Page 63 of Good Days Bad Days
“Wait,” I called out, confused and a bit hurt. I hadn’t given up my time, sleep, and sanity to be her chauffeur—I helped her because I was her friend, ’cause I cared about her. “What are you gonna do about the car?”
She shrugged and glanced around the parking lot like she was hoping it’d appeared overnight.
“I think I’ll be taking the bus,” she said nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t cried in my front seat or held my hand in her sister’s kitchen. The wild change in her demeanor made my head spin.
“You’re going back to work on Tuesday?” My mouth went dry with shock as I realized what was happening. There would be no police, no reports to EBN, no quitting, no consequences for that asshole Don Hollinger. She was going to pretend like nothing had happened and hope Don did the same.
“Show must go on,” she said, retrieving keys from a pocket inside her bag. They jangled as she swung them around her pointer finger. Then she added with intensity, “I need to keep this job.”
After her conversation with Charlotte about finances, I should’ve seen this coming. She’d decided to choose her job over justice.
“I ... I could give you a ride.” I offered to change my routine if it’d make her first day back easier after such a tumultuous breakup.
Palming her keys, she gave me a twisted look and then popped her head through my window, making me jump. Her breath touched my cheek, and her defenseless eyes told me she hadn’t forgotten I’d been there when she needed me.
She leaned in a bit further, her full, soft breasts pushing against my forearm where it rested on the door. Immobilized, her lips brushed my stubbled cheek. Heat spread through my body, an energy that filled and swelled every cell with a startling ecstasy.
“You’re a good man, Greg Laramie,” she sighed into my ear before slipping away and heading into her apartment building. I watched to make sure she made it inside safely before driving home, more intoxicated from her kiss than I’d ever been off alcohol.
She didn’t call me for a ride. And when I saw her on set on Tuesday after the Labor Day break, she’d fully retreated back into her false self, pretending I was only a cameraman and she was only the on-air talent. Two days later she drove up to WQRX in a new car—a black Plymouth Barracuda—as Martha and I were walking into the studio after grabbing lunch at Ike’s.
“Looks like Betty got a new toy,” Martha said, her eyes slanted in judgment. “Maybe she’ll call whoever bought her that thing next time she needs help.”
My stomach lurched. I had an idea who was behind Betty’s new ride. If I were a braver man, I would have asked her why she would take back someone who treated her so terribly, like Hollinger did. I would have pointed out that she recognized her sister’s poor choice in men but failed to see her own. Was it about money? Her job? I shook my head to get the idea of Betty as a gold-digging woman out of my mind.
“It’s possible she bought it herself,” I said defensively.
“Then we’re not getting paid enough,” she snipped back, taking my arm and urging me inside when Betty looked to be moving in our general direction. “Let’s go before she sees us.”
I followed, disappointed that our burgeoning friend group had fallen apart as a result of one phone call.
At least Martha and I reconciled quickly. When I’d talked to her that Sunday, I’d told her Betty’s engine had locked up and my number was the only one she could find in the phone book. Martha made some snarky comment, which I ignored, and then we quickly moved to making plans to meet at the park on Labor Day to finish the proposal. I picked up sandwiches and slices of chocolate cake from Ike’s, and we ate them on a blanket while listening to the community band play.
Like all time spent with Martha, it was calm, efficient, and enjoyable. When we walked to her car as the sun set over the Rock River, there was an opportunity to make up for the missed moment in the kitchen, but I couldn’t bring myself to kiss her. Not while my head was still so completely consumed with thoughts of Betty.
I gritted my teeth through the production team meeting the next week and let Martha present our programming, advertising budget, and plans for the future. Hollinger sat across the desk from us, acting like he wasn’t the son of a bitch who’d accosted the show’s star, who also happened to be his secret girlfriend, destroyed her car, and then left her stranded at a job he’d gotten her fired from.
Betty. She’s here at Hollinger’s mandatory meeting, of course, sitting at the conference table, fresh off shooting. She’s still wearing her stage makeup and a poofyClassy Homemakerskirt and formfitting blouse. The only thing missing is her iconic apron, which she hangs on a hook at the end of each show. It’s washed, starched, and pressed every night, ready for a new day of cakes, grout, and floor wax.
Though I see her five days a week, somehow I miss her. My eyes find her in every room, and I memorize every detail through the camera’s lens. She treats me with a distant kindness, and I don’t know if that’s out of concern that I’ll tell someone her secrets or out of shame that she stayed with Hollinger. But what I do know with complete unsettling certainty is this: I’m stupidly, head over heels, unwaveringly, and illogically in love with Betty Wilkens.
Don Hollinger throws papers onto the table with a loud bang, like it’s a gunshot starting a race, and every head in the room snaps to look at him.
“Those right there are our second quarter numbers, and let me tell you”—he pauses dramatically, making eye contact with several of the staff sitting at the table like he’s about to ream them out for an abysmal report—“they’re damn amazing. We’re number two in our market. Number two. Way to go, boys.”
He says “boys,” though Martha is sitting to his right and Betty to his left. The women take it in stride, joining in with the roar of cheers. I watch, arms folded across my chest, unwilling to applaud anything, even good news, that Hollinger presents. He allows us a minute of celebration before rapping on the table with his knuckles.
“I knew we had something special when I started here, and it turns out Midwest Broadcasters Association agrees. I got word today that we have nine nominations this year.” A rumble runs through the room, and murmured speculation. “Shhh. Hold on. I’ve got them here.”
Hollinger clutches a sheet of paper. He reads off some minor nominations, some similar to the one Martha and I won in ’68. We received a certificate and Martha put hers on her desk, but mine is in a folder somewhere in a box in the back of my closet.
When I hear Mark’s name, my attention returns to Hollinger’s announcement. Mark is nominated for Best Promotional Announcement in a Small Market. This is a major award that gets him an invitation to the MWBA ceremony, something Mark has coveted since I first met him.
“I wanna go. I don’t give a shit if I win one of those stupid plaques, but I could meet Nicole Davenport and slip her my number,” Mark said every year when the nominations came out. Then, when WQRX didn’t get any significant nods, he’d tell everyone he’d have to wait until next year to meet his future bride. But it’s not only his crush on Nicole Davenport that makes Mark want to stride into the MWBA wearing a black tie and cologne. He’s worked here since he got out of the army. He craves, and I think deserves, the recognition.
The room lets out a big “woop,” and I’m pulled back to the present by a slap on the back.
“Hey. Congrats,” Will Barnett says, and one of the news producers shakes my hand. I’ve completely missed something. I hear Martha calling my name and I find her smiling at me with pink cheeks.
