Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [6]
Aaron has inserted a couple of editing questions easy enough to answer, so I set about doing just that.
That’s when I hear his clomping cowboy boots coming up behind me. He’s got a press release in his hand. I can see “For Immediate Release” from here.
“Hi, Michael, listen, I need you to get to a press conference at the university this morning, it starts at nine, sorry for the late notice.”
I turn back to my screen. “I need to reach Henning for comment on the election. He said he’d talk to me this morning.”
“We’ll have to go without it. The university is making an announcement, potentially funding cuts, or maybe someone important is quitting.”
Useless to argue. Our education reporter took the buyout last month. This might be an intern job, except the intern is already at the police station finding out who got killed overnight.
I sigh and hold out my hand for the release. As he gives it to me, Aaron says, “Oh, did you check out that rumor about a new strip club?”
“Yes, and it’s officially bullshit, like I told you.” I don’t bother to conceal my irritation, and Aaron ignores it as he stomps back to his own desk. Now that anonymous online forums are part of the paper’s Web site, some of the local cranks have taken to posting rumors, meaning I have to waste my time chasing them down, proving them wrong, wondering all the while how small-minded nameless trolls hiding behind keyboards became so important.
After polishing up my election story, I was supposed to spend the day analyzing building code enforcement violations for a series I want to do on housing blight and gentrification in the city.
I was supposed to do a lot of things.
I’m trying to read the release, but my snapshot of Casey distracts me. I don’t have time to think about her now, so I turn my back to my desk, facing the center of the newsroom as I try to read between the lines of the press release and guess the announcement.
Still can’t think. Angel’s voice is in my head, telling me this morning something is “up” with Casey. Then she stared hard at me. I only caught a glimpse of her look, because I was watching the road, but I could feel her turned toward me for long moments. Can she detect the distance between Casey and me these days? If so, it’s not a stretch to imagine that she’d be glad of it.
Last weekend Mallory took the kids, and we’d planned to cook a nice dinner for ourselves at home—going out costs too much, but I told her I’d light candles in the dining room and put on music. The conversation kept circling back to the kids, and Casey turned prickly and defensive at my gentle suggestion she was taking it all too personally. And in the midst of it all, Mallory found reasons to call me three times.
I’d hoped to fall into bed with Casey right after dinner and stay there, only she got up to clear the table and filled the sink with hot water and washed every dish. By hand, ignoring the dishwasher.
Watching her do that, her face locked in a resigned grimace, a look I recognized as Casey fighting back tears, twin geysers of sadness and anger erupted in me. I grieved for our vanished affectionate companionship, and was simply pissed that she chose to wash the fucking dishes instead of coming to bed with me.
My e-mail dings, and I reflexively look. It’s a staffwide e-mail. Groans roll through the newsroom like a wave. Four o’clock staff meetings never bode well.
My cell phone goes off as I find the first blank page in a notebook, marking the spot with a paper clip. I scribble “Univ. press conf.” on the top line.
“Hello.”
“Michael, it’s your father.”
“I’m at work.”
“We’re having lunch today, are we not?”
I hadn’t even looked at my planner