Page 69 of Good Days Bad Days
Barry takes out a business card and passes it to me. I accept it without hesitation and place it in my inner coat pocket, noticing Martha watching me closely. I’m about to ask a question about KSTP and Barry’s experiences in the field, when a flash of gold catches my eye.
In the doorway of the banquet hall Betty stands alone, dressed head to toe in a curve-hugging gold lamé gown that pools around her thin-strapped heels. My breath hitches in my chest as she looks into the crowd like she’s lost and alone. My feet urge me to go to her.
“Thanks,” I say finally, sure of my reply, “but I’m invested in WQRX.”
Barry nods and shakes his tumbler, rattling the ice resting at the bottom.
“I get it, man. I get it. You’re comfortable there.” He pats my arm, and I bristle at his condescension. “I gotta get a refill before dinner. You’ve got my card. And you, pretty lady”—he turns to Martha, who seems to have also noticed Betty’s entrance—“the offer still stands. Minnesota is lovely at least six months out of the year, and we can get you on the road for the rest of it.”
“All right, Barry. Kiss Lila and the baby for me,” she says with less oomph than she started the conversation with. As we walk away, she doesn’t say anything about Barry or the job he referenced. And by the time Betty and Hollinger make it to our table, Martha’s glow is beginning to dim.
I nod a hello to Betty, which she timidly returns. She’s all decked out, but her nerves are showing. She must not realize it’s unlikely she’ll win. Her hands shake with each sip of wine, and when dinner is served, every time she takes a bite of her broiled cod, it almost slips off her fork.
Martha’s my date,I remind myself, making a concerted effort to ignore Betty and focus my attention on my companion for the evening. Thankfully, Martha makes it easy to be her partner. We whisper back and forth for much of dinner, Mark joining us in boisterous laughter over an inside joke as the president of the MWBA takes the stage, starting the evening’s awards program.
When the presentations start, I sneak a glance at the other side of the table. Betty bites her lip nervously, and Hollinger is locked in to every announcement as though we’re all nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. I turn to ignore him again, but when Will Barnett and Mark are passed over for their categories, Hollinger’s mood turns stormy. At one point, he tosses his napkin onto his empty plate and complains about the slow service before finally taking it upon himself to return to the bar.
I shift in my seat. I couldn’t hate the man more. And to think Betty is going home with him. If we lose, if she loses, what will that look like for her?
“This is us.” Martha grabs my focus again. The emcee announces the next category, and whenThe Classy Homemakeris mentioned alongside other nominees, including serious news programs, it’s a bit embarrassing. I’m proud of our work, and I believe Betty is incredibly talented, but do I think what we do is newsworthy and deserving of an award? No.
When our names aren’t called, I’m relieved. I think Martha secretly hoped we would win, but she also seems to understand why the series about war widows was chosen instead of our homemaking show.
“Well, that was thrilling,” she says, letting out a long breath and blinking her fake lashes several times like she may have had tears in them at one point. Tipsy from a steady supply of white wine, champagne, and very little else, I squeeze her hand where it rests on the table and quietly tell her what I really think.
“You deserve more than this, Martha.”
She puts gentle pressure on my fingertips. “You do, too.”
Her touch doesn’t burn like Betty’s, but it still has an effect. I’ve grown to care about this woman. I know she cares for me more than any person outside of my family ever has. For a sliver of a second I think I might be able to fall in love with Martha if I didn’t feel such a magnetic connection to Betty.
“And the winner is ...” The award for Best Personality is announced in the distance. It’s almost like the speaker is reading a cuecard transcription of what I have on my mind when he says: “Betty Wilkens,The Classy Homemaker.”
Hollinger, back from the bar, whoops. Betty sits frozen in her seat, astounded. Her confused gaze meets mine. I slip my fingers out from Martha’s grip and join in the applause. The movement seems to snap Betty out of her daze, and Don lifts her to her feet, ecstatic. I wonder how much of his happiness is for his girlfriend and how much is about his own personal clout.
Betty nearly trips over her floor-length gown as she winds through the tables toward the stage. She looks so glamorous up there, poised, ready for anything. I watch her accept the plaque, and my heart races like I’m the winner.
After thanking the station, Hollinger, her family, and so forth, she ends with one final word of gratitude. “And thank you to my producers, Martha Smith and Greg Laramie—my lifeline. I couldn’t do this without you. Here’s to many more years together!”
She holds up the prize and exits the stage as the bigger markets’ awards are handed out.
“Can you believe that?” I ask, turning to Martha, but I find the seat beside me empty. Her clutch is gone, her wrap is gone, and as I stand to survey the rest of the hall, I find that Martha is also gone.
She can’t have gotten far since I drove her here. I abandon my seat and the dry piece of chocolate cake I’ve been picking at for the past twenty minutes and dash toward the coat check. My feet are clumsy from a night of drinking and there’s not a lot of grace to my pursuit. I catch a glimpse of blue, green, and white slipping behind an accordion partition that separates the banquet hall from the ballroom.
I make it through the sliver of an opening and find Martha halfway across the empty parquet dance floor. The deep bass of the presenter’s voice announcing the final award of the night—Best Station—echoes through the speakers and into the empty space and nearly drowns out my call.
“Hey! Wait!” I shout. Martha freezes, stopping before the exit. She lands in a pool of cool white moonlight that brings out a gossamer shimmer from her gown like the printed flowers are covered in a delicate frost.
“What do you want, Greg?” Her question is icy, and I stop by the partition.
“Nothing. I just ... I just thought you wanted to stay for the party.” Martha made me promise to dance with her at the party after the awards ceremony.
“I’m not really up for it,” she says, swiveling around slowly like she’s standing on a turntable. The announcer in the other room reads the nominees for the Best Station in a Small Market award.
After some paper crinkling, he shouts “WQRX!” But I hardly notice because Martha starts to walk away again.
“You should stay, though. Clearly, it’s a big night.” She points to the speakers in the ceiling. Cheers and applause fill the room and pound at my eardrums.
