Semblance Of Guilt

Escape A sharp pain from the nick in her chest jolted Ellen from her numbing inertia. She moved quickly from Sophia’s room, feeling the tears coming, holding them back, postponing them as she ran silently down the hall. She descended the steps with blazing deliberation, her pace quick and even, her focus on reaching the front door and disappearing into the sheltering night. She could feel her eyes, static-wide in bewildered alarm, betraying her attempt to appear in total control. Still, she focused straight ahead, concentrating on her goal, hearing her friend Anna call her name but moving through the sound, pacing herself to simulate haste without flight as she sliced through the clear zone of the foyer and pushed open the storm door. Midway across the porch she collided with an incoming guest, all pearls and black silk, the woman’s staccatoed “Shit!” like a gunshot in an open field of combat. Picking up speed, she hurtled down the bluestone drive, anticipating the sound of the engine starting up even before she could spot her car. Eight Weeks Earlier 1 “Whatever you do, don’t delete the Mrs. Federman,” Ellen Davis announced, dropping her Around the Town column onto the managing editor’s desk. “It would break her heart. She threw a bash on her ninety-fifth birthday, even had a man doing card tricks.” “She could have a man and shuffle cards at the same time? Damn limber for a woman her age. Sorry.” Lew Wexler gave a helpless shrug, obviously unrepentant. “Any other stipulations?” “Not any more,” Ellen said, with a smile of forbearance. “Coffee, then.” The editor rose from his chair and headed to the table against the wall where the automatic brewer was shining its “ready” light. Joining him, Ellen instinctively fell into her long-playing role of helpmate by dislodging two Styrofoam cups from their stack and filling each of them with coffee. She was about to hand Lew his, but decided instead to take another of her small but symbolic steps toward individuation. She stirred a spoonful of powdered cream into her cup and raised it to her lips, leaving him to fend for himself. Lew straightened his back, his narrow chest expanding to fill out his cotton knit shirt. He lifted his cup of steaming black coffee in the manner of a toast and took a cautious sip. At five-four Ellen was accustomed to looking up into men’s faces, but even in her sneakers she was the same height as Lew, making eye contact with him difficult to avoid, especially at such close range, which was when he sought it most. Her gaze swept down his pear-shaped body and halted at his left foot. “Any special assignments?” “Girls’ varsity tennis a three-thirty over at the high school. Tomorrow night at eight the rookie contingent of the Joffrey Ballet will be tripping the light fantastic in the junior high auditorium. Also, an interview with a new couple in town—the Clarkes. Get their phone number from Subscriptions. Mr. Clarke came in ostensibly to order one, but pumped me for info on all things local. They moved into the old Halsey house and are apparently gung-ho on integrating into our suburban haven. He’s on staff at Columbia University, but decided to settle down in Westchester, away from the madding crowd of Manhattan. Good candidates for your column.” Ellen nodded and accidentally looked up, right into Lew’s receptive brown eyes. To busy herself she took another few sips of her coffee, the hot drink only making the stuffy room more uncomfortable. It was obviously management’s policy to turn off the air conditioning system according to date rather than prevailing weather, without allowing for beach days in October. “That it?” “Don’t forget to pick up the weekly police data.” He winked, as if the suggestion of crime provoked unsavory ideas. “You’ll have it Monday afternoon,” she said, matter-of-fact, pretending not to have noticed. “Good. Now, how about that dinner at my place?” He gave the contents of her T-shirt and blue jeans a quick proofread. “Tonight, maybe?” She couldn’t very well tell him she didn’t care for his personality or the shape of his ass. “I’m not ready for the dating scene yet,” she said, which was also true. “C’mon,” Lew urged. “It must be ten months you’ve been separated, two as a free agent. When will you be over your period of mourning?” Ellen smiled uncomfortably at this review of her divorce. “I’m not ready,” she repeated softly, but with more conviction. In an unexpected display of concern, Lew tenderly touched her forearm. “You know, Ell, you were a godsend to The Greendale Chronicle,” he said, in what must have been his best hospital voice. “Thank you,” she mumbled, confused at being hurtled from the singles bar to the Intensive Care Unit. “I guess you guys were desperate to hire anyone,” she added with forced levity in an attempt to find some middle ground. “I mean, after two of your reporters—what was that, twenty percent?—of your staff, quit.” “You kidding? I consider us damn lucky to have snagged you. In the eight hours a week you spend in the office, you manage to do almost as much revision work on our weekly rag as a full-time editor. Plus you do a bang-up job as writer slash reviewer. You’re a natural, Ellen. A cub reporter who takes on the lion’s share.” “Thanks, but you had nothing to go on when you hired me,” Ellen said, squirming from Lew’s hyper-enthusiasm. “Of course we did. You did a super job on your trial assignment, your coverage of the—“ “Eighth grade’s adaptation of South Pacific.” She placed her cup on the table. “Of course. That, and your resume.” “My resume consisted of nothing but my B.A. and my job as my husband’s office manager.” Lew shifted his weight nervously. “Well, it was the longevity of the job.” “Fourteen years. Proving my reliability. Except I didn’t get a letter of recommendation because I didn’t give him two weeks notice—‘Well,’ I asked him, ‘just how much notice did you give me?’” She felt like a standup comic prattling on after the routine had flopped. “He still calls me with questions on how to encode his insurance carriers. I could give him the wrong answers and ruin his practice, but then he couldn’t keep up with the alimony. Besides,” she added, embarrassed by her breach of long-standing loyalty and annoyed with herself for providing Lew with so much personal information, “he’s one hell of an ophthalmologist.” She hadn’t quite gotten the hang of juggling the bitterness with the sadness, or where to draw the line publicly. Kevin had moved out of the house and in with his surgical nurse without leaving Greendale, where he also practiced, and sometimes she imagined the whole town was feeling sorry for her and she had to prove she was unharmed and still laughing.