Friday Edition, The (10 page)

Wilson nodded and as he spoke, gestured with his hands, as if to drive the point home. “But it’s zoned coverage. And, yes, zoned editions of daily papers are a constant threat for weeklies. But the truth is, Sam, daily newspapers have tried zoning for years and it doesn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Zoning is generic news. That kind of news doesn’t get into the heart and soul of a community,” Wilson said, turning again to look at the difference between the old Perspectives and the new. He spoke sympathetically. “We have to raise our professional standards, but at the same time maintain our sense of community. We have to avoid becoming little dailies. We really want to know the voices of the people who call us. And I’m glad you’re with us, Sam. You’re a good reporter.”

She snorted. “That was a long time ago, and I doubt I ever was really that good,” she said emphasizing the word
that
. She got up to leave and, when she got to the door, Wilson called to her.

“This will be a great story and it’ll be a great feeling if we can beat everybody else to it. But the dailies will bury us, if they get this before we’re ready to go to print. The one thing the dailies will always have over us is ...”

“Time and publishing seven days a week,” Sam said. “I’ll work as quickly as I can, Wilson.”

“If you need to drink or just to talk, call me,” he said.

He hesitated, eyeing her intently. The gray in his eyes had darkened and the lines in his forehead were more pronounced. “I know now how you feel about AA,” he said calmly. “If you can’t do it alone, I expect to hear from you. I’ll help you.”

Sam sighed deeply. “Sure.”

Rey was right about Tim’s Place. There was nothing appealing about the exterior of the building that made Sam want to enter. She parked her Mustang across the street and stared at the single-story brick building until her eyes grew tired.

A brightly colored sign in the large window said ‘Coors on Tap’. Beneath were the words Tim’s Place written in script. Sam could see two men playing pool. Four people were sitting at the bar. She saw a man tending bar and wondered if it was Tim.

She closed her eyes, not wanting to believe that Robin had started drinking again.
Why couldn’t you have come to me? I would’ve helped you.

Hot tears were stinging the sides of her face and she did not try to stop them from falling. Finally, she took a deep breath, collected herself and walked across the street. Above her, the moon was a thumbnail in an endless sea of darkness. Her boots tapped lightly as she walked across the pavement. It was the only sound on the quiet, empty street and echoed into the distance disappearing into the crisp night air.

Smoke, loud voices and country music blaring from a jukebox spilled outside when Sam pulled the door open. The smell of smoke made her think of Ruth’s revelation about Robin drinking again. The thought repulsed her and she wanted to leave.

The men playing pool eyed her when she entered. After one glance that traveled the length of her body, they returned to their game. It hurt whenever men looked in her direction and turned away without a second glance. She told herself it didn’t matter, but it did.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked when Sam reached the bar.

Sam saw now he was a middle-aged man of medium height and weight. He was dressed in jeans and navy turtleneck. His receding hairline was streaked with gray. Sam stared blankly in his direction without answering.

“If you run into problems, call me and I’ll help you … The Friday edition is our only shot.”
Wilson’s voice played in her head like the jukebox behind her. She wanted a drink, but couldn’t give into the temptation. She swallowed hard, remembering she had given Wilson her word she wouldn’t drink while working on the story. She had to keep her word.

“A club soda, please,” she said.

The man nodded to confirm her order. “Comin’ right up,” he said and his manner was pleasing. She watched as he finished cleaning the counter. She couldn’t hear him whistling above the din of the bar, but could tell he was and decided he must be a happy person.

“Here ya go,” the man said and put the drink before her.

Sam looked from the bubbling water to him. “Thanks.”

The bartender nodded and started to whistle as he turned to leave, but she called to him before he could away. “Are you Tim?” she asked.

The country song had ended and a rock-n-roll song began to blare loudly. He returned and stood before her, resting the palms of his hands on the counter top. Sam saw he had a small mole on his left cheek and his green eyes seemed to radiate with a softness that reminded her of April. “There’s no Tim anymore,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Tim died in a car accident ten years ago.”

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“Tim was my son.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sam said and she genuinely was.

“Yep, my Tim was killed coming home from his high school prom. Him and his date up there on Dead Man’s curve. There was another couple in the car with them. They got banged up pretty bad, but they survived.”

“I’ve always been leery driving that part of I-70, myself,” Sam said.

“Me, too. It’s a nasty stretch of road.”

She took a sip of her club soda.

“You sure you don’t want something stronger in there? You look like you could use it.”

She laughed and took another swallow of her club soda.

“No, thanks,” she said. “This’ll be fine.”

She moved the ice around the glass with her finger. “What’s your name?” Sam asked.

“Charles, but most everyone calls me Champ.”

“Champ?”

“I’ve been known to win a game or two of that right over there,” Champ said and pointed to the pool table.

“Minnesota Fats, are you?” Sam said playfully.

Champ’s laugh was throaty. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I’ve been known to play a pretty mean eight-ball.”

“Never played the game myself.”

“You should,” Champ said. “You got a name?”

Sam told him.

“What brings you here?”

She felt her breath rise and catch in her throat. Without a word, she reached for her purse and pulled out a 5x7 color photograph and handed it to Champ. He studied it, and then placed it on the counter between them. She looked from the photo to Champ.

“Has she ever been in here?” Sam asked.

“All the time.”

“All the time?” Sam said and tried to keep the inflection from her voice. Her heart sank like a stone in water.

“At least the last few months, anyway,” Champ said.

“How often in the last few months?”

“I’d say three, maybe more, maybe five six times.”

Sam felt her face flush. She wanted to deny what she was hearing.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Maybe you’ve mistaken her for someone else?”

“Can’t forget a face like that,” Champ said and picked up Robin’s picture again.

The photo showed Robin wearing a black sleeveless blouse. She was seated at a small table outside a cafe in Florence. The Arno River flowed in the background. She was smiling broadly and had saluted the camera Sam was holding with a glass in hand. Blue eyes bright, happy full of life.

“I’d never seen hair so thick. You just wanna run your hands through it. I’m sorry, guess I shouldn’t tell you things like that, but that’s how it was,” he said and looked at Sam.

“Did you talk to her while she was here?”

“Nope. Well, other than the usual ‘what’ll it be?’ I didn’t.”

“Then how do you know it was her?”

“Like I said, you don’t forget a face like that. If you’ve been doin’ this as long as I have, you’d get to a point where you know the ones that wanna talk. She wasn’t much in the way of conversation. What’s her name?”

Sam hesitated. “Robin,” she heard herself say.

“Robin,” Champ echoed.

“Do you remember what she ordered?”

“Jack Daniels.”

Sam’s face flushed instantly.

Champ went on. “I remember watching her go to the jukebox to pick a song. That’s when Van Morrison started to play. She played the Van Morrison song every time she came in.”

“Why do you remember that?”

Champ shrugged. “Van Morrison was my son’s favorite.”

“Did she ever talk to, or meet with anyone when she was here?” Sam asked.

He absentmindedly cleaned the counter around Robin’s photo.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “The last few times she met with a couple of men. They sat right over there,” he said and pointed to a small table opposite the jukebox.

Sam followed Champ’s finger. “Had you ever seen them before?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“How long did they stay?”

“Maybe an hour. Is she in some kinda trouble?”

A couple sat down at the bar and Champ acknowledged them with a quick nod.

“Be right with you,” he said and turned his attention back to Sam.

“Anything else?” he asked, forgetting his query about Robin.

Sam shook her head. “Thanks.”

When Champ left, Sam stared into her club soda. She ran her finger around the rim of the glass, lost in aimless thought.
Jack Daniels again?

She looked up and saw herself in the large mirror that hung over the bar. She ran a hand through her hair. She was grateful for the compliments she had received from her new look. She remembered how Robin constantly scolded her about her posture. She pushed her shoulders and back straight.

She scanned the bar. A calendar hung near the cash register. The first seven days of the new year had been marked through with a large red X. Sam never liked it when people marked their calendars in such a way. It made everything seem so final. She thought of how limited her own time was.

“You’ve got to work as quickly and quietly as you can. The dailies will bury us.”

She glanced to January 15 and her thoughts shifted. April’s ninth birthday was a week away.
Will I forget that, too?

“Hey, that glass is empty,” Champ said.

His voice pulled her from her thoughts and she looked into the empty glass.

“I guess it is,” she said.

“Want another club soda?”

She was silent, turning the glass in her hand as she thought. “Sure.”

When Champ moved away from the counter, thoughts of April returned. Sam remembered the day in court. The memory made the muscles tighten in her chest. She tried taking a deep breath to alleviate the pressure, but it persisted. “Bring me a scotch,” she called to Champ.

He returned moments later and set the scotch and club soda in front of her. “Want to start a tab?” he asked.

Sam nodded without looking at him.

He pointed an index finger in her direction as he moved away. She eyed the alcohol for a long time before she picked up the glass. It hadn’t been a day since she made her promise to Wilson. But she didn’t care. When she lifted the glass to her lips, Wilson’s voice filtered in again.

“If you feel the temptation to drink, call me …”

She put the glass on the bar and fumbled through her purse for her cell phone. She found it and slid it up to open. No service. “Oh well,” she said, and slid it shut.

She picked up the glass and took a long swallow. The drink heated her insides as it slid down her throat. She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes, trying to stop her thoughts, but they forced themselves on her.

She had driven to Jonathan’s house before coming to Tim’s Place. It was already dark and cold when Jonathan answered the door. He wasn’t surprised to see her. “I want to see April,” she said matter-of-factly, determined he would not stop her.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Jonathan said and stepped aside for Sam to enter.

Sam went directly to the kitchen. April was sitting at the table doing homework. When she saw her mother, her face fell. April jumped out of her chair, darted passed Sam and ran up the stairs before she knew what happened. “April!” Sam called to the retreating figure.

Sam had reached the foot of the stairs as she heard April’s bedroom door slam. She climbed the stairs slowly, as if the brief incident had drained all her energy.

Outside April’s door, Sam knocked hesitantly. Once, twice, three times, but she didn’t answer. “April, Mommie’s here. Can I come in? I want to talk to you.”

She waited for a response, but nothing came. She ached for even a “go away!” At least then Sam would have heard her daughter’s voice and she would have acknowledged her. Sam could handle April’s anger, but not her silence. She heard her daughter start to cry. Jonathan met her at the door. When he heard April crying, he looked at Sam hard. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said.

“I wanted to see my daughter ...”

“Of course, Sam, call me stupid, but I always seem to forget that it’s always about you, always about what you want.” Jonathan looked at April’s closed bedroom door, then back to her. “What about what she wants? Does that ever cross your mind?”

She didn’t want to talk anymore for fear her own tears would start to fall.

“Would you please leave?” Sam asked finally.

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. I just want to sit outside her door for a while that’s all. Let her know I’m here. Talk to her, if I can.”

Jonathan didn’t move.

“Jonathan, please, give me a few minutes.”

He considered her request and left without comment.

Sam slid down the wall until her thighs touched her stomach. That used to be easy when she was thinner. Now the extra weight only pressed against her, making it harder to breathe. She spent the next twenty minutes talking to April about anything that entered her mind. After a time, April’s crying stopped and Sam heard nothing coming from her room. “April? Mommie’s going now. But sweet dreams and I’ll see you soon.”

She struggled to her feet, remembering days when it used to be easy to lift herself off the floor. Downstairs, Jonathan was nowhere to be found. Sam slipped on her coat and walked out into the cold night air.

“You want to go another round?”

Sam heard Champ talking to her. She shook her head and blinked several times to gain her bearings.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve been talking to you, but I think you were in another world somewhere.”

Her laugh was small and she felt embarrassed. “Sure,” she said responding to Champ’s request.