Troubled Waters Read online

  “It might make an interesting story, you know. Maybe Dateline would pick it up. I mean, the makers have to know about it, right? So they’re deceiving the public. There’s a good investigative story in that.”

  “Right, sure. But you’re on in twenty minutes, and Mitchell is losing it!”

  “It’s good for him to squirm a little, don’t you think?” Macey kept the facade of someone unruffled by a tense environment. It’s what everyone expected of her. She was actually on in seventeen minutes. Beth was clueless as to how important every second was in this business. She just had to remember, when she got to her desk, to pop an aspirin to thin her blood. They walked into Macey’s office.

  Just then, Mitchell Teague, her beloved and enigmatic producer, entered like a storm blowing in. “Macey! Seventeen minutes! You’re on! Do you know there was a shooting last night? Do you know there was a traffic accident? And a homicide?” The hair he had combed over his bald spot was standing straight up and doing a little wave. Macey waved back and laughed to herself.

  She glanced in her mirror to make sure her face was powdered adequately. “Since when isn’t there a shooting, accident, or homicide in Dallas, Mitchell? I can do the updates with my eyes closed. Besides, the meat isn’t until the noon broadcast. I’ve got two hours.”

  “You know how I hate this! You of all people. You live and die by the clock.”

  The thing Macey appreciated about Mitchell was that he had always wanted to be a producer and was good at producing, so he never envied the anchoring job, a rare find in the industry. Many producers were producers only by default, presuming they could do the anchoring better themselves, and they probably could. But they either lacked the grace or looks or both, which put them behind the scenes, in a small room full of expensive equipment, to run the show with little to no credit. Often the result was cutthroat envy, so much so that even with all his eccentricities, Mitchell was a breath of fresh air.

  “Mitchell, I’m sincerely sorry. There was a strange man in my apartment this morning, and it delayed me a little.”

  Mitchell frowned. “A stranger in your apartment? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. We had coffee and talked. But I can’t predict when I’ll have tie-ups like that, and you’re just going to have to cut me some slack now and then. I don’t do this all the time.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No. I felt indebted to him for fixing my coffeepot.”

  “What?”

  “Mitchell, if you can’t keep up, then don’t ask, okay? Now, can I at least look at some notes or something?”

  Mitchell remained flustered, nodding and mumbling as he left her office. Beth arrived again shortly with notes and script in hand.

  “Thank you, Bethie. You’re the queen. How do I look?”

  “Marvelous as always.”

  “Good,” Macey said, glancing over the notes. “Shooting on Harvey, go figure. Accident on Beltline, at least once a week. Homicide downtown. So, where’s the fire?”

  “It’s happening right now at the Xerox plant. We’ll probably lead with breaking news.”

  “No kidding?” Macey smiled. “All right, give me some time to look this over.”

  “You’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Twelve minutes.”

  Beth pointed to a small sticky on Macey’s desk. “Did you see that?”

  “What?” Macey started moving papers aside. “This?” She picked up the note and looked at Beth. “Are you serious?”

  “Called this morning.”

  “His assistant?”

  “Him.”

  “Him? Thornton Winslow called here for me?”

  Beth beamed. “Yep. I covered for you. Said you were out on assignment.”

  “This is the real thing, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. You’re on your way to the top, baby!”

  “Does Mitchell know?”

  “He was standing there when I took the call. He couldn’t be happier, you know, even though he’s not going to let you see that.”

  “Am I supposed to call Mr. Winslow back?”

  “No. He said to let you know that he called, that he’s interested in talking with you, but that he’d have to call back in a couple of days because he was leaving for London. He said to make sure and tell you they have your demo tape and were very impressed.”

  “Seriously!” Macey jumped out of her seat. “Beth! This is huge!”

  “You could be in New York! You could be doing really big stories! I mean, you could be in the same building with Jane Pauley! Stone Phillips and Matt Lauer! Do you think Katie Couric’s a snob? I bet she is.”

  Macey fell back into her chair and stared at the ceiling. “This is unbelievable.”

  “Yeah, and now it’s 9:55. You better get to the desk. I’ve got to go answer the phone.”

  Macey walked to the newsroom, hardly touching the floor she was walking on. As they did sound tests and mike checks and powdered her face and touched up her hair, Macey dreamed of New York and the network.

  The floor director gave her the three-minute warning, and Macey ran over the script one more time. She hated the idea of cold reads. The five and ten o’clock anchor, Emma Patrick, a longtime Dallas anchorwoman and the mother hen to all the “youngsters,” had been doing cold reads for fifteen years. But she’d been in the business for twenty-five years. At fifty and three plastic surgeries later, she still held the coveted five and ten spots. No one dared even to attempt sliding into her position. The woman would rather be dead than give it up. Eight years ago she did a week’s worth of broadcasts with full-blown influenza just so another younger, hipper anchor wouldn’t get exposure. It seemed Emma Patrick had invaluable connections, and Macey would be forever stuck as the “nooner.” She glanced down at the note with Thornton Winslow’s name on it and smiled. Or maybe not.

  Suddenly Beth was by her side.

  “Beth, what are you doing? We’re on in less than three.”

  Beth looked a little pale and avoided Macey’s eyes. “Um . . . I have a message, but it can probably wait. . . .”

  “From who?”

  “Really . . . it can wait. You’ve got two minutes.”

  “Beth, for crying out loud! Who’s the message from? Thornton?”

  Beth hesitated, then finally answered, “Diana Wellers. She said you knew her as Diana Parr.”

  Macey shook her head with disbelief. “Diana Parr? I knew her in high school. I haven’t seen her in almost twenty years. What in the world is she calling me for?”

  Beth hesitated again and glanced at the director as he gave the thirty-second signal and waved at her to move out of the way.

  “Beth, what is it?”

  “Um, I don’t think—”

  “Beth!”

  Beth swallowed and said, “She called to . . . to tell you that . . . I guess your father has died.”

  Beth looked at her one second longer and then stepped away from the news desk. Macey felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Her mouth went dry. She watched Eddie give her the ten-second sign, his face bewildered as he eyed Macey.

  Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . pull it together . . . one. . .

  “Good morning, Dallas, this is Macey Steigel with a News Channel 7 update. This morning, fire officials are reporting a fire at the Xerox plant north of the city. No injuries have been reported, and officials aren’t saying what started the fire. . . .”

  Macey read the teleprompter with professional accuracy, all the subtle nods and gestures in place as if she were talking to a person and not a camera. She raised her eyebrows to underscore an important fact and softened her expression before she pitched the weather. She made a lighthearted joke to Walter the meteorologist, smiling back at him as if they were
the best of friends.

  The tips of her fingers tingled in the strangest way. The news that her father was dead made her go numb inside, though she didn’t really know why. In her mind he’d been dead for nearly seventeen years.

  Two

  Macey tried to gather her things and stuff them into her briefcase, maneuvering around the three-person crowd that now occupied her office.

  “I don’t need time off, Mitchell,” Macey protested.

  Mitchell’s eyes shifted to Beth’s, whose shifted to Walter, who simply stared at the carpet. Mitchell cleared his throat. “You’re not going to the funeral?”

  “It’s complicated, okay?” Macey eyed each of them. “And don’t anyone sit here and judge me for it, either.”

  Mitchell’s chest heaved in a reluctant sigh. “All right, fine. But don’t hesitate to change your mind. We’ll work things out.” Someone screamed at Mitchell about some crisis with camera number two, and Mitchell was gone before anyone knew it.

  Walter tilted his head to the side, the tilt that indicated he had no words or advice, and he shuffled out of the office with his head hung low. Unfortunately, Beth wasn’t so quick to leave. She smoothed out her ponytail, a sure indication she was thinking of some way to state something she shouldn’t.

  “Beth,” Macey warned, “please don’t. I don’t need to hear whatever you’re about to say.”

  “But he’s your dad—”

  “Beth—”

  “You’re his only child—”

  “Beth—”

  “And he’s dead.”

  Macey looked up, her eyes cold and tired. “Yes, he is.”

  “So . . .” Beth managed carefully, “whatever he did to you in the past, he can’t do to you now. Dead men can’t do much, you know.”

  Macey crammed more papers into her briefcase. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Beth’s eyes lowered. “He must’ve been a horrible person.” She glanced up at Macey. “I mean, to not want to go to your own father’s—”

  “Beth, really. I know you’re trying to . . .” Suddenly the whole thing overwhelmed Macey, and she turned away and closed her briefcase. Her father was dead. The reality was sinking in. A reality she’d thought little of over the past seventeen years. She wondered how he died. He would’ve been sixty-seven in three weeks.

  Macey snapped the locks on her briefcase and thought Beth had asked her a question. She turned around to head for the door. “What?”

  “I said, what about your mom? Is she still alive?”

  The tears were now escaping. Macey rushed past Beth and out the office door. She took the back hallway and the stairs that led directly to the door where her car was parked.

  She quickly opened the door and threw her briefcase onto the passenger seat. Before the car door closed, all her emotions collapsed onto one another. For an hour she sat hunched over the steering wheel, unable to do anything but cry.

  ———

  Evelyn Steigel wasn’t sure when her tears would run out, but she had little energy to try to stop the ones that still flowed. Patricia opened the front door for her, bumping it with her hip because it always stuck when the humidity was high. She helped her in, and Evelyn was grateful for the warm touch of another human being.

  “Here, sit down there at the table,” Patricia instructed softly, “and I’ll make us some coffee.”

  Evelyn’s whole body quivered. The house was so silent. But she appreciated the way the early evening sun glowed through the windows and warmed the room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee awakened her a bit so that she smiled as she watched the coffeepot fill up with the dark liquid. They had talked about getting an automatic coffee maker for three years before finally buying one at the Sears in Joplin. Jess had always insisted on grinding the beans fresh. She was going to have to learn to do that now.

  Patricia brought her a warm mug, perfectly flavored with cream and no sugar, and joined her at the table as she stared blankly out the window. Finally the silence was more than either of them could bear.

  “I sure love the flowers you picked out, Evelyn. Jess would’ve, too.”

  Evelyn’s eyes blinked lazily. “You know Jess. He wouldn’t have wanted a big fuss made over him. I think I got the cheapest casket they had. He’s not there anyways. But I thought it might be nice to have some color with the flowers. I didn’t spend that much on ’em.”

  Patricia agreed with a warm smile. “Well, the service is going to be lovely. Just lovely.”

  “Pastor Lyle’s going to be coming over in a while. I guess I better get something prepared.”

  Patricia stopped her from standing. “Evelyn, we have more food here than could feed Willie Bartlett’s pig farm. Margie Potter brought over her famous chicken and potato casserole. Let’s just warm that up and be done with it.”

  Evelyn agreed and watched as Patricia moved about the kitchen. “Patricia, I’m sorry if I haven’t told you how grateful I am to have had you around these past few weeks.” Patricia looked over her shoulder and nodded. “I suppose you’ll be moving on now, yet it was nice to have you here, just want you to know that.”

  Patricia turned the oven on. “Evelyn, you know I’ll be around. I just adore you, and I adored Jess. I can’t just leave because the job’s over. Nursing, it’s more than just medicine.”

  Evelyn stared at the picture of her and Jess on the baker’s rack. “You did a good job taking care of him. You’re like a daugh—” The words caught in her throat, but Patricia was kind enough not to turn around.

  “Listen, why don’t we make some of them buttermilk biscuits to have with the casserole. Pastor Lyle always does like biscuits with his meals.” Patricia went on reminiscing about Lyle and his love for biscuits, about the time when at the church picnic no one brought biscuits. But Evelyn wasn’t paying much attention.

  Instead, she was praying. She hoped she didn’t sound too angry or too harsh. But her prayers, her deepest longings, hadn’t come true. And now it was too late. God could never answer that prayer. He’d rejected her most precious request.

  A car pulled into the drive, the sound of rolling gravel an indication it was Pastor Lyle. Ever since he got that new Ford pickup, he drove way too fast.

  “I’ll get the door,” Patricia offered, but Evelyn stood anyway. It was awfully rude to stay seated when someone was paying a visit to one’s house. Her daddy had taught her that.

  Pastor Lyle hadn’t even knocked yet when Patricia opened the door and let him in. He was a round man, with a red face and silver white hair that was parted and slicked with a pastor’s precision. He walked over to Evelyn and took her hands.

  “Dear, how are you? What can I do for you? Are you ready to talk about the funeral? It can wait. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Evelyn guided him to the kitchen table and motioned for him to sit, which he did, huffing and puffing like he’d just run a marathon. Everyone had expected Pastor Lyle to pass on years ago. He’d already had two bypass surgeries. Still his blood pressure elevated if he did anything other than sleep. And he was a closet smoker, something everyone pretended not to know about.

  “Pastor Lyle, you’re kind for coming by,” said Evelyn. “Patricia’s warming up Margie’s chicken and potato casserole.”

  Pastor Lyle glanced toward the oven. “Any biscuits?”

  Patricia smiled as she brought him a cold glass of water. “Of course.”

  His attention shifted back to Evelyn. “The funeral is set for the day after tomorrow, at ten in the morning. It’s all cleared with Newt. I wish we could’ve had it at the church but I just don’t think we’ll be able to hold the crowd.”

  Evelyn nodded as she lowered herself back into her chair. “We have coffee if you want.”

  “Nah. Water’s fine. But I will have some of them biscuits an
d casserole when it’s ready.”

  Patricia stooped down and peered into the oven. “Lookin’ like about ten minutes.”

  Pastor Lyle sipped his water, blotted his brow with his hanky. “Boy, every summer I think it cain’t get any hotter, but then it does. You’d think by evening it’d cool down a little.”

  “Not till that sun goes down. Maybe we’ll get some breeze then,” Patricia said as she made up a pitcher of lemonade.

  Evelyn tried to focus on the chitchat, which most of the time she loved. But today her heart was breaking, and there wasn’t too much that interested her. Pastor Lyle set down his water.

  “Evelyn, again, I’m so sorry for your loss. We’ll all miss Jess something terrible.” Evelyn nodded but didn’t look the pastor in the eyes. “Have you thought of some people that might want to speak at his funeral?”

  Evelyn wiped a lone tear away and took a few sips of her coffee. She was trembling so badly she had to steady the mug with both hands. “I thought maybe Roger Layton. And of course Jess’s brother, Howard.”

  “Howard just lives over in Chanute, doesn’t he?”

  “You’re thinking of his sister, Barb. Howard lives in Parsons.”

  “Will Barb be able to make it?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “The last stroke really did her in. She’s in a nursing home now. Hardly knows where she is.”

  Pastor Lyle nodded and patted Evelyn on the hand. “Well, I’ll call Roger, and maybe you could call Howard.”

  “I’ve already talked to Howard, and he said he’d be honored to say something.”

  Pastor Lyle let go of her hands while Patricia set the casserole down and hurried back for the biscuits. “Oh! I just love Margie’s casserole! I never told Shirley when she was alive. You know how they always had that cookin’ competition thing. But Margie’s casserole just cain’t be beat. And that’s sayin’ something because my wife was a good cook.” He scooped out a large portion and plopped it onto the plate Patricia had set in front of him, then grabbed three biscuits from the basket. He blessed the food before Evelyn or Patricia had served themselves and went right to eating without any hesitation.