. “Don’t let my dissatisfaction color your eyes. Since you bought this paper five years ago, the Annex has won two Pulitzers and countless other awards. We have a phenomenal readership and circulation. We’re talked about on the internet, our website may not be the best but it certainly is viewed. Just because the computers are old, doesn’t mean we’re second rate!”
Matt carefully lowered his heavy plaster-encased leg to the ground and straightened up in his chair. “I agree. News-wise, we are among the best. Financially – that’s another story.” He stopped her interruption with a raised palm. “We’re in the black but it’s not good enough for all the improvements we really need around here or for the salaries that, as you well know, haven’t been raised in three years. I’ve been talking to a newspaper syndicate.”
“You mean one of those supermarket tabloids with the lurid aliens are attacking headlines?” Her jaw dropped.
“No.” Matt smiled at her. “I’ve been talking with a representative of the Marshall Group from Florida. They are very interested in the paper. They’ve been checking our circulation, our reporting practices and our finances. They like what they see.”
“I bet they do!” She snapped. “They’d probably love to get their greedy little hands on a newspaper with power. They’d put their own people in charge, slant stories, and endorse political candidates, probably tap into phone lines and –”
“Casey, I said news syndicate, not crime.” He joked. “The Marshall Group would let us handle our own reporting affairs. They don’t want to change the staff or management. They would put some badly needed money into the paper and get it back through profits.”
“Sure that’s what they tell you and then—I think you’re crazy. You’ll lose control of the paper and the first thing you know the front page will be psychic predictions, UFO landings, giant insect invasions, or some other fool thing. I can’t believe you’re actually going to sell out.”
“It’s not a matter of selling out. It’s improving the quality of the paper, the quality of the reporting, and, damn it, I’m getting old!”
For the first time in a long time, Casey really looked at Matt Granger. Dark gray hammocks of flesh under his eyes were shockingly pronounced. The small lines etched on his forehead and his mouth were deeper than before. Despite the head of thick, dark hair and the trim, lean body, he looked older and more jaded than she had ever seen. She wasn’t the only person going through a crisis. Matt’s problems were taking a physical toll on him as well.
Casey sat back in the chair, her lips twisting thoughtfully. “Mike owns part of this paper. What does he say?”
Matt pulled open his top drawer, pulled out a paper and tossed it across the desk. “Read his email for yourself.”
Casey found herself frowning.
Dear Dad: I’ve been seriously thinking about your idea of turning the Annex over to a syndicate but still holding on to editorial control. I think it merits immediate and thorough negotiations with the head of the Marshall Group. They are highly respected and it would be a shame to let their initial interest go unchecked.
I’m glad to hear you’re spending the next three weeks at the villa. I pulled Greece for my term abroad. I’ll be enjoying the sunny Greek islands with eighteen students chomping at the bit to study Greek lit, classical archeology, and contemporary Greece for the next four months. I’ll forward some photos when I get there but internet and email access will be sketchy in most areas.
I’ll head for Boston after this for a rest. Ha ha. I may have a surprise for you, so watch out. Kiss Casey for me. Love, Mike
“So Mike’s all for it too?”
Matt nodded.
“You didn’t email him about your leg?”
“No.” He grinned. “Actually, I think it was Fate that made that tree jump out of nowhere while I was slaloming down Mt. Mansfield. Now I can spend my three weeks’ vacation negotiating a firm package with Marshall.”
“And waiting for Mike’s surprise,” Casey reminded him.
“That’s the part that worries me,” Matt said and laughed. “The last surprise Mike sent was that English teacher, George something-or-other, who was more worried about dangling participles and misplaced modif
iers than getting the facts of his story straight.”
“I remember him. Well, you might be lucky this time and find Mike’s latest surprise can do more than split infinitives. You won’t have much trouble filling my desk after all.”
“You are really serious about leaving?”
“Very.” Her teeth captured her lower lip nervously. “In fact, I’d like it to be today.” Casey put up a hasty hand. “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I’ve finished the last article in my series and I wrote a couple of shorter pieces to fill the gap for the next three weeks. I’m afraid if I don’t leave now, my newfound courage will desert me.”
“Then do me one favor.” At her quizzically arched brow, he smiled and handed her a blue and white packet. “Throw your summer clothes in a bag and take my place on flight five sixteen that leaves Sunday morning for Acapulco.”
“I can’t do that,” she gasped, pushing his hand away.
“Think of it as an early birthday present,” he told her. “Use the villa as long as you want. The freezer and pantry are well stocked, you can buy perishables in the village. The weather is in the eighties and you’ve got two good legs to walk the one hundred fifty steps down to the private bay for a swim.”
“This smacks of –”
“Favoritism.”
“I was thinking of another word.”
“Weren’t you the woman who was just dreaming of exotic locales, of casting your fate to the wind, of being unpredictable?” He accused.
“Well…yes.” She wriggled uncomfortably on the edge of the metal chair. “But I can’t afford –”
“I’m not charging you a damn thing, Casey. I think I have the right to give you this,” he told her bluntly. “Besides, you took care of all my responsibilities here and helped me at home while I was learning to navigate with this fifty-pound piece of plaster. Think of it –” his deep voice urged, turning every word into a caress. “—sugary white beaches, warm sunny days, cool nights, fragrant flowers. That’s Tecpan de Galeana, just forty miles from Acapulco by Juan’s taxi service or you can take one of the local buses and share your seat with a chicken.”
