Page 6 of Demo
Carl stands up, smoothes the front of his jacket, and steps around his chair. “Ms. Armstrong,” he says as he reaches across Cherice’s desk and shakes her hand. “Ms. Mitchell,” he says as he shakes mine. “I’ll see you two in a couple days.” And he leaves the room.
I turn back to look at my editor. She already has a hand extended toward me with a piece of paper in it. I can tell by the logo on it that it came from the mayor’s office. I take it slowly from her hand.
“This came in today. Apparently, the city plans on buying an old lot on the south side and making it a headquarters for the city police on this side of town, and …” She shoves a second piece of paper toward me. This one is a half-sheet that has been torn out of a notebook. It has just a telephone number on it. “I got a call from someone who suggests the mayor will get a hefty campaign contribution from the chief if he goes along with the plan.”
I look up at her face for the first time since our exchange began. She looks tired today. “Itisan election year,” she says.
“It’s always an election year,” I add, as I glance back down at the papers in my hand.
Cherice sighs, closes a folder on her desk, and looks back up at me. “That’s all I have for you. Go. Skit.” She waves me away.
I get up slowly and head for the door but pause with my hand on the doorknob. “Cherice,” I begin. “About the King case … Maybe I could do some sort of follow-up piece. Talk to—”
“No, Lyzbeth, you’re fine. You did what was required of you. Mr. Phillips was right. The Kings are just grieving. We’ll get it sorted out.”
“Right,” I say. “OK.”
I make my way to my cubicle and see my desk is buried beneath paperwork and little sticky notes. As I start to sift through it all, I hear a coworker pipe up.
“Hey, Lizzie! Catch any bad guys recently?” Our most junior reporter, Zack, swivels around in his chair to face me. His black, thick-rimmed glasses nearly hidden by his too-long black hair, which looks funny on his skinny frame.
“Yeah, actually. I chased one down and tackled him to the ground. Didn’t I, Monty?”
A grunt comes from the photographer’s corner, and we all chuckle.
George waves me over to his desk, which is a disastrous zone of papers and wrappers and award-winning clips.
“Listen, Liz, before you dive into whatever it is you’re working on, could you fill me in on Alderman Benjamin Sanchez? I’m working on a piece about repurposing one of the old Kodak properties, and I’m trying to track his voting record.”
I pull my chair over to the silver-haired man wearing corduroy pants and a denim shirt and explain. It’s a while before I’m able to start on my own story, and when I finally put all the pieces together, it is just starting to get dark. Dee is closing the front office and the only other people left in the building besides us are Zack and a janitor.
Oh, and probably EJ, the graphic designer who lays out the newspaper. He sneaks in later in the day and usually stays holed up in a separate room in the back, headphones on, while he places the stories and photos and designs the newspaper before sending it to a proofreader who works offsite, who then sends it to the printer.
I’m fairly certain EJ is not actually his name. He’s a veteran, close to thirty, and jacked as all hell. EJ is a man of few words, but he’s a gentle giant. And he’s great at what he does. So what if he just wants to keep his head down? Either way, I’m pretty sure he’s back there.
“Hey, lady! You need a ride home tonight?” Dee calls from the front of the office.
“No, Dee, I’m good, thanks. Just filing my story now, then I’m calling it quits.”
“You gonna make it home before dark?” Her question isn’t unusual, since crime has gotten worse in the city with every passing day.
“I’ll be fine. Seriously, I’ll be leaving in like, five minutes.”
“It’s your funeral.”
What Dee doesn’t realize is since Knox and I separated, I make my way through this city—in daylight and in darkness—by myself.
We’re still married. Neither of us has said the “D” word, yet, but I don’t really know where we’re headed.
I do know I fucking hate him. Sometimes I wish he were dead so I wouldn’t have to spend one more second of my life thinking about him or us or what’s next. When will I run into him? Who is he with? What is he doing?
My mind stays on my husband as I finish my work and head out to my car, then make the quick trip home.
I hate how he took up too much room on the couch, long legs spread out while he mindlessly adjusted his balls. I’m thankful I no longer trip over his work boots when I walk in the door. And I’m definitely happy to not be washing endless loads of laundry made up entirely of sweaty undershirts and filthy work clothes, most boasting his dad’s Mitchell & Sons logo.
I don’t miss the way his eyes would lock with mine anytime I said “I’m fine” when I definitely wasn’t, because he always knew when I wasn’t. He still knows.
I make it the several blocks to the apartment Knox and I have been living in while his family and work buddies finish the house we’re having built. The house was supposed to be finished by now, but between insufficient funds, time lapsing faster than a burning match, and the shitstorm that has become our life—no, our lives,separate—the home we were supposed to be in by now is still only a frame Knox has constructed from a design I helped dream up.
