Jan Burke - Bloodlines

He was alive. Recovering. I said this to myself whenever some insistent fear for him pushed its way into my thoughts. I said this to myself a lot.

I had an assignment that day, too, to cover a school board meeting. There are not many assignments that are lower level than school board meetings.

Despite delays at the doctor’s office, I managed to get my dad back home before I needed to leave for the meeting. But the woman we had hired to care for him while I was at work called in sick. It wasn’t the first time, and I wondered if I should just tell her not to bother coming back. The thought of going through the interviewing and hiring process again was so daunting, I put off making any plan of action for seeking a replacement for her.

I called my older sister, Barbara. She wasn’t home. I reached her answering service-she has a business as an interior decorator. I left a message.

My father’s voice, once so strong, able to command anything, called to me as not much more than a whisper. I hurried to his bedside.

“Barbara won’t come here,” he said. “It’s because of your mother.”

“Mom died twelve years ago. That’s not much of an excuse for Barbara.”

“Your mother died of cancer. Barbara’s scared. Don’t judge her so harshly.”

“You think I’m not scared?”

“Oh, you are,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry for that.”

“Dad- I didn’t mean to say…”

“Hush. You’ve got more Kelly in you,” he said, taking my hand, “so I know you’ll be all right. That’s why I called you.”

We sat in silence. Probably nothing else in this life had cost my father’s pride more than asking me to come back home from Bakersfield. That gave me some idea of how frightened he was himself. I swore a silent oath: I would stop bitching about Barbara to him.

“I’m just going to sleep,” he said. “Don’t worry about me. You go on to work.”

“Dad, it’s only a school board meeting-”

“It’s your job. Go.”

Able to command anything, even at a whisper.

“Call the paper if you need to reach me,” I said.

“I will. I promise.”

But just before I left, he got sick to his stomach again. He had managed to get out of bed, so the bedding was okay. I helped him change into new pajamas and cleaned up the floor. I didn’t want to go, but he insisted that the next time he was sick he wouldn’t be such a damned fool, and he’d use the plastic basin on his nightstand instead of trying to get up.

“Go on, now,” he said, “do your work. I’ll die of guilt if you stay here.”

“Don’t talk about dying. Not from anything,” I said.

“Go.”

So I hurried to the meeting. I will admit that it did not hold my interest. My thoughts wandered to my own worries. I did manage to grasp the main issues under discussion. I rushed back to the paper.

I thought of calling my dad, but if he was asleep, I didn’t want to wake him.

I called Barbara. I got the answering service again.

My father and I knew that Barbara would be fairly useless in this sort of crisis. Neither of us had expected her to develop an ability to vanish that would be the envy of a magician.

I wrote the story about the school board as quickly as I could. I got it in just before deadline. I went home.

My father was sick all night long. I dozed off on a chair in his room sometime before dawn.

Barbara never returned my calls, but just as I finished dressing, I heard a car pull up in the drive. I looked out the window, expecting to see her Cadillac.

Instead, I saw a cherry red ’68 Mustang convertible. The woman who got out of it looked with disdain at the car next to hers in the drive-my Karmann Ghia. Her long gray hair was plaited into a thick braid. She wore blue jeans and an embroidered denim shirt.

My father’s aunt, Mary Kelly. I felt myself smile.

I opened the door and said, “What’s a night owl like you doing out and about so early?”

“Why haven’t you come by to see me? Never mind-I know the answer to that. Are you late to work?”

“Not yet.”

“Patrick called me last night, told me his helper was sick. I thought he meant you. Glad to hear it was just that other one. I don’t think she was good for him, anyway. Why don’t I take over for her?”

“Mary, that’s generous of you, but-”

“But nothing.” She looked me directly in the eye and said, “I want the time with my nephew. Patrick is dear to me.”

“I know he is,” I said, returning the look. “But you argue with him.”

“Of course I do. He needs someone to argue with-he’s a Kelly.”

“Not now he doesn’t.”

“Irene. Are you going to stand there and tell me that in the weeks you’ve been home, you haven’t argued with him once?”

She had me there.

She smiled and said, “Thought so. You can trust me not to do him harm, Irene. You know that.”

“Yes, I do. Thanks, Mary. If it’s okay with Dad, I’d certainly appreciate it. It would be-a great relief.”

“Prissy Pants isn’t anywhere to be seen, I suppose.”

“I do fear that one day you’ll slip up and call Barbara that to her face.”

There was a certain glint in Mary’s eye that made me quickly add, “That was not a dare.”

Mary laughed and said, “Go on to work, I’ll mind things here.”

As on many another occasion, I prematurely felt pleased to finally be out of the woods. The woods are surrounded by quicksand.

Knowing that Mary would not abandon my father, I set to work on the next story assigned to me-an increase in the fees for dog licenses-with more enthusiasm than I had felt in some time. It wasn’t that the story itself was anything glorious. The difference was that I could concentrate on what I was doing without worrying too much about the care my father was receiving.

I got some good quotes from dog owners, went back to the newsroom, ignored everyone there, and went to work. I had a story. I knew how I was going to tell it. Nothing else mattered. It felt good.

The newsroom was all but empty by the time I finished. Most of the men had gone across the street for the traditional happy hour at the Press Club. I filed my story with H.G.

Now that the story was in, I realized that I had been putting off going to the bathroom. I’d never make it to the women’s room in time. I glanced around. No one was looking toward me. I ducked into the men’s room. Fortunately, no one was in there.

I went into a stall and closed the door. I wasn’t in there for more than the most important minute when I heard the bathroom door open and the voices of two men. Mortified, I pulled my feet up, not wanting to betray my presence.

I recognized the voices-O’Connor and Mark Baker. My first fears were allayed when neither of them tried the stall door. Then I realized what they were talking about.

“Why are you so down on her?” Mark Baker said.

“Because she’s not much of a reporter.”

“Man, that’s cold.”

“I’m going to ask Helen if she ever really taught her.”

“You think she lied in her interview?”

There was a pause, then O’Connor said, “No, I doubt that. But you’ll never convince me that Helen had much influence on anyone who turned in a half-assed story like the one Kelly turned in yesterday. And that wasn’t the first weak piece she’s filed. She doesn’t put any effort into anything. She just does the minimum. The worst part is, she’s giving every man who thinks we ought to have an all-male newsroom all the ammunition he needs for his arguments. She’s a sorry excuse for a reporter, and she’s going to make it more difficult for any other woman who wants the job.”

“I think you’re being too hard on her.” Mark laughed, a little uneasily. “C’mon, man, you have to at least admire her guts. She’s been taking shit from almost every dude in the newsroom.”