Just One of the Guys

“Master’s in journalism from Columbia. Very impressive,” Pen smiles. I acknowledge my stellar education with a modest nod. Where I went to school doesn’t matter. Lucia will hate me regardless. Penelope warned me about Lucia at my interview lunch. She said that I was by far the most qualified candidate they’d had, and that Lucia would be fighting mad. Pen went on to confide over her third glass of wine that she’d once made the mistake of letting Lucia write a features article. This was well before my time, and it never actually ran but Penelope showed me the piece…ten thousand words, a novella, really, on Mrs. Kent, who won first prize at the county fair for her German chocolate cake.

“Features with substance. I like that.” Alan lifts an eyebrow suggestively, his lip raising enough for me to get a glimpse of The Tooth. I look away.

“What else have you got?” Penelope asks.

Lucia’s ruby-red lower lip sticks out obstinately as I continue. “We need to focus on hyperlocal stories,” I say. “Papers all across America are watching subscriptions fall. People can get news anywhere—CNN, Internet, even on their phones—so we have to offer Eaton Falls readers stories they can’t get anywhere else. I think people want to read more than cutesy features or stuff pulled off the AP wire. And of course, all of this will be on the Web site, too, which I’ll be beefing up considerably.”

Lucia snorts.

I smile at her, which makes her scowl even more. “I know, Lucia,” I say, hoping to placate her. “It’s a paper first and foremost. But if people aren’t reading it, then let’s get them to go to our Web site, which is sponsored by our advertisers. It only makes fiscal sense.”

“Great, Chastity,” Penelope says. “This is why we hired you.”

“Obviously, we have to do a piece on the Resurrection for Easter,” Lucia announces, not placated.

“Maybe a piece on the town egg hunt and some local traditions, but no, we’re not doing a story on the Resurrection. That’s not news, Lucia,” I state firmly. “That happened almost two thousand years ago.”

Lucia’s mouth drops open. “Penelope!” she protests. “She can’t—”

“I’m going to defer to Chastity here, Lu,” the boss says, lovingly stroking her mole. “Let’s move on. Angela?”

Angela, a soft-spoken, gentle-faced woman about my age, has been sitting silently throughout the discussion. “Well,” she says in a near-whisper, adjusting her glasses, “Callahan’s is opening tomorrow, so I’ll review that. I’m doing low-fat Easter favorites for next weekend. The nutritious school-snacks column is featuring…”

I try to pay attention as Angela details the asparagus bisque recipe she hopes will dazzle our readers. Though I’m not much of a cook, I do love to eat, and all this talk of food is making me hungry. And while Angela carries the title of food editor, she will answer to me, and her recipes and advice will give our readers another reason to check out our food Web page, which can carry more information than the Thursday edition of the paper.

After our meeting is done, I get to work calling the freelancers the EFG uses, introducing myself, checking the town calendar for events I should go to, chatting up the nice lady at the chamber of commerce. I edit a piece for our next edition, then, glancing at my watch, decide I have time to extend the old olive branch.

I grab my backpack, check my cell phone and go over to Lucia’s desk, where she is busy filing. “I hear you’re engaged, Lucia.” It’s my peace offering, and it works.

She is more than happy to rant and rave about the stresses of being engaged for the next ten minutes. “So anyway, I told the florist that I didn’t care what was in season! Teddy—my fiancé?—I call him Teddy Bear, isn’t that cute? Anyway, he loves sweet pea. He just loves it! I have to have sweet pea! He wanted it mixed in with baby’s breath? So beautiful! In these little bowls? And candles? And here was this stupid florist, telling me I couldn’t have sweet pea? I don’t think so!”

I force a smile, nod and glance at my watch, wondering if all brides are this psycho, and if all grooms are invested in centerpieces as Ted. Sounds like…well. I’m the one who was mistaken for a lesbian, so what do I know?

“Well, I’d love to hear more, but I’m doing an interview. Should be back before five, okay?”

“Fine,” she snaps. Apparently, it will take more than a feigned interest in her wedding for us to become friends.

It’s a lovely, warm day. The pale green leaves are just about edible, and I stop for a moment to look to the hills as well, a smile coming to my face. Most of the buildings of the downtown area were built at the turn of the last century and exhibit a grace and attention to detail that would be considered too costly for a design today. Brick or limestone, most are only four or five stories tall, with all sorts of cunning detail and gilt painting. Little alleys run off the main street like tributaries off a river, and a wave of affection washes over me. I love Eaton Falls. I love being a journalist. I’m so glad to be back. This is a new phase of my life, and I’m determined it will be a good one. True adulthood. A home, a dog and soon, hopefully, a boyfriend/fiancé/hubby/father of my strong and attractive children.

I walk the three blocks to the new toy store, conveniently located next to Hudson Roasters. I pop into the coffee shop, order two tall lattes and, as my stomach growls, a cheese danish, then take my bags next door to Marmalade Sky.

“Hello,” I call, pushing open the door. It’s very cute inside. Toys…well, obviously…puzzles, Legos, stuffed animals, all in a cheerful, crowded atmosphere. “Kim? It’s Chastity O’Neill from the Gazette.”

A heavyset young woman wearing a brown denim jumper comes out of a door toward the back. “I’m Kim Robison. It’s so nice of you to come!”

Kim’s interview had been scheduled by my predecessor, and I’d decided to take it myself. Her toy store opening is just the sort of soft news that I’ve been looking forward to covering, a far cry from the urban heartbreak of Newark that I’d been immersed in for the past five years.

“I brought you a latte,” I say, holding out the cup.

“Oh, you’re so nice,” she smiles. “Sorry, though. I can’t have any.”

Probably one of those green-tea types, I guess, judging by her rather crunchy look. Kim invites me to sit in the reading area at the back, surrounded by glossy picture books, classic Pooh figures, and a mobile shaped like a ship with rainbow sails. I take out my notebook. “So, Kim, how did you come up with the name Marmalade Sky?” I ask.

“It’s from the Beatles’ song.” She smiles, shifting in her chair.

I pause. “The LSD song?”

“No,” she answers. “‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’”

I pause. “Uh…that’s the LSD song.”

Her face falls. “Oh, no,” she says. She thinks for a moment. “Oh, for God’s sake. Of course it’s the LSD song.”

I laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t put it in the article. Okay, next question. When did you become inspired to own a toy store?”

“I guess when my sister had her first baby,” Kim says. She talks about her love of children and their vast imaginations. I smile and nod as she talks, sometimes mentioning one of my eight nieces and nephews. Kim smiles often, her plump apple cheeks bunching attractively as her glossy hair swings. “See, Chastity,” she says, leaning forward, “when you give a child the right toy, you’re giving them hours of fun and creativity and imagination, almost giving them the key to…their own…”

“To their own world?” I suggest, scribbling away. She doesn’t answer. I look up.

Kim rises awkwardly out of her chair and stares down at her ample stomach. “I think my water just broke.”

My head jerks back, and my stomach drops as if I’m on the express elevator in the Empire State Building. “You’re—you’re pregnant?” Not heavyset. Not chubby or plump. Pregnant. Crap. Some journalist I make.

“Yeah, I’m…ooh! Yes, that’s water breaking.” She lifts the hem of her long dress and examines her ankle. “Oh! Oh, boy. Yup, it’s started.”

In response to those words, my own water breaks—sweat. I am suddenly drenched in sweat, from the soles of my feet right to my scalp. Because even if I’ve never seen a baby born, I know how it goes. Pain. Screaming. Blood. Gore. “Uh-oh,” I choke out. My throat slams shut, and I can’t seem to breathe. I raise a shaking hand to push my hair off my face, pictures of bloody afterbirth flashing through my mind.

“Um…can you…can you just call my husband for me?” Kim sinks back into the chair, takes a deep breath and rubs her abdomen.

“Are you…um…are you…” There is a watery stripe of blood on her bare ankle. Don’t look. Too late. Don’t look again. Stop looking. “You’re bleeding,” I say in a hoarse whisper, tearing my gaze off her ankle and pointing in the vague direction of her foot.

Kim glances at her ankle. “Oh, they say that’s normal.”

I swallow repeatedly. “Oh.”

“Do you mind?”

“What? Do I mind what?” There’s a buzzing in my ears, and Kim sounds very far away. Stay with it, Chastity! She needs help!

“Can you call my husband? He’s number one on speed dial. My cell phone is in my bag behind the counter.” She breathes in deeply and exhales with a long shushing sound, rocks back in her chair.

I force myself to stand, though my knees are buckling. How can they buckle just because of a little bl—red stuff? I can run five miles without breaking a sweat! I lurch over to the counter, fumble for her bag and dump it out. Keys, wallet, sunglasses, tissues…“I can’t find it!” I call, my voice rough. I order myself to stay calm. Myself doesn’t listen. The panic is rising like icy water, and I do in fact feel close to drowning, my breath coming in labored gasps. “Your phone! Where’s your phone? I can’t find the phone!”

“It’s right in the…oh, man…” She takes a deep breath, then releases it slowly. “Ooh! A contraction! It’s in the side pocket.”

“Side pocket, side pocket, side pocket.” I can hear myself distantly. Easy, Chastity, easy…breathe, breathe, breathe. I can’t faint. I want to, apparently, but I can’t. I have to help this lady. What if that blood means something bad? Someone will have to help her. Someone like me, for example, since I’m the only person here. Renewed terror zips through my veins. I can’t get enough air and I’m hot and cold at the same time and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “Are you sure blood is normal?” I squeak.

Kim straightens up in her chair to look at me as I rifle through her bag. “It’s okay,” she assures me. “The blood is just from my cervix dilating. Perfectly natural.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then smiles at me. “They say it will take a long time, even from when your water breaks. The baby won’t come for hours. Maybe not even until tomorrow.”