said, you lost touch with your readers.
Willa studied the picture of her father on the desk. Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, his features were sharp. Square chin, black hair, brown eyes. He was sitting on the tailgate of a green 1967 Ford, bundles of newspapers behind him. It was the same truck she still used to run the papers around town. No point getting a new one, her father said.
A few years back her father decided it was time to retire. It was earlier than for most men his age, but he wanted to take a whack at his memoirs, maybe even learn to paint, and, best of all, spend more time with his wife, Mae. It was hard, but he finally handed over the keys to the Superior Publishing Company. Now he spent most days listening to the Royals on the radio, scribbling on his legal pads, or going on country adventures with Mae. Once in a while, at dinner, he would say something about the layout or the coverage. All in all, she knew he liked what she had done with
The Express.
She, too, was proud of the little paper. It was only 16 pages most weeks, sometimes down to eight if there weren’t enough ads, but it had won some regional awards. She tapped the computer keyboard to scroll through the wires, scanning the international datelines. There was never really any question that she would take over for her father, but what would havehappened if she’d gone to work for the
Omaha World-Herald
or the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch?
She would have ended up living overseas as a foreign correspondent, with an expense account, great clothes, exotic food, and worldly men. She envied the cool and stylish women on TV who covered war and famine without messing up their hair. Maybe some day … Then again, maybe not.
“No news is
not
good news,” her father liked to say. On this day, there wasn’t much to write about at all. The Grasshoppers—the Little League team she coached three nights a week—were going to the state championships, but if she wrote another column inch about their exploits, there would surely be an uprising.
The farmers were in the fields, planting soybeans and corn for the fall. The county weed superintendent had found severe infestations of musk thistle, one of six weeds officially declared “noxious” by the State of Nebraska. A perennial favorite on page one.
There was only one small scandal worth exploring. The town mortician, Burl Grimes, had just been elected chairman of the hospital board. A few old folks were grumbling it was a conflict of interest, running the hospital
and
the funeral home at the same time. “Out one door, in the other,” someone had said.
Willa reached for the phone. She would ask old Burl a few tough questions, piss him off, maybe even lose his business for the paper.
So be it.
The intercom buzzed. Willa turned down the farm news coming over the radio. She heard Iola’s mischievous voice: “There’s a guy out here to see you.”
“Who is it?” she said.
“Fella from
The Book of Records.
Wants to visit with you.” Then she whispered: “He’s kinda cute.”
“Send him back,” Willa said.
She knew the type. A stranger, just passing through. There were plenty of salesmen and hucksters on the back roads, looking for an angle. They told stories of the world beyond. They promised a way out. Once, long ago, she fell for a sweet-talking man who sold leather-bound books. He knew the difference between Yeats and Keats, recited lines from
The Iliad
in Greek, had traveled to faraway places. She gave away her beating heart. Then one day Mr. Odysseus went off to deliver an order of books and never came back.
She was younger then, just back from the University of Nebraska. It took about two years to come to her senses. She was fine now, all healed, stronger than ever. That is to say, she was never going to forget.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. The stranger stood in the doorway. He was nice looking with a full head of brown hair and gentle blue eyes that benefited from their
Willa studied the picture of her father on the desk. Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, his features were sharp. Square chin, black hair, brown eyes. He was sitting on the tailgate of a green 1967 Ford, bundles of newspapers behind him. It was the same truck she still used to run the papers around town. No point getting a new one, her father said.
A few years back her father decided it was time to retire. It was earlier than for most men his age, but he wanted to take a whack at his memoirs, maybe even learn to paint, and, best of all, spend more time with his wife, Mae. It was hard, but he finally handed over the keys to the Superior Publishing Company. Now he spent most days listening to the Royals on the radio, scribbling on his legal pads, or going on country adventures with Mae. Once in a while, at dinner, he would say something about the layout or the coverage. All in all, she knew he liked what she had done with
The Express.
She, too, was proud of the little paper. It was only 16 pages most weeks, sometimes down to eight if there weren’t enough ads, but it had won some regional awards. She tapped the computer keyboard to scroll through the wires, scanning the international datelines. There was never really any question that she would take over for her father, but what would havehappened if she’d gone to work for the
Omaha World-Herald
or the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch?
She would have ended up living overseas as a foreign correspondent, with an expense account, great clothes, exotic food, and worldly men. She envied the cool and stylish women on TV who covered war and famine without messing up their hair. Maybe some day … Then again, maybe not.
“No news is
not
good news,” her father liked to say. On this day, there wasn’t much to write about at all. The Grasshoppers—the Little League team she coached three nights a week—were going to the state championships, but if she wrote another column inch about their exploits, there would surely be an uprising.
The farmers were in the fields, planting soybeans and corn for the fall. The county weed superintendent had found severe infestations of musk thistle, one of six weeds officially declared “noxious” by the State of Nebraska. A perennial favorite on page one.
There was only one small scandal worth exploring. The town mortician, Burl Grimes, had just been elected chairman of the hospital board. A few old folks were grumbling it was a conflict of interest, running the hospital
and
the funeral home at the same time. “Out one door, in the other,” someone had said.
Willa reached for the phone. She would ask old Burl a few tough questions, piss him off, maybe even lose his business for the paper.
So be it.
The intercom buzzed. Willa turned down the farm news coming over the radio. She heard Iola’s mischievous voice: “There’s a guy out here to see you.”
“Who is it?” she said.
“Fella from
The Book of Records.
Wants to visit with you.” Then she whispered: “He’s kinda cute.”
“Send him back,” Willa said.
She knew the type. A stranger, just passing through. There were plenty of salesmen and hucksters on the back roads, looking for an angle. They told stories of the world beyond. They promised a way out. Once, long ago, she fell for a sweet-talking man who sold leather-bound books. He knew the difference between Yeats and Keats, recited lines from
The Iliad
in Greek, had traveled to faraway places. She gave away her beating heart. Then one day Mr. Odysseus went off to deliver an order of books and never came back.
She was younger then, just back from the University of Nebraska. It took about two years to come to her senses. She was fine now, all healed, stronger than ever. That is to say, she was never going to forget.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. The stranger stood in the doorway. He was nice looking with a full head of brown hair and gentle blue eyes that benefited from their
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