battered brown suede jacket in the doorway clutching a handful of papers, other hand on the doorknob. He gave Naomi a nod. "Yeah, Len."
The phone rang and Hayward picked up, cupped a hand over the receiver. "Eric here'll take down your story, Ms. Waters. Get a couple of good head shots, Eric. Should be a piece of cake." With that, he dismissed them both, growled into the phone, "Hayward, yeah." Then he bellowed at his caller, "What do you mean, you can't track him down. I need that Wallace story on my desk yesterday. Where the hell...?"
The berating of some unfortunate being continued as they left his office, cutting out as the door closed behind them. Naomi idly wondered who Wallace was. She hadn't been paying too much attention to the news lately.
"One of our town councilors is up for embezzlement," the reporter said, as if reading her thoughts. "A corrupt politician. Now there's something you don't hear about too often." He grinned to show he was joking as he ushered her past the row of desks to his own office at the back of the big room.
On the way there, they passed half a dozen people working quietly at computers, a couple on the phone. No clacking typewriters here, or hard-nose reporters with rolled-up sleeves, filling the air with blue cigarette smoke, wearing rumpled soft hats with press card tucked into their bands. Nothing to suggest deadlines, or big 'scoops', like in those old black and white movies her mom had had a penchant for, along with old radio shows, one of her favourite being the 1931 version of The Front Page starring Pat O'Brien. They had watched it shortly before she went into the hospital for the last time. She sighed without being aware of it, and Eric Grant glanced at her before opening the door to his office, which was considerably smaller than Mr. Hayward's, but neater.
"Please, have a seat." He set the sheaf of papers he'd been carrying on top of a grey metal filing cabinet in the corner, and shrugged out of his jacket, beneath which he wore a blue denim shirt. "Coffee?"
"No, thanks."
Closing the door, he went round behind his desk and drew the small tape recorder toward him and sat down. His finger hovered over the button. "I'm afraid my shorthand leaves a lot to be desired, mind."
"No. It's fine."
He pushed record. Recording was second nature to her, but this particular narration wasn't anything she was looking forward to. Only by mentally erecting a wall between the words and her emotions was she able to get through her story a second time, in the same way Frank had managed to relate the story to her.
A half hour later, her story told, all that she knew of it anyway, he clicked the recorder off and looked thoughtfully at her. "And you had no idea you were adopted before that?"
"None. Not until I read it in the obituary column. Although the woman at the funeral parlor I told you about prepared me to some degree, I suppose."
"Mrs. Devers."
"You have a good memory."
"I try. Comes in handy in my business. It's beyond tragic what happened to your birth mother. I don't remember reading about it. But then, I would have been four at the time. I'd like to make copies of these articles if it's okay. Quicker than digging them out of the morgue … sorry."
"No need to be."
He slipped the thin sheaf of paper from the envelope and smiled at her. He had a nice smile. Taking in the scruffy gingery-blond beard, and hair long enough to curl at his denim shirt collar, she'd almost expected he'd have blackened pirates' teeth. Or maybe a stray tooth or two like that guy in Deliverance.
"I covered a couple of nurses' union meetings when they were voting to strike and had the pleasure of meeting your mom. It was a few years ago, I was a rookie cub reporter back then, but I remember her. You were a lucky little girl to be adopted by such a special lady."
"Yes, I know that," she said coolly, her defenses rising at the comment, which sounded to her like a veiled criticism. But then he didn't know what
The phone rang and Hayward picked up, cupped a hand over the receiver. "Eric here'll take down your story, Ms. Waters. Get a couple of good head shots, Eric. Should be a piece of cake." With that, he dismissed them both, growled into the phone, "Hayward, yeah." Then he bellowed at his caller, "What do you mean, you can't track him down. I need that Wallace story on my desk yesterday. Where the hell...?"
The berating of some unfortunate being continued as they left his office, cutting out as the door closed behind them. Naomi idly wondered who Wallace was. She hadn't been paying too much attention to the news lately.
"One of our town councilors is up for embezzlement," the reporter said, as if reading her thoughts. "A corrupt politician. Now there's something you don't hear about too often." He grinned to show he was joking as he ushered her past the row of desks to his own office at the back of the big room.
On the way there, they passed half a dozen people working quietly at computers, a couple on the phone. No clacking typewriters here, or hard-nose reporters with rolled-up sleeves, filling the air with blue cigarette smoke, wearing rumpled soft hats with press card tucked into their bands. Nothing to suggest deadlines, or big 'scoops', like in those old black and white movies her mom had had a penchant for, along with old radio shows, one of her favourite being the 1931 version of The Front Page starring Pat O'Brien. They had watched it shortly before she went into the hospital for the last time. She sighed without being aware of it, and Eric Grant glanced at her before opening the door to his office, which was considerably smaller than Mr. Hayward's, but neater.
"Please, have a seat." He set the sheaf of papers he'd been carrying on top of a grey metal filing cabinet in the corner, and shrugged out of his jacket, beneath which he wore a blue denim shirt. "Coffee?"
"No, thanks."
Closing the door, he went round behind his desk and drew the small tape recorder toward him and sat down. His finger hovered over the button. "I'm afraid my shorthand leaves a lot to be desired, mind."
"No. It's fine."
He pushed record. Recording was second nature to her, but this particular narration wasn't anything she was looking forward to. Only by mentally erecting a wall between the words and her emotions was she able to get through her story a second time, in the same way Frank had managed to relate the story to her.
A half hour later, her story told, all that she knew of it anyway, he clicked the recorder off and looked thoughtfully at her. "And you had no idea you were adopted before that?"
"None. Not until I read it in the obituary column. Although the woman at the funeral parlor I told you about prepared me to some degree, I suppose."
"Mrs. Devers."
"You have a good memory."
"I try. Comes in handy in my business. It's beyond tragic what happened to your birth mother. I don't remember reading about it. But then, I would have been four at the time. I'd like to make copies of these articles if it's okay. Quicker than digging them out of the morgue … sorry."
"No need to be."
He slipped the thin sheaf of paper from the envelope and smiled at her. He had a nice smile. Taking in the scruffy gingery-blond beard, and hair long enough to curl at his denim shirt collar, she'd almost expected he'd have blackened pirates' teeth. Or maybe a stray tooth or two like that guy in Deliverance.
"I covered a couple of nurses' union meetings when they were voting to strike and had the pleasure of meeting your mom. It was a few years ago, I was a rookie cub reporter back then, but I remember her. You were a lucky little girl to be adopted by such a special lady."
"Yes, I know that," she said coolly, her defenses rising at the comment, which sounded to her like a veiled criticism. But then he didn't know what
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