Mr. And Mrs. Wrong

Her favorite page was at the end. The banner headline of this special edition, from July 5, 1973, said:

Lucky Child Found Alive

She’d read the story so many times she knew it from memory. The reporter had written:

A three-year-old, who fell from a boat last night and spent more than five hours floating in the Black Warrior River, sustained only a slight case of hypothermia and no serious injuries, doctors at Riverside Community Hospital said this morning.

Erin Renee Mathison, youngest daughter of newspaper publisher Matt Mathison and his wife, Ruth, of 103 Brighton Street, was pulled from the river at 3:45 a.m. near the Gorgas steam plant on the Mulberry fork, some two miles from where she fell overboard.

The girl tumbled from her family’s pontoon boat at about 10 p.m. Monday while watching the Independence Day fireworks display with her parents, grandparents and three older siblings.

Sgt. Albert Cummings of the Walker County rescue squad said the child was wearing a life vest and had learned to swim as an infant. “But it’s a miracle she didn’t drown or get run over by the flotilla,” Cummings said, referring to the annual lighted parade of boats. “She’s one lucky kid.”

As she went by the frame, Lucky rapped lightly on the glass, something she’d done every workday as long as she could remember. Over the years she’d discovered that luck came in both good and bad varieties, and while her superstitious ritual might not help, it sure didn’t hurt.

Leigh’s office was next to the stairs, and she called out as Lucky passed. Lucky stopped, turned and stuck her head around the door frame. “What?”

“I’ve rearranged the front page for you. I need three or four shots.”

“Give me an hour and you can clip the negatives you want me to print.”

“What do you know about this? I need to put together a quick story.”

Lucky came in and gave her a rundown of the facts while Leigh typed them into her computer. They usually couldn’t cover breaking news with any success or compete with the big papers out of Jasper, Birmingham and Tuscaloosa. Aside from Leigh, they had only one other full-time reporter. Correspondents, called “stringers,” sent in news from outlying communities.

The Register carried in-depth features, follow-ups of events and local stories the dailies had no interest in pursuing. But often, like today, they had exclusive photos.

While other small newspapers were being swallowed up by chains or going bankrupt, theirs flourished because they gave readers news they couldn’t get easily anywhere else—names of hometown people serving in the military, the lunch menus for the schools, profiles of new people in the area. That meant residents subscribed to both a daily paper and the Register.

Their dad had been a good editor and publisher, but Leigh had a better instinct for what readers wanted. With input from Cal, who’d completed his master’s degree in marketing last year, Leigh had dramatically increased readership and profits.

Unlike the two of them or Shannon, Lucky hadn’t gone to college, but her photos helped keep them in the black, and she was proud of her contribution.

“That’s all I know,” Lucky told Leigh, finishing. “I wouldn’t print a name until you get it officially. I might be wrong. And I don’t know how long it’ll take them to notify family.”

“I’ll call before we go to press and see if we can release the name.” Leigh kept typing as she talked, reworking the information into a story. “If you get in a bind processing, get Cal to give you a hand. You can hold the rolls Eddie and I left. They’re for Wednesday. And the stuff you took for the food page.”

“Okay.”

“Whose case is the train accident? The Yankee with the fast feet?”

Jack, she meant. Leigh was the only one in the family who believed Lucky had made a mistake marrying someone she’d known for just a few months. Their parents, grandmother, Cal and Shannon were all crazy about him.

Leigh’s opinion about marriage was tainted by a rough divorce four years ago and lack of child support from her ex-husband. She didn’t even know his whereabouts. Most men were beasts, in her eyes, not only Jack, so Lucky didn’t take offense at her barbs.

“You can try Jack and see if he’ll give you what you’re missing,” she told Leigh, “but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“I’ll call the coroner. Jack still living in town?” she asked casually.

“For the time being. We’re working things out.”

“Uh-huh.” She stopped typing and turned in her chair. “If that’s true, how come you’ve been crying again this morning and look like death warmed over?”

Lucky took off her dark glasses, dropped her camera bag on the floor and sat down in a chair across from the desk. Nearly eight years separated her and Leigh, but despite that, they were very close. Lucky had never been able to hide much from her, not like with Shannon or Cal.

“I’m scared Jack and I are trying to repair something that can’t be repaired,” she told her, “and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Things aren’t going well, I take it.”

Lucky told her about the argument and her swap of the film, making Leigh roar with laughter. “It’s not funny,” Lucky said. “My marriage is going down the drain.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo, but I’d give anything to see his face when he finds out what you’ve done.”

“I’m sure you’ll get a chance. No doubt he’ll be in here later to raise hell.”

Cal walked through the door carrying doughnuts. “Who’ll be raising hell?” He extended the open box across the desk.

“Jack,” Leigh said, taking her usual lemon-filled.

“Big Guy? What for?”

“Lucky pulled a fast one on him.” She related the story. “You can run interference when he shows up, since you two are so chummy.”

Cal shook his head. “Oh, no, you’re not putting me in the middle of this.” He offered Lucky a doughnut, but she got a whiff of the sweet smell and declined, unable to hide her grimace. “Your stomach still bothering you?” he asked. “You look pretty green this morning.”

Lucky shook her head, stood quickly and grabbed her bag.

“Stomach?” Leigh asked. “I didn’t know you were really sick.”

“I’m fine. A little two-day virus or something.”

“Two days!” Cal said with a snort, opening his stupid mouth again. “You’ve been pukin’ for a week. You splattered all over one of my best shirts.”

“That was your fault, goofball. You shouldn’t eat tacos for lunch and then breathe on people.”

“Ha, ha. Seriously…you need to go to the doctor and find out what’s wrong. You’re hunched over the trash can or running to the bathroom nearly every time I see you.”

Leigh’s eyes widened and an unspoken question passed between the sisters. Rather than answer, Lucky looked away.

“Go have a checkup,” Cal added. “I’m worried about you.”

Lucky gave him a soft punch in the arm. “You’re sweet to worry, but I’m feeling much better now. Whatever I had is going away.” She backed toward the door. “I’d love to stay and gab all morning, but I’ve got a ton of film waiting for me, so I’d better get to it. See you two later.” She turned and hurried out the door and up the stairs before Leigh could question her.

In the darkroom she put on an apron and a new pair of long rubber gloves. She made sure her skin was covered and the vent open, then mixed the chemicals. She’d only gotten as far as getting the developer in the film tank before Leigh banged on the locked door.

“Let me in, you rascal. I want to talk to you.”

“I’m busy. Go away.”