The chain’s methodical skeletonizing of its newsrooms affected even Emma’s career trajectory. She was hired at the Union-Register as a copy editor and swiftly promoted to assistant city editor, with the promise of more big things to come. Then the editor of the Death page unexpectedly dropped dead of a heart attack. This happened while he was on the phone with an irate funeral-home proprietor who was complaining about an ill-worded headline that had appeared above the obituary of a retired USO singer (Mabel Gertz, 77, Performed Acts for Many GIs). The stricken editor expired silently and perpendicular, the telephone receiver wedged in the crook of his neck. Nobody noticed until an hour after deadline.
The next morning Emma was summoned to the city editor’s cubicle and informed that, as the junior member on the desk, she’d been chosen to “fill in” on the Death page. Thanks to previous staff departures, her new duties would also include the Gardening and Automotive sections of the paper. I think young Emma truly believed the city editor when he told her it was “a golden opportunity.” She also believed him when he said it was only a temporary move, and that she’d soon be back on the news desk, editing significant stories. Time passed but Emma didn’t make a fuss because she was a trouper, not a troublemaker. That’s changing, though, and I’m considering taking some of the credit.
“Abkazion didn’t want to pay for your plane ticket,” she’s telling me, “but I straightened him out.”
I’m impressed; Abkazion is a tough customer.
Emma says, “I reminded him what happened at Robbie’s going-away party, when he got bombed and pulled me into a broom closet.”
Robbie Mickelson was our environmental writer. He left the paper after it was decided the environment was no longer in danger, and his beat was eliminated.
“The broom closet? That’s pretty cheesy,” I say.
“I nailed him in the testicles with a bottle of Liquid-Plumr. He couldn’t have been more contrite.”
“You’re definitely getting the hang of middle management.”
We’re eating breakfast at an IHOP, of all places. The sight of Emma demolishing a tower of buttermilk pancakes has left me unaccountably enchanted. Everything she does, in fact, is downright fascinating. The way she folds one corner of the napkin, for example, before dabbing maple syrup from her lips…
“Jack, get a grip,” she says.
But it’s too late for that. I’m already in the barrel, and the barrel’s going over the falls. God help me, I’ve got a crush on my editor—the woman whom I vowed to outwit, demoralize and drive out of the newspaper business. My mission has been derailed by raw straightforward lust, and I couldn’t be happier.
Emma says, “It’s the story, Jack. You’re just jazzed about the story.”
“Jazzed.”
“High,” she says.
“I know what it means, and you’re wrong. If the story goes bust tomorrow, I’ll still—”
“Don’t say that. The story’s good.”
“Emma, what do you think is happening here?”
Pensively she taps her fork on the empty pancake platter. “I wish I weren’t your boss,” she says.
“And I wish you weren’t so elliptical.”
“There’s no mystery, Jack. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Here’s a modest proposal: We see as much as possible of each other, and screw ourselves delirious at least once a night.”
Emma groans. “Obviously you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“Call me an incurable romantic.”
“Try to be serious for a minute.”
“Seriously? Let’s go to Paris,” I say.
She smiles, which is vastly encouraging, but then says: “Jack, you were twenty years old when I was born.”
“Nineteen,” I shoot back. “What’s your point? And where are you going?”
“To work.” She comes around the table and kisses the top of my head, one of those sweet but contemplative pecks that makes you wonder if you’ve just been dumped.
“How can you leave me here?”
“Finish your sticky bun, old man,” Emma says. “You’re gonna need your strength.” Then she gives me a naughty double wink that knocks me off my pins. Life is pretty good, for the moment.
From the pancake house I drive directly to the county morgue. The contrast in ambience is not especially striking. Upon entering Pete’s office I find myself briefly alone with Karen, who gamely engages me in superficial conversation. Our lack of chemistry is so enervating that it’s hard to believe we once had a sexual relationship, much less an athletic one. It’s remarkable what two uninterested people can do in bed with each other when they set their minds to it. Turns out both Karen and I are doing well, staying busy, looking forward to some cooler weather, etc. We’re on the brink of boring each other comatose when I spot Pete at the end of the hall, and excuse myself none too smoothly. He leads me into a lab and closes the door.