I went into a stall and closed the door. I wasn’t in there for more than the most important minute when I heard the bathroom door open and the voices of two men. Mortified, I pulled my feet up, not wanting to betray my presence.

I recognized the voices-O’Connor and Mark Baker. My first fears were allayed when neither of them tried the stall door. Then I realized what they were talking about.

“Why are you so down on her?” Mark Baker said.

“Because she’s not much of a reporter.”

“Man, that’s cold.”

“I’m going to ask Helen if she ever really taught her.”

“You think she lied in her interview?”

There was a pause, then O’Connor said, “No, I doubt that. But you’ll never convince me that Helen had much influence on anyone who turned in a half-assed story like the one Kelly turned in yesterday. And that wasn’t the first weak piece she’s filed. She doesn’t put any effort into anything. She just does the minimum. The worst part is, she’s giving every man who thinks we ought to have an all-male newsroom all the ammunition he needs for his arguments. She’s a sorry excuse for a reporter, and she’s going to make it more difficult for any other woman who wants the job.”

“I think you’re being too hard on her.” Mark laughed, a little uneasily. “C’mon, man, you have to at least admire her guts. She’s been taking shit from almost every dude in the newsroom.”

“And giving it back,” O’Connor said as they moved toward the door. “What a mouth she has on her. Who knows? Maybe Wrigley asked her to talk dirty to him…”

The door swung shut and I couldn’t hear any of his other complaints or innuendoes.

I waited until I stopped shaking, or at least didn’t shake quite so much. I went to the sink and washed my hands and face. At that point, I didn’t care if Wrigley himself walked in on me.

Just about anyone else on the news staff could have said the same things about me, and I would have shrugged it off. But O’Connor, the man whose work made me want to be a reporter, thought I was lazy, foul-mouthed, and had slept my way into a job.

I lived past the initial few seconds when I felt an urge to cry. That, I decided, would really undermine any chance I had at surviving in the newsroom.

Close on the heels of this devastation was rage.

I took a deep breath, turned around, and marched out of the men’s room.

In retrospect, I’m glad only two people saw me at that moment, and that of any two it could have been, it happened to be Mark Baker and O’Connor.

I considered letting O’Connor hear just how foul-mouthed I could be, and telling him I learned all those words from his mother. Instead, I walked up to them, looked only at Mark, and said, “Thank you.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw O’Connor’s suddenly bright red face. I heard him call my name as I strolled out of the newsroom. I kept walking.

The moment I was sure I was out of sight, I scurried like a rabbit through the warren of corridors to features. Lydia was still there, signing off on the last of her pages for Sunday’s paper, which would be printed on Friday.

“Come with me into the women’s room,” I said. “Hurry.”

She looked puzzled, but followed.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re kind of pale.”

“I need a favor,” I said.

“Okay, what?”

“Would you please get my purse from my desk? I just made a grand exit, and going back after it will ruin the effect.”

“You quit?” she asked in dismay.

“No. Not yet. Get the purse and I’ll buy you a drink… Not at the Press Club,” I added hastily. “How about the Stowaway?”

“All right.” She started to leave, then said, “Why did you drag me into the women’s room to ask me this?”

“I might go into the men’s room, but I don’t think O’Connor will go into the ladies’.”

“What?”

“Long story, which I’ll tell you over that drink.”

We made our escape. The Stowaway is a small place, a quiet little restaurant with an ocean view. I called Mary from the pay phone when we got there, and found she didn’t mind if I got back a little late.

I told Lydia my story over dinner and drinks. And declared my hero an asshole.

“And you know what the worst part of it is? He’s right.”

She tried to argue with me.

“Okay, so I’m not about to stop swearing for his sake, and I didn’t sleep with anyone to get the job. But he’s right about my work being half-assed.”

“Irene, with everything that’s going on…”

“No excuses, Lydia. None. You stuck your neck out to get me hired at the Express, and I’ve let you down.”

“Baloney.” For Lydia, that was red-hot cursing.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Prove him wrong,” I said.

20

O ’CONNOR PACED ACROSS HELEN CORRIGAN’S LIVING ROOM FLOOR AS he listed his many grievances against Irene Kelly. Every now and then he found himself starting to address his complaints to an empty, overstuffed chair-the one that had been Jack’s favorite. The loss of Jack somehow further fueled his ire. Everywhere he turned, there were sharp reminders of him here. Even the air itself-although Helen had quit smoking years ago, Jack hadn’t, and the room still carried the scent of his cigarettes.

He wouldn’t-and couldn’t-talk of Jack. But he had a good deal to say about Ms. Kelly.

Helen patiently listened to it all.

“In the men’s room!” he said, still not quite believing it himself. “And never a word to let us know she was in there. She should be ashamed of herself.”

Helen smiled. “While you feel just dandy about your own behavior.”

He sat down on the sofa beside her, suddenly tired. “No, of course not.”

“Have you apologized to her?”

“I’ve tried. Twice. You may remember that I rarely work on the week-ends-I made a special trip in today to try to talk to her.”

“And?”

“I’m a mute version of the invisible man, as far as she’s concerned.”

“Honestly, Conn. Where’s that famous persistence of yours?”

“The last of the O’Connors to beg on bended knee died in the fifteenth century.”

“I’d love to ask all those generations of Mrs. O’Connors if that’s true.”

He laughed, then shook his head. “I don’t know why Ms. Kelly irritates me so.”

“I have some idea.”

“She irritated you when she was your student?”

“Not at all. She and her friend Lydia were two of the best I’ve had in the last decade.”

“Really? I’ll grant you that her writing is all right, but we both know that’s wasted on someone who won’t do the work. In fact, it makes it worse-a waste of talent.”

“Now, perhaps we’re getting closer to at least one of the reasons she angers you. You already know she has talent.”

“So what? Nothing I’ve read of hers indicates she’s capable of really going after a story.”

“Oh?” Helen reached for a copy of the Express. O’Connor recognized it as today’s paper. He had a story on page one, but Helen flipped past that to a story on page five. She held it out to him.

“What?”

“Read the story about the dog license fee increase.”

He did, then looked up at her in disbelief. “This isn’t hers.”

“If I were a gambler, I could make some money right now. Is it a good story?”

“Yes. But-”

“It’s hers. No byline, naturally, on a story like this by a new general assignment reporter. She’s not handling the sort of A-one stories you are.”

“She hasn’t earned that.”

“No, I imagine she feels lucky that Wrigley the Second hasn’t assigned her to the society pages. But that story is hers. I’d know her style anywhere.”

He frowned as he reread the article. “May I use your phone?”

She handed it to him.

He dialed the newsroom and asked for the city desk.

Helen listened in amusement as he confirmed that the story had been written by Irene Kelly.