For All Their Lives

by Fern Michaels

  The black and white register said that TRI STATE NEWS was on the ground floor—101. The polished brass arrows pointed to the right. It seemed simple enough. The buzzer was loud and long. When the door opened, a petite redhead smiled. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Mary Ashley,” Casey said without a moment’s hesitation. “I have an appointment with Steve Harper at ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll ring him.” The redhead smiled. “Take a seat. I’m sure he’ll be with you in a minute. Would you care for coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” Casey looked around the small reception area. It was blinding. The walls were hospital white, the chairs black leather and chrome. The small round table was black lacquer with glossy, well-thumbed magazines and a white plastic ashtray sitting on top. Black and white pen-and-ink drawings of the New York skyline dotted the walls. The floor, when she looked down at it, made her dizzy with its black and white squares. She could see her reflection when she bent over. Obviously this was not a room for one to get comfortable in. Waiting rooms, as a rule, were restful places decorated in pale earth tones. This room made one’s eyeballs stand at attention. She couldn’t wait to get out of it.

  Casey felt a head rush when the shiny black door opposite her opened. The man who came through it was bigger than life, she thought, a giant with a Neanderthal face that would frighten little children. His eyes twinkled and his smile was engaging. One paw-like hand shot out. She’d seen tree limbs the same size as his arm. His voice was low and deep, just the way she thought it would be. She felt completely intimidated.

  “I’m Steve Harper. Obviously, you’re Mary Ashley. I like the name Mary. My mother’s name is Mary. I have a cousin and a sister named Mary too. Good name,” he said, bobbing his monstrous head up and down. “Come along, Mary. I bet you can’t wait to get out of this horror we call a waiting room. We decorated it this way on purpose so people wouldn’t want to hang out here.” He was through the door before Casey could get off the chair. She had to run down the long corridor to keep up with him. When he stopped, he actually created a breeze. Casey felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I don’t think I ever saw anyone as . . . tall as you,” she blurted.

  “Then I’ll have to introduce you to my father. Come along so I can go through the formality of interviewing you. You’ll be working for me, you know.” Casey nodded.

  Casey looked around the forty-by-fifty-foot room with a mixture of horror and awe. It seemed made of three ingredients: part circus, part jungle, and part Steve Harper. She walked around, careful not to disturb the sawdust on the floor. The longest wall of the room was dotted with real banana trees in huge tubs of dark brown soil. A chimp swung from tree to tree, doing flips and somersaults in midair before he secured his perch, all the while making ear-splitting sounds. He wore a red vest and a gold chain around his neck. The color matched the red plumage of the parrot who had her own perch between the last two banana trees. She squawked her disapproval as the chimp shimmied down the last tree to land on a crate of bananas in various stages of ripeness. The opposite wall was filled with colorful posters from Barnum & Bailey. There was a stuffed elephant, and a stuffed giraffe that had its nose pressed into a high wire, on which was a make-believe aerialist in pink tights and satin ballet shoes.

  The sound of a motor broke the stillness. Casey looked around wildly, aware that she was standing on a set of tracks that housed a motorized miniature car driven by a stuffed clown.

  “Watch this.” Harper cackled.

  Casey watched as colorful red balls shot up from the bottom of the car. The chimp scurried about trying to catch them, while the parrot screeched, either in happiness or misery.

  “It’s all mechanical,” he said, waving a small black box for her to see.

  She nodded before her eyes found the giant fish tank set amid flora and fauna on the smaller wall. Hundreds of fish swam about lazily in the warm, well-lighted water. The matching wall at the opposite end of the room held a small desk, a chair, and two filing cabinets, all of which were practically hidden behind a red-and-white-striped awning with colorful tassels. The miniature car still circled the room, red balls popping in every direction.

  “Well, what do you think?” Harper asked, his voice curious.

  “It’s . . . interesting,” Casey said honestly.

  “That’s the usual reaction. You see, I produce the Noonday News, which is depressing. Drugs, crime, murder, you name it. This is New York City, so we have it all. Don’t get me wrong. I like producing; it’s what I do best. But it gets to me, so this is, well, I guess you can call it my lair. By the way, the chimp is Izzy and the parrot is Gertie. Izzie can fetch, rub my feet, and he never leaves this room unless I take him on a leash, which I do twice a day. Animals need fresh air. You’ll be working in here. I’ll scrounge up another desk for you from somewhere.

  “All you need is a few of your own plants and a picture or two on the wall and it will seem like home,” Steve went on. “You’ll be doing mostly legwork and research. Later I’ll find an application for you to fill out.” He looked around vaguely, as though he thought it would materialize out of thin air. “Alan Carpenter told me pretty much what I need to know. Great guy, isn’t he? So, Mary Ashley, tell me about yourself.”

  She was on, as they said in show business. Everything she rehearsed on the way to the studio flew from her mind. She felt a warm flush creep up her neck into her cheeks. “I take direction well. I’m willing to learn, and I’m dependable. I don’t mind working late.”

  “No, no, I know all that. Tell me about you. You’ve seen who I am.” He waved his arm to indicate the room. “Tell me about Mary Ashley. What do you like? What are your hopes and dreams? What do you do when you get off work? Do you like to cook? We’re going to be working together, and it will help if I know something about you.”

  For some reason she wanted to tell this big, burly man the truth. She searched her mind for the facts Alan had written out for her. She spoke softly, her eyes on the twinkling ones assessing her. She wondered how she was measuring up. “I’m a fair cook. I’m partial to French food. I like kitchens and bathrooms. Decoratingwise, I mean. Someday I hope to have my own house with a yard, and a beautiful kitchen with herbs growing on the windowsill, and a hanging green plant in the window. Maybe a window seat so I can watch the rain. I like rain. Fog too,” she said with a catch in her voice. “I really like fog. Once . . . I . . . tried to catch some. I guess that sounds kind of silly.”

  Harper grinned. “Not to me it doesn’t. I try to catch it all the time. You’re talking to the biggest kid I know.”

  Casey smiled and immediately felt at ease. “I didn’t have . . .” She’d been about to say the happiest of childhoods, but that was part of her real background. This wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought. “Too many friends growing up. I tend to snuggle in at the end of the day. I haven’t really made any friends here in this city. I’m sure Alan told you I’ve been pretty much out of it for the past two years, since my accident. That will change, of course,” she said confidently. “I like music—the Beach Boys and the Beatles. As for my hopes and dreams, well, right now, I’m just glad to be alive. I hope to be the best at what I do, whatever that may be. As for dreams, I’ve found that dreams have a way of turning into nightmares. One day at a time is the way I’m living these days. If that bothers you . . .” She let the statement hang in the air.

  “Not at all. You don’t think I arrived at all this,” he waved his arms about the room, “overnight, do you? It took awhile. I think we’ll get on just fine. I’ve got to leave you now. I have to get the feed-in ready for the news. This is the busiest time of the day for us. I’ll introduce you to Danny, and he’ll show you the ropes. I do want you to watch the show today. You can stay, can’t you?” She nodded. “Alan explained about the salary and everything, didn’t he?” She nodded again. “We have a good benefits package,” he called over his shoulder. She
nodded again, forgetting Harper had his back to her.

  The rest of the day was a total blur. When Casey walked out of the studio at five-fifteen, she felt like she’d done a full day in a MASH hospital. In the taxi ride uptown to her new apartment, she leaned back and closed her eyes. All the new terminology she’d learned today ran together in her mind. She’d taken notes and had them in her purse to review later in the evening. She thought about all the people she’d met, all friendly, all hurried, all generous with their expertise. Steve was the executive producer, Morey Baker the producer. There were also directors, editors, a graphics chief, and assorted aides, at least a half dozen of them. She still didn’t know how everything was so synchronized. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing except the anchorman, Matthew Cassidy, who was a study in slow motion.

  The computer terminals confused her, as did the news wire-service printers. She’d never seen so many telephones in one area. She couldn’t remember now what a voice-over or a show-and-tell story was. What she did remember was that she didn’t like Matthew Cassidy. At all. Throughout the program, she kept one eye on him and one on the monitor. She thought him a stuffed shirt. Pompous, with an inflated ego. He was good, though, with the TelePrompTer; he hardly seemed to look at it. He really did appear to stare out directly at his audience. One of the aides told her the pages of copy he constantly turned over were just a precaution in case something went awry with the TelePrompTer. She probably could have handled Cassidy, and would never have given him a second thought, if she hadn’t overheard him say to one of the writers, “What is she, another one of Harper’s charity cases?”

  She’d fled to the bathroom and with shaking hands smoked a cigarette. That’s exactly what she was—a charity case. And she would remain a charity case until . . . what? Until she proved herself indispensable. Work hard, work hard, work hard, work hard, her mind shrieked as she paid off the taxi driver and headed for the elevator that would take her to her new apartment on the sixteenth floor. This was hers, compliments of Alan. As long as she paid the rent. In order to pay the rent, she had to keep her job.

  This was her first look at the apartment. She knew that the housekeeper and butler had brought all her things over in the morning and had probably unpacked them. The housekeeper and butler were staying on in the brownstone for a few extra days, according to Alan, to close up and put dustcovers on all the furniture. She assumed, although he hadn’t said, that they would join him in Spain. Where else would they go? They were old, and Alan did like his comfort. He wouldn’t look at it that way though. He’d want to take care of them. They’d been together for years and years. They all belonged together. She missed him already. She would miss him more in the days to come.

  She did look around now and was pleased with what she saw. The apartment was of a nice size, and if one didn’t look out the windows to see other windows and rooftops, it would be fine. The couches that formed a half circle were wheat-colored, deep and comfortable; the two recliners and ottomans on each side of the window overlooking the rooftops were the color of dark café au lait. A small entertainment center that held a television, stereo, radio, an assortment of books, and a deep brown center carpet completed the living room. It looked spacious because it was uncluttered. She closed the sheer basket-weave draperies, but could still see twinkling lights in the distance.

  The bedroom was neat, almost spartan, the only color added by a flowered spread and matching drapes. The floor was polished wood, the closet doors hung with mirrors. Again, no clutter of any kind. The second bedroom was empty and painted a soft shade of blue. The bathroom and kitchen were neat and clean, but archaic. The three security bolts on the entrance door pleased her. She was safe, cut off from the outside world, while she was here.

  She poked around, opening closets and drawers. There were blankets and linens in the closet, along with soap and cleaning supplies. The dresser held her personal things, the closet all of her clothes. Her luggage was piled on the top shelf of the foyer closet. In the refrigerator were juice, milk, eggs, bread, and coffee. The cabinet overhead was filled with soup, crackers, tuna, assorted canned vegetables, and several boxes of macaroni. On the kitchen table was a receipt for the garage rent as well as the keys to the new Mustang. Her bankbook showed a three-thousand-dollar balance and a note from Alan saying she could stay rent free for a full year. The note was to be given to the company that managed the building.

  Everything was taken care of.

  It was day one of Casey’s new life as Mary Ashley.

  Chapter 19

  VALENTINE’S DAY. HER real birthday.

  Casey looked around her jungle-circus-television habitat with watery eyes. She was almost used to the huge room now, after six weeks. She wished she had somebody to share the day with, somebody to talk to. Somebody besides Izzy, who perched on her desk with a fat red crayon and colored in his Maggie and Jiggs coloring book. Or Gertie, looking on with sharp eyes.

  Izzy was coloring within the lines now, thanks to her patience. He’d calmed down a lot since she moved in, bringing her Coca-Colas from the small refrigerator, depositing his banana peels in the trash instead of on the floor, and remaining always close to her. Together they watched the noon news so she could observe Matthew Cassidy. It was mandatory, Steve said, for her to familiarize herself with the on-camera show.

  Izzy didn’t like the dapper, slick newsman. The monkey hopped about, yanked at his ears, hid his eyes when the camera moved in for a close shot, and spit angrily when the effeminate-looking face smiled into the camera. Casey herself was reminded of a young shark with too many teeth. Whenever Casey grimaced or laughed at something the newsman did on camera, Izzy would hop on her desk, scratch his hairy belly, and screech. Then he would throw both long, hairy arms around her neck and kiss her wetly on the cheek.

  Izzy was her friend, her only friend. She would have taken him home with her at the end of the day, but Steve forbade it. Secretly, Casey suspected the producer might be jealous of her affection for the chimp.

  Casey looked at her watch. Five minutes to airtime, time to turn on the television. She pointed to the set and waited for Izzy to go through his usual routine. First he put the red crayon back in the coffee can, closed his coloring book, buttoned his tartan vest, then made his way to the set in the corner. He showed his teeth in displeasure when Cassidy appeared on the screen. Casey lowered her head to hide her smile. She raised her head when she heard Cassidy say, “Today over twelve thousand South Vietnamese troops who had gathered in the northern province of Quangtri crossed into Laos. Some were transported in the early phases of the attack by United States helicopters.”

  She hated to hear him discuss Vietnam. She knew his off-the-air views. She continued to listen, her eyes filling with tears. “Supported by American planes and artillery, thousands of South Vietnamese troops crossed into Laos in an attempt to cripple the line down the Ho Chi Minh trail.” His words were like a slap in the face, reminding Casey of all the letters and notes Mac had sent her from the trail.

  Cassidy’s voice droned on, and Casey’s tears dried. He did an update on the Los Angeles earthquake that killed fifty-one persons. From the quake he swung into a short bio of J. C. Penney and the effect his death would have on the sixteen hundred retail stores he’d founded. Before he signed off on the weather, he smirked into the camera and invited his listeners to Alexander’s on the sixteenth of the month, when he would judge a “hot pants” contest. Casey gagged. Izzy kicked the television before he turned it off.

  “The guy’s a jerk,” Casey muttered as she opened the brown paper bag she carried her lunch in. She set out a ham sandwich, an apple, two cupcakes, and candles. Izzy would get half the sandwich, half the apple, and a whole cupcake. Today was special. Normally, she didn’t share her lunch with Izzy, because he’d discovered the licorice sticks she kept in her drawer, and now he always refused other food until she handed one over. He was company; it was that simple.

  She felt relieved now that the
television set was off. She’d view it again later, right before she left work, and make notes. Now it was time for her lonely birthday party. She was lighting the candles on the two small cakes when Steve walked in. A flood of guilt raced through Casey as she wondered how she was going to explain the cake and candles.

  “Your birthday is today, Valentine’s Day?” Steve asked, his jaw dropping.

  “No.” The lie came to her lips so easily, she felt guilty all over again. “I stopped by the bakery this morning and they were giving them away. I thought . . . Izzy would enjoy the candle. . .”

  “I always thought it would be neat to have a birthday on a holiday,” Steve said boyishly. “Imagine being born on Christmas. Do you suppose you’d get double the presents or get left out?” he asked, his face full of concern.

  Casey laughed. Izzy blew out both candles. They watched as he peeled the wax paper from the cupcake. He stuffed the entire cupcake in his mouth, then clapped his hands. “Probably double. I’d want all of mine wrapped in Christmas paper though.” Casey smiled. “Red and green, silver and gold paper,” she said with a catch in her voice, remembering the past Christmas. “How about you, Steve?” They were friends now, on a first-name basis.