Jan Burke - Dear Irene

“Just drop it.”

“Are you near your period?”

“No, Frank. Is someone pinching your balls?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Don’t be an asshole!”

He hung up. I slammed the phone down so hard, the casing cracked. I looked up to see Mark Baker a few feet away, trying desperately to stifle laughter. I stomped out of the newsroom, stringing swear words together under my breath. I went downstairs.

“Geoff, you know where I’ll be if anyone comes looking for me,” I said on my way past the security desk. I went down into the basement.

Geoff is a skinny old gem of a man, and he often looks out for me when I’m in hot water. He has known me for a dozen years, and that means he knows that when I need a break from the Express staff, I often go down to the basement to watch the presses run.

Danny Coburn, one of the press operators, smiled when he saw me, but quickly figured out that I needed to be given a wide berth. He let me go past him without doing more than handing me some ear protectors and saying, “Go on, just about to start them up.”

I knew my way through the maze of presses. I stood somewhere out in the middle of that web of machinery and wires and paper and ink. Just as Danny had said, they were starting up. Of course, the fact that I wasn’t really supposed to be there made it more enjoyable.

The growling start-up built into a roar, and I put the ear protectors on. Within a few minutes, the rumbling could be felt in the floor beneath my feet. The newsprint was moving faster now, flying past the place where I stood and weaving over, under, and between rollers. It came back up out of the presses in a blur, was cut and rolled and turned and folded. Knowing I’d never be heard over the presses, I hollered half a dozen obscenities at the top of my lungs. I breathed in the smell of the ink and the paper and felt better for it. I was at home there.

I have a fierce temper but I don’t usually stay mad for long. I know myself well enough to realize that one of my challenges in life is to keep it under control, to accept the fact that most of the things that make me angry aren’t worth the effort. It’s usually a matter of perspective.

But being engaged to be married does strange things to one’s perspective. Everything gets filtered through a sieve labeled “the rest of your life.” As I stood there watching the intricate network of paper and machinery do its work, I wondered if Frank and I could possibly overcome this particular obstacle.

There was an important principle being tested here, I told myself. As a reporter, I needed to be able to move among a wide variety of people – including unsavory characters. I didn’t believe I should be obliged to get Frank’s approval to talk to them. Frank’s protectiveness, so welcomed when I was injured, would suffocate me if it went too far where reporting was concerned. I needed him to trust me.

“No use asking anyone to trust you, Irene.” O’Connor once told me. “It’s like asking someone to love you. He either does or he doesn’t. The request doesn’t change a thing.”

The love I was sure of. The trust? Only a maybe. No matter what my sister had read while getting her nails done.

I looked up and saw Coburn waving me out from my hiding place. I took a deep breath and walked out to see why I was being summoned.

“Geoff says there’s someone here to see you,” Coburn shouted. I nodded and handed back the ear protectors. I glanced at my watch as I walked up the basement stairs. 9:30. Way too early for Kincaid. I reached the top of the stairs and Geoff motioned to me. I didn’t see anyone in the lobby.

“What is it, Geoff?”

“Detective Harriman is waiting to talk to you.”

“Look, Geoff-”

“I asked him to wait outside. Now, I ain’t so old I don’t see you two must have had a scrap of something – he don’t leave his police work to come down here all of a sudden-like just on a whim. It’s none of my business, but I’ve never seen you be a coward, Miss Kelly, so you better get on out there and talk to the man, or you’ll disappoint me.”

I had to grin. “Lord knows, Geoff, I can’t afford to do that.”

I went out the front doors and saw Frank leaning against the building, looking at the toe of one of his shoes like it held the secret of life.

“Crime on a coffee break in this town?” I asked.

“Hi.” He stood up straight, but didn’t come closer. Wise man.

“I’m under strict orders from Geoff to listen to what you have to say. Have you been bribing that old geezer?”

“No, but it’s a thought. I came down here to apologize. They told me your phone is out of order.”

I reddened a little, but held my ground. “I was just thinking about why you made me so angry.”

“Well, besides the fact that I insulted you, you probably think I don’t trust you.”

That floored me. I don’t know exactly why. He has this knack for getting to the heart of things that has unnerved me more than once. It’s a little disquieting to be with someone who can read you like a large-type book. I didn’t say anything.

He sighed. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. And I do trust you.”

“Do you? I could have sworn otherwise from the conversation we just had on the phone.”

He leaned back against the wall and went back to studying his shoe.

“Look,” I said, “I accept your apology. I owe you one, too. As for the trust issue, I guess we need to talk. What time will you be getting home tonight?”

“Late,” he said quietly.

He was unhappy and I knew it, but I fought the urge to say something just to make him feel better. This was too important. I repeated that to myself a couple of times.

“If you aren’t too tired when you come home,” I said, “let’s talk. I’ll try to stay up. Or wake me when you get in.”

“Okay, I’ll see you at home then.” He turned and walked off without saying another word.

Well, I had stood up for myself all right. Why did I feel so shitty?

I TRIED TO CRAWL UP out of my foul mood before Steven Kincaid arrived. He showed up a little early; I was still working on some notes, but I asked Geoff to send him up. I glanced up as he entered the newsroom, and noticed that every female within shouting distance was looking him over.

Then I noticed the men. Hostile doesn’t quite describe it. I expected to hear the cry of Tarzan any minute. It was apparently stuck in some newsman’s throat.

“Hello, Steven,” I said with a smile that was as much amusement at the general consternation he had caused as it was a welcome.

“Hi, Irene. I’m a little early.”

“O’Connor once quoted someone as saying that ‘the trouble with being punctual is that nobody’s there to appreciate it.’”

He shrugged and gave me a fleeting, disarming grin. “Evelyn Waugh said punctuality is the virtue of the bored.”

“I think I like that one better. But you don’t strike me as being bored.”

“No. Restless, I suppose. Who’s O’Connor?”

“I’ll tell you about him on the way to lunch. Do you mind a walk of about six blocks?”

He didn’t. I used the time to talk on and on about my old friend and mentor. It made me smile, but when I looked over at my companion, his brows were knitted in concern.

“You say O’Connor was killed?”

“Yes. He was murdered.”

“So you know what it’s like.”

I stopped walking. “Do you mean, I know what you feel like? I don’t. He wasn’t my lover, but he was a beloved friend. But if you mean, I know what it’s like to lose someone suddenly, violently… well, yes, I guess I do.”

He looked like he might break down right out there on the sidewalk, so I took hold of his hand and pulled him forward. “Come on, keep moving. It’s good for you.”