Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,7

in front of the building.

Casey reacted the same way most people do when I told her I was a newspaper reporter. Her eyes got big and she said, “Ooooh.” She asked what I write and I told her, “I cover City Hall.” Most people start to shut down right there, their minds shifting from fedoras and crime scenes to dreary ordinances and budget hearings. But she stayed interested, even when I did talk about the ordinances. Just as she was interested in my kids right off, and not just Jewel, the youngest and most cuddly.

Mallory—and now Angel—have so much scorn for the fact that she’s young, but there’s something infectious about that twentysomething enthusiasm. I haven’t had that since, well, never. I had my kids too young for that and, anyway, I was old before I left the house for college.

I look at my watch. They’re late to start. The radio guy looks like he might make small talk. He’s trying to catch my eye. I leaf through my notebook—old notes from old stories, now in recycle bins and at the bottom of birdcages all over town—as if I’m doing something terribly important and shouldn’t be interrupted.

My eye passes over a note in the margin, a note to myself that had nothing to do with whatever meeting I was in at the time. Call Mallory re: weekend, it reads. As I recall, she’d sent me a text that she didn’t think she could take the kids. Another “headache,” which had years before become code for her just not feeling up to mothering that day. At various times I’d feel compassion for her—I know what she’s been through—and heated frustration. Aren’t you carrying this a bit far now? I’d want to say. In any case, the approach of every weekend when Mallory has “parenting time” means a creeping anxiety about whether she might call it off, leaving me to smooth things over and stay positive, just like that pamphlet from Friend of the Court says to do.

People have asked me, my father loudest among them, why I stayed so long, as if getting divorced is like a Ferris-wheel ride. Who would gleefully dive into a world of lawyers and paperwork and “primary physical custody” and “parenting time” and negotiated exchanges of the children from one house to another?

Plus, divorce means the same income supporting two households. Dr. Turner didn’t bother doing that math when he was telling me I should leave.

I was getting by. For a long time, I was getting by.

At least this weekend is our weekend. No explaining, no anxious pacing as we all hold our breath to see if Mallory will call and cancel. We can just pop some popcorn and watch a movie in front of the fire.

Men in suits spill out of the elevator, and all of us in the press corps, such as it is, straighten in our chairs.

Canned quotes about a new scholarship. The radio reporter asks, “What is the funding source?”

The suit behind the mic says, “Dr. Henry Turner’s foundation.”

My digital recorder clatters out of my hand, breaking off the battery door. It still seems to be running, which is fortunate because I can’t even hear what they’re saying. My own father, mocking my press conference task, and he’s the one behind it all along. This means I’m not even supposed to be covering this; I can’t write about my own dad. I’ll end up typing up my notes and giving it to someone else, to be under some other byline, or maybe no byline, just “Herald Staff Writers.”

He’s not at the press conference, because he’s not interested in the limelight. At least, that’s what he’ll tell whichever of my colleagues gets to call and interview him about this. Then he’ll say something about the importance of education for underprivileged youth.

I note that the scholarships are for science and math. Fields he respects.

The press conference breaks up, and that’s when I catch the quizzical glances thrown my way from the other reporters. Gus, from the radio station, sidles up. “Dude, I’m surprised you’re here.”

“I didn’t know. Aaron just threw this release at me this morning.”

I show it to Gus, who scowls at it. “Oh, that’s old, they put that out on Monday. There was a fresh one this morning that told all about it, your dad and everything.”

Jesus, Aaron. I fantasize about shoving one of his cowboy boots down his throat, pointy toe first.

Gus nods. “I know, dude. Sucks.” He waves and walks