Gayle Roper - Caught In A Bind

“Come on, Edie. I know something’s wrong. Of all the people who work here, you’re the most stable.”

“What?” I turned to Jolene, irritated. I was unstable?

Jolene grinned at me. “We all know I’m an emotional wreck, though you’ve got to admit I’ve been getting better in recent weeks.”

She paused a minute, looking expectantly at Edie and me. After a short pause, we realized what she expected.

“Right,” Edie said hastily. “You’re getting better.”

I nodded. “It’s church. You’re listening to Pastor Hal.”

Jolene shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Church was new to her and still made her uncomfortable. She returned to her commentary on office personnel. “We all know our noble editor Mac is so on edge over the buyout of the paper that he can’t think straight.”

Edie and I nodded. Mac was certainly acting strangely though I thought maybe Dawn Trauber, director of His House, had as much to do with his foul mood as the paper.

“And you, Merry,” Jolene continued, “are so bemused over Curt that you’re always on some far mental planet.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, miffed. “I am very much in control, aware and on top of things.”

She gave her patented snort, the unfeminine sound always a surprise coming from someone as lovely as Jolene. “That control and awareness are why Mac has been waving at you for the past five minutes, I guess?”

“What?” I looked quickly over my shoulder toward the editor’s desk. Sure enough, Mac was scowling at me so intensely that his eyebrows were one long line from temple to temple.

“You could have told me.” I rose and made my way toward Mac. “And Edie, ignore her. You don’t have to answer any of her questions.”

Jolene agreed. “We’ll wait for Merry. She wants to hear what’s got you in such a tizzy too.”

Edie smiled weakly at me as I walked past her desk. “I’m okay,” she said with all the spunk of a groveling puppy.

Suddenly Mac’s bellow tore through the newsroom. “Edie, for goodness’ sake. Get over here!”

I stopped and pivoted to return to my seat.

“Where are you going, Kramer?” Mac snarled.

“But you said Edie.”

“I want you both.”

I turned back and walked to his desk. Mac had been acting editor for the past several months while the News was for sale. Recently the paper had been purchased by a man named Jonathan Delaney Montgomery. As I saw it, the greatest danger in waiting for Mr. Montgomery to decide whether Mac still had a job wasn’t Mac’s career. It was the incipient development of ulcers in everyone in the newsroom.

I spoke softly across his cluttered desk. “Please be easy with Edie. She’s upset about something, and if you yell at her, it won’t be good.”

“You mean she’ll cry?” he asked in disgust.

“Could be.”

Mac looked at me with barely concealed contempt, whether directed at me for offering unwanted advice, or Edie for being a possible crier, I couldn’t tell. “I am always considerate of my people,” he barked.

I bit my tongue and said nothing.

He turned from me to Edie. “Now, Whatley, I’ve got a great assignment for you. I want you to do an article on spousal abuse.”

Edie shuddered and actually swayed. She put out a hand to steady herself, gripping Mac’s desk hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

“Edie.” I grabbed her elbow. “Are you all right?”

“And you, Kramer.” Mac plowed on as if he hadn’t noticed Edie’s distress, and he probably hadn’t. “You are to do a profile of Stephanie Bauer, director of that organization that helps abused wives. You know the one. It’s down a couple of blocks on Main Street.”

I kept hold of Edie. “You mean Freedom House?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Find out how the place works and see if you can interview some of the abused women. You know, tear-jerker stuff like you did with those pregnant girls at Christmas.”

I nodded. Not a bad assignment.

“You two are to work together on this thing.” Mac looked from Edie to me and back. “Got that?”

I nodded. Edie just turned away, removing herself from my support.

“Edie!” Mac’s voice was abrupt.

She turned a white face to him, but he didn’t see. He was looking at something on his desk.

“Do you understand what I want?”

“Yes. But I hate it.” The last was under her breath.

“What?” Mac demanded.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

I blinked as I followed Edie back to our desks. She hated this most interesting assignment?

“What’s wrong, Edie? And don’t tell me nothing,” I said as she opened her mouth to say just that. She even got the noth out.

Edie was a genuinely nice lady whose fine, light brown hair was cut shoulder length and hung straight, swaying when she turned her head. Her blue eyes were often sad though never more so than today. She wore all her clothes a size too small, not because she wanted to be sexy or provocative but because she kept hoping she’d lose that ten to fifteen pounds.

“Let it go, Merry. Please.” She turned abruptly and almost ran to the women’s room, a one-person operation where she could find privacy.

I watched her go, and as I turned back to my desk, I saw Jolene watching too.

“No more questions, Jo,” I said. “When she wants to tell us about it, she will.”

“You’re no fun.” But when Edie finally returned red-eyed to her desk, Jo kept quiet.

I spent the balance of the day reading about Freedom House in either our paper files or e-files or online. I learned it was established five years ago and that Stephanie Bauer had been its only director. I learned that in addition to providing counseling and comfort to abused wives, Freedom House sponsored training workshops for churches who wanted to know how to help abused women in their congregations.

I studied the pictures of Ms. Bauer and saw a woman of about forty, very slim and attractive with great dark eyes and dark curly hair.

“I was an abused wife,” she was quoted as saying in one article. “I know the fear and desperation of these women. I know their feelings of being powerless. I also know God can help them deal with the overwhelming helplessness. I know they can live again.”

How did she learn to live again? What specifics marked her flight from her husband to her position at Freedom House? Or had he reformed and she was still married to him?

I called Freedom House and got Stephanie Bauer on the line. “May I come interview you some day soon?”

“How about tomorrow?” she asked. “I know it’s Saturday, but my schedule is crazy what with the ministry, the Easter holidays and my kids.”

I had rehearsal with the bell choir tomorrow morning for the upcoming Easter service, and in the evening Curt was taking me to the reception that Mr. Montgomery was throwing for the News staff and his invited guests. But I was free Saturday afternoon.

“Is two o’clock all right?” I asked Stephanie.

“Will we be finished by three? I have an appointment with my daughter at three. We’re going shopping. She ‘needs’ some spring clothes.”

“We’ll be finished by then,” I promised. Then thinking it might fit into the article, I asked, “How old is your daughter?”

“Fifteen.”

Just like Randy, I thought. Poor Stephanie.

“A teenager at the mall,” I said, sarcasm dripping a bit too freely. “It ought to be an interesting afternoon for you.”

“It will be interesting,” Stephanie said, ignoring my tone. “I enjoy anything I get to do with Sherrie. We’re both so busy! And Rob is no better.”

“Rob’s your—?”

“My son,” Stephanie said. “He’s eighteen. We’ve been filling out financial information for colleges all year, and the hardest part is finding a night when we’re both home!”