Rubout (16 page)

She sniffed and wiped her nose on a tissue. “How can they do this to me? I’ve worked hard for this
paper for twenty years. Now he’s turned on me. Charlie wants rid of me.”

Suddenly it fell into place. It didn’t make sense to have Louise work with computers—unless the
Gazette
wanted her out. Then it was a clever move.

“Why does the paper want to force you out?” I asked.

“Because I’m too old,” she said. And started crying again. “They want a younger image for the section.”

“Charlie said that?”

“Charlie wouldn’t bother talking to someone as unimportant as me. He had Smiling Steve do it,” she said, and started crying again.

Smiling Steve was assistant managing editor for scummy stuff. His official title looked better on a letterhead, but that’s what Steve did. He’d been second in command for three managing editors, including Charlie. He was an affable-looking man who would slice off your head while he smiled. Steve desperately wanted to be managing editor. He never understood that carrying out the company’s petty crimes barred him from the job he coveted. Great editors could commit great sins, but they couldn’t harass harmless secretaries like Louise. The publisher would no more promote Smiling Steve than he’d invite the guy who sprayed his place for roaches to dinner. Despite his fancy title, Steve was simply someone who did unpleasant but useful things.

Poor Louise had stopped crying and started talking again. “Steve stood by my desk with that smiley face of his. I knew he was up to something. He made small talk until I almost couldn’t stand it, I was so nervous. Then he said the paper was transferring me
to the morgue because I was too old to work in the Family section. Too old to answer the phone! You know what really hurts? I’m the same age as Smiling Steve.”

“Louise, he can’t say you’re too old. That’s against the law,” I said seriously. “I know a good EEOC lawyer. Please let me set up an appointment for you.”

She shook her head. Her shoulders sagged. Suddenly she did seem old. I’d never seen lively Louise look so defeated. “Francesca, I am too old to fight. You know my Bob has heart trouble. I don’t know how long I’ll have him here with me, and I don’t want to have our time together eaten up with a lawsuit. I can’t risk losing our health insurance, even if I won later. The
Gazette
got me. I’m transferred out of the only job I’ve ever cared about. Friday is my last day in this department. I start in the morgue on Monday.”

We both saw Wendy the Whiner coming down the hall. I couldn’t stand to talk to that woman, on top of everything else. I abandoned Louise and finally reached my desk after forty-five minutes of
Gazette
crises. I had a stack of letters propped up next to my phone. Thank God for my readers. My love life was dead and my job was insane, but my readers were delightful. They kept me going. I read some of the letters and laughed out loud. The best was from Muffy O’Toole. She had a hilarious story about how the family cat, Brownie, seized a chipmunk raiding a bird feeder on her back deck. Her toddler boldly went over and pulled the chipmunk away. The toddler and the cat got in a tug of war, and the chipmunk ran up inside the baby’s fashionably baggy
pants, like something in a Warner Bros, cartoon. Just like the cartoon, no one was seriously hurt. The cat was disgruntled, and the chipmunk lost the fur on the tip of his tail, but the tiny animal was back on the deck the next day, eating from the bird feeder. Muffy identified him by the bald spot on his tail.

The phone rang. It was Sonny, my biker friend, and he sounded unhappy. “Hey, Francesca, you got any news for us?”

“Still looking into things, Sonny.”

“God, I hope so. Francesca, you got to do something. The cops are thick as mosquitoes in a swamp. We can’t do nothing without running into one.”

“I need to find one particular person, Sonny, who’ll give me some information. I promise I’ll spend tomorrow tracking him down. Meanwhile, have you seen Jack?”

“Nobody has,” he said. “Jack’s skipped.”

I said good-bye to Sonny, but with a sinking feeling. If Jack didn’t show up to defend himself, he was going to stay on Mayhew’s list of suspects—and I wasn’t sure he didn’t belong there.

By the time I finished making phone calls and answering letters, it was past five o’clock. Time to go meet Monahan at Crusoe’s, a dark, newish bar with comfortable booths and a younger South Side crowd. Monahan was already there.

“Hi, doll,” he said, and waved me over to his booth. I didn’t mind Monahan calling me that. The man always sounded like a 1940s movie, but he believed women were equal at the office. I liked his attitude better than a lot of younger men who called me Ms. to my face but tried to keep me in my place.

Monahan was drinking blackberry cordial, a strange sweet drink for a war correspondent, but no one ever questioned his courage. The small glasses were lined up in front of him. I counted three. Not a good sign. I sat down and ordered a club soda, a burger with fries, and potato skins slathered with sour cream. Since I wouldn’t be seeing Lyle any time soon, I asked for extra onions on everything but the club soda. Might as well enjoy being alone.

“Cruella’s out to get me,” he said. Monahan wasn’t being paranoid. It was a fact. “Look at this.” He pulled out a
Gazette
memo. “I printed this out. I found it in her computer queue this morning, when I was looking for some extra medical columns.”

The memo was labeled “confidential” and addressed to Charlie. Peggy spent several paragraphs flattering Charlie. Then, after complimenting him for his good judgment in promoting her, Peggy got to Monahan. The memo said:

“What does she mean, she’s given you verbal warnings?” I asked.

“She told me I made two obvious mistakes. In one of my headlines, ‘condom’ was spelled ‘condum.’ In
another headline, ‘surprise’ was spelled ‘suprise.’ I don’t make mistakes like that. I told her she was nuts. You know my work, Francesca. I’m careful.”

“Yes, you are. Besides, you use spell check, so those kinds of errors are easily caught.”

“I think she’s adding those mistakes, but there’s no way I can prove it.”

“Yes, there is. I have a friend at the
Gazette
who’s good with computers. Jim can call up the audit trail and check it. It will show who is making these mistakes. Then, if it’s her, we’ll have proof she’s trying to ruin you.”

“She is. That’s exactly what she’s doing. I’d like to wring her fat neck . . . aw, shit, sorry, doll.” Monahan had squeezed the stem on his cordial glass in his anger and broken it. Purple liquid spilled on the tabletop. I grabbed some paper napkins and mopped it up. “Maybe I should go home and get some sleep,” he said. “I don’t feel so good.” He didn’t look so good, either. Monahan’s hands were shaking, and his skin was pasty white overlaid with cherry red. He was drinking too much and he looked sick. Maybe he was making the mistakes himself. I didn’t know, and I wouldn’t until my computer maven checked the audit trails. But I did know that Peggy was getting to Monahan. Something had to be done soon, or Monahan would give up.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll talk to Jim the computer expert tonight, before he goes on duty. He’ll find out if she’s adding errors. We’ll talk again tomorrow. How about a ride home? You look like you’re a little under the weather.”

“Thanks, doll, I need the walk,” he said. “I’m a lot
better now that I know I’m going to hear Cruella shriek.”

“Well get her,” I said. “Tomorrow, everything will be different.”

It was. For both of us.

T
he next morning, I was back at Uncle Bob’s for breakfast. I wasn’t going to have my usual this morning. I was going to eat crow, and I knew it would be tough. Marlene was not waiting with my scrambled egg and a side of sarcasm. Instead, she greeted me at the
PLEASE WAIT FOR A TABLE
sign with freezing politeness. “Would you like a table or a booth, ma’am?” she said, as if she didn’t recognize me.

“Marlene, I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” she said. “I don’t know who was in here yesterday, but she certainly was a touchy bitch. Wasteful, too. I threw away a perfectly good breakfast.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know that person, either, but I think she’s a real jerk and I want to apologize for her. Look, I acted badly. I know it’s no excuse, but I’ve just broken up with Lyle. This doesn’t
seem to be my week for getting along with anyone. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Marlene said, defrosting immediately. She could never stay angry for long. “Sit down and have some coffee. I can tell this is tearing you up. You look awful. What went wrong? I like Lyle. I thought you made a good couple, but it’s your decision.”

“He was pressuring me to marry him,” I said.

“Men are such romantics,” Marlene said. “Sleep with them a few times, and they want a commitment.”

I laughed. It felt strange, but good. “It’s a little more than that. He thinks I love my job more than I love him.”

“So? Men can get away with that. Why not women? Why shouldn’t Lyle be grateful that you work your ass off? You’d think he’d want a good provider.” I thought of Sydney, married to cold, hardworking Hudson, spending his money on useless things and chauffeuring their son on a lonely round of required activities. I didn’t laugh this time. “Somehow, I can’t see Lyle lunching on gin and lettuce at the Women’s Exchange and buying cute things for the house,” I said.

“And I can’t see you working less than ten hours a day. Ever. Hasn’t he realized that yet?”

“I’m not going to change,” I said. “Why can’t he accept me as I am? Lyle says the paper doesn’t love me, and all I’m doing is making it rich while the editors mistreat me.”

“So?” Marlene said. “All companies do that to their employees. Everyone knows that. At least everyone
who wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth, like Lyle. The point is—do you love your job?”

“I do, I do,” I said, and laughed, realizing I’d said part of the marriage vows. “I guess I
am
married to my job.”

“Who cares? Do you think you make enough money?”

“I could make more if I worked someplace sane. But I like the freedom I have, and that’s a good tradeoff. Management sucks, but my readers make putting up with the editors worthwhile.”

“Then you aren’t being taken advantage of,” Marlene said. “Maybe you and Lyle just need time to think things through.”

“He hasn’t called,” I said, trying to keep my voice from wobbling.

“And have you called him?”

“After what he said? I’ve got some pride.”

“Then you’re both taking time to think it over. That’s not bad. Meanwhile, I have a column idea for you. You know my friend Laurie?”

“The name’s familiar, but I can’t place her.”

“Perky little brunette. Used to be married to Mr. Family Value.”

“The guy who has those awful ads on late-night TV peddling insurance?”

The ads showed Mr. Family Value sitting stiffly on a blue-flowered couch in his South Side living room. He wore a cheap sleeveless shirt and a mustache that looked like a piece of brown shag carpet. The woman he called “my sweet wife, Susie” was posed nervously next to him, as if she expected the couch to be repossessed at any minute. A fat baby drooled happily in
her lap, until the end of the commercial, when the kid reached up and yanked Mr. Family Values mustache—something the whole city was dying to do.

Marlene intoned with a look of fake sincerity, just like Mr. FV, “Remember, you need value—Family Value—so you know your loved ones are financially safe. Put your family first. Give your family something to hold onto, owww!”

That was the best part of the ad, when the baby grabbed Mr. Family Value’s hairy mustache. I was sure that thing on his lip was a fake, until the baby pulled on it. It seemed obvious the kid wasn’t following the script, but Mr. Family Value’s ad agency must have talked him into leaving that bit in. They were right. The kid’s unscripted move made the ad wildly popular. It entered into the local folklore with other classic local late-night ads, right up there with “Wanda, the queen of carpet” sitting on top the Gateway Arch.

According to Marlene, sweet Susie was Wife No. 2. “He left his first family in the lurch. He walked out on Laurie and their two kids, so he could marry Susie, a woman he met at church—don’t you love it? He decided he didn’t want to pay child support, even though Laurie had a court order. The city is notoriously lax about enforcing those orders, and Laurie’s tired of having to pay her lawyer to get money that’s supposed to be hers. This morning, when his Family Value insurance office opens at ten, she’s going to do something about it. You might want to be there.”

It was nine forty-five. I paid my check and walked out to Ralph, admiring his sleek Jaguar beauty in the morning sun. We made it to Mr. Family Value’s in
surance office on Hampton, in the heart of St. Louis Hills, by nine fifty-five. It was in a neat yellow brick building from the late 1940s. St. Louis Hills was a section of St. Louis that had remained almost unchanged for half a century. The lawns were still neatly manicured. The redbrick houses were scrupulously cared for. On Sundays you could drive down the streets and smell the roasts cooking in the ovens. People here still had old-fashioned standards. They would certainly be shocked by the sight of tiny Laurie, in a pink shirtwaist and blue coat she must have stolen from June Cleaver, in front of the Family Value Insurance Office with a hand-lettered picket sign. “What about Family Value for your first family?” the sign said. “Mr. Family Value Owes $9,983.62 in child support for the children he abandoned.”