Coming Attractions (3 page)

“I’m sorry, Chels,” Helen sobbed. “It’s you I still want.” The image faded. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded, but the imagined eyes sharpened to deepest green.

Helen touched the tiniest bit of muscle. Her body twitched.

“Do you have a name?” the muscle asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Chapter Two

Sam Baker was editor of the
New York News
and had known Helen for fifteen years. She was fresh out of college when she waved her master’s degree in journalism under his nose and, having found her enthusiasm soldieresque, he allowed her the status of cub reporter. Not a glamorous post, but it was a beginning.

For starters, Sam tossed Helen a weekly opinion column and turned her loose on the streets. From Staten Island to Long Island, she fired questions to the public on capital punishment, religion in schools, and even the change in the New York skyline since the addition of the Twin Towers. New Yorkers grew to like Helen. She earned their respect and soon they came to her with topics to sharpen her skills.

A mother from Brooklyn had let her in on what she thought to be a local daycare swindle. Helen submitted an idea to Sam. She wanted to go undercover as an employee, but he wanted her to snoop around with her press badge in full view.

“We aren’t cops,” he said flatly.

Helen groaned, obliged, and with annoying persistence, blew the lid off a major money-laundering ring. The criminals got the slammer, the police got the glory, and Helen got a three-days-a-week featured column, along with Sam’s respect. His cub was a bear.

However, the bear soon collapsed with the proper ammunition.

Helen was in her sixth year at the paper when she lost both parents in an automobile accident. Her father was driving, suffered cardiac arrest, and slammed into a tree. His death was instantaneous, but her mother, his only passenger, died a day later of head injuries.

Sam and Stacey seldom left Helen’s side during the week that followed. Helen, purveyor of words, internalized her grief while Sam and Stacey led her through the horrible process of burial arrangements and then the funerals. It wasn’t denial of death she experienced, but complete shock. Sam kept her afloat and only once, aside from an occasional “yes” or “no,” had she commented on what should be.

“I want my mother dressed in blue.”

Stacey saw to her request and nobody saw Helen place a pink hair ribbon into her father’s hand. That piece of satin compelled Helen to fulfill his desire. She would write the book of his World War II experience that he had obsessed over.

Helen didn’t cry until three days after their burial.

“Can we go out on your boat?” she asked Sam.

“Sure. Want to give Stacey a call?”

“No. Just us.”

*

Sam steered the forty-foot vessel around Long Island and pointed out an occasional landmark. Helen sat quietly and held no interest in his stories. Her thoughts were with her parents as she stared at the worn black-and-white photo that she held. Her mother was a young, lovely bride whose wedding dress was probably borrowed, as times were hard on the wallet. Her father stood proud in his government-issued uniform. They were married one week before he shipped out to Germany.

She could have sat there, gone through her childhood, her love for them and his heroic contribution during the liberation of the death camps, but that would have to come later. The boat ride held a different purpose.

As they neared Port Jefferson, Helen signaled for Sam to stop. She walked to the stern of the fishing cruiser and said a silent prayer for her parents. After a deep breath, she forced a guttural and increasingly loud scream, until she heard the echo throughout the Sound. Sam ran to her and Helen fell into his arms.

“It’s okay, honey. Let it out,” he said while she bawled and shook against his shoulder.

*

Over the following years, Sam loved her like a daughter, came to know her better than she understood, and had enough wisdom to stay out of her personal life, until today.

Sam summoned her, and not too pleasantly, into his office. “Townsend! Get in here. Please,” he added, in a gentler tone.

Townsend? Sam never called her by her last name unless he was annoyed. Helen looked around his doorway and into his office.

“Yeah?”

“Sit down.” He looked at the paper in his hand and then at her. “On Monday you wrote a great column on choice, and Wednesday was pretty good with overpaid athletes.” He held an unlit cigar to his mouth, rubbed it under his nose, and then tapped it like a pencil on his desktop. “But what the hell is this piece about? Explain your invisible people.”

“I thought I was quite clear.”

“Call me stupid.” He clasped his hands behind his head and waited for her answer.

“There’s an invisible world of closeted lesbians and gay men in our society,” she explained. “Because they don’t fit the gay stereotype, they’re treated with respect. Invisible gays might work on this paper. We wouldn’t have the slightest clue that Julie in accounting is sleeping with Rhonda in Human Resources.”

Sam’s furry white eyebrows shot to their limit. “Julie and Rhonda are sleeping together?”

“That’s not what I’m saying and it’s exactly what I’m saying. They look straight, but that’s merely an assumption.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The column is straightforward, and no pun intended. Equal treatment. Butches and queens should have the same rights and respect as the invisible homosexuals.”

With a grunt, Sam hoisted himself from his chair and walked to the window. He scanned the street below. “Be careful,” he said to the glass and walked back to his desk.

“Of what?”

“This.” He drummed his fingers against Helen’s Friday column.

Helen rolled her eyes. “I know I’ll get a billion calls. I’m ready for them.”

“No. I’m concerned about you.” He sat down again. “This, and your black sheep column, tell your story.”

The black sheep bullshit again? She’d written that piece months ago, but Sam possessed a reporter’s instinct of committing the tiniest bits of information to memory. She wondered if he was conspiring with that tease on the street.

“Sam, I’m too old for games.” He could play caring papa if he chose, but she demanded treatment as an adult. Besides, she enjoyed watching him squirm.

“It’s not easy”—he ran his fingers through his hair—“and it’s not my business.”

“Go on.”

“I knew about you and Chelsea. I think love is love no matter—” He stopped and looked at Helen.

Outside of her parents, Helen had never outed herself to anyone straight before now. There were times in the past when straight friends asked her if she was gay, and she always answered honestly. Some stayed, some dumped her, but she felt clear to her bones that Sam was a stayer. Still, there was a quickening to her pulse, and she took a deep breath.

“Let me make this easier for you. I need to do something for the gay community. Something for myself.” Her face was hot, but she survived her admission.

“You’re going public, aren’t you?”

“In some way.”

“Why? They could stonewall you. Gays still get bashed, and the last thing I’d ever want is for you to get hurt.”

“I’m tired of living underground. It isn’t fair or healthy for any of us.”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like. I agree with you, but are you ready to risk your career?”

“There are laws to protect me.”

“Laws schmaws. If the old geezers on the board want you out—”

“I hope the paper has the integrity to place merit over sexuality.”

“Don’t count on that.” He looked squarely into Helen’s eyes. “But you can count on me to fight for you.”

“Thanks.”

He rubbed a hand over his face and looked at the column again. “It’s good copy.” He nodded. “You’re on for Friday.”

“Good. Are we finished?” Helen stood, anticipating his yes.

“Not just yet.” He waved her down again. “Let me read something, and I quote: ‘Message to green eyes. I will have lunch at the restaurant that bears the name of the column we discussed. I’d like to talk with you further. Friday, one p.m.’”

Sam cocked his head and raised only one eyebrow. Helen let out a slow breath. She’d rather work the mailroom than lose the message.

“Starting a private dating service?” The editor was back.

“Sam, leave it in. It’s a one-time deal.”

“Lucky for you I’m feeling generous.”

*

Helen met Tucson at Central Park South for lunch. The weather was tauntingly warm compared with earlier in the week.

“Two pretzels with mustard,” Tucson said and paid the street vendor. He handed one to Helen. “I can’t believe you’ve never had a pretzel with mustard. Are you really a native of this smoggy city, or are you feeding us a load of bull in your columns?”

“To be honest, I grew up in Brewster, but you’ll never hear me admit it in public.” She bit into her pretzel and added a muffled comment. “This tastes pretty good.”

They ate and chatted casually, but Tucson finished his lunch quickly.

“Now tell me, word wizard, what’s with the column on closeted gays?” He dropped his napkin into the trash. “Have you taken it upon your shoulders to help create a more accepting society for us?”

“I’m a realist. I’ll never fully see that in my lifetime. I’m just tired of the oppression and I want to say something. My readers can interpret me however they choose, and they will.”

“Well, oppression will always exist. We live with it and try not to carry a chip.”

Helen stopped and grabbed his arm, not believing what she’d just heard. “How can you be so insensitive? It’s attitudes like yours that give our society the notion that some are better than others. I’ve conformed long enough.”

“You’re turning into a martyr,” he said, unruffled by her demeanor. “Talk is cheap. Coming out would serve a better purpose, but I don’t see you jeopardizing your career.”

Helen laughed to herself. The friend conspiring with the editor conspiring with the tease on the street. When they approached a vacant horse-drawn carriage, Tucson handed a wad of bills to a coachman and helped Helen up and onto the seat.

“What’s going on that you hired a coach to smooth it over with me?” Helen asked as the carriage lurched forward.

“I’m leaving New York.”

“Why?”

“For a job offer that I’d be insane to refuse.”

“Just like that? New York’s been your home for—”

“—thirteen years. I’m in a rut and it’s time to move forward.” He took hold of her hand. “I wish you’d do the same.”

“Don’t start with me. I have a terrific career and a roof over my head. Life is good.”

“And memories. Don’t forget memories.”

The clop-clop of horse’s hooves resounded like a finely crafted timepiece. Helen listened while time surged ahead, while family, lovers, and friends took leave. The clock ticked and she sat comfortable on the second hand. Around and around and around, but she never moved a centimeter.

Suddenly, the horse reared, spooked by a careless jogger. The coachman regained control and the mare settled.

“Sorry,” the driver said over his shoulder and continued his course.

Helen brushed bits of salt from her lap. “Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

“I’m not. I love you and I worry about you. That’s all I’m saying.”

Helen’s eyes welled tears. “Will you please hold me?”

“Sure.” Tucson pulled her close.

“I love you, too. I’ll miss you. Will you spend time with me before you go?”

“You know I will. You’re my best girl.”

Helen laughed and wiped her tears with her napkin. “I’m your only girl. Will Pete go with you?”

Their ride reached the end and they exited the carriage. “Yeah. We’ve decided that happily ever after would do us good.”

“Good. It’s nice to have someone to grow old with.”

Tucson slipped his arm around Helen’s waist and they crossed Fifty-Ninth Street. “Yes, it is, and I want you to remember that.”

When they approached the entrance to the newspaper building, a jarring jolt slammed Helen into a three sixty spin. Oomph! The thud of bodies and entanglement of limbs dumped a mound of mustard onto her scarf. Helen snapped when she recovered from the unexpected whirlwind.

“Damn it. Why don’t you people watch where the hell you’re going?” When she looked up, she caught her breath. Once more, that woman stared back and Helen was lost in the loveliness of her eyes.

“Lady, jog in the park or something. Are you all right, Helen?” Tucson tried to wipe mustard from the scarf.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Green Eyes said. “I hope you’re all right, and I’ll see that you receive a new scarf. Silk, I assume.” She reached up and touched the damaged item. “Yes, of course.” Her eyes shone happily when she looked into Helen’s. Her cheeks were bright red. “We must stop meeting like this, Helen.” The woman turned and continued her pace.

Helen was angry. A million and a half people in Manhattan and that same woman knocks her socks off a second time? She didn’t buy it. She could sniff out a setup if it was buried fifty feet beneath concrete.

Helen shouted down the sidewalk. “On a first-name basis now? At least one of us is.” But the woman was too far out of range to hear her.

“You know her?” he asked.

“Not really.” She continued to look, hopefully to catch another glimpse of the black sweat suit and the tied-back hair that bounced across the woman’s back.

“Helen, you’re blushing.”

“I’m pissed off,” she shot back.

He laughed loudly. “No, honey, you’re flustered. That woman does something to you. Admit it.”

“Yes, she does. She annoys the hell out of me, as you can see by my scarf.”

“Call it what you will, but I want to hear more about that chick before I leave.” Tucson kissed her cheek. “I’ll be in touch.”

Numbed from the encounter, Helen entered the office building. She made a mental note to have Sam pull the message from the Friday edition. She had to maintain control.

Helen thought of herself more as an artist than as a writer. Anyone could write; few, though, could create effectively. Without creative control, she could become an assembly-line writer, grinding out books one month after a major story broke nationally. Helen would not accept a link to that category. She took pride in her investigations, her arousal of public interest, and made darned sure she could back up every word. No, Helen was not one to take assignments of the month, and Ms. Green Eyes seemed quick to become one of those assignments. Helen refused to oblige.