Joe Gribble - Darkest Edge

Rachel stirred. “Mommy…”

Amanda looked directly at Mark. “No!” She took one of Rachel’s arms, and with the other hand wiped Rachel’s hair back out of her eyes. “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.”

Mark relented, not wanting to cause a scene in front of his daughter. God knew she was going through a hardenough time already. He handed Rachel to Amanda. After Amanda took Rachel, and she was dozing back off on Amanda’s shoulder, Mark said: “Can we at least talk?”

“Not tonight. I have to get Rachel to bed,” Amanda said. She took a step back inside and started to close the screen door.

“We have to talk sometime, Amanda,” Mark said through the screen.

Amanda hesitated. “You get sober. Then maybe we can talk. Honestly, I don’t know who you are any more, Mark. Just get sober… get some help.”

Amanda turned to close the door.

Rachel’s sleepy eyes opened briefly and she looked at her dad. “Bye, Daddy.”

Amanda closed the door and just like that, they were gone.

Mark stood there for a few seconds, staring at the closed door, shoulders slumped. Finally, he turned and left.

On the way to his apartment… His temporary apartment, he hoped, Mark thought about Amanda’s words. “Get help” she had said. Hell, he didn’t need help. He could handle this on his own. Always had been on his own. Always made it through on his own. Why should this time be any different?

He pulled to up to the stop light. He glanced to the right. McNally’s Bar — the neon light flashing “OPEN”. Mark looked back at the stop light. He tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs. He looked back at the beckoning neon. The light turned green and Mark started to pull through. He slowed. Hell, it’s only nine o’clock, he told himself. He turned the wheel hard right and whipped into the bar’s parking lot.

Mark stepped out of the elevator. He knew he looked disheveled — clothes wrinkled, eyes bloodshot.

As usual, the lovely Judy greeted him.

“God, what happened to you?” she asked as she picked up the phone. “He’s here,” she said into the phone. “I’ll send him right in.” Judy put down the phone and looked up at Mark. “Art wants to see you right away. I suggest you stop in the bathroom and make yourself presentable. At least comb your hair.”

“Crap.” Mark shook his head. He pulled out his comb and ran it through his hair as he walked toward Art’s office. Done with his hair, he popped a couple of breath mints and pulled his tie up tight.

Mark sat slumped in the chair, staring at Art, watching his mouth move, but only hearing a few of the words.

Art balanced his butt against the front of his desk, towering over Mark. He held a DVD, waving it in the air as he lambasted Mark. “The story on the mayor.” Art tossed it forcefully into the trash.

That got Mark’s attention, and he sat upright.

“It’s shit!” Art said. “I thought you were an investigative reporter? You were supposed to do an expose’ on the mayor’s financial problems. That…that was nothing. No meat.”

Mark slumped back into his chair.

Art stared at Mark, eyes drilling. He leaned forward. “You hittin’ the bottle, Mark? I can’t have a drunk on my staff.”

“I’m no drunk,” Mark said. “A cocktail every now and then. That’s all.”

Art leaned even farther forward. “Bullshit. I can smell the booze from here.”

Mark looked away, out the window. He waited a bit for Art to calm down. He’d been through this kind of butt chewing before. It was all Art’s style. But he knew Art to be a good guy. A good boss. Mark decided to confide. “It’s all gone to hell, Art,” Mark said, still looking out the window.

Art leaned back, eyes showing his surprise.

“My whole life,” Mark continued. “… gone to hell. Amanda kicked me out. It’s not over yet, though. We’re still trying to work it out.”

Art shook his head. He walked back around to his chair. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mark. You and Amanda, you had a good thing. At least I thought you did. I hope you can work it out.” Art paused, considered his reporter. He lowered his voice a bit, no longer the dominating editor. “While you’re working on your marriage, Mark, I have this little problem: I gotta’ put out the news. I need a good reporter.”

Mark looked back at his boss. “You have one. Sitting right here.”

Art stared at Mark. “I hope so. I wanna’ bet on the Mark I used to know. Find him. Okay?”

Mark and Art looked at each other briefly. Finally, Mark nodded.

Art nodded back. He reached back to his desk and picked up a large yellow envelope. He held it up in front of Mark. “You gotta’ know… this is your last chance.”

Mark looked harshly at Art. “Last chance? What do you mean?”

“You don’t perform and you’re out. It’s as simple as that. I don’t have a choice any more.”

Mark reached to take the envelope, but Art didn’t release it right away.

“Last chance,” Art repeated.

“Yeah. Yeah. I got it,” Mark said as Art finally let go of the envelope. Marked looked at the front of the envelope. Four names. The two above Mark’s were lined through. The one after, Sanchez, was their rookie reporter. Mark pointed at the crossed-out names: “Benson and Wilson?”

“Don’t worry about them. They have other assignments,” Art said.

Yeah, right, Mark thought. They probably turned this assignment down. What kind of crap was he about to get into?

“This project came down from the publisher,” Art told Mark. “Hell if I know why it’s so important to her.”

Mark opened the enveloped and pulled out the papers. Photos of a very old institutional style building, and some old newspaper clippings.

“The story’s in Dayton,” Art said. “That’s where you’re from, right?”

“Yeah,” Mark answered, holding one of the clippings entitled ‘SOUTHERN OHIO LUNATIC ASYLUM’. “I grew up in Dayton.”

“Ever heard of the State Hospital?” Art asked.

“On Wayne Avenue?” Mark said. “Everyone in Dayton knew about Wayne Avenue. There were lots of stories about that place.”

“Well, they’re shutting it down. I want you to get the scoop on the place. Expose it. Whatever it takes.”

“Sure. Should be easy,” Mark said as he put the papers back into the envelope. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You have a week. Deadline’s Monday,” Art said.

Mark stopped. He looked up at Art. “Come on, Art. My daughter’s birthday is in a couple of days. I can’t miss that.”

Art didn’t answer immediately. He moved back around his desk to flop down in his chair. He started pecking at his keyboard.

Mark could tell Art was torn.

Art stopped typing and put his hands together in front of him. He didn’t look at Mark when he said: “I can’t help that. Last chance. Remember?”

“Crap. Yeah, I got it. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Mark stood and headed for the door.

“And you’re taking Ellen,” Art said to Mark’s back.

Mark slammed on the brakes. He turned back to face Art. “What’s wrong with Ernie?”

“He’s on another story,” Art said. Looking straight at Mark this time.

“Ellen’s aiming for my job. You know that, right?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, I know. And the way you’re going she just might get it. She could be a good reporter.”

Mark turned and walked out the door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

From behind him, Mark heard Art yell: “And close the frickin’ door.”

Mark ignored him. He squeezed the envelope into a tight cylinder as he headed back toward his cubicle.

Mark plopped down. He was reaching for his flask in the bottom drawer when Ellen rushed in.